The Stranger from Abilene Read online

  And he’d die slow.

  Mitchell smiled at the thought.

  Wait . . . now what the hell was this?

  The mark was on the move. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

  Mitchell’s smile grew into a grin as he shouldered his rifle.

  Clayton considered the Southwell Ranch was a bad luck spread, and now a tiny, striped kitten proved it.

  The little animal stepped toward him, stopped, and looked up at his face with luminous green eyes.

  “Git,” Clayton said. He threw a wisp of straw at the kitten. “You scat!”

  The animal ignored him, purring, as it walked soundlessly toward him.

  Clayton cursed. Now the bushwhacker would know exactly where he was—the damned cat was pointing him out.

  “Scat!” Clayton said again.

  The kitten ran to him and jumped onto his lap, then got up on her hind legs and rubbed her forehead over his chin.

  “Cat, you’re gonna get us both killed,” Clayton said.

  The kitten purred, smiled at him, and kept on with what she was doing.

  Clayton shook his head. Well, that settled it, he couldn’t stay here all day and let the bushwhacker flank him or get around behind him. He lifted the kitten and set her down. He jumped to his feet, his Colt up and ready.

  Clayton sprinted for the cover of the trough, firing at the ridge as he ran.

  He knew he’d made a bad mistake when he heard the flat hammer of gunshots. He dove for the shelter of the shed, his right shoulder coming up hard against its weathered timber.

  To his surprise, he hadn’t been hit.

  Then he heard the reason why.

  “Cage, you lunatic, get the hell out of there!”

  Nook Kelly’s voice.

  Instantly, Clayton was suspicious. Was Kelly the hidden rifleman?

  “Come up here, on the ridge,” Kelly yelled. “Unless you’ve crapped your pants; then stay right where you’re at.”

  Warily, Clayton stepped away from the cover of the shed, his Colt still in his hand. He saw Kelly on the rise, looking down at the misshapen bundle at his feet. Clayton walked closer and saw that the bundle was the body of a man.

  When he was close enough to Kelly to speak without shouting, he said, “Who is it?”

  He saw the lawman’s quick, white grin.

  “You should be honored, Cage. This here is, or was, Mr. Shack Mitchell, the highest-paid regulator and allround bounty hunter in the business.”

  Clayton walked closer. “Did he speak? Did he say who hired him?”

  “Hell no, he didn’t speak. I put four rounds into him. I don’t know who hired him, but I can tell you this, the services of ol’ Shack didn’t come cheap.”

  Clayton joined Kelly on the rise and looked at the dead man.

  He was a gray-haired man, small, thin, somehow shrunken in death. He wore a black suit, threadbare, faded to a dark gray color, and a black plug hat. A Spencer rifle lay under his body and he had a belted Colt around his waist.

  “He don’t look like much,” Clayton said.

  “Maybe not, but Shack was something. If I hadn’t happened along and heard the shooting, he would have killed you fer sure.”

  He looked hard at Clayton. “What the hell was that fool play, running like a rabbit from one place to another, all the time getting nearer to Shack’s rifle?”

  “My own rifle was on the horse. I needed to get a lot closer to use the Colt.”

  “He could’ve blown off your damn head, a grown man prancing around down there like a girl at her first barn dance.”

  Clayton felt a flush of cold anger but bit back the sharp retort he’d been about to make. Keeping his voice even, he said, “You said you happened along. Why did you do that, just happen along?”

  “I talked to Moses Anderson in town. He said you were still here.”

  “So you came out after me.”

  “Yeah, I had a bad feeling about you being out here alone.” Kelly grinned. “And I was right.”

  He frowned. “Hell, how long were you moping around in there?”

  Clayton shook his head. “I don’t know—minutes, I guess.”

  “More like hours.”

  “It could have been. I lost track of time.”

  “Shack was waiting for you to come out. He was a patient man.”

  “Seems like. Did you come up behind him?”

  “Yeah. I saw him draw a bead on you and shot him in the back. Hell of a way to kill a man.”

