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

Then Colman was at his side, for once wearing neither smirk nor sneer, but in no celebratory mood, either. “This ain’t over.”

“Not by a long shot,” York agreed.

Now half a grin formed. “Speakin’ of which, Sheriff, that was a hell of a shot. Just don’t tell me you were aimin’ for the horse.”

“No.”

Colman looked narrow-eyed at York. “At this distance, you went for a head shot with a six-gun?”

York was staring across the stream, where the only sign of the riders now were some puffs of dust and a splotch of red on the grassy, sandy incline.

He said, “I pretty much always go for a head shot.”

“Interestin’ choice,” Colman said. “Kinda risky, though. Chest gives you a bigger target. That’s always my inclination.”

“Head-shot men don’t return fire. But the next time that Bar-O bunch comes around, you can bet they will.” York shifted his gaze to the ramrod. “I don’t suppose I can convince you to break this party up. Maybe leave a couple of men at your campfires to keep an eye out.”

“If I do anything,” Colman said, “it’ll be t’bring the rest of the G’s punchers in from the range, and spread this armed camp out farther to the north and south.”

“Fuel to the fire.”

“Maybe so, but we didn’t light it.” Colman’s chin came up. “You’re right about this much, York—they’ll be back and they will be shooting.”

“Maybe not. I do intend to talk to Willa Cullen, yet today. Maybe this loss of a life will get her to see reason.” York allowed himself a sigh. “I would appreciate it if you’d do the same with Mrs. Hammond.”

The ramrod shook his head. “Can’t do that, Sheriff.”

“Why in hell not?”

The ramrod shrugged. “Against my best interests. I wasn’t just hired to do a foreman’s job, you know. I could lie to you and say otherwise, but what’s the point?”

“None. We both know Victoria Hammond took you on as much for your gunfighter skills as your cattle know-how.”

Colman turned toward the pines that separated them from the ranch house. His hands were on his hips. “Now that we know they’re coming, I’ll only post lookouts on the shore. Rest of us will be in the trees. With our rifles. It will be a damn slaughter.”

York’s eyes were narrow as he said, “Your boys best not fire the first shot.”

Colman got his smirky grin going. “The first shot, Sheriff, they already fired . . . and you fired the second one.”

He had indeed.

“And,” Colman was saying, “I don’t imagine, next time around, they’ll be anybody left on the other side of the creek to say who fired the first round in the second battle of this fracas. And it’s coming. It’s coming.”

“And I,” York said bitterly, “am going.”

And the sheriff strode off the beach and into the trees.

Behind him rowdy cowboys and killers were applauding him, the sound of it like gunshots echoing off the waters.

* * *

Looking very much the tomboy her late papa had raised on this ranch—hair up, plaid shirt, denims, boots—Willa Cullen stood tall on the porch, arms folded, waiting for Caleb’s arrival.

For half an hour or so, she’d been stewing, pacing, before settling into this stiff, unwelcoming posture, after Bill Jackson brought her the bad news about the death of one of the three gunhands they’d taken on.

Including the particularly bad news that the sheriff had been the perpetrator of the deed.

From his expression on horseback as he drew nearer, she knew Caleb could read her mood. He looked ashen but not ashamed; he called out no greeting, didn’t even nod. Just rode up and climbed off the gelding and tied it up at the hitching rail.

Of course, she didn’t call to him or nod, either.

She noted that he’d left the badge pinned to his gray shirt—he never wore the tin when he called on her!—and he took his hat off there at the bottom of the steps, like a stranger come to call, showing respect but no familiarity.

With a nod, he said, “Willa.”

Not a stranger, then.

“Caleb.”

“Could we go inside and talk?”

Her instinct was no—he could stay down there, and not set foot even on the steps to this house, much less go in, not after what he’d done.

But a few ranch hands were around—Harmon and his helper in the cookhouse, old wrangler Lou Morgan who managed the barns, a few others—so maybe privacy was called for.

She answered his question with a nod and turned her back on him, his footsteps clunking on the stairs behind her, spurs jangling. Getting to the door before he could catch up and hold it open for her, she went in and moved immediately across the living room and deposited herself in one of the rough-hewn chairs her late father had fashioned before she was born. She sat facing a fireplace that right now was as cold as she was. Almost.

She heard him close the door—as gently as that big door could be closed. Then his footsteps came again. Slow but steady.

He came around in front of her—fireplace at his back, hat in hand, chin lowered, but not cowed—and his eyes met hers.

“I’m sorry about what happened,” he said simply.

“Sorry that you killed one of my men?”

“Jackson reported to you, I assume.”

“He did.”

The chin lifted, the eyes remained on her. “Did he tell you that your shootist took it upon himself to fire? That he shot first? And not on your foreman’s order?”

“. . . He did.”

“Would you have me not return fire if a man shoots at me?”

She lifted her eyebrows. “Oh, he shot specifically at you?”

Caleb thought about that, then said, “I can’t rightly say. I don’t think he knew who he was shooting at. And he hit no one, thank God. But he was in a group of armed men facing down another group of armed men, and I would say he panicked.”

“Did you know who you were shooting at?”

“Yes.”

“Did you panic?”

“No.”

“Did you attempt to wound him?”

“No. It’s a