Max Collins - The Legend of Caleb York

“You knew I was sending my men out to see you, old man, with a proposal to buy out your land. Wouldn’t be any trouble at all for you to lay an ambush for them, then start a fire that you could put out quick... but point to as something the dead men done.”

As they watched from the end of the boardwalk, Tulley and the stranger were aware that other onlookers, who’d filled in behind them, were now backing away.

As Tulley said earlier, bullets might fly...

Maybe that was why the stranger was knotting that tie-down strap, securing the holstered .44 to his right thigh.

Old Man Cullen was saying, a snarl in his voice, “You know damn well that it didn’t happen that way.”

Gauge shook his head. “I don’t know any such thing, Mr. Cullen. But I do know this. Those men were deputized by me before I sent them out, in anticipation of what you might pull.”

The stranger stepped down from the boardwalk and started across the street. Tulley reached out to stop him, but the man was already on his way. And that stride of his was a long one.

Gauge was saying, “And you don’t just kill lawmen and get away with it, old man. Not in my town.”

Rhomer gripped Gauge’s arm and pointed to where the stranger was over, having a look at the two bodies, turning the head of one to look at a dead face, doing the same with the other.

Then the stranger called, “Mr. Cullen!”

The old man’s face turned toward the voice, his expression quizzical. “Yes? Who is that?”

“Sir, are you responsible for these deaths?”

Cullen’s chin rose. “I am. Not personally, but men who work for me did, protecting my property. I take full responsibility.”

Gauge, frowning, whispered harshly to his deputy, “Who the hell is this?”

“Damn if I know,” Rhomer said. “Just some dude. Never seen him before.”

The stranger walked around to look up at the mounted Cullen, giving a respectful nod to the man’s daughter as he did. “Then don’t worry about it, sir.”

“Don’t... don’t worry about it?”

“No. You’ve done the law a service. These are wanted men. Dead or alive in four states that I know of. The posters are up all over the territory.” He turned and gave the sheriff a pleasant smile. “I’d be willing to bet you have them up in your office, Sheriff.”

“Who are you?” Gauge demanded.

The smile left the stranger’s face. “Or maybe you don’t. Maybe you took those circulars down, or never put them up.”

Gauge reddened. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about the company you keep. Not very good.”

Gauge’s upper lip curled back in a terrible smile. “Listen to me, stranger... this is not your business. Back off and back away or we’re going to have a problem that I’m going to solve.”

The stranger ignored the threat. “In fact,” he said, loud enough for any onlookers or eavesdroppers to hear, “Mr. Cullen has a reward coming. About five hundred U.S. dollars for the pair of them.”

Stunned, a slack-jawed Cullen said, “Five hundred...?”

The stranger grinned. “Yeah, I know. Two of a kind usually doesn’t pay off that well.”

Tulley didn’t see them till it was too late — Riley and Jackson, coming around the near side of the sheriff’s office-jailhouse. They’d been inside there all this time, and were coming up behind the stranger, who was facing the sheriff.

“Mister!” Tulley called.

Willa Cullen had seen them, too, and she pulled her horse between the two bushwhackers and the dude, who immediately came around the back of the animal to find the two supposed deputies, already with guns in hand.

“Time to die,” Riley said, “you lousy, slicked-up—”

The stranger drew and fired, and neither man, despite the guns already in their hands, could do a damn thing about it except look down at the red blossoming over their hearts before dropping onto their backs to sprawl in the dusty street.

So close had the shots been together, they might have been one big blast. Tulley had never seen anything like it — drawing on two men whose guns were at the ready, taking them down like target-practice tin cans.

To himself the desert rat muttered, “And I was gonna hold his hand...”

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.