The Legend of Caleb York Read online

  “It’s Stringer and Bradley!” Rhomer said.

  Gauge ambled down and positioned himself in front of the old man and his daughter, both still on horseback. “I suppose you have witnesses to what happened?”

  “We have plenty, Sheriff,” Cullen said.

  “All on the Bar-O payroll, of course.”

  “Right. Like these two here were on your payroll.”

  “You mean, these two men of mine who your men shot down in cold blood.”

  The girl, who was in a red-and-black plaid shirt and denim pants, yellow hair braided up, said, “In self-defense, Sheriff Gauge. They sneaked in at night and were setting fire to our high grass where cattle were grazing.”

  “And your boys were waiting? Big range to know just the right spot.”

  Cullen said, “I had a good idea where you’d hit. Do you deny these are your men?”

  The sheriff shook his head. “No. Not at all. Good loyal employees. They wear deputy badges when we go out on posse. And that’s why I’m afraid you took yourself too big a bite this time, Mr. Cullen. Really boxed yourself in.”

  “Oh?”

  Gauge still had his hands on his hips, which put one hand near the butt of his .44. He was smiling up into a face that couldn’t see, but no doubt the old man could make out the nastiness in that unseen smile by the tone of the sheriff’s voice.

  “You knew I was sending my men out to see you, old man, with a proposal to buy out your land. Wouldn’t be any trouble at all for you to lay an ambush for them, then start a fire that you could put out quick . . . but point to as something the dead men done.”

  As they watched from the end of the boardwalk, Tulley and the stranger were aware that other onlookers, who’d filled in behind them, were now backing away.

  As Tulley said earlier, bullets might fly. . . .

  Maybe that was why the stranger was knotting that tie-down strap, securing the holstered .44 to his right thigh.

  Old Man Cullen was saying, a snarl in his voice, “You know damn well that it didn’t happen that way.”

  Gauge shook his head. “I don’t know any such thing, Mr. Cullen. But I do know this. Those men were deputized by me before I sent them out, in anticipation of what you might pull.”

  The stranger stepped down from the boardwalk and started across the street. Tulley reached out to stop him, but the man was already on his way. And that stride of his was a long one.

  Gauge was saying, “And you don’t just kill lawmen and get away with it, old man. Not in my town.”

  Rhomer gripped Gauge’s arm and pointed to where the stranger was over, having a look at the two bodies, turning the head of one to look at a dead face, doing the same with the other.

  Then the stranger called, “Mr. Cullen!”

  The old man’s face turned toward the voice, his expression quizzical. “Yes? Who is that?”

  “Sir, are you responsible for these deaths?”

  Cullen’s chin rose. “I am. Not personally, but men who work for me did, protecting my property. I take full responsibility.”

  Gauge, frowning, whispered harshly to his deputy, “Who the hell is this?”

  “Damn if I know,” Rhomer said. “Just some dude. Never seen him before.”

  The stranger walked around to look up at the mounted Cullen, giving a respectful nod to the man’s daughter as he did. “Then don’t worry about it, sir.”

  “Don’t . . . don’t worry about it?”

  “No. You’ve done the law a service. These are wanted men. Dead or alive in four states that I know of. The posters are up all over the territory.” He turned and gave the sheriff a pleasant smile. “I’d be willing to bet you have them up in your office, Sheriff.”

  “Who are you?” Gauge demanded.

  The smile left the stranger’s face. “Or maybe you don’t. Maybe you took those circulars down, or never put them up.”

  Gauge reddened. “What are you talking about?”

  “I’m talking about the company you keep. Not very good.”

  Gauge’s upper lip curled back in a terrible smile. “Listen to me, stranger . . . this is not your business. Back off and back away or we’re going to have a problem that I’m going to solve.”

  The stranger ignored the threat. “In fact,” he said, loud enough for any onlookers or eavesdroppers to hear, “Mr. Cullen has a reward coming. About five hundred U.S. dollars for the pair of them.”

  Stunned, a slack-jawed Cullen said, “Five hundred . . . ?”

