The Legend of Caleb York

Chapter two

Just before noon, Willa and her father made it back home without further incident, riding in under the log arch from which hung a chain-hung plaque bearing a bold line above a big O — the carved brand of the Bar-O.

Their spread was no empire, though the largest of those remaining ranches not yet swallowed up in Sheriff Gauge’s landgrab. Washed in bright sunshine were corrals left and right, two barns, a rat-proof grain crib, a log bunkhouse, and a cookhouse with hand pump out front, a long wooden bench lined with tin washbasins on its awning-shaded porch. The main building was a sprawling log-and-stone affair, added onto several times, the only really impressive structure among the scattering of ranch buildings. The cowhands were off working the beeves, giving the place a deserted look, with only the plume of smoke from the cookhouse chimney indicating otherwise.

Willa twirled Daisy’s reins around the hitch rail in front of the house, and when she turned, lanky Whit Murphy was there, helping her father down from the buggy. She was not surprised that their foreman stayed behind to help them in and see if there had been trouble in town.

“I’ll tend to this,” Whit said, indicating he’d drive the rig over to the barn and get the horses into their stalls.

“Come inside, Whit,” Papa said, “when you’re done. Something you need to know about.”

Whit nodded, and began walking the horses and buggy toward the barn. He glanced back at Willa with a searching look and she responded with one that told the foreman, He’s gone and done it now.

Papa needed no help up the broad wooden steps to cross the plank porch to the elaborate cut-glass and carved-wood front door that her mother had bought in Mexico a decade or more ago. They entered a living room, where only occasional touches of the late Kate Cullen lingered, finely carved Spanish-style furniture sharing space with rustic carpentry by her father’s hand. This chamber remained overwhelmingly a male domain — beam-ceilinged with hides on the floor and mounted deer heads on the walls. A formidable stone fireplace had a Sharps rifle on one side and a Winchester on the other, each cradled in mortar-mounted upturned deer hooves turned gun racks.

Her father had come west with a horse and that Sharps rifle, and buffalo hunting had made him the seed money from which the Bar-O grew.

Soon Papa and Whit, sipping at china cups of coffee she’d gotten them, sat in the twin Indian-blanket cushioned rough-wood chairs that faced the fireplace as if it were roaring and not unlit since February. This, of course, allowed Willa to sit on the hearth between the two men, able to face either.

She knew very well that they did not consider her their equal. But she also knew they would tolerate her presence, and even give consideration to any opinion of hers, as the sole heir to this ranch. That she still wore the morning’s riding apparel somehow strengthened her position.

And she knew, though she did not encourage it, that Whit had notions of his own about Willa and the ranch — not the gross ambitions of a Harry Gauge, but the dreams of a ranch hand who had risen to foreman.

Whit said nothing as her father described sending his telegram, the old man in funereal black relishing relating the confrontation with Deputy Vint Rhomer. But the foreman’s long expression spoke volumes, as he sat there in knotted neck bandana, work shirt and Levi’s, bowed legs akimbo, turning his tan high-beamed Carlsbad hat in his hands like a wheel.

When Papa stopped speaking, Whit said, “All due respect, Mr. Cullen, but you don’t know what you’re gettin’ yourself into.”

Papa was bareheaded, too, his white hair as thin as grass that cattle had finished with. He frowned at his foreman, and you would swear he could see the man.

“I paid you the respect of sharing this with you, Whit. Now you do me the service of sparing me any disapprovin’ comments. You can just stay out of it. It’s done.”

Whit shook his head, hat turning in his hands more quickly now. “You’re beggin’ for a wide-open range war, Mr. Cullen... and that puts me in it already. You know how outnumbered we are? Gauge has all them deputies — outlaws to the man — and his ranch hands look like he emptied out a hoosegow to hire ’em.”

Her father snorted a laugh. “You think you’re telling me something new? Ever since Gauge shouldered his way into that town, we’ve been at war. For how long? Near two years now!”

Whit nodded, then remembered his boss couldn’t see and added, “Two years, more or less, yes, sir.”

Papa shook his head. “Bud Meadow makes seven of our men buried out there in that excuse for a cemetery. Seven dead in this war, and who knows how many head rustled.”

Hands on her knees, Willa said, “That’s a good reason to appeal to the authorities again, Papa.”

“Is it girl?” her father said, turning his milky gaze her way. “And what will the ‘authorities’ say after I tell them my sad tale? What they always do! That under territorial law, Gauge is the duly constituted authority in these parts.”

