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

He thrust himself backward and the attacker, luckily, was forced back into a pine, with enough force to loosen that arm looped around his neck, which he slipped under, and in one swift motion he got the .44 out—firing it would cause everything to go to hell, and would signal a general assault by his posse of three that it was not yet time to make—and swung the weapon, landing it hard against the side of his attacker’s head, to stun or even knock out that vague, threatening shape assailing him like a dream demon, just enough moonlight filtering through at that moment, at that angle, to reveal who his opponent was: the Chiricahua Kid.

The Kid was reeling from the blow, and without the knife that was an Apache’s tool of close-in fighting, for a few moments York had the upper hand. He swung the. 44 again, backhanded this time, and the second blow opened up a bloody gash from temple to cheek, then he head-butted the Indian, who was already pinned against the tree, and the Kid slid down the bark surface, gurgling.

York leaned down to hit him again, if need be, but the gurgling stopped and the man was dead or one hell of a faker. Moonlight found the knife and it glinted at York, as if to say, Better safe than sorry. York grabbed it up and pounded the blade into the fallen warrior’s heart.

Dead for sure now.

York sat for a moment, the rough pinecone-strewn surface of the small forest making for uncomfortable seating; but he needed to catch his breath, leaning back against another fir. Enabled by night vision and a little moonlight, he regarded the dead renegade, and thought about what an ignoble end this storied fighter had come to. On the other hand, the son of a bitch had burned down that bunkhouse and caused the death of every man in it, so to hell with him.

He got to his feet and made his way to the edge of the trees. Positioned himself behind one, .44 nose pointed up.

And there they were.

The raiders laughing, slapping each other on the back, their glee echoing off ivory-glimmering waters gliding by, moving through the moon’s reflection and leaving it behind on the northward journey. The sand looked like sugar, all right, whiter than sugar, as pure as these outlaw creatures cavorting on it were not.

The campfire at this end had four Circle G hands gathered around it, two sitting, two standing, passing a bottle around. A few others were sitting and standing between this point and the other campfire perhaps ten yards upstream. Across the way the white bank, glowing in ivory moonlight, looked pristine, unfouled by humanity.

Dave Carson, a onetime lawman himself, was strutting around, smoking a cigar, his close-set eyes giving him a dumber look than he maybe deserved.

York, behind a tree at the edge of the grassy incline down to the sand, leaned around and shot Carson in the head. It came apart like a melon and the cigar almost seemed to pause in midair before it dropped to the bank as men went for their guns and looked around them for cover, of which there was none. From the right came more gunfire—O’Fallon engaging the raiders—and, from upstream, Duffy’s barrage began. Men wiggled and danced and died.

To the left a shotgun exploded from the trees—Tulley getting into the one-sided fray—and another Arizona Cowboy bought himself a ticket to the undertaker’s display window, since the blast to the belly that killed him wouldn’t show under the Sunday suit he’d be wearing to impress the mourners, if any.

A few of the rustlers turned cowboys went for their guns and returned fire, the reports echoing off the water, as if this were happening somewhere else and not right here.

The celebrants quickly died, thanks to whichever of the posse was closest by.

“Hands in the air!” York yelled. “Or join your friends in hell!”

All along the beach, the Circle G crew raised their arms and froze in place.

Between where York and Tulley were positioned, one man had brains enough to head into the trees, which after all provided the only cover—Billy Bassett, that skinny killer whose mustache overwhelmed his face, his Remington revolver firing at no one in particular, chewing up branches, as he slipped into the relative safety of the trees.

“Round these prisoners up!” York yelled to Tulley and the other two deputies, who converged as they herded captives.

The sheriff moved through the little forest as quickly as he could, hoping to get to the clearing that was the hacienda’s backyard before Bassett did. He bumped into a tree, and another, and another, and it rocked him but didn’t slow him much, though when he emerged he was reeling. He stood there getting his feet under him and looked around for Bassett.

Nowhere to be seen.

Had the outlaw’s head start been enough for him to slip away entirely?

Then the little man with the big mustache emerged from the pines and planted himself for a moment, similarly needing to find his balance after his trip through those bewildering trees.

And the two men faced each other, perhaps four yards separating them, each breathing hard and with his six-gun hanging unholstered at his side.

Bassett looked at the sheriff with rage and disgust. “You . . . you’re the killer they say you are, Caleb York.”

“An expert opinion.”

The hired gun’s eyes were hard, his lips beneath the elaborate mustache soft and trembling. “You just . . . just up and shot Dave. Killed him. He never had a damn chance.”

“Like the men in that bunkhouse. Anyway, Billy, I had a point to make.”

“A point?”

“Only a handful died. In a fair fight, Sugar Creek would be running red.”

“You’re a bastard, York!”

The Remington came up.

The .44 came up faster.

“And you’re a dead one,” York said.

Billy’s eyes looked up, as if checking to see if that really was a hole in his forehead. He was, of course, unable to confirm that, though the mist of