The Big Showdown

Chapter Eight

Caleb York peered over the batwing doors of the Victory Saloon and saw what he hoped he would: a quiet night.

Weeknights often were less than hopping at Trinidad’s only, if imposing watering hole. Payday weekends were wild — many of the merchants boarded up their windows — and really any weekend could be a ripsnorter. But right now the Victory was in the midst of a lull.

He pushed through the swinging doors and glanced around. The Victory always looked big, but seemed mammoth when it wasn’t doing much business, its ornate tin ceiling like an endless sky lit by the suns of gas-lamp chandeliers, its fancy gold-and-black brocade wallpaper everywhere. The long, highly polished oak bar over at left seemed to go on forever, mirrors and bottles of bourbon and rye, towels dangling for fastidious types to wipe foam from their mustaches, a shiny brass foot rail with frequent spittoons. Behind the bar, on a busy night, as many as five bow-tied, white-shirted bartenders might be at work, serving the thirsty horde. Tonight, only one, and the customers were mostly townsfolk.

The casino section of the place was a ghost town, no one working the various stations, from roulette to wheel-of-fortune. One faro table, one poker table, were all that were going. Two bored-looking satin-clad darlings sat at a table challenging the established mores by smoking cheroots as one helped the other play solitaire. At the far end of the big room, the little stage was empty and so was the bench at the upright piano.

York went to the bar, which he had to himself, like one religious man at an immense altar. The bartender, whose name was Hub Wainwright — a big man with thinning brown hair and a round face and the kind of shoulders that said he could do his own bouncing — knew to give the sheriff a beer. Hub also knew not to refuse the sheriff’s dime.

York sipped the warm beer. “Slow night.”

“I heard you was a detective.”

York smiled, rather liking Hub’s dry sense of humor. “Is the boss lady in?”

“Look to your right.”

Rita Filley, who had inherited the Victory from her murdered sister, might have been Lola’s ghost. Though he would never ask a female such a thing, he felt sure the dark-haired Rita, whose slender, full-breasted shape so recalled Lola’s, had assumed not only her late sister’s business but her wardrobe as well.

He would swear he had seen Lola in that same blue-and-gray satin gown, its black lace cupping the sister’s bosom lovingly, the dress parted in front like curtains on a stage to show off fishnet silk stockings and laced-up high-heel shoes.

This young woman had near the same oval face with big brown eyes, turned-up nose, and full, red-rouged lips. There were differences, though — Lola’s beauty mark near that sensual mouth had been real, and those big eyes weren’t as widely set. Rita here was new to the saloon trade and hadn’t lost all the softness in her pretty face. Yet.

“Good evening, Sheriff,” she said, depositing herself before him. Her voice was higher than Lola’s had been, though some of the sister’s throaty purr lurked in there, too. “You might as well take that badge off — there’s no trouble here tonight.”

“I’ll leave it on just the same,” he said, though he’d already removed his hat in her presence. “You never can tell.”

She gave him half a smile, though the dark eyes were completely amused. “You’re a poker player, aren’t you?”

“I am.”

She jerked a thumb over her shoulder. “There’s a chair open. Several of Trinidad’s most distinguished bad card players are seated there. Could be a golden opportunity.”

“I’d rather seize a different opportunity, Miss Filley.”

“Oh?”

He nodded. “I’d like to finally have a chat with you. We’ve never really talked.”

“I had the feeling you didn’t see the need — since you were leaving town and all.”

With a shrug, he said, “Well, I’m still here. Why don’t we take a table?”

All of the tables, opposite the bar, were empty.

“I think we can squeeze in,” she said, and looped her arm in his.

He walked her over. Pulled a chair out for her.

She sat and looked up at him with an expression that already conveyed some fondness, or pretended to. “You’re a rarity in these parts, Sheriff.”

“My name is Caleb.”

She gestured to the chair next to her. “Sit down, Caleb. And I’ll tell you why you’re such a rare breed.”

He sat.

She did: “You take your hat off in a lady’s presence. You pull out a lady’s chair. You call me ‘Miss Filley.’ If you’re trying to get on my good side, you’re doing a very nice job of it.”

