The Big Showdown

by Mickey Spillane

  “Ben Wade.”

  “Right. Kind of famous in his day, I hear. So . . . he shot two of ’em, huh?”

  “No. They shot him.”

  Willart froze just as he was about to spit. He coughed and swallowed some of the foul stuff, and made a face. But he said nothing.

  “Well,” York added, correcting himself, “one of them shot him. The one who got away. With all the money, as it happens.”

  Some panic came into the leathery face. “If you’re lookin’ for that one here—is that what you’re doin’, York? Lookin’ for him out here?”

  “Let’s just say I’m looking for him.”

  Willart gestured toward the corral, where the horses were still ahead in the game.

  “Well, take a look around,” the ramrod said. “You see any familiar faces? Those are all top hands I hired on my own. None of ’em was even here six months back. They’re a damn good bunch, and to a man straight as a dye. Anyways, what are you out doin’ the lookin’ for? You break off from the posse or somethin’?”

  “I am the posse, Gil.”

  He frowned. “What the hell. I didn’t even know you was still in town! What the hell’s any of it to you, anyways? Ain’t you headed to San Francisco or somewheres?”

  “San Diego. But I decided to put that off.” He reached in his pocket, got the badge out, and took his time pinning it back on.

  His jaw loose, some nasty dark liquid dribbling out, Willart just stared at the tin star, like he expected it to speak.

  “Thing is,” York said, “those two sons of bitches I killed? Did I mention I was the one shot them? They used to work for Harry Gauge. Both of ’em. One used to work here at the Circle G, Gil. With you.”

  “Hell you say.”

  “The hell I do say. Clay Peterson. The other, Len Cormack, bunked in at the Running C. Another of your old boss’s spreads.”

  He spat tobacco. “Well, they ain’t been workin’ here lately, nor at the C, neither. I knowed them two, and neither one could tell a cow from a bull. I wouldn’t have ’em.”

  York was studying him. “You had Peterson when Harry Gauge was running the place.”

  “Now I’m runnin’ the place.”

  “For your new boss. Another Gauge. Met him yet?”

  Willart shook his head. “No. It’s all been letters and Western Union. But he’s comin’ any day now, and I got high hopes. Appears to be a real straight shooter. This ain’t Harry come back from the grave or nothin’. This is an honest businessman from back East, lookin’ to make somethin’ of the place, but who is smart enough to leave the runnin’ of it to me.”

  York took that all in. “Businessman from back East, huh? What kind of business?”

  “Not cattle!” Willart snorted a laugh. Then glumly he said, “Not that he’s in the cattle business here, neither. Sheriff, we’re in a sorry state at the Circle G, ever since every head of ours got destroyed ’cause of the cowpox epidemic. We got a whole lot of range and not a single damn cow.”

  York shrugged. “I figure you hope to buy a starter herd, maybe from George Cullen.”

  “We do. After the new Mr. Gauge gets here, we’ll be restocking for sure. Meantime, we go out and round up them wild horses. It’s somethin’ to do.”

  “Funny coincidence.”

  “What is?”

  “All three of those bank robbers today were riding mustangs. Handsome black devils.”

  Willart frowned and shook his head. “Well, them mustangs didn’t come out of that wild bunch! That’s for damn sure.”

  “No. They didn’t. These were well-trained animals. Gunshots didn’t rear ’em. That is damned unusual. This the first mustang band you rounded up?”

  Willart shook his head. “Second. Sold the first off at Las Vegas. But don’t get no ideas—that was just a couple weeks back, and you don’t train a mustang to behave hisself in that time.”

  “No you don’t.” York locked eyes with the man. “Now about the man I didn’t shoot, Gil. The one who got away with all that money?”

  “What about him?”

  “He’s five-ten, dark-haired, flat-nosed, unshaved, pale, with a scar running through his mouth here.” York indicated where. “Sound like anyone you know?”

  Willart shifted uneasily on the bench. “Not someone I know. More like know of.”

  “That’s a start. One of Gauge’s bunch?”

