The Stranger from Abilene Page 8

The Apaches moved. They crouched low and ran down the slope, Clayton with them. As the steam cleared, the cowboys saw the Indians. And made the last mistake they’d ever make.

  Both men went for their holstered guns, and the Apaches fired.

  One man was hit in the head and his hat flew off, revealing his complete baldness. He toppled out of the saddle as his companion, hit hard, swung his horse around and tried to make a dash for the trees.

  The young Apache drew a bead and shot him, shot him again, and the man fell.

  The two Mexicans were wide-eyed with terror. One of them screamed, “Por favor, no mas mate!”

  The Apaches ignored his plea for mercy and yelled at the engineer and fireman to climb down from the cab.

  Their hands in the air, the railroaders stood by the engine. Clayton saw that their fear was just as great as that of the Mexicans. Angry Apaches were not to be taken lightly. And they were about to get angrier.

  There were two boxes in the wagon. The Apaches opened them and Clayton heard their roars of outrage and sorrow. Knowing what he was about to see, he stepped to the wagon.

  A young woman’s body occupied each box. Neither showed signs of violence, and Clayton wondered at that until he caught the smell of rotgut whiskey. Then he knew how the women had been killed. Their abductors had gotten the girls drunk and smothered both of them.

  “Lipan,” the old Apache said, “coming up from the south.”

  “Where are their men?” Clayton asked. “Why didn’t they protect them?”

  “Many Apache no longer fight. The Lipan know their days in the sun are over. White men get father, maybe brother, drunk, then take girls.”

  Suddenly angry, Clayton limped to the bodies of the dead men. Behind him he heard shots. He turned and saw the Mexicans sprawled facedown in the dirt.

  Grabbing hold of the back of the bald man’s collar, he dragged him to the engineer and his fireman. “Who is he?” he said. “Who does he work for?”

  The engineer, a burly man with iron gray hair and a bristling mustache, shook his head. He looked terrified.

  “Honest, mister, I don’t know. We were told to bring the refrigerator car here and pick up a couple of boxes.” His eyes pleaded with Clayton. “That’s how it come up, and it’s all I know.”

  If the engineer did know more, he never got a chance to reveal it. The Apaches jumped on him and the fireman and began to kill them more slowly than the others, with knives, not guns.

  Clayton thought the men would never stop screaming. But they did, eventually . . . an eventually that took two shrieking, screaming, scarlet-splashed hours.

  The Apaches had no way of destroying the engine or the boxcar, and contented themselves with shooting holes in both.

  Clayton was under no illusions. He’d heard that Apaches were notoriously notional, but, judging by the way the cards were falling, his turn was next. In the end they surprised him.

  The young Indian brought him his horse, and then they left without a word, taking the wagon with them. One moment the spur had been crowded with Apaches; the next they were gone, as silently and ghostly as they’d come.

  The Indians had picked up the dead men’s rifles, but Clayton scouted around and found the bald man’s Colt. He reloaded, shoved the gun in his holster, then filled his cartridge belt. He left the buckskin near the converted boxcar and stepped inside.

  The whiskey bottle was empty, which was a disappointment. After witnessing what had happened to the railroad men, he could’ve used a drink.

  Clayton used wood and kindling he found beside the stove and filled the pot with water from the pump outside. He put coffee on to boil, then sat at the table.

  A quick inspection of his thigh told him the wound was not infected, and it showed some healing. It still pained him, though, stiffening his entire leg.

  Later he poured himself coffee and built a cigarette, inhaling deeply. The sight of the two railroaders haunted him. How could men get cut up like that, their guts coiling from their bellies, and still live? And their eyes . . .

  Clayton heard the chime of a bit as someone drew rein outside. Then, “Cage, you still alive?”

  Nook Kelly’s voice.

  “Just about.”

  “What the hell happened here?”

  “A lot.”

  Clayton drank some coffee and dragged on his cigarette.

  “Step inside and I’ll tell you about it,” he said.

  Chapter 29

  Kelly sat in silence until Clayton recounted his capture by Shad Vestal and the Apache attack on the refrigerator car and wagon.

