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

can say which way they’ll go? But if they head back from whence they come, well, that’s fine. Some’ll likely scatter off down the shore, in one direction or t’other, and them Bar-O cowboys can earn their pay roundin’ ’em up.”

York squinted at the ramrod. “What if some of them cows head this way? If you shoot those strays on the swim, you’ll foul your own water source. What if that stampede heads for these pines, with your boss lady’s ranch house in back of there? You want those steers in her lap?”

Colman grunted a laugh. “You ain’t a cattleman, are you, York? Ain’t gonna go that way. The water’d slow ’em down, and then we got a whole mess of cowboys on hand to round ’em up. Any steer makes it into the pines will be slowed down by ’em, and we’ll pick them up, too.”

“To rustle them, you mean. And use a branding iron to change G to O?”

Colman grinned. “Now we’re gettin’ a mite ahead of ourselves, Sheriff.”

“Clay!”

It was Bassett. He was pointing across the way. “Here they come!”

Through those scrubby trees emerged men on horseback. They were not riding hard—the landscape didn’t lend itself to that. But they were soon lined up all along the grassy stretch above the white bank opposite, reining their horse back with one hand, a handgun in the other.

In the middle, in the lead, was Bill Jackson. Among many other familiar faces from the Bar-O bunkhouse were three newcomers—York knew at once these were the gunfighters Willa had enlisted. The three killers on horseback were spaced out much as Colman’s were . . .

Frank Duffy, a sometime lawman, broad of shoulder, hard of eye, oldest man here and tallest in a battered top hat that emphasized that height.

“Buck” O’Fallon, not big, not small, an erudite fellow who had also once worn a badge, his hat wide brimmed, his bow tie loose and floppy.

And—most disturbingly—Manning Clements, the cock-eyed cousin of that deadly loco gunman John Wesley Hardin, who Manning had devoted much of his misguided life to emulating.

York brushed Colman aside and walked down through the Circle G boys, all of whom stood with hands hovering over holstered handguns, and walked right up to the water’s edge. The beautiful flowing stream sparkled with sunlight, oblivious to the tension it was engendering.

As their horses danced in place, Jackson was in the midst of his men, with Clements beside him. York assumed that was because Jackson likely realized how dangerous Hardin’s cousin was and wanted to keep an eye on him.

“Bill,” York called out, and it echoed across the water, “you know who I am—and for anyone who doesn’t, I’m Caleb York, sheriff of San Miguel County! You are on Circle G land. Return to the Bar-O! I intend to solve this conflict peaceably!”

Jackson yelled back, “We are not here to fight! Not today. We only want to send a message.”

“What message?”

“That if a shooting war need be, we are armed and ready. All we ask is to water our stock before they die of thirst.”

“Guns won’t settle this.”

“Whose side are you on, Caleb York?”

“The law. The county. And right now you’re trespassing, and you need to ride off and let this matter take its lawful course.”

“What if that bunch starts shooting first?”

“Whoever does that, on whichever side, deals with me! I am right now asking both groups to retreat. To disperse. Until this can be resolved the right way.”

In days to come—even in years to pass—conflicting accounts and arguments on either side would wage a war of words over what happened next. But at that moment words weren’t the ammunition.

Manning Clements’s right arm stretched out with his Colt .45 in his fist and the crack echoed across the stream.

Caleb York drew his .44 and returned fire.

When the bullet entered Manning’s forehead, the impact briefly uncrossed the man’s eyes and sent him tumbling off the horse, dead before he hit the grassy, sandy ground.

CHAPTER NINE

A terrible two seconds passed in which general gunfire might have broken out and carnage would have stained scarlet the white banks on either side of Sugar Creek.

Perhaps it was the rearing of the horses under the Bar-O boys that prevented the third second from being filled with blood and gunsmoke. Maybe it was Willa’s crew already having their guns in hand that gave the Circle G crowd momentary pause, or possibly the frantic, unsettling whinnies and neighs of the horses behind them, tied to pines.

Finally it was Caleb York himself moving to the very edge of the water—holding a palm out behind him to the men whose hands hovered over their sidearms—as he shouted, “Collect your men and go, Jackson! Or there’ll be nothing but dead men left to do it.”

Jackson, still settling his horse, said nothing, but to his credit he too was signaling his men with an upraised palm to hold back.

Then the Bar-O foreman shouted, “You’ll have to answer for this, Sheriff!”

York’s voice echoed across the stream, which ran along on its almost languid way, untouched by human conflict. “Tell your mistress I will call on her yet today! If there’s to be killing, let it wait!”

The tension in the air was palpable—the Bar-O riders with their guns trained, the Circle G men on their feet with hands over holstered weapons.

The horse under him steady now, Jackson climbed down and, with the help of another cowhand, draped the body of Manning Clements over the dead man’s saddle. Jackson spoke to his helper, who nodded, and then was heading back through the scrubby trees leading the corpse’s horse.

“This don’t end it!” Jackson called, ready to ride again.

And with a sweeping hand motion, the foreman led the cowpunchers and the two remaining gunhands away, with only scowls thrown back at their opponents and, thankfully, not bullets.

The rough bunch on the Circle G shore laughed and boasted and milled, and several came over to slap the sheriff on the back. York—relieved though he was to have limited this