The Stranger from Abilene

by Ralph Compton

  “Ye’re a robber, so ye are,” he said.

  “A hundred a month. I’ll have a wife to support, remember.”

  “Marrying that lassie the constable was talking aboot?”

  “If she’ll have me.”

  The Scotsman turned and looked at Clayton. After a while he said, “Aye, weel, she might. There’s no accounting for some lassies’ tastes.”

  Again McLean lapsed into silence; then, “Ninety dollars a month, and another ten if ye prove to be satisfactory after a calendar year.”

  The Scotsman’s eyes hardened. “I’ll only accept your best work, mind. If ye shirk your duties, then out ye go.”

  “Agreed.”

  McLean leaned out of his rocker. “Then here’s my hand on it. You’re hired. You’ll be hearing from my lawyers who’ll draw up a contract.”

  “I appreciate it, Mr. McLean,” Clayton said.

  “Your best work. I want that ranch to make a profit.”

  “It will.”

  “Aye, weel, I’ll take you at your word.”

  McLean’s eyes drifted down the street where shadows angled in the morning sun. “Ah, here’s Moses coming. He’s taking me out to see more of the range I just bought. Sharp as a tack, that laddie.”

  When Anderson stopped the rig at the porch, McLean yelled, “Did you bring a bottle, ye damned heathen?”

  The black man grinned and held up a bottle of Old Crow. “And I brung some fried chicken an’ sourdough biscuits my woman cooked,” Anderson said.

  McLean rose to his feet. “And you’ll charge me for it, nae doubt.”

  “No, it’s all included in the price, Mr. McLean.”

  “Aye, and the price is high enough as it is, I’ll be bound. Ye’re a robbing Hindoo and there’s the case stated plain and square.”

  McLean climbed into the gig, then turned to Clayton.

  “I’ll be back this evening and we’ll talk some more,” he said. “Bring the lassie with you.”

  “I’ll do that,” Clayton said.

  But would Emma agree to come?

  Chapter 44

  Shad Vestal ignored the whiskey bottle and drank coffee. A man who planned to murder six human beings had to stay sober.

  He sat in Park Southwell’s favorite leather chair, in a parlor with female touches that should have reminded him of Lee. It didn’t. The whore was gone. He would soon have her money, so why even think about her?

  Women came cheap and he’d have his fill of them. Glutted. He’d heard Park use that word once and it had tickled him ever since. He’d have so many women he’d be glutted.

  “Glut-ted,” he said aloud. The sound of the word pleased Vestal and he smiled.

  “Hello the house!”

  Vestal stiffened. Not the law, not Kelly. A voice he didn’t recognize.

  He rose to his feet, lifted a Colt from the table, and tucked it behind him into his waistband. He opened the door.

  “Hell, it’s you, Moses,” he said.

  The black man moved forward in his seat. “And Mr. McLean.”

  A sudden surge of panic spiked Vestal. Had the little Scotsman changed his mind?

  “Just passing by, Mr. Vestal,” McLean said. “Taking another look at the range and the cattle and buildings appertaining thereto.”

  Relieved, Vestal said, “Then step down and have a drink.”

  McLean held up a skinny hand. “Oh, dearie me, no. I don’t want to intrude; just driving past.” He looked around him. “And where is the bonnie lassie?”

  “She’s out riding,” Vestal said. “I’m surprised you didn’t meet her.”

  “Well, we might see her on the way back.”

  Vestal stepped beside the gig. “When are you headed back to Boston, Mr. McLean?”

  “Tomorrow on the noon stage. After that I’ll make my train connections.”

  The Scotsman studied Vestal’s face. “You’re not worried about the check, are ye?”

  Vestal affected a smile. “Of course not. But I’ve decided to come with you to Boston.”

  “Ye have? Why in the world would you want to do that?”

  “Lee and I talked it over. We agreed that I should leave her here to get her affairs in order, then meet her in Boston.” Vestal shook his head. “You know what strange notions women get.”

  “No, I do not,” McLean said, “since I never saw the need to enter a state of wedlock.” He thought for a few moments, then said, “Ach, weel, you’ll be company on the journey.” His face grew crafty. “But you’ll pay your own way, mind.”

