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

other brush through the scrubby flat ground, raising a fog of dust that gathered itself at the ankles of mourners. A mesquite tree shivered but otherwise ignored the breeze, resolute in its mission to oversee the wooden crosses and markers and the occasional actual tombstone, for which relatives of a few of the well-off dead had sent away for as far as Denver.

Someone—volunteers from Missionary Baptist, possibly, or perhaps the undertaker and his assistant—appeared to have organized an effort to spruce up the grounds, and to upright any grave indicators knocked over in the brutally hard winter.

As had been the case at her father’s service, the entire Citizens Committee—the City Council, they were calling themselves now—were clumped together, with no spouses or offspring accompanying, strung along one side of the grave. This included Mayor Hardy, druggist Davis, hardware man Mathers, mercantile owner Harris, and bank president Burnell. Raymond Parker was there, too. All in their Sunday best.

Noticeably absent was Caleb York.

Not surprising, Willa thought, since Caleb had shot and killed the boy being buried.

A selection of cowhands from the Circle G were on hand, but also noticeably absent were the ranch’s rougher customers, some of whom were reportedly veterans of the Earp/Clanton conflict in Tombstone—so-called Cowboys with a capital C. These less threatening cowpunchers were dressed in whatever suit they could manage, hats in hand, awkward yet oddly reverent.

The graveside service had been announced by way of a placard in the undertaker’s window. Willa hadn’t been sure she should attend. But it was at least a small gesture she could make, a tiny peace offering. Perhaps something human could pass between her and the grieving mother.

Bible in hand, lanky, mutton-chopped Reverend Caldwell stood by the wooden marker, which a Denver tombstone would surely replace, although undertaker Perkins had already provided his best brass-fitted mahogany coffin to designate the importance of the deceased young raper. Beneath the mesquite, Perkins and his adolescent helper waited patiently with two Mexican gravediggers for their turn to take center stage.

“I read to you today from Hebrews two: nine-ten,” Caldwell intoned. “ ‘Yes, by God’s grace, Jesus tasted death for everyone. God, for whom and through whom everything was made, chose to bring many children into glory.’ ”

Along the other side of the grave stood the boy’s mother, Victoria Hammond, in a black lace-trimmed satin gown and a mantilla that served as a sort of veil. But the woman’s perfectly chiseled features were visible and she showed no signs of tears. Instead her features were so composed as to look frozen, her eyes not on the preacher or the coffin in the hole, but straight ahead.

Next to her were two men in black suits and droopy black bow ties, one on either side, each holding an arm of hers—the woman’s sons, someone had whispered to Willa before the proceedings began. One was slender and weepy, and looked to be in his midtwenties and resembled his mother; the other, a few years older, did not. Willa had no way of knowing it, but the older son—burly, firm of jaw, cold of eye—looked like his late father, Andrew Hammond.

The religious words were few. A young woman from the church sang “Amazing Grace.” Handfuls of dirt were cast into the grave by each of the three family members. A final prayer and it was over.

Citizens just paying their respects to this new but important player in the area’s cattle game (the living mother, not the dead boy) merely nodded and made their way to their horses and conveyances. The city fathers lingered to individually offer their condolences, and bow their heads. Already Victoria Hammond was being paid tribute by Trinidad, which Willa frankly resented, even while feeling mild guilt for such thoughts at the grave site of the woman’s youngest son.

The Bar-O’s mistress waited until the cemetery had cleared of everyone but the deceased’s family and the undertaker with his retinue. The reverend had been the last to go, and could be seen riding alone in a carriage back to town, at an easy pace.

The Hammonds spent no time at William’s grave for private thoughts or good-byes. Instead they headed toward a waiting buckboard, watched over by a blond cowboy on horseback—Clay Colman, although he was no one Willa recognized. The cowboy stood out not only because of his good looks, but in being new to the Trinidad environs, at least so far as Willa knew.

She approached the trio in black and Victoria held up a “stop” hand that her sons honored, the younger one almost stumbling to stay in line quickly with his mother.

Willa said, “We have not met, Mrs. Hammond. I’m Willa Cullen.” She extended her hand.

The woman accepted it—both wore black lace gloves—and their right hands briefly clasped.

The younger surviving son—whose features were so like his mother’s but compressed onto a narrower face, as if the attractiveness had been squeezed out like the juice of a lemon—glared openly at Willa with eyes red from tears.

The older brother seemed bored and didn’t look at Willa at all. Nor did he appear to have been crying.

Willa said to the bereaved woman, “You have my sincere condolences,” then nodded to each of her attendants. Neither acknowledged her.

“Thank you, Miss Cullen.” The voice was almost as low as a man’s, yet still quite feminine. “It’s kind of you to honor us with your presence. Were you acquainted with my brother? Had you met?”

Willa shook her head, offered up a sad smile. “No. He was pointed out to me in town, on the street. He was a handsome lad. I’m very sorry.”

No grief whatsoever showed on the beautiful face. “The circumstances were . . . unfortunate.”

Willa nodded. “It adds a bitterness to the passing. I lost my father last year, to violence. He lies here in this same ground.”

“A rather desolate resting place, don’t you think?”

Wind rustled the mesquite’s leaves. Tumbleweed tumbled.

“It is that,” Willa granted. She gestured toward the cliffs. “But there’s beauty on the horizon.”

The Hammond woman nodded, just