The Legend of Caleb York

Chapter six

A wide-eyed Willa Cullen had seen the shooting, too, leaving her stunned but admiring. Her father shouted her name, but Willa calmed him, saying, “It’s fine, Papa! I’m fine.”

She and the rest of her party settled their horses, riled by the gunshots, Whit filling her father in, as Gauge and Rhomer ran to their fallen comrades. Neither man had seen the gunfight itself, Willa on her horse blocking their view.

Gauge knelt over the men, who both stared back at him as sightless as George Cullen. Rhomer knelt there, too, and he and Gauge both looked up at the stranger, who was striding over, holstering his .44.

“Do me a favor, Sheriff?” the stranger asked pleasantly. “Check for posters on them, too? Maybe I got some reward money coming.”

Then he tipped his hat to the local law and started toward Willa, who was looking on, still on horseback. The scent of gunsmoke hung heavy.

Rhomer was glaring at the stranger’s back, his hand heading for his own holstered .44. Willa drew in a breath, ready to give warning.

But the sheriff grabbed his deputy’s arm, stopping him, shaking his head, mouthing what she thought were the words, Not now. Or maybe: Not yet.

The stranger swept off his hat in a gentlemanly manner and gave her a nod that was almost a half-bow. “Thanks for trying to protect me, miss.”

“You looked like you might need it,” she said. She dropped her head closer to him and spoke in a near whisper. “And you might want to take care, turning your back on those two.”

He glanced over his shoulder at Gauge and Rhomer, who were getting to their feet. Returning his attention to her, the stranger looked up at her with an expression that was both friendly and serious.

“A man could ask for no better guardian angel than yourself,” he said. “But I assure you it isn’t necessary. I can handle myself.”

These quiet words were somehow like a slap. “Really?”

Now he smiled and there was a twinkle in the washed-out blue eyes squinting in the mid-morning sun. “I wouldn’t want to be responsible for anything unfortunate that might befall such a fine young lady.”

“Well, let me assure you I can handle myself.” She looked past him. Whispering again, she said, “The sheriff’s coming...”

The stranger turned as a stony-faced Gauge approached, ignoring the man who’d just shot two of his people and glancing up to address Willa.

“What did you see, Miss Cullen?”

She pointed toward the bodies in the dust. “Those two over there had their guns out and were coming up on this man from behind. He shot in self-defense.”

“You’d testify to that?”

“I would.”

The sheriff turned to the stranger and said, “What’s your business here?”

“Just passing through.”

“Any idea why Jackson and Riley attacked you?”

“Is that their names?”

“That’s their names.”

“Sheriff, you had a look at the bodies. You may have noticed that Mr. Jackson and Mr. Riley were already in sad shape before they died.”

Gauge studied the stranger’s impassive face. “Yeah. It looks like somebody gave them a beating.”

“Somebody did. Me.”

“Why?”

“They gave me cause.”

The sheriff thought that over. On the boardwalks, and in the street, townspeople continued to gather. Some had likely seen the shooting — the smiles they were sharing, and the excitement in their faces, the fevered murmur of their conversation, indicated as much. Like Willa, at least some citizens had seen the stranger draw his weapon and fire so fast the human eye could barely register it.

Gauge said, “Just passing through, huh?”

“Just passing through.”

“Keep passing through.”

The stranger grinned. “If you’re suggesting there’s a stage out of town at noon and you want me on it, Sheriff — you mind if I ride out on my horse, instead?”

“I don’t care if you leave on foot. Just leave.”

He gave Gauge an easygoing smile. “Like I said, I’m passing through. But I might stay a day or two. I rode most of the night and I need to rest some. Maybe find a game of cards. Have a drink. Spend a little money in your fine town. Any objection?”

Gauge glanced around. So many witnesses.

“No objection. I can’t fault a man for defending himself,” the sheriff said, louder now. “But I’ll be watchin’ you, mister. We don’t tolerate reckless violence in Trinidad.”