  Kelly shrugged. “Pity, because I guess ol’ Shack deserved better. But you were in trouble and I had to act.”

  Clayton smiled. “Nook, my troubles are just about to begin. And yours.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “You’ll see.”

  Kelly glanced at Clayton’s feet. “What the hell is that?”

  The kitten twined through Clayton’s legs, rubbing herself against his boots.

  “It’s a kitten,” Clayton said. Then, in a sudden burst of inspiration, “Her name is Miss Lee.”

  Chapter 58

  Shack Mitchell’s horse was tethered in a stand of wild oak behind the ridge.

  Clayton threw a loop over the man’s feet and dragged him to the front of the ranch house. Mitchell was small and light and he threw him over the saddle without any trouble.

  “I’m going into the house for something,” Clayton said. “Keep an eye on him.”

  “He ain’t going anywhere,” Kelly said.

  “Here,” Clayton said, picking up the kitten, “hold Miss Lee. I don’t want her wandering away.”

  He walked to the house, then stopped and turned when he heard Kelly yell.

  The kitten was struggling mightily to get out of the lawman’s grasp.

  “Hell,” Kelly said, “it’s like holding a roll of barbed wire.”

  He dropped the kitten and, after an outraged glance at the marshal, she followed Clayton into the house.

  Clayton returned with a sheet of notepaper from Parker Southwell’s desk and a yellow pencil. He held the paper against the door and wrote:HE FALED.

  Kelly looked over his shoulder. “What the hell does that mean?”

  “It means Mitchell failed to kill me. What else would it mean?”

  “There’s an I in failed. F-A-I-L-E-D.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yeah, I’m sure.”

  Clayton inserted the I, then showed the paper to Kelly.

  HE FAiLED.

  “Satisfied now?” he said.

  Kelly nodded. “It’s close enough. Now what are you going to do with it?”

  “You’ll see when we get back to town.”

  The marshal gave Clayton a lingering look. “I have a feeling that what you’re planning doesn’t bode well.”

  “For some folks it doesn’t,” Clayton said.

  Bighorn Point was tinted with lilac light, the store windows rectangles of yellow, when Clayton and Kelly rode into town.

  The dead man hanging over the horse attracted attention and a small crowd gathered, then followed the riders, eager for any diversion.

  Clayton drew rein and turned to Kelly. “Maybe you don’t want to see this.”

  The lawman smiled. “Look around you, Cage. You’re the only excitement in town. I guess I’ll stick.”

  “You won’t like it, Nook.”

  “Try me.”

  “Your funeral,” Clayton said.

  He rode to the bank and swung out of the saddle

  “Here,” he said to Kelly, “hold Miss Lee.”

  Nursing scratches, the lawman said, “Just set her down. She won’t run away.”

  “Suppose a big dog comes?”

  “I’ll shoot it.”

  Kelly watched, amused, as Clayton pinned his note to the back of Mitchell’s shirt. Then he led the horse with its nodding burden onto the boardwalk in front of the building.

  The double doors were large, ostentatious, their glass panels engraved with scenes from Greek mythology.


  Clayton opened both wide, ignoring the outraged cries from the clerks inside. He led the horse to the entrance, slapped its rump, and sent it charging inside, Mitchell’s body bouncing across the saddle like a rubber ball.

  Turning on his heel, Clayton walked away, leaving chaos behind him. The frightened horse tried to bolt in every direction, its flying hooves upsetting desks, smashing furniture, overturning cabinets, putting the fear of God into everyone in the bank.

  “Told you that you wouldn’t like it,” Clayton said as he walked past Kelly.

  The marshal grinned. “Cage, you’re under arrest. You and your cat.”

  “On what charge?”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll come up with a few.”

  Chapter 59

  “Marshal, I want that man charged with attempted murder, wanton destruction of property, and . . . and . . .”

  Ben St. John’s jowls quivered, his face black with anger.

  “This is an outrage! My bank is wrecked and he”—a fat ringed finger stabbed in Clayton’s direction—“is responsible.”

