Shoot-Out at Sugar Creek (A Caleb York Western Book 6) Read online

  Doc nodded toward the terrible arm. “I haven’t set that yet. That’s next.”

  “Any other broken bones?”

  “Some ribs. We’ll bind her. She’s lucky he didn’t break more bones. She’s lucky he didn’t kill her.”

  “I would not call this girl lucky, Doc.”

  Doc’s eyebrows went up. “Well . . . perhaps not. But she’s lucky you’re sheriff, because not all lawmen in this part of the world would take her part in this.”

  “But you figure I will.”

  “I know you will.”

  York approached the girl’s bedside.

  “Conchita,” York said, leaning in, his voice a near whisper, “can you tell me the name of the one who did this?”

  York already knew, of course, but he needed to hear it from her.

  The girl’s lips were fat with swelling, like some terrible fruit gone too ripe. “I . . . I should not have . . . said.”

  “No. You should say. You must.”

  “I was . . . crazy with pain.... I should . . . not have . . . said.”

  “Was it William Hammond, Conchita?”

  “I . . . tell the doctor . . . when he ask . . . .Don’t know . . . what I was saying.... I did not mean to say . . . The pain, it spoke for me.”

  “Was it the Hammond boy?”

  The eye slits managed to widen. “He will . . . kill me.”

  “No. He won’t. Conchita, do you know who I am?”

  “You . . . you’re the sheriff.”

  “I’m Caleb York. Do you know who Caleb York is?”

  “He . . . you . . . famous.”

  “For what, Conchita?”

  “For . . . killing the bad people.”

  “That’s right. Now I want you to tell me who did this.”

  She did.

  York took her left hand in both of his and gently squeezed. He smiled at her. She smiled back, or he thought she did. With those puffy, battered lips, who could say for sure?

  Leaving the doctor to his patient and his ministrations, York joined Rita and Tulley in the waiting room. They had taken chairs but bolted to their feet upon seeing him.

  “Rita, why don’t you stay here for a time,” York said, taking her hands in his. “Doc’s got a broken wing to set and maybe he can use you at her bedside. Tulley, you and the scattergun join me. We’re gonna track that boy down and talk to him some.”

  “I’d give ’im a good hidin’, were I you, Caleb York.”

  “We’ll try to arrest him.”

  Rita’s eyes narrowed and she nodded to him, interpreting that in her own way.

  Back out on the boardwalk, in the ivory moonlight, the two men walked along, the tall one and the bandy-legged creature. Over to the left, the barrio mostly slept, but the glow of the Red Bull was like a fire licking at the edge of the moonlight. Outside the adobe jailhouse on this side of the street, someone was pacing, much as Tulley had been earlier, a squat figure whose footsteps made the boardwalk groan.

  As the sheriff and deputy advanced, who this was became plain: Cesar, proprietor of De Toro Rojo, a hooded-eyed, bandito-mustached hombre gordo with wet strands of black hair plastered across his round head, whose untucked cream-color shirt and matching trousers were somehow baggy despite their wearer’s size.

  Cesar stopped in place, facing them as he recognized the approaching pair.

  “Sheriff!” the bar owner blurted. “You are just who I wish to see!”

  Rarely did the man whose business was half bar and half bordello react this favorably to Caleb York stopping in front of him.

  “This hijo de Satanás,” Cesar burst out with, “first he drag that poor muchacha outside por violación, then he come back in and he wave his gun around and bother my girls and my cliente.”

  “Did you go to that girl’s aid, Cesar?”

  “No. He have a gun.”

  York was already crossing the street, Tulley tagging along on one side, Cesar on the other.

  York said to the cantina owner, “And you didn’t come looking for me till he came back in and started disturbing your customers?”

  “No. No.”

  “Did you help her in any way?”

  “No. She stagger off into the night. I think to myself, he will be satisfied now. But, no—he bother my other girls!”

  “And your cliente, too, right?”

  “Sí.”

  That was no surprise to York. He figured it would take Cesar more than one raped prostituta to come looking for help.

