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

dining room. By now it was after eleven o’clock and those taking an early lunch would be filtering in. First of these was a familiar face.

White-haired, white-mustached Raymond Parker was about as distinguished-looking a character as anyone might ever hope to encounter in Trinidad, New Mexico. In his double-breasted gray-trimmed-black Newmarket coat, lighter gray waistcoat, and darker gray trousers, the fiftyish businessman cut an impressive citified figure, modified by that Western touch of a gray Stetson.

Doffing that hat, Parker beamed as he spotted York in his quiet corner, and came quickly over. “May I join you?”

“Please.”

The businessman appraised the sheriff carefully. “You look pale, man. Are you ill?”

“Nothing catching.”

One eyebrow went up. “Caleb York—unshaven, red eyed, with the general aspect of a kicked hound.” Parker reached in his pocket for his polished steel cigar case. “If I didn’t know you better, I’d say you were hung over.”

Parker was about to open the case when York said, “If you don’t put that thing away, I’ll have to kill you.”

The laugh that came was loud enough to make York wince again. “So you are hung over. What’s the occasion? This mess with the Bar-O and Circle G?”

York nodded.

Parker tucked the case away in a side coat pocket and said, “So it’s true you shot a man. One of the gunfighters imported from Las Vegas.”

York nodded again, then added, “And last night someone took a shot at me.”

“Must have sobered you up.”

“For a few seconds. But now I’m making staying sober a general policy.”

“Not a bad one at that.” Parker’s humorous demeanor faded and he seemed almost grave when he said, “Something has to be done about this budding range war.”

“I’m trying.”

“By shooting and killing a man?”

York explained the situation, briefly.

“There’s still time to shut this thing down,” Parker said. “And we need to. Not just because we’re good citizens, either.”

“Isn’t that enough?”

Parker flipped a hand. “Should be. But turning Trinidad from a bump in the road to a town and then a city will take more than good citizens. And more brains than bullets . . . meaning no offense.”

“I like to think I have access to both.”

“You do. Didn’t mean to imply otherwise.” Parker poured himself some coffee; it was still hot, or anyway hot enough. “The Santa Fe had to hold up starting work on the spur because of the blizzards, as you know. But there is still time for them to change their mind.”

“Why would they?”

“Well,” the businessman said, and shrugged, “if you were the Santa Fe Railroad, would you want to bring in teams to lay track in the middle of the equivalent of the Lincoln County War?”

Casual as the words were delivered, they came as a slap.

“No,” York said.

Parker leaned in confidentially. “Which would make that land you own, and the train station I have contracted to build upon that land, about as valuable as Confederate money.”

“I suppose that’s true.”

He threw a hand in the air. “Oh, it’s true, all right. Caleb, Trinidad will wither away and die without the railroad. And you’ll have a handsome chunk of worthless property on the outskirts of a ghost town.”

York shifted in his chair; it took effort. “Raymond, I have talked to Willa. She’s armed and ready to fight with Victoria Hammond. Hell, she’s ready to fight with me.”

Parker’s head tilted to one side. “If you’ll forgive my intruding into personal territory . . . that wouldn’t be another reason for this hangover, would it?”

York ignored that. “The Hammond woman isn’t helping any. She lied to me, or anyway dissembled. She indicated she wanted me to help convince Willa to sell the Bar-O, but her offer to Willa was insulting. Pennies per acre.”

Parker’s eyes were narrowed. “How is it that Victoria Hammond is even on speaking terms with you, Caleb? You killed her son. I would think she would, if anything, be plotting your downfall.”

“Perhaps she is. But she presents herself as a practical woman, and paints her son as a troubled soul who met a sad fate that was likely inevitable.”

Parker was shaking his head. “A parent losing a child is rarely practical. And I know some things about her that you don’t.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes. I had her looked into by your friends the Pinkertons. And I asked friendly rivals of mine, as well . . . about her and her late husband, whose reputation as an unprincipled bastard I was already well-acquainted with. Andrew Hammond was a swindler and a cheat, and my guess is his wife is no better. It’s likely their moving south was merely to make rustling in Mexico more convenient, because almost certainly that is how she intends to restock and expand the Circle G herd.”

“That’s opinion. What facts did you come up with?”

Parker leaned back, arms folded. “The Hammond ranch in Colorado is tottering, after the Big Die-Up, and their bank is facing ruin. Victoria Hammond seems to be trying to stave off outright failure by snatching up as much land in this part of the world as she can, and as much surviving cattle. The paltry offer to Miss Cullen from Mrs. Hammond may in part be all Lady Victoria can afford. If this range war develops, and Willa has to make peace by way of selling out, any offer she takes for the Bar-O should definitely be in cash.”

York raised a palm. “Raymond, I hold no sway over Willa now. And the badge I’m hired to wear puts me squarely on the Hammond side of Sugar Creek. What would you have me do?”

Parker’s voice was low, confidential, even though the chamber was largely empty of anyone but them. “We need to play for time. If you’ll keep this powder keg from blowing up in the faces of all concerned, I can finish my work in Denver.”

“What work?”

“I’m leaving on the stage today to catch the train at Las Vegas. Back in Denver I have put together a consortium of investors to buy up Mexican cattle—not just steal it—so that I can offer Willa