  “Mr. Clayton has agreed to pay all the damages,” Kelly said.

  Clayton, who had agreed to no such thing, ignored that and said, “Your paid killer failed.” He looked at Kelly. “With an I.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?” St. John said.

  For a moment the banker’s eyes met Clayton’s and he recoiled, like a man who’s just stared into the sun.

  He knows. Damn him, he knows.

  Clayton reached into his pocket and threw five double eagles into St. John’s face. “Mitchell didn’t kill me. You can have your money back.”

  “Mitchell?” St. John said, kicking the fallen coins away from him. “Are you talking about the dead man you dumped in my place of business?”

  “You should know,” Clayton said. “You sent for him.”

  “I never saw that man before in my life.”

  St. John looked at Kelly, a pleading expression on his face. “Marshal, I’m one of this town’s leading citizens. Are you just going to sit there and let me be abused in this way by a . . . saddle tramp?”

  Kelly seemed to consider that; then he said, “Did you hire Shack Mitchell to kill Mr. Clayton?”

  “Of course not. That’s preposterous. Why would I want this man dead?”

  “Because I know who you are,” Clayton said.

  Kelly was surprised. He’d expected St. John to fly into another rage, but the man said simply, “Who am I?”

  Clayton rose to his feet, the hate in him as cold as ice. “Your name real name is Lissome Terry. Do you remember a farm in Kansas and the farmer you shot and his wife, the high yeller woman you raped?”

  Clayton felt Kelly’s eyes burn on him.

  “You’re a raving lunatic,” St. John said. “I’ve never been in Kansas.”

  “Yes, you have, Terry, you and Jesse and Frank and them. The woman you raped was my mother, and after you’d done with her she hanged herself. You crippled my pa, and he’s been in a wheelchair ever since.”

  St. John would not meet Clayton’s accusing stare. Oh God, those eyes, looking right into me. Lancing into me . . . “Marshal Kelly, I want this man locked up. I want him charged and sent to Yuma for thirty years.”

  Kelly’s voice was even, unhurried.

  “Mr. St. John, I can charge him with leading a horse onto the boardwalk. That’s a ten-dollar fine.”

  “The horse charged into my bank, with a dead man across the saddle.”

  “The horse got scared and bolted. It’s still a ten-dollar fine.”

  “I’ll speak to Mayor Quarrels about this. It’s obvious that you and Clayton are in cahoots. Which one of you murdered the poor man you’re trying to pass off as a hired assassin?”

  “I did,” Kelly said. “He was trying to kill Mr. Clayton.”

  “So you say.”

  “Right. So I say.”

  The marshal reached into his drawer and pulled out a stack of wanted dodgers. He thumbed through them until he found the one he wanted. He threw it across the desk to St. John.

  “Shack Mitchell is wanted in the state of Texas for the murder of one James McFaul, a lawyer,” he said. “Look at Mitchell’s likeness. He’s the man I killed today.”

  “The man you hired to kill me, Terry,” Clayton said.

  St. John shook his head. His quivering jowls and small bloodshot eyes gave him the look of an outraged hog.

  “I’m in Bedlam,” he said. “You’re both raving mad.”

  “Don’t leave town, Mr. St. John,” Kelly said.

  The man smiled. “I won’t, Marshal. But you will. Depend on it.”

  Chapter 60

  “Well, what do you think?” Clayton said after St. John left.

  “About what?”

  “Is he Lissome Terry?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I do. He’s Terry all right. I could feel the fear oozing out of him like sweat.”

  “That doesn’t prove a thing. Get him in court and he won’t sweat fear or anything else.”

  “He likes screwing black women,” Clayton said.

  Kelly smiled. “And what does that prove?”

  “My mother was black.”

  “She was high yeller. You said so.”

  “She was black with a pink skin. Terry was a Southern boy. He knew what she was.”

  Kelly shook his head. “That’s doesn’t cut it, Cage.”

  “I was speaking to Moses Anderson at the ranch house. He says St. John is poking Minnie, the little gal who was Lee Southwell’s black maid.”

