The cowboy spat more brown juice. “Then why didn’t you come after us?”
York shrugged. “Haven’t you ever heard the expression ‘live and let live’?”
That grunt of a laugh again. “I heared it. But I ain’t never figured it was Caleb York’s favorite sayin’.”
“Most of the outright outlaws and gunslingers — not all, but most — got out when the getting was good. Those of you who were real cowboys, and just went astray some, I figured you might wind up back on the right path.” He shrugged. “This country needs good cowhands.”
Willart leaned toward him, frowning, some indignation in it. “Listen, York. A cowhand’s all I ever was. I had no part of what Harry Gauge was up to. I wasn’t wise to any of it. Just did my job.”
“Gil. You expect me to buy that?”
The bulge in his cheek was like half of him had the mumps. “How about we just say I turned over a new leaf? And leave it be?”
York pretended to consider that. “Well, maybe before, we could have. But the problem is, Gil... things have changed some.”
Willart frowned again. No indignation this time. “How’s that?”
“Seems we had a little trouble in town this morning.”
His eyebrows went way up. “If so, word ain’t got to us out here. What kind of trouble?”
“Three men stuck up the Trinidad bank.”
Willart shot more tobacco juice to one side. “Damn shame,” he said, not looking like he cared one way or the other. “What’s it got to do with me?”
“Two of them got shot.”
“Shot dead?”
“That’s right.”
His smirk was barely visible under the thick oversized mustache. “Who by? That old-time tin star you brought in to take your place? What’s his name?”
“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.”