Chapter 62
Cage Clayton answered the knock at his hotel room door with a gun in his hand and a scowl on his face.
Nook Kelly stood looking at him, his features just as grim as Clayton’s.
“Come to collect my ten-dollar fine, Marshal?”
Kelly made no answer. He reached behind him, grabbed Minnie by the shoulder, and pushed her into the room.
“Tell Mr. Clayton what you told me, girl,” he said.
Minnie looked terrified, her black eyes huge.
“Tell him, Minnie,” Kelly said again. “He won’t hurt you.”
The girl’s voice was a timid whisper. “Mr. Anderson is dead, and so is Miz Lucy.”
“What happened?” Clayton said, a stirring of alarm in his belly.
“I don’t know,” Minnie said. “Miz Lucy, she tole me to visit for supper, but she didn’t come to the door when I knocked. So I went inside and . . . and they was both lying dead.”
Clayton looked over Minnie’s head to Kelly. “St. John?”
“I don’t know.”
“Have you been to Moses’s house?”
“Not yet. I thought you’d like to be there.”
“Then let’s go,” Clayton said. He grabbed his hat, then looked at Minnie. “You go on home, girl. Nobody’s going to harm you.”
The girl sniffed. “I’m so scared, Mr. Clayton. Bad things is happenin’ in this town. There’s blood on the moon tonight, I seen it.”
Clayton patted Minnie’s shoulder. “You run straight home now. You’ll be all right.”
“Nobody in this town will be all right, not tonight, not any night,” the girl said. “I’m frettin’, Mr. Clayton, frettin’ something awful.”
Moses Anderson lived in a limestone cabin he’d built by himself, about a half mile north of town.
Clayton and Kelly walked in silence through a night lit by the blood moon. Around them dark arrowheads of pine stirred their branches in a gusting wind. The night was cool and smelled of rain and of the lightning that flashed soundlessly above the summits of the Sans Bois.
“Cabin’s just ahead,” Kelly said, breaking the quiet that had stretched between him and Clayton. “Yonder among the wild oaks.”
Oil lamps still burned in the house, its windows rectangles of yellow light that splashed on the ground and tinted the leaves of the oaks.
From the outside, in the darkness, the cabin looked cheerful, welcoming, like an enchanted cottage in a fairy tale.
But inside, there was only blood and death.
“Both shot in the head from close range,” Kelly said. “The woman has powder burns on her forehead around the bullet hole.”
“St. John shut them up,” Clayton said. “He was worried about what else Moses could tell me.”
“You don’t know that,” Kelly said, careful to not make it sound like an accusation.
“I know it. And so do you, but you won’t admit it.”
“I don’t know who killed Moses Anderson and his woman,” Kelly said. “You don’t know either. And there it stands.”
“Moses had hired hands out there at the Southwell Ranch,” Clayton said. “One of them told St. John I was talking with him.”
Kelly shook his head. “Cage, we don’t know that’s what happened. I can’t arrest a man on unfounded suspicion.”
“Then look around you, damn it, and try to solve this thing.”
“Cage, I’m a cow town marshal, hired for my guns. I’m not one of them big city detectives who hunt for clues and solve crimes.”
Clayton’s eyes, blue as ice and just as cold, met Kelly’s. “Then what happens, Marshal?”
“I don’t know.”
“Don’t talk to St. John just yet. Ask his clerks if their boss left the bank for any reason yesterday. If they say he did, then you can talk to him and ask him where the hell he was.”
“The people who work in St. John’s bank won’t tell me anything. They depend on him for their livelihood.”
“You’ll try?”
“Yes, Cage, I’ll try.”
Then Clayton said something that surprised Kelly and for a moment left him tongue-tied.
“Did you speak to Emma? About my mother?”
Clayton could see the lawman squirm, searching his reeling mind for words. Finally he said, “When I left her tonight, she was thinking about it.”
“Not much to think about if you love a person.”
