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

Your Honor,” York said, tapping the tin star on his gray shirt, “but what I have will do.”

“I’m not suggesting a trade,” the mayor said, a lilt in his already high voice. “This is an addition.”

A lagniappe?

The mayor was saying, “You need not wear it, or you may choose to instead . . . swap them out, depending on the occasion. The situation.”

Parker’s amusement had faded. “Let’s not be coy, Jasper. Tell Caleb what you have in mind. Share what it is that you have in mind for him.”

The little mayor folded his hands. “As you may know, I have a certain . . . influence with the Territorial government in Santa Fe.”

Parker said to York, “Jasper’s sister is married to the governor’s brother.”

York grinned at this revelation, which had somehow been kept from him. He’d often wondered how it was the undersized barber had come to hold the political reins in Trinidad. It couldn’t be good grooming entirely.

“Our Citizens Committee,” the mayor said, “will henceforth be known as the City Council. I have been appointed mayor for a five-year term, after which we will have our first elections.”

That was a savvy play for both the mayor and the governor—Trinidad would have its growth spurt in the next five years. Fortunes could be made. A little man could be a king, at least for five years.

“That badge,” the mayor said, pointing to the silver shield, “identifies you as marshal of Trinidad.”

Indeed it was engraved MARSHAL.

“I prefer,” Caleb said, openly skeptical, “being county sheriff.”

With the tax collecting, it paid better.

“You will still be sheriff, with a five-year term like mine,” Hardy said, his smile lifting the elaborate mustache, like curtains rising. “With a second paycheck, equal to the one you’re already receiving, and will continue to receive.”

York squinted suspiciously at the diminutive politician. “What new responsibilities does this entail?”

The mayor shrugged. “None. It’s the same job you’ve been doing. Of course, as Trinidad grows with the spur, and becomes a railhead for cattle—surely that industry will rebound, at least to a respectable degree—the scope of your responsibilities will grow.”

That small army of men in blue with nightsticks of Parker’s marched into York’s mind. “I would need more staff.”

“Certainly. Deputy Tulley has exceeded all of our expectations, but you will need good men. Officers. I assure you that the City Council will approve reasonable requests for additional personnel.”

Their oyster stew arrived.

They ate in relative silence, with occasional chitchat ensuing, but between the mayor and the banker only. York just put the food away at an easy pace, but his mind was galloping. The badge caught light from the high noon sun, glinting, winking, like the facets of a cut diamond.

When their plates had been cleared, and the coffee cups refilled, York said, “I would want Tulley’s salary doubled, as well.”

“Done,” the mayor said. “And then there’s the matter of the house here in town, construction of which was already under way when the blizzards struck.”

“The use of which is mine while I’m in office.”

Hardy shook his head. “No, Sheriff. It will be yours free and clear. The deed will be signed over to you. We ask only one thing.”

“And what is that?”

“No further talk from you of San Diego and the Pinks. You will sign a contract and make a commitment to Trinidad.” The mayor pushed away from the table. “Well, I have to get back to my customers. Time and tonsorial needs wait for no man.” He stood—not tall, but stood. “May I leave the badge?”

York nodded.

The mayor rushed over for his hat and went quickly out, leaving no time for the expression of second thoughts.

Parker finished his coffee. His cigar had long since gone out and resided rather sadly in a Trinidad House glass ash tray.

“Well,” the banker said. “You seem to have selected your option.”

“I seem to.”

“No doubt Miss Cullen will be pleased. She’s gone to some lengths to keep you away from that position with the Pinkertons in San Diego.” The mayor pushed away and rose. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have some legal matters to discuss with Mr. Curtis.”

Arlen Curtis was the attorney who represented both York and Parker in the various train station dealings.

“Give him my regards,” York said reflexively.

The banker nodded, signed the check to his room, and left.

A few minutes later, shaded by wooden awnings, York was heading up the boardwalk to the jailhouse. The street no longer wore its usual layer of sand, brought in from the nearby Purgatory River, to keep the dust down; the snow had swallowed up, and carried off, much of that sand, and the damp ground it left behind turned hard and rutted, not yet given to dust.

A handful of women in gingham and calico were out strolling along shopping, and men in work attire whether farm or town were occasionally going in and coming out of businesses. This small-town world—with its hardware store, apothecary, mercantile store, bank, telegraph office, saddle shop, and single saloon—had been easy enough to supervise where keeping the peace went. But as Trinidad grew, so would his obligations.

Of course, so would his paycheck—paychecks—and his staff would consist of more than one eccentric, reformed desert rat. He shouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth, not that he was inclined to look any horse in the mouth. Something was unsettling him, though.

Maybe it was just change.

And change was coming. It was something you couldn’t ride around, and you couldn’t jump over it, either. Maybe . . . maybe . . . you could tame it, the way the right lawman could an unruly town.

Someone was sitting on the bench out front of the jail—Bill Jackson, the cowhand born a Mississippi slave who Willa hired on as her foreman. York had spoken to him a few times, just in passing, and knew he had a reputation among his men as hard but fair.

Jackson got to his feet as York approached, and doffed his sombrero. He was near tall as York, his hair cropped short,