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

afternoons he fell asleep as soon as he settled. Today, with his mind ajitter with worry over Caleb York’s situation, Tulley took an endless near three minutes of tossing and turning before nodding off.

Normally Caleb York would have been in and out of the office enough for Tulley to get roused at some point. But today—or tonight, more like—the deputy didn’t wake till moonlight was coming through the high barred window. He got himself up, went out and poured some coffee and drank it down. The clock on the wall high up behind the sheriff’s desk said eleven-fifteen—Judas Priest, how long had Tulley been sawing logs, anyway?

He’d slept through his chores, such as sweeping out and mopping up as needed. No time for that before starting up his evening rounds, which he decided to tend to.

Soon he was heading down the boardwalk, shotgun in hand. Things was typically deserted, this time of night, save for the Victory Saloon, where the windows were letting out light like the place was burning up.

He pushed through the batwings and found Hell’s half acre hopping. Some of the same cowhands and clerks were back, or were maybe still there, plus more of both breeds, keeping the dice, roulette, chuck-a-luck, and wheel of fortune stations bustling. The piano player was pounding out hurdy-gurdy-type tunes while grubby cowpokes and fancy gals cuddled upright—just because no rental brides was taking them temporary grooms upstairs no more didn’t mean some hanky-panky weren’t still being arranged.

Yancy Cole was dealing faro again, and Caleb York was back playing poker with the city fathers, looking to win back what they took from him the night before, t’would seem. The sheriff’s black frock coat looked rumpled and his hat was shoved back on his head. He could have used a shave. At his elbow was a glass of brown liquid that was likely whiskey. He had a few piles of chips in front of him, whereas several of his friendly opponents had assembled a number of towers of such chips, blue, red, orange, and white.

The mayor was shuffling, so Tulley took that moment to sidle up to Caleb York.

“Sheriff,” he said.

“Deputy.” Not looking at Tulley.

“Ye be missed today.”

“Any trouble?”

“No! No, sir. Quiet. Like a Sunday service, minus the preacher jawin’.”

“Good.”

Cards were being dealt now. It was a five-card draw game. Dealer’s choice.

Tulley cleared his throat. “Word is they was trouble out to Sugar Crick.”

“Some.”

“You have to shoot a man?”

“Yes.”

“Pulled on you, did he?”

“He pulled. Why I shot him.”

“One of Miss Willa’s guntoters, was it?”

“Yes. They were on Hammond land. Tulley, I’m playing cards.”

“So I see.”

“Pull up a chair or find somewhere else to be.”

“You know I don’t indulge in games of chance, Caleb York.”

“I do know. And kibitzers ain’t allowed. Which leaves you one choice.”

Tulley knew what choice that was. He shuffled over to the bar. Miss Rita, in a green gown trimmed white, came up and said, “He’s losing even worse tonight. At his request, I’ve been feeding him straight whiskey and poker chips all evening. Tin box under the bar has five IOUs of his in it.”

“Caleb York’s got the money.”

“I know he does. But Tulley, I’m worried. I never saw him like this.”

“Nor I.”

She told bartender Hub Wainwright to get Tulley a sarsaparilla, and left the deputy at the bar amongst the others bellied up there, and proceeded to thread through the customers, spreading smiles and nods.

Tulley had just finished his glass of the sweet soda water when across the room Caleb York pushed his chair away from the table and stood, not terribly steady about it. No chips were in front of him. He made an awkward trip over to the bar where Miss Rita was talking to Hub.

Conversation ensued but didn’t last long, and Caleb York hustled out, damn near losing his balance doing so.

Tulley got up and went over to the saloon gal and didn’t even have to ask what it was about. She just started right in.

“I cut him off,” she said, looking a little pale. “No more money, no more whiskey.”

“He’s got money in the safe and whiskey in a desk drawer.”

“He said as much to me,” she told the deputy. “Said he’d be back in a flash.”

“On his hands and knees, more like. He’s so drunk he couldn’t hit the ground with his hat in three throws.”

Her expression screamed worry. “Better follow him, Mr. Tulley. If he’s headed back to the jail, maybe you can talk sense to him.”

Tulley felt kind of honored by that. It had been many years since anyone had suggested to Tulley that he might be the right person to talk sense to anyone.

Shotgun stock tight in his left hand, Tulley exited the saloon into a moon-swept night and an empty street. Almost empty—ahead on the boardwalk, Caleb York was halfway up the next block, obviously on his way back to the jail. He was not moving fast. In fact, he was weaving.

That may have saved his life.

Because when the shot cracked the emptiness like small sudden thunder—coming from across the street, around the corner, orange muzzle flame making a brief brightness in the dark—the sheriff had made a moving target of himself by almost losing his balance.

Tulley, already running toward the danger, saw Caleb York sober up just long enough to draw his .44 and duck backward into the recession of a storefront’s entryway. Tulley—his footfall making the boards beneath creak and groan—yelled, “Stay put, Sheriff! Stay put!”

The deputy ran into the street and across, shotgun primed for action, but when he got to the corner and peeked around, and then stepped out, nothing was waiting but the stench of gunpowder. Beyond were the handful of residences back there. Not a light in any window, not even second floor. Then he heard hoofbeats that quickly receded, and figured the trouble was leaving of its own accord.

Best check and make sure the sheriff hadn’t been hit.

He did so, finding Caleb York huddled against the doorway of the pharmacy with