“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 council — 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?