  The stranger grinned. “Yeah, I know. Two of a kind usually doesn’t pay off that well.”

  Tulley didn’t see them till it was too late—Riley and Jackson, coming around the near side of the sheriff’s office-jailhouse. They’d been inside there all this time, and were coming up behind the stranger, who was facing the sheriff.

  “Mister!” Tulley called.

  Willa Cullen had seen them, too, and she pulled her horse between the two bushwhackers and the dude, who immediately came around the back of the animal to find the two supposed deputies, already with guns in hand.

  “Time to die,” Riley said, “you lousy, slicked-up—”

  The stranger drew and fired, and neither man, despite the guns already in their hands, could do a damn thing about it except look down at the red blossoming over their hearts before dropping onto their backs to sprawl in the dusty street.

  So close had the shots been together, they might have been one big blast. Tulley had never seen anything like it—drawing on two men whose guns were at the ready, taking them down like target-practice tin cans.

  To himself the desert rat muttered, “And I was gonna hold his hand. . . .”

  CHAPTER SIX

  A wide-eyed Willa Cullen had seen the shooting, too, leaving her stunned but admiring. Her father shouted her name, but Willa calmed him, saying, “It’s fine, Papa! I’m fine.”

  She and the rest of her party settled their horses, riled by the gunshots, Whit filling her father in, as Gauge and Rhomer ran to their fallen comrades. Neither man had seen the gunfight itself, Willa on her horse blocking their view.

  Gauge knelt over the men, who both stared back at him as sightless as George Cullen. Rhomer knelt there, too, and he and Gauge both looked up at the stranger, who was striding over, holstering his .44.

  “Do me a favor, Sheriff?” the stranger asked pleasantly. “Check for posters on them, too? Maybe I got some reward money coming.”

  Then he tipped his hat to the local law and started toward Willa, who was looking on, still on horseback. The scent of gunsmoke hung heavy.

  Rhomer was glaring at the stranger’s back, his hand heading for his own holstered .44. Willa drew in a breath, ready to give warning.

  But the sheriff grabbed his deputy’s arm, stopping him, shaking his head, mouthing what she thought were the words, Not now. Or maybe: Not yet.

  The stranger swept off his hat in a gentlemanly manner and gave her a nod that was almost a half-bow. “Thanks for trying to protect me, miss.”

  “You looked like you might need it,” she said. She dropped her head closer to him and spoke in a near whisper. “And you might want to take care, turning your back on those two.”

  He glanced over his shoulder at Gauge and Rhomer, who were getting to their feet. Returning his attention to her, the stranger looked up at her with an expression that was both friendly and serious.

  “A man could ask for no better guardian angel than yourself,” he said. “But I assure you it isn’t necessary. I can handle myself.”

  These quiet words were somehow like a slap. “Really?”

  Now he smiled and there was a twinkle in the washed-out blue eyes squinting in the mid-morning sun. “I wouldn’t want to be responsible for anything unfortunate that might befall such a fine young lady.”

  “Well, let me assure you I can handle myself.” She looked past him. Whispering again, she said, “The sheriff’s coming. . . .”

  The stranger turned as a stony-faced Gauge approac
hed, ignoring the man who’d just shot two of his people and glancing up to address Willa.

  “What did you see, Miss Cullen?”

  She pointed toward the bodies in the dust. “Those two over there had their guns out and were coming up on this man from behind. He shot in self-defense.”

  “You’d testify to that?”

  “I would.”

  The sheriff turned to the stranger and said, “What’s your business here?”

  “Just passing through.”

  “Any idea why Jackson and Riley attacked you?”

  “Is that their names?”

  “That’s their names.”

  “Sheriff, you had a look at the bodies. You may have noticed that Mr. Jackson and Mr. Riley were already in sad shape before they died.”

  Gauge studied the stranger’s impassive face. “Yeah. It looks like somebody gave them a beating.”

  “Somebody did. Me.”

  “Why?”

  “They gave me cause.”