  York said, “You go on ahead with Tulley and go in the back, through the kitchen. I’ll take care of this, but, Tulley? You do any shooting you feel necessary.”

  “Happy to, Sheriff.”

  The deputy and the cantina owner scurried down the shabby rock-and-dirt lane separating the facing adobe hovels, raising a little dust.

  By day, the humble barrio was by turns sleepy and bustling, no one in a hurry, yet somehow always in the midst of activity, chickens navigating and pecking at the space between facing adobes, mutts foraging for scraps and yapping for the hell of it. By night, no human activity at all, except trips to the privy, and the fowls penned up, the dogs curled up in doorways.

  Some dogs, anyway.

  At the end of this unprepossessing lane of sand-colored hovels was a two-story structure, also adobe, a shabby castle overlooking its pitiful peons. Windows blazed yellow on the first floor, and on the second windows were either dark or flickered with halfhearted candlelight. Towering faded red lettering—CANTINA DE TORO ROJO—hovered over a doorless archway.

  For a moment York stopped, as gunshots from the cantina popped in the night, muffled but distinct.

  York picked up his pace.

  He went in, quick but studied, .44 in hand, figuring Tulley would be in position by now. The Red Bull was nothing special, as “castles” went: straw on its dirt floor, yellow walls with faded murals. Cesar’s fat cigarillo-puffing wife was behind the bar, breasts bulging like cannonballs in her peasant top, a beauty mark on a plump cheek really just a mole got out of hand. Normally a confident mujer, she stood back away from the counter, frozen in fear. The little hombre in the big sombrero who played guitar here seemed to be trying to disappear into his corner. At the scattered mismatched tables and chairs, patrons—cowboys and town folk alike—sat motionless, not touching beers before them or the cards they’d been playing. Three señoritas in off-the-shoulder dresses were planted around the room like statues with red-rouged mouths; normally their black-and-red-and-yellow-and-green-striped skirts, petticoat plump, would be swishing around as they trolled for customers among the all-male clientele to entice upstairs.

  Not tonight.

  A young man who just had to be the Hammond boy sat at a table for four with a young girl on his lap, her blouse pulled down to her waist, small pert breasts exposed. Her expression was one of terror in a young life—she was perhaps fifteen—that had already taken plenty of nasty turns, and in which she had suffered more than her share of indignities. For example, right now she was having her neck nuzzled by a gun-wielding young man.

  The boy was seated with his chair’s back to his otherwise empty table—the other three chairs were not in use—although a bottle of tequila was within easy reach. The barrel of the Colt Single Action Army .45 in his right hand curled smoke. Across from him, on the wall, was a faded mural of a bullfighter, which now wore a number of bullet holes.

  York counted them: four. So the boy had bullets left, or at least one if the gun’s owner left an empty chamber under his hammer when he carried it. But York doubted that, since this did not appear to be a cautious young man.

  Rather diffidently, the boy glanced over at the newcomer. York had the .44 in hand butt at his side, meaning to display a threat only in his voice, at first.

  The Hammond boy was handsome, almost too handsome. His dark hair, his dark eyes, his long, dark lashes, his pale complexion, all would have suited a woman well—a pretty boy who had probably learned to be unpretty
in his ways, to make up for it. A handsome lad who’d gotten used to having women not resist his charms, although York doubted this boy had any charms that weren’t physical.

  And he was slender, decked out in black leather pants, a black leather vest, and a gray shirt with pearl buttons, rather like York’s own.

  “Put the gun down, son,” York said, almost gently.

  The gun, damn near too big for the boy’s hand, was still pointing toward the bullfighter, though his head was turned toward York, teeth showing in a smile. White teeth.

  “Don’t believe I will,” the boy said. “You know who I am, marshal?”

  The boy had seen the badge on York’s shirt.

  “It’s ‘sheriff,’ ” York said. “And you’ve had your fun for the night.”

  The girl on his lap was weeping. Her hands covered her breasts.

  The boy said, “Answer my question . . . Sheriff. You know who I am?”

  “I know your name is Hammond. William, isn’t it?”

  “William, yeah. What’s yours?”

  “Caleb.”

