The Stranger from Abilene Page 9

  Southwell smiled, a humorless, skull-like grimace. “I’d guess at this very moment they’re holed up at the dugout saloon and hog ranch in Smokestack Hollow. It’s a well-known nest of thieves, border riffraff, Meskins, and outlaws of every stripe.”

  Awareness dawned on Vestal, and his smile was genuine.

  But if Southwell had known the real reason for that smile, he would have hung his segundo from the nearest cottonwood.

  Chapter 32

  Smokestack Hollow lay less than ten miles from the railroad spur, and when Southwell and his men rode into the shallow, grassy valley, it was still not yet noon.

  Both the saloon and adjoining hog ranch were dug into the side of a hill above a U-shaped rock ridge. In front was a dusty clearing that grew a crop of sand and cactus. A screeching windmill dragged water from unwilling layers of shale and sandstone and a huge pig wallowed in mud spawned from the drips.

  As Southwell and his riders watched from the shadowed cover of pines and wild oak, a woman stepped out of the hog ranch, threw the contents of a chamber pot into the dirt, then walked inside again.

  Someone in the saloon picked on a guitar and a man’s yell was joined by the high-pitched female shriek that passed for laughter in an end-of-the-line shop like this one.

  Southwell turned to one of the men flanking him. “Benny, run on up there and take a look-see,” he said. Then, distrusting the man called Benny’s intelligence, he added, “I want to know how many armed men and the number of women. Order a drink, pay for it, and keep your eyes open. When you’ve seen enough, skedaddle back down here.”

  “Sure thing, boss,” Benny said. He was a coarseskinned man, his face pitted with acne scars.

  “Then get it done.”

  Southwell watched his man ride up to the saloon, swing out of the saddle, and step inside.

  “Shad,” he said, “do you think the murdering scum in there hear the chimes at midnight?”

  Vestal grinned. “Not yet, but they will, I reckon.”

  Southwell heard one of his men whisper, “What the hell are the chimes at midnight?”

  He sighed.

  Ignorant scum in there, ignorant scum out here.

  Time passed. The sun climbed in the sky and the blistering day stained the shirts of the waiting horsemen with dark patches of sweat.

  Chafed by the ropes that held him in the saddle, Southwell tried to ease himself into a more comfortable position, but failed.

  Hot, irritated, he said to Vestal, “Where the hell is Benny? He should be back by now.”

  Vestal’s eyes swept the ridge, then the dugouts. There was no sign of life. Even the pig lay still on its side, asleep, covered in dried mud.

  Several minutes ticked past; then Benny stepped from the saloon.

  Suddenly, Southwell straightened in the saddle, his eyes popping. No! The idiot was backing out, his Colt bucking in his hand.

  A tall man in a dirty white shirt appeared in the doorway, a gun in his fist. He doubled over as Benny gut-shot him, but then rose onto his toes and emptied his gun into the dirt at his feet before falling on his face.

  Benny sprang into the saddle, firing through the open door. He swung away from the saloon and momentarily disappeared behind the ridge. He reappeared and rode hell-for-leather for the waiting horsemen. He savagely reined in his horse, its haunches slamming into the dirt.

  “What the hell happened?” Southwell yelled, his face black with anger.

  “Hell, boss, I had me a couple of drinks, figured we was gonna kill them all an’ I didn’t want a good bottle to go to waste,” Benny said, grinning.

  “Why the guns?” Southwell said.

  “Feller next to me spilled his drink on me. I hate to see a body waste good liquor. So I stuck a knife into his guts an’ then finished what I was sippin’.” He waved a hand toward the dugouts. “Them in there got kinda mad about the cuttin’. Had to shoot my way out.”

  “Looks like you killed one man,” Southwell said. “How many others are in there?”

  “Four white men, a couple of Mexicans, an’ three women . . . left.”

  “Are all the men armed?”

  “Damn right they are.”

  “You idiot, we could have walked in there and killed them real easy,” Southwell said. “Now we’ve got a gunfight on our hands.”

  “Sorry, boss.”

  Southwell drew his gun. “Sorry don’t cut it, Benny.”