“That just can’t be possible, Papa.”

“It’s very damn possible, daughter. So far, everything Gauge has done — taking over the other spreads, buying out businesses in town — is legal in the eyes of the law.”

Whit was nodding. “Any... what’s the word I hear you use for Gauge’s tactics, Mr. Cullen? ‘Intimation’?”

“It’s called ‘intimidation,’ Whit.”

“Well, I call it ‘muscle and murder,’ but Gauge and his crowd have a way of doin’ it on the sly. Strikin’ under cover of night like the damn bandits they are... Excuse the language, Miss Gauge.”

Willa just smiled a little, sadly. “Language, I can excuse.”

Papa said, “Whit is right, girl. Gauge is an animal, but he’s a smart one. So if he’s going to operate outside the law, even while he poses at representing it, we’ll play this game his dirty way.”

She was shaking her head, rolling her eyes. “Papa, that makes us no better than him.”

“We’re better than that buzzard on our worst day.”

She spread her hands, her words for her father but her eyes on Whit. “Go down to his level, and what will happen to us? Look what happened to Peterson, Reese, and the rest of the ranchers!”

Papa said, “They just rolled over for Gauge. Not one stood up to him. And if we don’t stand up, it’ll happen to us.”

Straightening, Whit said, “Every one of the boys will right there with you, Mr. Cullen. With you all the way. But... we only number fifteen, and we ain’t gunhands.”

Papa swung his gaze toward the foreman. “And that is why I sent for one.”

Then the spooky eyes were on Willa again.

His voice softened, but there was nothing gentle about his tone. “Daughter... must I remind you what Harry Gauge wants the most out here at the Bar-O?”

That hung in the air like acrid smoke.

Then she said, “I know that all too well, Papa. He’s told me. And I gave him my answer, too.”

Color had come into Whit’s tanned face. “Somebody oughta kill that filthy son of a—”

“That,” her father said, “is the idea.”

Willa said to Whit, “He’s a filthy animal, all right. But for all his men and land, he’s still not big enough to touch the Bar-O. And, sure as sin, he isn’t big enough to touch me.”

Her father said, “He’ll only get bigger, girl. He’ll own all the land around us and we’ll be choked off by what he’s managed to do.”

The old man shifted in the rustic chair he’d built so long ago; it creaked as if it were his own aging bones. But the hard young man he’d been was somehow still in that face and the set of his shoulders.

“But before our good sheriff can do that,” Papa said, “my old pard Parker will find the right man and send him to us.” He sighed, shook his head. “I only wish it could be Caleb York...”

Whit said, “You’re lucky it ain’t Caleb York... if you’ll forgive me sayin’, sir.”

Papa frowned at his foreman. “Fool talk, Whit! York was the fastest gun alive, best of ’em all! He’d be perfect for the job.”

“No. All due respect, sir, but no. Caleb York was no hired gun. Oh, he was a killer, all right... but in his own way.” Whit shrugged. “Not that it matters. Surprised you hadn’t heard he was dead, Mr. Cullen. Common knowledge.”

“Is that right?”

“It’s right, sir. They say Banion killed Caleb York near Silver City. A good two year ago.”

Papa’s jaw muscles worked. “That’s exactly why I told Parker to send Banion.”

Willa scooted forward on the stone hearth. “But that man is a murderer!”

“So is Harry Gauge, girl. So is Harry Gauge.” Her father almost snapped at her: “You think I wouldn’t rather have a man like Caleb York?”

She sighed wearily. “A man, Papa... or a legend? Who was he, really?”

“... A man.”

“A killer, too, remember,” Whit put in, his eyes as gentle on her as his words were harsh.

She said to the foreman, “You said... a killer ‘in his own way.’ ”

Whit nodded. He wasn’t turning the hat in his hands now. “York was a Wells Fargo agent — a detective. The shoot-first-investigate-after breed. Known for returning with the money and the men who stole it — slung dead over their horses.”

She laughed a little. “That sounds like the stories little boys tell.”

“Then they better tell their story to the Monte Pierson gang — every one of them shot dead, and Caleb York? Not a graze. He faced down both Nub Butler and Wild Angie Hopper and both lay dead in the dust in an eye blink.” Whit chuckled deep. “They say York had enough notches on that gun butt of his to make it look like a saw blade.”

“More little-boy talk,” she said.

“Maybe, Miss Cullen. But I will tell you one story I don’t believe.”

