The Bloody Spur

Chapter Two

Willa Cullen, the only female at the meeting of the Trinidad Citizens Committee, was in attendance at the sufferance of the men, who knew her blind father — however he might resent or even deny it — required her aid. She had, for example, driven the buckboard into town from the ranch this morning.

The young woman — she had just turned twenty-three — was a familiar tomboy sight in Trinidad, attired today, as she so often was, in a red-and-black plaid shirt and denims and stirrup-friendly boots, her golden hair up and braided in back in a fashion that, like her lovely features and tall, shapely frame, suggested her late mother’s Swedish heritage. So did her cornflower-blue eyes in their long-lashed setting.

Seated with her in a semicircular arrangement of chairs at the back of Harris Mercantile was a group of citizens who included both local merchants and ranchers, their attire sharply distinguishing which was which. One of the latter, seated beside her, was the rather shrunken figure of her father, George Cullen.

The old man’s eyes were white with lack of sight; his flesh was gray from too much time indoors; his once powerful rawboned face was a sunken-cheeked memory of its former self; and his sunken chest, the same. He wore a now too-large gray shirt and a black-string affair that Willa had tied for him, and new-looking black trousers that, like their owner, didn’t get outside much these days.

A blind rancher didn’t ride herd on men or cattle; he delegated such responsibilities — in Cullen’s case to Whit Murphy, the trusted foreman of the Bar-O. Even now Murphy was seeing to things out at the spread.

A wood-burning stove, with a modest, fragrant fire in its belly, separated the meeting from the front of the store, with its high shelves, scurrying clerks, and eavesdropping customers. Standing toward the rear of the meeting place, a notebook and pencil in hand, was Oscar Penniman, the editor and owner of the Trinidad Enterprise, the town’s newly minted weekly newspaper. The small, slender newspaperman wore a sack coat, matching vest, trousers, and intense concentration on his narrow mustached face.

A table on a slightly elevated platform faced the attendees. There sat the Citizens Committee members in attire usually reserved for Sunday, with Mayor Hardy in the higher-backed chair at the center, where the circuit court judge would sit when a trial came to town.

Hardy’s qualifications were limited largely to his good grooming — he was, after all, the town barber. A short, slight, otherwise unprepossessing individual, the mayor had slicked-back, pomaded black hair and a matching handlebar mustache, impressive if oversize for such a narrow face.

At Hardy’s right was their host: heavyset, blond, less impressively mustached Newt Harris, fifty-some, in the medium brown suit and dark brown string tie he wore on such occasions. At the mayor’s left was apothecary Clem Davis, a bug-eyed scarecrow of a man; and next to him, hardware-store owner Clarence Mathers, his muttonchops so massive, the lack of hair on top could be forgiven.

The mayor was the only elected official here — the Citizens Committee, which served as Hardy’s town council, was appointed by him.

Seated next to Harris was a solidly built man in his distinguished forties, wearing a dark frock coat with a low-cut vest, light tan trousers, and a small bow tie sporting the pointed ends so fashionable in bigger cities. His hair was short and slicked down; his beard neatly trimmed; his nose hawkish; his wide-set eyes a dark, alert blue.

Willa had not met this individual, but she knew very well who he was. She also knew that the man’s presence itself was offensive to her father, who was breathing hard, like a dog getting ready to bark.

Familiar footsteps in back of her, with an equally familiar jangle of spurs, told her a latecomer had made the meeting. She glanced just barely behind her at Caleb York, who took a position between the stove and the arrangement of chairs, standing with his hat in hand hanging loose at his side. He caught her eyes, nodded to her, and she flushed and turned away.

Willa and the sheriff had once been, as the gossips put it, an item. That state of things had shifted when York announced his plans to leave Trinidad for a Pinkerton job in San Diego, knowing good and well that she was not about to follow him — the Bar-O and her father were Willa Cullen’s world.

That unhappy situation had turned to something tragic when she became engaged to a man York later killed. Killed in the line of duty, for good cause, but when a former beau shot dead a current fiancé, the aftermath was bound to be awkward.

Mayor Hardy banged the gavel a few times and in his reedy tenor said, “Meeting will come to order. Our sole business today is to welcome and grant an audience to Mr. Grover Prescott...” The barber’s small mouth smiled under the big mustache as he nodded toward their hawkish-faced guest. “Of the Santa Fe Railroad.”

Chair feet scraped the floor as those in attendance shifted and settled.

Hardy continued. “Mr. Prescott has come all the way from Albuquerque to speak to us about what he calls a singular opportunity for our God-fearing community — an opportunity that could bring prosperity and change to our little corner of the world... Mr. Prescott?”