  He fired and a small red rose blossomed between Benny’s eyes. The man tumbled from his horse and lay still.

  “Now what?” Vestal asked, after a disinterested glance at the dead man.

  “Because of that idiot, we go the hard route,” Southwell said. “Shoot our way in.”

  Vestal turned to his men. “You heard the boss. Let’s get it done.”

  “How about the women?” a man asked.

  Southwell grunted and glared at the man. “Any more damned fool questions?”

  No one spoke.

  “Right, boys! Then let’s root out that nest of murderers.”

  Chapter 33

  “Wait!” Vestal said. “There’s a better way.”

  Southwell’s irritation grew. The War Between the States had taught him his soldiering, and now it showed. “There’s no better way than the cavalry charge.”

  “Park, we’d have to cross a hundred yards of open ground and we’d run right up on their guns. We can’t outflank the dugouts or attack them from above. We’d lose half our men in the first charge and the other half in the second.”

  Southwell was stubborn, but he wasn’t a stupid man.

  “Then what do you suggest?” he said.

  “The men in the saloon don’t know we’re here,” Vestal said. “We can ride right in there as friends, only we ain’t.”

  “They’ll be suspicious of an armed party. I doubt that they’d consider us friends.”

  “We drape Benny over his saddle, say we heard gunfire and saw him riding away from the saloon. He shot at us, and we returned fire and killed him.”

  “And now we’re doing the right thing,” Southwell said, his eyes suddenly aware. “We just wanted the good folks up there in the saloon to know that a killer has been brought to justice.”

  “Right,” Vestal said. “We wait until they lower their guard, and then we cut them down.”

  Southwell thought that through, then said, “All right, Shad, we’ll try it your way.” He called to his men, “Throw that fool over his horse. We’ll go play good citizens.”

  A few men laughed as the dead man was tossed over his saddle.

  “Forward, boys,” Southwell said. Then to Vestal, “Shad, if this doesn’t work, I’ll have you shot.”

  “It will work, Park,” Vestal said. “Trust me.”

  Vestal led Benny’s horse. Beside him, adding respectability, was Southwell, wearing his expensive English riding outfit.

  Vestal called out to the men inside the dugout, but they were wary.

  Finally a voice yelled from inside, “What the hell do you want?”

  “We had to kill a man,” Southwell said. “We think you might know him.”

  There was no answer from within.

  The man Benny had shot lay sprawled in the dust. His pockets were turned inside out and his boots and belt were gone. His bare feet revealed crooked toes with overgrown nails.

  A couple of minutes passed; then Vestal said, “Well, if you folks don’t want this stiff, we’ll take him back to Bighorn Point.”

  The voice from inside said, “Hold up there. We’ll take a look.”

  After a few moments the door swung open and two men stepped outside. They were long-haired, bearded, and dirty—typical frontier riffraff. But the guns they held were clean enough, and Vestal noted that the man on the right had a repeating shotgun, a Winchester model of 1887. In a close-up fight it could be a devastating weapon.

  It was this man who stepped to Vestal’s horse.

  He was big, well over six feet, and despite the
heat, he wore a bearskin coat.

  The fastidious Southwell wrinkled his nose. The man smelled like a damned goatherd.

  “What you got?” the man asked.

  “We were riding past and heard shots,” Vestal said. “Then this feller came down off the ridge at a gallop. He saw us and took a couple of pots, so we had to kill him.”

  The big man grunted. “You done good.”

  He stepped past Vestal to Benny’s horse and lifted the dead man’s head by the hair. He glanced into Benny’s face and nodded. “That’s him all right. He kilt poor Bob Henry over there an’ stabbed another one inside.”

  “Well, we’ll be leaving now,” Vestal said. “You can keep the dead man’s hoss and traps.”

  “I surely do appreciate that, mister.” The big man flashed a brown and yellow smile. “But I’m what ye might call a thankin’ man, an’ I’d be right grateful if you and the others in your company would let me buy you a drink.”

  Vestal turned his head and called out to the men lined up behind him, “How about it, boys? Are you thirsty?”