She cocked her head. “Oh?”

Whit’s thin lips formed a smile that might have been a gash in his face. “Ten to one, Banion never faced him down.”

Her Papa stirred.

Whit finished: “The only way Wes Banion could take down Caleb York was with a bullet in the back.”

Eyes wide, Willa said, “Father! Is that the kind of man you sent for?”

“It’s the kind of man we need,” Papa said defensively. “The kind of man it takes to deal with the likes of Harry Gauge.”

She covered her mouth with a trembling hand. “Oh, Papa... I can’t be hearing this.”

His expression was cold. “This ranch was built on ground soaked in the blood of Indians and white men alike, who all thought it should be theirs. Never forget that, daughter.”

She swallowed. “I know who you are, Papa. I know the things you’ve done. But they were necessary and right, in their way, in those days. You met adversaries face-to-face, and protected what you worked for. You didn’t kill anybody for... for money.”

“Land is money.”

She felt the tears welling and fought it. “This is not you, Papa.”

The unseeing eyes stared into something known only to him. Then he said, “I’d face Gauge down if I could. But a blind man has to seek other ways.”

“There are different kinds of blindness, Papa.”

His head swung toward her. “You wouldn’t fight for the Bar-O, daughter? You wouldn’t scratch that devil’s eyes out if he came near you?”

“Of course, I would. But we can fight our own battles. We still have fifteen men, Papa.”

“You heard Whit, girl! They’re cowboys, not gunfighters. I pay them enough to make a living, but not enough to die.” His eyes squeezed shut. “Gauge must have thirty top gunhands at his beck and call.”

Whit sat forward. “Your men will fight, sir.”

Papa batted that away. “Why make that sacrifice? No, it won’t be necessary. Not when... the man comes here who Parker sends.”

Whit’s eyes were wide again. “And you don’t think Gauge will be waiting for him?”

Her father had no answer for that.

And Willa, with no more questions, left them there.

The office of the jail was a modest plank-floored space with two windows onto the street, open to let the breeze in, and four cells in back. No prisoners today.

Seated behind his big dark wooden desk, Sheriff Harry Gauge had his feet up and crossed on its scarred top. His boots wore no spurs, not in town — he didn’t care to announce himself. Across the way was a wood-burning stove, and a table with a few chairs by a wall with WANTED posters haphazardly nailed there. In front of him, seated in a high-back chair, was his redheaded deputy, Vint Rhomer, frowning so hard as he worked at thinking that the man looked as if he might cry.

Rhomer, arms folded, said, “Well, at least we know who’s comin’.”

The big blond sheriff said, “Banion, you mean.”

“Yeah. Who else?” Then a thought made it through to the front of his head and the deputy leaned forward. “But suppose it ain’t Banion? Old Man Cullen sent word asking his buddy to send Banion or some other shootist!”

“Most likely be Banion.” Gauge poured tobacco from his pouch into a waiting curve of paper. “Not that it makes much never-mind. I’ll know him when I see him.”

“So you’ve seen Banion, then?”

Gauge licked the paper’s edge. “Nope.”

Rhomer got some more thoughts going. “Remember Jake?”

“I remember Jake.”

“Jake knew Banion. They pulled some jobs together.”

“This would be more helpful,” Gauge said lazily, rolling the cigarette, “if Jake wasn’t dead.”

Jake Farrow had been killed on a bank job Gauge and his boys had pulled about six months before taking over Trinidad and — the thought making Gauge smile — going straight.

“Talked about him enough, Jake did,” Rhomer said, still on his thinking jag. “Said Banion’s meaner than an Apache and fights twice as dirty. They say, in Tombstone? Even the Earps steered clear of him. And in Ellis, Reg Toomey turned his badge in, second he saw Banion ride into town.”

Gauge lit a match off a boot heel. “That right.”

“Jake saw him burn out the Casaway bunch. Set fire to their house with their women in it, too. Banion and his crew left half of that town dead, and all they got for their trouble was a few hundred greenbacks.”

Gauge had his cigarette going now. “Do tell.”

“Anybody who wasn’t part of his gang got shot dead. By Banion hisself. Didn’t like havin’ his face seen.”

“That ugly, huh?”

“No! Didn’t want to be identified... You yankin’ my leg, Gauge?”

“Mebbe. You say Jake saw him face-to-face. Well, Banion didn’t kill Jake. What, was Jake lucky? Makes him a lucky dead man, don’t it?”