  The sheriff thought that over. On the boardwalks, and in the street, townspeople continued to gather. Some had likely seen the shooting—the smiles they were sharing, and the excitement in their faces, the fevered murmur of their conversation, indicated as much. Like Willa, at least some citizens had seen the stranger draw his weapon and fire so fast the human eye could barely register it.

  Gauge said, “Just passing through, huh?”

  “Just passing through.”

  “Keep passing through.”

  The stranger grinned. “If you’re suggesting there’s a stage out of town at noon and you want me on it, Sheriff—you mind if I ride out on my horse, instead?”

  “I don’t care if you leave on foot. Just leave.”

  He gave Gauge an easygoing smile. “Like I said, I’m passing through. But I might stay a day or two. I rode most of the night and I need to rest some. Maybe find a game of cards. Have a drink. Spend a little money in your fine town. Any objection?”

  Gauge glanced around. So many witnesses.

  “No objection. I can’t fault a man for defending himself,” the sheriff said, louder now. “But I’ll be watchin’ you, mister. We don’t tolerate reckless violence in Trinidad.”

  Willa almost laughed out loud at that. But mirth didn’t come easy with so much death nearby—two men in the street, those two others on packhorses, the latter getting taken down now by the undertaker and an assistant.

  “I’ll keep that in mind, Sheriff,” the stranger said.

  Gauge’s eyes tightened. “You got a name, mister?”

  “Everybody’s got a name, Sheriff. But I won’t be around long enough for mine to matter.”

  The sheriff frowned, thought about that a second, nodded, then went off to join his deputy. Doc Miller had come onto the scene and the late Riley and Jackson were getting a final examination.

  The stranger was taking that in, but still standing near Willa on horseback.

  She said to him, “Just who are you, anyway?”

  He looked back at her. “Like I said, miss. Just a traveler passing through.”

  “Headed where?”

  “California. Taking my time about it. No hurry.”

  “That man you were bandying with? That’s Sheriff Harry Gauge, and he’s dangerous.”

  “I know who he is, miss. And I just killed two men, so some might say the same of me.”

  She reared back so much at the cocky remark, her horse almost did the same. “Are you proud of that?”

  “No. But I don’t feel guilty, either. They chose how they died.”

  She frowned down at him. He was an irritating sort. “You have a name, don’t you?”

  He grinned at her. “I sure do.”

  Then he nodded and put on his curl-brimmed black hat, said, “Pleasure to meet you, Miss Cullen,” and headed off. That ragged deadbeat—what was his name? Tulley?—fell in alongside the stranger, chattering and cackling. Drunken old fool.

  As the Cullen party headed out of Trinidad on their way back to the Bar-O, Willa’s father asked, “Who was he, girl? That stranger.”

  “He wouldn’t say, Papa. But he’s an arrogant one.”

  “That so?”

  “He wouldn’t give me his name, but then he calls me by mine. What nerve. How rude.”

  Her father was smiling. They were riding along easily.

  He said, “Maybe so, but it appears he’s quite handy with a shootin’ iron.”

  Willa had to smile at her father’s old-fashioned frontier language. They didn’t converse for a while; then Papa chimed in again.

  “That’s just how Caleb York would have done it,” he said with a big smile.

  Whit, clearly tired of all the York talk, said grumpily, “He would have, except that he’s dead.”

  “So they say,” the old man granted. “Anyway, York would likely have taken the sheriff out, and Rhomer, too. Taken down every single one of them. Still . . . who do you suppose he is?”

  Whit said dismissively, “Just some dude who got off a couple of lucky shots. He was dressed like a city slicker tryin’ to look cowboy.”

  “Describe them clothes,” her father said.

  Whit did.

  “Well,” the old man said, “Caleb York dressed in black. Or so the stories go.”

  “But not like a damn dude,” Whit said, then added, “Pardon, Miss Willa.”

  “I don’t know who or what he is,” she said, not giving a damn about Whit cursing, “but he’s no dude. You didn’t see what I saw, Whit.”

  “And what did you see, Miss Willa?”

  “I saw a man outdraw two men with their guns already drawn. That’s what I saw.”

