The Legend of Caleb York

Chapter eleven

It was going on three in the morning when Harry Gauge rode back into Trinidad.

He could have bedded down under cool sheets to rest his head on down-stuffed pillows at any of the ranch houses on the spreads he owned; but with what he had sent his bunch off doing right now, Gauge figured being seen — and thought of — as the sheriff made better sense.

Anyway, he could catch a few winks at his office and then, bright and early, go and deal with a certain town problem — that gunfighter, who he’d come to believe was almost surely Wes Banion. Time to show Trinidad that strangers couldn’t just ride into town and start shooting down deputies...

Gauge had figured to stretch out on a jail cell cot, but found Rhomer had beat him to it, sleeping it off in their nicest accommodations. His number two man looked disheveled and battered, his left ear bandaged, the white of it stained red.

The sheriff kicked the cot until the red-bearded deputy woke with a start, propping up on his elbows, dark blue, bloodshot eyes popping.

Gauge frowned at him. “What the hell happened to you? Horse throw you?”

Rhomer swallowed thickly, held one side of his head, then sat up, rattling the chains that held the cot to the wall. “Hell... really tore one on over at the Victory. Is it morning?”

“It’s the A.M., but it ain’t morning. Your ear’s bleedin’.”

“One of Lola’s girls got rough and I got rough and...” He grinned stupidly. Touched his bandaged ear, grimaced. “Kind of got bit.”

“Well, I hope you gave her as good as you got. Is our shootist still in town?”

Rhomer nodded. “I think he’s over at the hotel. But that ain’t the half of it.”

Gauge sat next to him. “What is?”

The deputy swallowed, apparently not relishing the taste, and gathered his thoughts, such as they were.

“When I went over to the doc’s,” he began, “to get this flapper patched up? Doc and Banion... I mean, I figure it’s Banion...”

“So do I. Go on.”

“Anyway, Doc and Banion come down the steps carryin’ somethin’ — somethin’ all wrapped up in a sheet. Now, I figure right off it’s a body...”

Wincing, Gauge thought, I really do need to find a brighter second-in-command.

“... and then I was sure it was a body, when I saw this hand flop down, and the doc kind of picks it up and tucks it back under. The doc, he was wearin’ work gloves, what’s a doc wearin’ work gloves for?”

“I don’t know. Go on.”

“Anyhow, the doc and Banion cart this body out back and walk past the houses to where it’s nothin’ but country, and just disappear off into the dark. Did I say that there was this shovel laid out on top of the body, on the sheet?”

“No. You didn’t.”

Rhomer nodded shrewdly, eyes narrowed. “I figure that was a body that they was goin’ out to bury in the boonies.”

“Seems at least a possibility.”

“Anyways, I sat on the stairs in the alley there, by the bank, waitin’ for the doc to get back. When he finally does, Banion ain’t with him. Or the body, neither, of course. All he has is that shovel.”

“Did you ask him what he’d been up to?”

“Well, yeah, in a way, but mostly I was hurtin’ and wantin’ him to tend to my ear. I lost a piece of it, and he done some stitchin’. So we was just jawin’, while he was sewin’, and I ask him where he’d been and such. I josh him—‘You off diggin’ for gold, Doc?’ He laughs a bit and says, no, he just had this-here dead dog to bury.”

“Bury a dog. Middle of the night. You just let that slide, did you, Vint?”

“I was lucky gettin’ the doc to patch me up, middle of the night, is how I took it.”

What body would the doc and the stranger feel the need to bury, right now, right this instant, under cover of night?

Troubled, the sheriff rose. “Catch yourself some more sleep, Vint. We may have a busy day tomorrow. Likely an early start.”

Gauge decided to go over to the hotel to get a decent bed — maybe a few hours would help him think straighter, to cipher through this conundrum of bodies buried in the wee hours But as he passed his desk, he noticed something: an envelope with Sheriff Gauge written neatly there. He went around to sit and saw that it was a telegraph office envelope.

He tore it open and read:

“When did this come?” he demanded of the deputy in the jail cell.

Rhomer, already half-asleep again, sat up like a man out of a bad dream. “Don’t rightly know, Harry. Saw it on the desk when I come in. Door was open. Somebody dropped it off, I guess.”

The telegraph clerk Parsons. Gauge had told him to deliver anything that came in, whenever it came in...

“And Banion’s over at the hotel?” Gauge asked.

“Far as I know,” Rhomer said, touching his sore ear, then flopping back down on the cot, hurting side up, and turning to put his back to his boss.

A few minutes later, Gauge found Lola, in a dressing gown, standing at the check-in desk. She turned to him with surprise, maybe even alarm, showing in her features. The same could be said of the scrawny, near-hairless clerk, eyes wide and blinking behind spectacles that pinched his nose.