Kelly made a strange face, almost a grimace. “She’s thinking about any children you might have.”
And right then Cage Clayton died a little death.
Chapter 63
“Mr. Clayton, you’ve played hob.”
Mayor Quarrels mopped up the last of the gravy on his plate with a piece of bread and, to reinforce his statement, said, “Just . . . played . . . hob.”
“Is that why you invited me to lunch, to tell me that?” Clayton said.
“Yes, that, and to ask you, nicely, mind, to get the hell out of my town.”
Clayton smiled, but said nothing, waiting for the mayor to talk again.
They were the only customers in Mom’s kitchen. Quarrels had made a late-afternoon appointment with Clayton for that very reason.
The mayor sat back in his chair, sighed, and lit a cigar.
“Since you got here, there’s been nothing but death and destruction,” he said. “Colonel Southwell, his wife, Shad Vestal, now Moses Anderson and his woman . . . the list seems to go on and on.”
He stabbed his cigar in Clayton’s direction. “To say nothing of the man you gunned in the saloon and the one you crippled.”
Quarrels sighed and shook his head.
“I’ve got nothing against you personally, Mr. Clayton. You did well when you helped Marshal Kelly track down the Apaches, but, damn it all, you seem to have been born under a dark star.”
The mayor attempted a smile, failed, then said, “You’re a bad influence on this town and I want you far away from it.”
Clayton waited while Mom refilled his coffee cup, then lit a cigarette and said, “I’ll leave when I prove that Ben St. John is really Lissome Terry, the man responsible for the death of my mother.”
“Nook Kelly told me about your suspicions. He says you also claim that Mr. St. John murdered Moses and his woman.”
“He’s right. I do, and I mean to prove it.”
“All that is errant nonsense. Mr. St. John is a valued member of this community, a man of impeccable reputation. Why would he commit murder, for heaven’s sake?”
Clayton didn’t feel like going into it. Nothing he could say would change Quarrels’s mind anyway. He sat in silence, waiting. It was a while before the mayor spoke again.
Finally, as though he’d just gotten all his thoughts in order, Quarrels said, “Here’s what we’re willing to do—”
“Who’s we?”
“Myself and the leading citizens of Bighorn Point.”
“Ah.”
“One thousand dollars in gold, Mr. Clayton, cash on the barrelhead.”
Quarrels beamed. “What do you think of that?”
“What do you want in return?”
“Leave this town and never come back.”
“Who’s putting up the money? St. John?”
“He and others, including myself.”
Clayton smiled. “Bighorn Point must want to get rid of me real bad. I must be a desperate character.”
“Oh, we do and you are. I thought I made that clear.”
What Clayton didn’t want now was an ultimatum—get out of town by dark or else.
He played for time. “Let me study on it, Mayor. A thousand in gold is a lot of money.”
Quarrels’s face hardened. “All right, but don’t think about it too long.”
“I’ll let you know my answer soon.”
“For your sake, Mr. Clayton, I hope you decide to take the money.”
Chapter 64
“Well, did your plan work? Did Clayton bite?”
&n
bsp; Mayor Quarrels ushered Ben St. John into a chair in front of his desk.
When the fat man was settled, he said, “He’s studying on it.”
“I want him out of here, John, one way or another.”
“I think he’ll take the money and run.”
“Damn it, I don’t want ‘I think.’ I want ‘I know.’ ”
“All right, then, Ben. I know he’ll take the money.”
St. John lit a cigar. “Back in the old days I would have taken care of this myself.”
“Back in the old days you were good with a gun, Ben.” Quarrels smiled. “You’re a tad out of practice.”
“I can still take him, if I have to.”
“Maybe. Just remember to make it look good for Kelly.”
Quarrels stepped to a tray of bottles and glasses in front of his office window. He poured three fingers of whiskey for himself and St. John and returned to his desk.
