Here in town, at least, the bouquet of horse manure and the whiff of beans cooking across the way in the modest barrio represented the normal scent of spring in the Southwest. Not that anything much was normal about the aftermath of what folks were calling the Big Die-Up.
The snow had begun last November, a seeming relief after the Hades-like heat of a dry summer, worse the farther north you went, Montana, Wyoming, the Black Hills. By early January, plateaus were painted a crystalline pearl, dry river bottoms buried beneath drifting white. Cattle starved to death by the thousands, owners caught flat-footed without enough hay stored for such a disaster. New Mexico hadn’t been hit quite as hard, but hard enough. The spring roundup—hence, “die-up”—would not happen at all, which meant hardship for ranchers in the area, in particular Willa Cullen and her Bar-O.
Willa was of a special concern to York, whose relationship with the willful young woman—who had inherited the biggest ranch in these parts from an otherwise childless father—had, over the near year York had been here, gone from cool to warm to cold to (more recently) hot, pleasantly so.
When he’d ridden into Trinidad, he’d been a nameless nobody, just passing through, on a westbound journey on which he had benefited from a rumor that Caleb York—celebrated Wells Fargo detective notorious for not bringing them back alive—had been shot down like a dog. He’d decided to leave it that way, at least until he got to San Diego, where the Pinkerton people might choose to resurrect his infamous name to make use of his reputation for their commercial purposes (and his).
Till then, he’d intended to stay dead. It had gotten old, facing down gunhands and saddle tramps who sought to steal his hard-earned, blood-soaked reputation by killing him for it. York was, after all, a dime novel hero—but he’d made not a nickel from those pen pushers’ work . . . was such a thing right? Buffalo Bill had at least got a show out of it. Only a handful in the Southwest bore York’s kind of gunfighter fame—Wyatt and Virgil Earp, John Wesley Hardin, Wild Bill Hickok, Bat Masterson maybe.
Circumstances had led York to an extended stay in Trinidad, with his name exposed and a badge pinned on his shirt with a couple of women who interested him encouraging an extended stay. One was Willa, a blonde Viking of a girl who could make a plaid blouse and Levis look like a wedding night.
The other was Rita Filley, and that was who burst into his office as he leaned forward in flickering lamplight, looking at dangerous ugly faces on wanted posters.
Rita’s face, though tightly distraught, her usually smooth brow furrowed deep, was anything but ugly—rather, a heart-shaped home to big brown eyes, a turned-up nose, and full, red-painted lips, parted at the moment in heavy breathing. That mouth in such a condition York had witnessed before, close-up, but this was different.
The young woman, in a blue-and-gray satin gown worn in her role as hostess of the Victory Saloon, had been running, her full bosom heaving (York had witnessed that before, as well). She was otherwise slender, a striking woman whose pale complexion spoke of her Irish father but whose features recalled a Mexican mother. She stopped in the now-open doorway, her hands propping her there, framed against the night.
“Caleb,” the sultry voice panted, “you’re needed at Doc Miller’s!”
Rita, who had inherited the Victory from the sister whose murder York had avenged, was not to be taken lightly. Without asking of the circumstances, the sheriff rose from the hard chair, snatching the gun belt from its slumber and strapping it on as he joined the woman, who’d already stepped back outside.
Rita was on the move again. He kept up as he buckled the gun belt. Their footsteps echoed off the narrow boardwalk as they hastened.
“You remember Conchita,” she huffed.
“One of your girls.”
When Rita first inherited the Victory, the upstairs had been a bordello. A few months ago, at York’s urging, she had converted the second floor into her own quarters and limited her girls to dance hall duties—cavorting with the cowboys and clerks, encouraging drinking, but anything beyond that was their own business . . . and not on the Victory premises.
“Working of late,” he went on, “at the Red Bull. Correct?”
De Toro Rojo was a prosperous cantina in the barrio, offering spirits on the first floor and spirited putanas on the second. Despite a city ordinance forbidding such activity, York looked the other way. Men white and brown and black would find a place to slake their various thirsts, and not having the carnal side of things serviced at the Victory was victory enough for him.
Rita sighed and nodded, not breaking stride. “I discouraged it, but she has a child with a hungry mouth.”
The night was cool, the moon full and high, Main Street almost glowing ivory, a benign memory of a white-choked thoroughfare not so long ago. They quickly walked through this somber setting toward the three-story brick bank building.
Rita, her words rushing much as she was, said, “She was not even working tonight . . . not above. She was waiting tables, and when she refused to go upstairs with him, the bastard dragged her outside. Threw her on the ground and . . .”
Rita choked back tears.
“I get the picture,” he said.
But she went on.
“He thrashed her,” she said, voice trembling. “Then he . . . he ravaged her.”
“You saw this?”
“No! I’d have stopped it. I’d have shot him dead. Which is what you should do, Caleb. You really should.”
“Who did this?”
But Rita was already scurrying up the stairs alongside the bank building. Dr. Albert Miller’s office was on the second floor. York followed Rita up to the little exterior landing and inside.
In the
