That rumor had given York a blessed anonymity. As his midthirties reared up ahead of him like a spooked horse, York had grown ever more tired of facing down gunnies who wanted to make a reputation at his expense. Too often, reckless men and sometimes boys sought to force a showdown with a living legend whose prowess with a handgun had forged a name for him that only the likes of Wyatt Earp, John Wesley Hardin, and Wild Bill Hickok might rival.
As it worked out, when he bumped up against corrupt Sheriff Harry Gauge, York found it necessary to step out of the blessed obscurity of a supposed dead man to deal with a patch of trouble. Now he was sitting in Gauge’s chair behind a big dark wooden desk in the plank-floored office/jail with its two barred street windows, wood-burning stove, and rough-hewn table under a wall of wanted posters and a rifle rack.
Wearing the badge of a sheriff whom York had been obliged to kill.
Caleb York was a big, lean man, with a jaw that stopped just short of jutting and reddish-brown hair barely touched with gray at the temples. His pleasant features were set in a rawboned, clean-shaven face with washed-out blue eyes peering out from a permanent squint.
When York rode in those many months ago, some had called him a dude, although his way with a gun — and his fists — made it unlikely he’d hear that denigration again. Truth be told, his mode of apparel was on the dudish side, although in his view — the view of a man who’d been heading for San Diego and a job with Pinkerton’s when fate and the needs of Trinidad had waylaid him — he merely looked professional.
In the manner of Bat Masterson and other serious law enforcement officers, York wore a black coat and black cotton pants tucked in hand-tooled black boots; his shirt was a light gray, with pearl buttons, and the string tie was black. His black hat had a cavalry pinch; a gray kerchief was knotted at his neck. His preferred weapon, a Colt Single Action Army .44, he wore low on his right hip, about pants-pocket level, and he kept it tied down.
Right now, however, the black coat and hat were on wall pegs to his right, and the gun in its bullet-studded belt was curled up, as if a snake in slumber, on his desk before him. He was staring at it, wondering how many more years would have to pass before men could walk down a street not wearing one. He wondered if, when law and order finally came to the land, lawmen themselves could go out unarmed. He’d read that such was the practice in England.
As if in answer to York’s unspoken question, his deputy — Jonathan Tulley — burst in like a jolt of reality.
“Sheriff!” Tulley blurted.
The old desert rat, skinny and white bearded, swam in his baggy canvas pants, though the badge-pinned BVD top under blue suspenders fit close. His shotgun was over one arm.
Then words tumbled out of the sun-creased face. “Get yourself down to the Victory, Sheriff, in one hell of a hurry! There’s a kid down there shootin’ up the place! Miss Rita’s fit to be tied, and there’s folks cowering under tables like skeered rats.”
“What brought you to the Victory?” York asked, slow and cool, reaching for his gun belt. “Why court temptation?”
The bowlegged town drunk had dried out when York made it a prerequisite of the deputy post.
“That there gunfire!” Tulley yelped.
“You’re armed.” York was on his feet now, still behind the desk, strapping on the gun belt. “You’re paid to enforce the peace.”
“I know I am, but—”
York raised a finger, which stopped his deputy, and glanced at the wall clock. “I have a meeting to get to over at Harris Mercantile. The mayor says it’s important, and he’s the man who hands out our pay envelopes.”
York knew damn well what the meeting was about. He’d seen the fleshy man with the fine frock coat step from the stage this morning, wearing self-importance like a cloak. He’d asked “Bull” Mason, the stagecoach whip, who his passenger was, and Bull had made a face and said, “Railroad agent.” To a stagecoach man, that was worse than a hostile Indian.
Tulley swallowed and staggered over as if he had been drinking. “You ain’t follerin’ me, Sheriff. This just ain’t any kid. It’s Kid McCurdy!”
Though no wanted poster bore McCurdy’s name, the young gunslinger had made a name for himself in nearby Las Vegas, New Mexico, where he’d finally been run out of even that wild town after four killings “in self-defense.”
Tulley leaned his free hand on the desk. If his eyes had been any wider, they’d have fallen out and bounced around like acorns shaken from a branch. “McCurdy says he won’t stop till you come see him personal.”
York came out from behind the desk and tied the leather string that kept his holstered weapon snug to his thigh. He reached for his hat but left his coat hanging, since it might restrict movement.
“Shot up the place, you say,” York said. “Did he bust up the mirrors with his target practice? Shoot the liquor bottles to pieces? Splinter the chuck-a-luck wheel?”
Tulley deflated some. “Well, no. Jest fired two rounds in the ceiling, and then, when I stuck my head in, he said to come fetch you. Waving his gun around! That’s why he come to Trinidad — to see you.”
“And you did what he told you to. Here I thought you were on Trinidad’s payroll.”
Tulley shuffled in place. “Well... what else was I to do?”
York pointed toward the door. “Right now, you’re to go down there to the Victory’s rear door, off the alley,” the sheriff said, “and keep the place covered. Should things get out of hand — like should this pup manage to shoot me dead — I’d appreciate you plugging him for me.”
“In the back?”
“Or have him turn around first, if you don’t mind maybe dying.”
Tulley thought that over, nodded, said, “We’ll do ’er your way,” and scurried out.
York made a disgusted click in his cheek as he checked the action of the .44. Then he slipped the iron back into its well-oiled home.
The afternoon was cool and crisp — this was November — and the boardwalks of Trinidad were empty, though faces in the windows in storefronts and the living quarters above peered out in anticipation of witnessing gunplay. That made York smile just a little as he walked along, spurs singing a lazy little tune. Gunfire sent everybody inside, he knew, but now a good many citizens were peeking out in expectation of more.
He didn’t judge them harshly. The three hundred or so souls who lived in Trinidad were decent enough people. The town existed to serve the surrounding ranch-land area, and the folk here were mostly shop owners and clerks, whose days were usually dull, each one indistinguishable from the last. Part of why York was pulling down a hundred a month, plus his cut of the taxes he collected, was that reputation of his. He was something of a tourist attraction, like the Alamo or the O.K. Corral. Everybody who came to Trinidad wanted a glimpse of Caleb York.
Some, like Andrew “Kid” McCurdy, wanted more than just a glimpse.
York pushed through the swinging batwing doors and saw the small figure pacing by the bar, a mug of beer nearby. The Kid’s gun was holstered. That was good. That was half the battle. Still, the biggest thing about the boy was the long-barreled Colt army revolver, worn high, not tied down.
McCurdy was seventeen, eighteen, somewhere in there. He stood perhaps five feet eight and was skinny enough to look scrawny in the blue cavalry bib-front shirt and shapeless Levi’s; his Montana-peak Stetson looked new. This was no cowpuncher. Stick slender though he was, the Kid had a baby face, round and stubbly, with a snub nose and tiny dark eyes set too far apart. Like that other famous Kid — Billy — this one had buck teeth.