The Legend of Caleb York

Chapter twelve

Stripes of mid-morning sun cut through barred windows, as Sheriff Harry Gauge entertained a guest in his office — Dr. Albert Miller, who right now looked like he could use a sawbones himself.

In the open area between Gauge’s desk and an old, small deputy’s table sat the lawman’s distinguished guest. The doc’s eyes were swollen, his nose trailing blood from its nostrils, skin along cheekbones ragged and red, lips puffy, discolored and bleeding. The plump little physician’s brown suit was rumpled and torn in front from where it had been grabbed repeatedly to shake him or to hold him for a slap, his white shirt splotched with crimson. Thin white hair mussed, he looked dazed, barely awake.

But he was.

Painfully so.

At that small table, two deputies were seated in hardback chairs, grinning, watching, smoking rolled cigarettes, sharing some morning whiskey, and playing two-handed poker for matchsticks. To their one side was a wood-burning stove, unlit, and looming over them was the wall of wanted posters from which stared faces almost as unpleasant as theirs. The presence of these deputies was not really necessary to this interrogation — the sheriff was plenty good enough at this sort of thing on his own steam.

Brown-haired and shaggy-mustached, bug-eyed Clovis Maxwell was the bigger of the two watchers, a cowboy who’d been among those who shoveled dirt over cattle carcasses last night, his filthy low-crowned plainsman hat and heavy leather chaps attesting his profession.

Across the small, scarred table was towheaded Cole Colton, small, even skinny, with close-set brown eyes, a trimmed gambler’s mustache and a sugar-loaf sombrero that seemed to dwarf him. He was no cowboy, just another former outlaw turned deputy in jeans and dark blue twill military shirt. He drank too much and was rattlesnake mean, but as a conscienceless killer, he had value to the sheriff.

These were the two men who had handled the dispatching of Old Man Swenson out near the stage relay station — Colton swinging the gun butt. They’d been invited to this questioning less to back up their boss than because they had a stake in what their guest had to say.

Both men carried .44’s, the weapons on the table as if serving as ante, though really to avoid falling out of their tied-down holsters.

They seemed to be enjoying the show.

Gauge slapped the doctor viciously on his right cheek and, when the man’s face turned to one side with the blow, bloody spittle flying, the sheriff slapped him again on the other cheek, just as hard, returning it to the other side.

“You’re a damn good Christian, Doc,” the sheriff said with a grin. “Turnin’ the other cheek like that.”

Maxwell guffawed at that; Colton didn’t get it.

Dr. Miller, breathing hard, did not seem to find any humor in the remark, either. How much he was seeing out of those swollen eyes was up for conjecture. His reddened ears had been cuffed enough to be ringing, so how well he was hearing was questionable, too.

“Maybe you’ll notice, Doc,” the sheriff said, eyes half-lidded, smile easygoing, “that I got a real touch for this kind of thing. Touch a medic like you might covet. See, I know just how far I can go without gettin’ to where there ain’t no comin’ back.”

He swung a sudden fist deep into the older man’s stomach. Wind whooshed out, accompanied by an anguished cry that was a mix of pain and exhaustion.

And the sheriff had only been at this twenty or so minutes.

Gauge placed both hands on the round man’s shoulders and leaned in, his seeming good humor gone.

“No more lies, Doc... and don’t hold out on me, no, sir. Good as I am at this, I can only hold back so long... and you’re too damn old and weak to take much more.”

His breath heavy and ragged, the doc said, “This... this is one thing... you won’t... won’t live down... Sheriff.”

That last word was uttered with unmistakable contempt.

Gauge let out some air, backed away, then began walking slowly around the seated man, like a stubborn loser at musical chairs.

“Touches my heart, Doc,” Gauge said gently. “That you’re so concerned about me, and my standin’ in the community. But, hell — you don’t need to worry yourself about Harry Gauge.”

Right behind him now, Gauge looped an arm around the doctor’s neck and pulled back, hard, as if flexing a muscle for an admiring female, forcing him back with the front chair feet off the floor, choking off the prisoner’s air, summoning a terrible gargling sound.

Then Gauge let go, chair legs finding the wooden floor with a jostle, and the sheriff again began walking slowly around the seated man.

“Just worry about yourself, Doc,” he advised.

When Gauge came around again, the doctor looked up at him, pleadingly. “I... I told you I didn’t bury anybody last night. Your man... who says... says he saw me... must have been drunk.”

Gauge’s eyebrows went up and down. “Well, good chance that he was. But that don’t change what he saw. Simple question, Doc. Who did you bury?”

“No... nobody.”

Gauge grabbed him by his suitcoat and shook him like the least obedient child on earth. Over at the table, Maxwell and Colton were smiling at each other, the smaller man giggling to himself.

“It was Old Swenson, wasn’t it?” Gauge demanded. “Don’t bother lying.”

His breathing ragged, the doc managed, “If... if you know... why ask?”

Gauge backed off, nodded slowly, hands on hips, appraising his bloodied interview subject. “Then we agree. It was Old Swenson you buried.”