Without looking at the other man, Quarrels said, “Why Moses and his woman?”
St. John was startled and the hand holding his glass shook. “You know?”
Quarrels smiled. “Of course I know. I heard that Moses was seen talking to Clayton out at the Southwell Ranch. At first I didn’t think much about it, but when Moses was shot, I started putting two and two together.”
“I didn’t want him talking to Clayton about the dead whores.”
“Yeah, I figured that. I knew you were scared that Moses would blab to Clayton about the two ladies. After all, he helped you get rid of the bodies, remember?”
“He helped us get rid of the bodies.”
“I owed you a favor, Ben, and I repaid it. Now, the way I look at it, you owe me one.”
“And now you’re calling it in.”
“Under the circumstance, I consider it only right.”
“All right, John, out with it. How much?”
Quarrels shrugged. “Talking money is so vulgar, but since this is between friends, let’s call it two hundred a month.”
St. John was aghast. “You mean, on top of what I already pay you?”
“Of course, Ben. Don’t be a piker.”
A hot scarlet anger gripped St. John, squeezing his chest, constricting his throat.
“I never liked you, Quarrels,” he said, his voice tight. “I should’ve killed you back in Texas.”
The mayor smiled. “I don’t think so. I was faster than you, and so was Park. You came in a slow third, Ben.”
St. John forced himself to calm down. “All right, another two hundred to keep your big mouth shut.”
“Good for you, Ben. I mean, I’d hate to whisper in Edith’s ear about the murdered whores. I reckon she’d walk out on you, Ben, and take her money with her.” Quarrels grinned. “Now, that would be a real shame. Put you out of business, I should think.”
He shook his head. “What a loss to the community.”
“You’ve made your point. I’ll pay you the money.”
Quarrels rose and brought the whiskey bottle to the desk. He paused, the bottle in his hand, and raised his eyes to the ceiling.
“Ah, Ben, remember the good old days, you and me and Park? You recollect the banks we robbed, the folks we killed?”
He poured the whiskey into each of their glasses. “Remember the bank down Galveston way when you gunned that hick sheriff, then—”
“Shut your damned trap,” St. John said.
“Gunned the sheriff, then went back that night and talked up his woman? ’Course, you was Lissome Terry back then. We called you Liss—at least I did. I can’t recall what Park called you.”
St. John rose to his feet. “Tell me if Clayton agrees to take the money. And from now on, let’s keep our meetings to a bare minimum.”
Quarrels grinned. “You don’t like to talk about the old days, Ben, do you?”
St. John looked at the mayor, his eyes dead.
“You and me, our talking is done,” he said. “For good.”
For a long time, Mayor John Quarrels stared at the door that had slammed shut behind St. John.
He was a worried man. This Clayton business was getting out of hand.
Ben was starting to run scared and could do something foolish, like trying to shade Clayton on the draw-and-shoot.
Once Liss had been pretty good with a gun, but that had been a long time ago and even then he wasn’t a named man, a feared gunfighter.
Clayton was no pushover. He could take Ben, Quarrels was sure of it.
And if that happened he’d lose his meal ticket.
The mayor’s salary didn’t run to Havana cigars and the best bonded bourbon he enjoyed. Or to high-class whores, for that matter.
Quarrels poured himself another drink.
Maybe he was worrying over nothing. There was always the chance that Clayton would take the thousand dollars and leave town.
As soon as the thought entered his head, he dismissed it.
Clayton wanted Ben dead and nothing else would satisfy him.
Quarrels held the cool glass to his hot forehead and closed his eyes.
Think, man. Think.
Then it came to him. . . .
Liss couldn’t shade Clayton, but he could.
Back in the old days, Quarrels had been fast on the draw and had piled up enough dead men to prove it. Even as out of practice as he was, he was too good for Clayton. After all, what was the man? Nothing but a damned Kansas drover who’d gotten lucky against amateurs in the Windy Hall Saloon.
