But the sheriff grabbed his deputy’s arm, stopping him, shaking his head, mouthing what she thought were the words, Not now. Or maybe: Not yet.
The stranger swept off his hat in a gentlemanly manner and gave her a nod that was almost a half-bow. “Thanks for trying to protect me, miss.”
“You looked like you might need it,” she said. She dropped her head closer to him and spoke in a near whisper. “And you might want to take care, turning your back on those two.”
He glanced over his shoulder at Gauge and Rhomer, who were getting to their feet. Returning his attention to her, the stranger looked up at her with an expression that was both friendly and serious.
“A man could ask for no better guardian angel than yourself,” he said. “But I assure you it isn’t necessary. I can handle myself.”
These quiet words were somehow like a slap. “Really?”
Now he smiled and there was a twinkle in the washed-out blue eyes squinting in the mid-morning sun. “I wouldn’t want to be responsible for anything unfortunate that might befall such a fine young lady.”
“Well, let me assure you I can handle myself.” She looked past him. Whispering again, she said, “The sheriff’s coming...”
The stranger turned as a stony-faced Gauge approached, ignoring the man who’d just shot two of his people and glancing up to address Willa.
“What did you see, Miss Cullen?”
She pointed toward the bodies in the dust. “Those two over there had their guns out and were coming up on this man from behind. He shot in self-defense.”
“You’d testify to that?”
“I would.”
The sheriff turned to the stranger and said, “What’s your business here?”
“Just passing through.”
“Any idea why Jackson and Riley attacked you?”
“Is that their names?”
“That’s their names.”
“Sheriff, you had a look at the bodies. You may have noticed that Mr. Jackson and Mr. Riley were already in sad shape before they died.”
Gauge studied the stranger’s impassive face. “Yeah. It looks like somebody gave them a beating.”
“Somebody did. Me.”
“Why?”
“They gave me cause.”
The sheriff thought that over. On the boardwalks, and in the street, townspeople continued to gather. Some had likely seen the shooting — the smiles they were sharing, and the excitement in their faces, the fevered murmur of their conversation, indicated as much. Like Willa, at least some citizens had seen the stranger draw his weapon and fire so fast the human eye could barely register it.
Gauge said, “Just passing through, huh?”
“Just passing through.”
“Keep passing through.”
The stranger grinned. “If you’re suggesting there’s a stage out of town at noon and you want me on it, Sheriff — you mind if I ride out on my horse, instead?”
“I don’t care if you leave on foot. Just leave.”
He gave Gauge an easygoing smile. “Like I said, I’m passing through. But I might stay a day or two. I rode most of the night and I need to rest some. Maybe find a game of cards. Have a drink. Spend a little money in your fine town. Any objection?”
Gauge glanced around. So many witnesses.
“No objection. I can’t fault a man for defending himself,” the sheriff said, louder now. “But I’ll be watchin’ you, mister. We don’t tolerate reckless violence in Trinidad.”
Willa almost laughed out loud at that. But mirth didn’t come easy with so much death nearby — two men in the street, those two others on packhorses, the latter getting taken down now by the undertaker and an assistant.
“I’ll keep that in mind, Sheriff,” the stranger said.
Gauge’s eyes tightened. “You got a name, mister?”
“Everybody’s got a name, Sheriff. But I won’t be around long enough for mine to matter.”
The sheriff frowned, thought about that a second, nodded, then went off to join his deputy. Doc Miller had come onto the scene and the late Riley and Jackson were getting a final examination.
The stranger was taking that in, but still standing near Willa on horseback.
She said to him, “Just who are you, anyway?”
He looked back at her. “Like I said, miss. Just a traveler passing through.”
“Headed where?”
“California. Taking my time about it. No hurry.”
“That man you were bandying with? That’s Sheriff Harry Gauge, and he’s dangerous.”
“I know who he is, miss. And I just killed two men, so some might say the same of me.”
She reared back so much at the cocky remark, her horse almost did the same. “Are you proud of that?”
“No. But I don’t feel guilty, either. They chose how they died.”
She frowned down at him. He was an irritating sort. “You have a name, don’t you?”
He grinned at her. “I sure do.”
Then he nodded and put on his curl-brimmed black hat, said, “Pleasure to meet you, Miss Cullen,” and headed off. That ragged deadbeat — what was his name? Tulley? — fell in alongside the stranger, chattering and cackling. Drunken old fool.
As the Cullen party headed out of Trinidad on their way back to the Bar-O, Willa’s father asked, “Who was he, girl? That stranger.”
“He wouldn’t say, Papa. But he’s an arrogant one.”
“That so?”
“He wouldn’t give me his name, but then he calls me by mine. What nerve. How rude.”
Her father was smiling. They were riding along easily.
He said, “Maybe so, but it appears he’s quite handy with a shootin’ iron.”
Willa had to smile at her father’s old-fashioned frontier language. They didn’t converse for a while; then Papa chimed in again.
“That’s just how Caleb York would have done it,” he said with a big smile.
Whit, clearly tired of all the York talk, said grumpily, “He would have, except that he’s dead.”
“So they say,” the old man granted. “Anyway, York would likely have taken the sheriff out, and Rhomer, too. Taken down every single one of them. Still... who do you suppose he is?”
Whit said dismissively, “Just some dude who got off a couple of lucky shots. He was dressed like a city slicker tryin’ to look cowboy.”
“Describe them clothes,” her father said.
Whit did.
“Well,” the old man said, “Caleb York dressed in black. Or so the stories go.”
“But not like a damn dude,” Whit said, then added, “Pardon, Miss Willa.”
“I don’t know who or what he is,” she said, not giving a damn about Whit cursing, “but he’s no dude. You didn’t see what I saw, Whit.”
“And what did you see, Miss Willa?”
“I saw a man outdraw two men with their guns already drawn. That’s what I saw.”
For a while they rode on in silence.
Then not far from the fork that to the right took them into the ranch, her father said, “I know somebody else, besides Caleb York, they say wears black.”
She said, “Who is that, Papa?”
“Banion,” he said. “Wes Banion.”
From the crowd of onlookers, Lola emerged twirling a parasol over her shoulder, looking a fine lady in a two-piece dark blue satin dress with fitted bodice and white lace trim at collar and cuffs.
Gauge gave her a glance and a nod. He and Rhomer were dealing with Perkins, the undertaker, who was about to take charge of the remains of Riley and Jackson, as well as the slightly scorched bodies of Stringer and Bradley. Small, skinny, bald, the twitchy-mustached Perkins was having trouble keeping somber, with business booming like this.