He sipped the warm beer, then said, “I think I just stumbled.”

“Did you?”

“I should have asked if you wanted something to drink.”

“Sheriff... Caleb? I own the place. And men don’t buy me drinks. They buy my girls drinks. Is that why you’re here?”

“Pardon?”

“To talk to me about my girls? Sheriff... and right now I am speaking to the sheriff... I want you to know that I intend to make some changes here. Some of these girls are going to be going.”

“Going where?”

She batted the air with a lacy-gloved hand. “Anywhere but here. I assume you were planning to get around to making me divest myself of my fallen angels, so I’ll ask for your patience. Give me a few months.”

“A few months for what?”

She gestured with the other lace-gloved hand. “To make this place more respectable. I have no need and no interest in running a house of ill repute. The more respectable drinking and gambling emporiums have girls who dance with the male customers, who let those customers buy them drinks, and encourage gambling. Sing, dance, talk, flirt.”

They paused in conversation as bartender Hub brought her a drink. “Your Mule Skinner, madam.”

Whiskey and blackberry liqueur.

“Thank you, Mr. Wainwright,” she said.

He disappeared.

York asked her, “What are you going to do with all those rooms upstairs?”

She sipped her drink, shrugged with her eyebrows. “I’m going to live in them, after some fix-up and new furnishings. I’ll have an office up there, too. Little rathole downstairs doesn’t suit me. I know you have a reputation as a... a...”

“Prude? Prig?”

She frowned, shook her head. “No. I know that’s not the case. My sister wrote me letters. She wrote me one shortly before she passed that was very... complimentary about you. Reading between the lines, I gathered... well, that’s neither here nor there.”

He shifted in his chair. “Isn’t it? I was sheriff here for six months. I didn’t try to shoo the soiled doves from their cages during that time. Why do you assume I would now?”

The dark eyes widened. “Because, as you say, you’re still here. Before, you were just holding down the office till the town found somebody to fill it, and when they didn’t, you went out and got poor Ben Wade. Now that you’re staying—”

“You’ve been misinformed. I’m only staying until this bank robbery is cleared up.”

Her smile seemed faintly mocking. “You killed the robbers and yet here you sit. No, I have a feeling you may be here awhile longer. Maybe a lot longer. I’m aware of Miss Willa Cullen, and how you two... well. Again. Neither here nor there.”

He frowned at her. “Your sister wrote you about that, did she?”

“She did. But I have eyes. I’ve only been here two weeks, but I have eyes.” She drew in breath and let it out, then sat forward slightly. “Listen, Sheriff... Caleb... I want to thank you. You deserve my thanks.”

“Why is that?”

She waved a hand around her. “You allowed the Victory to stay open until everything was settled and I was able to move to Trinidad. To decide to move to Trinidad, I should say.”

“You might have just sold the place.”

“The legalities took a while. But I liked having this opportunity. My sister fared well here.”

“Right up to when she was killed.”

That blunt remark didn’t faze her. “Very gallant of you, to try to dissuade me from this life. But as I think, I hope, I’ve made clear — the Victory will be more respectable under my sway. Lola had a partner in that other sheriff, the crooked one — Harry Gauge? She was no brothel madam. He made her one.”

“May I ask what you were doing, Miss Filley, before you took on your sister’s business?”

“It’s Rita. By ‘doing,’ you mean — for a living? I’ve been one of those dance-hall girls we were discussing — the ones who make a man feel good without going upstairs. I’m not new to this kind of place.”

He was looking her over, realizing that behind the lip rouge and dance-hall gown, someone young was on view. “How old are you, anyway?”

“You would ask a female such a question? So much for gallantry, Caleb. I am twenty-four.”

Still sizing her up, he said, “What kind of name is Filley? If you don’t mind my asking.”

“It’s Irish. But my mother was Mexican. I grew up this side of the border. My papa was a blacksmith — not a family business either Sis or I could go into. When he died, the blacksmith shop went to Lola and she sold it. Came here and opened this palace.”

He nodded. “It is something of a palace. I think you could do well here, even without the doves. Probably even better. Times are changing.”

“I’ve noticed.”

“This town will grow.”