  The ramrod nodded. “From back in the old days, when Harry Gauge was just another outlaw.”

  “Don’t suppose he has a name.”

  “Not much of one. Bill Johnson. Kinda handle a wanted man hides behind.”

  No argument there, York thought.

  “Gil, when Gauge was still sheriff, was this Johnson playing cowhand on some spread, or maybe deputy in Trinidad?”

  Willart shook his head. “No, not neither. More of a hired gun Gauge used, time to time. What I understand, the boss brought the man in when some rancher wouldn’t sell out and needed persuadin’.”

  York’s eyes narrowed; then he nodded. Patted his thighs. “Okay, Gil. That helps.”

  Then he rose and started back to where his gelding waited before Willart realized they were done. The cowboy caught up with York and walked along, but said nothing.

  Just as York was ready to mount the horse, Willart gave him a tobacco-stained grin.

  “Look, Sheriff. Way I understand it, this Zachary Gauge is foursquare. I’d be obliged if, when you meet the man, you don’t say nothin’ about my, uh, past . . . bad judgments.”

  “Isn’t he aware you worked for his cousin?”

  “Course he is. But I was foreman out here and he needed somebody who knew ranching and I guess I just fit the bill. But should he hear bad things, he might think twice.”

  York mulled it. “All right, Gil. But you need to do me a favor in return.”

  The ramrod spat a tobacco stream, then grinned brownly at York. Very friendly now. “I sure as hell will try, Sheriff.”

  York gestured vaguely. “There are still a handful of your old boss’s outlaw cronies scattered around on the spreads he left behind. I assume all of the small ranches that Harry Gauge swallowed up are going to be consolidated into one big spread, under Zachary Gauge.”

  Willart was frowning. “What word was that? Con-solla what?”

  “Merged. Put together. Become one big ranch.”

  The smaller man nodded emphatically. “Oh, yeah. That’s gonna happen. That is gonna happen.”

  “You figure you’ll be ramrod of that big spread?”

  “I surely hope so.”

  “If you are, Gil, you need to fire those men left over from the previous regime. Those gunnies who don’t know a bull from a cow? Then I’ll take your new boss serious. And you.”

  Willart was thinking about that as York gave him a polite tip of his curl-brimmed black hat and rode off, past the corral, where the horses were still running the cowboys ragged.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  On the way out of town, past the church and before the cemetery, the Grange Hall sat on its own half acre, a two-story redbrick building with a first-floor overhang, a structure barely two years old.

  While the Grange was home to meetings of ranchers and shopkeepers to talk over shared problems, the hall existed chiefly as a public meeting place, when matters of community import needed discussing; also, dances, amateur theatrics, and music performances were often held there.

  This evening, a day after the bank robbery, the building’s unpretentious interior—with its pale green walls, pounded tin ceiling, and varnished wood floor, a small stage with spinet piano at the far end—was filled to capacity with several hundred citizens and ranch folk crammed in. The unspoken rule at Grange Hall meetings was no guns, and a table near the door was temporary home to an array of rifles and gun belts. The attire was homespun, not Sunday-go-to-meeting but also not Saturday-night hoedown. This was no dance.

  On the stage, the members of the Citizens Committee—the town’s de facto city coun
cil—were seated in the same hard-back chairs as the attendees. In their dark suits and long expressions, they looked like a team of circuit-riding preachers prepared to give one hell-and-brimstone sermon after another.

  The town’s well-groomed barber mayor was at the podium, and he was gesturing with both hands to settle the restless crowd.

  “We need to keep our calm, friends,” the diminutive mayor said, his voice bigger than he was. “We face a situation that could mean the end of our community, if we don’t stick together and weather this storm.”

  Only a politician who had not faced a rival candidate would have made so blunt a statement, and it was enough to sober the troubled faces into silence, for the moment anyway.

  Willa Cullen, in blue-and-black plaid shirt and jeans and work boots, was seated toward the front on the center aisle next to her father. The old man sat forward, depending on his imperfect hearing to make up for his failed eyesight.