Willa almost laughed out loud at that. But mirth didn’t come easy with so much death nearby — two men in the street, those two others on packhorses, the latter getting taken down now by the undertaker and an assistant.

“I’ll keep that in mind, Sheriff,” the stranger said.

Gauge’s eyes tightened. “You got a name, mister?”

“Everybody’s got a name, Sheriff. But I won’t be around long enough for mine to matter.”

The sheriff frowned, thought about that a second, nodded, then went off to join his deputy. Doc Miller had come onto the scene and the late Riley and Jackson were getting a final examination.

The stranger was taking that in, but still standing near Willa on horseback.

She said to him, “Just who are you, anyway?”

He looked back at her. “Like I said, miss. Just a traveler passing through.”

“Headed where?”

“California. Taking my time about it. No hurry.”

“That man you were bandying with? That’s Sheriff Harry Gauge, and he’s dangerous.”

“I know who he is, miss. And I just killed two men, so some might say the same of me.”

She reared back so much at the cocky remark, her horse almost did the same. “Are you proud of that?”

“No. But I don’t feel guilty, either. They chose how they died.”

She frowned down at him. He was an irritating sort. “You have a name, don’t you?”

He grinned at her. “I sure do.”

Then he nodded and put on his curl-brimmed black hat, said, “Pleasure to meet you, Miss Cullen,” and headed off. That ragged deadbeat — what was his name? Tulley? — fell in alongside the stranger, chattering and cackling. Drunken old fool.

As the Cullen party headed out of Trinidad on their way back to the Bar-O, Willa’s father asked, “Who was he, girl? That stranger.”

“He wouldn’t say, Papa. But he’s an arrogant one.”

“That so?”

“He wouldn’t give me his name, but then he calls me by mine. What nerve. How rude.”

Her father was smiling. They were riding along easily.

He said, “Maybe so, but it appears he’s quite handy with a shootin’ iron.”

Willa had to smile at her father’s old-fashioned frontier language. They didn’t converse for a while; then Papa chimed in again.

“That’s just how Caleb York would have done it,” he said with a big smile.

Whit, clearly tired of all the York talk, said grumpily, “He would have, except that he’s dead.”

“So they say,” the old man granted. “Anyway, York would likely have taken the sheriff out, and Rhomer, too. Taken down every single one of them. Still... who do you suppose he is?”

Whit said dismissively, “Just some dude who got off a couple of lucky shots. He was dressed like a city slicker tryin’ to look cowboy.”

“Describe them clothes,” her father said.

Whit did.

“Well,” the old man said, “Caleb York dressed in black. Or so the stories go.”

“But not like a damn dude,” Whit said, then added, “Pardon, Miss Willa.”

“I don’t know who or what he is,” she said, not giving a damn about Whit cursing, “but he’s no dude. You didn’t see what I saw, Whit.”

“And what did you see, Miss Willa?”

“I saw a man outdraw two men with their guns already drawn. That’s what I saw.”

For a while they rode on in silence.

Then not far from the fork that to the right took them into the ranch, her father said, “I know somebody else, besides Caleb York, they say wears black.”

She said, “Who is that, Papa?”

“Banion,” he said. “Wes Banion.”

From the crowd of onlookers, Lola emerged twirling a parasol over her shoulder, looking a fine lady in a two-piece dark blue satin dress with fitted bodice and white lace trim at collar and cuffs.

Gauge gave her a glance and a nod. He and Rhomer were dealing with Perkins, the undertaker, who was about to take charge of the remains of Riley and Jackson, as well as the slightly scorched bodies of Stringer and Bradley. Small, skinny, bald, the twitchy-mustached Perkins was having trouble keeping somber, with business booming like this.

“No services,” Gauge told the undertaker. “Just four holes and plant them. Nothing read over ’em. Send the bill to my office.”

Perkins was clutching his top hat by its brim, as if it might fly away. “And the gentleman last night?”

“Same.”

“Separate bills?”

“One bill. Charge the city as usual.”

The undertaker nodded and went about his task.

