Caleb York wished he could take the next stage out.
He trudged up the steps to his second-floor room, number 5. He had his key ready when he noticed the yellow light bleeding out from under the door. Taking a step back, and taking stock of himself — how much had he drunk? Hardly anything. He’d felt bone-tired before — how did he feel now?
Ready.
Or at least he did once the .44 was in his hand.
He turned the key fast to its click, then shouldered in but kept low, the big six-gun aiming upward.
“You really know how to make a girl feel welcome, Sheriff,” Rita said, sitting in a chair by the window, near the kerosene lamp she’d lit on his dresser.
She was still in the emerald satin dance-hall outfit, the shelf of her full bosom uplifted by clever design, a long gray mannish coat hugging her shoulders. Her shapely legs were crossed and showing in their mesh stockings, extending boldly from the slit in the gown.
He rose from his near crouch, holstered the weapon, and shut the door behind him.
“A man’s not allowed to have a female in his hotel room,” York told her. “Unless he’s married to her.”
“Is that a proposal, Sheriff?”
“No. It’s a city ordinance this hotel has to follow.”
“We should find somebody official who can enforce that.”
The room was small, the furniture sparse and nothing special. The green-painted iron bed would serve two. In case married people took the room. Nothing in the glorified cubbyhole said he’d lived here for six months, but he had.
“Are you drunk, Sheriff? How much did you drink?”
“I’m sober as hell and not thrilled to be. Never got around to emptying that bottle.”
He went over and pulled the room’s other straight-back chair over to sit and face her in the cramped quarters.
“You’re in a mood, Sheriff,” she said.
“I am at that.”
“I don’t suppose you’d care to share the reason why.”
“There’s a man who murdered another man, and I can’t do a damn thing about it. For now.”
“You could kill him.”
“Not how I generally go about it.”
Her smile had little to do with the usual reasons for smiling. “You’re talking about the bank president and his clerk, aren’t you?”
She said this as casually as if she’d asked him to pass a plate of biscuits, and don’t forget the butter. He felt like he’d been slapped or maybe doused with water.
He frowned. “What makes you say that?”
“I see things,” Rita said, shrugging, her half-exposed breasts taking the ride. “And I’m not stupid. Nobody else has a motive. He stole his bank’s money, you think? Engineered it?”
After a moment, York nodded. “Carson had at least four accomplices. I killed three of them, and he killed the other, poor bastard.”
“Pearl’s back at the Victory.”
Pearl, the prostitute Upton had planned to make an honest woman.
“What?” he said. “Working?”
“No, not working. Are you sure you’re not drunk? I put her in a room upstairs at the Victory where she can cry her eyes out and feel sorry for herself and toss down her laudanum. She loved that little weasel. Or anyway she loved the respectability he promised.”
“Upton was probably a blackmailer. How much does Pearl know?”
“Just that she’s lost her chance at a different life.”
“I want to question her.”
Rita shook her head and her dark curls bounced. “Not tonight. Let her cry it out some. Anyway, she’s in laudanum heaven by now.”
He thought about that; then he looked at her. Hard. “Why are you here, Rita?”
“Not very flattering.” She sighed. “I said I wanted to talk to you, and I do. But I didn’t want to do it at the Victory.”
“Why not?”
She ignored that. “I can’t tell you where I heard this.”
“Where you heard what?”
“Promise me you won’t make me tell you where I heard this.”
“I promise. What?”
Her eyes tightened. “That deputy of Gauge’s you killed last April — Vint Rhomer. The one who beat my sister near to death before his boss finished the job. You killed him — right?”
“I did. I’d do it again. Gladly.”
Rita smirked humorlessly. “Well, you’re going to get the chance, in a way... unless you’re smart enough to finally take a stage out of Trinidad.”
“What are you talking about?”
She sat forward. “I mean, why is this your fight? You took care of those that shot down your friend Ben Wade. So walk away the victor. You must know that Thomas Carter is one of the most respected men in this community. Accuse him and they’ll only fire you.”
York was scowling at her. “What do you mean — get the chance to kill Rhomer again? What the hell are you talking about?”
She arched a dark eyebrow. “Did you know that Vint Rhomer was one of six brothers?”
“Yeah I do. They’re all a bunch of low-down horse thieves, bank robbers, and murderers. Several rode with Harry Gauge.”
“Well, they’re riding again. Coming to Trinidad, sometime soon — don’t know when exactly. But I know why — they’re coming to kill you, Sheriff. All five of them.”
His eyes tensed. “For revenge?”
“For revenge, but I think for money, too. Prospect of facing down Caleb York isn’t something any man would take lightly, even with four other guns backing him up. You’re a legend — remember?”
“I remember.”
“So get out of town. Either that or find a dozen men you trust and arm them and put them in second-floor windows along Main Street. And when those five show up, shoot the Rhomers down in the street like the rabid dogs they are.”
“I fight my own battles.”
There was some sneer in her smile. “Well, of course you do. You’re a legend. And pretty soon you’ll really be a legend — like all good legends, like all good myths. You won’t even exist.”
He stood. Loomed over her. “Where did you hear this?”
She stood. Looked up at him. “I said not to ask. You promised.”
He raised a fist. Shook it. “Where, Rita?”
Her teeth were small and white as she grinned defiantly at him, hands on hips. “Are you going to hit me, Caleb? Like Vint Rhomer used to hit my sister?”
His fist became limp fingers. He hung his head. “Maybe you should go.”
“Maybe I should stay.”
Her eyes were so dark, her lips so red, lush, wet, quivering. He went to kiss her and she met him halfway, her mouth like a blow to his face, a sweet, sultry slap, and his lips mashed against hers in response. Somebody’s mouth was bleeding now. Both were breathing hard.
Rita turned the lamp down to the faintest glow.
Then, in the near darkness, she said, “You’ll have to help me out of this thing — it hooks up in the back. I really do hope you aren’t drunk, because this is going to take a man with talented fingers.”
“Don’t worry,” he said.
Chapter Eleven
Mid-morning, with the sky clear and sunny, Caleb York was tugging his hat into place as he exited the sheriff’s office when Whit Murphy, foreman out at the Bar-O, came spur-jangling up the steps onto the jailhouse porch. Lanky, bowlegged, of medium build, Murphy was a good cattleman, but he and York had butted heads from time to time.
“Good,” Murphy said, his smile tight under the droopy, dark mustache. “Glad I caught you.”
“I was just heading down to the telegraph office,” York said with a gesture in that direction. “Why don’t you walk along, and tell me what’s on your mind?”