The Stranger from Abilene

The hazy peaks of the Sans Bois smudged the horizon as Clayton and Kelly rode across rolling country in the direction of Bighorn Point. Crickets scratched out tunes among the buffalo and lovegrass and heat lay heavy on the land. Only the mountains looked cool.

Ahead of them, two long ridges crowned with a mix of pine and hardwoods formed a narrow canyon, its floor thick with brush and cactus. As Clayton watched, a covey of bobwhite quail exploded from the brush and fluttered into the air before scattering into the long grass. A stray elk or antelope, he figured. A chance for a shot if he were a hunting man.

Kelly turned his head, looked at Clayton. “When Park Southwell came up the trail from Texas ten years ago, he had two partners with him,” he said.

“I didn’t know that,” Clayton said, surprised.

“Me neither until I spoke with J. T. Burke, the editor of the Bighorn Point newspaper. He says the two men with Southwell were John Quarrels and Ben St. John.”

“The mayor and . . .”

“St. John is the only banker in town.”

“You think—”

“Yeah, either one could be the man you’re hunting.” Kelly shrugged. “Well, at least it’s a possibility to consider.”

“Quarrels . . . it’s hard to believe—”

“Men change. Many an outlaw settles down and leads a respectable, churchgoing life.”

“And St. John?”

Kelly smiled. “A pillar of respectability. He has a horse-faced Yankee wife who brought her own fortune with her and he’s a deacon of the church. As far as I can tell, he kisses babies, don’t kick dogs, and he’s down on liquor, whores, and gambling.”

Clayton, thinking, made no answer, and Kelly said, “Shoot ’em both, Cage, an’ then you’ll be sure you got the right one.”

“That was a joke, right?”

Kelly smiled. “Yep, only a—”

The flat statement of the rifle and the thud of the bullet hitting Clayton’s horse happened in the same instant. The buckskin went down as though poleaxed, rolled, and pinned Clayton’s leg under the saddle.

He was aware of Kelly charging toward the canyon, his rifle to his shoulder, firing.

Clayton tried to drag his leg out from under the horse, but the jolt of pain in his wounded thigh stopped him. He cursed, then pulled his gun. Kelly vanished between the canyon walls and Clayton heard the thudding echoes of gunfire.

What the hell was happening?

He saw a drift of smoke on top of the ridge to his left and thumbed off a couple of shots in that direction. But he was shooting at shadows and the range was too great for a six-gun. Pinned like a butterfly to a board, he could do nothing but wait.

There was a lull in the shooting that lasted almost half a minute, then two more shots. Then silence.

Clayton again tried to free himself. Pain ripped at him, but he clenched his teeth and pulled harder. But the weight of the horse was too great. He wasn’t going anywhere, at least not real soon. Was Kelly dead? Would the bushwhackers come to finish the job?

Clayton didn’t want to find the answer to either question.

He had lost his hat when the horse fell, and the sun blasted at him. He managed to reload the Colt from his cartridge belt; then his eyes swept the canyon ridges. Nothing moved and there was no sound.

“Kelly!” he yelled.

No answer.

Clayton swore. Alive, the buckskin was a good horse. Dead, he was a son of a bitch.

“Kelly!”

The returning silence mocked Clayton.

“Kelly!”

A bullet kicked up a startled exclamation point of dirt three feet from Clayton’s head.

All right, if you feel that way about it, I’ll shut up.

A lone horseman rode out of the canyon, coming on slowly though the shimmering landscape.

Clayton shielded his eyes with his hand, squinting into the distance. There was no mistaking the rider—it was Nook Kelly, his Winchester across the saddle horn. When the lawman drew rein, Clayton said, “Hell, was it you took a pot at me?”

“I sure did,” Kelly said. He smiled. “I should’ve blowed your damned brains out.”

Chapter 36

“Damn it, what was all the hollering about?” Kelly said.

“I’m pinned under my horse.”

“I can see that.”

“Why did you shoot at me?”

“To shut you up. Your girlish screams were annoying the hell out of me.”

“Well, you could have killed me.”

“Sure I could, but I didn’t. Just wanted you to be quiet, was all. Did you really think I’d holler back when I wasn’t sure how many bushwhackers were up on the ridge?”

Kelly had been right not to give his position away, and Clayton felt like a fool. “Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t think about that.”

Kelly smiled and nodded. “Maybe you’re just not a deep-thinking man, Cage. Pity, that.”

The words stung and anger flashed in Clayton. “Instead of lecturing, can you get this damned hoss off me?”

“I think so.” Kelly grinned. “I’ll study on it for a spell and let you know.”

“Go to hell,” Clayton said.

Kelly used his own mount and a rope to pull Clayton’s horse off his leg. It was an efficient way to move the buckskin, but hardly gentle.

“That hurt like hell,” Clayton said after he was freed.