The Stranger from Abilene

Vestal glanced at Lee, then told Southwell about his capture of Clayton and the attack by the Indians.

“You two leave the room,” Southwell said to the black couple.

He waited until they were gone, and turned to Vestal. “That was this morning. Where have you been all day?”

“Well, after a spell I tracked them, thinking they’d shoot Clayton right away. They didn’t. They rode into an arroyo. I waited around for a few minutes, then left.”

“They tortured him to death, probably,” Southwell said.

“That would be my guess.”

“A deserved fate for a singularly unpleasant man,” Lee said.

“Park, those Apaches were on the warpath,” Vestal said, ignoring the woman. “And there could be more of them. I warned you, we’re culling them too close, too often.”

Southwell shot a quick glance at his wife, then said, “Shut your trap.”

Vestal smiled. “Don’t you think she knows?”

He looked at Lee. “Cattle prices are low, money is tight. Where do you think the ruby necklace you’re wearing came from?”

“Vestal, I warn you—”

“Oh, shut up, Park,” Lee said. “I know what you’re doing to the Apaches, and I don’t care. Did you really think the deaths of a few savages would offend my sensibilities?”

“I was trying to shield you, my dear,” Southwell said. “Harvesting Apaches is a dirty business.”

Lee lifted the glittering necklace from between her breasts and put it to her nose. “I can’t smell any dirt,” she said.

Vestal laughed, but when he turned to Southwell again, he was serious. “I think we should end the cull for a while.”

Southwell shook his head. “Impossible. I have a hunting party out in the Sans Bois now, and a refrigerator car will arrive at the spur tomorrow night.”

“Who’s leading them?”

“Baldy Benton—him and Luke Witherspoon.”

“I’ll go after them, call them back.”

“No! Do you want to take a look at my accounts ledger? We need the money, Shad.”

He looked from Vestal to Lee, breathtakingly beautiful in the soft light that erased the hard lines around her eyes and corners of her mouth.

“The cull goes on,” he said. “Until there are no Apaches left to harvest.”

Chapter 26

There was no sign of life at the spur, and no refrigerator cars.

The iron V of the rails shimmered in the afternoon heat, and the air hung heavy on the trees, their branches listless, unmoving.

As he sat his horse between the Apaches, Clayton felt he was carrying the full weight of the oppressive day. The sky was the color of dust, the yellow coin of the sun hazy, as though shining through murky water.

The youngest Apache, the butt of his Winchester on his thigh, rode his paint down the rise to the tracks. He rode to the boxcar, leaned over, and slid the door open. The young Apache looked inside, then swung away and drew rein at the tracks. He stared into the distance: rolling hills, empty land, empty sky.

Clayton sweated, smelled the rankness of his body. Beside him the old Apache yelled a few words and the youth on the paint returned.

The old man turned to Clayton, his black eyes accusing. “No Apaches. No white men. No cars. No nothing.”

“The ice car will be here,” Clayton said.

“When?”

“I don’t know.”

The Apache grunted. “Then we will wait.”

“It could be a long time, maybe days.”

“We will wait.” He pointed his rifle at Clayton. “You will wait.”

The old man led the way into a stand of wild oak where the Apaches picketed their horses, then sat in a circle in a patch of shade, Clayton with them.

They waited . . . .

To the Apache, patience is the companion of wisdom. Not passive waiting, for that is laziness, but to wait and hope.

“We will hear the train by and by,” the old man told Clayton.

The man from Abilene said nothing. He was hot, thirsty, and hungry, and patience had never been one of his virtues. He lay on his back, the stoical Indians sitting still and silent around him. Clayton stared into the tree canopy, the leaves silhouetted black against the sky as though charred by fire. His brain reeled, hunting the answer to an impossible question: Why had it all gotten so complicated when once it had seemed so straightforward?

His plan had been so simple. Ride into Bighorn Point, declare his intention to kill a man, and let the man’s own guilt drive him from hiding. The guilty party would call him out, and Clayton would shoot him.

Instead . . .

Clayton groaned. It hurt his head to even think about it.

The dreary day dragged past with dreadful sluggishness. Then slowly the light seen through the tree canopy changed. Gone was the sullen sky of afternoon, replaced by a million diamonds scattered on lilac velvet.

Clayton sat up. The Apaches hadn’t moved, sitting in a circle, thinking . . . about what only God knew. They’d had neither food nor drink, nor had he, but Clayton was irritable and the wound in his thigh throbbed. If he had a woman close, he’d whine and moan and let her comfort him.