The Stranger from Abilene

Vestal listened, and the night listened to the listener, as though on alert for what he might say or do. Again Vestal lifted his head, smelled the air, trying to scent his prey. He sniffed, sniffed again. No, he had not been mistaken. It was wood smoke, fleeting, faint, but there.

Lightning flashed without thunder, searing the sullen land with stark light. The rain had been heavy earlier, and a man could not build a fire in the open. That left only the boxcar at the railroad spur.

Had Clayton gone there, seeking shelter from the storm? If he had, he was probably dead by now. Hugh Doyle was on guard there, and he was a man inclined to shoot first and ask questions later.

After a last glance at the featureless sky, Vestal swung his horse toward the spur.

When Vestal reached the tracks, he dismounted and switched from boots to moccasins, better for killing work than high heels and spurs.

Even in the dark, he read the story in the bloodstains alongside the rails. The rain had washed some of the blood away, but there was enough left to color scarlet the small pools among the grass and rocks. Two men had fought with guns here. One had been wounded, how badly Vestal couldn’t tell. But the other had been hit hard and bled out.

So Doyle had taken a bullet, but had gunned Clayton. That’s how he read it.

Like a wolf, Vestal sniffed, his lips drawn back from his teeth. He followed the scent. The body had been dragged into brush close to the tracks. But it was Doyle’s corpse, not Clayton’s. Vestal pondered that.

Hugh Doyle, one of the railroaders in Park Southwell’s pocket, had been good with a gun. He’d killed two men that Vestal knew about, and enough Chinese to populate a small village.

Clayton was better than he’d given him credit for, handy with the iron. Not that Vestal was afraid—he wasn’t—but it was always good to know your enemy.

He drew his Colt and walked toward the boxcar on cat feet. The door was closed and a ribbon of smoke came from the stove’s iron chimney. Clayton’s horse was grazing nearby.

Vestal paused outside the boxcar for a long minute, listening, but hearing nothing. Clayton was either asleep or dead. Vestal cocked his revolver and slid the door open. It moved without a sound.

The room was lit by a single oil lamp and the glow of the stove. An empty whiskey bottle sat on the table. Clayton lay near the stove, unmoving.

Damn it, was the man already dead?

Moving on silent feet, Vestal stepped to Clayton and stood looking down at him. The man was still breathing.

Vestal lowered the Colt until the muzzle was just an inch from Clayton’s temple.

He grinned.

Like taking a candy stick from a baby . . . .

Chapter 20

But Shad Vestal did not pull the trigger. Something was wrong. He eased down the Colt’s hammer. Better to kill Clayton later, he thought, on the Southwell Ranch.

Vestal smiled. Yeah, why not? The plan dawned on him with crystal clarity. First, gun the old man, then Clayton. Next, blame Clayton for Park’s murder. The man from Abilene thought he’d found the man he’d been hunting and killed him. It was so simple.

He even knew how the newspapers would play it. Brave ranch foreman Shad Vestal, they would say, caught Clayton in the act of trying to violate helpless Mrs. Southwell. Enraged, Clayton went for his murderous revolver, but Shad Vestal was faster on the draw. Now the frontier is rid of yet another mad-dog killer and would-be rapist.

Then the clincher: Mrs. Southwell, at present heavily sedated, will inherit the Southwell ranch and all of her dead husband’s business interests.

Vestal felt like giggling in sheer joy. The plan was so perfect . . . so faultlessly rounded. A thought occurred to him then. Why not kill Clayton now and take him back to the ranch draped over his horse?

He shook his head. No, that was too messy.

Suppose he met someone on the trail, Kelly maybe? He would have some explaining to do. He’d get out of it, of course, but why take the chance?

No, he’d follow the plan as it had come to him, take Clayton back to the ranch and kill him there.

Vestal rammed his foot into Clayton’s ribs.

“Get up, you,” he said. “We’re riding.”

Chapter 21

Cage Clayton awoke to pain. He looked up at the flashily handsome man towering over him. “Who the hell are you?”

“Name’s Shad Vestal.”

“You found me?”

“A blind man could’ve found you. On your feet.”

Clayton staggered upright, his eyes moving, searching for his chance. He found none. Vestal was as aware as a hunting wolf.

“I can’t get up. I’m shot through and through,” Clayton said. “Took a bullet in the thigh.”

“Then I’ll gun you right here,” Vestal said. “Your choice.”