Gauge went to Lola. “What did you see?”

She slowly spun the parasol on her shoulder, her manner casual, as if out on a weekend stroll. “Nothing. But everybody is saying this newcomer is the fastest gun ever. And most of them have seen you in action, Harry. Of course, you know how fickle people are. And how easily impressed.”

He studied her, looking for smugness. “You think this is funny?”

“Not a little bit.” The twirling stopped, her expression turning grave. “Could it... could it be Banion, Harry?”

He sighed. Shook his head. “Doesn’t seem likely, but...” He gave her a sly smile “... how would you like to find out for me?”

Her smile in return was as confident as it was pretty. “That doesn’t sound like a terribly difficult chore.”

“Not with your special talents it isn’t.”

She smiled just a little. “I’m going to choose to take that as a compliment.”

And she turned and walked toward the Victory, twirling the little shoulder-slung umbrella again.

Rhomer came up to Gauge, frowning. “You should have let me cut that buzzard in half.”

“Not the time or place.”

“You catch any of the action?”

“No. That girl’s horse was in the way.”

Frowning, Rhomer shook his head. “Well, he must have been pretty damn fast to take ’em both like that.”

“Maybe. Or maybe Jackson and Riley were just clumsy oafs.”

Rhomer nodded, acknowledging that possibility. “I heard you send Lola down, to scope out who and what that stranger is.”

“Did you?”

Rhomer nodded. “Think she can get anything out of him?”

“If he’s breathing, she can.” He let out a nasty chuckle. “And then, pretty soon? Maybe he won’t be.”

Tulley and the stranger walked the black-maned dappled gelding down to the livery stable, where a stall and feed were arranged for the animal.

That taken care of, the pair walked back down the street as various Trinidad citizens gawked and pointed at the dude who had shot down two of the sheriff’s toughs.

Still having to work at keeping up, Tulley asked, “Where to next, stranger?”

“Well, now that my horse can get some rest,” he said, “maybe I better find myself a room. Fairly tuckered.”

“You crazy? You can’t get a room now.”

“Oh?”

“Yesterday was payday! Hotel’s chock-full of cowpokes sleepin’ it off.”

“Shame. Should’ve taken a stall next to my horse.”

“You know what you need, stranger?”

“Tell me.”

“A drink.”

“It isn’t even noon yet.”

“But you already beat up two men today and shot ’em down to boot. I figure that oughter work up a hell of a thirst. Anyways, I reckon you owe me another a drink for savin’ your hide.”

“I do at that.”

Tulley jabbed a finger at the stranger without touching him. “In addition to which, it’s about time you and me had a man-to-man talk, my friend.”

He half-smiled, raised one eyebrow. “Like I used to have with my daddy?”

“Mebbe. Mebbe do you some good.”

“What’s to talk about? I already know about the birds and the bees.”

“I bet you do! I just bet you do. But what you don’t know is what’s gonna happen to you right soon, and it won’t be near as fun as the birds and the bees.”

“Oh?”

“No, sir. A man don’t pull what you did on Harry Gauge and live long around here.”

The stranger shrugged. “Well, let’s give the sheriff time to figure out what to do about me. Here we are.”

They were at the Victory.

He gave Tulley a warm smile. “Ready for that drink, old-timer?”

“Well, now.” Tulley licked dry lips. “I guess we can continue our little talk in there as well as anywheres.”

The stranger pushed through the batwing doors with Tulley right on his heels. This time of day at the Victory, things were quiet — no music, very little gambling, just a row of cowboys lined up along the brass rail, seeking the hair of the dog. Faces exchanged wary glances in the mirror as the stranger found a place midway for himself and Tulley.

A handlebar-mustached bartender in white shirt and bow tie attended them immediately, or anyway did the stranger. “Yes, sir. What’ll it be, sir?”

The stranger glanced at Tulley. “How about you, pal?”

“Beer’s fine, mister.”

“Two beers, bartender.”

But when the foaming mugs arrived, and the stranger went to digging out a coin, the bartender held up a palm and said, “No charge.”

