Caleb’s eyes narrowed. “What I’m referring to, Mr. Gauge—”
“Please. ‘Zachary.’ ”
“ ‘Zachary,’ ” Caleb said with a nod. “What I’m referring to are the outlaws still working those spreads. Hard cases mixed in with cowhands, brought in by your late cousin. Not many of them, at this point. But your ramrod, Gil Willart, should be able to single them out.”
“I can assure you, Sheriff—”
“Make it ‘Caleb,’ Zachary.”
“Caleb. I can assure you that I want nothing to do with such wastrels. They will be sent packing.”
“Good. Good to hear.” Caleb nodded again. “Best of luck to you in this new line of endeavor, Zachary. What was it you did back East, anyway?”
“Stockbroker, actually.”
“Well. With some luck, you’ll be dealing with stock again. High stakes, but spelled different.”
Zachary got the joke right away.
“Well put, Sheriff. Caleb.” Zachary narrowed his eyes now. “But these outlaws — rather than just discharge them... wouldn’t it be better if I let you know who they are, and which spread they’re working? So you could talk to them personally, perhaps in regard to the bank robbery?”
“Oh, they’ll stop in town at the Victory — that’s our local drinking and gambling emporium — before they hit the trail. I’ll have a chance to talk to all of them.”
Caleb gave one more nod to the newcomer, then bid Willa and her father good night, indicating he knew full well they’d heard every word of the conversation.
Willa told her father she’d be just a minute and followed Caleb. He was out front in the cool night air, snugging on his hat, as attendees were gradually leaving, unhitching horses, climbing up into buggies.
“Is that how you behave?” she asked him, meaning it to sound strong but knowing it came out snippy.
“How is that?”
“You just say good night and walk away from me.”
“I figured you were tending to your father. Or maybe to that Zachary character.”
“What?”
He grinned at her. “He’s already taken a shine to you. Or maybe it’s your father’s cattle. Or his land?”
“Are you jealous, or just a boor?”
The words seemed to soften him, or maybe that was embarrassment.
“Sorry,” he said. “I have no right. And, anyway, he was probably just being polite.”
“Oh, so you don’t think another man might be attracted to me?”
“I think any man possessed of his senses would be attracted to you, Willa Cullen. But me? I don’t have that right. Not anymore.”
“And why is that?”
“You know why.”
“I don’t. I honestly don’t.”
“Because I’m still leaving Trinidad.”
“What?”
He gestured vaguely toward town. “When this bank robbery case is settled, I’ll be on my way. To San Diego.”
He told her good night again, and walked off, while she stood there in front of the Grange Hall, fuming.
Chapter Five
At just after nine P.M., Trinidad’s Main Street was uncommonly busy — buggies and men on horseback, couples strolling along the boardwalk — as those who’d attended the meeting at the Grange Hall made their way home.
But one person Caleb York had not expected to run into was his rambunctious friend Tulley, who was pacing outside the hotel entrance like an expectant father near a bedroom where a midwife was doing her work. The skinny coot lit up like a jack-o’-lantern when he spotted York.
“Git yer gun,” he said, eyes wild. “Git yer damn gun!”
York pushed his hat on the back of his head and regarded his friend. “Any special reason?”
The white-bearded, bowlegged Tulley looked around for eavesdroppers, then leaned in. “We need to talk private.”
“Well, let’s go down to the office, then. I have my gun belt locked up there. Since you want me to ‘git’ it.”
Tulley closed an eye and raised a finger. “I do, and it’ll be right handy, bein’ down at that end of the street and all.”
“Why’s that?”
The bandy-legged character took York by the arm, virtually escorting him along the boardwalk. “Too many townsfolk out tonight. This is not talk for sharin’. Meantime, on the way, you can tell me all about that Grange meetin’.”
York did.
Frowning as they walked along, Tulley asked, “What do ye make of this latest branch of the Gauge tree?”
“Nothing like his cousin. Certainly talks a good game. And there’s no question he’s bailing out this community when it can damn well use it.”
Tulley was shaking his head. “Never trust a city slicker, says I.”
York grinned over at him. “Why, Tulley? How many have you run into, in your day?”
“Plenty! More’n one!”
When they got to the office, York unlocked the door and went in, Tulley trailing. The sheriff got behind his desk and lit the lamp there, suffusing the austere room with a warm yellow glow. He gestured for Tulley to pull up a chair, which the old boy did, sitting so close and leaning over so far, he all but climbed onto the desktop.
“Okay, Tulley,” York said with a patient smile. “I think it’s safe to talk now. Unless you’d like to check under the desk and maybe back in the cells.”
Tulley paid the sheriff’s joshing no heed. “You tol’ me to keep my ear to the ground. I been doin’ exactly that, purt’ near all day.”
“At the stable? Little messy for that.”
“I didn’t go in today but for a tiny bit, first thing. Told Clem I had official sheriffin’ business to see to.”
York was still smiling. “Aren’t you afraid your work will pile up?”
“You ain’t takin’ me serious, Sheriff. But you should. You will. Listen here. I was over to the cantina tonight and I seen two of Harry Gauge’s gunhand cowboys, hittin’ the tequila hard, and a couple of them powdered-up señoritas hangin’ on ’em like vines on a wall.”
York sat forward, smile gone. He’d told Zachary Gauge that any of the outlaws the new rancher might boot off his spreads would surely stop by the Victory Saloon before leaving town. But York had overlooked the Cantina de Toro Rojo. Few gringos frequented the joint, the clientele chiefly Mexican cowboys who worked ranches in the area, and the half-Mexican/half-Indian hands, too, and maybe some other thirsty, randy males from Trinidad’s small barrio itself, home mostly to servants and laborers around town.
But hard cases like those outlaws the late Harry Gauge had taken on at his ranches would feel right at home in a deadfall like the Cantina de Toro Rojo.
“You know these men by name, Tulley?”
“I surely do. Ray Pruitt and Eli Hoake.”
Both men had their faces on wanted posters, York knew, just not in New Mexico. They were accused of robbing a stagecoach in Arizona and killing the driver.
“That ain’t all, Sheriff. I heard ’em talkin’. I didn’t catch much... if I got any closer to ’em they might got wise... but they both said the name ‘Bill’ a bunch of times, and was laughin’ and laughin’ and tossin’ back the tequila like water.”
“Lot of Bills in this world, Tulley.”
“How many that was on Harry Gauge’s payroll?”
York thought about that, then asked, “Speaking of tossing back the tequila, Tulley, how much went down your gullet?”
The old boy crossed his heart right by a frayed blue suspender. “Nary a drop. I been on the water wagon for months now, Sheriff. You know that. All I put down me was some of that brown gargle them Mexies claims is coffee.”
York leaned back in his hardwood chair, its front legs off the floor, and studied his friend. Maybe Tulley still sounded like a half-crazed prospector who’d just climbed down off a mountain after living alone too long; and there seemed no danger of the man losing his position as town eccentric. Yet he had changed. Those eyes were no longer rheumy, but as clear a blue as the best New Mexico sky, minus any clouds.