The Stranger from Abilene

Clayton stood gazing at the girl. Damn, she was pretty. She wore a split canvas riding skirt and a tailored yellow shirt. The red glow of the sky tangled in her hair and touched her cheeks with rouge.

“Coffee?” she said, smiling.

Clayton looked like a man waking from a pleasant dream. “Yes, yes, of course, coffee.” He gathered his wits together. “Is it coffee? I mean, coffee it is.”

Kelly had thought of everything—a small coffeepot, frying pan, and canned milk that Emma poured into her cup. He had also included tobacco and papers, a welcome addition.

She sat on the stool while Clayton perched precariously on the edge of the table, building a cigarette.

“How long have you known Nook Kelly?” he asked.

“Oh, about three years or so. I was raised by an aunt, and after she died, Nook helped me find a job and a place to live. He’s been very kind to me over the years; looks out for me like the big brother I never had.”

That last pleased Clayton. “Like a big brother”meant there was no romantic relationship between Emma and the marshal.

The girl’s eyes rose to Clayton’s. “What will you do when you find”—she hesitated, changed tack—“when your business in Bighorn Point is done?”

“Go back home to Kansas and make a go of my ranch.”

“Is it pretty there, where your ranch is?”

“Well, I think so. My place is on the Smoky Hill River, just south of Abilene. Cottonwood trees shade the cabin in summer and hold back the worst of the winds come winter. Summer or winter, a hush lies on the land like a blessing, makes a man stand back and look and wonder and say, ‘This is where I live, and this is where I’ll be buried.’” Clayton looked embarrassed. “That was a dumb thing to say.”

“No, it wasn’t. I’d like to see your land one day.”

“And I’d like to show it to you one day.”

Emma’s eyes dropped and her lashes lay on her tanned cheeks like fans. After a few moments she rose to her feet.

“I must be going,” she said. “Nook worries about me.”

“I’d like to see you again,” Clayton said.

“You will,” Emma said. She stepped to the doorway. “Cage, be careful. Since you arrived, I think Bighorn Point has become a dangerous place.”

“You’ve been talking to Kelly.”

“I know he feels it, but I feel it too. There’s something wrong. It’s in the air.”

“Take care of yourself, Emma,” Clayton said.

“And you, Cage. And you.”

After a woman a man cares about walks away from him, she leaves silent echoes behind, empty spaces where she sat, where she stood, and he thinks that nothing can ever again fill them.

Clayton was left with only the lingering scent of Emma’s perfume, a memory of meadow flowers, and he felt as though he had found something and then lost it again, a fairy gift that vanished with the rising sun.

Chapter 31

Securely rope-tied to his saddle, Parker Southwell supervised the burial of the dead at the spur.

“Plant ’em deep, boys,” he yelled. “We don’t want dead men walking.” He grinned. “Or talking.”

“Damn it, Park, I told you we were culling too close,” Shad Vestal said. “Now we got Apaches on the warpath. They’re breaking out.”

Southwell was angry. “White men did this, not Apaches, and we’ll hunt them down and kill them.”

Vestal was taken aback. “There’s Apache sign all over the damned place. The men who did this rode unshod ponies, and white men don’t use knives on their captives. You saw the railroaders. You got any idea how long it took them boys to die?”

“Is Clayton among them?”

“No. I reckon the Apaches killed him earlier.”

“Good.” Southwell glared at his segundo. “White men, Shad. Get that into your thick skull. This outrage was perpetrated by white men.”

“How can you deny that it was Apaches done this?” Vestal said. “Who else would have a motive to kill our men, the Mexicans, and the railroaders?”

The two men sat their horses in the shade of the trees. The eight riders they’d brought with them dug graves, and complained plenty about doing it.

Southwell turned to Vestal again, his stare cold, lethal.

“Shad, you’re an idiot,” he said. “If I tell the Denver and Rio Grande railroad shareholders that Apaches killed their engineer and fireman, you know what they’re going to do?”

He didn’t wait for an answer.

“They’ll squawk like ruptured roosters and they’ll complain to Washington that their trains are being attacked by bloodthirsty bronco Apaches. How many senators do you think have shares in the D and RG? More than a few, depend on it.”

His face suffused by a barely contained anger, the old man said, “Next thing you know, we’ll have the army camped on our doorstep and then the questions will start.”

As though he were acting a part in a play, Southwell mimicked a perplexed Yankee voice. “‘Why did our red brothers take to the war trail? Dear me, whatever could have been the cause? Wait. Their women and children were being kidnapped and killed, ye say? Right, we’ll get to the bottom of this, and, by thunder, heads will roll.’”