Max Collins - The Legend of Caleb York

Their guest said nothing, then nodded slowly. In the wavering glow of the fire, the sharp angles of his face were heightened, taking on a carved look.

She pressed on: “We think you know Mr. Parker. That he passed my father’s offer along to you. And this means that you already have in your possession five thousand dollars of our money. Cullen money.”

The stranger’s eyebrows lifted and another faint smile formed as they came down. “Well, now.”

Her father clutched the arms of the chair as if he were holding on to a bucking bronc. “Mr. Banion... if that’s who you are... I can understand that you might like to keep a certain distance between yourself and those who hired you. Might serve as a protection to all concerned. After all, what we’re asking of you isn’t strictly... legal.”

Willa, with a humorless smirk, said, “You mean murder, Papa?”

Her father frowned, but his tone was conciliatory as he spoke to his daughter. “Perhaps our friend here will face the sheriff down in a fair fight. He’s demonstrated today that he has skills... including speed, I’m told... known to few shootists.”

“However,” Willa said, addressing the stranger with an openly sarcastic smile, “should that approach not appeal to you, you can feel free to shoot Harry Gauge in the back.”

“Daughter! Let me speak my piece to our guest.” Sitting forward, lowering his voice, her father said, “Maybe you can pull this thing off, comin’ straight at it... On the other hand, maybe you can’t. Honor aside, it might not be worth the risk.”

The stranger, listening without expression, said, “Why is that?”

Her father shrugged elaborately. In the fire’s reflection, every year of his life showed. “Harry Gauge has too damn many men.”

The stranger’s upper lip twitched the tiniest smile. “He has six less now.”

Her father nodded. “True, thanks to your efforts, and ours. But Gauge can afford to lose that many, and more. We can’t. And not even Caleb York could have gone up against this bunch alone.”

The stranger sipped coffee, put the cup back on the table. “What kind of help do I get?”

Her father didn’t answer that directly, saying, “Gauge is in the middle of a power play right now. You’ve been a distraction to him — a welcome one from our vantage point — but wanting you out of the way is just a small goal for a grasping man like this.”

“And the big goal?”

Her father gestured with both hands, palms up. “You’re sitting in the middle of it — the Bar-O. We’re the last and the biggest of the spreads that greedy, ambitious killer hasn’t swallowed up. He’s made offers and I’ve turned him down flat, but he’s cut into us bad, even if he hasn’t really made any major inroads. Soon he will, though. He’ll have to.”

“Why?”

Whit Murphy answered for his boss: “Because shipment season is comin’ up. We don’t have to drive cattle to Dodge City no more, not with the railroad so close. Ranches around here often sell to speculative buyers before makin’ the day-or-two drive.”

“Times have changed,” the stranger granted. “But what pressure does that put on Gauge?”

Her father was smiling now. “The sheriff extended himself badly to stock the range he grabbed, and his grass is bad and his water’s pretty much dried up. When those buyers come in, they won’t pay him enough for his beef to keep him goin’, no matter how much land he’s got.”

The stranger shrugged. “Then why not wait him out?”

Papa shook his head. “We can’t. Ain’t in a position to. He’s been scattering our stock into the hills, makin’ roundup on my reduced crew one hell of a hardship, if not downright impossible.”

Whit put in, “And he’s been rustlin’ what he can get away with.”

Papa said, “Comes down to this — we don’t get paid for what we don’t deliver.”

“That’s a fact,” the stranger said with a nod.

Her father’s sigh seemed to start down at his toes. “Except for the loyal handful I’ve got left, Gauge has run our men off. If we take any real losses in cattle, the Bar-O is finished. That leaves our ambitious sheriff a wide-open market. Then he’ll buy up our banknotes on the cheap, and force us out.”

The stranger was frowning. “You have no money in reserve?”

Not bothering to mask her bitterness, Willa said, “We did have. Now it’s being paid to you — ten thousand dollars.”

He lifted an eyebrow. Sipped more coffee. Said, “That could have paid off a pile of banknotes.”

Cullen shook his head morosely. “Not when you’re dead, my friend. Harry Gauge is responsible for the killings of seven of my people. Do I have to tell you that there’s nothing he won’t stop at?”

“No,” the stranger said.

Willa said, coldly, “So, in case you’re wondering? That money you took from us is blood money.”

He met her hard gaze. “You sound like you have a bad taste in your mouth, Miss Cullen.”

She met his. “Hired killers affect me that way.”

“Willa!” her father said. “This man is our guest. And he’s one of us now.”

With a bitter, little smile, she said, “I’m sure our new friend doesn’t mind my frankness. Do you, Mr... Banion , is it?”

“Strong-minded females affect me, ” the stranger said, letting her second question pass. He had a last sip of coffee, and got to his feet. “You might be surprised how... Good evening, Miss Cullen. Mr. Cullen. Mr. Murphy.”

Willa, surprised by his suddenness, said, “You’re going?”

He walked slowly for the door, spurs jangling. “Yes. Been an interestin’ visit. Thanks for the java. And the food for thought.”

Her father was on his feet now as well. “Just a moment, please!... Sir, where are you going?”

“Back to town. See if I can find a room. Been a busy day.”

“And tomorrow...?”

“I’ll be around.” He was at the door. “I intend to satisfy my curiosity about a few things.”

He took his hat off the hook, snugging it on as her father approached him, moving quickly through a world he knew well. “Wait!... Wait a minute.”

The stranger turned to him. “Yes?”

“So, are you Banion? Or are you...? Which... which one are you?”

“The other one,” the stranger said, then tipped his hat to Willa and went out.

The remaining three exchanged exasperated expressions.

Then she followed him out to their horses, her footsteps echoing off the plank porch. Glancing back at the house, she saw Whit stepping out, but she shook her head at him. Glumly, Whit stepped back in, closing the door.

“You’re just... riding off?” she said, at the hitching post where he was untying.

He wasn’t looking at her. “You need to make up your mind.”

“About what?”

Now his eyes were on her. “Do you or don’t you want me to help your father?”

“Well, I... of course, I...”

An edge came into his voice. “You come to town to find me, bring me out here, then you needle me like...” Then he grunted something, not quite a laugh.

She turned her back to him, folded her arms; it was chilly, after all, and a bit of a shiver got into her words: “Maybe... maybe I don’t know what I want.”

He placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. “You want your father’s ranch preserved. I understand. Anybody would.” His hand left her shoulder. “But... you’re awful damn picky about how.”

She shook her head, keeping her back to him. “Paying a hired killer... it makes us as bad as the people we’re trying to fight. Worse, because we know better. I want to hold on to this land. I want that more than anything. But doesn’t how we do it matter?”