Max Collins - The Legend of Caleb York

“Is it girl?” her father said, turning his milky gaze her way. “And what will the ‘authorities’ say after I tell them my sad tale? What they always do! That under territorial law, Gauge is the duly constituted authority in these parts.”

“That just can’t be possible, Papa.”

“It’s very damn possible, daughter. So far, everything Gauge has done — taking over the other spreads, buying out businesses in town — is legal in the eyes of the law.”

Whit was nodding. “Any... what’s the word I hear you use for Gauge’s tactics, Mr. Cullen? ‘Intimation’?”

“It’s called ‘intimidation,’ Whit.”

“Well, I call it ‘muscle and murder,’ but Gauge and his crowd have a way of doin’ it on the sly. Strikin’ under cover of night like the damn bandits they are... Excuse the language, Miss Gauge.”

Willa just smiled a little, sadly. “Language, I can excuse.”

Papa said, “Whit is right, girl. Gauge is an animal, but he’s a smart one. So if he’s going to operate outside the law, even while he poses at representing it, we’ll play this game his dirty way.”

She was shaking her head, rolling her eyes. “Papa, that makes us no better than him.”

“We’re better than that buzzard on our worst day.”

She spread her hands, her words for her father but her eyes on Whit. “Go down to his level, and what will happen to us? Look what happened to Peterson, Reese, and the rest of the ranchers!”

Papa said, “They just rolled over for Gauge. Not one stood up to him. And if we don’t stand up, it’ll happen to us.”

Straightening, Whit said, “Every one of the boys will right there with you, Mr. Cullen. With you all the way. But... we only number fifteen, and we ain’t gunhands.”

Papa swung his gaze toward the foreman. “And that is why I sent for one.”

Then the spooky eyes were on Willa again.

His voice softened, but there was nothing gentle about his tone. “Daughter... must I remind you what Harry Gauge wants the most out here at the Bar-O?”

That hung in the air like acrid smoke.

Then she said, “I know that all too well, Papa. He’s told me. And I gave him my answer, too.”

Color had come into Whit’s tanned face. “Somebody oughta kill that filthy son of a—”

“That,” her father said, “is the idea.”

Willa said to Whit, “He’s a filthy animal, all right. But for all his men and land, he’s still not big enough to touch the Bar-O. And, sure as sin, he isn’t big enough to touch me.”

Her father said, “He’ll only get bigger, girl. He’ll own all the land around us and we’ll be choked off by what he’s managed to do.”

The old man shifted in the rustic chair he’d built so long ago; it creaked as if it were his own aging bones. But the hard young man he’d been was somehow still in that face and the set of his shoulders.

“But before our good sheriff can do that,” Papa said, “my old pard Parker will find the right man and send him to us.” He sighed, shook his head. “I only wish it could be Caleb York...”

Whit said, “You’re lucky it ain’t Caleb York... if you’ll forgive me sayin’, sir.”

Papa frowned at his foreman. “Fool talk, Whit! York was the fastest gun alive, best of ’em all! He’d be perfect for the job.”

“No. All due respect, sir, but no. Caleb York was no hired gun. Oh, he was a killer, all right... but in his own way.” Whit shrugged. “Not that it matters. Surprised you hadn’t heard he was dead, Mr. Cullen. Common knowledge.”

“Is that right?”

“It’s right, sir. They say Banion killed Caleb York near Silver City. A good two year ago.”

Papa’s jaw muscles worked. “That’s exactly why I told Parker to send Banion.”

Willa scooted forward on the stone hearth. “But that man is a murderer!”

“So is Harry Gauge, girl. So is Harry Gauge.” Her father almost snapped at her: “You think I wouldn’t rather have a man like Caleb York?”

She sighed wearily. “A man, Papa... or a legend? Who was he, really?”

“... A man.”

“A killer, too, remember,” Whit put in, his eyes as gentle on her as his words were harsh.

She said to the foreman, “You said... a killer ‘in his own way.’ ”

Whit nodded. He wasn’t turning the hat in his hands now. “York was a Wells Fargo agent — a detective. The shoot-first-investigate-after breed. Known for returning with the money and the men who stole it — slung dead over their horses.”

She laughed a little. “That sounds like the stories little boys tell.”

“Then they better tell their story to the Monte Pierson gang — every one of them shot dead, and Caleb York? Not a graze. He faced down both Nub Butler and Wild Angie Hopper and both lay dead in the dust in an eye blink.” Whit chuckled deep. “They say York had enough notches on that gun butt of his to make it look like a saw blade.”

“More little-boy talk,” she said.

“Maybe, Miss Cullen. But I will tell you one story I don’t believe.”

She cocked her head. “Oh?”

Whit’s thin lips formed a smile that might have been a gash in his face. “Ten to one, Banion never faced him down.”

Her Papa stirred.

Whit finished: “The only way Wes Banion could take down Caleb York was with a bullet in the back.”

Eyes wide, Willa said, “Father! Is that the kind of man you sent for?”

“It’s the kind of man we need,” Papa said defensively. “The kind of man it takes to deal with the likes of Harry Gauge.”

She covered her mouth with a trembling hand. “Oh, Papa... I can’t be hearing this.”

His expression was cold. “This ranch was built on ground soaked in the blood of Indians and white men alike, who all thought it should be theirs. Never forget that, daughter.”

She swallowed. “I know who you are, Papa. I know the things you’ve done. But they were necessary and right, in their way, in those days. You met adversaries face-to-face, and protected what you worked for. You didn’t kill anybody for... for money. ”

“Land is money.”

She felt the tears welling and fought it. “This is not you, Papa.”

The unseeing eyes stared into something known only to him. Then he said, “I’d face Gauge down if I could. But a blind man has to seek other ways.”

“There are different kinds of blindness, Papa.”

His head swung toward her. “You wouldn’t fight for the Bar-O, daughter? You wouldn’t scratch that devil’s eyes out if he came near you?”

“Of course, I would. But we can fight our own battles. We still have fifteen men, Papa.”

“You heard Whit, girl! They’re cowboys, not gunfighters. I pay them enough to make a living, but not enough to die.” His eyes squeezed shut. “Gauge must have thirty top gunhands at his beck and call.”

Whit sat forward. “Your men will fight, sir.”

Papa batted that away. “Why make that sacrifice? No, it won’t be necessary. Not when... the man comes here who Parker sends.”

Whit’s eyes were wide again. “And you don’t think Gauge will be waiting for him?”

Her father had no answer for that.

And Willa, with no more questions, left them there.

The office of the jail was a modest plank-floored space with two windows onto the street, open to let the breeze in, and four cells in back. No prisoners today.

Seated behind his big dark wooden desk, Sheriff Harry Gauge had his feet up and crossed on its scarred top. His boots wore no spurs, not in town — he didn’t care to announce himself. Across the way was a wood-burning stove, and a table with a few chairs by a wall with WANTED posters haphazardly nailed there. In front of him, seated in a high-back chair, was his redheaded deputy, Vint Rhomer, frowning so hard as he worked at thinking that the man looked as if he might cry.