  A ragged cheer went up, and Vestal grinned. “This gentleman is paying, so let’s belly up to the bar.”

  Another cheer and the men dismounted, leading their horses toward the dugout.

  Vestal looked at Southwell. “Want me to untie you so you can join us, Park?”

  The older man shook his head. On horseback he was a colonel. On the ground he was a helpless cripple.

  “Bring me a stirrup cup, Shad,” he said.

  Vestal had never heard the expression before, but he caught Southwell’s drift. “Anything you say, boss.”

  “And, Shad, tie this up. Make it neat. I don’t want anything left alive in there—man, woman, child, or animal.”

  “You can depend on it, Park,” Vestal said.

  Inside, the saloon was surprisingly large. The area nearer the door was roofed by the hillside itself, burlap sacks stretched across the ceiling to catch dirt and bugs. But the rear had been blasted from rock and formed a wide cave, used for storage and a sitting and sleeping area. It boasted a couple of tables, each with four chairs and several iron cots.

  The bar was to the right of the door, a couple of timber boards laid across trestles. The shelf behind held a few bottles, and a barrel of whiskey sat on top of the bar next to a selection of half-washed glasses.

  Vestal’s gaze swept the room. A man who looked like the proprietor stood behind the bar, dressed in faded finery—a filthy white shirt, string tie, and brocaded vest. The two other white men looked so much like the man in the bearskin coat they could have been brothers.

  It was the Mexicans who caught and fixed Vestal’s attention. They were dressed like vaqueros in wide sombreros and tight embroidered jackets, but Vestal pegged them as banditos on the scout from somewhere farther south. Both men wore Colts and had careful eyes and still hands.

  The Mexicans would be the greatest gun danger, Vestal decided.

  No matter, he would kill those two first.

  The body of the man stabbed by Benny had been dragged into a corner. The three painted-up women stepped across to join the men at the bar.

  Soon the women were laughing with Vestal’s men, each of whom seemed to grow an extra hand with every glass of rotgut.

  Vestal sipped his own drink and glanced outside.

  Southwell sat his horse under a full sun, looking in the direction of the dugout. Hell, he must be dying of thirst out there. Vestal grinned. If he wanted a drink, let him walk inside and get it.

  He smelled the stink of bearskin coat before the man joined him.

  “Having a good time there, amigo?”

  “Yeah, it’s a load of fun,” Vestal said. “But it ain’t gonna be fun for you any longer.”

  He drew his gun and pumped two bullets into the big man’s belly.

  The man’s expression changed from good humor, to surprise, and then to an odd kind of hurt, as though Vestal had betrayed him.

  “Get ’em, boys!” Vestal yelled.

  Guns hammered and the two bearded white men went down. The man behind the bar managed to grab a shotgun before half a dozen guns opened up on him, pulping his chest into a bloody jelly.

  Thick smoke drifted through the saloon like a fog and Vestal grabbed his opportunity.

  The unglazed window’s shutters were open and Vestal two-handed his Colt up to eye level and drew a bead on Southwell’s skull. He fired.

  The man’s head jolted to the side, fanning blood, but he remained where he was, tall and straight in the saddle.

  Vestal didn’t spare Southwell a second glance. He knew he’d fired a killing shot. He’d scattered the old man’s brains and that was the end of him. And good riddance.

  A woman screamed out of the smoke haze as Vestal finished reloading his gun. His men were going after the doves now, and that meant every man in the dugout was already dead.

  What about the Mexicans?

  Vestal stepped toward the back of the saloon and reached the rock cave. Here the smoke was thinner.

  The two Mexicans were on their feet, but neither had drawn his gun.

  “Oye, hombre, qué pasa?” one of the men said.

  Vestal smiled. “I’m what’s happening.” He went for his gun.

  The Mexicans were fast, much faster than honest men have to be. But they didn’t come close.

  Both men were hit hard before they brought their guns to bear. One was dead when he hit the ground; the other, his mouth full of blood, lasted a few seconds longer.

  Vestal reloaded, regarded his dead with a dispassionate interest, then turned his back on them. “We lose anybody?” he asked one of the men.

