The Bloody Spur

Chapter Fifteen

The following Saturday afternoon at the Grange Hall — a recently built redbrick building that sat on its own half acre past the church on the road to the cemetery — almost everyone in town and many from the surrounding area were gathered for a meeting. News had gone out by way of the Enterprise newspaper, posted circulars, and word of mouth. For those few who had missed it, notices in every store window in Trinidad, all closed for the meeting, announced the event: TOWN MEETING — SANTA FE SPUR.

This afternoon the building’s unostentatious interior — pale green walls, pounded tin ceiling, varnished wood floor, modest stage — was brimming with citizens and ranch folk, with children on hand, as well, even babes in arms, whose occasional squalling was at odds with the generally buoyant mood of the crowd. Many of the townspeople were dressed as if for church, and even the cowhands were in relatively clean attire. The unspoken rule here was no guns, and a table near the door made a temporary home to a collection of rifles and gun belts.

On the stage, with a podium central, were seated the members of the Citizens Committee, in dark suits and bright expressions. Among them were Willa Cullen, in a simple navy-and-white calico dress, her yellow hair piled high, and Santa Fe Railroad representative Grover Prescott, impressive in a gray frock coat and a dark, low-cut vest, with a small big-city bow tie. Next to Prescott was a similarly dressed, similarly eminent-looking Raymond L. Parker.

Caleb York, in his customary black with dudish touches, had been invited, indeed urged, to take a seat onstage but had demurred. It would be enough to sit in the front row and come up and speak his peace. This whole thing was something of an embarrassment to him. Nothing on this earth scared him much, but public speaking challenged that notion.

The mayor introduced Prescott, who took the podium.

“I am pleased to announce,” the distinguished figure said, his sonorous voice in tune with his neatly trimmed beard and hawkish countenance, “that an agreement has been reached with Miss Willa Cullen of the Bar-O Ranch for the right-of-way for construction of a Trinidad to Las Vegas branchline.”

The hall rang with applause and even some cowhand whoops. Prescott allowed this to go on for some time, not raising a hand to stop the ovation till it threatened to die of its own accord.

This was followed by Prescott repeating, almost word for word, his speech at the Citizens Committee meeting not so long ago, when he told of neighboring Las Vegas having “gone from a bump in the road to a booming community.” This went on awhile, though less than before, as on this occasion the sheriff did not interrupt with words of caution about the cons that went with the many pros of the venture.

After all, York was fully on board now. He’d soon have a pay raise and a house... and a lot more on his hands as Trinidad grew, though that prospect didn’t bother him much. He didn’t mind earning his pay.

And while Prescott and the Santa Fe had by any measure been unscrupulous in their efforts to secure the Bar-O’s right of passage, York had seen to it this past week that the railroad paid through the teeth to get the cooperation of one certain young lady.

That young lady Prescott was in the process of introducing right now: Willa approached the podium amid her own round of better than polite applause. She faced the crowd without notes, chin high, her strong, sweet voice easily heard.

“I know that the general opinion in this room is that the Santa Fe spur is a positive thing for our community,” she said. “And that has been my feeling from the start, as well. But I know, too, that some of you may wonder how I could take steps in this matter that are contradictory to my late father’s wishes.”

The hall got very silent.

“My father signed over the Bar-O to me some time ago,” she said. “Though I was not the son he would perhaps have preferred, he gave me increasing responsibility over the ranch these past several years. He knew that when the time came that I was on my own, I would operate our business however I thought best... and he trusted me in that regard.”

Every eye was on her, and even the infants were mute.

She continued. “My father may have lost his sight, but not his vision for this rough-and-tumble part of the world. He wanted what was best not only for the Bar-O but for Trinidad and the entire surrounding region, as well. I believe I would have come to convince him of the merit of the spur, though, of course, I can’t be sure. I have to follow my own instincts and desires. But in making this decision, I mean to honor him and the pioneer spirit he represents, and in no way diminish his memory or his name.”

She paused, and the room again broke into applause — no whoops this time. This was a respectful response.

“Toward that end,” she said, “I wish to turn the podium over to my father’s original copartner in the Bar-O, Mr. Raymond L. Parker.”

Few here knew much of Parker, but to what degree his name was known, it was viewed in a positive light. Applause greeted him, although the roof was in no risk of being blown off. Willa returned to her chair.

The dignified, white-mustached businessman came to the podium, thanked Willa and Prescott, and the committee, as well, then addressed the crowd.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said in a voice easily as commanding as Prescott’s, “as many of you know, the very land Trinidad rests upon once belonged to the late George Cullen. His goodwill and good intentions brought this town into existence. Many of the fine gentlemen on this stage were given their start when George Cullen encouraged them to be part of this community.”

Behind him, the members of the Citizens Committee were nodding.

Parker went on. “As executor of the George O. Cullen estate, I am here to inform you that several adjacent parcels of land to the rear of the town livery stable have been left by Mr. Cullen to your esteemed sheriff, Caleb York.”

Murmuring rolled in a wave across the hall. Willa Cullen, who knew nothing of this, sat forward in her chair, frowning in confusion.

