The Bloody Spur, page 1
Also by Mickey Spillane and Max Allan Collins
The Will to Kill
A Long Time Dead
Murder Never Knocks
Kill Me Darling
King of the Weeds
Complex 90
Mickey Spillane’s From the Files of . . . Mike Hammer
Lady, Go Die!
The Consummata
Kiss Her Goodbye
The New Adventures of Mickey Spillane’s Mike
Hammer, Vol. 3: Encore for Murder
The Big Bang
The New Adventures of Mickey Spillane’s Mike
Hammer, Vol. 2: The Little Death
The Goliath Bone
Dead Street
The Legend of Caleb York
The Big Showdown
MICKEY SPILLANE AND MAX ALLAN COLLINS
The BLOODY SPUR
KENSINGTON BOOKS
http://www.kensingtonbooks.com
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
Table of Contents
Also by
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
JOHN WAYNE AND MICKEY SPILLANE: A FRIENDSHIP
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
About the Authors
KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 2018 by Mickey Spillane Publishing LLC
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
Kensington and the K logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.
Library of Congress Card Catalogue Number: 2017951256
ISBN: 978-1-6177-3598-1
First Kensington Hardcover Edition: February 2018
eISBN-13: 978-1-61773-599-8
eISBN-10: 1-61773-599-X
First Kensington Electronic Edition: February 2018
For Bob Randisi, who has gunned down more bad men than all the shootists put together
“Tomorrow is the most important thing in life. Comes into us at midnight very clean. It’s perfect when it arrives and it puts itself in our hands. It hopes we’ve learned something from yesterday.”
John Wayne
JOHN WAYNE AND MICKEY SPILLANE: A FRIENDSHIP
Mickey Spillane’s famous crime novels—in particular those featuring his breakthrough character, Mike Hammer—are often discussed in terms of their violence and sexual content, which seemed so revolutionary in the late 1940s and early ’50s. The sex seems almost tame these days, but the violence still packs a punch that Sam Peckinpah likely envied.
What more insightful commentators have always known is that the Mike Hammer stories are at heart about friendship and loyalty—the detective is almost always seeking the murderer of a friend, with an “eye for an eye” on settling that score. Most famously, in I, the Jury (1947), Hammer goes after the killer of his friend Jack Williams, his buddy in the Pacific who lost an arm while taking a Japanese bayonet blow meant for Mike.
Also central to the novels are Hammer’s friendship with Captain Pat Chambers of Homicide and the detective’s evolving relationship with his secretary Velda, who becomes the love of his life over the course of the decades-spanning series.
Similarly, many of John Wayne’s films, particularly the Westerns, explore themes of friendship and loyalty, from Stagecoach (1939) and its lawman who gives the Ringo Kid a chance to settle a score before taking him in, to The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance (1962), where Wayne’s Tom Doniphon grants James Stewart’s Ranse Stoddard a sense of manly accomplishment that perhaps he doesn’t deserve. Other examples of friendship-driven yarns litter the Duke’s filmography: Sheriff John T. Chance helping his deputy Dude find redemption in Rio Bravo (1959); Deputy U.S. Marshal “Rooster” Cogburn showing affection and even admiration for young Mattie Ross in True Grit (1969); and Ethan Edwards coming to accept half-breed surrogate son Martin Pawley in The Searchers (1956), perhaps the greatest Wayne Western, and the great John Ford’s best film.
In real life, both Spillane and Wayne were loyal to a core group of friends, in Mickey’s case fellow scribes like Dave Gerrity and Joe Gill, and in Wayne’s such fellow Hollywood denizens as director John Ford and actor Ward Bond. And for a time, in the 1950s, a non-Hollywood denizen named Spillane was part of Wayne’s inner circle.