  “Of course.”

  “Then I’ll see you the morn at the stage. Don’t be late, now. I won’t hold it for you.”

  Vestal nodded. “Don’t worry. I’ll be there.”

  “I’m off, then,” McLean said. “I’ll say good day to ye.”

  After he watched the rig vanish from sight behind a billow of dust, Vestal walked back into the house.

  Things were shaping up perfectly. He’d forget about the Hog’s contract to gun Clayton. With no time to plan, Nook Kelly, a born meddler, could make the job too dangerous.

  He closed the door quietly behind him, smiling.

  Now he had men to kill. And that he had planned.

  Vestal had called the ranch’s six surviving hands off the range. Now that the place was sold and the servants dismissed, the men were on edge, concerned about their futures. In the changing West, gun wages were hard to come by and jobs were scarce for those who knew only the way of the Colt.

  Vestal, smiling, reassuring, stepped into the bunkhouse, and tried to set the hands’ minds at rest.

  Every single one of them would be well taken care of, he told them. Mr. Southwell in his will had left each man a year’s wages in the event of his death.

  A lie. He had left everything to Lee.

  He, Vestal, would try to find any man who wanted one a job, though he had heard—and don’t spread this around—that Angus McLean was interested in keeping gun hands on the payroll.

  “See, you’ve got nothing to fear, boys,” Vestal said, beaming. “Why, old Park’s death could end up being the best damn thing that ever happened to you.”

  A hollow cheer went up from the men, followed by a second, louder one when Vestal said, “Come up to the house, boys. Park had the best cellar in the territory and tonight I want to see you drink it dry.”

  “Any whores, Shad?” a man yelled.

  “No, Lee is spending the night in town,” Vestal said.

  That last caused a bellow of laughter and Vestal joined in the mirth. Or seemed to. Inwardly he felt only a sense of triumph.

  Yes, laugh now, you sorry trash. By the time the sun comes up tomorrow, you’ll be humping the Devil’s whores in hell.

  Chapter 45

  Men who hug the bottle too closely get drunk and noisy, then quiet and maudlin, and finally, and mercifully, they fall into a coma that’s a mean approximation of sleep.

  It took the Southwell hands five hours to complete the process, just as the day slipped into night.

  Vestal pretended to drink, sipping slowly and little. He joined in the laughter, the reminiscences, shed crocodile tears when they sang “She’s More to Be Pitied Than Censured,” and he watched with growing anticipation as heads drooped and men sprawled across the bottle-littered dining table and snored.

  Later Vestal would tell himself that it was all sinfully easy, so easy that he reckoned years from now the memory of it would make him smile.

  There was no fuss, no bother.

  He fetched a carving knife from the kitchen and, one by one, cut six throats.

  Oh, sure, a couple bubbled blood and one cried out, but the job was done quickly and Vestal was more than satisfied.

  He walked to the kitchen, stripped off his bloody clothes, then scrubbed his hands and body with soap and water. He stepped into Park’s bedroom, found pants, slippers, and a smoking jacket he liked, and put them on.

  Vestal returned to the dining room, where he sat at t
he top of the table, old Park’s place.

  He poured himself a brandy, nodding his appreciation as he savored its musky, fruity aroma and taste.

  The earth and its pleasures are for the living, not the dead.

  It dawned on Vestal then, as it had many times in the past, that the dead are quiet. They hear nothing and spread no tales.

  He lit a cigar, one of Park’s slim Havanas.

  The hands had to die, of course.

  They knew too much. All of them had culled Apaches, and alive could point fingers, tell tales.

  Vestal nodded and aloud he said, “You’re in a better place now, boys.”

  And that made him laugh. He splashed more brandy into his glass.

  Later, he packed a single carpetbag. He could buy clothes in the latest style in Boston or wherever. He laid his holstered Colt at the bottom of the bag. He wouldn’t need it now. Later perhaps, but for the moment he wished to project an image of the rich, successful gentleman.

