Max Collins - The Legend of Caleb York

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.”