When Mickey was at his early ’50s peak, Wayne and producing partner Robert Fellows thought the best-selling, publicity-attracting writer was a natural, and starred him in the circus picture Ring of Fear (1954) as his famous mystery-writer self turned amateur sleuth. After several weeks of filming, Wayne was happy with Spillane the actor, but not so happy with the initial footage, and asked Mickey to rewrite the picture for extensive reshoots to be helmed by famed director William Wellman.
For Ring of Fear (available on DVD), Mickey declined either a screen credit or payment for his rewrite. Wayne had seen Mickey admiring a white Jaguar convertible in a Los Angeles showroom and had the snazzy vehicle delivered, wrapped in a red ribbon, to the writer’s home in Newburgh, New York, with a card signed, “Thanks–Duke.”
The John Wayne/Mickey Spillane friendship included the writer attending screenings to provide input whenever the mystery writer happened to be in Hollywood. It also included one more occasion for Wayne to call upon Mickey’s services as a screenwriter.
The correspondence in Mickey’s files is unclear as to who initiated the project, but Wayne certainly expressed his enthusiasm for a Spillane Western. “The Saga of Calli York” (as it was originally titled) was intended for Wayne himself, Mickey told me, commissioned by the actor; but it’s also possible that Wayne might have handed “York” off to some other appropriate star, perhaps Randolph Scott, Glenn Ford or Robert Mitchum, leads of various Wayne-produced films of the era.
Around when Mickey would have sent in his screenplay, Batjac—Wayne’s production company—was dealing with the out-of-control budget, and ensuing box-office disappointment, of The Alamo (1960). While Batjac eventually rebounded, Wayne spent several years making pictures for other producers and various studios, which would have relegated “York” to a back burner.
Mickey and Bob Fellows, Wayne’s ex-producing partner, went on to collaborate on two films, The Girl Hunters (1963) and The Delta Factor (1970), both from Spillane novels. The latter film proved a disappointment, both artistically and financially, but The Girl Hunters (now on DVD and Blu-ray) did respectable business and, with Spillane himself playing Mike Hammer and cowriting the screenplay, has gone on to cult success. Mickey’s performance in The Girl Hunters also inspired his self-spoofing series of long-running Miller Lite commercials of the 1980s and ’90s.
Mickey would often speak fondly of Wayne and—while not one prone to expressing regrets—obviously wished the “York” project had come to light. Mike Hammer, he insisted, was a modern-day Western hero: “He wore the black hat, but he did the right thing.”
* * *
Shortly before his death in 2006, Mickey indicated to his wife, Jane, that I should be given his files and asked to complete various unfinished projects—an honor that staggers me to this day. I was lucky to be one of the writers whom Mickey counted as a friend, and that you are holding this book in your hands tells you what kind of friend he was—and, for that matter, is—to me. Among the manuscripts entrusted were a dozen Hammer novels in various stages of development, several other unfinished crime novels, and a handful of movie scripts, including “York.”
The Legend of Caleb York, published in 2015 by Kensington Books, is based upon Mickey’s unproduced screenplay. Editor Michaela Hamilton—herself a longtime Spillane fan—has asked me to continue the saga of Caleb York, drawing upon various drafts of the screenplay and notes in Mickey’s files.
Mickey provided York with a rich backstory as a Wells Fargo agent, which I may yet explore; but my wife, Barb (my collaborator on the “Trash & Treasures” mysteries), suggested that I might be best advised to explore further the characters, conflicts, and world Mickey created in his screenplay in any immediate sequels. The Big Showdown (2016) was the first such sequel, and The Bloody Spur is the second.
As was the case with the previous two Caleb York novels, picturing John Wayne in the lead is allowed but not required. My personal casting call would include (appropriately aged) Randolph Scott, Joel McCrea, Audie Murphy, James Garner, and Clint Eastwood. Wayne’s pro-tégé, James Arness of Gunsmoke fame, also makes sense. Perhaps from this list you might assume that Mickey and I, while hoping not to insult the intelligence of purists, are interested most in the mythic West.
You would be right.
Pardner.
