The Stranger from Abilene

No, I’m not. I don’t want your cold, skinny hand crawling all over me like a spider, the stink of your breath, your dead legs between my thighs....

Someone rapped on the door.

Relieved, and before her husband could respond, she called out, “Come in.”

Lon Clyde, one of the hands, stepped inside and removed his hat. He spoke to Southwell.

“Boss, Shad Vestal is back.”

“Well, man, don’t just stand there gawking at my wife. Did he get him?”

“I don’t know.”

“You’re an idiot. Send Shad to me.”

Vestal stepped inside a couple of minutes later. He looked dusty and trail worn, his face gray with fatigue.

“Well?” Southwell said.

“He’s not in Bighorn Point.”

“Damn it, I know that. Kelly made him a deputy and sent him away somewhere to hide him from me.”

“I searched as far west as Robbers Cave, thinking he might be there,” Vestal said. “He wasn’t. Then I swung south to Limestone Ridge, then Blue Mountain.”

Vestal shook his head. “No luck. It’s like he’s vanished off the face of the earth.”

“I want that man dead, Shad. Saddle yourself a fresh horse and get back on the hunt.”

“It’s dark. I can’t find a man in the dark.”

“Yes, you can. He’s a rube and he’ll light a fire. Head north this time. Find him.”

“Shad,” Lee said, “track Clayton down just for me. And when you get him, take your time killing him. I want him to know he’s dying.”

“Well, don’t just stand there,” Southwell said. “You heard my wife: Kill the son of a bitch.”

Vestal nodded. “Just as you say, Park.”

He and Lee exchanged a single glance, but it was one that held memories of shared pleasures past and the promise of many more to come.

“That man is as big an idiot as the rest of the hands,” Southwell said after Vestal left.

Lee said nothing. As her husband’s hand went to her body again, squeezing, twisting, Lee consoled herself with one exquisite thought . . . .

Soon she’d kill the old man who was so greedily pawing her, spittle gathering at the corners of his mouth.

And then she and Shad would be free.

And rich.

Chapter 17

By the time he had retrieved his horse and staked him out on a patch of grass among some wild oak, Cage’s leg had started to bleed again and the pain was a living thing.

After he returned to the old boxcar, he tried to numb the searing pain with the Old Crow, but he couldn’t drink too much, not if he was to dig out the .45 ball buried in his thigh.

Clayton opened his Barlow knife and poured whiskey over the carbon steel blade. He dropped his pants; then, as careful as a naked man climbing over barbed wire, he shoved the point of the blade into the open wound.

Clayton bit back a scream.

Oh God, I can’t do this.

His courage wasn’t up to the task, and that was the long and short of the thing. He gritted his teeth.

Cage, you damn coward, get it done. There ain’t nobody but you.

He plunged the knife deeper, and this time he screamed. He reached out, grabbed the Old Crow with a trembling hand, and gulped down nearly half a pint. The bourbon danced around in his head for a while, then hit him hard.

“Bastard!” Clayton yelled, but whether at the man who’d shot him, the whiskey, or the bullet, even he couldn’t tell. He rammed the blade into his leg again.

“Ah! Ah! Ah!” He drank another slug of booze. Deeper. Blood spurted. The pain was white hot. His body shrieked at him to stop. Deeper still. The steel scraped on . . . something. The bullet? Bone? He didn’t know. He levered the tip of the blade upward.

“Ah! Ah! Ah!”

More whiskey. Damn, the bottle was almost empty.

Dig down, tip the blade upward.

“Ah! Ah! Ah!”

He saw it! The bullet, a gray iris in a scarlet eyeball. He shoved the blade under the ball. Gritted his teeth. Now! Tip it up and out!

The bullet jerked from of the wound, described an arc in the air, and landed with a thud on the floor. Clayton didn’t hear it.

He’d already fainted.

When Cage Clayton woke, he was lying on the floor, the top of his head wedged tight against a wall.

How long had he been out?

He looked at his watch. It had just gone on three o’clock and the night was still full dark. An hour, then, maybe less.

He rose slowly to his feet, the wound in his leg paining him like blazes. A quick search of the room uncovered a clean white shirt left by its recently deceased owner.

Hungover, his head pounding, Clayton poured himself a cup of coffee, then sat at the table again. The wound looked red and inflamed, but it had stopped bleeding. He drank coffee, then built and lit a cigarette, steeling himself for what he had to do.

He picked up the Old Crow. Good, there was enough left. Now wasn’t the time to hesitate. Clayton poured the contents of the bottle into his open wound.

He roared as shrieking pain slammed at him, coming in waves, each one more agonizing than the one before.