  The man nodded to a body lying under the bar. “Sam Ridge. Caught a stray bullet early in the fight.”

  “Too bad,” Vestal said.

  He walked outside to where Southwell sat his horse, staring at the dugout with the leaden eyes of a dead man.

  Vestal smiled. Lee would be pleased.

  Chapter 34

  Cage Clayton was disappointed when he made out the rider trotting toward him, elongated in the shimmering heat haze. He had hoped for Emma Kelly. The reality was Nook Kelly.

  Clayton stood outside the cabin and watched the marshal ride closer. When Kelly was within hailing distance, he swallowed his letdown and raised a hand. “Howdy.”

  “And right back to ya, Cage.” Kelly drew rein. “You got coffee left?”

  Clayton nodded. “Sure do. Light and set.”

  Kelly followed Clayton through the open doorway of the cabin.

  “You should’ve put in a door,” he said.

  “I got no idea how to make a door,” Clayton said. “Even if I had tools, which I don’t.”

  “It’s easy. All you need is boards, nails, and a hammer.”

  “How many have you made?”

  “To date, none.”

  “Then you’re no one to be giving advice about door making.”

  “Maybe, but I reckon I could make one if I needed to.”

  “I’ve took to liking a cabin without a door,” Clayton said. “Lets the breeze through.”

  Kelly nodded. “There’s always that.”

  The marshal waited until he was seated on Clayton’s only chair, a cup of coffee steaming on the table, before he spoke again.

  “Parker Southwell is dead,” he said. “Dead and buried.”

  It took a while for Clayton to register that. Finally he said, “How? When?”

  “How—he was shot. When—two days ago over at Smokestack Hollow.”

  “Who shot him?”

  “The way Shad Vestal tells it, a bunch of white renegades attacked a train up at the spur. Apparently they’d heard a rumor that Park Southwell was shipping gold in a refrigerator car.”

  “We know that isn’t true,” Clayton said.

  “Don’t we, though?”

  Kelly sipped form his cup, then made a face. “Hell, how old is this coffee?”

  “Only a couple
of days. So, what happened?”

  “Again, how Vestal tells it, they tracked the renegades to a dugout saloon in Smokestack Hollow, the gallant Colonel Southwell tied to his hoss. Fearlessly—Vestal’s word, not mine—the old man led the attack on the saloon and got killed in the first charge, him and a couple other men, one of them a fast gun by the name of Benny Petite.”

  “And the renegades?”

  “Wiped out to a man, along with four women that got caught in the cross fire.”

  “It’s a pack of lies,” Clayton said.

  “No, it ain’t. I rode out to the dugout and there’s blood and bullet holes everywhere.”

  “And the bodies?”

  “Vestal said they buried them, along with Southwell and Petite. I saw the grave and there’s surely a bunch of folks down there.”

  “Why didn’t he take the old man’s body back to Lee?”

  “Too hot, Vestal said. He didn’t want to lug Park’s body through the heat, said it would end up smelling bad and upset his widow.”

  “Thoughtful of him.”

  “Yeah, and damned convenient. Ties it all up nice and tight.”

  Kelly was silent for a few moments, then said, “Needless to say, Shad Vestal is a hero in Bighorn Point and Lee is acting the grieving widow to the hilt. Now there’s talk that the Denver and Rio Grande Railroad wants to erect a statue to the gallant Colonel Parker Southwell outside the church.”

  “On a horse?”

  “Probably.”

  “Southwell must have known it was Apaches attacked the train, and if he didn’t, Vestal certainly would. Why murder a bunch of people in a saloon?”

  “Blame Apaches and right away everybody’s screaming, ‘Uprising!’ If the army got involved, questions would be asked, and Southwell’s involvement in the body trade could’ve got him hung.”

  Clayton thought for a while, then said, “I’m going back to Bighorn Point. I still have a job to do.”

  “Hell, Cage, there’s easier ways to earn a thousand dollars. Rob a bank, for Pete’s sake.”

  “It’s not just the money. There’s something else, something I never mentioned to you before.”