  Gesturing toward the city fathers perched just behind him, Mayor Hardy said, “Now, our good friend Thomas Carter, president of the bank, has asked to speak to you regarding yesterday’s tragic events.”

  The mayor stood away from the podium and held out a hand to bring forward the large-framed, impressive figure of the banker, who seemed almost to overwhelm the podium. Like the mayor, he had a speaking voice that could fill a room, and he did so.

  “We have suffered a terrible setback in the life of our town,” Carter said. “Not of the least of it is the loss of a good, brave man, who we barely had time to get to know . . . Sheriff Ben Wade.”

  Willa glanced across the aisle where Caleb York sat, his expression unreadable. He wore his usual black, including a black vest, though no jacket, and the shirt lacked any fancy touches of gray, his string tie white. Arriving with no gun on his hip, he’d hung his hat when he entered the hall, and his reddish brown hair had a tousled look, reflective perhaps of a busy, even harried day.

  The banker was saying, “I would like to commend Reverend Caldwell for so movingly leading us in prayer, and for sharing words of consolation and comfort. And may I say, Reverend, your graveside remembrances of the late Sheriff Wade, this morning, made a fine tribute. Now, as you know, the bank did not open today. . . .”

  A wave of murmured disapproval rolled across the room, punctuated by several outbursts.

  “You don’t have to tell us!”

  “What’s the damn idea, Carter!”

  The latter instance of public, mixed-company swearing indicated the level of concern and outrage, though summoning a few offended “Well, I never!” reactions from older ladies, as well as some smiles from the handful of older children in attendance.

  “Closing First Bank today was not merely prudent but necessary,” the banker said firmly, his chin raised. “We needed to undergo a full examination of our books and remaining funds. We were not quite wiped out by the thieves.”

  “I’ll take mine in pennies and nickels!”

  Carter ignored that. Up went his chin again. “Today I have made arrangements with my broker in Denver to divest myself of certain investments in order to have cash on hand, by the day after tomorrow.”

  This produced another wave of murmuring, less angry, more curious.

  “A run on the bank,” Carter said gravely, “could well mean the ruination of this town. Remember that First Bank has invested in many of your businesses and ranches. That is where your money is. What I humbly request of you is that you continue to go about your business and allow us—as you continue to bank with us—to build up our reserve of funds.”

  “What,” an angry rancher toward the back yelled, “and let you fill your coffers till the next outlaws come along?”

  Carter raised his palms, but it was not a gesture of surrender. “Henceforth, an armed guard will be on duty at the bank during all business hours. We will be prepared, should this happen again.”

  The same rancher shouted, “Why didn’t you have an armed guard on duty yesterday?”

  That got the crowd going, but the banker’s strong voice rode over it. “Our clerks are all armed! We have a gun at every window. But we were simply overwhelmed by a force of arms. This will not happen again, I promise you.”

  An older rancher, about halfway back, stood and asked, “What if we don’t wish to wait it out, while the town makes your bank solvent again?”

  “As I said, I have divested myself of some investments. By the day after tomorrow, anyone who wishes to close out his account can do so at twenty-five cents on the dollar.”

  Nobody liked the sound of that.

  Half the room was on its feet, and just about the entire assemblage was shouting questions or flat-out yelling. Willa and her father were among the few merely listening. She glanced across the aisle at an equally stoic Caleb, and he gave her a little smile and shrug, as if to say, People. What can you do?

  The hall was still ringing with discontent when the doors were flung open, as if by a gust of wind, and Willa (and everybody else) looked back amazed as a figure strode in, heading down that center aisle with purpose. He was tall, perhaps even taller than Caleb, in a black frock coat with waistcoat and black silk four-in-hand tie.

  He’d been moving so quickly that Willa didn’t get a really good look at this new arrival until he’d swept up to, and onto, the stage. The city fathers were frowning more in confusion than irritation at this boldness, although the bank president looked quite taken aback.

