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

“Doc Miller’s. Your deputy helped us take her there.”

York practically ran out of the Victory, slamming on his hat, brushing past Rita, who’d overheard all of it, aghast. He got more details on the way.

Seemed the two gunhands had been surreptitiously stationed in the scrubby woods near Sugar Creek, keeping an eye on the shoreline and the men keeping guard at two small campfires there. Then, in the direction of the Bar-O, they saw smoke rising into the night against a blush of orange-yellow that was something other than dawn coming way early.

They had left their post and gone back to the main road and ridden toward the ranch only to encounter a nearly unconscious Willa Cullen, riding toward town, wounded, struggling not to fall off her horse.

Light glowed in the windows of Miller’s surgery on the second floor of the bank building. With the two Bar-O hirelings trailing him, York went quickly up the exterior steps hugging the side brick wall to the little landing and went into the waiting room.

Tulley was pacing like an expectant father. He stopped in place when York and the two others burst in.

“That witch shot her, Caleb York! Shot that sweet gal!” The deputy pointed to the place on himself.

“Is she conscious?”

It was Miller who answered, coming out of the surgery: “She’s in and out.”

The doctor was in the rolled-up sleeves of a bloody shirt, rubbing his hands with an alcohol-soaked cloth.

York faced him. “She going to pull through?”

Miller’s shrug made no commitment. “Too early. She’s lost blood. I can give her a saline solution as a blood substitute—that can be effective at times.”

“At times?”

Another shrug. “Best option I have. It’s more successful than the goat milk transfusions we used to give. She’s a tough little gal.” He bobbed his head back toward his small adjacent surgery. “She heard your voice out here. Wants to speak to you, Caleb. I’ve given her a sedative that will kick in soon, so you should go in now.”

He did.

She lay on her back on the mahogany examination table looking pretty despite the circumstances, but pale as death. The table was heavy, good size, covered in crisp white paper. Her green-and-black shirt had been flung to the floor, her camisole cut away to allow application of a bandage, the gauze stained red.

Her blue eyes were half-lidded, but she smiled, seeing him, when he leaned in over her, taking her near hand.

“Caleb,” she said. “Caleb . . .”

He summoned a reassuring smile. “The doc will take good care of you. You just rest.”

Her eyes managed to open a little wider. “That woman. . . she and two of her . . . crew. Came in after . . . after her raiders had gone. Must’ve cut their number in half. She did this, Caleb. Shot me.”

He gently squeezed the hand. “You just rest. I’ll take care of it. Doc’ll take care of you.”

The eyes were even wider now. “Caleb . . . watch out for her. She’s . . . crazed.”

“I’ll watch out. You rest.”

“I set her off!”

“Quiet now . . . I’m going. . . .”

“I killed her boy.”

“What?”

She swallowed. “Pierce Hammond . . . he killed Jackson. Bill Jackson. And I shot him for it.”

And Victoria had shot Willa for that.

Some women wanted sweet talk, especially at a time like this.

But York told her what he knew she’d want to hear: “I’ll make her pay. I’ll make them all pay.”

* * *

Back in the jailhouse office, York conferred with the two Bar-O gunmen and his deputy. The sheriff sat behind his desk, methodically filling every empty loop on his cartridge belt with a .44 bullet. When he was finished, he stood and slung the gun belt on. Buckled it.

“If I were in a mood to wait till morning,” York said, “I could ride to Las Vegas and gather a posse with this.”

He reached in his inside frock coat pocket and withdrew the lump of brownbacks. He tossed the fold of cash onto the desk, where it made a satisfying thump. The two hired guns looked at the wad of money the way starving men look at their first meal in a long time. Tulley, on the other hand, regarded it like a pile of paper.

“Or,” York said, flipping a hand, “we could handle this tonight. Two-way split.”

Tulley had done the ciphering. “They is four of us, Caleb York.”

“This is not a matter of money to me,” York said to them all. Then to Tulley: “Anyway, Deputy, you and I are already being paid by the county.”

“That be a fact,” Tulley admitted.

Duffy was still staring at the loot, but O’Fallon’s gaze had settled on York. “Handle it tonight how?”

“Take them on,” the sheriff said calmly. “Right now. When they least expect it.”

O’Fallon’s eyes were narrow in thought. “How many of the Circle G bunch are left?”

York shook his head. “No idea. But they took heavy losses, Willa said.”

“Said the same to us,” Duffy said, finally looking up from the cash. “Where you figure they’ll be?”

York said, “Could be in their own bunkhouse.”

“Oughta burn it,” Duffy said sourly.

O’Fallon said, “If they’ve bedded down, watchdogs’ll be posted.”

“Or maybe,” York offered, “they’re strung along the crick bank. Waiting for retaliation.”

The former lawman shook his head, smirked skeptically. “What for? Not much chance of Bar-O boys or cattle trying to cross tonight. Don’t know if any of the Bar-O outfit is even still breathing, but us.”

York’s shrug seemed easy, but it was calculated. “Might be down there celebrating. Big night for ’em, y’know. And I don’t imagine Victoria Hammond invites the boys in for parties much.”

O’Fallon’s gaze remained steady. “You sound like you have something in mind, York.”

“I do.”

“Wal,” Tulley said, “nothin’ much brewin’ in town. Might as well go somewheres and beat the boredom.”

No one said anything. Tulley smiled at York. York smiled back, though not as wide. The other two just looked at that money.

Finally O’Fallon said, “I’m game.”

“Me too,” Duffy said, and reached for the wad