The Stranger from Abilene

“I’d rather you didn’t,” Kelly said.

“Why do you say that?”

“Because you’re more valuable to me dead.”

Clayton stiffened and started to rise to his feet.

“Hell, sit down, Cage. I’m not going to kill you.”

“If you aren’t, you have a strange way of putting things.”

Kelly reached out, took the makings from Clayton’s shirt pocket, and began to build a cigarette.

For a moment his eyes seemed distant; then he said, “I have a feeling, a hunch you might call it, that something is coming down.”

“What something?”

“I don’t know. If I knew, maybe I could act on it, think ahead, like.” He shook his head. “I can’t say what it is, but it’s in the air.”

“An Apache uprising maybe? Another Geronimo on the warpath?”

“Not a chance. The Apaches are whipped. They’ll bury those women, then go back to work on their farms and try to grow crops from rocks and sand. But they’ll be on their guard now, and Southwell won’t find pickings so easy.”

“Then what the hell could it be, this something?”

Kelly drew on his cigarette, exhaling smoke with his words. “I told you, I have no idea. But I’ll know it when I see it.”

“And why am I dead?”

“If I spread the word around Bighorn Point that you got shot out at the spur by person or persons unknown, somebody’s going to make a move. Maybe the man who was once Lissome Terry.”

“What kind of move?”

“Well, he could figure his cover was almost blown by the Pinkertons, then you. He might say to himself, ‘The third time could be unlucky.’ So he packs up and tries to leave town. And that’s when I grab him by the cojones.”

“Hell, Kelly, it’s thin. Coulds and maybes don’t mean a damned thing. Terry’s just as likely to stay right where he’s at and brazen it out.”

“Yeah, I know. Like I said, I’m acting on a hunch, but a lot of my hunches have been right before.”

“And a lot have been wrong?”

Kelly smiled. “I believe I’ve gotten more right than wrong.”

Clayton let that pass, and said, “So, now that I’m a dead man, what do I do?”

“There’s a mountain called Tucker Knob a couple of miles to the east of here. A prospector by the name of Zeb Sinclair built a cabin there. It’s pretty much a ruin now, but it’s still got a roof.”

“And Mr. Sinclair won’t mind?”

“He’s dead. Apaches done for him years ago. Nailed him to his own front door.”

“It must be a cheerful spot.”

“I’ll have someone I trust bring supplies out to you. Just stay put until I come for you.”

“And if your hunch is wrong and nothing happens? Do I stay dead? Or for some reason it does happen and then it all goes bad? What then?”

“I don’t know.” The marshal smiled. “But I wouldn’t worry about it.”

“I worry about it,” Clayton said, irritated.

“Well, if it does go bad, we’ll probably both be dead anyway.”

“Kelly,” Clayton said, “you know how to cheer a man, you surely do.”

Chapter 30

The Sinclair cabin lay in a tree-covered hollow at the base of Tucker Knob. It was a dark, dismal place, but as Kelly had pointed out, it did have a fairly solid roof. The marshal had discounted the fact that it had no door, no windows, and its only furnishings were a rickety table, a stool, and a stone fireplace that must have been the late Mr. Sinclair’s pride and joy.

Clayton spent an uncomfortable, sleepless night in the cabin, sharing space with a pack rat’s brood. Come first light, he stepped outside under a crimson and jade sky and drank from the shallow creek that ran off the mountain. He splashed water on his face, wet and combed his hair, and rasped a hand over the rough stubble on his cheeks. He needed a shave, but his kit was back in the hotel at Bighorn Point.

Clayton saw the rider at a distance, coming on at a trot astride a small horse. He ran into the cabin, strapped on his gun belt, then stepped outside again. He took a quick glance at the flaming sky, swallowed hard.

Dear God in heaven, don’t let this be Shad Vestal.

It wasn’t.

Even when the rider was still a ways off, Clayton saw it was a girl.

Closer . . .

Yep, a right pretty girl at that.

Closer still . . .

Hell, it was the girl from the hat shop. The one who’d helped him after Lee Southwell sideswiped him with her buggy.

She rode a mouse-colored mustang and had a sack of groceries tied to her saddle horn.

“Howdy,” Clayton said, smiling, wishing he’d had a shave.

The girl swung out of the saddle. “Howdy yourself, Mr. Clayton.” She held out a hand and Clayton took it. “Nice to see you again.”

“And you too.”

“I’ve brought the supplies Marshal Kelly promised.”

“Oh yes, thank you. Is there coffee in that poke?”

The girl’s freckled nose wrinkled as she smiled. “There sure is.”

“Can I interest you in a cup?”

“You bet, Mr. Clayton. I haven’t had any coffee yet this morning.”

“Call me Cage.”

“All right, Cage.”

“I . . . um . . . I . . .”

“You’ve forgotten my name, haven’t you?”

“Sorry,” Clayton said.

The girl’s smile widened, white teeth in a pink mouth. “Well, that’s understandable. You were still very shook at the time. Emma. Emma Kelly.”

“Of course.”