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

Her tone was casual, though her expression was not. “You are, I believe, aware of the water rights disagreement between Miss Cullen and myself.”

“I am.”

“Miss Cullen feels, I understand, that certain agreements between neighboring ranchers, made long ago and never formalized, should be honored by the new owner of the Circle G, who happens to be me. Clean, clear water is at this moment a scarcity in these parts. At a premium, you might say. Sugar Creek runs through my land. It’s near her property, yes . . . but it cuts through mine alone.”

He raised palms of surrender. “This sounds like something you two should sit down and work out. Or law book men who represent you. It doesn’t have to come to guns.”

Her smile looked sad, or tried to. “Ah, but Caleb—you said it yourself. She has hired her own gunmen. Her own ‘soldiers.’ That is her prerogative, of course. Perhaps she wants such men merely to guard her land—to keep her scrawny, barely breathing livestock from being ‘rustled,’ as they say. Or perhaps she fears the Apaches will rise up again and her home must be protected.”

“You and I both know neither is likely.”

The teacher lifted a scolding forefinger. “That, Caleb, is my point. The Cullen girl has assembled this little army solely to invade the Circle G.” She shrugged rather grandly. “So I have every right to assemble an army of my own. I have a right, a duty, to defend myself and my property. Stand your ground is a privilege, even a golden rule here in the Southwest. You know it, and I know it.”

What could he say to that?

He had another sip of the tart drink and stood. Deposited the glass on the little table. “Are you suggesting I stay out of this? Let the ‘armies’ fight it out?”

Now she was looking up at him. “Have you another suggestion?”

“I can’t say I do. I can only say I wish you two females would find some other way to work this thing out besides lettin’ bullets fly.”

He nodded to her and started out.

Then in a rustle of feminine fabric she was at his side and holding on to his arm. Under her long dress she may have been wearing boots that put her at his eye level like this, but there was no denying that, even so, for a female she was a tall drink of water.

Or maybe lemonade.

She said, “I have to disagree with you, Caleb. Because you’re clearly shirking your duty.”

Their eyes locked.

“My duty,” he said, “is to try and shut this powder-burning contest down before all of you wind up losers.”

Victoria shook her head gently, her eyes staying steady. She was near to him. “No. You were right first time.”

“Right how?”

“That I’m a taxpayer. Your side in this is with me.”

He frowned. “Willa Cullen is a taxpayer, too.”

“I don’t deny that. I’m sure she’s quite scrupulous in that regard. But if she crosses over into my property, and waters her cattle in my stream, without my say-so . . . without negotiating water rights, which I hold . . . your responsibility is to protect me and mine.”

The frown went deeper. “You expect me to back you up over Willa?”

“As long as you wear that badge I do, yes.” She came ever closer to him, face-to-face. She still smelled like lilacs, damn her. Her breasts were pressed against his chest and her nostrils flared and so did her eyes, like a horse rearing and begging to be broke.

“I would not insult you,” she said, “by offering you money. But I would be grateful. And I would find some way . . . to show it.”

Her face came up and her mouth found his. They were soft and supple, those full, sensual lips, and slowly moved with his, speaking to him silently, expressing an unmistakable yearning. His first reaction was surprise, and yet he didn’t draw away from her. He let her do what she wanted to, and then his arms went around her and held her even closer. When she drew away, just barely, he grabbed her and held her to him and kissed her again, harder. Almost savagely.

Then he pushed her away. “You don’t have to bribe me, woman. And I know just what I should do. What my responsibility is.”

Her head went back, her eyes looked down; even standing, she was somehow above him. “I’m within my rights, Caleb. I’m acting within the law.”

“I know.”

His heart was beating fast and he was offended and exhilarated, angry and delighted, and—as he left and moved through the house, past the servant girl—he was glad he hadn’t put his hat on, holding it before him just below the belt.

Outside, he leaned against his horse and considered what needed doing, and how. Byers came out after a while.

“Sheriff,” he said, approaching him. “Are you all right?”

York turned to the bookkeeper. “How far to where the Circle G men are camped?”

“Just through the stand of firs,” he said, gesturing that way. “About half a mile.”

“How far coming around along the creek, from the north?”

Byers shrugged. “Few miles.”

“And from the south?”

“Same.”

“Any idea how long it might take? I’m not that familiar with the lay of this land.”

The bookkeeper shook his head. “I’m no horseman. Be easier to walk it.”

“I’m going to leave my horse here.” York patted the animal and withdrew his Winchester 1873 from its saddle scabbard. “That acceptable, Mr. Byers?”

“I’m sure the mistress won’t mind. She’s a law-biding woman.”

That didn’t rate a response.

He walked around the hacienda-style ranch house and strode across the shallow backyard, the Winchester by its stock in his left hand, nose angled down. Then he was in the stand of firs, though it was more than just a stand really, more a patch of forest on gradually sloping ground.

Moving through, he had to step around one tall pine after another, as no path was there to help him. The process was serpentine, the