“Is that why you’re staying on, Caleb?”

“I’m not staying on. Told you that.”

“We’ll see. So. Do we know each other better now?”

“I think so. But we do have more to discuss, if you’re of a mind.”

“Please.”

“What’s your relationship with Zachary Gauge?”

She frowned, shook her head. “I have no... relationship with him. Business or otherwise. I’ve never met the man. I understand he’s in town. Like you, I’m sure he’ll get around to looking me up and sitting me down.”

York’s gaze turned narrow-eyed. “But I gather he signed his interest in this saloon over to you.”

“He did.”

“And you never met him?”

An elaborate shrug. “It was done through attorneys. All by wire and mail. He was in New York. I was in Houston. It took a while, but he signed everything over to me.”

“For nothing?”

“For one dollar.” She smiled. “That was something the lawyers insisted on.”

“Why would he do that?”

The big eyes grew wide again. “Maybe you should sit him down and ask him?”

But York pressed: “Zachary didn’t say? I know you never met him, Rita, but in a letter... or through his attorney...?”

She gestured with open hands. “Caleb, I gathered he didn’t want to have any part of this place. Of a business like this. My feeling is he wanted to put a distance between himself and that black-sheep cousin of his. From what I hear, along those lines, he made a good impression at the Grange the other night.”

“He did.”

She shrugged, smiled. “Well, that explains it. You can’t be an upstanding citizen and run a saloon with an upstairs brothel. The womenfolk and the preachers just won’t have it.”

York thought about that. It made sense.

He hadn’t yet got to the real reason, or anyway the main one, that he’d come tonight. Much of his afternoon had gone to sending out another raft of telegrams, this time asking the sheriffs all around the territory to let him know if any of Harry Gauge’s old gang showed up in their vicinity.

Then he said, “I like you, Rita.”

“This is so sudden.”

He flashed a grin. “What I mean to say is... you impress me as someone I might be able to trust.”

Her eyebrows went up. “I’ve heard more ringing endorsements.” Then down. “What do you have in mind, Caleb?”

He leaned in. “You’re new here, but your people on staff aren’t — the bartenders, the girls, your gambling crew... I need to know when any of Harry Gauge’s bunch come in here.”

She mulled it momentarily, then shrugged and said, “I guess I could do that. But, as you say, I wouldn’t recognize them.”

“Well, you might. Your sister’s partner brought in outlaws and gunhands and set them up as cowboys and deputies, when it’s easy to see they aren’t. Some have flown the coop. But others are still around.”

She was nodding. “All right. I’ll try. See what I can do.”

He gave her a tight smile. “Good. The three bank robbers, who have lately been appearing in the undertaker’s window...”

“I saw their show. They stink.”

That loosened up his smile. “Be that as it may, they were all former Gauge cronies. And if the thieves had accomplices...”

“It would be former Gauge men.” Nodding again. “I follow.”

He held her eyes. “Somebody has the money that Bill Johnson and his buddies hauled out of First Bank. I want to find it. I want to give it back to the town.”

She had a different kind of smile going now. Might call it wistful. “You are a gent, Caleb York. No wonder they write stories about you.” She raised her glass. “To Caleb York. First legend I ever shared a table with.”

“Don’t be so impressed,” he said.

“Why not?”

“Don’t you know what the word ‘legend’ means? It’s a myth. Something widely believed in, but just not true.”

Tulley had slept most of the day.

The sheriff had put him on night patrol, and that meant a lot of prowling around, checking doors and alleys. The work was nerve-racking at times but mostly dull. During the day, Tulley slept on a cot in one of the cells at the rear of the office, because Clem over at the livery was put out with him for quitting and wouldn’t let him sleep in his usual corner.

His stint on night patrol started at sundown and he was to keep it up for an hour after the Victory closed. Right now the saloon was open — it was going on eleven P.M. The place had no set closing time, but this time of week, business would be slow. By one A.M., they’d likely close the shutters over them batwing doors and lock up all around. So by two A.M. or so, he could hit the cot in that cell again.