Lola, rather breathlessly, said, “Harry!... I was just coming to find you.”

“What are you doin’ up?”

Her smile seemed nervous to him, as she said, “Oh, some damn kid threw a rock through my window. Now there’s a mess up there, and I was inquiring after another room for tonight.”

The chinless clerk was nodding and smiling in a sickly fashion, backing her up.

Gauge frowned. This didn’t sound right. But he had bigger things on his mind.

“Let me see that register,” he said to the clerk, gesturing impatiently at the tall, narrow volume.

The clerk swallowed, making his bow tie bobble, and said, “Just so you know, I was going to send somebody over to your office first thing in the morning, Sheriff.”

“Give it here.”

The clerk turned the register around and pushed it across. “I mean, it’s plain that this stranger was playing me for a fool. Just the same, I thought you should see this... Like I said, I was going to bring it over first thing...”

Gauge was looking at the name that the stranger had signed into the book.

Caleb York.

Lola, at his side, was looking, too. “It’s a joke. Has to be. Caleb York is long dead. A year or more. Wes Banion shot him.”

“Two years ago,” Gauge said.

She looked at him with wide eyes in a pretty face still wearing evening paint. “Then... he is Banion.”

“No. Just some fool.” His gaze bore into the clerk. “Is he here?”

“No!” The quavery man pointed to the upstairs. “He took a room” — and then to the entry doors — “but he went back out some time ago.”

Gauge nodded, shut the register hard, shoved it back at the clerk, and turned to head out. Lola’s hand at his arm stopped him.

“Harry... what now?”

“Now I’m gonna rouse Rhomer out of his dainty slumber and have him round up every man I got in this town. Then I’m gonna send them out lookin’ for this would-be Caleb York, and have them—”

“Kill him?”

What did she care?

“No. Have them bring him to me.” He stopped just before he went out to add, “I’m going to kill him myself.”

Dawn was just a yellow-orange threat, like a distant fire hovering over distant buttes, as Willa brought more coffee to her father, their breakfast over, the dining table otherwise cleared. Both were in red plaid flannel shirts and denims, a blind man and his daughter, well-matched and ready for a working day.

Her blond hair ribboned back in a ponytail, Willa filled her own cup, then joined Papa at one end of the big table. There was so much to talk about... yet neither seemed able to find a word.

When a wall of stones is about to fall on you, she thought, which rock do you discuss?

Hoofbeats out in front of the ranch house caught the attention of both, and Willa got up and went to see who might be calling so early. Her father followed, moving every bit as quickly as his sighted daughter. She cracked the front door, saw who it was, then opened it wider.

Behind her, her father said hopefully, “Is it him? It’s him, isn’t it?”

The stranger in black was climbing down off his foam-flecked mount — both man and beast had been riding hard.

“It’s him, Papa.”

Their visitor was tying up the dark-maned dappled animal now. His expression she found unreadable.

She stepped out onto the porch and so did her father, moving around her to lean against the rough post there. The guilty hope in his voice was a terrible thing for her to hear. “Is it... done, then?”

The stranger walked over and stopped at the foot of the steps. “If you mean is Harry Gauge dead, no.”

Softly, bitterly, she said, “Yet you took our money.”

“Did I?”

Her chin came up. “Why are you here, then?”

He took off his hat. “I have other news. May I come in? Might there be coffee?”

Hesitating only a moment, she nodded assent to both, and soon the three were seated at one end of the big carved Spanish table.

Before even taking a sip of the steaming black liquid, the stranger asked, “How far is the Swenson spread from here?”

She said, perhaps a tad snippy, “There is no Swenson spread anymore. It’s all Harry Gauge’s land now.”

Her father said, “About twelve miles.”

The stranger asked, “Your herd — it’s separated from his?”

Willa, frowning in curiosity now, said, “A draw divides the area. Why?”

He looked from father to daughter and back. “His cattle ever mix with yours?”

Papa shook his head. “We’re barbwired in. Most of our herd stays on the north section, where the water is. The Swenson water is on the other side of what was his spread. What’s this about, friend?”

Ignoring that, their guest asked, “What about the other spreads?”

Willa laughed hollowly. “What other spreads? Harry Gauge has most of them now. Only four independents left, counting us. As my father said — what’s this all about... ‘friend’?”

That he ignored, as well, asking, “Does Gauge mix his herds?”

“I understand so,” her father said. “Tore out the wire, I’m told, to make a single spread out of all of those he latched onto.”

The stranger’s eyebrows went quickly up and down. “Then just maybe... maybe you’re lucky.”

