The Legend of Caleb York

by Mickey Spillane

  The red-bearded hangdog deputy shook his head and said, “They was waitin’ for us, Gauge. They was down in these damn trenches with rifles and they just shot the hell out of us.”

  “. . . We lose any men?”

  “Stringer and Bradley.”

  “Hell. What about the two at Doc Miller’s?”

  “Flesh wounds.”

  “Give it to me in detail.”

  Rhomer did.

  Lola was pacing a small area behind Gauge. She said to Rhomer, “Who knew about this?”

  The deputy said, “Just the eight of us in it.”

  Gauge glanced back at Lola. “Were any of my bunch at the Victory this afternoon?”

  She nodded, and shared the names.

  Rhomer frowned. “That’s them. Musta stopped by for some liquid courage.”

  Gauge gave her a long, hard look. “Did you hear them talking, Lola?”

  Her face reddened. “Don’t you dare say it to me, Harry. I would never . . . ! Don’t even think it.”

  Rhomer asked her, “How much drinking did they do?”

  She sighed, shrugged, thought. “Not much. A beer or two. A shot. No, they weren’t soused when they left. Like you said, Vint. Liquid courage.”

  Gauge was flexing his fists. “Somebody talked. We’re going to find out who. And we’re going to kill them. Just like that shootist tonight, only worse.”

  Lola leaned in. “Harry, come on. You don’t know anybody talked. Cullen’s a cunning old coot. Maybe he just outthunk you.”

  Teeth bared, he slapped her. Hard.

  “Nobody outthinks me, get it? Nobody!”

  She reared back against the adobe wall, agape, trembling, with a curled hand against one cheek. “Harry . . . I told you . . .”

  Gauge, still seated, swung his gaze to Rhomer. “Go back to Doc Miller’s and see about getting our boys back in their bunks.”

  Rhomer, obviously glad to be going, almost jumped out of the chair and left quickly without a word.

  Gauge sat with his back to Lola. But he could feel her there, trembling, seething. Hear her breathing heavily.

  Finally she said, in almost a whisper, “Don’t ever hit me again, Harry. Not . . . ever.”

  He almost leapt from the chair and he pressed her against the wall. He kissed her roughly on the mouth, then on the neck, and on the mouth again.

  Then, his face in hers, he said, “I’ll do anything I want to you, Lola. Understand? Anything.”

  Breath heavy again, she clutched him to her and whispered into his ear, “Yes . . . yes, you can, Harry. Anything. Just . . . just never hit me.”

  He took her by the hand and led her to the nearest jail cell.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  From the size of him, you would think the stranger was nobody to mess with.

  He was big and broad-shouldered, firm-jawed and raw-boned, saddle-tall and long-legged, his pleasant features lent an edge by prominent cheekbones and washed-out blue eyes in a permanent squint. His rifle scabbard was home to a double-barreled twelve-gauge shotgun, and a Colt Single Action Army .44 dangled off on his right hip, holster tie-down loose. The horse he rode was a dappled gray gelding with a black mane, an animal that had some prance in its step as it started lightly down Main Street, as confident as its rider.

  Yet, overall the stranger who rode into Trinidad that morning brought one word to mind: dude.

  The man’s face showed some age—he might be as old as forty—and was tanned and had seen its share of weather. But those duds were dude all the way, a city feller trying to fit in out west and missing the mark wide.

  His black shirt had gray trim on its collars, cuffs, and twin breast pockets, with pearl buttons down the front and on those pockets and cuffs, too. His trousers were new-looking black cotton tucked into black boots with an elaborate hand-tooled design. The stranger was clean-shaven and bareheaded, his hair reddish brown and barbered short, a gray kerchief neck-knotted, his curl-brimmed black hat with cavalry pinch riding his saddle pommel.

  Tulley—stretching and groaning as he emerged from the livery stable where he’d spent the night in a stall—saw the stranger ride in. He’d never laid eyes on anything like this creature, and blinked at him like the man on horseback was a drunken dream or a hangover hallucination.

  Pockets on the front of a shirt! Buttons all the way down the front?