“Caleb,” Parker said, with a gesture toward the front row, “would you come up and join me?”

York did so, stepping onto the shallow stage, taking a position to one side of the podium.

Parker said, “Sheriff York and I are pleased to announce a joint business venture. That venture involves the Santa Fe Railroad, as well, and some negotiations remain to be concluded... but we are confident in the outcome.”

Prescott was nodding at this, his smile not betraying the strain of having to deal with Caleb York a second time.

Parker raised his voice a level. “I will be providing the funds for the construction involved, and the sheriff will be providing the land.”

The murmuring began again, but Parker silenced it with a raised hand.

“Sheriff,” he said, turning to York. “Would you explain to these good people to what end we’re pooling our resources?”

York nodded and said to the sea of faces, “Trinidad will soon have a fine new train station. And I’m pleased to say it will be known as the George O. Cullen Depot.”

Then, as still more applause rang through the Grange Hall, Willa was suddenly at his side, looking up at him with those lovely blue eyes moist with emotion, taking his hands in hers. Spontaneously, with no thought of where they were, she embraced him. Embarrassed, York looked away and saw something of interest.

Bar-O foreman Whit Murphy rose from a back-row seat and went over to the table of guns, where he selected his holster with gun and cartridge belt, and slipped outside.

Willa released York and, embarrassed herself now, slipped back to her seat, as around her, some good-natured laughter mixed in with the continued clapping. York stepped down from the stage, and Prescott joined Parker at the podium, and they began taking questions from the audience.

Rather than return to his seat, however, York walked down the central aisle, garnering a concerned glance from Rita Filley, seated discreetly toward the back. He gave her a quick nod and went over to pluck his own gun belt from the table of weaponry.

When he stepped outside, he found the weathered, lanky Murphy, the gun on his hip now, about to unhitch his horse from the long post out front of the hall. No one else was around; the hard-dirt road was nearby; buggies and buckboards and such, and more horses, were parked behind the Grange.

Approaching the cowboy, York said, “Where you off to, Whit?”

The droopy-eyed, droopy-mustached foreman was walking his horse away, moving slow, but moving.

A touch of gruffness was in his voice. “Speechifyin’ ain’t my idea of a good time.”

“No argument. Hold up there a second.”

Murphy, reins in hand, brought his steed to a stop and faced the sheriff. “Not really in the mood to talk, York. I got things to do out at the Bar-O, and I had no urge to listen to such twaddle.”

“What twaddle would that be?”

“Tearin’ down Mr. Cullen’s wishes while pretendin’ to hold him up. Probably a big ol’ picture of him’ll be hangin’ in that station, like he approved of the thing.”

“Probably.” York eased closer. “You know, Whit, we haven’t had a chance to talk, you and me... since the O’Malley unpleasantness.”

The foreman’s eyes tightened to slits. “What’s to talk about? Since when was you and I friendly?”

It was true that they’d had a run-in or two when York first came to town.

York said, “Thought you might be interested to know Burt O’Malley denied he ever had that set-to with the old man on the porch. The one you told me about? Oh, O’Malley said they argued some or, anyway, the talk got heated. But he claimed it was the night before, not that morning. And that it never came close to blows.”

Murphy shrugged his narrow shoulders. “Who cares what that lyin’ blackguard said? He hired that Preacherman to kill you, didn’t he? Miss Willa says he confessed as much. She heard it from his own lips.”

York nodded. “She did. I did. But the peculiar thing is, O’Malley never admitted to killing George Cullen, either accidentally or on purpose. To his very end, he said he loved the old man.”

Murphy’s lip curled into a sneer that lifted the droopy mustache on one side. “Funny way to show it. And a man who hires a gunman to kill another, he don’t likely kill accidental.”

York smiled just a little. “You know, generally I’d agree with you. But maybe O’Malley didn’t do it. And maybe it was an accident.”

The foreman was shaking his head and frowning. “You’re not makin’ sense, Sheriff. And I got better things to do than listen to such palaver.”

Murphy seemed about to mount his horse when York’s voice stopped him sharp. “Whit! There’s something I haven’t mentioned to Miss Willa. I found a mess of blood caked on a post on that porch. Human blood, Doc Miller says. Enough to show that somebody took a hell of a knock.”

Reins still in hand, Murphy said, “That so?”

“It’s so. I’ve taken that section of the post as potential evidence. Tucked it away in my safe. In there, as well, are pieces of bone collected just off the porch, near that post. Likely the doc could match them up to the hole in George Cullen’s head, were we to dig him up. But that’s as far as I’ve taken this so far.”

Murphy snorted a humorless laugh. “Why bother? O’Malley’s your man, and he’s dead.”

York’s chin came up, and his gaze glared down. “Suppose it wasn’t O’Malley that argued that morning with George Cullen. Suppose it was you, Whit.”

The close-set eyes showed white all around. “You’re out of your blasted mind, Caleb York! I loved that old man!”

York nodded. “So did Burt O’Malley. I believe you. But the old man wasn’t the only one you loved out at the Bar-O, was he?”

