The Big Showdown

Chapter Four

On the way out of town, past the church and before the cemetery, the Grange Hall sat on its own half acre, a two-story redbrick building with a first-floor overhang, a structure barely two years old.

While the Grange was home to meetings of ranchers and shopkeepers to talk over shared problems, the hall existed chiefly as a public meeting place, when matters of community import needed discussing; also, dances, amateur theatrics, and music performances were often held there.

This evening, a day after the bank robbery, the building’s unpretentious interior — with its pale green walls, pounded tin ceiling, and varnished wood floor, a small stage with spinet piano at the far end — was filled to capacity with several hundred citizens and ranch folk crammed in. The unspoken rule at Grange Hall meetings was no guns, and a table near the door was temporary home to an array of rifles and gun belts. The attire was homespun, not Sunday-go-to-meeting but also not Saturday-night hoedown. This was no dance.

On the stage, the members of the Citizens Committee — the town’s de facto city council — were seated in the same hard-back chairs as the attendees. In their dark suits and long expressions, they looked like a team of circuit-riding preachers prepared to give one hell-and-brimstone sermon after another.

The town’s well-groomed barber mayor was at the podium, and he was gesturing with both hands to settle the restless crowd.

“We need to keep our calm, friends,” the diminutive mayor said, his voice bigger than he was. “We face a situation that could mean the end of our community, if we don’t stick together and weather this storm.”

Only a politician who had not faced a rival candidate would have made so blunt a statement, and it was enough to sober the troubled faces into silence, for the moment anyway.

Willa Cullen, in blue-and-black plaid shirt and jeans and work boots, was seated toward the front on the center aisle next to her father. The old man sat forward, depending on his imperfect hearing to make up for his failed eyesight.

Gesturing toward the city fathers perched just behind him, Mayor Hardy said, “Now, our good friend Thomas Carter, president of the bank, has asked to speak to you regarding yesterday’s tragic events.”

The mayor stood away from the podium and held out a hand to bring forward the large-framed, impressive figure of the banker, who seemed almost to overwhelm the podium. Like the mayor, he had a speaking voice that could fill a room, and he did so.

“We have suffered a terrible setback in the life of our town,” Carter said. “Not of the least of it is the loss of a good, brave man, who we barely had time to get to know... Sheriff Ben Wade.”

Willa glanced across the aisle where Caleb York sat, his expression unreadable. He wore his usual black, including a black vest, though no jacket, and the shirt lacked any fancy touches of gray, his string tie white. Arriving with no gun on his hip, he’d hung his hat when he entered the hall, and his reddish brown hair had a tousled look, reflective perhaps of a busy, even harried day.

The banker was saying, “I would like to commend Reverend Caldwell for so movingly leading us in prayer, and for sharing words of consolation and comfort. And may I say, Reverend, your graveside remembrances of the late Sheriff Wade, this morning, made a fine tribute. Now, as you know, the bank did not open today...”

A wave of murmured disapproval rolled across the room, punctuated by several outbursts.

“You don’t have to tell us!”

“What’s the damn idea, Carter!”

The latter instance of public, mixed-company swearing indicated the level of concern and outrage, though summoning a few offended “Well, I never!” reactions from older ladies, as well as some smiles from the handful of older children in attendance.

“Closing First Bank today was not merely prudent but necessary,” the banker said firmly, his chin raised. “We needed to undergo a full examination of our books and remaining funds. We were not quite wiped out by the thieves.”

“I’ll take mine in pennies and nickels!”

Carter ignored that. Up went his chin again. “Today I have made arrangements with my broker in Denver to divest myself of certain investments in order to have cash on hand, by the day after tomorrow.”

This produced another wave of murmuring, less angry, more curious.

“A run on the bank,” Carter said gravely, “could well mean the ruination of this town. Remember that First Bank has invested in many of your businesses and ranches. That is where your money is. What I humbly request of you is that you continue to go about your business and allow us — as you continue to bank with us — to build up our reserve of funds.”

“What,” an angry rancher toward the back yelled, “and let you fill your coffers till the next outlaws come along?”

Carter raised his palms, but it was not a gesture of surrender. “Henceforth, an armed guard will be on duty at the bank during all business hours. We will be prepared, should this happen again.”

The same rancher shouted, “Why didn’t you have an armed guard on duty yesterday?”

That got the crowd going, but the banker’s strong voice rode over it. “Our clerks are all armed! We have a gun at every window. But we were simply overwhelmed by a force of arms. This will not happen again, I promise you.”

An older rancher, about halfway back, stood and asked, “What if we don’t wish to wait it out, while the town makes your bank solvent again?”

“As I said, I have divested myself of some investments. By the day after tomorrow, anyone who wishes to close out his account can do so at twenty-five cents on the dollar.”