  To this bowlegged desert rat in his torn BVD shirt, ancient suspenders, and scroungy old canvas trousers, the dude looked like something out of Ned Buntline or maybe a Wild West show.

  Tulley wasn’t the only one who noted the stranger’s arrival. Two of Gauge’s bunch, Riley and Jackson, were sitting on the porch in front of the sheriff’s office, minding the store.

  No sight of Gauge himself or Deputy Rhomer, neither, Tulley noted. Musta been a late night for the sheriff. Scrapin’ the bottom of the barrel to leave them two in charge....

  Riley was mustached, brawny, and mean, whereas Jackson was bearded, brawny, and meaner. The former stood near six foot, the latter several inches shy. Otherwise, Tulley saw little difference between the gunnies. Neither man had seen a barber in some time, and their dark blue threadbare army shirts and brown duck trousers showed considerable dirt and wear. The only thing either man seemed proud of was the pistol slung low on their respective hips—.45 Colt Army revolvers for either man.

  When the stranger rode lazily by, Riley was sitting, leaned back, with his chair resting against the time- and bullet-scarred adobe wall of the sheriff’s office-jailhouse, his Carlsbad Stetson down over his eyes. When Jackson elbowed him, Riley damn near fell off his chair.

  Tulley, who had sneaked up alongside the building, stifled a laugh.

  “Riley, wake the hell up,” Jackson said in a rough whisper. “Feast your eyes on this!”

  Riley righted his chair, frowned toward the street, saw the stranger going by at an easy pace, and gaped. “What the hell . . . ?”

  “That is one crazy dude,” Jackson said through snorting laughs. “Look at him! Where’s the rest of the circus?”

  Riley seemed considerably less amused than his pard. “Better check him out. Sheriff’s orders.”

  “Come on, Riley boy. That tenderfoot ain’t Banion!”

  “Why, you ever see the man?”

  “Hell, that can’t be him.”

  “Best check, just the same.”

  They came down the steps and into the street, where Riley yelled, “Hold ’er up there, mister!”

  The stranger brought the gelding to a halt and looked back blandly at the two hard cases coming his way.

  Tulley, grinning to himself, sneaked up onto the porch and helped himself to Riley’s chair.

  This might be good, he thought, then immediately felt a little guilty. Hell, seeing an innocent feller like that dude get cut down by prairie trash like Riley and Jackson would be a damn shame.

  Still, a front-row seat on a shooting was always worth having....

  Riley came around on the mounted dude’s right side and Jackson on his left, each man with the heel of a hand resting on the butt of a holstered Colt. The gelding was standing statue still. And the stranger was sitting that way, too.

  “Help you, boys?” the dude said, his voice mid-range and mellow. He wasn’t looking at either man.

  Riley, staring up at the rider, said, “Goin’ somewhere, mister?”

  A slight smile traced the stranger’s wide, narrow lips as he turned his head slightly in Riley’s direction. “The nearest restaurant for some breakfast.”

  Jackson said, “Why aren’t you wearin’ your hat?”

  The stranger glanced over his shoulder the other way. “I like the sun.”

  Jackson grinned up nastily at the newcomer. “Maybe you been out in it too long.”

  “Well, the sun wasn’t up when I started out. I had it on then, took it off come dawn, since you seem interested in what I do with my hat.”

  Riley said, “Keep a civil damn tongue in your head, dude. What’s yo
ur name?”

  The stranger gave his attention to Riley again. “Well, I’m pretty sure that’s my business.”

  “We’re making it ours.”

  “Any special reason why?”

  Jackson said, “We’re deputies.”

  His eyes still on Riley, the stranger said, “I don’t see badges on your shirts.”

  Riley said, “We work for the sheriff. Take our word.”

  “Tell you what. I’ll be down at the restaurant . . . at the hotel there?” He nodded in that direction. “Why don’t you just send the sheriff around, when he comes in? Glad to talk to him.”

  Riley started to draw his gun and the stranger kicked him in the throat, boot heel first. Riley tumbled to the dirt and his hands went to his neck as if strangling himself, rolling around gurgling, raising dust.

