The Stranger from Abilene

Southwell’s thin finger poked into Vestal’s shoulder. “How long before they discover that we’ve been harvesting the savages and sending their bodies east—where at least they’re finally making themselves useful?”

Vestal was bright enough to see the problem. And a couple of others. “How are we going to pin the blame on white men? And why would they attack the train?”

“The outlaws attacked the train because they heard a rumor that we were making a secret gold shipment.”

“Do you expect people to believe that?”

“Of course. If the lie is big enough, people will believe it. More to the point, the railroad will be happy to swallow it hook, line, and sinker.”

Southwell spread his hands, the gesture of a man who thought he was stating the obvious. “Now all we have to do is find the culprits and kill them. Then I can tell the D and RG that the murderers of their men were found and brought to justice.”

“Find the culprits? Where? I don’t catch your drift.”

Southwell smiled, a humorless, skull-like grimace. “I’d guess at this very moment they’re holed up at the dugout saloon and hog ranch in Smokestack Hollow. It’s a well-known nest of thieves, border riffraff, Meskins, and outlaws of every stripe.”

Awareness dawned on Vestal, and his smile was genuine.

But if Southwell had known the real reason for that smile, he would have hung his segundo from the nearest cottonwood.

Chapter 32

Smokestack Hollow lay less than ten miles from the railroad spur, and when Southwell and his men rode into the shallow, grassy valley, it was still not yet noon.

Both the saloon and adjoining hog ranch were dug into the side of a hill above a U-shaped rock ridge. In front was a dusty clearing that grew a crop of sand and cactus. A screeching windmill dragged water from unwilling layers of shale and sandstone and a huge pig wallowed in mud spawned from the drips.

As Southwell and his riders watched from the shadowed cover of pines and wild oak, a woman stepped out of the hog ranch, threw the contents of a chamber pot into the dirt, then walked inside again.

Someone in the saloon picked on a guitar and a man’s yell was joined by the high-pitched female shriek that passed for laughter in an end-of-the-line shop like this one.

Southwell turned to one of the men flanking him. “Benny, run on up there and take a look-see,” he said. Then, distrusting the man called Benny’s intelligence, he added, “I want to know how many armed men and the number of women. Order a drink, pay for it, and keep your eyes open. When you’ve seen enough, skedaddle back down here.”

“Sure thing, boss,” Benny said. He was a coarseskinned man, his face pitted with acne scars.

“Then get it done.”

Southwell watched his man ride up to the saloon, swing out of the saddle, and step inside.

“Shad,” he said, “do you think the murdering scum in there hear the chimes at midnight?”

Vestal grinned. “Not yet, but they will, I reckon.”

Southwell heard one of his men whisper, “What the hell are the chimes at midnight?”

He sighed.

Ignorant scum in there, ignorant scum out here.

Time passed. The sun climbed in the sky and the blistering day stained the shirts of the waiting horsemen with dark patches of sweat.

Chafed by the ropes that held him in the saddle, Southwell tried to ease himself into a more comfortable position, but failed.

Hot, irritated, he said to Vestal, “Where the hell is Benny? He should be back by now.”

Vestal’s eyes swept the ridge, then the dugouts. There was no sign of life. Even the pig lay still on its side, asleep, covered in dried mud.

Several minutes ticked past; then Benny stepped from the saloon.

Suddenly, Southwell straightened in the saddle, his eyes popping. No! The idiot was backing out, his Colt bucking in his hand.

A tall man in a dirty white shirt appeared in the doorway, a gun in his fist. He doubled over as Benny gut-shot him, but then rose onto his toes and emptied his gun into the dirt at his feet before falling on his face.

Benny sprang into the saddle, firing through the open door. He swung away from the saloon and momentarily disappeared behind the ridge. He reappeared and rode hell-for-leather for the waiting horsemen. He savagely reined in his horse, its haunches slamming into the dirt.

“What the hell happened?” Southwell yelled, his face black with anger.

“Hell, boss, I had me a couple of drinks, figured we was gonna kill them all an’ I didn’t want a good bottle to go to waste,” Benny said, grinning.

“Why the guns?” Southwell said.

“Feller next to me spilled his drink on me. I hate to see a body waste good liquor. So I stuck a knife into his guts an’ then finished what I was sippin’.” He waved a hand toward the dugouts. “Them in there got kinda mad about the cuttin’. Had to shoot my way out.”

“Looks like you killed one man,” Southwell said. “How many others are in there?”

“Four white men, a couple of Mexicans, an’ three women . . . left.”

“Are all the men armed?”

“Damn right they are.”