  With that in mind, he went to his room and laid out his best go-to-prayer-meeting suit, white shirt, new elastic-sided boots, and then, his crowning glory, a cream-colored bowler hat, made in England of the finest felt.

  He’d never worn these clothes before, but had bought them as part of his long-range plans.

  Vestal looked in the mirror and admired the outrageously handsome man who stared back at him. Yellow hair cascaded in waves to his shoulders, his eyes were of the clearest blue, and his mustache was full, flowing, and magnificent.

  That last would make the hearts of many a Boston belle flutter, he knew.

  Perhaps he’d marry one, for her money of course. And then . . . well, he still had his gun.

  Women were such useful but wonderfully disposable commodities.

  As he had done with Lee, Vestal decided to leave the bodies where they lay. By the time anyone came out this way, he’d be long gone.

  But now the silent dead bored him.

  He lit another cigar, poured more brandy, and stepped outside into the cool of the evening.

  The stars looked so close, Vestal believed he could reach out and grab a handful, then scatter them on the ground and let them burn out until only cinders were left.

  Somewhere in the gloom the coyotes were calling close and a night bird—

  Suddenly Vestal was alert.

  He had never heard a bird call like that on the Southwell range.

  There it was again, a soft warble. A short spell of quiet; then it was repeated.

  Instinctively he reached for his gun. No! He’d left it in the carpetbag.

  The Apaches came at him in a rush.

  Chapter 46

  To Cage Clayton’s joy, Emma agreed to meet him on the hotel porch after she finished work. At the appointed time, she showed up on the arm of Nook Kelly, who arrived grim-faced and silent.

  “I’m meeting Angus McLean this evening,” Clayton said. He looked at Emma. “He wanted you to be here.”

  The girl smiled, but it was a wan effort. “Cage, I can’t talk you into taking his job. That’s a decision only you can make for yourself.”

  “I took the job,” Clayton said. “Ninety a month, and another ten after a year.” Now he plunged in again. “We can live on that.”

  Emma made no answer, and Clayton said, “Can’t we?”

  She rushed into his arms. “Of course we can! Oh, Cage, this is wonderful news.”

  Kelly stuck out his hand. “Congratulations. You’ll do a terrific job.”

  Clayton shook hands, but his eyes never left Kelly’s.

  “He’s still alive, you know,” he said. “Despite what you told Emma, Lissome Terry is in Bighorn Point.”

  He watched the lawman struggle with the lie that hovered on the tip of his tongue, but in the end the truth clenched out of him.

  “Yes, he . . . probably is.”

  Emma swung her head. “But, Nook, you said that Terry—”

  “Was dead? I told you that because I thought you might be able to convince Cage it was the truth.”

  He looked at Clayton. “Enjoy the new job, Cage. Leave Terry to me.”

  “He’ll get tired of waiting, of looking over his shoulder,” Clayton said. “And eventually he’ll come after me.”

  “If he does that, I’ll be ready.”

  Clayton shook his head. “No, I’ll be ready. This is my fight, not yours.”

  “I’m the law in this town and that makes it my fight.”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake, I can’t bear to hear you two squabbling over which of you gets to kill a man,” Emma said. “Can’t you forget about Terry, let his own guilty conscience make him suffer?”

  “I don’t think he has one of those,” Clayton said.

  Emma stared at Clayton. “Cage, do you want to marry me?”

  “Of course I do.”

  “Then forget that terrible man. Think about us.”

  Kelly smiled. “Sounds like good advice.”

  “It is good advice,” Clayton said, “and I’ll take it—until the time comes.”

  “Terry is dead,” Emma said, “dead to us.”

  Clayton nodded, glad he had no need to add words to the gesture.

  Angus McLean arrived an hour before dark. He dismissed Moses Anderson with a stern warning that he should change his robbing ways “instanter,” heed the teachings of the Church of Scotland, and make sure he visited Edinburgh Town at his earliest convenience.

  Moses smiled, bobbed his head, and promised to do all of the above.

  “Aye, weel, I hope ye do,” McLean said. He found his steel purse, opened it wide so it gaped like the jaws of a shark, and extracted some coins.