  When the other man stopped talking, Kelly poured himself coffee, then said, “That’s Baldy Benton and Luke Witherspoon lying out there.”

  “The names mean nothing to me,” Clayton said.

  “They work for Park Southwell, or did. Benton was pretty well known, a hired gun from up Denver way. I don’t know anything about Witherspoon.”

  “So it’s Southwell who’s killing Apaches and shipping their bodies east.”

  “Seems like.” Clayton waited a few moments, then said, “Well?”

  “Well what?”

  “Aren’t you going to arrest him?”

  “No.”

  “Damn it, how come?”

  “How do I prove it? We don’t have the bodies of the Apache women and that means no evidence.”

  “Hell, I saw the whole thing. I can testify.”

  Kelly shook his head. “Cage, your testimony won’t carry any weight in Bighorn Point. As far as the good citizens of the town are concerned, you’re a troublemaker who vowed to kill one of their number. And you assaulted Park Southwell’s wife. A jury would figure you had it in for the old man and concocted a wild story about dead Indians.”

  “I still plan to reduce the population by one,” Clayton said.

  “Which one? You still think it’s Southwell?”

  “I thought it was him. Now I’m not so sure.”

  “He was a colonel in the war, won a chestful of medals in a dozen pitched battles. You’re looking for an irregular who rode with the James boys.” Kelly drank from his cup. “Park Southwell is not your man.”

  “But he might know who is.”

  “Yeah, I’d say that’s a real possibility.”

  “I’m heading back to town,” Clayton said. “I still have a job to do.”

  “I’d rather you didn’t,” Kelly said.

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because you’re more valuable to me dead.”

  Clayton stiffened and started to rise to his feet.

  “Hell, sit down, Cage. I’m not going to kill you.”

  “If you aren’t, you have a strange way of putting things.”

  Kelly reached out, took the makings from Clayton’s shirt pocket, and began to build a cigarette.

  For a moment his eyes seemed distant; then he said, “I have a feeling, a hunch you might call it, that something is coming down.”

  “What something?”

  “I don’t know. If I knew, maybe I could act on it, think ahead, like.” He shook his head. “I can’t say what it is, but it’s in the air.”

  “An Apache uprising maybe? Another Geronimo on the warpath?”

  “Not a chance. The Apaches are whipped. They’ll bury those women, then go back to work on their farms and try to grow crops from rocks and sand. But they’ll be on their guard now, and Southwell won’t find pickings so easy.”

  “Then what the hell could it be, this something?”

  Kelly drew on his cigarette, exhaling smoke with his words. “I told you, I have no idea. But I’ll know it when I see it.”

  “And why am I dead?”

  “If I spread the word around Bighorn Point that you got shot out at the spur by person or persons unknown, somebody’s going to make a move. Maybe the man who was once Lissome Terry.”

  “What kind of move?”

  “Well, he could figure his cover was almost blown by the Pinkertons, then you. H
e might say to himself, ‘The third time could be unlucky.’ So he packs up and tries to leave town. And that’s when I grab him by the cojones.”

  “Hell, Kelly, it’s thin. Coulds and maybes don’t mean a damned thing. Terry’s just as likely to stay right where he’s at and brazen it out.”

  “Yeah, I know. Like I said, I’m acting on a hunch, but a lot of my hunches have been right before.”

  “And a lot have been wrong?”

  Kelly smiled. “I believe I’ve gotten more right than wrong.”

  Clayton let that pass, and said, “So, now that I’m a dead man, what do I do?”

  “There’s a mountain called Tucker Knob a couple of miles to the east of here. A prospector by the name of Zeb Sinclair built a cabin there. It’s pretty much a ruin now, but it’s still got a roof.”

  “And Mr. Sinclair won’t mind?”

  “He’s dead. Apaches done for him years ago. Nailed him to his own front door.”

  “It must be a cheerful spot.”

  “I’ll have someone I trust bring supplies out to you. Just stay put until I come for you.”

  “And if your hunch is wrong and nothing happens? Do I stay dead? Or for some reason it does happen and then it all goes bad? What then?”

