“I intend to outlive that.”
The editor smiled now, surprised by the remark. “What, one shoot-out at a time?”
The waiter came to refill their cups, and York held up a hand. Penniman’s was refreshed; then York and the newsman were alone again.
“Times are changing,” York said. “The Wild West won’t be so wild before long. Just a bunch of towns, some big, some small, some in between. Like anyplace in America. But what happened in Tombstone with the Earps and the Clantons — people are already making it clear they won’t put up with that.”
Penniman wiggled a finger toward the sheriff’s folded paper. “Did you see my editorial?”
“Hard to miss on the front page.”
The newspaperman flashed a grin. “Right next to the story about Caleb York. And you’re in the editorial, too. I quoted you accurately, did I not?”
York nodded. “So... you’re in favor of the branchline.”
The editor’s wide smile challenged the narrow face. “Why, does that surprise you? Sheriff, I worked for fifteen years on the Rocky Mountain News, salting my money away, making my wife and children put up with second best. Took that long to save up for a small printing press. But I was determined to have my own paper. And now I have one.”
“So you do. And a whole new building to yourself, with living quarters above and so much room to expand. But how was it you chose Trinidad?”
Penniman frowned. “Well, uh... just looked around for a town that lacked a paper, and—”
“And you had a silent partner in the Santa Fe Railroad, who suggested it.”
Penniman flushed. “I didn’t say that.”
“I didn’t say I thought there was anything wrong in it. But keepin’ it to yourself does seem... What’s the legal phrase? A conflict of interest?”
Penniman straightened. “Don’t go spreading falsehoods, Sheriff!”
“I won’t if you won’t,” York said pleasantly.
A figure in the window caught the attention of both men, as suddenly Deputy Jonathan Tulley, just beyond the glass, was right there in all his skinny, white-bearded, baggy-pants glory, waving his arms like he wanted the attention of the world, shotgun in one hand, as if leading an Indian war party.
“I believe I’m bein’ paged,” York told the editor, gave him a smile and a nod, then headed out, leaving the slightly flummoxed little newspaperman to finish his coffee alone.
York plucked his hat from the hook just inside the connecting door with the lobby and moved through to step out onto the boardwalk, where Tulley was working up a lather.
“Sheriff! You know who just rode into town, big as life and twice as ugly?”
“No.”
“Alver Hollis! Hear me? Alver Hollis! The Preacherman hisself!”
York had never met Hollis but knew all too well of him. Hell, most people working on either side of a badge knew of Hollis, and plenty more besides. No warrants were out for the so-called Preacherman, though the supposed onetime reverend was said to be a hired gun, with a gift for making his murders look like fair fights.
Murders that were followed by Hollis kneeling over each corpse he created to send the departed off with a prayer.
“Okay, Tulley. Calm yourself. He causing trouble?”
“No! He just got here. He’s riding with a couple of saddle tramps I never seen before.”
“You’re sure it’s Hollis?”
“It’s Hollis, all right! I watched him one time over at Ellis. He goaded two men into drawin’ on him at the same time, and sent ’em both to their reward.”
“Pray over ’em both, did he?”
“Though it took two bullets, one prayer sufficed for both.”
“Where are the man of God and his ungodly companions now?”
The former desert rat pointed down the street. “Where d’you think? They headed into the Victory like they owned the place!”
York sighed. “Tulley, the Victory’s a business, open to the public, glad to have the likes of Hollis and his friends stop by. Those three are probably just passin’ through. No need for us to borrow trouble.”
The deputy squinted at his boss, as if trying to bring him into focus. “How do you know they ain’t in town to take on the great Caleb York?”
York shook his head slowly. “Everybody who rolls through Trinidad with a gun on his hip isn’t necessarily here to make a reputation takin’ on the ‘great’ yours truly.”
“The Preacherman ain’t ‘everybody’!”
York put a hand on Tulley’s bony shoulder.
“Now, here’s what I want you to do, Deputy. Go on down to the Victory, stake a claim on a table off to one side, and throw down as many sarsaparillas as you can stomach.”
Tulley had been on the wagon for some time — sobriety was a condition of his employment, drunkenness being a condition of getting fired.
“If Hollis and his friends ride out,” York told his deputy, “come find me and say so. And we’ll be happy they stopped by to spread around some money in our fair community.”
Tulley squinted again, this time more like he wasn’t sure he was hearing right. “And iffen they don’t ride out?”
“Keep an eye on them. See if they seem to be up to anything besides gambling and drinking at the Victory. Firing off their weapons, roughing up fellow customers, beating on the ladies, and such.”
The deputy gripped his shotgun in both hands. “And unload on ’em?”
“No, Tulley. Go out the back way and come find me.”
“Whereabouts?”
“Either at the jail, workin’ on tax matters, or here at the hotel. Comprende?”
“Comprende.”
“If they take their horses over to the livery stable and check into the hotel, let me know. That means they are in town for some reason or another.”
“Up to no good!”
“Good chance of that,” York admitted. “But, Tulley, you can’t run around like an Apache on firewater every time some rough character comes rollin’ into town. As an officer of the law, you have to keep a cool head and a steady hand.”
Still squinting, but nodding now, Tulley started down the boardwalk toward the Victory.
York called out to him. “Tulley!”
The deputy whirled, ready for anything, though he did trip over his own feet somewhat. “Yessir, Sheriff?”
“Take that coach gun back to the office and leave it there. Your badge, too. You’re going down to the Victory as a customer.”
A grin formed in the bristly beard. “Undercover like?”
York nodded and was able not to smile. “Yes. You’re my undercover agent on this one, Tulley.”
Tulley gave him a cautious salute, then headed back toward their office, leaving Caleb York trying to decide whether to laugh or cry.
York spent the afternoon filling out territorial tax documents and inventorying the $1,542.50 he’d collected last week from ranchers and farmers in Trinidad’s portion of San Miguel County. This he took from the jailhouse safe and walked over to the First Bank of Trinidad, now a holding of George Cullen’s friend Raymond Parker of Denver — after the previous owner had nearly bankrupted the institution. He deducted his 10 percent and deposited the rest in the city treasury account.
By this time, the western sky was striped with the red and purple of another fine New Mexico sunset, and two circumstances were presenting themselves: his stomach was again begging for attention and Tulley had not yet made a return trip from the Victory.
The latter could mean his deputy had fallen off the wagon, for which York would have to blame himself for sending the old reprobate into the arms of temptation. Both that and the former could be addressed by a sojourn to the Victory.