Shoot-Out at Sugar Creek (A Caleb York Western Book 6) - Mickey Spillane (classic novels .TXT) 📗

Dave grinned; it was an awkward, yellow thing. “Oh, he ain’t touchy about such things, nor is I. Most of the White Caps is Mexican and they’s as good a men as most. It’s just when you’re calculatin’ kills, there is some folks don’t count Mexicans. Or Indians.”

“They count when they’re comin’ at you with guns or knives.” He shifted in the hard chair. “Dave, let me fill you in on the particulars.”

“Oh, like I said, I ain’t particular.”

“No, I mean . . . you’ve got the job, if the money sounds right to you.”

“Money don’t never sound wrong.”

Dave was the first man Colman hired.

Billy Bassett was maybe ten years older than Dave Carson, a skinny character with a full mustache that looked like it might weigh near as much as he did. He wore a battered canvas jacket over a gray twill shirt, chaps over denims, and a low-slung Remington revolver. By way of introduction, he told a story of an encounter in a saloon not as posh as the Imperial.

“I have killed my share,” he told Colman in a low drawl. “Maybe the one people talk about is when the four brothers of a man named Drew come to Wichita lookin’ for me. But I found them first.”

“Is that the time you just stepped through the Long Branch doors and just started shooting?”

Billy snapped his fingers. “That’s the one! Two died on the spot. Two others died later that night from me shootin’ ’em earlier. Hell, I was gone afore the smoke cleared. And I killed nary an innocent bystander, not that many in that particular drinkin’ hole was what you might call innocent.”

No bystanders. Billy had one up on Dave.

Colman hired Billy, who was fine with the money and whose side he was fighting on made no matter.

The next potential recruit announced by Silva was an Indian, the “Chiricahua Kid,” his jaw square, cheekbones high, eyes narrow, and a cold, cold unblinking blue. Ebony hair hung unbraided to his shoulders, his surprisingly tall, narrow frame decked out in a red- and white-man hodgepodge of black sombrero, weathered army jacket, silk bandanna, and knee-high cavalry boots. This “kid” pushing thirty kept a knife high on one hip and a .45 Peacemaker low on the other, and looked every bit as friendly as a rattler, the only difference being this one didn’t show his teeth.

Colman told the Indian that he would be expected to kill, sometimes in a general melee on the banks of Sugar Creek, but also might be enlisted for skullduggery.

“What is skullduggery?”

“Back-shooting and throat-slitting.”

“White men?”

“Mostly. Maybe a black here or a Mexie there.”

“Extra dinero?”

“For that, yes. Would that offend your scruples?”

“What is scruples?”

“Some call it conscience.”

The bronze figure thought about that briefly. “Means . . . right and wrong? Yes. This I have.”

Not what Colman wanted to hear. “Give me an example of that.”

The Apache nodded slowly, then spoke the same way. “Near Fort Grant, woman in small covered wagon sell her ranch. She have boy and baby with her. And money. I shoot her and boy and take money.”

Colman blinked. “How the hell’s that show me you got scruples?”

The shrug was barely perceptible. “Not rape her. Not kill baby. Later, men say coyotes eat. No right and wrong, coyotes.”

Colman hired him on the spot, and then two others, though no other candidates matched the Chiricahua Kid.

* * *

That afternoon, Bill Jackson took the chair that earlier had been Clay Colman’s, although of course neither man knew of the other’s recruiting efforts.

The first candidate, Frank Duffy, was older than Jackson had in mind—well into his forties, but striking nonetheless, six-three easy, and looking even taller because of a ridiculous, somewhat battered top hat. He had broad shoulders and a muscular look, his eyes and hair black, his tanned face narrow and grooved.

Yet he was soft-spoken.

“I have done my share of killing,” he said, “but I am no assassin. I have been a soldier fighting Indians and a lawman in Arizona jailing outlaws. So if that disqualifies me, I understand.”

“But you ride with the White Caps?”

He frowned, obviously offended. “I do not, sir. I recently took up residence in Las Vegas and have become friendly with Mr. Silva. Despite his . . . sideline, he seems trustworthy.”

“Yeah, he does.”

“And he is understanding of my frailty.”

“What frailty is that?”

He pulled air in, then let it out. “I can get obstreperous when I imbibe. Rest assured I do not drink on the job. However, I may become rowdy after work. I say this openly.”

That amused Jackson, who nonetheless said, “This is rough work. You understand that? You’ll shoot and be shot at. Give and take no quarter.”

Duffy took off the top hat, held it in both hands. “There was five youngsters, the Scranton brothers, who ran with the Heath rustler gang, who also indulged in holdups. They operated out of Sulphur Valley. In Bisbee they knocked over a mining company store. Half stayed outside, half went in. Alarm went off and indoors shooting commenced. A woman was killed by bullets exiting the front window. My deputy walked up, not knowing the two youngsters outside were part of the gang, and as he headed in to do his duty, they back-shot him. A goodly number of times. My deputy was so dead he didn’t have time to know it. What I did in retaliation wasn’t strictly legal.”

“What was that?”

“Got a lead from a saloon gal that those boys went down to Chihuahua, Mexico, which is where I found them holed up in a bordello. Three I killed in the cantina. Two in bed with wenches. I took no innocent lives, but as I say, my activities were not strictly legal. I lit out. Have not set foot below the border since.”

“Is that a true story, old man?”

Duffy went slowly for his gun and Jackson began to rise, but the candidate held out his .44, butt first. Thirteen notches were cut in it.

“The middle five,” Duffy said, “are the