The Big Showdown Page 6

  “Speaking of dime novels,” Hardy said, his own mood brightened considerably, “our own Sheriff York, the subject of such writing himself, has requested a few words with you. Afterward, we ask you to move your chairs to the sides of the hall, as the ladies of the Grange are going to serve some refreshments.... Sheriff York?”

  Caleb rose from his chair and stepped up onto the shallow stage. He did not take the podium but rather stood near the edge of the platform and spoke words that somehow seemed quiet, though his voice was as loud as any that had spoken this evening.

  “I bid welcome to Mr. Gauge,” Caleb said, “and commend his investment in our community.”

  Willa felt a wave of warmth at Caleb referring to Trinidad in such a manner. A man staying only temporarily might not refer to the town in that way.

  “But it remains my aim,” he said, “to recover the stolen money and bring Ben Wade’s killer to justice.”

  A man in back called, “Fill him with lead first, Caleb!”

  That old-fashioned lingo got some laughs and scattered applause, but York, stony-faced, only raised a hand, as if being sworn in to testify.

  “I hope to bring him in breathing,” their sheriff said. “But if a jury so rules, I will gladly walk him to the gallows.”

  Almost everyone in the room applauded that.

  That same grouchy rancher in back called out, “Sheriff! Why didn’t you raise a posse? Why aren’t you out lookin’ for this mudsill!”

  No one seconded that, but everyone looked Caleb’s way just the same.

  “That’s Barney Wright, isn’t it? Barney, your name may be Wright, but you have a wrong way of looking at things.”

  Some chuckles.

  “Or at least an old-fashioned one,” Caleb said. “I rode out yesterday to Brentwood Junction. Our wanted man stole a fresh horse there, and what direction he rode off in, I couldn’t venture a guess. I did get a description of him. . . .”

  Caleb shared that with the hall.

  “I also got a name,” he said. “Bill Johnson. Darn common and a likely alias. He was a crony of Mr. Gauge here’s late cousin, but he didn’t work on any of the Gauge spreads. Just a hired gun brought in to intimidate when needed. If any of you know of a Bill Johnson, see me after.”

  He explained to the crowd that he had spent yesterday afternoon sending telegrams to lawmen all over the territory and a few beyond, with the description of this Johnson, and that he’d wired the Santa Fe Railroad with the same information, so their “train dicks” would be on the alert.

  “Nothing’s come of this effort yet,” Caleb told them. “But my investigation continues.”

  Then he thanked everyone for their attention, and stepped back down off the stage and returned to his chair. Once again, murmuring took the hall, as the sheriff’s disappointing news seemed an anticlimax after the boost of Zachary Gauge’s message.

  The mayor resumed the podium to remind the group that refreshments were about to be served. Several husbands who’d been recruited set up long tables in front of the stage as their wives came out from the kitchen with twin bowls of punch and several plates of gingersnaps, then on a second trip adding cups and small plates. About half of the attendees filed out, but the others moved their chairs, and any abandoned ones, off to either side, and an area between was left for socializing.

  Little groups of men formed to palaver and the women did the same, although some of the latter took the chairs that now lined the walls, sipping their punch, nibbling on cookies. Clearly, the Citizens Committee had been hopeful they could turn around this meeting about Trinidad’s dire circumstances by way of the banker’s assurances and a few refreshments, as if it were just another social.

  That might have been wishful thinking, had it not been for Zachary Gauge’s surprise appearance.

  Willa, interested in neither punch nor gingersnaps, nonetheless took one of the chairs, sitting her father down next to her. She knew he felt uncomfortable standing in a room with conversation coming at him from all sides.

  Moving toward them through the crowd, slender as a knife blade despite broad shoulders, Zachary Gauge came walking their way. Various men tried to stop and talk to him, and he politely nodded and informed them he’d catch up with them later. He would not be dissuaded from his goal, which appeared to be Willa and her father.

  He positioned himself in front of them with a somber expression and lowered his head in something that merged a nod and a half-bow.

  “Miss Cullen. Mr. Cullen. I hoped I might pay my respects.”

  George Cullen didn’t have to be told who was standing before him—the voice he’d heard earlier was now unmistakable.