  Tulley blinked and almost missed it, but now the desert rat’s eyes were wide and not about to blink and miss the next slice of action—the stranger kicking out with his left boot and catching Jackson, whose gun was halfway out of its holster, high and hard in the chest, sending him windmilling backward, landing him on his ass, .45 leaping from the fallen man’s grasp as if trying to escape its owner.

  The dude dropped down from his saddle with an unhurried grace, the gelding keeping its place and making only the faintest movement, its rider coming around to where Riley was on his back like a wriggling bug trying to right itself. The stranger plucked the .45 from Riley’s holster and pitched it away like he was playing horseshoes.

  Jackson was crawling after his .45 like a baby for his rattle, and the big man in black came over and kicked the gun well out of reach, then kicked Jackson in the belly with the square toe of a boot, hard enough to double the fallen man, who puked with a retching cry and then puked some more, till he was bawling like the baby he’d seemed.

  The stranger stood over the man, as if deciding whether anything else needed to be done, then turned quickly to see Tulley at his side.

  Grinning, Tulley nodded down at the steaming vomit soaking up the dust like an awful spilled pie and asked, “You still want breakfast, mister?”

  The stranger gave up a nice, wide narrow-lipped grin. “Takes more than a welcoming committee to make me lose my appetite.”

  A few townspeople on the nearby facing boardwalks had heard the commotion and had taken in at least some of the fuss, and were pointing at the fallen would-be deputies and magpie-chattering to each other. The stranger smiled at them and nodded. Waved a bit.

  “Nice, friendly town you got here,” he said.

  He got his hat from the saddle pommel, put it on, snapping the brim in place, and began to walk his horse down the street, heading to the nearby Hotel Trinidad. Tulley fell in at his side, having to work to keep up with the stranger’s easy but long-legged stride.

  Tulley grinned, shaking his head. “That was somethin’ to see, mister. Somethin’ to see.”

  “Was it?”

  “Gen-you-wine pleasure to see them buzzards get more than they dished out for once. But doin’ that wasn’t the wisest move a man might make.”

  “There a law against defending yourself in this town?”

  “In this town? Hell, there’s a law against breathin’, if the sheriff and his mob don’t like the way you’re goin’ about it. And right now, you’re breakin’ that law mighty hard.”

  “That so.”

  “That’s so, all right. Good thing for you you’re a city dude.”

  A small smile tickled the stranger’s lips. “Why’s that?”

  “ ’Cause them two won’t likely admit to Sheriff Gauge that some pavement pounder knocked ’em around like that. So you should have no trouble with our sheriff. Of course, that in itself presents another problem entirely.”

  “Does it?”

  Tulley nodded. “That scurvy pair’ll figure a way to take care of you later, if you’re still around.”

  “I’m sure things will work out.”

  Still working to keep up, Tulley said, “Their names is Riley and Jackson. Riley, he’s the one with the mustache, and Jack—”

  “Don’t care who they are, Pop.”

  “Name’s Tulley.”

  “All right, Tulley. But I don’t.”

  They were at the hotel. The stranger hitched the gelding to the rail. Stroked its face. The animal nodded in approval at the attention.

  Tulley said, “Don’t know that you should be stoppin’, mister. Even if you are hungry for breakfast.”

  “Because?”

  “Because you want to keep on movin’—goin’ to wherever it was you was headed. Leave Trinidad and them two snakes behind you, and good riddance.”

  “Suppose,” the stranger said, “I decide to stay around awhile.”

  “Well, then,” Tulley said, grinning, “I’d buy me a drink and let me tell you more about friendly, little Trinidad, and the big, bad lawman those two scoundrels work for.”

  The stranger shook his head. “No drink. Not right now. Settle for breakfast?”

  “I ain’t et a thing since day before yesterday. Maybe I should et some today.”

  “Why not?” He grinned. “You might get to like it.”

  The hotel restaurant wasn’t fancy, but it was clean and even had white linen tablecloths. The waiter seemed confused by the pairing of dude and desert rat, but he seated them without comment.

  Soon they’d been served steak and eggs and coffee. They chowed down without conversation, then sat back and had more coffee as Tulley began to tell the stranger about Sheriff Harry Gauge and his bunch of outlaw deputies, the landgrab that was well under way, and how the Bar-O was one of the last holdouts.