The doctor’s nod was barely discernible, but it was there. “Can I... can I go now? Why... why don’t we... all agree that... that I’ll forget about this little incident... and you won’t tell anybody... what your man saw me do.”

“Guess that’s against medical ethics or some such, right, Doc? Not to worry — we don’t tell tales out of school here at the sheriff’s office. Though... we are about to move on to my next question.”

Miller’s swollen eyes closed in anticipation of what pain and indignities were yet to come.

But Gauge merely leaned back against the edge of his desk, arms folded, casual, friendly, implying that no more punishment was coming, as long as the doctor continued to cooperate.

“Tell me, Doc — why did you sneak off and bury Old Swenson?”

Miller shook his head, an effort that clearly had a cost.

Gauge lurched forward and slammed a fist into the side of the doctor’s head. The doc’s mouth went slack and pink saliva drooled from pulverized lips barely recognizable as lips at all.

The doctor began to cry.

To sob.

At the little table, Maxwell was grinning like a kid at the circus while Colton started in with a high-pitched laugh, saying, “He’s bawlin’ like a little girl! Like a damn girl!”

Gauge frowned over at his deputies, shaking his head a tad.

Then he resumed his questioning. “Doc, we got us a problem. Good as I am at this, when we get past a certain point? You’re gonna be the next one buried out there in the brush somewheres. You do follow?”

The doc swallowed thickly. Nodded sluggishly.

“Okay, then. Why the fuss over Swenson’s body?”

“I... I think you know why.”

“Let’s say I don’t.”

Again the doc swallowed, and he lifted his chin, as if inviting yet another blow. His speech became less halting as he summoned strength from somewhere.

“All right... I’ll tell you why... though as I say... you likely... likely know already.” He sighed, tremblingly. “Swenson came down with the pox not long before he died.”

The deputies at the table weren’t smiling now.

The doctor nodded his head back, indicating the two spectators. His mouth was trying to form something that might have been a smile.

“Your men handled the body, didn’t they, Sheriff? Was it these two?... I hope all of you know that you can get this unforgiving thing, too. Maybe... maybe it’s not such a good time to be murdering your town doctor.”

Maxwell and Colton were on their feet, wild-eyed, the latter reaching for his pistol.

But Gauge waved at them to sit back down, giving them a few shakes of the head and a skeptical expression that seemed to tell them not to worry about what the doctor had said.

Bending over, hands on his knees, the sheriff stared into the grotesque mask he’d created where the doc’s face used to be.

“Don’t try to rattle us, Doc. We’ve been around cows too long. We’ve seen the pox before.”

“Then... then you must’ve seen people die from it. And maybe... maybe this is your turn. At least, if that is the case? You fools won’t spread the infection any further.”

Gauge scowled and drew back his hand to slap the doc.

But their guest’s chin had dropped to his chest, the man finally unconscious. Not dead, still breathing. But out.

The door half-opened and Rhomer stuck his head in. “Harry... better step outside here a second.”

Gauge told the two deputies to leave the doc be, then stepped out.

On the porch, hands on hips, Gauge asked, “What’s going on?”

The deputy gestured all around. “See for yourself — not a damn thing is goin’ on, and that’s the point.”

Main Street did look strangely deserted.

Rhomer went on: “We got a stage due through here this afternoon, right? Stage comin’, every merchant in town is standin’ outside of his place of business with a big welcomin’ smile plastered on his puss, and the ladies’re all dressed up and lined along the boardwalk rails to see who new’s comin’ into town. Now... what do you see this mornin’, boss?”

“Not a damn thing,” Gauge admitted. “All we lack is tumbleweed rollin’ down Main.”

That stage would be carrying the first round of cattle buyers. Gauge had already decided to do business with them. With the clock ticking on the cowpox infestation, doing that was critical. No time for competitive bids.

“Stores all closed,” Rhomer was saying, shaking his head, gazing down the street.

“Is the café open?”

The proprietor, Lucas Jones, used to ride with Gauge, who was co-owner.

“He is, and Luke says he sold more than a few cups of coffee, first thing. Right around when men started in just sort of driftin’ out of town, not long after sunup. You know what else he says?”

“Why don’t you tell me?”

The deputy’s eyes narrowed meaningfully. “Thought he might’ve saw the stranger goin’ into the hardware store, right after it opened... but ain’t sure.”

Gauge looked up and down the empty street.

Rhomer was saying, “Seems like all that’s left in town is women and kids, and they’re mostly keepin’ inside. What the hell’s goin’ on, Harry?”

He shook his head, disgusted. “It’s that stranger’s work. Has to be. Somehow he convinced these lily livers to go out and help Cullen in his time of need.”

The redheaded deputy tugged gently at his bandaged ear, making a sour face. “You should’ve killed that S.O.B. when you had the chance, Harry.”

“Well, Vint,” came a familiar female voice from behind them, “why didn’t you?”

They turned to see Lola — ready for riding — in a blue-and-white shirt and navy split-skirt with matching gloves and boots — smirking at them sassily.

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

Lola shrugged. Her eyes met Rhomer’s and he glanced away. “Nothing. Just an observation, posed as a question.”

“Well, keep your damn observations to yourself,” Gauge said irritably. “Questions too.”