  “So, he likes to screw black ladies. I can’t hang him for that.”

  “Moses says whores have a habit of disappearing after St. John is finished with them.”

  Kelly smiled. “Cage, you keep calling him St. John. Does that mean you aren’t sure yourself that he’s Lissome Terry?”

  “No, I’m sure all right. And I think Moses knows a lot more about the man than he’s telling.”

  “Sometimes Moses is full of it, but I can talk to him.”

  “He knows everything that happens in Bighorn Point.”

  Kelly thought about that, then said, “I’ll talk to him. And that black gal, what’s her name?”

  “Minnie.” Clayton hesitated a moment, then said, “She’s whoring, Moses says.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “That doesn’t surprise you?”

  “Nothing blacks do surprises me.”

  Clayton felt that like a slap. He stroked the kitten on his lap. “You don’t like colored folks much, do you, Nook?”

  “Not much.”

  “And me?”

  “What about you?”

  “I’m part black.”

  Kelly looked at him. “Cage, I’ll study real hard on that.”

  After a moment’s hesitation, Clayton said, “Emma?”

  “Yeah . . . Emma.”

  Chapter 61

  Ben St. John was seething. Mitchell had failed him. The moon would come up tonight and still shine on Cage Clayton.

  One of the drunks who’d been hired by Moses Anderson told him he saw the black man blabbing to Clayton.

  About what? How much did the man from Abilene know?

  He hadn’t had time to question Moses before he killed him, but still, the safest way had been to shut him up for good.

  Thank goodness he lived a short ways out of town. St. John was able to tell his clerks that he was going out to walk off a headache. The .32 he’d used didn’t make much of a bang, especially inside a rock-walled cabin.

  Despite his vile mood, St. John smiled.

  Moses and his woman had fed him collard greens, ham, and corn bread, washed down with buttermilk. He thanked them with—Bang! Bang!—a bullet to each of their heads.

  But the greens had given St. John a slight case of indigestion, and now, when he burped, he tasted them all over again.

  It had been a good meal, though, and the buttermilk had been ni
ce and cold, served out of a clay jug.

  “Are you all right, dear?”

  His wife looked up from her embroidery, her long, horsy face concerned.

  St. John lowered his newspaper. “I’m fine, dear. Perhaps a little touch of indigestion.”

  “Can I get you a seltzer?”

  “No, I’ll be just fine.”

  “I heard about the horse and the dead man,” the woman said.

  “Yes, that vandal Clayton did it. Drunk, of course. He should be locked up.”

  “He’s the one who says he’s in Bighorn Point to kill a man, isn’t he?”

  “Yes, more drunken talk. Just today I told Marshal Kelly to run him out of town.”

  “Can we save him?”

  “No, my dear, he’s beyond redemption.”

  “What a pity. But perhaps we could try by example to—”

  “You know, I think I will have that seltzer,” St. John said.

  Damn, Edith was an irritating woman.

  “Right away, dear.”

  He watched Edith’s tall, bony body as she walked into the kitchen and felt no desire.

  Sometime soon she’d have to go and he’d move in a woman more to his tastes. But not until this Clayton mess was settled.

  Edith was in bed asleep. St. John shook his head at the scrawny wonder of her. Affection-wise, Ben St. John cared more for the Morgan mare he kept at the livery stable than he did his wife.

  He reached into the bottom of the closet he reserved for himself and lifted out a dusty carpetbag, then returned to the parlor and sat at the table.

  The blue Colt, its barrel expertly cut back to the length of the ejector rod, had lain in the bag for years, wrapped in an oil-soaked cloth. To St. John’s relief, the revolver showed no signs of rust, and the mahogany handles glowed dull red in the firelight.

  He cleaned and oiled the revolver, then loaded five chambers. The ammunition was a more recent acquisition, each .44-40 round made by a master craftsman in Fort Smith.

  St. John balanced the Colt in his hand. He had killed three men with the gun, and Cage Clayton would be the fourth.

  He nodded, his mind made up.

  When you want a job done well, do it yourself.