The Stranger from Abilene

Inside, the saloon was surprisingly large. The area nearer the door was roofed by the hillside itself, burlap sacks stretched across the ceiling to catch dirt and bugs. But the rear had been blasted from rock and formed a wide cave, used for storage and a sitting and sleeping area. It boasted a couple of tables, each with four chairs and several iron cots.

The bar was to the right of the door, a couple of timber boards laid across trestles. The shelf behind held a few bottles, and a barrel of whiskey sat on top of the bar next to a selection of half-washed glasses.

Vestal’s gaze swept the room. A man who looked like the proprietor stood behind the bar, dressed in faded finery—a filthy white shirt, string tie, and brocaded vest. The two other white men looked so much like the man in the bearskin coat they could have been brothers.

It was the Mexicans who caught and fixed Vestal’s attention. They were dressed like vaqueros in wide sombreros and tight embroidered jackets, but Vestal pegged them as banditos on the scout from somewhere farther south. Both men wore Colts and had careful eyes and still hands.

The Mexicans would be the greatest gun danger, Vestal decided.

No matter, he would kill those two first.

The body of the man stabbed by Benny had been dragged into a corner. The three painted-up women stepped across to join the men at the bar.

Soon the women were laughing with Vestal’s men, each of whom seemed to grow an extra hand with every glass of rotgut.

Vestal sipped his own drink and glanced outside.

Southwell sat his horse under a full sun, looking in the direction of the dugout. Hell, he must be dying of thirst out there. Vestal grinned. If he wanted a drink, let him walk inside and get it.

He smelled the stink of bearskin coat before the man joined him.

“Having a good time there, amigo?”

“Yeah, it’s a load of fun,” Vestal said. “But it ain’t gonna be fun for you any longer.”

He drew his gun and pumped two bullets into the big man’s belly.

The man’s expression changed from good humor, to surprise, and then to an odd kind of hurt, as though Vestal had betrayed him.

“Get ’em, boys!” Vestal yelled.

Guns hammered and the two bearded white men went down. The man behind the bar managed to grab a shotgun before half a dozen guns opened up on him, pulping his chest into a bloody jelly.

Thick smoke drifted through the saloon like a fog and Vestal grabbed his opportunity.

The unglazed window’s shutters were open and Vestal two-handed his Colt up to eye level and drew a bead on Southwell’s skull. He fired.

The man’s head jolted to the side, fanning blood, but he remained where he was, tall and straight in the saddle.

Vestal didn’t spare Southwell a second glance. He knew he’d fired a killing shot. He’d scattered the old man’s brains and that was the end of him. And good riddance.

A woman screamed out of the smoke haze as Vestal finished reloading his gun. His men were going after the doves now, and that meant every man in the dugout was already dead.

What about the Mexicans?

Vestal stepped toward the back of the saloon and reached the rock cave. Here the smoke was thinner.

The two Mexicans were on their feet, but neither had drawn his gun.

“Oye, hombre, qué pasa?” one of the men said.

Vestal smiled. “I’m what’s happening.” He went for his gun.

The Mexicans were fast, much faster than honest men have to be. But they didn’t come close.

Both men were hit hard before they brought their guns to bear. One was dead when he hit the ground; the other, his mouth full of blood, lasted a few seconds longer.

Vestal reloaded, regarded his dead with a dispassionate interest, then turned his back on them. “We lose anybody?” he asked one of the men.

The man nodded to a body lying under the bar. “Sam Ridge. Caught a stray bullet early in the fight.”

“Too bad,” Vestal said.

He walked outside to where Southwell sat his horse, staring at the dugout with the leaden eyes of a dead man.

Vestal smiled. Lee would be pleased.

Chapter 34

Cage Clayton was disappointed when he made out the rider trotting toward him, elongated in the shimmering heat haze. He had hoped for Emma Kelly. The reality was Nook Kelly.

Clayton stood outside the cabin and watched the marshal ride closer. When Kelly was within hailing distance, he swallowed his letdown and raised a hand. “Howdy.”

“And right back to ya, Cage.” Kelly drew rein. “You got coffee left?”

Clayton nodded. “Sure do. Light and set.”

Kelly followed Clayton through the open doorway of the cabin.

“You should’ve put in a door,” he said.

“I got no idea how to make a door,” Clayton said. “Even if I had tools, which I don’t.”

“It’s easy. All you need is boards, nails, and a hammer.”

“How many have you made?”

“To date, none.”

“Then you’re no one to be giving advice about door making.”

“Maybe, but I reckon I could make one if I needed to.”

“I’ve took to liking a cabin without a door,” Clayton said. “Lets the breeze through.”

Kelly nodded. “There’s always that.”