Nobody liked the sound of that.

Half the room was on its feet, and just about the entire assemblage was shouting questions or flat-out yelling. Willa and her father were among the few merely listening. She glanced across the aisle at an equally stoic Caleb, and he gave her a little smile and shrug, as if to say, People. What can you do?

The hall was still ringing with discontent when the doors were flung open, as if by a gust of wind, and Willa (and everybody else) looked back amazed as a figure strode in, heading down that center aisle with purpose. He was tall, perhaps even taller than Caleb, in a black frock coat with waistcoat and black silk four-in-hand tie.

He’d been moving so quickly that Willa didn’t get a really good look at this new arrival until he’d swept up to, and onto, the stage. The city fathers were frowning more in confusion than irritation at this boldness, although the bank president looked quite taken aback.

This late, dramatic arrival had a city look about him that was more than just a complexion little touched by sun; he had an air of sophistication that reminded Willa of actors she’d seen performing on stage on her visits to Denver.

The narrow oval of his face was marked by high cheekbones, his nose sharp but well-formed, his eyes wide-set under bold slashes of black brow, almond-shaped eyes so dark brown they seemed as black as his widow’s-peaked, slicked-back hair. His mustache had been trimmed to a mere dark line above his expressive mouth.

Up on the stage, the late arrival was speaking in low tones, half-bowing to the Citizens Committee in apparent supplication. He had their rapt attention and any irritation was fading from their faces and a few smiles were blossoming. As he explained himself, they were nodding and gesturing toward the podium.

The bank president even put a hand on the arrival’s shoulder and smiled and offered a hand to shake, which the new man did. The two stood facing each other, talking, for what seemed an eternity to all those present, but was perhaps thirty seconds, while a pin-drop silence took the hall. Finally the two men grinned at each other and shook hands again, as if both were pumping water at a well.

With considerable energy, the man in the silk tie took the podium, gripping it like a revival preacher. In a strong, clear voice, he said, “My apologies to you good people. I realize I’ve interrupted an important meeting, but when I learned what you’ve been put through, and what you’re going through, well... I thought you might like to hear a few encouraging words...”

He flashed a winning smile.

“...to invoke a familiar song that’s no doubt been sung in this very building any number of times.”

That same rabble-rousing rancher in back, unimpressed, called, “Just who are you, mister?”

“My name is Gauge,” he said. “But I hope you won’t hold that against me.”

Another wave of murmuring rolled through the room.

“I only met my late and apparently very unlamented cousin a few times,” he said. “When we were both young and innocent... though I seem to recall him setting a cat’s tail on fire, so perhaps he never was.”

This got some smiles and a few chuckles.

“I am Zachary Garland Gauge, and I rode here on horseback today from Las Vegas, where I arrived by train. Though I’m from the East, I do have some equestrian training...” Seeing some confused faces, he rephrased it. “I’ve done my share of horseback riding, although I think today I earned myself a few blisters in brand-new places.”

More chuckles, but many wary expressions.

His smile exuded confidence. “I hope we’ll be friends soon. We’re already neighbors, as I’ve moved in, out at the Circle G, or am in the process thereof. Several townspeople were good enough to be waiting for me when I arrived, and they let me know in no uncertain terms about the nasty blow your community’s been dealt. I’m here to put your minds at ease. Before I came West, to take over my cousin’s ranch, and to build a new life for myself, I liquidated all of my holdings.”

Murmuring rose to a rumbling, as if an earthquake were coming.

Zachary Gauge’s strong voice rose over the rumbling and quelled it: “Please! Gentle people. I have only had a few moments to discuss this with Mr. Carter. Just now. Obviously we will need to spend time in discussion and negotiation, at far more length... but your bank president assures me that the amount of money I will be depositing with him in the coming few days exceeds the losses of the recent robbery by a good distance.”

A stunned silence held for several seconds; then someone started to clap and it built into applause that rang off the tin ceiling, with some whoops and hollering mixed in.

“I hope to get to know all of you better,” Zachary said, and he turned to the city fathers and went down the row of them — they were on their feet now — shaking hands. Then he faced the crowd and summoned a shy smile and waved a little, as he stepped off the stage and went down the aisle, as smiling faces turned his way, words of welcome flung toward him, hands extended for quick shakes, the applause continuing. Finally the unexpected town savior took a place along the wall in back, since no chairs were left.

The committee members on stage were all seated again, save for the mayor, who again stepped to the podium. The applause finally died down and the little barber spoke.

“We are all as grateful as we are surprised,” Mayor Hardy said, “to enjoy this last-second rescue, right out of a dime novel.”

That got some laughter, perhaps more than it deserved, thanks to the suddenly elevated mood.

“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.