“Right friendly,” the stranger said, with a nod of thanks.

A cowhand called down from the far end of the bar: “Mister, that true what you told the sheriff, ’bout Stringer and Bradley? Was they wanted men?”

The stranger took a sip, nodded, said, “You can write the territorial governor for copies of the circulars if you want.”

“That’s okay, mister. Take your word for it.”

From down the other way, a voice called out, “Four of them ‘deputies’ headed to Boot Hill! Sure puts the squeeze on the sheriff.”

Somebody else said, “Couldn’t happen to nicer fellers.”

Glancing down the bar both ways, the stranger said, “If the sheriff and his bunch are all that bad, why don’t you folks clean them out?”

As if in answer, two men pushed through the swinging doors, big, burly, unshaven, battered hats snugged down, six-guns low on their hips, their expressions daring you to look them in the eye. A dare no one was taking.

Tulley whispered, “That’s why.”

“Pretty playmates the sheriff has,” the stranger said, speaking over the rim of his glass.

The two gunhands took a table. One of the bartenders automatically brought them beers. The taller of the two rolled a cigarette while the other lit up a stogie. Their eyes remained on the bar.

In particular, on the stranger.

“Now, don’t you go startin’ nothin’,” Tulley advised his new friend. “You had enough fun for one mornin’.”

“Is that possible, really?”

“What?”

“Can a man ever have enough fun?”

The doors opened again, but it wasn’t a gunhand who breezed through: it was a beautiful, dark-haired female in a figure-outlining satin dress, a parasol over her shoulder.

The stranger, seeing this in the mirror, said, “You get my point, old-timer?”

Tulley said, “You might want to steer clear of that one.”

“I can see a lot of reasons not to take that advice.”

“That’s Lola.”

“It would be.”

“She belongs to the sheriff.”

The stranger gave him a mock frown. “Tulley, didn’t this country get in a ruckus a while back that settled this whole business of folks belonging to other folks?”

They watched in the mirror as she hip-swayed up to them. Then the stranger turned toward her, Tulley keeping his back to her, but watching in the glass.

She looked the stranger up and down like a dress on display she was considering buying for herself. Then she smirked at him, eyes hooded, and purred, “You’re quite a topic of conversation around this town, handsome.”

“Am I? What topic would that be?”

“Whether you’re a brave man or a fool.”

“What’s your preference?”

She shrugged one shoulder. “I’ll buy either one a drink.”

He grinned at her. “Everybody is just so darn friendly around here. Bartender already set me up, thanks. Anyway, I don’t consider it gentlemanly to allow a lady to buy me a drink. But I’d gladly buy you one.”

Shaking her head a little, still smirking, she said, “Maybe you’re a brave man and a fool.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time in history.”

She tilted her head, as if trying to get a different, better angle on him. “How about you buy the first round? Then the second is on me.”

“I don’t know...”

“Come on! Lady’s prerogative. Shall we sit?”

Tulley looked back over his shoulder at her.

“Not you, Tulley,” she said in a scolding tone.

“Well, now,” the stranger said, “that’s not very friendly.”

She frowned. “That barfly would drink the juice out of a thermometer. Why waste anything on him?”

“He’s my friend.”

She sighed. “All right, Mr. Tulley. Would you do us the honor of joining us?”

The desert rat chugged down his beer, then turned to them and raised his hands, as if in the process of being held up. “No, Miss Lola, thank you kindly, but I was just shoving off, anyway. Gettin’ a little too old for all this excitement.”

And he went out, leaving the stranger to his own devices.

After all, hadn’t the dude said he already knew about the birds and the bees?

Lola went to the nearest table, but the stranger nodded toward the corner one, where the two Gauge gunmen sat, nursing their beers.

“How about over there?” he asked.

She smiled at him. There were half-a-dozen empty tables around. But she clearly liked his choice. She went over, tossed her parasol on the table and the beer mugs jumped. So did the two hard cases.

“Find somewhere else to sit,” she said.