  This late, dramatic arrival had a city look about him that was more than just a complexion little touched by sun; he had an air of sophistication that reminded Willa of actors she’d seen performing on stage on her visits to Denver.

  The narrow oval of his face was marked by high cheekbones, his nose sharp but well-formed, his eyes wide-set under bold slashes of black brow, almond-shaped eyes so dark brown they seemed as black as his widow’s-peaked, slicked-back hair. His mustache had been trimmed to a mere dark line above his expressive mouth.

  Up on the stage, the late arrival was speaking in low tones, half-bowing to the Citizens Committee in apparent supplication. He had their rapt attention and any irritation was fading from their faces and a few smiles were blossoming. As he explained himself, they were nodding and gesturing toward the podium.

  The bank president even put a hand on the arrival’s shoulder and smiled and offered a hand to shake, which the new man did. The two stood facing each other, talking, for what seemed an eternity to all those present, but was perhaps thirty seconds, while a pin-drop silence took the hall. Finally the two men grinned at each other and shook hands again, as if both were pumping water at a well.

  With considerable energy, the man in the silk tie took the podium, gripping it like a revival preacher. In a strong, clear voice, he said, “My apologies to you good people. I realize I’ve interrupted an important meeting, but when I learned what you’ve been put through, and what you’re going through, well . . . I thought you might like to hear a few encouraging words . . .”

  He flashed a winning smile.

  “. . . to invoke a familiar song that’s no doubt been sung in this very building any number of times.”

  That same rabble-rousing rancher in back, unimpressed, called, “Just who are you, mister?”

  “My name is Gauge,” he said. “But I hope you won’t hold that against me.”

  Another wave of murmuring rolled through the room.

  “I only met my late and apparently very unlamented cousin a few times,” he said. “When we were both young and innocent . . . though I seem to recall him setting a cat’s tail on fire, so perhaps he never was.”

  This got some smiles and a few chuckles.

  “I am Zachary Garland Gauge, and I rode here on horseback today from Las Vegas, where I arrived by train. Though I’m from the East, I do have some equestrian training.. . .” Seeing some confused faces, he rephrased it. “I’ve done my share of horseback riding, although I think today I earned myself a few blisters in brand-new places.”

/>   More chuckles, but many wary expressions.

  His smile exuded confidence. “I hope we’ll be friends soon. We’re already neighbors, as I’ve moved in, out at the Circle G, or am in the process thereof. Several townspeople were good enough to be waiting for me when I arrived, and they let me know in no uncertain terms about the nasty blow your community’s been dealt. I’m here to put your minds at ease. Before I came West, to take over my cousin’s ranch, and to build a new life for myself, I liquidated all of my holdings.”

  Murmuring rose to a rumbling, as if an earthquake were coming.

  Zachary Gauge’s strong voice rose over the rumbling and quelled it: “Please! Gentle people. I have only had a few moments to discuss this with Mr. Carter. Just now. Obviously we will need to spend time in discussion and negotiation, at far more length . . . but your bank president assures me that the amount of money I will be depositing with him in the coming few days exceeds the losses of the recent robbery by a good distance.”

  A stunned silence held for several seconds; then someone started to clap and it built into applause that rang off the tin ceiling, with some whoops and hollering mixed in.

  “I hope to get to know all of you better,” Zachary said, and he turned to the city fathers and went down the row of them—they were on their feet now—shaking hands. Then he faced the crowd and summoned a shy smile and waved a little, as he stepped off the stage and went down the aisle, as smiling faces turned his way, words of welcome flung toward him, hands extended for quick shakes, the applause continuing. Finally the unexpected town savior took a place along the wall in back, since no chairs were left.

  The committee members on stage were all seated again, save for the mayor, who again stepped to the podium. The applause finally died down and the little barber spoke.

  “We are all as grateful as we are surprised,” Mayor Hardy said, “to enjoy this last-second rescue, right out of a dime novel.”

  That got some laughter, perhaps more than it deserved, thanks to the suddenly elevated mood.