  “I don’t know.” The marshal smiled. “But I wouldn’t worry about it.”

  “I worry about it,” Clayton said, irritated.

  “Well, if it does go bad, we’ll probably both be dead anyway.”

  “Kelly,” Clayton said, “you know how to cheer a man, you surely do.”

  Chapter 30

  The Sinclair cabin lay in a tree-covered hollow at the base of Tucker Knob. It was a dark, dismal place, but as Kelly had pointed out, it did have a fairly solid roof. The marshal had discounted the fact that it had no door, no windows, and its only furnishings were a rickety table, a stool, and a stone fireplace that must have been the late Mr. Sinclair’s pride and joy.

  Clayton spent an uncomfortable, sleepless night in the cabin, sharing space with a pack rat’s brood. Come first light, he stepped outside under a crimson and jade sky and drank from the shallow creek that ran off the mountain. He splashed water on his face, wet and combed his hair, and rasped a hand over the rough stubble on his cheeks. He needed a shave, but his kit was back in the hotel at Bighorn Point.

  Clayton saw the rider at a distance, coming on at a trot astride a small horse. He ran into the cabin, strapped on his gun belt, then stepped outside again. He took a quick glance at the flaming sky, swallowed hard.

  Dear God in heaven, don’t let this be Shad Vestal.

  It wasn’t.

  Even when the rider was still a ways off, Clayton saw it was a girl.

  Closer . . .

  Yep, a right pretty girl at that.

  Closer still . . .

  Hell, it was the girl from the hat shop. The one who’d helped him after Lee Southwell sideswiped him with her buggy.

  She rode a mouse-colored mustang and had a sack of groceries tied to her saddle horn.

  “Howdy,” Clayton said, smiling, wishing he’d had a shave.

  The girl swung out of the saddle. “Howdy yourself, Mr. Clayton.” She held out a hand and Clayton took it. “Nice to see you again.”

  “And you too.”

  “I’ve brought the supplies Marshal Kelly promised.”

  “Oh yes, thank you. Is there coffee in that poke?”

  The girl’s freckled nose wrinkled as she smiled. “There sure is.”

  “Can I interest you in a cup?”

  “You bet, Mr. Clayton. I haven’t had any coffee yet this morning.”

  “Call me Cage.”

  “All right, Cage.”

  “I . . . um . . . I . . .”

  “You’ve forgotten my name, haven’t you?”

  “Sorry,” Clayton said.

  The girl’s smile widened, white teeth in a pink mouth. “Well, that’s understandable. You were still very shook at the time. Emma. Emma Kelly.”

  “Of course.”

  Clayton stood gazing at the girl. Damn, she was pretty. She wore a split canvas riding skirt and a tailored yellow shirt. The red glow of the sky tangled in her hair and touched her cheeks with rouge.

  “Coffee?” she said, smiling.

  Clayton looked like a man waking from a pleasant dream. “Yes, yes, of course, coffee.” He gathered his wits together. “Is it coffee? I mean, coffee it is.”

  Kelly had thought of everything—a small coffeepot, frying pan, and canned milk that Emma poured into her cup. He had also included tobacco and papers, a welcome addition.

  She sat on the stool while Clayton perched precariously on the edge of the table, building a cigarette.

  “How long have you known Nook Kelly?” he asked.

  “Oh, about three years or so. I was raised by an aunt, and after she died, Nook helped me find a job and a place to live. He’s been very kind to me over the years; looks out for me like the big brother I never had.”

  That last pleased Clayton. “Like a big brother”meant there was no romantic relationship between Emma and the marshal.

  The girl’s eyes rose to Clayton’s. “What will you do when you find”—she hesitated, changed tack—“when your business in Bighorn Point is done?”

  “Go back home to Kansas and make a go of my ranch.”

  “Is it pretty there, where your ranch is?”

  “Well, I think so. My place is on the Smoky Hill River, just south of Abilene. Cottonwood trees shade the cabin in summer and hold back the worst of the winds come winter. Summer or winter, a hush lies on the land like a blessing, makes a man stand back and look and wonder and say, ‘This is where I live, and this is where I’ll be buried.’” Clayton looked embarrassed. “That was a dumb thing to say.”