  “Here, a wee bonus to ye for your help,” he said. “Don’t spend it on whiskey and scarlet women, mind.”

  He thought about that; then, “Weel, the whiskey is all right, but stay away from the painted Jezebels.”

  “Praise the Lord,” Moses said, grinning.

  “You’re learning,” McLean said. “Now be off with ye, and damn ye for a thieving Hindoo.”

  The Scotsman watched Moses leave, then turned to Kelly and said, “A lad o’ parts, that one. He’ll go far and make his mark or my name’s not Angus McLean.” He looked at Emma. “And this is the lassie who’ll be taking care of my ranch house and all the outbuildings pertaining thereto.”

  A thought occurred to him. “Oh, I hope I’m not speaking out of turn. Has your intended told you he’s my new manager?”

  “He has,” Emma said, “and I want to thank you for such a wonderful opportunity.” She glanced at Clayton. “And so does Cage.”

  McLean held up a hand. “No need for thanks, lassie. Your man is a robber, but I think he’ll do well.”

  He smiled. “Here, Miss Southwell is still at the ranch. You should go out there and talk to her. She can show you the workings of the stove and where the washtub is kept and the scrubbers and buckets for the floor. Women stuff like that.”

  Kelly smiled. “I doubt that Lee Southwell has scrubbed a floor in her life.”

  “Aye, you may be right. She’s a bonnie lassie and no mistake but not a housewife. Still, I wish it was her accompanying me to Boston and not her partner.”

  “Partner?” Kelly said, surprised.

  “Mr. Vestal. He’s a braw-looking lad, but not my cup o’ tea, if you take my meaning. But he’s Mrs. Southwell’s partner in the ranch and I had to deal with him.”

  “Vestal is going with you to Boston?” Kelly said.

  “Aye, we leave on the noon stage tomorrow.”

  “Did you talk to Lee?”

  “No, I didn’t see her when I stopped by the hoose earlier today. Mr. Vestal says she’s staying on at the ranch for a week or so to get her affairs in order. Her being a widow woman, I suppose that’s understandable.”

  Kelly turned to Clayton, his expression asking a question.

  “She makes Vestal her partner in the ranch,” Clayton said, “then lets him gallivant off to Boston without her?” He shoo
k his head. “Doesn’t sound like the Lee Southwell I know.”

  “No, she’d go to Boston herself and let Shad Vestal settle her affairs in Bighorn Point,” Emma said. “It does seem strange.”

  Kelly thought about that for a while, then said, “I’ll ride out there at first light, see what’s on Lee’s mind.”

  “I’m still your deputy,” Clayton said. “Mind if I tag along?”

  “You’re welcome,” Kelly said. Then, as a second thought, “Wear your gun.”

  Chapter 47

  For the first time in his life, Shad Vestal knew fear. Big and strong, he fought frantically, but the Apaches were too many and too determined. They dragged him away from the ranch house and in the direction of the cottonwood where he had killed Lee.

  The woman’s body was still there where he’d left it, her face an eerie shade of purple in the gloom, black shadows in the hollows of her eyes and under her cheekbones.

  Lee’s eyes were wide open, staring at Vestal, and there seemed to be a slight smile on her bloodless lips.

  Vestal felt like screaming.

  But he didn’t. Not yet. The screams would come later.

  The Apaches were stripping off his clothes! He kicked out and his right boot cracked hard against a man’s jaw. The Indian went down and Vestal tried to struggle to his feet.

  A rifle butt rammed into his throat and he dropped to his knees. He bent over, gagging, retching up green bile.

  Again he was thrown on his back and his clothes were cut off his body, leaving him shivering and naked on the grass.

  The silence of the Apaches unnerved him. There was no talk among them, no threats directed at him, just six men quietly getting on with their work.

  But what work?

  Vestal was dragged to his feet.

  And then he knew.

  A small, hot fire had been lit under a low branch of the cottonwood, its embers glowing red. Beside it, one of the Apaches held ropes.

  Vestal roared his rage and fear, tried to kick out at the men around him.

  But they held him, held him on his belly while a rope was tied around his hands and then his ankles.