Max Collins - The Legend of Caleb York

Her father remained unfazed. “Maybe he bought it over at Las Vegas. Maybe he arranged to have a mount waitin’ for him. Could be he shipped it with him by train. Just like they ship cattle.”

The men around the table exchanged glances, weighing these possibilities.

No matter — her father had convinced himself. “By damn,” he said, “that must be it. He must be Banion.”

Hardware man Mathers said, “I still say, had that been the case, your man would contact you right away. He wouldn’t leave you in the dark.”

That remark, made to the blind man seated at the head of the table, had been unintentionally tactless enough to create a momentary lull in the conversation, though her father didn’t appear to have taken any offense. Instead, his face was taut with thought.

“Perhaps you have a point, Clarence,” her father said.

Willa set the coffeepot down with a small clunk that got everyone’s attention. She sat at the other end of the table and joined the meeting, weary of her servile role.

“Maybe,” she said, “he’d rather earn his money first.”

Perhaps faintly irritated that she’d joined the male confabulation, Cullen said, “He’s doing pretty well so far without any down payment, daughter.”

“Well, he didn’t take Gauge out or Rhomer, either,” Whit observed, vaguely disgusted. “And they was standin’ right there for the takin’.”

Willa’s eyes and nostrils flared, words exploding from her: “I’m beginning to think you good members of the Citizens Committee are all as bad as Harry Gauge! Hiring somebody to kill a man.”

There were protests to that remark, flustered reminders that only her father had done the hiring, but she spoke over them, saying, “You’re happy to have George Cullen take the lead and the blame, aren’t you?”

The hardware man said, “Miss Cullen, we’re between the proverbial rock and a hard place. When the sheriff took office, he bought interests in many of our businesses. You must know that. And maybe you know that it seemed a wise business move at the time. Gauge shared our tax burden, he provided new capital for expansion. Some of the newer businesses in Trinidad couldn’t have opened up at all without the sheriff’s backing and blessing.”

“And now,” she said, “he’s returned all the tax burden over to you, and is calling these investments ‘loans’ and demanding repayment while retaining his interest in your businesses.”

The Trinidad merchants wore glum expressions, several hanging their heads.

She went on: “Harry Gauge allows the cowboys from his spread, and for that matter ours and all the others, to come to town and shoot the place up every payday... because it’s good for business. Especially the Victory.”

Her father said, “What do you suggest we do, girl?”

Her voice was firm and clear. “Stand together. Stand up to Gauge and his men. You say you’re a concerned citizens group. Do something about it!”

That prompted hollow laughter and head shaking among their guests.

The mayor said, “Harry Gauge has a small army of gunhands, Miss Cullen. You know that.”

“He’s lost four of them in two days,” she reminded him. “The Bar-O boys took down Stringer and Bradley themselves. Papa, you came out on top because you outfought Gauge.”

“No, daughter. It was because I out thought them. But superior tactics can’t overcome strength of numbers.”

All around Willa were the faces of men tolerating her, not really taking her words into account. “Gentlemen... Papa... there has to be a better way to stop Harry Gauge than calling upon hired killers.”

Her father said nothing for several long seconds. Finally he said, “Best you stay out of it, Willa. This ain’t the kind of thing for a woman to decide.”

Flushed, she stood and left the table, but she didn’t leave the room. She went back to quietly refilling coffee cups. She wanted to hear anything these oh-so-wise city fathers had to say. So much in her life was riding on the decisions her father and his too-timid friends were making.

The mayor, smoothing his perfect, perfectly waxed mustache, said, “I think we should find out if this is indeed Wes Banion. I mean, none of us knows the man by sight, just reputation.”

The banker said, “Well, you’re the mayor, Jasper. Why don’t you approach him?”

“And if Sheriff Gauge sees me? Mr. Cullen... George... you sent for him. Isn’t it more appropriate that you make contact?”

The druggist said, “If George is seen talking to that gunfighter, by Gauge or any of his men, the only person to profit will be undertaker Perkins.”

“ I’ll do it,” Willa said.

Everyone looked at her. She was at her father’s shoulder now, having just refilled his cup.

Looking toward her voice, Papa said, “Daughter... what are you—”

“The stranger and I chatted briefly. He seemed friendly enough. He seemed... to like me well enough. I could approach him, easily, and if Harry Gauge or any of his outlaw deputies notice, they won’t do anything about it. They won’t like it, but... they won’t do anything.”

Her father’s milky eyes were on her, and he was frowning.

Then a shrewd expression came over the weathered features and he said, “There are things a woman can manage that a man can’t. Yes, daughter, I think you’re the one to have word with Banion.”

“Or whoever he is.”

“Or whoever he is. But whoever he is, he knows his way around a gun, and that’s what we need right now.”

Her frown got into her voice. “Papa, I won’t hire your killers for you.”

He reached for her hand and found it. “Not asking you to, girl. Just see if you can get a name out of him. And, whatever it might be, ask him if he knows Raymond Parker of Denver... who happens to be an old friend of your father’s.”

A meeting of a related nature, but of an entirely different sort, was under way in Sheriff Harry Gauge’s office. No coffee here — just a bottle of whiskey and some scattered glasses. Nobody had been at the door to take their hats for them and, with the exception of the sheriff himself whose Stetson was on a hook behind him, the attendees kept their lids on.

Seated across from Gauge at his desk were Deputy Vint Rhomer and two rough-looking gunnies with deputy badges pinned on their shirts. After what happened this morning to Riley and Jackson, the sheriff had handed out deputy badges to all his bunch.

Lanky, dark-haired, dark-eyed Jake Britt wore a gray shirt, black vest, fairly new Levi’s, and a low-slung Colt. 44. His face was narrow, his mustache and eyebrows thick, smudgy dark stubble on cheeks and chin. He had killed half-a-dozen men that Gauge knew of.

Short, burly Lars Manning was blue-eyed and blond, like the sheriff; they might have been brothers but weren’t. Manning wore a dark blue twill army shirt and knee- and seat-patched denims with a .45 fairly high on his hip. Manning was responsible for at least four killings, plus the occasional Mexican.

Both men were veterans of holdups and robberies from Gauge’s pre — law enforcement days.

Britt, who had a languid way about him, seemed to taste his words as he uttered them. “Any shootist who can gun down two men at one time is nobody I care to face down.”

Manning, more excitable, said, “Word around town is both Jackson and Riley already had their damn guns out when he pulled on ’em!”

Gauge stared at them in disgust. “Who the hell said anything about facing him down? Ambush the son of a bitch!”

Britt glanced at Manning, and the two men shrugged at each other, as if such duties were no big deal to either.