The Stranger from Abilene

There had been humor in the voice and a hint of it lingered in the blue eyes that looked up at the man on the horse.

“We don’t get many night riders through Bighorn Point.”

“Figured that out my own self.”

“Name’s Nook Kelly. I’m the town marshal.”

“Figured that as well.”

“You heard of me?”

“Yeah. Some good, some bad.”

Kelly accepted that and said, “You’re not an outlaw. You look too steady at a man.”

“I’m a rancher. From up Abilene way.”

“You got a name?”

“The one my ma and pa gave me.”

“You care to share it?”

“Name’s Micajah.”

“It’s a mouthful, but only half a handle.”

“Clayton.”

“Does anybody call you Micajah without getting shot?”

“My friends call me Cage.”

“Well, I ain’t your friend, so I’ll call you Mr. Clayton.”

“Suit yourself.”

Kelly was short, reed thin, two .450-caliber British Bulldog revolvers hanging from shoulder holsters on each side of his narrow chest.

He could have been any age, though if you studied the lines on his face closely, forty would have been as good a guess as any.

The ferryman had said that Kelly had killed fifty men. That was an exaggeration. He’d killed thirteen in fair fights, seven more in concert with other lawmen.

He was exactly what he seemed to Cage Clayton, A cool, professional killer who had mastered his craft, the way of the revolver, and the understanding of the manner and habit of violent men.

“Why are you in Bighorn Point, Mr. Clayton?”

The man from Abilene hesitated. His showdown with Nook Kelly had come earlier than he’d planned.

But the marshal had a right to know. Besides, he’d spread the word—if he didn’t cut loose with his guns right away.

“I’m here to kill a man.”

A career gunman is trained not to show his emotions, and Kelly was no exception. He absorbed Clayton’s words like a sponge, his face unchanging.

But he was ready. Men like Kelly always were.

“Is it me?”

“I don’t know,” Clayton said. “But I reckon you’re a tad too young.”

“What’s the name of the man you plan to kill?”

“I don’t have that information.”

“Met him before, back along the trail?”

Clayton shook his head—then realized it was the kind of momentary lapse that could get him killed around a man like Kelly.

You idiot, Cage! Never take your eyes off his gun hand!

Aloud, he said, “No. I don’t know the man.”

Kelly smiled, about as warm as a snake grin. “Then how will you know who to kill?”

“Because he’ll try to kill me first. Then I’ll have him pegged as the one.”

Chapter 3

Nook Kelly took a step back, and for a moment Clayton thought he was going to draw. He recalled the lawman’s reputation and figured he was a dead man.

But the marshal raised a hand, index finger extended, aimed at Clayton’s face, and then dropped it until it pointed at the ground. “Step down. Walk with me.”

Clayton swung out of the saddle. Now that he stood beside Kelly, he was struck by how small the man was, his own rangy six feet dwarfing him.

“Walk where?” he asked.

“To the livery. I’ll see you bedded down for the night.”

“I’m hungry.”

“Benny Hinton always has coffee and stew on the stove. He’s an old range cook, and habit dies hard.”

Clayton hesitated. “I reckoned you’d draw down on me for sure.”

“I’m studying on it,” Kelly said. “Give me time.”

Hinton was a sour, stringy old man, badly stove up, with a slow, stiff-kneed walk.

“Benny, can you take care of this feller’s horse, then bed him down and fix him up with grub?” the marshal said.

“Cost him.”

“You got money, Mr. Clayton?”

Clayton looked at Hinton. “How much?”

“One dollar for man and hoss, two bits extry fer the grub.”

“Your prices run dear.”

“Take it or leave it.”

“Pay the man, Mr. Clayton,” Kelly said. “Or go hungry.”

Clayton paid with ill grace, but later admitted to himself that Hinton’s son-of-a-bitch stew, sourdough bread, and coffee were well worth the price.

Kelly watched Clayton eat, waited until he built and lit a smoke, and then said, “Tell me about it.” He looked at Hinton. “Set, Benny. I want you to hear this.”

“You ain’t running me out of town, Marshal,” Clayton said, more stubbornness than a warning.

“Tell me.”

Kelly and Hinton were listening men. They squatted in front of Clayton, waiting, the marshal’s head cocked to one side.

“Twenty-five years ago, on the last day of the last year of the late war, a bunch of irregular Reb cavalry rode up on a farm in the Beaver Creek country of northern Kansas.”

Clayton drew deep on his cigarette. “They say Frank and Jesse James were with the outfit, but I don’t know about that.”

“Just say it plain,” Kelly said. “Don’t tell me what you don’t know.”

“All right, the telling is simple enough. The Rebs ransacked the farm, took what they could carry, but one of them, a youngster by the name of Lissome Terry, shot the farmer right there in his parlor.”

“For no reason?”

“He had a reason. The farmer’s young wife was the reason.”