  “Mr. Gauge,” Papa said somewhat gruffly. “Fine words. I hope your actions meet up with them.”

  “May I sit, Mr. Cullen?” he asked, gesturing toward the empty chair next to her father, his eyes asking Willa the same question. She nodded and so did Papa.

  Seated next to the blind man, turning toward him, Zachary Gauge said, “I am heartsick over what I have heard, regarding the indignities my cousin visited upon you both. I can’t offer an apology for the actions of a relative I barely knew. But I can assure you that while I may share the scoundrel’s bloodline, I am of another breed entirely.”

  The rather strained formality of that might have amused Willa, had she not sensed something genuine behind the too carefully chosen, perhaps overly rehearsed words.

  “Mr. Gauge,” her father said, turning to cast his milky gaze on the man, “I judge men by their own deeds, not those of their family members. Who among us does not have a wayward relation?”

  “I am most relieved to hear that, sir. And please—call me ‘Zachary.’ The Gauge name is not one viewed kindly in this community, a sentiment I wholly understand.”

  “You are most welcome here, sir.” No gruffness now.

  Her father held out his hand and Zachary shook it, smiling big.

  “You’re very generous, Mr. Cullen.”

  Papa said, “It took mettle for you to approach my daughter and me, Mr. Gauge . . . Zachary. Not every man might have the sand.”

  Willa said, “Father . . . perhaps Mr. Gauge—”

  “Zachary,” the newcomer insisted.

  “Perhaps,” she began again, “Mr. Gauge understands that the two biggest landowners in the area ought to get to know each other.”

  Zachary gave Willa a smile that fairly twitched with amusement. “Your daughter displays both rare beauty and a keen intelligence, Mr. Cullen . . . or may I call you ‘George’?”

  “ ‘George’ is fine,” Papa said.

  “Well, Miss Cullen is right,” Zachary said. “We need to cooperate and help each other.”

  Willa said with a smile, “I believe you need our help more than we do yours.”

  Zachary gave her another half bow, half-nod, returning the smile. “Undoubtedly, Miss Cullen. I am, as they say, land rich but cattle poor. This is something I hope we can discuss . . . though tonight is obviously not the time or the place.”

  “Once you’ve settled in,” Papa said, “feel free to call on us. We’ll talk business.”

  “Where I come from,” Zachary said, “it’s impolite to just drop in on people.”

  Papa pawed the air. “Well, around here we don’t stand on ceremony. But if you’d like to set a time . . . ?”

  “I would. Is around two o’clock tomorrow afternoon suitable?”

  Papa nodded. “It is.”

  Zachary rose, said, “Thank you, sir,” then smiled and nodded to Willa, saying, “Miss Cullen.”

  “Mr. Gauge. Zachary.”

  The tall man turned and almost bumped into Caleb, who had approached when they were talking, though keeping a respectful distance. Now the two tallest men in the room stood facing each other.

  Caleb gave Willa a nod, and said, “Good evening, Mr. Cullen,” and Papa responded similarly.

  Knowing full well that father and daughter were well within earshot, Caleb began a friendly if
guarded conversation with Zachary Gauge.

  Offering a hand to shake, which Zachary accepted, Caleb said, “Welcome to Trinidad. You’ve already done the impossible.”

  “And what would that be, Sheriff York?”

  “Made a man named Gauge the most popular person in town.”

  “Sheriff,” Zachary said, with a good-natured smile, “I am only trying to make up, in a small way, for what the black sheep of our family visited upon this community.”

  “Like Mr. Cullen says, that’s generous. Particularly since you and your cousin barely knew each other. And yet you’re his sole heir, I understand.”

  “Sheer happenstance. Rights of the survivor. And I don’t mean to suggest that I’m performing good deeds strictly to make amends for the sins of a cousin. Trinidad represents a real business opportunity for me . . . even if I am a cattle rancher without cattle.”

  “Property is power, in this country,” Caleb said. “I have a hunch you’re a man who can overcome a small detail like no cattle.”

  “Well . . . thank you. I guess. If I might ask . . . ?”

  “Ask away.”

  The newcomer cocked his head. “I was given to understand that you were leaving this community.”

