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

attracted fleas under the boardwalk. Since Caleb York rode in town a stranger, the deputy had been at that man’s side, fighting outlaws and other no-goods, enough times to challenge any gun-fighting lawman’s reputation—and all in under a year!

Tulley wouldn’t have believed half of it if he hadn’t suffered through most of it.

Still, it weren’t like the man couldn’t handle hisself. Nothing to worry about.

Tulley picked up a piece of pickled herring and tossed it in his pie hole and chewed, then swallowed. Not a thing to worry about. Nossir.

Then he noticed Miss Rita, leaning against the bar like just another cowboy, watching him. This time of day she rarely was seen in one of them fancy gowns. Wearing no face paint whatsoever, she was covered up, neck to floor, in a light blue blouse with puffy sleeves and a black walking skirt.

His mouth full of yellow cheese, Tulley smiled and nodded to the proprietess, and she came over, walking nice and easy, smiling the same way. Minus the cheese.

Miss Rita pulled a chair out and sat herself down. In that silky voice of hers, she said, “I bet you’re wondering what’s become of Caleb York.”

Tulley felt his face go red. Lunch wasn’t the only reason he’d come, and in fact he was in here an hour earlier than was typical. Caleb York having a way with the ladies included Miss Rita Filley, and the sheriff had spent more than one night upstairs in the quarters where this beauteous saloon gal lay herself down at night.

But that hadn’t happened for a while, not since Caleb York and Miss Willa let word out they was preparing to wed. The sheriff had standards and morals and such, and that was among the virtues Jonathan P. Tulley admired in the man, near as much as he admired the way Caleb York could put bad men in the ground.

She folded her hands, which had long, tapering fingers, and leaned forward, confidential-like.

“Caleb’s fine, Mr. Tulley,” she said.

Tulley let out a sigh that began at the tips of the toes of his boots. “I am right glad to hear that, Miss Rita. Right glad.”

“He’s upstairs now, as it happens,” she said, with a nod in that direction. “Sleeping it off.”

The deputy frowned at her in puzzlement. “Sleepin’ what off?”

That seemed to amuse her. “I would think you, of all people, would know what it means to sleep it off, Mr. Tulley.”

His frown dug deeper. “Ye shorely cannot mean that the sheriff drank hisself under the table.”

She pointed past the deputy. “No, he stayed upright in a chair at that table right there . . . where he was playing with the mayor and a few others. He was losing, by the way.”

Tulley cocked his head. “Losin’ what?”

“Money. At poker.”

He reared back a tad. “I suppose that happens to the best of ’em.”

Her eyebrows rose. “Caleb York lose to the likes of Clem Davis and Newt Harris? And banker Burnell?”

Tulley thought about it. “Probably jes’ gettin’ their guard down, ’fore he pounced.”

Rita smirked. “If by ‘pounced’ you mean losing several hundred dollars to them, then yes. He sat there drinking and losing all evening, until I walked him upstairs and he flopped on the bed, asleep or passed out. Either way, he’s still out.”

The deputy was shaking his head. “Jes’ had hisself a bad night.”

She bobbed her head toward the bar. “It’s been slow here, but a few cowpokes stopped by. Funny how after getting a few beers in ’em, those boys do talk. Worse than a bunch of gossiping old women.”

“Ain’t they, though—they go on ’bout anythin’ tickler?”

She nodded, her pretty dark eyes half-lidded now. “You’ve heard the rumors about hired guns signing on with both Willa Cullen and the Hammond woman?”

He nodded back, forcefully. “I have. I be the very one tol’ the sheriff! That’s why he headed out to the Circle G yesterdee.”

She sighed, and there was no sign of amusement in that pretty face now. “That goes along with what I heard from those cowhands. Talk is, small armies from both camps were lined up yesterday along the opposite banks of Sugar Creek . . . and that one of the Bar-O riders was shot and killed.”

“Oh my.”

“Someone called Clements, a gunfighter.”

Tulley grunted. “Not much of a one, t’would seem.”

“Well, he was up against the best.”

“Oh my!” Tulley squinted at her. “Caleb York shot one of Miz Cullen’s hirelings! Why would he do such a thing?”

“Apparently Clements shot first.”

“. . . That’d do it.” Tulley mulled some. “So after that sad state of affairs, the legend sits down and punishes hisself, losin’ to his lessers, and then gets soused to the gills like there weren’t no t’morrow.”

Her eyes were wide now. “Well, there is a tomorrow, and this is it—but he still hasn’t come down.”

The deputy pushed away his plate, which was empty, and got to his feet. “Wal, some fool’s got to be the law in Trinidad till he gets hisself up and around.”

Tulley started to stalk out, but reaching the batwing doors, he paused and looked back at the lovely saloon owner. “You inform that Caleb York that Jonathan P. Tulley was in! That I will be at my post. You tell him so!”

She smiled gently. “I will, Deputy. I will.”

Back inside the adobe jailhouse, Tulley stewed and paced, and paced and stewed. His general pattern in the afternoon was to take a nap in one of the cells—he lived out of the kind of beat-up old suitcase cowboys called a cooster, which he would transport to whatever accommodations might be free in the little cellblock. He preferred the lockup right off the office, and mostly used that as his casa, but sometimes Caleb York had a prisoner in-house who he wanted to keep a close eye on.

Having somewhere warm to sleep with a roof over his head, other than hay in a stall over at the livery, was a perquisite Tulley quite relished. The cots were right comfortable, and most