  For a while they rode on in silence.

  Then not far from the fork that to the right took them into the ranch, her father said, “I know somebody else, besides Caleb York, they say wears black.”

  She said, “Who is that, Papa?”

  “Banion,” he said. “Wes Banion.”

  From the crowd of onlookers, Lola emerged twirling a parasol over her shoulder, looking a fine lady in a two-piece dark blue satin dress with fitted bodice and white lace trim at collar and cuffs.

  Gauge gave her a glance and a nod. He and Rhomer were dealing with Perkins, the undertaker, who was about to take charge of the remains of Riley and Jackson, as well as the slightly scorched bodies of Stringer and Bradley. Small, skinny, bald, the twitchy-mustached Perkins was having trouble keeping somber, with business booming like this.

  “No services,” Gauge told the undertaker. “Just four holes and plant them. Nothing read over ’em. Send the bill to my office.”

  Perkins was clutching his top hat by its brim, as if it might fly away. “And the gentleman last night?”

  “Same.”

  “Separate bills?”

  “One bill. Charge the city as usual.”

  The undertaker nodded and went about his task.

  Gauge went to Lola. “What did you see?”

  She slowly spun the parasol on her shoulder, her manner casual, as if out on a weekend stroll. “Nothing. But everybody is saying this newcomer is the fastest gun ever. And most of them have seen you in action, Harry. Of course, you know how fickle people are. And how easily impressed.”

  He studied her, looking for smugness. “You think this is funny?”

  “Not a little bit.” The twirling stopped, her expression turning grave. “Could it . . . could it be Banion, Harry?”

  He sighed. Shook his head. “Doesn’t seem likely, but . . .” He gave her a sly smile “. . . how would you like to find out for me?”

  Her smile in return was as confident as it was pretty. “That doesn’t sound like a terribly difficult chore.”

  “Not with your special talents it isn’t.”

  She smiled just a little. “I’m going to choose to take that as a compliment.”

  And she turned and walked toward the Victory, twirling the little shoulder-slung umbrella again.

  Rhomer came u
p to Gauge, frowning. “You should have let me cut that buzzard in half.”

  “Not the time or place.”

  “You catch any of the action?”

  “No. That girl’s horse was in the way.”

  Frowning, Rhomer shook his head. “Well, he must have been pretty damn fast to take ’em both like that.”

  “Maybe. Or maybe Jackson and Riley were just clumsy oafs.”

  Rhomer nodded, acknowledging that possibility. “I heard you send Lola down, to scope out who and what that stranger is.”

  “Did you?”

  Rhomer nodded. “Think she can get anything out of him?”

  “If he’s breathing, she can.” He let out a nasty chuckle. “And then, pretty soon? Maybe he won’t be.”

  Tulley and the stranger walked the black-maned dappled gelding down to the livery stable, where a stall and feed were arranged for the animal.

  That taken care of, the pair walked back down the street as various Trinidad citizens gawked and pointed at the dude who had shot down two of the sheriff’s toughs.

  Still having to work at keeping up, Tulley asked, “Where to next, stranger?”

  “Well, now that my horse can get some rest,” he said, “maybe I better find myself a room. Fairly tuckered.”

  “You crazy? You can’t get a room now.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yesterday was payday! Hotel’s chock-full of cowpokes sleepin’ it off.”

  “Shame. Should’ve taken a stall next to my horse.”

  “You know what you need, stranger?”

  “Tell me.”

  “A drink.”

  “It isn’t even noon yet.”

  “But you already beat up two men today and shot ’em down to boot. I figure that oughter work up a hell of a thirst. Anyways, I reckon you owe me another a drink for savin’ your hide.”

  “I do at that.”

  Tulley jabbed a finger at the stranger without touching him. “In addition to which, it’s about time you and me had a man-to-man talk, my friend.”

  He half-smiled, raised one eyebrow. “Like I used to have with my daddy?”

  “Mebbe. Mebbe do you some good.”

  “What’s to talk about? I already know about the birds and the bees.”