The Stranger from Abilene

Clayton decided not to fill in the silence that followed, but Kelly did it for him.

“Emma likes you,” he said.

“How do you know?”

“She told me so.”

“I thought I bored her like I bore you.”

Kelly nodded. “Yeah, strange, that, but you don’t. All she talks about is Cage. Cage said this and Cage said that and Cage—”

“I get the picture.”

“Well, she likes you.” Kelly turned his head. “I thought you should know.”

After a while, Clayton said, “I’m too old for her. I’m used up and I’m broke. Hell, I don’t even own a horse. What do I have to offer her?”

“Get a job.”

“I’ve got a job.”

“I mean a regular job. A forty-dollar-a-month job.”

“Yeah, forty a month is going to keep Emma in style.”

“Some married couples have done with less.”

Kelly held his beer glass to the light.

“Damn, I’m sure I saw a fly in there,” he said. “I guess not.”

He looked at Clayton. “Cage, get married and hang that gun you’re wearing on a nail. Use it to shoot coyotes.”

“After my work here is done, I’ll think about it.”

“Think hard, because you aren’t cut out to be a gunfighter. You’ve killed two men and crippled another, so let it go at that.”

Kelly took the makings from Clayton’s pocket. “You know why I’m bored, Cage?”

“Because nobody’s killed me yet?”

“That, and because my time is over and I know it. Most of the men I rode with back in the old days are dead or in jail. America doesn’t need gunfighters anymore. She needs engineers, road builders, factory workers, men to plow the land. Fellas like me are going—what’s the word?—extinct.” Kelly smiled. “I walk around this town with its church and school like yesterday’s ghost. My gun skills are in such high demand, Mayor Quarrels pays me two bits a head to shoot stray dogs.”

Kelly’s chair creaked as he shifted his weight. “I’m hauling my freight, Cage. The French are paying big money for laboring men to help dig a canal down Panama way, and there’s talk our own government will soon get involved.”

“Nook, I can’t see you using a shovel and swinging a pick,” Clayton said.

“Maybe not, but I’m going to give it a try.”

Kelly finally lit his cigarette. “You ever think that Lissome Terry might be dead?” he said.

“He’s not.”

“How do you know? All men die, some sooner than others.”

“He’s here, in Bighorn Point. I can feel him, smell his stink.”

Kelly’s breath sighed through his chest like a forlorn breeze. “Cage, marry Emma. Build a new life for yourself.”

Chapter 39

The day was shading into evening when Angus McLean returned to Bighorn Point.

Moses Anderson dropped him off at the hotel where Clayton and Kelly still sat on the porch, content, for this day at least, to let the world go on without them.

To Clayton’s surprise, McLean staggered a little as he stepped down from the gig; then he saw the reason. Moses tilted back his head and drained the last drop from a whiskey bottle before tossing it into the street.

McLean looked at the black man and made a small, unsteady bow.

“A robbing Hindoo ye may be,” he said, “but you’re a bonnie lad and you’ve done me a great service this day.” The little Scotsman hiccupped. “If you’re ever in Edinburgh, pay me a visit and I’ll give ye the best my poor hoose has to offer.”

He turned and, with that stiff-kneed dignity possessed by only the truly drunk, negotiated the two steps to the porch.

“Well, Mr. McLean,” Kelly said, “do you own a ranch?”

“That I do, Constable,” McLean said. “The lassie drove a hard bargain and the land and cattle cost me a lot of silver, but the bargain was made and the deed was done and there’s an end to it.”

He waved a hand, unsteadying himself, and Kelly rose quickly and helped him remain on his feet.

“Thank ye, Constable. Thank ye kindly.” The Scotsman waved his hand again. “Yon black laddie is a robber through and through, but he knows the land and he knows cattle and he taught me much.”

McLean hiccupped again. “I mean, aboot the grass and the water and the coos. And another thing, he can stand his whiskey like a man. Like a Scotsman, if I’m no mistaken.”

Smiling, Kelly said. “Moses has been up the trail a few times. He knows cattle and grass.”

McLean nodded. “That he does. Benighted Hindoo he may be, but he’s a clever lad.”

“When will you move onto the Southwell Ranch, Mr. McLean?” Kelly said.

McLean reared back as though he’d been slapped. “Never, I say! My home is in Edinburgh in bonnie Scotland. No, laddie, this wilderness of dust and drought is not for Angus McLean.” He tapped the side of his nose with a long forefinger. “I’ll hire a manager. He’ll run the place for me.”

“Do you have one in mind?”

“No, not in mind. But my lawyers in Boston will find a likely lad. I’m sure of that.”

“There’s a likely lad right here, Mr. McLean. This is Mr. Cage Clayton and he owned his own ranch at one time. Now he’s looking for work.”

Before Clayton could object, Kelly said, “And he’s getting married soon.”

“Is that right?” McLean said. He looked at Clayton like a molting owl. “What happened to your own ranch?”