The Stranger from Abilene

“Where are you taking me?” Clayton said.

He felt weak and light-headed from loss of blood, but he pretended to be more frail than he was and frightened to death—though the latter wasn’t much of a stretch.

“You’re going to the ranch. Mr. Southwell wants to talk to you about dumping his wife in a pool of shit.”

“I’m sorry about that.”

“Sorry don’t cut it.”

Vestal’s hand moved like a striking snake and removed Clayton’s gun from the holster. “You kill Hugh Doyle with this?”

“The guard?”

“Yeah, him.”

“Yes, I did. He didn’t give me much choice.”

“Was he trying?”

“His best, seemed like.”

Vestal shoved the Colt in his waistband. “Don’t even think about it with me. I’m a lot better than Doyle.”

It went against the grain and made Clayton queasy deep in his gut, but he played the whining coward role to the hilt. If Vestal didn’t respect him, he might get careless. “Listen, Mr. Vestal, let me go,” he said. “I’ve got money, and you can have it.”

The big gunman showed a flash of interest. “Where?”

“Back in Abilene.”

“How much?”

“Eight hundred dollars.”

Vestal laughed. “Hell, Clayton, dead, you’re worth a hundred times that.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Mister, you don’t need to understand. All you got to do is die.”

Clayton played for time. When Vestal was talking, he wasn’t shooting. “I know about the Apaches.”

“Know what?”

“That you or Park Southwell is shipping their bodies to medical schools back east.”

Clayton didn’t know who was responsible for the Apache deaths. He was taking a stab in the dark, playing for time.

Vestal smiled. “Nobody cares about Apaches.”

“The law might.”

“And who is going to tell them?” Vestal’s voice was flat with threat.

Clayton had backed himself into a corner. Now he tried to get out of it. “Not me, Mr. Vestal. I won’t tell anybody.”

“Damn right you won’t.”

The gunman picked up Clayton’s rifle and stepped to the door of the boxcar. He glanced outside, then came back to the stove. “Be light soon. We’ll wait till then.”

He took the cup from the table and poured himself coffee, holding the Winchester under his arm. “Sit,” he said.

Clayton limped to the table, grimacing. He wanted Vestal to think he was hurt worse than he was. Again, given the gnawing pain in his leg, that didn’t stretch his acting skills.

Vestal laid the rifle on the table and put his foot on the bench. “Get this into your thick head, Clayton. Nobody cares about Apaches, living or dead.” He waved a hand. “Out there on the range, times are hard. Cattle prices are low and we’ve had some bad winters—lost a heap of cattle.”

“I know all about that,” Clayton said, trying to find common ground with the gunman. Maybe it would make him less inclined to shoot right away.

“An Apache on the hoof is worth nothing,” Vestal said. “Dead, he brings five hundred dollars on the Boston and New York medical markets.”

“Including the children?”

“Especially the children. The doctors like them young and fresh.”

“You . . . you just kill them?”

Vestal shrugged. “I prefer to say we process them, just like beef.”

“How much can a man like Southwell earn from dead Apaches in a year?”

“Depends. But in an average year, I’d say ten to fifteen thousand dollars. And that’s all profit. You don’t need to feed Apaches.” Vestal grinned. “And we dig up the occasional newly buried body to add to the take. Maybe we’ll even process you.”

A faint mother-of-pearl light filled the boxcar’s open doorway.

“Saddle up, Clayton,” Vestal said. “It’s time to hit the trail.”

“Do you still aim to kill me, Mr. Vestal?” Clayton said, again playing the frightened innocent.

The gunman nodded.

“There ain’t much a man can depend on in this life, but you can depend on this,” he said. “I surely am going to kill you.”

The fear that twisted in Clayton’s belly wasn’t pretend. It was all too real.

Chapter 22

“You’re up early this morning, Marshal,” J. T. Burke said.

“Thunderstorm kept me awake,” Kelly said.

“They will do that.”

The marshal’s eyes roamed around the newspaper office, an inky shambles of scattered file cabinets, type cases, discarded sheets of newsprint, composing stones, and a huge platen printing press.

“J.T., I’d like to read your files going back, say, ten years or so,” Kelly said.

The proprietor of the Bighorn Point Pioneer, a tall, thin man with an alcoholic flush and one arm, made an apologetic face.

“Sorry, Marshal. My back issues only date from 1886,” he said. “Everything before that burned in a fire. I rebuilt this place the year before you became the law here.”

“Damn it,” Kelly said.

“My memories didn’t burn,” Burke said. “The misuse of whiskey has dulled them some, I admit, but maybe there’s something I can help you with.”

The editor’s eyes sharpened as he sensed a story.