Shoot-Out at Sugar Creek (A Caleb York Western Book 6) by Mickey Spillane (books recommended by bts TXT) 📕

lass fiddling with those colored chips, merely another game like hopscotch or marbles. Only I would win. Win big. And the funny thing, Clay? Those men almost always loved it. Of course, I was a pretty thing. Charming. Innocent.”

“I bet you were.” He emphasized “were” perhaps a little too much for her liking.

“My point is,” Victoria said, “we will deal with Caleb York later. After he’s ceased to be of use to us.”

To me.

Colman asked, “How will he be of use to us?”

Victoria rose, curled a finger at him to follow her. They stood at the edge of the veranda by a low-slung white rail.

She spoke softly now. Not that she thought someone might overhear, but . . . still, she spoke softly. “You say you saw Willa Cullen in town? Did you ask around about her?”

“A little.”

They were standing close.

She asked, “What did you learn?”

“Cullen gal and York are friendly. Of course, he’s friendly with that fancy woman that runs the Victory, too.” He shook his head. “I don’t get what they see in him.”

She did.

Victoria said, “I’ve already asked Caleb to speak to Willa Cullen on my behalf.”

“ ‘Caleb,’ is it? Will he do that?”

She nodded confidently. “I believe so. At least he’ll tell her about my hope to buy her spread, and that should at least cause sparks. Willa Cullen may not like having her . . . beau . . . delivering a message from . . .”

“Another woman?”

She laughed a little. “Yes. And should he be successful in getting Miss Cullen to meet with me, and encourage her to hear my offer for the Bar-O? She might not then be so grateful to her precious Caleb York. Because I doubt she will appreciate the modest price I’m prepared to pay.”

“Because of Sugar Creek.”

“Because of Sugar Creek.” She smiled toward the trees. “The only stream from the Purgatory River that hasn’t been fouled by cattle dying in it. And I include the Purgatory itself.”

She could smell the stream from here. Fresh. Unspoiled.

The ramrod nodded toward those trees. “We’re already camped there. You know that. Ready to defend your property.”

“Yes, and your efforts are satisfactory thus far. But with a man like York around, we need some insurance. I know you’ve assembled some of your . . . compatriots from the old Arizona days. But rustlers . . . forgive my frankness . . . rustlers who can handle a firearm are not enough. Caleb York—you said it yourself—is a killer.”

“He’s that,” Colman admitted.

Her laugh was rueful. “They’re already writing dime novels about his ‘exploits’ in Trinidad. How he gunned down Harry Gauge, the crooked sheriff whose ranch this once was. How he massacred the Rhomer boys in the street, and sent the Preacherman to hell, and that ghost town with the hotel for outlaws? He shut it down and left nobody or anything standing. He’s a one-man army.”

Colman seemed to be working at being unimpressed. “Well, he does have a deputy.”

She laughed once. “My understanding is his deputy’s an old rummy.”

“An old rummy with a hair-trigger temper and the same kind of finger on a scattergun.” He looked at her with a nasty smile. “But even the great Caleb York lets his guard down now and again. They killed Wild Bill, didn’t they?”

“Oh, and how did you and your friends do with Wyatt Earp?”

His chin jutted. “His brother Morgan bought it.”

“Virgil Earp’s still a lawman, I understand. And Wyatt himself is alive and well. Now, now . . . I don’t mean to be hard on you, Claymore. You’re a good boy. A good man. But I would feel more secure if you took on some really bad men. Bravos, we called them in San Francisco. I mean outright shootists.”

He nodded. “Pistoleros can be found.”

She raised a hard, tiny fist. “Yes, yes, any one of whom could likely handle York head-on, or at least from ambush. . . but ambushes can fail, and we need more than one ace in our poker hand, don’t we? To bet with confidence?”

He frowned, almost as if he were holding back tears. “I can take him out, Miz Hammond. You can leave it to me. I could do it right now! Today!”

She held up a hand. “I know. I know. But this is a game that’s going to go for a while, remember? Into the night and on to the next day and . . . who can say? For now I want to see how thoroughly I can get Caleb York to do my bidding, as he tries to make up for the tragedy he visited upon me. Only when I have wrung every last drop of guilt and usefulness from him will I turn to you . . . my loyal ramrod . . . my strong, hard man . . . to take him out. To rid the world of the pestilence that is Caleb York.”

“Damn right,” he said.

“Then I’ll use my new influence in the county to put a sheriff in office who I can really control.”

He grinned. “Bought and paid for. The best kind.”

She was almost whispering. “Now. Here’s what I want you to do. Go to Las Vegas and find me some thoroughly reprehensible but highly skilled hired guns.”

“Happy to.”

Her lips neared his ear. “And tonight . . . well, why don’t you sleep in the guest room tonight?”

“Not on the banks by Sugar Creek with my boys?”

She shook her head and the thick hanging curls came along for the ride. “No. Your segundo, Luis, will come fetch you if you’re needed. The game is in early rounds yet, so nothing will likely happen. But, tonight, in your bed, see if you can come up with three ways to kill Caleb York. Three plans that you feel confident in executing. And bring them to me. And we’ll talk them over.”

“First thing tomorrow?”

She was looking right at him now; the firs seemed to be leaning a little, trying to hear. “No, no. Must I spell