Till tonight, Tulley had been walking on a cloud. A deputy! With his own badge! His own scattergun! And, thanks to Caleb York, the Citizens Committee had agreed to pay him forty dollars a month. The last time he made forty dollars was that silver strike that petered out the second week.

But walking up and down this sandy street made him thirsty. He was dragging. He looked almost longingly at the boardwalk he had so often crawled under to sleep, and sleep it off. It was cool under there in the warm times, and warm in the cool ones. He reckoned a man never had a more cozy resting spot betwixt womb and grave.

And he had traded that snug nest, and the companionship of a good bottle, for a jail cell?

Of course, Caleb York said he’d find Tulley something better. Just give him time. But time was something Caleb York didn’t have — Tulley knew the sheriff was only here for now. That when the robbery matter was wrapped up in a bow, Caleb York and his reputation would get on the stage, and then where would Tulley be?

Would the next sheriff keep him on?

Not likely. Not dang likely. Not damn likely.

His gut was twitching with the want of God’s sweet nectar. His throat ain’t felt this parched since the mule before Daisy up and died on him in the desert. He sat on the boardwalk steps in front of the hardware store and thought about his lot in life, the scattergun across his lap. He might have cried some.

Then got to his feet, shook the feeling off, told that damn thirst to crawl back in its hole, and Deputy Jonathan Tulley strode with pride down the street. Very much on patrol. And he was fine, just fine until he stepped into the pool of light spilling from the Victory.

He crept up to the batwing doors and peeked over, and in.

Hell’s bells but it was dead in there. Hardly a soul. Some men playing poker and that was about all she wrote. The fancy girls was at a table smoking little cee-gars, and looking glum like flowers nobody wanted to pluck. One gal, the beautiful one that ran the place, was at the bar talking to Hub about something. Damn, she was fine to look at, spitting image of her dead sister, only younger and smoother of face.

But that only made Tulley sad again. When had he last been with a woman? Ten year? Twenty year? Twenty, since one he didn’t pay. Ten, since he could afford paying. The thirst was back, raging like a fire in his belly that needed dousing right damn now.

He licked the driest lips in creation and pushed through them doors. He staggered like the drunk he hadn’t been in ages over to the bar and he stood right next to Miss Rita.

He said, “Deputy Tulley. Makin’ my nightly rounds, ma’am. Could ye stand me to a short one?”

She smiled on half her face, making one pretty dimple. “Do you deputies drink on the job?”

“Now and then we does. When the night calls for it.”

“Sure about that, Deputy?”

She smiled wickedly and nodded over her shoulder.

At the poker table, a man in black with his back to Tulley was turning his way.

Sheriff Caleb York.

“Evening, Sheriff,” Tulley said, too loud, grinning like a damn hyena. “Just makin’ my rounds!”

Caleb York shrugged and returned to his game, as if he were saying, Your choice, Deputy. Up to you.

Tulley grinned at the boss lady. “Ma’am, what I mean to request is... have you any saspirilly?”

She did have, and Tulley drank the sarsaparilla down. The stuff had a patent-medicine taste with some licorice and vanilla mixed in. He didn’t mind it none.

When he was finished, Tulley said, very loud, “Well, that was the best dang saspirilly I had me in some time!”

Caleb York, at the poker table, made a noise that Tulley thought might be a grunt or maybe a laugh.

Anyway, Tulley went on back out into the street, to continue his night rounds. While he was there, he checked the alley behind the Victory and, between some garbage barrels, he found a dead man.

On his side, kind of sprawled there, the little weak-chinned character had glasses on that was sitting crooked on his face, his eyes open but blank as a dolly’s, his expression froze in something like surprise or pain or maybe both. Tulley didn’t move the poor feller, but not being at all squeamish got down close to see that the belly of the nice gray vest under a gray jacket was blood-soaked.

But dried. Going black and crusty.

A scorched bullet hole, in the middle of all that dark red.

The deputy couldn’t place him at first. It was dark back here, which didn’t make it no easier. So the deputy flicked a kitchen match with a thumbnail and lit up the contorted face.

“Well, I’ll be danged,” Tulley said to no one who could hear.

It was that clerk from the bank.

That Herbert Upton.

Tulley ran and got the sheriff. After all, he knew right where he was.