  “. . . York?”

  “That’s right.”

  The boy was still smiling but his brow had furrowed. “You’re famous. A famous man. Killed people. Lot of people.”

  The words weren’t slurred, but the speaker was drunk, all right. Capable of only a few words at a time. On the other hand, the boy had placed all four shots inside that bullfighter’s torso. Assuming that’s what he was aiming at.

  “Son,” York said, and took it up a notch, “I need you to place that gun on the table.”

  “Or what?”

  “Suffer the consequences.”

  “. . . Suppose I do that,” the boy said. “Is that the end of it?”

  “No.”

  “No?”

  “You’ll need to come with me.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you’re under arrest.”

  “What’s the charge, Sheriff Caleb York?”

  “You assaulted a young woman.”

  The boy’s laughter was loud and harsh, and several other seated patrons responded with a jerk, as if they’d been physically slapped.

  The dark, long-lashed eyes looked sleepy, but the words were wide awake: “Know where you are, Sheriff? It’s a damn cat house! Really think you can arrest me? For having some cheap tart? Think I can’t get away with that?”

  York’s shrug was barely perceptible. “Might be you could. For having her.”

  “Damn right!”

  “But not for beating her senseless.”

  “No jury would—”

  “That remains to be seen.”

  The smile finally disappeared.

  “Now, Mr. Hammond,” York said, calm but firm, “put that gun down . . . or die for it.”

  The boy lurched to his feet, bringing the girl along with him, making a flesh-and-blood shield out of her. He jammed the nose of the .45 in her neck, dimpling the tan flesh, and she gasped for air then held it, her eyes so wide they threatened to fall out, her mouth a terrible O too big for her face.

  Tulley popped up behind the bar, in back of the boy, and yelled, “Ye best let that child go, devil spawn, or I’ll splatter ye here to Sunday!”

  Hammond glanced behind him, momentarily startled, then his attention returned to York. He said, “That old fool can’t shoot me without taking her out, too! Tell him that!”

  “He knows,” York said quietly.

  “I’m walking out of here,” he said. “Right now!”

  “No.”

  The scowl took much of his handsomeness with it. “You make way. Make way right now. I’m taking her with me. I’ll let her go outside town. You come to the ranch. Tomorrow. Talk to my mother. She’ll take care of things.”

  “No.”

  Now the scowl squeezed in on itself, as if tears were next. The boy, shoving the snout of the .45 deeper into the whimpering señorita’s throat, yelped, “What do you mean ‘no’?”

  York’s .44 sent his answer, the accompanying thunder shaking the room and its inhabitants, the bullet going in clean, making a reddish black hole in William Hammond’s forehead, but coming out messy, scattering brains and bone and blood like a spilled plate of Mexican food.

  The girl, face spattered and speckled with red, reared away from the surprised corpse, now on its back staring at the ceiling. She flew to the arms of the nearest cowboy, who was just as surprised for a moment, then started to enjoy it, having been hugged by damn few good-looking young women, let alone one with her blouse at her waist.

  Gunsmoke scorched the air as Tulley came around the bar, paused to look at the dead boy, and—shaking his head—joined York near the door.

  “Hell of a shot, Sheriff,” Tulley said.

  York sighed and holstered his weapon. “Wish it hadn’t gone that way.”

  “Ye don’t?”

  “No. For one thing, he was awful damn young to die.”

  “That be true, Caleb York.” Tulley squinted at his boss. “But they’s a t’other thing, is they?”

  “Yes. He should have suffered more.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Caleb York shooed out the patrons of the cantina, not that much urging was needed. With Deputy Tulley posted outside to ward off any curious townsfolk, that left only the sheriff and Cesar, the proprietor, behind his bar helping himself to his own tequila, his plump wife having scurried out the back.

  Soon the two men were joined by Trinidad’s undertaker, who arrived with a callow assistant and a lidded wicker coffin. Bald, skinny C. B. Perkins managed to show up in his Abe Lincoln stovepipe and black frock coat no matter what time of day a customer turned up.

