Max Collins - The Legend of Caleb York

Gauge glanced back — it was the smaller cowboy who Smith had been talking to at the bar — and shoved his left elbow back into the little man’s ribs. The cowboy yowled and fell back, and the grip on Gauge’s arms popped open into fingers.

Gauge took a step away, facing the bar and the stunned cowboy, with the gasping, bleeding Smith on the floor nearby, curled up as if to guard the gory mess that had poured out of him. Gauge kicked the revolver from the dying man’s hand and got his badge out of his pocket and pinned it back on.

“I am the sheriff,” Gauge said, not shouting it but loud, directing it to the smaller cowboy but wanting everyone to hear.

Gauge sent a bartender to fetch Doc Miller, though Smith would obviously soon be the undertaker’s purview.

Then the sheriff turned to the shocked faces of his patrons — frozen in mid-game or mid-dance, the music having stopped when the gunfire began — and his voice was a preacher’s on Sunday morning.

“This is an example for any shootists who think they can come to Trinidad and pretend to be honest cowhands! Spread the word, gentlemen. I will keep this town... and this saloon... safe!”

There was a rumble of murmured conversation.

Gauge spoke again, just as loud: “ The show is over. The house is buying one round, and then get back to your cards and what-have-you! ”

A free drink forgave many sins, and the place was soon raucous again, with no pall whatever cast by the dead man with his guts hanging out on the floor near the bar.

Lola appeared at Gauge’s side.

“Well,” she said, “I’m glad we didn’t invest in that Oriental carpet.”

“I detect a tone of disapproval.”

“I asked you to please take it outside.”

“Would not have got my point across as well.”

“You didn’t have to do that at all. That man was creating no disturbance, and I don’t see what threat he gave you.”

“He might be Banion, for all we know.”

“And he might not,” she said, shaking her head. “And without finding that out first, what good did you do?”

“I’ll find out who he was, don’t worry about that.”

She was studying him again, and something strange was in her expression.

“What is it, honey?”

“You just killed a man, Harry. Doesn’t that mean anything to you?”

“No. Should it?”

Lola sighed, rolled her eyes, and began moving through the casino, smiling, friendly with her customers, getting the free-spending mood going again.

Gauge sat at a corner table with a bottle and his back to the wall, keeping an eye on things. Maybe Smith had a friend among the other new cowhands at the Bar-L. Always paid to be careful.

He watched dispassionately as Doc Miller pronounced Smith dead — you needed a doctor’s degree to do that? — and had a couple cowhands dump the corpse in a basket, cover it with a sheet before directing them out with it.

Sawed-off and plump, in a dark gray suit that looked slept in, the white-haired doc trundled over, black bag in hand, though he hadn’t opened it. The operation here required a mop, not a scalpel.

“Doin’ quite a business tonight,” the doc said in his dry, folksy manner.

“Are we? I only remember killing one fool.”

“Well, there’s a live fool who dropped off two of your men at my office. Last half hour, I been tendin’ ’em.”

Gauge sat up. “ What live fool?”

“Take a wild guess.”

“Rhomer.”

The doc nodded. “He said to ask you to get over to your office, quick. I’m going to guess it’s not good news.”

Gauge collected Lola and walked her down the chilly moon-swept street to the office, where Rhomer was milling outside, looking like a naughty child awaiting Papa’s punishment.

“What happened?” Gauge asked as he unlocked the door.

They all went in. Nervous, Rhomer sat across from Gauge. Lola stood in back of the desk, looming just behind the sheriff.

The red-bearded hangdog deputy shook his head and said, “They was waitin’ for us, Gauge. They was down in these damn trenches with rifles and they just shot the hell out of us.”

“... We lose any men?”

“Stringer and Bradley.”

“Hell. What about the two at Doc Miller’s?”

“Flesh wounds.”

“Give it to me in detail.”

Rhomer did.

Lola was pacing a small area behind Gauge. She said to Rhomer, “Who knew about this?”

The deputy said, “Just the eight of us in it.”

Gauge glanced back at Lola. “Were any of my bunch at the Victory this afternoon?”

She nodded, and shared the names.

Rhomer frowned. “That’s them. Musta stopped by for some liquid courage.”

Gauge gave her a long, hard look. “Did you hear them talking, Lola?”

Her face reddened. “Don’t you dare say it to me, Harry. I would never... ! Don’t even think it.”

Rhomer asked her, “How much drinking did they do?”

She sighed, shrugged, thought. “Not much. A beer or two. A shot. No, they weren’t soused when they left. Like you said, Vint. Liquid courage.”

Gauge was flexing his fists. “Somebody talked. We’re going to find out who. And we’re going to kill them. Just like that shootist tonight, only worse.”

Lola leaned in. “Harry, come on. You don’t know anybody talked. Cullen’s a cunning old coot. Maybe he just outthunk you.”

Teeth bared, he slapped her. Hard.

“Nobody outthinks me, get it? Nobody!”

She reared back against the adobe wall, agape, trembling, with a curled hand against one cheek. “Harry... I told you...”

Gauge, still seated, swung his gaze to Rhomer. “Go back to Doc Miller’s and see about getting our boys back in their bunks.”

Rhomer, obviously glad to be going, almost jumped out of the chair and left quickly without a word.

Gauge sat with his back to Lola. But he could feel her there, trembling, seething. Hear her breathing heavily.

Finally she said, in almost a whisper, “Don’t ever hit me again, Harry. Not... ever. ”

He almost leapt from the chair and he pressed her against the wall. He kissed her roughly on the mouth, then on the neck, and on the mouth again.

Then, his face in hers, he said, “I’ll do anything I want to you, Lola. Understand? Anything. ”

Breath heavy again, she clutched him to her and whispered into his ear, “Yes... yes, you can, Harry. Anything. Just... just never hit me.”

He took her by the hand and led her to the nearest jail cell.

From the size of him, you would think the stranger was nobody to mess with.

He was big and broad-shouldered, firm-jawed and raw-boned, saddle-tall and long-legged, his pleasant features lent an edge by prominent cheekbones and washed-out blue eyes in a permanent squint. His rifle scabbard was home to a double-barreled twelve-gauge shotgun, and a Colt Single Action Army .44 dangled off on his right hip, holster tie-down loose. The horse he rode was a dappled gray gelding with a black mane, an animal that had some prance in its step as it started lightly down Main Street, as confident as its rider.

Yet, overall the stranger who rode into Trinidad that morning brought one word to mind: dude.

The man’s face showed some age — he might be as old as forty — and was tanned and had seen its share of weather. But those duds were dude all the way, a city feller trying to fit in out west and missing the mark wide.

His black shirt had gray trim on its collars, cuffs, and twin breast pockets, with pearl buttons down the front and on those pockets and cuffs, too. His trousers were new-looking black cotton tucked into black boots with an elaborate hand-tooled design. The stranger was clean-shaven and bareheaded, his hair reddish brown and barbered short, a gray kerchief neck-knotted, his curl-brimmed black hat with cavalry pinch riding his saddle pommel.