Max Collins - The Legend of Caleb York

“And that name would sit the sheriff up straight, you think?”

“Well might,” the clerk said with a sickly smile. Then he nodded at his dime novel. “But, of course, what would really get his attention... if I might say so, sir... is that. ”

The Legend of Caleb York.

“Of course,” the clerk said, with a shrug, “Caleb York is dead. ”

The stranger chuckled again, reached for the pen. “Why don’t we do what heretofore only the Almighty has managed?”

“What’s that, sir?”

“Bring the dead back to life.”

And he signed the register, Caleb York.

The clerk, somewhat confused and not yet seeing what the guest had written, handed across a room key. “Upper floor, sir. Top of the stairs, it’s the last door on your left.”

The stranger nodded at the clerk, catching a glimpse of the man reading the register, eyes popping as he covered his mouth with a nervous hand.

Lola entered the hotel and was headed for the stairs to the second floor, where she kept a room, when she noticed the stranger leaving the check-in desk, about to start up himself. He saw her, too, smiled, took off his hat, and waited for her.

“Well, my silent stranger,” she said.

He leaned against the banister post. “Is that what I am?”

“I wouldn’t call you talkative. Finally getting a roof over your head, I see.”

“Finally.”

He gestured in an after-you manner and she went up, putting a little extra sway into it. She was still in her elaborate, low-cut dance-hall gown — the walk to the hotel from the Victory was a short one, so she didn’t bother changing before heading back.

Halfway up, she said, with an over-the-shoulder glance at him, “I’m a little surprised to see you back in town so soon.”

“Why’s that?”

“Oh, I suppose because Willa Cullen seems to hold a peculiar... fascination... for a certain kind of man.”

At the top of the stairs, he let his eyes drop briefly down to her décolletage and back again. “And you don’t?”

She gave him a coquettish look that didn’t pretend to be anything but joshing. “It would be immodest of me to say.”

“Walk you to your room?”

“Please.”

She led the way, stopping at room 6.

“Believe I’m next door,” he said, gesturing. “In number five.”

She smiled and it was anything but coquettish. “Well, perhaps that will prove convenient. For example, should you need a cup of sugar.”

He gave her another grin. “Very neighborly of you.”

The man didn’t seem to embarrass easily. She liked that.

She laid a lace-gloved hand on his cheek. “We might start with a nightcap. I have a bottle in my room? Bourbon. Straight from New Orleans.”

“Mighty tempting. Another time?”

“Another time.”

“Good night... ma’am.”

She watched him walk down to his nearby door, use his key, pause to smile and nod at her, then go in.

For a moment, she just stood there, thinking, Now this is a man.

Despite the dudish clothes on the one hand and his frightening abilities with a gun on the other, something decent managed to come through.

But not so decent that they hadn’t been able to enjoy an afternoon together...

She went into her room, which was no bigger or nicer than any other in the hotel, down to the same drab wallpaper. But she had dressed the space up with a few nice pieces of Victorian furniture brought here from Denver — hand-carved mirrored maple dresser with a floral-pattern toilet set, baroque walnut plush-upholstered armchair, a carved rosewood bed, and a few other things. She lived here, after all, and had a right to be comfortable.

If Gauge came through for her as promised, a fancy two-story Victorian house, furnished like this throughout, on its own nice piece of property, would be hers one day soon. Or she should say, theirs. These were nice-enough quarters for a dance-hall queen.

But the wife of a cattle baron would have it so very much better...

A sharp knock came at the door. She smiled proudly at herself in the mirror — the stranger had changed his mind! He’d gone to his lonely room and stared at the wall, driven mad by thoughts of the delights awaiting him on the other side. She laughed at herself, and him.

She was in her corset and silk stockings now, but found that perfectly acceptable apparel in which to greet him, to encourage her new friend to have that nightcap after all, and perhaps...?

She opened the door just a crack, but the face there did not belong to the stranger or Harry Gauge, either.

“Hi, Lola.”

Vint Rhomer pushed through, shutting the door behind him in a near slam. The red-haired, red-bearded deputy — in his usual gray shirt with sleeve garters, buckskin vest, dirty denims, and tied-down .44 — reeked of liquor. Reeked, period.

She glared at him. “Vint! What the hell are you doing here?”

He gave her a hooded-eyed grin, teeth like a rabbit’s poking through the red brush. “Just thought I’d stop by for a friendly little visit.”

Her hands went to her hips. She didn’t give a damn that he was seeing her like this; in her profession, modesty was not an issue.

With chin high, she said, “There are plenty of girls over at the Victory. Slow night like this, you’ll have your pick. Go visit one of them. ”

He came over, stood close to her, arrogance and stupidity rising off him like two more foul smells. “Maybe I’d rather visit you, honey.”

She gave him a defiant smile, hands still on her hips. “You’re takin’ one hell of a risk... ‘honey.’ What if Harry Gauge came walking through that door?”

He shook his head. Tobacco was in there with all the other odors. “Harry’s busy. Got called away on a matter. He’s got way more to worry about than me makin’ time with his... whatever it is you are to him.”

She bared her teeth. “Lay one finger on me and I’ll tell him you ravaged me.”

The dark blue eyes narrowed and his upper lip curled back in its red nest. “You really think he’d give a damn?”

Her chin crinkled in anger, nostrils and eyes flaring like a rearing mare. “What the hell do you think you’re talking about, Rhomer?”

He chuckled and went over and sat in the fancy chair. Crossed his legs.

Casual, he said, “You really shot yourself in the foot, Lola, when you brought Harry into the picture. Oh, I know the whole story. How this town was gonna run you and your tramps out when you sent for Harry and his big gun. Paid his damn stage fare, then just handed him a half-interest in the Victory.”

She stood with her arms folded now, looking down at the seated intruder, but keeping a distance. “This is fascinating, hearing my life story told by an idiot.”

“You made a bad partnership, honey. Harry Gauge wants more from a woman than you could ever give him.”

Her chin came up again. “Harry’s got everything he ever wanted — the land, the cattle, the town... and he’s got me.”

Rhomer’s shrug was slow and his sneering expression nasty. “Yeah, only he don’t want you.”

“Is that right?”

“Dead right, baby. What he wants is sweet, little Willa Cullen.”

She scowled. “You’re as crazy as you are stupid, Rhomer. All he wants is her ranch. ”

His eyes went huge. “And you call me stupid! She goes with the damn ranch. She is the damn ranch! You really think when Harry Gauge sets himself up as king of this part of the country, he’s gonna do it with a shopworn soiled dove like you at his side?”