Shoot-Out at Sugar Creek (A Caleb York Western Book 6) - Mickey Spillane [english books to improve english .TXT] 📗

at the Circle G, which was honest work of a sort, keeping in mind the dishonest reputation of the new owner, the widow Hammond, said to be as beautiful as she was relentless.

The two men stood at one end of the bar with no one—not even the bartender who’d served the blond cowboy a beer—within earshot.

His silver-rattlesnake-banded black hat pushed back cockily on his head, Colman said, “Miz Hammond will pay top dollar.”

“Spell it out.”

“Twenty-five a week.” He paused for a gulp of beer. Swallowed, and said, “Bonus money if things get dicey.”

Twenty-five a month was decent cowboy money. Forty, if the kind of work the Bandits did was involved.

Silva asked, seeming unimpressed, “How long?”

“One month’s work anyways, Mr. Silva. More maybe, but not less.”

“Ten percent of each man’s pay,” Silva said. “On top of that twenty-five. First month’s worth in advance.”

Colman shrugged. “Fair enough.”

Silva would take another ten from the men, as well; but Colman didn’t need to know that.

The ramrod raised a forefinger. “I’ll want to talk to each, Mr. Silva. Size ’em up.”

“My opinion’s not good enough for you, Clay?”

He grinned. “Your opinion’s what makes ’em worth considerin’. But I don’t buy a horse without a look at the teeth.”

“So then you want candidates. Prospects.”

“I want guns, Mr. Silva. I want bad men I can trust.”

Silva smiled, not broadly but meaningfully. “A scarce commodity. But I can deliver. Take a room at the Plaza Hotel. I’ll have applicants for you here at ten tomorrow morning.”

Not long after Clay Colman had gone out, another familiar face from the past presented itself, that of a striking black cowpoke in an oversize sombrero, its brim pushed up in front. The newcomer came directly over to where Silva was still at the unpopulated end of the bar. The cowboy offered his hand and the two men shook.

Silva had tried to enlist Bill Jackson for the Bandits several years ago and got nowhere—this was a tough, skilled cattleman, hampered by an honest streak.

“Nice to see you, Bill,” Silva said. “That job offer is still open, if that’s what brings you by.”

“Thank you, no, señor,” the black cowhand said. “I’m foreman down at the Bar-O now.”

Two Trinidad ramrods in one afternoon?

“Reason I’m here,” Jackson said, “is to line up some pistoleros. Three, maybe four.”

And all at once it made sense to Silva—he’d got word that the Hammond woman was buying up smaller spreads south of Las Vegas, and naturally she would turn her greedy eyes on the Cullen place. Perhaps a cattle war was brewing, although Colman had spoken of something short term.

Wishful thinking?

Silva ordered up a beer for Jackson, nothing for himself.

“I might be able to spare some talent from my stable,” Silva said, as Jackson sipped the cold brew. “For the right price.”

“Cullen gal pays good,” Jackson said. “She’s got her late daddy’s blood runnin’ in her. You name a fair rate and she’ll bite.”

“A hundred a month, plus ten percent surcharge for my trouble.”

Jackson’s eyebrows went up. “Might be more than a month.”

“Twenty-five a week’s the rate, hundred-dollar minimum. You want me to pick ’em?”

“Meanin’ no offense, Mr. Silva, I’d like a look at the cut of their jib myself. Like to talk to each man on his lonesome.”

“You don’t find shootists among the Sunday school crowd.”

“I know. Make ’em hard, but men I can trust.”

“You may depend on it.” Silva gestured toward the street. “Galinas Hotel over in the settlement takes your kind, Mr. Jackson. Be here tomorrow afternoon, 2 p.m. I’ll have potential recruits available.”

* * *

The meeting room at the rear of the Imperial Saloon was, unlike the saloon itself and its gambling rooms, nothing fancy. Banquet tables were pushed back against the walls and, in the middle of the otherwise naked room, a wooden card table with one chair, facing the door, had been provided for the interview process.

Colman took the chair.

Silva sent in a man Colman recognized.

Dave Carson was of average size, a little bigger than most cowboys, a breed that ran runty, since ranchers hired on smaller hands to make it easier on the horses.

Carson stood on the other side of the card table. He wore a nice if frayed dark suit with a vest and no tie with a collarless shirt, his pale yellow hat worn with the brim up. His eyes were dark and close-set and he wore a mustache on an otherwise boyish face. A Colt revolver rode high on his right hip—looked like a Thunderer .41 to Colman.

Dave took off his hat and smiled shyly. “How you been, Colman? Hear you’re ramrod down Circle G way.”

“I am.”

“And Mr. Silva says you’re hirin’. But I ain’t that big on cowboyin’ no more.”

“Not lookin’ for that. I got plenty of cowpunchers. I need fellas handy with a six-gun. Boys not fearful of bullets flyin’ in either direction.”

Dave made a face and shrugged. “I kilt four one night.”

“In one night? Do tell.”

The boyish killer nodded. “I was a deputy marshal in Dodge at the time. Dance hall there, some of the Henry cowpokes was scarin’ the women and roughin’ up the men. I come in with my boss and one of them Henry boys shot the marshal, dead as yesterday. I start in shootin’ them. Didn’t last long. But the town fired me. Wouldn’t you know it?”

“Why did they fire you?”

He made another face. “One of the four I kilt weren’t one of the Henry boys. Just some fool who ran for the back door when the shootin’ started and I miscalculated.”

Colman made a click in his cheek. “You musta felt bad about that.”

“Not really. Honest mistake.” Dave cleared his throat to announce changing the subject. “Who do you have needs killin’, Clay?”

“A war’s brewing near Trinidad. Two ranchers fighting over water. Does it matter to you who’s in the right?”

“Doesn’t not matter.” He shrugged. “But I ain’t particular, if the dimes stack up.”

“How many you killed in your time, Dave?”

He frowned, thinking. “Does Mexicans count?”

Colman grinned. “Better not let ol’ Silva hear