The Stranger from Abilene

“You the ranny making all the noise?” he said.

“Sorry I had to wake you,” the man said.

“Hell, you could’ve camped out tonight and rang the bell in the morning when folks are awake.”

The man nodded. “Maybe so, but I’m mighty tired of my own cooking and spreading my blankets on rocks and scorpions.”

The ferryman was old and he’d lived that long by being careful around tall night riders with eyes that saw clean through a man to what lay within, good or bad.

Like this one.

“You won’t find no vittles or soft bed around here,” he said.

“There’s a town just three miles west of the river,” the tall man said. “Or so I was told.”

The ferryman nodded. “You was told right. But Bighorn Point is a quiet place. God-fearing people living there, and everything closes at eleven, even on Friday nights.”

He gave the tall man a sideways look. “There ain’t no whores in Bighorn Point.”

The man from Abilene smiled and flicked the triangle with the nail of his middle finger. As the steel tinged he said, “Right now all I want is food and a bed. I guess I’ll just have to wake up some o’ them God-fearing folks.”

The old man shook his head. “Well, just don’t let Marshal Kelly catch you doing that. He’ll call it disturbin’ the peace an’ throw you in the hoosegow quicker’n scat.”

Suddenly the tall man was wary. “Would that be Nook Kelly, out of the Sabine River country down Texas way?”

“It be. You know him?”

The tall man shook his head. “Heard of him, is all.”

“Nook Kelly has killed fifty men.”

“So they say.”

“Do you believe it?”

“I’d need to hear it from Kelly himself. People believe what they want to believe.”

The man showed the ferryman an empty face, but inwardly he was worried. Having a named gunslinger like Kelly as the law in Bighorn Point was a complication he didn’t need.

Ferrymen were spawned by the same demon as trail cooks, and curiosity was one of the many traits they shared.

Interest glowed in the old man’s eyes, like a cat studying a rat. “Here, you ain’t thinking of robbing the Bighorn Point Mercantile Bank, are ye?”

The tall man smiled. “Now, why would I do a fool thing like that?”

The ferryman looked sly. “Mister, you’re a hard case. Seen that right off. You’re dressed like a cattleman, but you’ve seen better days. Except for the new John B. on your head, your duds are so worn I wouldn’t give you two bits for the lot, including the boots.”

The old man grinned. “Maybe that’s why you planned on doing a fool thing like trying to rob the Mercantile.”

Getting no answer, he said, “But Nook Kelly would kill you. You know that now.”

The tall man said, “Talking yourself out of a fare, ain’t you?”

“No. You’ll cross the Rubicon because you’re headed to Bighorn Point for another reason.”

The oldster’s historical reference didn’t surprise the man from Abilene. Back in the day, this old coot could have been anything.

“You’re right,” he said. “I’m going to Bighorn Point to kill a man.”

“Anybody I know?”

“Maybe. But I don’t know the man myself. Hell, I don’t even know his name.”

“You mean you aim to kill a man, but you don’t know who he is?”

“That’s how she shakes out, I reckon.”

“Mister, he must have done something powerful bad.”

The tall man nodded. “Bad enough.”

“How you plan on finding him?”

The tall man smiled. “He’ll look like he needs killing.”

Chapter 2

Bighorn Point was a cow town like any other. Its single street was lined on both sides with false-fronted clapboard buildings that held the place together like bookends.

A rising wind kicked up veils of dust from the street, and hanging signs outside the stores screeched on rusty chains.

Oil reflector lamps marched in lockstep along the boardwalks, but those, like every other light in town, were dowsed.

The man from Abilene walked the buckskin to the end of the street, where a church blocked his way, its tall and lonesome steeple like an upraised hand, defying him to ride farther.

The church was too big and ostentatious for the town, a high-maintenance pile as out of place as a rich Boston belle at a prairie hootenanny.

It was a powerful symbol of the church militant, proclaiming to all and sundry, “This is a God-fearing town and we aim to keep it that way.”

The tall man lit a cigarette, then slowly walked his horse back the way he’d come.

He saw only one saloon, the Windy Hall, squeezed meekly between a hardware store and a ladies’ dress and hat shop.

The place was as quiet as the dark end of a tomb.

Again the man drew rein. The end of the cigarette in his mouth glowed like a firefly in the gloom.

Across the street to his left was a fair-sized hotel, but that too was locked and shuttered, its guests apparently enjoying the sleep of the just.

“Try the livery stable, or pass on through.”

The male voice came from behind him, and the man from Abilene stiffened. He was irritated that he’d allowed someone to walk up on him like that.

Without turning, he said, “You must be the only person in town who’s still awake.”

“I don’t sleep much. Get to my age and bad memories crowd in on a man, keep him from his rest.”