Greeted by cautious applause, the railroad man stood and came down around to the area between the audience and the Citizens Committee, the same space where lawyers for the defense and prosecution would plead their cases. Like one of those lawyers, he would prowl the area and make eye contact with the members of this jury.

Of course, making eye contact with Willa’s father was out of the question.

“I guess I don’t have to tell you good people,” Prescott said, his voice deep and politician smooth, “that Las Vegas, your neighbor here in New Mexico, has gone from a bump in the road to a booming community rivaling Tucson, El Paso, and even Denver. They have gas- and waterworks, a telephone company, and six trains that stop daily! Your once-modest neighbor is in the midst of an unprecedented era of prosperity, dozens of new businesses springing up and flourishing, now that the Santa Fe has transformed Las Vegas into a cattle railhead. It’s fair to say that Las Vegas, like no other New Mexico town, has changed dramatically in the past few years, and for the better.”

“Not entirely for the better,” a male voice behind her said. That familiar, mid-range, mellow voice that seemed so unconcerned about anything at all.

Prescott, his rhythm thrown, turned toward the tall man standing at the rear of the seated group.

“Sir,” the railroad agent said, a surface friendliness not entirely hiding his irritation, “I will be happy to answer questions... after I’ve completed my presentation.”

“Well, I don’t have a question, sir. It’s more a comment.”

All eyes were on York now. And Prescott had surely noticed the silver badge on the man’s gray shirt, half covered by his black coat.

Prescott, cornered, said, “Well, go ahead, Sheriff. You are the sheriff, I take it?”

“I am.”

“Well, be my guest. Speak.”

If anyone was expecting York to come around and join Prescott up front, they were disappointed. He maintained his position at the rear, his head cocked at a lazy angle.

“Those new businesses in Las Vegas that have cropped up,” York said, “include dozens of saloons and gambling halls and houses of ill repute. Murderers, thieves, shootists, swindlers, soiled doves, and tramps have all helped swell that population you mentioned. And their tourist trade has included in recent years, I believe, such luminaries as Doc Holliday, Jesse James, and Billy the Kid.”

Prescott’s frown stopped just short of a scowl. He paced as he spoke, but his eyes remained on York. “Tell me, Sheriff, are you against change? You surely realize that any booming community experiences growing pains. There will be churches and schools and flourishing businesses, and yes, the occasional desperado and dance-hall girl. But isn’t that a small price to pay?”

Caleb’s sly, shy smile was one Willa knew well. “Mr. Prescott, I am neither for what you propose nor against it. You haven’t really proposed anything yet. I just want to make sure, when you do, that my friends don’t buy a pig in a poke.”

Mayor Hardy cleared his throat and said, “Sheriff, we appreciate you sharing your astute point of view. But perhaps we can learn from the mistakes of our neighboring community, particularly with a seasoned lawman like yourself to guide the way.”

Caleb grinned and said, “Not for my current pay you can’t.”

That raised some laughter and even got a smile out of Prescott — a forced one, but a smile.

“Thank you for your insights, Sheriff,” Prescott said with a dismissive nod. Then he turned toward the city fathers at their elevated table.

“Mr. Harris,” Prescott said to their host, with a gesture around the room, “this is a fine establishment you have here. But are you aware that Las Vegas has become the territory’s most important mercantile center? That since the railroad came in, over a million dollars in wool, hides, and pelts have been shipped out of there?”

Now Prescott turned to the town barber.

“Mayor Hardy, what is the population of Trinidad? Perhaps three hundred hardworking souls? Las Vegas is over twenty-five hundred in population now. You are at a crossroads, sir. Your fine little community can grow and thrive or risk becoming just another ghost town in the Southwest when times change and leave you behind.”

Again, the railroad agent turned to address his audience.

“How can you enjoy the prosperity that has made a mecca of your neighbor? Very simple, my friends.”

Prescott waved a slow hand across the air, tracing an invisible pathway.

He said, “The Santa Fe Railway intends to build a spur between Trinidad and Las Vegas, a branchline that will transform your community into a vital part of the cattle trade. But that is just the beginning. Your town will expand with new money, new blood, and fresh opportunities. We ask for your blessing, and your cooperation.”

George Cullen stood.

The milky eyes trained themselves on the source of the voice that promised so much. The white-bearded chin came up, and a firm, determined voice came out.

“Mr. Prescott, you paint a pretty picture,” Willa’s papa said. “And you present this great opportunity to the citizens of Trinidad as if it’s up to them to make this happen. But you and I know the truth, sir.”

“Mr. Cullen,” the railroad man said quietly, just a little defensive, “the Santa Fe does not go into a community blindly.”