Finally he took a sip of coffee while Willa, infuriated by his obtuse manner, sat forward and demanded, “What in blazes is this about?”

He met her eyes. “Somebody murdered old Swenson last night.”

“No!” her father blurted.

She sucked in a breath. “Murdered...”

He nodded. “Pistol-whipped to death. Found out near the relay station. Been camped out there awhile.”

Papa was shaking his head, dumbfounded. “Murdered, why? He’s long since sold out to Gauge.”

“That old man dying like that,” she said, squinting at their guest as if that might bring things into focus, “that’s sad... awful... but if it’s murder? Well, I guess we all know who likely did it, or at least had it done. But like Papa says... why?”

“To cover something up,” the stranger said, and let them mull that while he drank more coffee.

“There’s more,” her father said, “isn’t there?”

He nodded reluctantly. “Here’s where it gets hard for you. Before he was killed, Old Swenson contracted cowpox.”

Willa’s hand flew to her mouth, stifling a gasp.

Papa took it more stoically, his milky eyes narrowing, tightening. “We should be fine. I’m sure we’ll be fine. I’ll have Whit check the main herd.”

“Critical you do that, sir,” the stranger said.

The old man reached over and found his daughter’s hand and patted it. “We keep our cows nicely separate from the others, daughter. It’s an awful thing, the pox, and I hate to say it... but maybe this is God raining down his judgment on Harry Gauge.”

If so, she thought, at least the Almighty hadn’t charged them ten thousand dollars.

Hoofbeats sounded again, moving fast, then abruptly ceasing. They all looked in that direction as, within seconds, Whit Murphy, not bothering to knock, stormed in, dusty and bedraggled.

The foreman whipped off his hat and rushed into the dining area, where he nodded to Willa, ignoring the stranger and going over to stand near her father.

“Sir... excuse me, but...” He gulped for air, panting; he had obviously been riding hard and fast.

“Whit,” Papa said, sitting up straight, not waiting for his man to catch his breath, “there’s an outbreak of cowpox at the Swenson spread, and it’s probably contaminating all the cattle on Gauge land. You need to check our main herd. Get the men out and look for strays. Might find some near the fence line.”

Still grabbing his breath, Whit managed, “There ain’t no main herd, Mr. Cullen.”

“What?” Her father gaped blindly at his foreman. “What the hell are you talking about, man?”

Hat in hands, with a shamed look as if what he were about to report were his fault, the foreman said, “They hit our line camp last night, Mr. Cullen, sir, and run ’em off. Every damn head.”

Papa sat stunned for a moment, his mouth hanging open. Then he said, “ ‘They,’ you say...? Who... who did this?”

The stranger got up, vacating the chair next to her father, motioning for Whit to sit there. Whit nodded thanks, came over, and took the chair as the stranger moved down one.

Then the foreman leaned in closer to the rancher.

“Mr. Cullen, I can’t say who done it. I wasn’t there. But my ramrod, Carl, filled me in. Said these marauders wore masks. Nobody got a good look at ’em. Came in heavy and took the guns off everybody and tossed ’em, then ran our boys off. Most of the line hands, but for Carl and two others, ain’t been seen since. My guess is they ain’t comin’ back.”

Willa said, “But what about the cattle...?”

The hardened foreman looked across at her as if on the verge of tears. “Miss Cullen, Carl says this bunch was movin’ ’em out toward the foothills. It’ll take a week to round ’em up. Maybe more, without the boys of ours who scurried off, like frightened rabbits.”

Papa slammed a fist into the table. “Damn that Harry Gauge!”

Then all the air seemed to go out of George Cullen, and he slumped back in the ornately carved chair. When his voice came back, it was soft and weak, a tone she’d never heard from him before.

“We’ll never make market in time.” He shook his head, squeezed shut his eyes. “This finishes us.”

The stranger said, “You can try.”

Willa let out a bitter laugh. “What do you suggest? You heard Whit — we don’t have enough hands to fill a poker game. What, you think anybody in Trinidad is going to help us? They won’t lift a finger as long as Harry Gauge and his scum can gun anybody down at will, and get away with it.”

“That’s a bad choice on their part.”

She drew in a breath, let it out; her voice was trembling with frustration and rage. “Harry Gauge set out to own this territory, and now he’s going to get away with it.”

The stranger, betraying no shred of emotion, said, “There’s a way to get the townspeople in this with you.”

She arched a skeptical eyebrow. “Really? And what would that be?”

He shrugged. “Well, if they knew how close they were to dying? I believe they’d take an interest.”

Whit frowned and said, “What are you on about, mister?”

The stranger’s expression was impassive, but his eyes were hard. “Doc Miller says this is as virulent a strain of pox as is out there.”

“What about it?” Whit snapped, clearly irritated.

