Max Collins - The Legend of Caleb York

Rhomer was sitting forward, squinting at Willart so hard, it was damn near comical. Gauge knew what that meant: his deputy was thinking.

“What is it, Vint?”

The deputy started to smile, but it was the way a man smiles who realizes he’s just been taken by a sharpie. “So that’s what Old Man Swenson was givin’ me the horselaugh about...”

Gauge slammed a fist on his desk and the whiskey bottle damn near spilled. “Explain!”

Rhomer said, “Old Swenson was over at the Victory a few nights ago. Liquored up to beat the band. Fallin’-down drunk, gigglin’ like a girl, laughin’ and guffawin’. At Lola’s request, I walk him out into the street and dump him in the alley, to sleep it off. He just looks up at me and says the joke is on you.”

“On you, Rhomer?”

“No, not me — on you, Gauge.”

Elbows on his desk, fists tight and going up and down, up and down, Gauge said, “That miserable, low-down chiseler... He must’ve known they was infected when he sold ’em to me!”

Rhomer said, “He’s been a holdout amongst the smaller ranchers for a good, long time, Harry. Explains why finally, after all this time, he was willin’ to do business.”

Upper lip curled back, Gauge said, “So he could stick me with a damn diseased herd... If I could get my hands on him...”

Rhomer said, “Probably long gone now.”

The foreman shook his head. “No, sir. One of the boys seen Swenson over by the stage relay station. Said he was just camped out near there with his horse... and a saddlebag full of bottles and bean cans.”

Gauge, almost to himself, said, “He’s waitin’ for the stage with the buyers. They’re due in, day after tomorrow.”

Because of their proximity to Las Vegas — the biggest cattle railhead in New Mexico — buyers would come to Trinidad to make advance offers on herds. They would offer a price slightly under market, but would take entire herds and take a chance on any losses of stock that might occur on the brief cattle drive to the train.

Rhomer said, “Why the hell is Swenson out waitin’ for the buyers? He don’t have anything to sell ’em! And he’s already got the money you give him, Harry. You’d think he’d light out.”

“It’s spite, Vint. Pure damn spite. He wants to get to those buyers and tell them my herd’s got the pox before they even talk to me.”

The foreman, an eyebrow arched, said, “Might be we still got time.”

Gauge was thinking, nodding. “It’ll be four days, anyway, before those other cows they’re mixed in with show any signs. They’ll be paid for by then. They’ll be loaded up and on those trains and on their way before it shows.”

Rhomer said, “Yeah, if Old Man Swenson don’t warn them buyers first.”

Gauge said, “Any suggestions, Vint?”

“Like maybe send somebody out to the Brentwood Junction relay station?” The deputy grinned. “You know, and just... discourage that old boy from talkin’.”

“Who says you ain’t smart?” He thought briefly, then asked Rhomer, “Was Maxwell over at the Victory?”

“He was. That was half an hour ago or more.”

“Well, if he still is, tell him I said ride out there tonight and see if Swenson has my money somewhere in those saddlebags, amongst the booze and beans. Believe I’m due a refund.”

Rhomer nodded, got to his feet, and was halfway out when the sheriff called to him.

“And, Vint? Tell Maxwell we want to make sure Mr. Swenson don’t misrepresent himself to no other innocent parties in business transactions in the future.”

“Already figured that out, Harry,” the deputy said through a nasty smile, and was gone.

Gauge poured himself some more whiskey. This was a problem, a real problem, one that made having a gunfighter in town pale by way of comparison. Cowpox making his herd unsalable was a huge threat to everything he’d worked for, all that he had planned.

But Harry Gauge prided himself on meeting problems head-on.

And he was confident both would be solved, and soon.

When Willa rode into town around eight, in plaid shirt and Levi’s, Main Street was dark and deserted, the only light spilling from the windows and doors of the Victory. Moonlight helped, though, and she noticed a distinctive horse tied up in front of Harris Mercantile — dappled gray with a black mane.

She hitched her calico, Daisy, a ways down from it, then noticed a figure asleep under the boardwalk — that old drunk, Tulley, who’d made a mattress out of a long, plump feed sack he’d pilfered from somewhere.

She knelt by him, reached a hand in and shook him gently by a shoulder. “Tulley... wake up. Come on, Tulley — wake up!”

The rheumy eyes in the rummy’s white-bearded face fluttered open and shut, open and shut, and finally, like a window shade yanked too hard, stayed open.

“Well, Miss Cullen... good evenin’. What brings you to town after sundown?”

Ignoring the question, she pointed toward the dappled gelding. “That’s the stranger’s horse, isn’t it?”

Propping an elbow against the feed sack, Tulley grinned and said, “Shore is. Unusual-looking beast, don’t you think? Handsome in its way.”

She strove for patience, dealing with the chatty coot. “I thought he’d taken a stall for it down at the livery stable.”

“Oh, he did, he did, and I helped him do it. But also, he asked me to bring the steed down here around seven and tie it up for him. Said he’s goin’ out for a ride a bit later.”

“Where to?”

“Didn’t say.”

“When did you see him last?”

“Not in some while. Guess he’s still down at the Victory. Been in there pretty much all afternoon and up to now.”

“Sounds like you two have become real pals.”

“He’s a good man to know, Miss Cullen.” His eyes came alive. “You saw him in action this mornin’, better than just about anybody. I reckon that—”

“Is his name Banion?”

Tulley, eyelids getting heavy, said, “Banion?”

“Yes, Banion. Is that his name? Tulley!”

Tulley’s eyes popped open and she repeated her question.

He chuckled, but this time spoke only to himself as he said, “Banion... that’s rich... Banion...”

“Tulley!”

But the old desert rat was snoring now.

Shaking her head in frustration, Willa rose and began down the boardwalk, toward the Victory. She wasn’t about to go in that den of iniquity, but she could wait outside for him. She’d barely started when she saw that dance-hall female Lola step through the batwing doors, in her satin-and-lace finery, her bosom hanging half-out, legs above her ankles showing through a slit at the front.

Trollop.

Right behind her, having held open a swinging door for her, was the stranger, a real gentleman in his dudish apparel, hat in hand and everything. For some reason, Willa felt anger flush her throat.

She tucked into the recessed doorway of the mercantile shop, just to get out of sight, not really to eavesdrop. But she couldn’t avoid hearing, voices carrying on the clear, cool night...

The stranger and the dance-hall female were walking slowly toward her up the boardwalk. Strolling, the dude’s spurs jingling musically.

The fallen female said, “Would you like to walk me to the hotel, stranger? I keep a room.”

“I need to seek lodging there myself.”

Jingle jangle, creak of boards.

“You’ve made quite an impression around Trinidad, stranger.”

“I guess I make friends everywhere I go.”

“I’m glad I was able to provide a place for you to rest those weary bones of yours, this afternoon.”

What did that mean?