The bigger of the two said, “Now, look here, Lola...”

“Sorry. I meant, find somewhere else to drink.”

The other one said, “There is no other place in town to drink.”

“I don’t believe that’s my problem.”

They looked at her. She looked at them. They got up, shot her dirty glances that were kind of pathetic, and headed back out the batwing doors.

The stranger came to her side and said, “Brave woman or fool?”

“Neither,” she said, and gave him a sideways smile. “I own the place.” She gestured to the nearest chair. “Have a seat.”

He did, but taking the chair that put the corner walls to his back.

“So that’s why you wanted this table,” she said, sitting.

“That was one reason,” the stranger said.

“Always this careful?”

“Why learn the hard way?”

“That’s what I like,” she said with a chuckle. “A man who knows his mind. Now, why don’t you tell me about yourself?”

He’d brought his beer along and he sipped it. “Not much to tell. Just drifting my way to California.”

A bartender delivered her a mixed drink that she hadn’t needed to request.

She asked the stranger, “What’s a hard man like you doin’ wearing such soft threads?”

He shrugged. “I like to look good.”

And he did look good to her, but the clothes had little if anything to do with it. Such a big rock-jawed man with those hard Indian angles in his face, but such beautiful eyes peering from those cautious slits, a blue the color of faded denim. This was a man. But she somehow knew that this was not a man who would raise a hand to a woman, like some she knew.

“Anyway,” he said, “if I look like a mail-order cowboy, I figure nobody will see me as a threat.”

“And just leave you alone.”

“That’s right.”

“How’s that workin’ out for ya?”

Her deadpan expression finally made him burst out laughing.

He seemed genuine as he said: “I like you, Lola.”

She raised an eyebrow. “You know my name, but I don’t know yours.”

He waved that gently away. “Not worth knowing. Just passing through. Why make attachments?” He yawned. “Sorry.”

“Am I boring you, cowboy?”

“Anything but. I just been up a long, long time.”

“And killing dunderheads wears you out?”

He chuckled deep. “Something like that. But there’s not a room available in the hotel, I’m told.”

“Probably not. Payday hangovers gettin’ slept off.” She lifted a satin shoulder and set it down. “But I can arrange a room for you upstairs.”

He half-grinned. “Well, uh... aren’t those usually used for other than sleeping?”

“There’s neither sleeping nor the other in most of them right now. I can fix you up so you can nap awhile. And come wake you up around supper.”

“That would be very kind.”

She walked him to the rear of the saloon and up the stairs to the landing along which half-a-dozen doors waited. She unlocked one at the end and showed him into the small functional area where there wasn’t much but a brass bed and porcelain basin, though the red-and-black San Francisco-style wallpaper lent a certain mood.

“Thank you for this,” the stranger said. He sat on a chair and started taking off his boots.

She got the kerosene hurricane lamp on a small bedside table going. “I’d sleep on top of those covers, if I were you.”

“I already made that deduction, thanks.” He was in his stockinged feet now. He stood.

She came over to him. “I just want to make sure you knew you were right in what you said.”

“What did I say?”

“That this is a friendly town.”

Which called for a friendly kiss, which she got on her tiptoes and gave him.

Then he put his arm around her waist and drew her close and returned the kiss with interest.

Her breathing was heavy and halting when he finally let go of her.

He gave her a boyish grin that lit up the raw-boned face. “Just my way of saying ‘you’re welcome,’ ma’am.”

Her upper lip curled back over her teeth in an insolent smile. “My name isn’t ‘ma’am.’ It’s Lola.”

And she kissed him again, the way he had her.

Then the kerosene lamp got turned down, and in the darkness came a rustle of satin and the clunk of a belt buckle hitting the floor.

Later, at the door, she stopped to look back and asked, “Your name wouldn’t be Banion, would it?”

“Sounds like maybe you already know the answer to that.” He climbed back onto the bed and the mattress springs sang. “You mind leavin’ that key, ma’am?”

She grinned and threw it at him and left.