  “No, it wasn’t. I’d like to see your land one day.”

  “And I’d like to show it to you one day.”

  Emma’s eyes dropped and her lashes lay on her tanned cheeks like fans. After a few moments she rose to her feet.

  “I must be going,” she said. “Nook worries about me.”

  “I’d like to see you again,” Clayton said.

  “You will,” Emma said. She stepped to the doorway. “Cage, be careful. Since you arrived, I think Bighorn Point has become a dangerous place.”

  “You’ve been talking to Kelly.”

  “I know he feels it, but I feel it too. There’s something wrong. It’s in the air.”

  “Take care of yourself, Emma,” Clayton said.

  “And you, Cage. And you.”

  After a woman a man cares about walks away from him, she leaves silent echoes behind, empty spaces where she sat, where she stood, and he thinks that nothing can ever again fill them.

  Clayton was left with only the lingering scent of Emma’s perfume, a memory of meadow flowers, and he felt as though he had found something and then lost it again, a fairy gift that vanished with the rising sun.

  Chapter 31

  Securely rope-tied to his saddle, Parker Southwell supervised the burial of the dead at the spur.

  “Plant ’em deep, boys,” he yelled. “We don’t want dead men walking.” He grinned. “Or talking.”

  “Damn it, Park, I told you we were culling too close,” Shad Vestal said. “Now we got Apaches on the warpath. They’re breaking out.”

  Southwell was angry. “White men did this, not Apaches, and we’ll hunt them down and kill them.”

  Vestal was taken aback. “There’s Apache sign all over the damned place. The men who did this rode unshod ponies, and white men don’t use knives on their captives. You saw the railroaders. You got any idea how long it took them boys to die?”

  “Is Clayton among them?”

  “No. I reckon the Apaches killed him earlier.”

  “Good.” Southwell glared at his segundo. “White men, Shad. Get that into your thick skull. This outrage was perpetrated by white men.”

  “How can you deny that it was Apaches done this?” Ves
tal said. “Who else would have a motive to kill our men, the Mexicans, and the railroaders?”

  The two men sat their horses in the shade of the trees. The eight riders they’d brought with them dug graves, and complained plenty about doing it.

  Southwell turned to Vestal again, his stare cold, lethal.

  “Shad, you’re an idiot,” he said. “If I tell the Denver and Rio Grande railroad shareholders that Apaches killed their engineer and fireman, you know what they’re going to do?”

  He didn’t wait for an answer.

  “They’ll squawk like ruptured roosters and they’ll complain to Washington that their trains are being attacked by bloodthirsty bronco Apaches. How many senators do you think have shares in the D and RG? More than a few, depend on it.”

  His face suffused by a barely contained anger, the old man said, “Next thing you know, we’ll have the army camped on our doorstep and then the questions will start.”

  As though he were acting a part in a play, Southwell mimicked a perplexed Yankee voice. “‘Why did our red brothers take to the war trail? Dear me, whatever could have been the cause? Wait. Their women and children were being kidnapped and killed, ye say? Right, we’ll get to the bottom of this, and, by thunder, heads will roll.’”

  Southwell’s thin finger poked into Vestal’s shoulder. “How long before they discover that we’ve been harvesting the savages and sending their bodies east—where at least they’re finally making themselves useful?”

  Vestal was bright enough to see the problem. And a couple of others. “How are we going to pin the blame on white men? And why would they attack the train?”

  “The outlaws attacked the train because they heard a rumor that we were making a secret gold shipment.”

  “Do you expect people to believe that?”

  “Of course. If the lie is big enough, people will believe it. More to the point, the railroad will be happy to swallow it hook, line, and sinker.”

  Southwell spread his hands, the gesture of a man who thought he was stating the obvious. “Now all we have to do is find the culprits and kill them. Then I can tell the D and RG that the murderers of their men were found and brought to justice.”

  “Find the culprits? Where? I don’t catch your drift.”