The Stranger from Abilene

Shack Mitchell’s horse was tethered in a stand of wild oak behind the ridge.

Clayton threw a loop over the man’s feet and dragged him to the front of the ranch house. Mitchell was small and light and he threw him over the saddle without any trouble.

“I’m going into the house for something,” Clayton said. “Keep an eye on him.”

“He ain’t going anywhere,” Kelly said.

“Here,” Clayton said, picking up the kitten, “hold Miss Lee. I don’t want her wandering away.”

He walked to the house, then stopped and turned when he heard Kelly yell.

The kitten was struggling mightily to get out of the lawman’s grasp.

“Hell,” Kelly said, “it’s like holding a roll of barbed wire.”

He dropped the kitten and, after an outraged glance at the marshal, she followed Clayton into the house.

Clayton returned with a sheet of notepaper from Parker Southwell’s desk and a yellow pencil. He held the paper against the door and wrote:

HE FALED.

Kelly looked over his shoulder. “What the hell does that mean?”

“It means Mitchell failed to kill me. What else would it mean?”

“There’s an I in failed. F-A-I-L-E-D.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah, I’m sure.”

Clayton inserted the I, then showed the paper to Kelly.

HE FAiLED.

“Satisfied now?” he said.

Kelly nodded. “It’s close enough. Now what are you going to do with it?”

“You’ll see when we get back to town.”

The marshal gave Clayton a lingering look. “I have a feeling that what you’re planning doesn’t bode well.”

“For some folks it doesn’t,” Clayton said.

Bighorn Point was tinted with lilac light, the store windows rectangles of yellow, when Clayton and Kelly rode into town.

The dead man hanging over the horse attracted attention and a small crowd gathered, then followed the riders, eager for any diversion.

Clayton drew rein and turned to Kelly. “Maybe you don’t want to see this.”

The lawman smiled. “Look around you, Cage. You’re the only excitement in town. I guess I’ll stick.”

“You won’t like it, Nook.”

“Try me.”

“Your funeral,” Clayton said.

He rode to the bank and swung out of the saddle

“Here,” he said to Kelly, “hold Miss Lee.”

Nursing scratches, the lawman said, “Just set her down. She won’t run away.”

“Suppose a big dog comes?”

“I’ll shoot it.”

Kelly watched, amused, as Clayton pinned his note to the back of Mitchell’s shirt. Then he led the horse with its nodding burden onto the boardwalk in front of the building.

The double doors were large, ostentatious, their glass panels engraved with scenes from Greek mythology.

Clayton opened both wide, ignoring the outraged cries from the clerks inside. He led the horse to the entrance, slapped its rump, and sent it charging inside, Mitchell’s body bouncing across the saddle like a rubber ball.

Turning on his heel, Clayton walked away, leaving chaos behind him. The frightened horse tried to bolt in every direction, its flying hooves upsetting desks, smashing furniture, overturning cabinets, putting the fear of God into everyone in the bank.

“Told you that you wouldn’t like it,” Clayton said as he walked past Kelly.

The marshal grinned. “Cage, you’re under arrest. You and your cat.”

“On what charge?”

“Don’t worry. I’ll come up with a few.”

Chapter 59

“Marshal, I want that man charged with attempted murder, wanton destruction of property, and . . . and . . .”

Ben St. John’s jowls quivered, his face black with anger.

“This is an outrage! My bank is wrecked and he”—a fat ringed finger stabbed in Clayton’s direction—“is responsible.”

“Mr. Clayton has agreed to pay all the damages,” Kelly said.

Clayton, who had agreed to no such thing, ignored that and said, “Your paid killer failed.” He looked at Kelly. “With an I.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” St. John said.

For a moment the banker’s eyes met Clayton’s and he recoiled, like a man who’s just stared into the sun.

He knows. Damn him, he knows.

Clayton reached into his pocket and threw five double eagles into St. John’s face. “Mitchell didn’t kill me. You can have your money back.”

“Mitchell?” St. John said, kicking the fallen coins away from him. “Are you talking about the dead man you dumped in my place of business?”

“You should know,” Clayton said. “You sent for him.”

“I never saw that man before in my life.”

St. John looked at Kelly, a pleading expression on his face. “Marshal, I’m one of this town’s leading citizens. Are you just going to sit there and let me be abused in this way by a . . . saddle tramp?”

Kelly seemed to consider that; then he said, “Did you hire Shack Mitchell to kill Mr. Clayton?”

“Of course not. That’s preposterous. Why would I want this man dead?”

“Because I know who you are,” Clayton said.

Kelly was surprised. He’d expected St. John to fly into another rage, but the man said simply, “Who am I?”

Clayton rose to his feet, the hate in him as cold as ice. “Your name real name is Lissome Terry. Do you remember a farm in Kansas and the farmer you shot and his wife, the high yeller woman you raped?”

Clayton felt Kelly’s eyes burn on him.