The Stranger from Abilene

“You idiot, we could have walked in there and killed them real easy,” Southwell said. “Now we’ve got a gunfight on our hands.”

“Sorry, boss.”

Southwell drew his gun. “Sorry don’t cut it, Benny.”

He fired and a small red rose blossomed between Benny’s eyes. The man tumbled from his horse and lay still.

“Now what?” Vestal asked, after a disinterested glance at the dead man.

“Because of that idiot, we go the hard route,” Southwell said. “Shoot our way in.”

Vestal turned to his men. “You heard the boss. Let’s get it done.”

“How about the women?” a man asked.

Southwell grunted and glared at the man. “Any more damned fool questions?”

No one spoke.

“Right, boys! Then let’s root out that nest of murderers.”

Chapter 33

“Wait!” Vestal said. “There’s a better way.”

Southwell’s irritation grew. The War Between the States had taught him his soldiering, and now it showed. “There’s no better way than the cavalry charge.”

“Park, we’d have to cross a hundred yards of open ground and we’d run right up on their guns. We can’t outflank the dugouts or attack them from above. We’d lose half our men in the first charge and the other half in the second.”

Southwell was stubborn, but he wasn’t a stupid man.

“Then what do you suggest?” he said.

“The men in the saloon don’t know we’re here,” Vestal said. “We can ride right in there as friends, only we ain’t.”

“They’ll be suspicious of an armed party. I doubt that they’d consider us friends.”

“We drape Benny over his saddle, say we heard gunfire and saw him riding away from the saloon. He shot at us, and we returned fire and killed him.”

“And now we’re doing the right thing,” Southwell said, his eyes suddenly aware. “We just wanted the good folks up there in the saloon to know that a killer has been brought to justice.”

“Right,” Vestal said. “We wait until they lower their guard, and then we cut them down.”

Southwell thought that through, then said, “All right, Shad, we’ll try it your way.” He called to his men, “Throw that fool over his horse. We’ll go play good citizens.”

A few men laughed as the dead man was tossed over his saddle.

“Forward, boys,” Southwell said. Then to Vestal, “Shad, if this doesn’t work, I’ll have you shot.”

“It will work, Park,” Vestal said. “Trust me.”

Vestal led Benny’s horse. Beside him, adding respectability, was Southwell, wearing his expensive English riding outfit.

Vestal called out to the men inside the dugout, but they were wary.

Finally a voice yelled from inside, “What the hell do you want?”

“We had to kill a man,” Southwell said. “We think you might know him.”

There was no answer from within.

The man Benny had shot lay sprawled in the dust. His pockets were turned inside out and his boots and belt were gone. His bare feet revealed crooked toes with overgrown nails.

A couple of minutes passed; then Vestal said, “Well, if you folks don’t want this stiff, we’ll take him back to Bighorn Point.”

The voice from inside said, “Hold up there. We’ll take a look.”

After a few moments the door swung open and two men stepped outside. They were long-haired, bearded, and dirty—typical frontier riffraff. But the guns they held were clean enough, and Vestal noted that the man on the right had a repeating shotgun, a Winchester model of 1887. In a close-up fight it could be a devastating weapon.

It was this man who stepped to Vestal’s horse.

He was big, well over six feet, and despite the heat, he wore a bearskin coat.

The fastidious Southwell wrinkled his nose. The man smelled like a damned goatherd.

“What you got?” the man asked.

“We were riding past and heard shots,” Vestal said. “Then this feller came down off the ridge at a gallop. He saw us and took a couple of pots, so we had to kill him.”

The big man grunted. “You done good.”

He stepped past Vestal to Benny’s horse and lifted the dead man’s head by the hair. He glanced into Benny’s face and nodded. “That’s him all right. He kilt poor Bob Henry over there an’ stabbed another one inside.”

“Well, we’ll be leaving now,” Vestal said. “You can keep the dead man’s hoss and traps.”

“I surely do appreciate that, mister.” The big man flashed a brown and yellow smile. “But I’m what ye might call a thankin’ man, an’ I’d be right grateful if you and the others in your company would let me buy you a drink.”

Vestal turned his head and called out to the men lined up behind him, “How about it, boys? Are you thirsty?”

A ragged cheer went up, and Vestal grinned. “This gentleman is paying, so let’s belly up to the bar.”

Another cheer and the men dismounted, leading their horses toward the dugout.

Vestal looked at Southwell. “Want me to untie you so you can join us, Park?”

The older man shook his head. On horseback he was a colonel. On the ground he was a helpless cripple.

“Bring me a stirrup cup, Shad,” he said.

Vestal had never heard the expression before, but he caught Southwell’s drift. “Anything you say, boss.”

“And, Shad, tie this up. Make it neat. I don’t want anything left alive in there—man, woman, child, or animal.”

“You can depend on it, Park,” Vestal said.