Max Collins - The Legend of Caleb York

Hoofbeats out in front of the ranch house caught the attention of both, and Willa got up and went to see who might be calling so early. Her father followed, moving every bit as quickly as his sighted daughter. She cracked the front door, saw who it was, then opened it wider.

Behind her, her father said hopefully, “Is it him? It’s him, isn’t it?”

The stranger in black was climbing down off his foam-flecked mount — both man and beast had been riding hard.

“It’s him, Papa.”

Their visitor was tying up the dark-maned dappled animal now. His expression she found unreadable.

She stepped out onto the porch and so did her father, moving around her to lean against the rough post there. The guilty hope in his voice was a terrible thing for her to hear. “Is it... done, then?”

The stranger walked over and stopped at the foot of the steps. “If you mean is Harry Gauge dead, no.”

Softly, bitterly, she said, “Yet you took our money.”

“Did I?”

Her chin came up. “Why are you here, then?”

He took off his hat. “I have other news. May I come in? Might there be coffee?”

Hesitating only a moment, she nodded assent to both, and soon the three were seated at one end of the big carved Spanish table.

Before even taking a sip of the steaming black liquid, the stranger asked, “How far is the Swenson spread from here?”

She said, perhaps a tad snippy, “There is no Swenson spread anymore. It’s all Harry Gauge’s land now.”

Her father said, “About twelve miles.”

The stranger asked, “Your herd — it’s separated from his?”

Willa, frowning in curiosity now, said, “A draw divides the area. Why?”

He looked from father to daughter and back. “His cattle ever mix with yours?”

Papa shook his head. “We’re barbwired in. Most of our herd stays on the north section, where the water is. The Swenson water is on the other side of what was his spread. What’s this about, friend?”

Ignoring that, their guest asked, “What about the other spreads?”

Willa laughed hollowly. “ What other spreads? Harry Gauge has most of them now. Only four independents left, counting us. As my father said — what’s this all about... ‘friend’?”

That he ignored, as well, asking, “Does Gauge mix his herds?”

“I understand so,” her father said. “Tore out the wire, I’m told, to make a single spread out of all of those he latched onto.”

The stranger’s eyebrows went quickly up and down. “Then just maybe... maybe you’re lucky.”

Finally he took a sip of coffee while Willa, infuriated by his obtuse manner, sat forward and demanded, “What in blazes is this about ?”

He met her eyes. “Somebody murdered old Swenson last night.”

“No!” her father blurted.

She sucked in a breath. “Murdered...”

He nodded. “Pistol-whipped to death. Found out near the relay station. Been camped out there awhile.”

Papa was shaking his head, dumbfounded. “Murdered, why? He’s long since sold out to Gauge.”

“That old man dying like that,” she said, squinting at their guest as if that might bring things into focus, “that’s sad... awful... but if it’s murder? Well, I guess we all know who likely did it, or at least had it done. But like Papa says... why? ”

“To cover something up,” the stranger said, and let them mull that while he drank more coffee.

“There’s more,” her father said, “isn’t there?”

He nodded reluctantly. “Here’s where it gets hard for you. Before he was killed, Old Swenson contracted cowpox.”

Willa’s hand flew to her mouth, stifling a gasp.

Papa took it more stoically, his milky eyes narrowing, tightening. “We should be fine. I’m sure we’ll be fine. I’ll have Whit check the main herd.”

“Critical you do that, sir,” the stranger said.

The old man reached over and found his daughter’s hand and patted it. “We keep our cows nicely separate from the others, daughter. It’s an awful thing, the pox, and I hate to say it... but maybe this is God raining down his judgment on Harry Gauge.”

If so, she thought, at least the Almighty hadn’t charged them ten thousand dollars.

Hoofbeats sounded again, moving fast, then abruptly ceasing. They all looked in that direction as, within seconds, Whit Murphy, not bothering to knock, stormed in, dusty and bedraggled.

The foreman whipped off his hat and rushed into the dining area, where he nodded to Willa, ignoring the stranger and going over to stand near her father.

“Sir... excuse me, but...” He gulped for air, panting; he had obviously been riding hard and fast.

“Whit,” Papa said, sitting up straight, not waiting for his man to catch his breath, “there’s an outbreak of cowpox at the Swenson spread, and it’s probably contaminating all the cattle on Gauge land. You need to check our main herd. Get the men out and look for strays. Might find some near the fence line.”

Still grabbing his breath, Whit managed, “There ain’t no main herd, Mr. Cullen.”

“What?” Her father gaped blindly at his foreman. “What the hell are you talking about, man?”

Hat in hands, with a shamed look as if what he were about to report were his fault, the foreman said, “They hit our line camp last night, Mr. Cullen, sir, and run ’em off. Every damn head.”

Papa sat stunned for a moment, his mouth hanging open. Then he said, “ ‘They,’ you say...? Who... who did this?”

The stranger got up, vacating the chair next to her father, motioning for Whit to sit there. Whit nodded thanks, came over, and took the chair as the stranger moved down one.

Then the foreman leaned in closer to the rancher.

“Mr. Cullen, I can’t say who done it. I wasn’t there. But my ramrod, Carl, filled me in. Said these marauders wore masks. Nobody got a good look at ’em. Came in heavy and took the guns off everybody and tossed ’em, then ran our boys off. Most of the line hands, but for Carl and two others, ain’t been seen since. My guess is they ain’t comin’ back.”

Willa said, “But what about the cattle...?”

The hardened foreman looked across at her as if on the verge of tears. “Miss Cullen, Carl says this bunch was movin’ ’em out toward the foothills. It’ll take a week to round ’em up. Maybe more, without the boys of ours who scurried off, like frightened rabbits.”

Papa slammed a fist into the table. “ Damn that Harry Gauge!”

Then all the air seemed to go out of George Cullen, and he slumped back in the ornately carved chair. When his voice came back, it was soft and weak, a tone she’d never heard from him before.

“We’ll never make market in time.” He shook his head, squeezed shut his eyes. “This finishes us.”

The stranger said, “You can try.”

Willa let out a bitter laugh. “What do you suggest? You heard Whit — we don’t have enough hands to fill a poker game. What, you think anybody in Trinidad is going to help us? They won’t lift a finger as long as Harry Gauge and his scum can gun anybody down at will, and get away with it.”

“That’s a bad choice on their part.”

She drew in a breath, let it out; her voice was trembling with frustration and rage. “Harry Gauge set out to own this territory, and now he’s going to get away with it.”

The stranger, betraying no shred of emotion, said, “There’s a way to get the townspeople in this with you.”

She arched a skeptical eyebrow. “Really? And what would that be?”

He shrugged. “Well, if they knew how close they were to dying? I believe they’d take an interest.”