Max Collins - The Legend of Caleb York

“You crazy? You can’t get a room now.”

“Oh?”

“Yesterday was payday! Hotel’s chock-full of cowpokes sleepin’ it off.”

“Shame. Should’ve taken a stall next to my horse.”

“You know what you need, stranger?”

“Tell me.”

“A drink.”

“It isn’t even noon yet.”

“But you already beat up two men today and shot ’em down to boot. I figure that oughter work up a hell of a thirst. Anyways, I reckon you owe me another a drink for savin’ your hide.”

“I do at that.”

Tulley jabbed a finger at the stranger without touching him. “In addition to which, it’s about time you and me had a man-to-man talk, my friend.”

He half-smiled, raised one eyebrow. “Like I used to have with my daddy?”

“Mebbe. Mebbe do you some good.”

“What’s to talk about? I already know about the birds and the bees.”

“I bet you do! I just bet you do. But what you don’t know is what’s gonna happen to you right soon, and it won’t be near as fun as the birds and the bees.”

“Oh?”

“No, sir. A man don’t pull what you did on Harry Gauge and live long around here.”

The stranger shrugged. “Well, let’s give the sheriff time to figure out what to do about me. Here we are.”

They were at the Victory.

He gave Tulley a warm smile. “Ready for that drink, old-timer?”

“Well, now.” Tulley licked dry lips. “I guess we can continue our little talk in there as well as anywheres.”

The stranger pushed through the batwing doors with Tulley right on his heels. This time of day at the Victory, things were quiet — no music, very little gambling, just a row of cowboys lined up along the brass rail, seeking the hair of the dog. Faces exchanged wary glances in the mirror as the stranger found a place midway for himself and Tulley.

A handlebar-mustached bartender in white shirt and bow tie attended them immediately, or anyway did the stranger. “Yes, sir. What’ll it be, sir?”

The stranger glanced at Tulley. “How about you, pal?”

“Beer’s fine, mister.”

“Two beers, bartender.”

But when the foaming mugs arrived, and the stranger went to digging out a coin, the bartender held up a palm and said, “No charge.”

“Right friendly,” the stranger said, with a nod of thanks.

A cowhand called down from the far end of the bar: “Mister, that true what you told the sheriff, ’bout Stringer and Bradley? Was they wanted men?”

The stranger took a sip, nodded, said, “You can write the territorial governor for copies of the circulars if you want.”

“That’s okay, mister. Take your word for it.”

From down the other way, a voice called out, “Four of them ‘deputies’ headed to Boot Hill! Sure puts the squeeze on the sheriff.”

Somebody else said, “Couldn’t happen to nicer fellers.”

Glancing down the bar both ways, the stranger said, “If the sheriff and his bunch are all that bad, why don’t you folks clean them out?”

As if in answer, two men pushed through the swinging doors, big, burly, unshaven, battered hats snugged down, six-guns low on their hips, their expressions daring you to look them in the eye. A dare no one was taking.

Tulley whispered, “ That’s why.”

“Pretty playmates the sheriff has,” the stranger said, speaking over the rim of his glass.

The two gunhands took a table. One of the bartenders automatically brought them beers. The taller of the two rolled a cigarette while the other lit up a stogie. Their eyes remained on the bar.

In particular, on the stranger.

“Now, don’t you go startin’ nothin’,” Tulley advised his new friend. “You had enough fun for one mornin’.”

“Is that possible, really?”

“What?”

“Can a man ever have enough fun?”

The doors opened again, but it wasn’t a gunhand who breezed through: it was a beautiful, dark-haired female in a figure-outlining satin dress, a parasol over her shoulder.

The stranger, seeing this in the mirror, said, “You get my point, old-timer?”

Tulley said, “You might want to steer clear of that one.”

“I can see a lot of reasons not to take that advice.”

“That’s Lola.”

“It would be.”

“She belongs to the sheriff.”

The stranger gave him a mock frown. “Tulley, didn’t this country get in a ruckus a while back that settled this whole business of folks belonging to other folks?”

They watched in the mirror as she hip-swayed up to them. Then the stranger turned toward her, Tulley keeping his back to her, but watching in the glass.

She looked the stranger up and down like a dress on display she was considering buying for herself. Then she smirked at him, eyes hooded, and purred, “You’re quite a topic of conversation around this town, handsome.”

“Am I? What topic would that be?”

“Whether you’re a brave man or a fool.”

“What’s your preference?”

She shrugged one shoulder. “I’ll buy either one a drink.”

He grinned at her. “Everybody is just so darn friendly around here. Bartender already set me up, thanks. Anyway, I don’t consider it gentlemanly to allow a lady to buy me a drink. But I’d gladly buy you one.”

Shaking her head a little, still smirking, she said, “Maybe you’re a brave man and a fool.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time in history.”

She tilted her head, as if trying to get a different, better angle on him. “How about you buy the first round? Then the second is on me.”

“I don’t know...”

“Come on! Lady’s prerogative. Shall we sit?”

Tulley looked back over his shoulder at her.

“Not you, Tulley,” she said in a scolding tone.

“Well, now,” the stranger said, “ that’s not very friendly.”

She frowned. “That barfly would drink the juice out of a thermometer. Why waste anything on him?”

“He’s my friend.”

She sighed. “All right, Mr. Tulley. Would you do us the honor of joining us?”

The desert rat chugged down his beer, then turned to them and raised his hands, as if in the process of being held up. “No, Miss Lola, thank you kindly, but I was just shoving off, anyway. Gettin’ a little too old for all this excitement.”

And he went out, leaving the stranger to his own devices.

After all, hadn’t the dude said he already knew about the birds and the bees?

Lola went to the nearest table, but the stranger nodded toward the corner one, where the two Gauge gunmen sat, nursing their beers.

“How about over there?” he asked.

She smiled at him. There were half-a-dozen empty tables around. But she clearly liked his choice. She went over, tossed her parasol on the table and the beer mugs jumped. So did the two hard cases.

“Find somewhere else to sit,” she said.

The bigger of the two said, “Now, look here, Lola...”

“Sorry. I meant, find somewhere else to drink.”

The other one said, “There is no other place in town to drink.”

“I don’t believe that’s my problem.”

They looked at her. She looked at them. They got up, shot her dirty glances that were kind of pathetic, and headed back out the batwing doors.

The stranger came to her side and said, “Brave woman or fool?”

“Neither,” she said, and gave him a sideways smile. “I own the place.” She gestured to the nearest chair. “Have a seat.”

He did, but taking the chair that put the corner walls to his back.

“So that’s why you wanted this table,” she said, sitting.

“That was one reason,” the stranger said.