A murmur went up around them at this gaffe, and Prescott immediately understood his slipup.

“What I mean to say, sir,” Prescott said quickly, “is that my company’s policy is to inform a locality of our intentions, to seek their counsel and their support.”

“I am happy,” the old man said, sounding not at all happy, “to offer my counsel, but not my support. You are well aware, sir, that I control the vast majority of the cattle range in these parts. And I have no intention of granting you passage.”

And her papa sat.

“Mr. Cullen,” Prescott said through a strained smile, “with your cattle holdings, you will benefit as much as anyone — more than anyone — by having a railhead in your backyard. In addition, during the construction of the spur, we will need beef. I am more than happy, sir, to make arrangements with you to have our men fed. And, of course, the Santa Fe will pay generously for the right of passage. That remains for private negotiation, naturally, but do know that we are prepared to pay handsomely for these rights.”

Without rising, Papa said, “If I was to do business with you and the Santa Fe Ring, I am the one who would pay ‘handsomely.’”

The Santa Fe Ring her father referred to was a powerful cabal of attorneys and land speculators, with ties to the railroad, who had made a fortune in New Mexico through political corruption and fraudulent land deals.

Papa was saying, “Not only would your branchline disrupt my range, it would make it easier for my competitors to the south, from Texas to Mexico, to compete with the Bar-O.”

“Sir—”

“No, sir. Right now the Bar-O has a short, two-day cattle drive to Las Vegas, and that gives us a market advantage that I have no intention of giving up. My fellow ranchers here should keep that in mind. At any rate, I’m quite satisfied to have things stay as they are.”

Her father stood forcefully, and Willa rose, as well, then took his arm and guided him down the aisle between chairs, though truth be told, he was the one creating the forward motion.

She had seen him through the store and outside, down to where the buckboard waited, and had even helped him up into his seat when she noticed Caleb York had followed. He stood on the boardwalk, in the blue shadow of its overhang, at the edge of the steps down to the street, hat still in his hand.

Why exactly she went to him, she couldn’t say. He hadn’t called out to her or even motioned, but she knew that he wanted a word.

She came over to the foot of the steps and looked up at him. Tall as he was, he fairly loomed over her.

Quietly, almost whispering, he said, “Is the old boy all right?”

Her father, up on the buckboard, was visibly trembling.

Sotto voce, she said, “He’s fine. He’s just mad, that’s all.”

“I don’t blame him.”

She glanced over her shoulder at her father and then back up at York with a frustrated frown, speaking softly. “Caleb, the thing is... I’m not sure I agree with Papa. I haven’t spoken a word about it to him as yet, because I know how much it riles him... but he may be wrong about this.”

“That so?”

She shook her head, and a yellow tendril came loose and dangled over an eye. “The railroad’s the future, Caleb. There’s no escaping it, and... and I’m not sure we should if we could. The branchline really will be a boon to Trinidad.”

“Future’s hard to avoid,” York admitted. “And towns like this one either grow or fade.”

Her frown turned confused. “I thought you didn’t much care for what that railroad man was peddling.”

He shrugged. “I just don’t like being sold a bill of goods. There’s generally two sides to things, and it’s best to consider both. Anyway, there’s a whiff of snake oil about that big bug Prescott.”

She nodded.

Then an awkwardness settled in.

“Well,” she said. “I should be getting back to the Bar-O.”

“Well,” he said. “Suppose you should.” He smiled a little, gave her a respectful nod, and headed back inside.

For a moment there, it had been as if they were on speaking terms.

For a moment.

She got up on the buckboard and drove her father out of town.

When Caleb York returned to the meeting at the rear of Harris Mercantile, the discussion had broken up into groups of three and four. One such group included the Santa Fe man and three of the small-ranch owners. Perhaps Prescott figured he might be able to assemble a passageway through those lesser spreads.

York doubted that was a possibility. Cullen land had grown to include what had been the Gauge properties, when Willa’s late fiancé had left his holdings to her. The other ranches formed a patchwork quilt that only rarely intersected and represented a small proportion of range at that.

The only straight shot at a pathway to Las Vegas from this part of the world was through the Bar-O.

Mayor Hardy was speaking with his fellow Citizens Committee members in the farthest corner, clumped together like the conspirators they were. The mayor noticed that York had returned, and waved him over.

York complied.

“Sheriff,” the mayor said, “I hope your comments today don’t find us at odds. Because the Citizens Committee is very much in favor of the Santa Fe spur.”

“I can’t say I’ve formed an opinion,” York admitted.

“Then why did you make those comments?”