“This old boy Swenson had the sores all over him. Belly, legs, arms.” He gestured with an open hand. “By now, Swenson’s herd has probably infected the rest of Gauge’s cattle.”

“Likely,” Whit admitted.

“And,” the stranger continued, “if our good sheriff wants to keep this quiet, he may well bury his dead cows and try to take to market what he has left.”

Willa frowned. “That... that could spread an epidemic all across the country. Would he do such a thing?”

The stranger grunted a laugh. “What do you think?”

“But... could he get away with it?”

Again the stranger shrugged, giving her a disconcerting smile.

“Why not?” he asked. “Who could prove it? Once the buyers mix those cattle in the pens, they’ll never be able to pin down where it started. Gauge will come away clean. Of course, you can bet he won’t be eating beef for a while.”

“We can’t let this happen!” she said, distress pushing out all other emotions. “This is more than just our ranch, it’s... it’s...”

“This whole part of the country,” the stranger said. “And maybe beyond.”

They sat in silence for several endless seconds.

Then the stranger turned to the foreman. “Mr. Murphy... Whit... how many men do you have left?”

The foreman thought briefly, then said, “Eight, countin’ myself.”

The stranger nodded, his eyes slitted. “Then get those men out on the Swenson range looking for fresh-dug graves. And if you can get inside the herd itself, try to spot any sick steers. So we can show the buyers what Guage has pulled.”

Whit’s eyebrows went up. “Boys may spook at doin’ work like this.”

“Tell them they’re fighting for their lives on this one.”

Whit nodded.

Papa, whose spirit seemed back, said confidently, “Any man still with us will stay with us.”

Willa asked, “What about our cattle?”

The stranger said, “If they’re not infected, they’ll keep. Better send somebody around to the other independent ranches, still fenced off, and quietly spread the word. We don’t want a panic. But I wager you’ll get some willing hands in a hurry.”

Her father said, “You’re sure this is the way to go about this?”

“You care to bet against it?”

“That’s a lot of talk, mister,” Whit said. “And it sounds good, I admit. So you probably deserve our thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

“I said ‘probably.’ But besides tellin’ everybody else what to do... just what are you going to do in all this?”

“Take a real personal interest,” he said.

Her father asked, “In what way?”

“By talking to a few people in town. I already know a few to approach. Sir, can you give me the names of citizens who you consider allies?”

Her father did so, beginning with the members of the Citizens Committee.

“Thanks,” he said, rising. He hadn’t written them down. “I’ll start there.”

Half-rising herself, Willa said, “Would you like to catch a few hours of sleep first? We have plenty of room in our bunkhouse now, I’m afraid.”

He gave her a smile. “No. Sleep is a luxury none of us can afford right now. Whit... I’m hoping to join you on the range with some volunteers. Can you give me directions to somewhere we might meet around... eleven, say?”

“I can do that,” Whit said, just a touch grudging.

A few minutes later, Willa walked their guest out. The sun was climbing and the morning promised to be as beautiful as the problems they faced weren’t. Still chilly, though. The sun would be working on that.

At the bottom of the porch steps, she stopped him with a hand on a sleeve and said with concern, “If this cowpox is a reality...”

“It is.”

“... and we don’t make it to market, that means... well, it means the Bar-O will be wiped out, doesn’t it?”

They were facing each other, perhaps two feet away. Morning sun was at his back and he was bathed in cool blue shadow.

“Possibly,” he said. “Not for me to say, really. I don’t know how exactly your business affairs stand.”

She gave him a sharp look. “Well, that ten thousand dollars my father promised to pay you—”

He cut her off with a raised hand, then said, “It had a catch in it, as I recall. I had to kill Harry Gauge first, right?”

“Right.” She let him see a smirk that stopped just short of insulting. “Of course, you got half that much just by showing up.”

He smiled wearily, then said, “Miss Cullen, something you should know about me...”

“Yes?”

“I don’t take money for killing people.”

She shaded her eyes with a hand. “Then... who are you, anyway?”

“Not some hired killer. Did it never occur to you that I might really just be somebody passing through, who got caught up in things?”

“No, it didn’t. It still hasn’t.”

He sighed through his nose, a hint of disgust in it. “Well, your father can keep his money.”

She kissed him.

It was sudden, and sweet, then grew forceful on both their parts, as he held her to him, her arms going around him as she stood on tiptoes to meet the big man. Then, looking at each other, noses almost touching, he brushed the side of her face and her hair, and gazed at her with a tenderness that did not fit a man who had gunned down four men yesterday.

She asked, “Why... why do you kill, then?”

“Not for pleasure.”

He touched her face again, unhitched the gelding, and rode off toward town.