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

Rather diffidently, the boy glanced over at the newcomer. York had the .44 in hand butt at his side, meaning to display a threat only in his voice, at first.

The Hammond boy was handsome, almost too handsome. His dark hair, his dark eyes, his long, dark lashes, his pale complexion, all would have suited a woman well—a pretty boy who had probably learned to be unpretty in his ways, to make up for it. A handsome lad who’d gotten used to having women not resist his charms, although York doubted this boy had any charms that weren’t physical.

And he was slender, decked out in black leather pants, a black leather vest, and a gray shirt with pearl buttons, rather like York’s own.

“Put the gun down, son,” York said, almost gently.

The gun, damn near too big for the boy’s hand, was still pointing toward the bullfighter, though his head was turned toward York, teeth showing in a smile. White teeth.

“Don’t believe I will,” the boy said. “You know who I am, marshal?”

The boy had seen the badge on York’s shirt.

“It’s ‘sheriff,’ ” York said. “And you’ve had your fun for the night.”

The girl on his lap was weeping. Her hands covered her breasts.

The boy said, “Answer my question . . . Sheriff. You know who I am?”

“I know your name is Hammond. William, isn’t it?”

“William, yeah. What’s yours?”

“Caleb.”

“. . . York?”

“That’s right.”

The boy was still smiling but his brow had furrowed. “You’re famous. A famous man. Killed people. Lot of people.”

The words weren’t slurred, but the speaker was drunk, all right. Capable of only a few words at a time. On the other hand, the boy had placed all four shots inside that bullfighter’s torso. Assuming that’s what he was aiming at.

“Son,” York said, and took it up a notch, “I need you to place that gun on the table.”

“Or what?”

“Suffer the consequences.”

“. . . Suppose I do that,” the boy said. “Is that the end of it?”

“No.”

“No?”

“You’ll need to come with me.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re under arrest.”

“What’s the charge, Sheriff Caleb York?”

“You assaulted a young woman.”

The boy’s laughter was loud and harsh, and several other seated patrons responded with a jerk, as if they’d been physically slapped.

The dark, long-lashed eyes looked sleepy, but the words were wide awake: “Know where you are, Sheriff? It’s a damn cat house! Really think you can arrest me? For having some cheap tart? Think I can’t get away with that?”

York’s shrug was barely perceptible. “Might be you could. For having her.”

“Damn right!”

“But not for beating her senseless.”

“No jury would—”

“That remains to be seen.”

The smile finally disappeared.

“Now, Mr. Hammond,” York said, calm but firm, “put that gun down . . . or die for it.”

The boy lurched to his feet, bringing the girl along with him, making a flesh-and-blood shield out of her. He jammed the nose of the .45 in her neck, dimpling the tan flesh, and she gasped for air then held it, her eyes so wide they threatened to fall out, her mouth a terrible O too big for her face.

Tulley popped up behind the bar, in back of the boy, and yelled, “Ye best let that child go, devil spawn, or I’ll splatter ye here to Sunday!”

Hammond glanced behind him, momentarily startled, then his attention returned to York. He said, “That old fool can’t shoot me without taking her out, too! Tell him that!”

“He knows,” York said quietly.

“I’m walking out of here,” he said. “Right now!”

“No.”

The scowl took much of his handsomeness with it. “You make way. Make way right now. I’m taking her with me. I’ll let her go outside town. You come to the ranch. Tomorrow. Talk to my mother. She’ll take care of things.”

“No.”

Now the scowl squeezed in on itself, as if tears were next. The boy, shoving the snout of the .45 deeper into the whimpering señorita’s throat, yelped, “What do you mean ‘no’?”

York’s .44 sent his answer, the accompanying thunder shaking the room and its inhabitants, the bullet going in clean, making a reddish black hole in William Hammond’s forehead, but coming out messy, scattering brains and bone and blood like a spilled plate of Mexican food.

The girl, face spattered and speckled with red, reared away from the surprised corpse, now on its back staring at the ceiling. She flew to the arms of the nearest cowboy, who was just as surprised for a moment, then started to enjoy it, having been hugged by damn few good-looking young women, let alone one with her blouse at her waist.

Gunsmoke scorched the air as Tulley came around the bar, paused to look at the dead boy, and—shaking his head—joined York near the door.

“Hell of a shot, Sheriff,” Tulley said.

York sighed and holstered his weapon. “Wish it hadn’t gone that way.”

“Ye don’t?”

“No. For one thing, he was awful damn young to die.”

“That be true, Caleb York.” Tulley squinted at his boss. “But they’s a t’other thing, is they?”

“Yes. He should have suffered more.”

CHAPTER TWO

Caleb York shooed out the patrons of the cantina, not that much urging was needed. With Deputy Tulley posted outside to ward off any curious townsfolk, that left only the sheriff and Cesar, the proprietor, behind his bar helping himself to his own tequila, his plump wife having scurried out the back.

Soon the two men were joined by Trinidad’s undertaker, who arrived with a callow assistant and a lidded wicker coffin. Bald, skinny C. B. Perkins managed to show up in his Abe Lincoln stovepipe and black frock coat no matter what time of day a customer turned up.

Of course, the “customer” was not really the dead young man sprawled grotesquely on the straw-strewn floor—the one who would be paying, on behalf of the county, was almost certainly the sheriff. At least that appeared to be the undertaker’s assumption, based upon his first remark, the tall hat respectfully in hand.

“Would you mind, Sheriff,” the undertaker’s soft, midrange, uninflected voice intoned, “if I displayed this poor young wastrel’s remains in my storefront window?”

York hid his irritation just