York shrugged. “It just seemed like Mr. Prescott was stacking the deck a mite.”

Mercantile man Harris, eyes glittering, said, “Prescott isn’t exaggerating when he says that branchline will mean great things for Trinidad — thriving economy, growing population...”

“That doesn’t sound like your words, Newt.” York grinned at his host. “Or is there an echo in here from when Prescott was talking?”

Seeming to change the subject, Davis, the druggist, said, “Tell me, Sheriff, are you still considering that position with the Pinkertons in San Diego?”

“I assured you gents I’d stay at least till the end of the year,” York reminded them.

“That’s less than two months!” Mathers blurted, his muttonchops fairly bristling.

“We just thought,” the mayor said with a nervous smile, “that you might stop to consider what this spur would mean to you... personally.”

York grinned again. “You mean, I wouldn’t have to wear my horse out whenever takin’ a trip to Las Vegas?”

His Honor seemed about to put a hand on York’s shoulder, then reconsidered it.

“What I mean is,” Hardy said, “if that branchline comes through, we could offer you a healthy raise... a raise up to the level of what Pinkerton promises, and more. All kinds of perquisites commensurate with what that office would be. How would you like to live in a house, not a hotel room? A house the city would provide!”

Already they were thinking of themselves as a city, not a town.

York said, “That all sounds just fine. Would you throw in a housekeeper?”

“We could do that!” Mathers said.

But the mayor could tell York was having some fun with them.

“We’re quite serious about this, Caleb,” Hardy said. “Think of your fees for tax collecting in a city ten times our size. You’d have regular office hours, with a staff of deputies, and not just some old stable bum... meaning no disrespect to Mr. Tulley.”

“Obviously not. But aren’t you fellas forgetting one small detail here?”

The four men traded looks that said, Are we?

York opened a hand. “The most efficient and maybe only way that spur goes in is if George Cullen sells the right-of-way. Perhaps you missed it, but I didn’t think he seemed all that enthusiastic about the prospect.”

The mayor smiled so broadly that his handlebar mustache seemed to smile its own self. “That’s where you come in, Sheriff.”

“Do I?”

Harris took York by the arm. “Old Man Cullen likes you, Sheriff, respects you. You got rid of that evil bastard Harry Gauge, saved the old man and his daughter’s lives out to the way station last year. That carries weight!”

Mathers said, “He’ll listen to you, Sheriff.”

York sighed, nodded. “He might.”

The mayor said, “We need you to intercede for us with that hardheaded old fool.”

That got a frown out of York. “George Cullen is no fool.”

Hardy realized he’d misspoken. “Of course he isn’t. But he’s one of these self-made pioneer types who came to this country and carved out a place for himself. He sees the rest of us as newcomers, interlopers, and doesn’t understand that times are changing and civilization is coming.”

Giving York a patronizing smile, Davis said, “A man who’s thinking about moving to San Diego and taking a job with the Pinkertons isn’t a man who fears change. Isn’t a man who ducks the future.”

The mayor said, “Just talk to him. Reason with him. That is, assuming you agree with us and consider the branchline the path to the future for our little town.”

So it was a town again. City would come later.

“I’ll have a talk with Mr. Cullen,” York said, gave the men a nod, and turned to go before he had to endure their self-satisfied grins.

On York’s way out, Oscar Penniman, the newspaperman, stepped in his path. York considered sweeping by and knocking him down in the process, then reconsidered. Probably best to maintain good relations with the press.

“Trouble you for a quote, Sheriff?” The editor’s voice was casual, but his eyes were sharp, and the notebook was in hand, pencil poised. “My readers would, I’m sure, find your views on this subject of most interest.”

“Not today, Mr. Penniman.”

York slipped past the man, who tagged after.

“At the meeting you sounded skeptical of what might come of a branchline coming to town. Can I assume you’ll take a stand against the railroad?”

“No.”

“Then you’re for it?”

“No, you can’t assume anything. Quote what I said in there, if you like. Now excuse me.”

They were outside now.

“Sheriff!”

The newspaperman’s footfalls clattered along the boardwalk as he tried to keep up with the lawman’s greater stride.

“Could you give me a quote on how you came to save that young man’s life yesterday? You could have easily shot down that callow youth.”

York stopped and turned, and the little man almost ran into him.

“He could have easily shot me,” York said. “That’s how gunfights work. And why they should be avoided.”

The editor was scribbling in his notebook now, allowing the sheriff to make his getaway.

What York might have said was how he hated the idea of civilization squeezing all the life out of the Southwest. But why bother having any opinion on that subject? Change was coming. And a man might as well learn to live with it. Even a man like George Cullen.

Even a man like Caleb York.