Max Allan Collins
CHAPTER ONE
Being dead, Caleb York had come to realize, had its advantages.
When he’d ridden into Trinidad, New Mexico, six months back, York had been a stranger just passing through. For a year or more, the rumor had spread far and wide that the celebrated Wells Fargo detective had been gun
That rumor had given York a blessed anonymity. As his midthirties reared up ahead of him like a spooked horse, York had grown ever more tired of facing down gunnies who wanted to make a reputation at his expense. Too often, reckless men and sometimes boys sought to force a showdown with a living legend whose prowess with a handgun had forged a name for him that only the likes of Wyatt Earp, John Wesley Hardin, and Wild Bill Hickok might rival.
As it worked out, when he bumped up against corrupt Sheriff Harry Gauge, York found it necessary to step out of the blessed obscurity of a supposed dead man to deal with a patch of trouble. Now he was sitting in Gauge’s chair behind a big dark wooden desk in the plank-floored office/jail with its two barred street windows, wood-burning stove, and rough-hewn table under a wall of wanted posters and a rifle rack.
Wearing the badge of a sheriff whom York had been obliged to kill.
Caleb York was a big, lean man, with a jaw that stopped just short of jutting and reddish-brown hair barely touched with gray at the temples. His pleasant features were set in a rawboned, clean-shaven face with washed-out blue eyes peering out from a permanent squint.
When York rode in those many months ago, some had called him a dude, although his way with a gun—and his fists—made it unlikely he’d hear that denigration again. Truth be told, his mode of apparel was on the dudish side, although in his view—the view of a man who’d been heading for San Diego and a job with Pinkerton’s when fate and the needs of Trinidad had waylaid him—he merely looked professional.
In the manner of Bat Masterson and other serious law enforcement officers, York wore a black coat and black cotton pants tucked in hand-tooled black boots; his shirt was a light gray, with pearl buttons, and the string tie was black. His black hat had a cavalry pinch; a gray kerchief was knotted at his neck. His preferred weapon, a Colt Single Action Army .44, he wore low on his right hip, about pants-pocket level, and he kept it tied down.
Right now, however, the black coat and hat were on wall pegs to his right, and the gun in its bullet-studded belt was curled up, as if a snake in slumber, on his desk before him. He was staring at it, wondering how many more years would have to pass before men could walk down a street not wearing one. He wondered if, when law and order finally came to the land, lawmen themselves could go out unarmed. He’d read that such was the practice in England.
As if in answer to York’s unspoken question, his deputy—Jonathan Tulley—burst in like a jolt of reality.
“Sheriff!” Tulley blurted.
The old desert rat, skinny and white bearded, swam in his baggy canvas pants, though the badge-pinned BVD top under blue suspenders fit close. His shotgun was over one arm.
Then words tumbled out of the sun-creased face. “Get yourself down to the Victory, Sheriff, in one hell of a hurry! There’s a kid down there shootin’ up the place! Miss Rita’s fit to be tied, and there’s folks cowering under tables like skeered rats.”
“What brought you to the Victory?” York asked, slow and cool, reaching for his gun belt. “Why court temptation?”
The bowlegged town drunk had dried out when York made it a prerequisite of the deputy post.
“That there gunfire!” Tulley yelped.
“You’re armed.” York was on his feet now, still behind the desk, strapping on the gun belt. “You’re paid to enforce the peace.”
“I know I am, but—”
York raised a finger, which stopped his deputy, and glanced at the wall clock. “I have a meeting to get to over at Harris Mercantile. The mayor says it’s important, and he’s the man who hands out our pay envelopes.”
York knew damn well what the meeting was about. He’d seen the fleshy man with the fine frock coat step from the stage this morning, wearing self-importance like a cloak. He’d asked “Bull” Mason, the stagecoach whip, who his passenger was, and Bull had made a face and said, “Railroad agent.” To a stagecoach man, that was worse than a hostile Indian.
