Max Collins - The Legend of Caleb York

“Does it?”

Tulley nodded. “That scurvy pair’ll figure a way to take care of you later, if you’re still around.”

“I’m sure things will work out.”

Still working to keep up, Tulley said, “Their names is Riley and Jackson. Riley, he’s the one with the mustache, and Jack—”

“Don’t care who they are, Pop.”

“Name’s Tulley.”

“All right, Tulley. But I don’t.”

They were at the hotel. The stranger hitched the gelding to the rail. Stroked its face. The animal nodded in approval at the attention.

Tulley said, “Don’t know that you should be stoppin’, mister. Even if you are hungry for breakfast.”

“Because?”

“Because you want to keep on movin’ — goin’ to wherever it was you was headed. Leave Trinidad and them two snakes behind you, and good riddance.”

“Suppose,” the stranger said, “I decide to stay around awhile.”

“Well, then,” Tulley said, grinning, “I’d buy me a drink and let me tell you more about friendly, little Trinidad, and the big, bad lawman those two scoundrels work for.”

The stranger shook his head. “No drink. Not right now. Settle for breakfast?”

“I ain’t et a thing since day before yesterday. Maybe I should et some today.”

“Why not?” He grinned. “You might get to like it.”

The hotel restaurant wasn’t fancy, but it was clean and even had white linen tablecloths. The waiter seemed confused by the pairing of dude and desert rat, but he seated them without comment.

Soon they’d been served steak and eggs and coffee. They chowed down without conversation, then sat back and had more coffee as Tulley began to tell the stranger about Sheriff Harry Gauge and his bunch of outlaw deputies, the landgrab that was well under way, and how the Bar-O was one of the last holdouts.

The stranger listened with seeming interest but asked no questions, just occasionally nodding.

“So I guess you can see this is no kind of town,” Tulley said, “for the likes of you.”

“You’re right,” the stranger said. “After all, I’m just passing through.”

“What’s your name, anyway?”

“When you’re passing through, why leave that behind?”

Tulley had no answer for that. “So where you headed?”

The stranger was not at all reluctant to share that information: “California.”

“Where’s about in California?”

“Haven’t narrowed it down just yet.”

That seemed reasonable to Tulley.

The stranger had a question. “How does it pay?”

“How does what pay?”

“Being the town character.”

That made Tulley guffaw. “I only been the resident eccentric here since, oh, February, I guess. Got run out of Ellis. Sheriff give me a dollar, stuck me on top of a stagecoach, and said fare-thee-well. But any information you get from me, mister, it’ll be well worth a drink or a meal. Didn’t take me long to get the gist of Trinidad.”

“How do you get by?”

“I sweep out at the livery and a few other places. I do odd jobs, it’s called.”

The stranger dug out a quarter-eagle gold piece and gave it to him. “This is for that drink. Try to have something left for a meal or two.”

“Much appreciated, mister. So you’re leavin’ then?”

He shrugged. “I had my breakfast, didn’t I?”

The stranger got up, left a ten-cent tip, and Tulley followed him out onto the boardwalk in front of the hotel. The sound of horses coming up the street from the church end caught the attention of both men.

Tulley and the stranger watched as Old Man Cullen, saddled up like a sighted man, rode in with his pretty daughter riding along near his side. Their foreman, Whit Murphy, was just behind them, leading a pair of packhorses with a body slung over each like sacks of grain.

Willa’s eyes swept over the stranger, but didn’t linger.

Shaking his head, Tulley said, “That’s the kinda town it is, mister. Shootin’s every whip stitch.”

“Who are those people?”

“That’s George Cullen and his daughter, Willa. Cullen’s foreman leadin’ the packhorses. Don’t recognize the dead men from just their backsides.”

The Cullen party stopped outside the sheriff’s office.

Even from well down the street, the old man’s shout could be plainly heard: “Sheriff Gauge! I have something for you!”

Gauge came out, in no hurry, followed by his deputy. The sheriff took it all in, hands on hips, spat tobacco, then spoke loudly himself, perhaps aware of how many townsfolk were listening from the boardwalk or windows.

“What’s on your mind, Cullen?”

“Clean-shaven one is the sheriff,” Tulley told the stranger. “Harry Gauge. The fire-bearded fella is his deputy, Vint Rhomer. Only Gauge is smart. But they’s both mean as rattlers.”

The narrow eyes narrowed further. “I’ve heard of Gauge. Never heard him to be on the right side of a badge, though.”

“Well, mister, you know how it is out here. Seems like men good with guns are always on one side of a badge or the other, but it ain’t always the same side.”

The stranger nodded at Tulley’s wisdom.

Old man Cullen was saying, “I’m returning some things you mislaid, Sheriff. I believe these two belong to you. Last night they tried to set fire to my range.”

“By damn,” Tulley said, “the old man is really standin’ up to Gauge! This is that big trouble I was tellin’ you about. And now it’s gonna get even bigger.”

The stranger shrugged. “Well, let’s walk down there and see the show. Get a good seat.”

“Are you loco, mister? Not me! The bullets could start flyin’ at any time now.”

“Not loco, Tulley. Just curious. Your colorful stories got me interested in this town.”

The stranger started down the boardwalk.

“Well, I call it loco,” Tulley insisted, but found himself tagging along again. “And I can’t let you go wanderin’ off around town this dangerous without somebody to hold that citified hand of yours.”

They paused at the end of the boardwalk, which provided a good catercorner view of the sheriff’s office and the five horses stopped in front of it.

Deputy Rhomer was over having a look at the two corpses slung over the pack animals. He turned toward the sheriff, who stood at the edge of the porch above the steps.

“It’s Stringer and Bradley!” Rhomer said.

Gauge ambled down and positioned himself in front of the old man and his daughter, both still on horseback. “I suppose you have witnesses to what happened?”

“We have plenty, Sheriff,” Cullen said.

“All on the Bar-O payroll, of course.”

“Right. Like these two here were on your payroll.”

“You mean, these two men of mine who your men shot down in cold blood.”

The girl, who was in a red-and-black plaid shirt and denim pants, yellow hair braided up, said, “In self-defense, Sheriff Gauge. They sneaked in at night and were setting fire to our high grass where cattle were grazing.”

“And your boys were waiting ? Big range to know just the right spot.”

Cullen said, “I had a good idea where you’d hit. Do you deny these are your men?”

The sheriff shook his head. “No. Not at all. Good loyal employees. They wear deputy badges when we go out on posse. And that’s why I’m afraid you took yourself too big a bite this time, Mr. Cullen. Really boxed yourself in.”

“Oh?”

Gauge still had his hands on his hips, which put one hand near the butt of his .44. He was smiling up into a face that couldn’t see, but no doubt the old man could make out the nastiness in that unseen smile by the tone of the sheriff’s voice.