  “That was my intention. It still is.”

  Willa, listening, frowned.

  Zachary asked, “Then this sheriff who was killed—Ben Wade?”

  “Ben Wade.”

  “He was a friend?”

  “I got him the job.”

  “And you’re taking his place until you’ve tracked down his killer?”

  “That’s the intention. And I’d like to get that money back, too.”

  “The bank’s money, yes.”

  “It’s not really the bank’s money. It’s the people of Trinidad who really got robbed.”

  Zachary nodded twice. “Quite right. Well, if there’s anything I can do to be of assistance, in your efforts, please don’t hesitate to ask.”

  Caleb stood with hands on hips. “Well, there is something. I’d appreciate you taking a good hard look at the men working for you on the spreads you’ve inherited.”

  Zachary raised a palm. “Oh, I intend to. I’ll be taking a hard look at all my personnel. I’ll be combining those properties into one bigger ranch. Only makes sense. More efficient. I’m no rancher, not yet, but that much I know to do.”

  Caleb’s eyes narrowed. “What I’m referring to, Mr. Gauge—”

  “Please. ‘Zachary.’ ”

  “ ‘Zachary,’ ” Caleb said with a nod. “What I’m referring to are the outlaws still working those spreads. Hard cases mixed in with cowhands, brought in by your late cousin. Not many of them, at this point. But your ramrod, Gil Willart, should be able to single them out.”

  “I can assure you, Sheriff—”

  “Make it ‘Caleb,’ Zachary.”

  “Caleb. I can assure you that I want nothing to do with such wastrels. They will be sent packing.”

  “Good. Good to hear.” Caleb nodded again. “Best of luck to you in this new line of endeavor, Zachary. What was it you did back East, anyway?”

  “Stockbroker, actually.”

  “Well. With some luck, you’ll be dealing with stock again. High stakes, but spelled different.”

  Zachary got the joke right away.

  “Well put, Sheriff. Caleb.” Zachary narrowed his eyes now. “But these outlaws—rather than just discharge them . . . wouldn’t it be better if I let you know who they are, and which spread they’re working? So you could talk to them personally, perhaps in regard to the bank robbery?”

  “Oh, they’ll stop in town at the Victory—that’s our local drinking and gambling emporium—before they hit the trail. I’ll have a chance to talk to all of them.”

  Caleb gave one more nod to the newcomer, then bid Willa and her father good night, indicating he knew full well they’d heard every word of the conversation.

  Willa told her father she’d be just a minute and followed Caleb. He was out front in the cool night air, snugging on his hat, as attendees were gradually leaving, unhitching horses, climbing up into buggies.

  “Is that how you behave?” she asked him, meaning it to sound strong but knowing it came out snippy.

  “How is that?”

  “You just say good night and walk away from me.”

  “I figured you were tending to your father. Or maybe to that Zachary character.”

  “What?”

  He grinned at her. “He’s already taken a shine to you. Or maybe it’s your father’s cattle. Or his land?”

  “Are you jealous, or just a boor?”

  The words seemed to soften him, or maybe that was embarrassment.

  “Sorry,” he said. “I have no right. And, anyway, he was probably just being polite.”

  “Oh, so you don’t think another man might be attracted to me?”

  “I think any man possessed of his senses would be attracted to you, Willa Cullen. But me? I don’t have that right. Not anymore.”

  “And why is that?”

  “You know why.”

  “I don’t. I honestly don’t.”

  “Because I’m still leaving Trinidad.”

  “What?”

  He gestured vaguely toward town. “When this bank robbery case is settled, I’ll be on my way. To San Diego.”

  He told her good night again, and walked off, while she stood there in front of the Grange Hall, fuming.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  At just after nine P.M., Trinidad’s Main Street was uncommonly busy—buggies and men on horseback, couples strolling along the boardwalk—as those who’d attended the meeting at the Grange Hall made their way home.

  But one person Caleb York had not expected to run into was his rambunctious friend Tulley, who was pacing outside the hotel entrance like an expectant father near a bedroom where a midwife was doing her work. The skinny coot lit up like a jack-o’-lantern when he spotted York.