“What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means you’ve been yearnin’ for Willa Cullen for a long, long time. Way before I got to town. And all that time you thought you were the son that George Cullen never had. You two were close — that’s true enough. So close that maybe you thought the old man would be just fine with you marryin’ his daughter and takin’ over the Bar-O.”

The eyes were slits again. “Careful what you say, York!”

“I generally am. For instance, I think that morning... the morning George Cullen died... you finally got it out in the open. Brought up a subject you figured would please the old man. Told him of your intentions, how you hoped to marry his daughter and keep the Bar-O a going concern.”

The foreman was trembling with rage. “I’ve heard enough of this...”

“But Cullen wasn’t having any of it, was he? You were just some lowly cowboy he groomed into a decent foreman — a good hand, but not anybody good enough for his daughter. A man like George Cullen was the king of his little kingdom, and that made his daughter a princess. Some uppity trail hand wants to wed her? Ridiculous! Insulting. Even infuriating. Hell, the old boy may have started the fracas. I saw him do the same the night before, with Newt Harris. He’d been kinda erratic of late, ol’ George. Being blind goes hard on a big man like that.”

Jaw muscles pulsed at either edge of the thick mustache. “You best be careful what you say, York. What you do. You don’t have a damn thing on me!”

“You didn’t mean to kill him. You really did love that old man. But when he insulted you, belittled you, and then came at you with his fists up, you grabbed him and knocked him back. Slammed him a good one.”

Murphy said nothing, but the trembling continued.

“Whit, you were the only one, really, who could’ve loaded the body up in a buckboard and staged that business with that chestnut of his. Like he ever would’ve been thrown by a gentle horse like that.”

Murphy was shaking his head. “Can’t prove nothin’. Not a damn thing.”

York shrugged. “Maybe not. But somebody out at the Bar-O may have seen or heard somethin’. Lou Morgan, maybe, workin’ the barn. Harmon in the cookhouse. Whole bunkhouse of cowhands.”

The foreman snorted. “Anybody said anythin’, they’re damn liars.”

“Oh, I haven’t investigated yet. And I also haven’t told Willa what I think. Once I do, though, you’ll be finished at the Bar-O. She won’t need any evidence. Just my say-so.”

Murphy’s hand hovered over his holstered .45.

York raised his left hand nice and easy. “Now, that’s one way you can go, Whit. But would you please step away from that horse of yours? ’Cause my bullet might go through you, and I’d hate like hell to wound that animal.”

Murphy slowly moved away from the horse, and York moved with him in a half circle.

“I suppose you might take me,” York said, as if merely ruminating. “You never know in a gunfight. You might be the man to kill Caleb York. Stranger things have happened.”

Now York was poised with his hand over the .44 in the low-slung holster.

“Or,” York said, “you could saddle up, head out to the Bar-O, gather your things, and find somewhere else to be.”

Murphy froze, hand still just above his holstered weapon. “And... and you’ll tell Willa Cullen what?”

“That you got a letter from home and had to tend to things there.”

“What things?”

“Why, you never said, Whit. You just told me you had family matters that needed seein’ to. Your only job will be to never set foot in Trinidad again, or on the Bar-O. Give me your word on that, and I won’t come looking for you. And I won’t investigate further.”

Murphy’s smile was in the midst of a glare. “Why should I trust you?”

“Because I’m taking a risk, too. You see, I promised Willa I would kill the man who killed her father. If she finds out I just let that man ride off on his own, well, she might not look too kindly on that.”

Murphy’s right hand relaxed and slipped easily past the butt of his holstered gun. His shoulders slumped; he seemed unsteady on those cowboy bowed legs. His eyes were on the dusty earth.

“I did love that old man,” he said softly, nothing gruff at all about it. “And... and Willa, too. Loved ’em both.”

“I’m sure you did, Whit.”

Murphy’s grin was joyless. “Funny you should send me off sayin’ it was a family matter.”

“Yeah?”

“That old man and her, they was the only thing near a family as I ever had.”

York had seen sadder things than the look in Murphy’s eyes, but not many.

“Time for you to ride, Whit.”

The former foreman of the Bar-O did just that. Climbed up and onto his horse and headed out, not fast, not slow. Never looking back.

York sighed and went over to sit on the short flight of steps to the Grange Hall. He waited till the building began to empty out, then gently wove his way through the exiting crowd back into the building, with many citizens patting him on the back and thanking him for his generosity. Of course, his action hadn’t entirely been out of generosity — he and Parker would make a pretty penny off the Santa Fe for use of their depot.

He found Willa sitting on the stage, on one of the many hardwood chairs arranged there. Her hands were folded in her lap, and she looked very small, very young, in that feminine blue-and-white calico dress.

He sat beside her. “Big day.”

She nodded.

“Your father might not be happy,” he said.

She nodded.

York shrugged. “Might be ticked we didn’t do things his way. But you’re in charge now.”

She nodded.

“I do think you’re overdue, though,” he said.

She looked at him.

He brushed a blond tendril from her forehead. “For those tears?”

She thought about that.

Then fell into his arms and wept.

Patting her on the back like a baby, Caleb York could only hope that she would agree with him if she ever put things together about Whit Murphy’s sudden absence.

Agree that there were times when killing a man just wasn’t the way.