Quarrels drank, smiling around the rim of the glass.
Then it was settled.
He opened a drawer, pulled out a sheet of paper, and began to write.
After that was done, he carefully folded the paper, slipped it into an envelope, and scrawled Cage Clayton across the front.
He had one more letter to write, longer and more detailed. This he left on top of his desk where it would be easily found.
Quarrels’s words to Clayton were written in ink, but he was confident they’d soon be branded across the man’s consciousness in flaming letters a foot high.
He rose to his feet.
First have a boy deliver the envelope to Clayton’s hotel, and then it would be time to call in another favor.
Chapter 65
“Kid brought this for you,” the desk clerk said, stopping Clayton on his way out the door.
He handed over the envelope.
Clayton slipped out the folded paper, opened it up, and read.
The message was straightforward enough, but he scanned it twice to make sure his eyes were not playing tricks on him.
I can help you put a rope around Lissome Terry’s neck.
Meet me at the Southwell Ranch at sundown.
There was no signature.
“Did the kid say who gave this to him?”
“No, he didn’t,” the clerk said. “Bad news?”
Clayton shook his head. “Good news, maybe.”
Before the clerk could question him further, he stepped onto the hotel porch and glanced at the sun.
There were still a couple of hours until dusk.
Clayton glanced over at the marshal’s office, but there was no sign of Kelly, and that was good.
He planned to do this himself without Nook’s meddling.
Clayton had no illusions about the note. The chances were high it was bait on a dangling hook designed to lure him into a trap.
He could be bucking a stacked deck, but he was willing to accept the odds.
St. John himself might have written the note, pushing for a showdown, as anxious as Clayton himself to get it over with.
He nodded to himself, his face grim.
Well, that suited him just fine.
But then another thought struck him—St. John was a careful and cunning man.
He wouldn’t come alone.
Clayton walked to the livery and threw his saddle on Shack Mitchell’s black.
Benny Hinton angrily stepped beside him. “Here, where are you taking that hoss
?”
“Out.”
“No, you ain’t. The owner is deceased and his animal is now town property.”
Clayton’s nerves were stretched almost to the breaking point and he was in no mood to suffer fools gladly.
Suddenly his gun was in his hand, the muzzle jammed between Hinton’s shaggy eyebrows. “Are you going to give me trouble, old man?”
Hinton stepped back, scared, but still angry.
“You’re bad news, Clayton. I knowed that the minute I set eyes on you. Take that hoss and I’ll see ye hung fer it.”
Clayton ignored the man and led the black from the stable.
Hinton followed him.
“After you steal the horse, why don’t you keep on riding, Clayton?” he said. “Bighorn Point was a peaceful town until you got here.”
“When I got here, old man, Bighorn Point was a cesspit and it still is.”
He swung into the saddle and smiled at Hinton. “You take care now.”
“And you go to hell.”
Clayton stared down the dusty street, the shadows already stretching longer as the sky tinted red.
“Seems to me, hell is where I’m at,” he said.
Chapter 66
As he rode through the deepening day, Clayton took the note from his shirt pocket and read it again, as though the letters would suddenly leap from the page and rearrange themselves into the name of the person who wrote it.
He knew with almost one hundred percent certainty that he was riding into a trap—but there was always a slim chance the note was genuine. To positively identify St. John as Lissome Terry was a gamble worth taking.
The sky above the Sans Bois peaks was rust red, streaked with pale lilac, when Clayton reached the Southwell Ranch.
When he was still a ways off, he drew rein and studied the house and the surrounding terrain to be sure he wasn’t the target of a hidden rifleman.
Nothing moved and in the fading light the ranch house was silent, still, as though it had been abandoned a hundred years before.
But the house had a hold over him that Clayton did not understand.
It seemed that he was being constantly drawn to the place, a moth to flame, as though the dead were reaching out from the grave and beckoning to him.
The Stranger from Abilene Page 16