  “Git yer gun,” he said, eyes wild. “Git yer damn gun!”

  York pushed his hat on the back of his head and regarded his friend. “Any special reason?”

  The white-bearded, bowlegged Tulley looked around for eavesdroppers, then leaned in. “We need to talk private.”

  “Well, let’s go down to the office, then. I have my gun belt locked up there. Since you want me to ‘git’ it.”

  Tulley closed an eye and raised a finger. “I do, and it’ll be right handy, bein’ down at that end of the street and all.”

  “Why’s that?”

  The bandy-legged character took York by the arm, virtually escorting him along the boardwalk. “Too many townsfolk out tonight. This is not talk for sharin’. Meantime, on the way, you can tell me all about that Grange meetin’.”

  York did.

  Frowning as they walked along, Tulley asked, “What do ye make of this latest branch of the Gauge tree?”

  “Nothing like his cousin. Certainly talks a good game. And there’s no question he’s bailing out this community when it can damn well use it.”

  Tulley was shaking his head. “Never trust a city slicker, says I.”

  York grinned over at him. “Why, Tulley? How many have you run into, in your day?”

  “Plenty! More’n one!”

  When they got to the office, York unlocked the door and went in, Tulley trailing. The sheriff got behind his desk and lit the lamp there, suffusing the austere room with a warm yellow glow. He gestured for Tulley to pull up a chair, which the old boy did, sitting so close and leaning over so far, he all but climbed onto the desktop.

  “Okay, Tulley,” York said with a patient smile. “I think it’s safe to talk now. Unless you’d like to check under the desk and maybe back in the cells.”

  Tulley paid the sheriff’s joshing no heed. “You tol’ me to keep my ear to the ground. I been doin’ exactly that, purt’ near all day.”

  “At the stable? Little messy for that.”

  “I didn’t go in today but for a
tiny bit, first thing. Told Clem I had official sheriffin’ business to see to.”

  York was still smiling. “Aren’t you afraid your work will pile up?”

  “You ain’t takin’ me serious, Sheriff. But you should. You will. Listen here. I was over to the cantina tonight and I seen two of Harry Gauge’s gunhand cowboys, hittin’ the tequila hard, and a couple of them powdered-up señoritas hangin’ on ’em like vines on a wall.”

  York sat forward, smile gone. He’d told Zachary Gauge that any of the outlaws the new rancher might boot off his spreads would surely stop by the Victory Saloon before leaving town. But York had overlooked the Cantina de Toro Rojo. Few gringos frequented the joint, the clientele chiefly Mexican cowboys who worked ranches in the area, and the half-Mexican/half-Indian hands, too, and maybe some other thirsty, randy males from Trinidad’s small barrio itself, home mostly to servants and laborers around town.

  But hard cases like those outlaws the late Harry Gauge had taken on at his ranches would feel right at home in a deadfall like the Cantina de Toro Rojo.

  “You know these men by name, Tulley?”

  “I surely do. Ray Pruitt and Eli Hoake.”

  Both men had their faces on wanted posters, York knew, just not in New Mexico. They were accused of robbing a stagecoach in Arizona and killing the driver.

  “That ain’t all, Sheriff. I heard ’em talkin’. I didn’t catch much . . . if I got any closer to ’em they might got wise . . . but they both said the name ‘Bill’ a bunch of times, and was laughin’ and laughin’ and tossin’ back the tequila like water.”

  “Lot of Bills in this world, Tulley.”

  “How many that was on Harry Gauge’s payroll?”

  York thought about that, then asked, “Speaking of tossing back the tequila, Tulley, how much went down your gullet?”

  The old boy crossed his heart right by a frayed blue suspender. “Nary a drop. I been on the water wagon for months now, Sheriff. You know that. All I put down me was some of that brown gargle them Mexies claims is coffee.”

  York leaned back in his hardwood chair, its front legs off the floor, and studied his friend. Maybe Tulley still sounded like a half-crazed prospector who’d just climbed down off a mountain after living alone too long; and there seemed no danger of the man losing his position as town eccentric. Yet he had changed. Those eyes were no longer rheumy, but as clear a blue as the best New Mexico sky, minus any clouds.