  The stranger listened with seeming interest but asked no questions, just occasionally nodding.

  “So I guess you can see this is no kind of town,” Tulley said, “for the likes of you.”

  “You’re right,” the stranger said. “After all, I’m just passing through.”

  “What’s your name, anyway?”

  “When you’re passing through, why leave that behind ?”

  Tulley had no answer for that. “So where you headed?”

  The stranger was not at all reluctant to share that information : “California.”

  “Where’s about in California?”

  “Haven’t narrowed it down just yet.”

  That seemed reasonable to Tulley.

  The stranger had a question. “How does it pay?”

  “How does what pay?”

  “Being the town character.”

  That made Tulley guffaw. “I only been the resident eccentric here since, oh, February, I guess. Got run out of Ellis. Sheriff give me a dollar, stuck me on top of a stagecoach, and said fare-thee-well. But any information you get from me, mister, it’ll be well worth a drink or a meal. Didn’t take me long to get the gist of Trinidad.”

  “How do you get by?”

  “I sweep out at the livery and a few other places. I do odd jobs, it’s called.”

  The stranger dug out a quarter-eagle gold piece and gave it to him. “This is for that drink. Try to have something left for a meal or two.”

  “Much appreciated, mister. So you’re leavin’ then?”

  He shrugged. “I had my breakfast, didn’t I?”

  The stranger got up, left a ten-cent tip, and Tulley followed him out onto the boardwalk in front of the hotel. The sound of horses coming up the street from the church end caught the attention of both men.

  Tulley and the stranger watched as Old Man Cullen, saddled up like a sighted man, rode in with his pretty daughter riding along near his side. Their foreman, Whit Murphy, was just behind them, leading a pair of packhorses with a body slung over each like sacks of grain.

  Willa’s eyes swept over the stranger, but didn’t linger.

  Shaking his head, Tulley said, “That’s the kinda town it is, mister. Shootin’s every whip stitch.”

  “Who are those people?”

  “That’s George Cullen and his daughter,
Willa. Cullen’s foreman leadin’ the packhorses. Don’t recognize the dead men from just their backsides.”

  The Cullen party stopped outside the sheriff’s office.

  Even from well down the street, the old man’s shout could be plainly heard: “Sheriff Gauge! I have something for you!”

  Gauge came out, in no hurry, followed by his deputy. The sheriff took it all in, hands on hips, spat tobacco, then spoke loudly himself, perhaps aware of how many townsfolk were listening from the boardwalk or windows.

  “What’s on your mind, Cullen?”

  “Clean-shaven one is the sheriff,” Tulley told the stranger. “Harry Gauge. The fire-bearded fella is his deputy, Vint Rhomer. Only Gauge is smart. But they’s both mean as rattlers.”

  The narrow eyes narrowed further. “I’ve heard of Gauge. Never heard him to be on the right side of a badge, though.”

  “Well, mister, you know how it is out here. Seems like men good with guns are always on one side of a badge or the other, but it ain’t always the same side.”

  The stranger nodded at Tulley’s wisdom.

  Old man Cullen was saying, “I’m returning some things you mislaid, Sheriff. I believe these two belong to you. Last night they tried to set fire to my range.”

  “By damn,” Tulley said, “the old man is really standin’ up to Gauge! This is that big trouble I was tellin’ you about. And now it’s gonna get even bigger.”

  The stranger shrugged. “Well, let’s walk down there and see the show. Get a good seat.”

  “Are you loco, mister? Not me! The bullets could start flyin’ at any time now.”

  “Not loco, Tulley. Just curious. Your colorful stories got me interested in this town.”

  The stranger started down the boardwalk.

  “Well, I call it loco,” Tulley insisted, but found himself tagging along again. “And I can’t let you go wanderin’ off around town this dangerous without somebody to hold that citified hand of yours.”

  They paused at the end of the boardwalk, which provided a good catercorner view of the sheriff’s office and the five horses stopped in front of it.

  Deputy Rhomer was over having a look at the two corpses slung over the pack animals. He turned toward the sheriff, who stood at the edge of the porch above the steps.