  Of course, the “customer” was not really the dead young man sprawled grotesquely on the straw-strewn floor—the one who would be paying, on behalf of the county, was almost certainly the sheriff. At least that appeared to be the undertaker’s assumption, based upon his first remark, the tall hat respectfully in hand.

  “Would you mind, Sheriff,” the undertaker’s soft, midrange, uninflected voice intoned, “if I displayed this poor young wastrel’s remains in my storefront window?”

  York hid his irritation just barely. “I assume you intend to use the usual placard.”

  In fancy letters, demonstrating another of the undertaker’s talents, it said, SENT TO HIS FINAL REWARD BY SHERIFF CALEB YORK. The sign had been used a number of times over these many months.

  “The advertising value,” Perkins said, “would help offset the modest fee the county provides.”

  “Your fee is unlikely to come from the county, which means you would surely be rubbing your potential client wrong.”

  The undertaker frowned. “Who might that client be, Sheriff?”

  York nodded toward the dead young man, who was on his back, eyes wide, as if overhearing all this and keenly interested.

  “This is Victoria Hammond’s boy,” York said. “From out at the Circle G. The widow Hammond is new to town, but I’m sure you’ve heard of her, and her late husband.”

  Eyes widened in the narrow face. “I certainly have!”

  “Thought you might. She may well require one of your mahogany numbers.”

  Perkins, like many undertakers, was also a cabinet maker and fashioned his own caskets, as well as home furnishings. He did just as well with weddings as he did funerals. His attire was the same for either occasion.

  The face stayed long and drawn, but the eyes lit up. “She might indeed. I’ll call upon Mrs. Hammond tomorrow. Thank you, Sheriff, for the, uh . . .”

  “Tip? Glad to help.”

  Perkins nodded courteously. “You’re always good for business, Sheriff,” he said, and then seemed to realize what he’d said, and scurried over to help his young assistant, who was also in black (apparel too large and somewhat threadbare, indicating a castoff of his employer’s), in loading the corpse into the basket.

  Cesar, behind the bar, darkly amused by all of this, made a gesture with his tequila b
ottle, in case York might like a sampling. He was considering the offer when . . .

  “Sheriff!” a familiar voice yelped in his ear.

  He managed not to jump as he turned to Tulley, suddenly at his side. “Yes, Deputy?”

  Tulley’s eyes were hidden behind slits in the weathered face, and he was hugging the shotgun like something dear to him, which it was. “That there scrivener’s out yonder wantin’ to talk to ye. Should I give him the heave-ho?”

  “No, Tulley, we’ll give him the respect he deserves. He’s a gentleman of the press.”

  “Wal, he shore as hell been pressin’ me . . . so then I take it by your words that I am to give him a boot in the posterior?”

  “No. I mean the opposite.”

  Tulley blinked. “That would be right painful.”

  York closed his eyes briefly, opened them, and said, “I’ll talk to him outside. Supervise in here.”

  After taking Cesar up on that shot of tequila, York went out into the cool night air, where Oscar Penniman was waiting. The editor of the weekly Trinidad Enterprise, a short, slight individual with wire-frame glasses on a narrow face, looked uncharacteristically rumpled in his sack coat and trousers—word of the ruckus had come to him when he was already in bed, it seemed, and he’d had to throw things on. He stood with pencil poised at notebook, his thinning hair uncombed and riding his scalp like tumbleweed.

  His voice, however, was composed, a casual baritone that conveyed no judgment even if his words implied otherwise. “Another killing, Sheriff?”

  “I take no pleasure in it.” Perhaps, in this case, that was not entirely true, though York wasn’t one to take lightly ending any man’s life.

  “I understand,” the journalist said, “the victim is William Hammond.”

  “The ‘victim’ was resisting arrest on a serious matter.”

  “What matter would that be?”

  York allowed himself a sigh. “There’s no profit getting into that. The Hammond boy is dead and what he did to put himself at odds with the law is now between him and his maker.”

  Penniman cocked his head. “Word is he ravaged a girl. Thrashed her within an inch of her life.”

  “You have my statement. If others wish to speak to you of it, that’s their lookout.”