Tulley swallowed and staggered over as if he had been drinking. “You ain’t follerin’ me, Sheriff. This just ain’t any kid. It’s Kid McCurdy!”
Though no wanted poster bore McCurdy’s name, the young gunslinger had made a name for himself in nearby Las Vegas, New Mexico, where he’d finally been run out of even that wild town after four killings “in self-defense.”
Tulley leaned his free hand on the desk. If his eyes had been any wider, they’d have fallen out and bounced around like acorns shaken from a branch. “McCurdy says he won’t stop till you come see him personal.”
York came out from behind the desk and tied the leather string that kept his holstered weapon snug to his thigh. He reached for his hat but left his coat hanging, since it might restrict movement.
“Shot up the place, you say,” York said. “Did he bust up the mirrors with his target practice? Shoot the liquor bottles to pieces? Splinter the chuck-a-luck wheel?”
Tulley deflated some. “Well, no. Jest fired two rounds in the ceiling, and then, when I stuck my head in, he said to come fetch you. Waving his gun around! That’s why he come to Trinidad—to see you.”
“And you did what he told you to. Here I thought you were on Trinidad’s payroll.”
Tulley shuffled in place. “Well . . . what else was I to do?”
York pointed toward the door. “Right now, you’re to go down there to the Victory’s rear door, off the alley,” the sheriff said, “and keep the place covered. Should things get out of hand—like should this pup manage to shoot me dead—I’d appreciate you plugging him for me.”
“In the back?”
“Or have him turn around first, if you don’t mind maybe dying.”
Tulley thought that over, nodded, said, “We’ll do ’er your way,” and scurried out.
York made a disgusted click in his cheek as he checked the action of the .44. Then he slipped the iron back into its well-oiled home.
The afternoon was cool and crisp—this was November—and the boardwalks of Trinidad were empty, though faces in the windows in storefronts and the living quarters above peered out in anticipation of witnessing gunplay. That made York smile just a little as he walked along, spurs singing a lazy little tune. Gunfire sent everybody inside, he knew, but now a good many citizens were peeking out in expectation of more.
He didn’t judge them harshly. The three hundred or so souls who lived in Trinidad were decent enough people. The town existed to serve the surrounding ranch-land area, and the folk here were mostly shop owners and clerks, whose days were usually dull, each one indistinguishable from the last. Part of why York was pulling down a hundred a month, plus his cut of the taxes he collected, was that reputation of his. He was something of a tourist attraction, like the Alamo or the O.K. Corral. Everybody who came to Trinidad wanted a glimpse of Caleb York.
Some, like Andrew “Kid” McCurdy, wanted more than just a glimpse.
York pushed through the swinging batwing doors and saw the small figure pacing by the bar, a mug of beer nearby. The Kid’s gun was holstered. That was good. That was half the battle. Still, the biggest thing about the boy was the long-barreled Colt army revolver, worn high, not tied down.
McCurdy was seventeen, eighteen, somewhere in there. He stood perhaps five feet eight and was skinny enough to look scrawny in the blue cavalry bib-front shirt and shapeless Levi’s; his Montana-peak Stetson looked new. This was no cowpuncher. Stick slender though he was, the Kid had a baby face, round and stubbly, with a snub nose and tiny dark eyes set too far apart. Like that other famous Kid—Billy—this one had buck teeth.
Stupidity came off him like steam over coffee.
Around them—with York just inside the doors and the Kid over at the left, near the bar—the Victory was like a church without worshippers, that big, that quiet. The elaborate tin ceiling was home to kerosene-lamp chandeliers, while gold-and-black brocade rode the walls; the long, highly polished oak bar went on forever, with its mirrors and bottles of bourbon and rye, towels dangling for divesting mustaches of foam, an endless brass foot rail broken up by spittoons. No bartenders were visible—likely cowering down in back of their counter—and patrons were huddled under tables, shivering, brave cowboys and town folk alike.