She tossed her head. Her hair was up as usual, but she wore only light face paint. “All right. If you think Deputy Rhomer here is the kind of... advisor you prefer.”

Rhomer gave her a hard-eyed, nasty look, just before Gauge shoved his face at hers, taking her aback some.

He said, “How about you just keep that pretty mouth shut? I just about had it with you lipping off all the time.”

“Harry, I was only...”

“Lola, I killed men for less than I put up with out of you lately. Bear that in mind.”

Rhomer had a goofy smile going that Gauge picked up on. “What you grinning about, Vint?”

“Nothin’, Harry! I...”

He nodded behind him. “Go in and get that doctor out of sight.”

Rhomer frowned, cocked his head like a dog trying to understand its master’s words. “You mean... six feet under, out of sight?”

Gauge touched his chin, thought momentarily. “No. Not yet, anyway. If there’s trouble, we may need that quack.”

“Then... what...?”

The sheriff jerked a thumb toward the office. “Stick the doc in the back cell and keep somebody on guard. When this thing is over, if nobody needs patchin’ up... or, anyway, after they been patched up sufficient... then we’ll dig Miller a new surgery out on Boot Hill. About time this town had a new doctor, anyway.”

Rhomer, liking the sound of that, was just about to head back inside when Lola asked, “Say, Vint, what happened to your ear? Cut yourself shaving?”

The smile in his nest of beard oozed menace, but the deputy was turned away from Gauge, who didn’t tumble to it.

Rhomer said, “Naw, thought you knew, Lola — one of your girls did this to me. I got a little... rambunctious, I guess.”

“Boys will be boys,” she said.

“Well, she better look out. Might get what she deserves.”

He went in.

Then Lola was at Gauge’s side, saying, “So you’ve got the elderly doctor handled. Congratulations. Now, what about Banion? What are you going to do about him?”

Gauge chuckled, stepping away from her. “Banion? Why, I’m not going to do a damn thing about Banion.”

Relishing his secret joke, he got the wire out, reading it to himself yet another time, savoring the words that spoke of Banion’s death two months before. Then he wadded up the slip of paper and tossed it into the street.

After watching this curious conduct with some confusion, Lola reared her head back and smiled at him... but her eyes were hateful, and this he caught.

“Why not go after him, Harry? Or has Banion got you scared?”

He backhanded her and she went down on the porch like a bundle of kindling, the plank flooring groaning though she herself made not a sound. She stayed down there awhile, her back arching like an animal about to strike.

Then she had that derringer in her hand, courtesy of the gambler’s holdout rig up her sleeve.

As she started up, Gauge kicked the little gun out of her gloved fingers, as easy as swatting a fly. The toe of his boot caught her hand enough to make her yowl.

She was still down there, a wounded, cornered animal, breathing hard, looking up at him with eyes showing white all around, nostrils flared, teeth showing, leaning one hand against the planking, the other touching the redness of her cheek.

Her breath regular now, her voice seemed surprisingly soft and almost uninflected — no anger apparent, only hurt, and not the hurt of flesh, but something deeper.

“Why do you keep doing that, Harry? How many times have I told you never to hit me? How can you treat me like this after all we’ve been to each other?”

He grabbed her by an arm and hauled her up, and it took her a while to get her footing, brushing off her split-skirt as she did.

“You’re right, Lola. We have... been... something to each other. ‘Been,’ as in ‘we ain’t anymore.’ ”

She stared at him as if he were a stranger now. “What are you...?”

He took her by both arms and squeezed, not enough to hurt, but to demonstrate control.

“I just don’t need you anymore, kid. Oh, I’m not throwin’ you out — not exactly. You do what I tell you to, and maybe I’ll let you stay on in Trinidad. Misbehave, and maybe I won’t.”

She swallowed hard, her chin quivering, small, trembling fists held waist-high. “I brought you to Trinidad, Harry. Never forget that. I made you. You started with my money.”

“That’s right,” he said. “You made me. But how many times did I make you?” He laughed lightly and shrugged. “It all worked out real nice, didn’t it? Well, it’ll work out even better now.”

She stood very close to him, gazing up at him, and there was something fearless about it that impressed him some.

She said, “You really think that Cullen girl is woman enough for you? Not that she’d ever have you. She’d kill herself before letting you touch her.”

“Maybe I don’t mean to ask,” he said, and he shoved her away and went back into his office, slamming the door on her.

Gauge didn’t see Lola — going out in the street to retrieve the derringer — notice the wad of paper he had tossed there. And bend down in the street to pick it up...

Nor did he see her come back up on the porch, intending to confront him again, but stopping as voices from inside came through the open shutters.

“Vint, that stage stops at the relay station to make its change of horses before comin’ into town.”

“That’s right, Harry, same as always. And the passengers can have a drink or two while they’s waitin’. So what?”

“So we’ll meet those cattle buyers out there, before they even get to town. Old Man Cullen won’t think of that, and even if he does... we’ll be waiting.”

Lola tucked the derringer back in its sleeve rig and the wrinkled slip of paper into a pocket, then walked quickly to the livery stable, where she got her horse and rode off to deliver her own message.