The only straight shot at a pathway to Las Vegas from this part of the world was through the Bar-O.
Mayor Hardy was speaking with his fellow Citizens Committee members in the farthest corner, clumped together like the conspirators they were. The mayor noticed that York had returned, and waved him over.
York complied.
“Sheriff,” the mayor said, “I hope your comments today don’t find us at odds. Because the Citizens Committee is very much in favor of the Santa Fe spur.”
“I can’t say I’ve formed an opinion,” York admitted.
“Then why did you make those comments?”
York shrugged. “It just seemed like Mr. Prescott was stacking the deck a mite.”
Mercantile man Harris, eyes glittering, said, “Prescott isn’t exaggerating when he says that branchline will mean great things for Trinidad — thriving economy, growing population...”
“That doesn’t sound like your words, Newt.” York grinned at his host. “Or is there an echo in here from when Prescott was talking?”
Seeming to change the subject, Davis, the druggist, said, “Tell me, Sheriff, are you still considering that position with the Pinkertons in San Diego?”
“I assured you gents I’d stay at least till the end of the year,” York reminded them.
“That’s less than two months!” Mathers blurted, his muttonchops fairly bristling.
“We just thought,” the mayor said with a nervous smile, “that you might stop to consider what this spur would mean to you... personally.”
York grinned again. “You mean, I wouldn’t have to wear my horse out whenever takin’ a trip to Las Vegas?”
His Honor seemed about to put a hand on York’s shoulder, then reconsidered it.
“What I mean is,” Hardy said, “if that branchline comes through, we could offer you a healthy raise... a raise up to the level of what Pinkerton promises, and more. All kinds of perquisites commensurate with what that office would be. How would you like to live in a house, not a hotel room? A house the city would provide!”
Already they were thinking of themselves as a city, not a town.
York said, “That all sounds just fine. Would you throw in a housekeeper?”
“We could do that!” Mathers said.
But the mayor could tell York was having some fun with them.
“We’re quite serious about this, Caleb,” Hardy said. “Think of your fees for tax collecting in a city ten times our size. You’d have regular office hours, with a staff of deputies, and not just some old stable bum... meaning no disrespect to Mr. Tulley.”
“Obviously not. But aren’t you fellas forgetting one small detail here?”
The four men traded looks that said, Are we?
York opened a hand. “The most efficient and maybe only way that spur goes in is if George Cullen sells the right-of-way. Perhaps you missed it, but I didn’t think he seemed all that enthusiastic about the prospect.”
The mayor smiled so broadly that his handlebar mustache seemed to smile its own self. “That’s where you come in, Sheriff.”
“Do I?”
Harris took York by the arm. “Old Man Cullen likes you, Sheriff, respects you. You got rid of that evil bastard Harry Gauge, saved the old man and his daughter’s lives out to the way station last year. That carries weight!”
Mathers said, “He’ll listen to you, Sheriff.”
York sighed, nodded. “He might.”
The mayor said, “We need you to intercede for us with that hardheaded old fool.”
That got a frown out of York. “George Cullen is no fool.”
Hardy realized he’d misspoken. “Of course he isn’t. But he’s one of these self-made pioneer types who came to this country and carved out a place for himself. He sees the rest of us as newcomers, interlopers, and doesn’t understand that times are changing and civilization is coming.”
Giving York a patronizing smile, Davis said, “A man who’s thinking about moving to San Diego and taking a job with the Pinkertons isn’t a man who fears change. Isn’t a man who ducks the future.”
The mayor said, “Just talk to him. Reason with him. That is, assuming you agree with us and consider the branchline the path to the future for our little town.”
So it was a town again. City would come later.
“I’ll have a talk with Mr. Cullen,” York said, gave the men a nod, and turned to go before he had to endure their self-satisfied grins.
On York’s way out, Oscar Penniman, the newspaperman, stepped in his path. York considered sweeping by and knocking him down in the process, then reconsidered. Probably best to maintain good relations with the press.
“Trouble you for a quote, Sheriff?” The editor’s voice was casual, but his eyes were sharp, and the notebook was in hand, pencil poised. “My readers would, I’m sure, find your views on this subject of most interest.”
“Not today, Mr. Penniman.”
York slipped past the man, who tagged after.
“At the meeting you sounded skeptical of what might come of a branchline coming to town. Can I assume you’ll take a stand against the railroad?”
“No.”
“Then you’re for it?”
“No, you can’t assume anything. Quote what I said in there, if you like. Now excuse me.”
They were outside now.
“Sheriff!”
The newspaperman’s footfalls clattered along the boardwalk as he tried to keep up with the lawman’s greater stride.
“Could you give me a quote on how you came to save that young man’s life yesterday? You could have easily shot down that callow youth.”
York stopped and turned, and the little man almost ran into him.
“He could have easily shot me,” York said. “That’s how gunfights work. And why they should be avoided.”
The editor was scribbling in his notebook now, allowing the sheriff to make his getaway.
What York might have said was how he hated the idea of civilization squeezing all the life out of the Southwest. But why bother having any opinion on that subject? Change was coming. And a man might as well learn to live with it. Even a man like George Cullen.
Even a man like Caleb York.
Chapter Three
The sun was well along on its western descent behind the Sangre de Cristo Mountains when Willa Cullen and her father rolled in under the rustic log arch with its chain-hung Bar-O plaque — a straight line above the B, imitating the Cullen brand.
Though their acreage had almost doubled in size, thanks to the Gauge holdings, which were now theirs, nothing about the ranch itself had changed a jot — corrals left and right, two barns, rat-proof grain crib, log bunkhouse, cookhouse with hand pump. The ranch building itself was mostly logs with some stone add-ons, the central wooden structure having been built by her father in the early days. Right now the cowpokes were still out with the beeves, the only sign of life a corkscrew of smoke emanating from the cookhouse chimney.
She brought the buckboard to a stop in front of the house, where her calico, Daisy, was tied at the hitch rail out front. Lou Morgan, the lanky old wrangler who looked after the barns, ambled up, spitting tobacco, as she was helping her father down. The crusty stockman took charge of the rig and began driving it over to the barn, where he’d unhitch the horses and guide them to their stalls.
Papa almost bounded up the steps he knew so well, propelled perhaps by his anger at the Santa Fe Railroad. She stopped to give Daisy a nuzzle, then went up the broad wooden steps to the plank porch to join Papa. That was when she noticed they had company.