Max Collins - The Legend of Caleb York

“What I think,” Gauge said, “is that a man should be careful. And a woman should watch her mouth.”

Lola said nothing, just leaned back and sat there, burning.

Gauge watched the rugged-looking character at the bar, working on a beer. Pearl sashayed up and began flirting again with the man calling himself Smith. He seemed to like the attention.

The cowhand who came over, having been sent by Pearl, had his hat in hands as he stood before the sheriff.

“You want to talk to me, Sheriff Gauge?”

Gauge knew the man a little, Frank Harper, a typical cowboy of medium size with a droopy, untrimmed mustache, long, unkempt hair, and leathery skin. His face was narrow, his eyes wary under a shelf of shaggy brows.

“Sit down, Frank,” Gauge said, friendly but not overdoing it. “Can I buy you a drink? Beer? Shot of rye?”

“Kind of you, Sheriff,” he said, “but I’m in the middle of a game. Just lost my” — he glanced at Lola, who was sitting listening, her arms folded — “ shirt trying to draw to an inside straight. How can I be of help?”

“This Smith,” Gauge said, barely nodding toward the bar, “just rode in this afternoon, I understand. You make him for a gunhand? Don’t have a cowboy look.”

“Funny you should say. There’s...” But something caught in Frank’s throat.

“What is it, Frank?”

“Sir, I don’t want to speak out of turn. I know things between you and my boss can sometimes get... a tad tense. But you can understand, a body has to be loyal to the man that pays him.”

“There’s no bad blood between me and your boss. Ben Larson and me just been wrangling over price. No secret I been tryin’ to buy him out for over a year.”

“No secret at all. And I’m just a cowpoke earnin’ his monthly wages, and I don’t want to be smack-dab in the middle of anything. ”

“Frank, you’re not in the middle of a damn thing. Just tell me about Smith.”

He sighed and the droopy mustache shuddered. “Well, Mr. Larson is takin’ on hands for roundup. But he’s keepin’ an eye on men who would make good drovers, for when we head the herd to Las Vegas.”

“Makes sense,” Gauge allowed. Las Vegas, New Mexico, with its railroad, was a two-day cattle drive away.

“Well, uh, there’s, uh, rustlers and bad men of various stripe out there on the trail that you can run into.”

“So I hear.”

“So Mr. Larson has been particular about who he hires on. There’s certain, uh... skills he’d prefer they have.”

“Skills such as?”

Frank lifted two palms. “Now, don’t get the idea that Mr. Larson is takin’ on gunhands. No, sir. He just wants men that can handle themselfs in a tough sitch-i-ation.”

“Right. Just good business, Frank. Are you saying Smith is good with a gun?”

Very quietly, holding his hat to his chest like a shield, Frank said, “I’m just sayin’ that Mr. Larson tries to see what kinda skills any hands he takes on has.”

“Did he ask Mr. Smith to demonstrate his skills?”

Frank nodded. “The boss lined up some bottles on these fence posts and had Smith show how he could shoot. And, Sheriff, let me tell you — the man can shoot! Knocked every bottle off their darn perch.”

“Taking his time?”

“No, sir! Blasting away!”

“Fast, is he?”

“Greased lightning. Faster than almost anybody I ever seen.”

Gauge smiled a little. “Just out of curiosity, Frank... who is the fastest you’ve ever seen?”

Frank’s grin was a sly yellow thing. “Why, do you even have to ask, Sheriff? You are, without a darn doubt.”

“You flatter me.”

Frank’s eyebrows went up and his eyes widened. “Is that all, Sheriff? Can I get back to my game? They’ll only hold my chair so long.”

“You surely can.”

With a relieved smile, Frank got to his feet; though just as he was leaving, the sheriff called out to him.

“Oh, and Frank?”

“Yes, Sheriff?”

“You do know how bad the odds are, drawing to an inside straight?”

Frank grinned. “I know it, Sheriff. Not that the knowledge ever done me a lick of good.”

The cowboy ambled back to his game.

“Well,” Gauge said quietly to Lola, “maybe the odds that Smith is Banion are about the same as filling an inside straight.”

“Worse, I’d say,” Lola said.

“Even so,” Gauge said, smiling pleasantly, taking off his badge and slipping it in a pocket, “we can’t have these ranchers hiring on gunhands. Not a good policy.”

He rose and was moving past her when she gripped his arm, probably to beg him to be careful.

But what she said was “Gauge, if you start something, take it outside. We don’t need a mess to clean up or any broken furniture or mirrors to replace.”

“Your concern is touching, honey,” he said with a sneer, and headed over to the bar, putting some drunken swagger into his gait.

There were no spaces at the bar, which gave Gauge his play. The rugged cowboy and a bowlegged buddy were standing sideways, leaning against the counter, talking, beers in hand. Gauge shoved in between them, pushing each aside hard, making them lose their balance and spill the glasses a bit.

Some of the big man’s beer got on Gauge’s shirtsleeve, and the sheriff — who without a badge seemed just a surly drunk — snarled, “Look what you done, you clod! Get the hell out of my way!”

The scar-faced gunman glared at the drunk.

And gunman was what he was — no cowboy, not with that single-loop holster home to a Colt double-action Army revolver tied down low on his right thigh.

The shootist was sizing up the obnoxious drunk standing before him. The long oak bar was clearing of customers as whispered warnings were exchanged.

Finally, Smith, with a near smile, said, “No need for trouble, friend. Plenty of room here, now.”

Gauge kept his speech slurry. “Why don’t you go straight to hell and find your own damn room?”

The gunman raised his hands, waist-high, palms out. “You spilled my beer. Why don’t you buy me another? And I’ll take the next round.”

“You deaf? I said, go to hell! ”

Smith’s hard features hardened further. His hand drifted toward the holstered Colt, but he stopped short. “You’ve had too much to drink, friend. Why don’t you just back off and stop asking for trouble.”

Weaving, Gauge slurred, “Trouble? Who’s gonna give it to me... a mangy dog like you?”

By now, the hard face had turned to stone, and a powerful-looking hand hovered above the butt of the holstered Colt.

Smith said, “Time you shut that big mouth, mister. Or I am going to shut it for you.”

Still playing drunk, Gauge said, “Try it, why don’t you? Or maybe you ain’t got the guts ?”

Slowly, Smith moved away from the bar about two feet. Gauge, still loose-limbed, mirrored him. They faced each other, three feet apart.

Smith said, “Buddy, you just had one too many. That ain’t worth dyin’ over.”

“So you’re talk. All talk. Just another lily — livered talker!”

Smith went for his gun and Gauge pulled his .44 and blasted three times, shots placed so close they tore a hole in his opponent’s belly from which bloody intestines spilled like snakes fleeing a disturbed nest. The gunman had his gun in hand, but it had only just made it out of the holster, and he wouldn’t be firing it now or ever. Smith, or whatever the hell his name was, was too busy dying a terrible death, setting an example for any other gunhands playing at cowboy who might be looking on.

Somebody grabbed Gauge from behind, by the upper arms, and shouted, “Get the sheriff!”