“Well, Jake was part of his gang. Banion’s a bad egg, but he don’t kill his friends without good reason.”

“Ah. That would explain it. Say, Vint — who was it again, outdrew Banion? Remind me.”

“Gill Peterson.”

“Whatever happened to Peterson, anyway?”

Rhomer smiled. Chuckled. “He pulled on you and you gunned him down. Last month it was.”

“Where was it I got him? Remind me.”

“Front of the Victory.”

“No, I mean where?”

“Oh. ’Tween the eyes. Dead center.” Rhomer grinned. “He did have kinda wide-set eyes, though.”

“Still in all,” the sheriff said, with a shrug.

“Still in all,” Rhomer allowed.

Gauge tamped cigarette ash on the floor. “And who was it shot Jack Reno through the heart?”

“That was you, Gauge.”

Gauge took in smoke, held it, let it out. “So tell me — why is it again, I should worry about Banion?”

Rhomer leaned in. “Because we got dark alleys in this town, Harry. And you got a big ol’ back ’tween them shoulders.”

Gauge nodded, unconcerned. “And that’s what I got you fellas for. So’s nobody gets the chance to back-shoot me.”

“You mean, ’cause we walk behind you.”

“Well, that’s part of it. But what else do I mean?”

Rhomer frowned. “Not sure I follow, Harry.”

“There’s more than one way to watch a man’s back.”

“Is there?”

“You can keep track of anybody new in town. Somebody don’t smell right... well, there’s plenty more room in that bone orchard outside town. And lots of range out there to bury strangers in.”

Rhomer thought about that. “But what about the Bar-O boys? We already planted our share of them. Even in this town, there’s only so far we can go, nippin’ trouble in the bud.”

“They ain’t gonna be a problem much longer.”

“That right?”

Gauge nodded. “I hear pretty soon it’s going to get real warm out there. Hotter days’re comin’, you know. And that long grass burns real damn hot. And fast.”

Rhomer grinned. “Takin’ a page out of Banion’s book?”

“Now you are thinking, Vint. We kill Banion and let him take the blame.”

“How does that stack up?”

Gauge shrugged, let out more smoke. “It’s got all around town by now, that wire Old Man Cullen sent. Banion comes to Trinidad, things get warm out at the Bar-O, Banion shows up dead.”

“Okay...”

“How’s it look, Vint? Like a fallin’-out between employer and employee, windin’ up bad for all concerned. Anybody left still breathin’ out at the Bar-O, that’s what we got these cells for.”

Rhomer squinted at his boss. “What about the pretty filly?”

“We make sure she don’t get burned. I’ll sweet-talk her how Banion was responsible for the bad things that happened at the ranch — pity. And then she’ll need a man to help her rebuild that spread, won’t she?”

The deputy had been smiling through that, but now was staring out the window, distracted by movement and sounds out there. “Harry — somethin’ goin’ on out there.”

Both men got up and went out into the dry, warm afternoon. The sheriff and deputy stood on the porch and watched. Men and women were on the opposing boardwalks, but weren’t going anywhere, just clustered talking, often in an animated fashion, some pointing toward the sheriff’s office.

“What are all them people doin’ on the street?” Rhomer wondered aloud. “I don’t like it. It’s like they’s waitin’ for a parade to go by or somethin’.”

“They’re waiting for something to happen.”

“What to happen?”

“For me to react to that telegram Cullen sent. Only I ain’t gonna react just yet.” Gauge nodded toward the gossiping citizens. “But get used to that, Vint, over the next week or so. You’ll see the good folks of Trinidad out watchin’, talkin’, every damn time they hear a horse ride in or a stage roll up.”

“Yeah?”

“Oh yeah. They want to get a good, long look at this bad man Banion.”

“If it’s Banion.”

Gauge pitched his cigarette sparking into the street. “I hope it is. Killing him will make me look pretty damn good. Show this town just what kind of sheriff they got for themselves.”

The two men went back in the office, smiling.

Beneath their porch, in one of his favorite hiding places, a white-bearded, skinny old desert rat known only as Tulley was smiling, too. Grinning to himself as if the sheriff and his deputy had been telling jokes. A fairly new addition to the Trinidad populace, Tulley was well on his way to becoming the town drunk.

Sipping at his latest bottle, then grinning stupidly to no one in particular, he cackled out loud. “Banion! That’s a good one. Banion...”

Then he took another sip, curled up, and went back to sleep.