The Stranger from Abilene

I became John Quarrels and Terry took the name Ben St. John. He said it had a ring to it.

Later I became mayor and Ben and Park prospered.

I was with Ben, though back then I called him Liss, when he shot the farmer up in Kansas and done his wife, though I took no part in either the shooting or the rape.

Down in Texas he killed a lawman and went back that same night and raped his grieving young widow. Park just smiled and said Liss was “a scamp, and no mistake.”

But Liss shouldn’t have done them rapes and killings, because I blackmailed him with them and he became my “meal ticket.”

But now I am dead, and I don’t give a damn. Liss should get what he deserves—a rope around his neck.

I’m meeting Cage Clayton at the Southwell Ranch this evening. I can’t let him kill Liss and dry up my source of money. But if Clayton is faster on the draw than me, you will read this note. Just be aware that I regret nothing.

Yours Respct.

John Quarrels, Esq.

Kelly dropped the note on his desk, then stepped to the window, rain running down the panes like a widow’s tears.

Clayton had been right all along. Ben St. John was Lissome Terry, the man responsible for his mother’s death.

Was Cage still alive?

The fact that he’d read the note suggested he was. But he could be wounded, unable to move.

Kelly shrugged into his slicker, put on his hat, and picked up Quarrels’s letter.

It was time to talk to St. John.

He shook his head, angry at himself.

No, it was time to talk with Lissome Terry.

The door opened and Emma Kelly stepped inside. She pushed back the hood of her rain cape and smiled at Kelly. “Well, are you treating me to breakfast?”

“Not today, Emma,” he said.

He gave her the note and waited until she read it.

“I think Cage is still at the Southwell place and he might be wounded,” Kelly said.

The girl was confused, overwhelmed by the ramifications of Quarrels’s words. “What are you going to do?” she said.

“Arrest St. John, or Terry, then go look for Cage.”

“He could be dead by then.”

“The way I see it, my duty to this town must come first.”

“But Cage is your friend.”

“Emma, he’d want me to jail Terry before anything else.”

“Then I’m riding out there. You can follow when St. John—Terry—whatever he’s called—is behind bars.”

Kelly smiled. “You love Cage Clayton, don’t you?”

Emma nodded, but said nothing.

“All right, go after him. We’re wasting time talking here.”

“Nook, just one thing.” The girl hesitated, then said, “How black is Cage?”

The question surprised Kelly, but he answered it.

“I don’t know. A tenth? A twelfth? Only his mother could’ve told him for sure, and even then she might not have known herself.”

He looked at Emma, her face dewy fresh from the rain, her eyes clear blue. “Does it really trouble you that much? Cage looks as white as me, or you, come to that.”

“There’s a . . . consideration involved, Nook. But I don’t want to talk about it right now.”

“Then we’ll discuss it later.”

Kelly opened the door and he and Emma stepped into the slanting rain.

“I’ll see you at the Southwell place,” he said. “And let’s pray to God that we’re not too late.”

Chapter 70

Kelly, rain dripping from his hat and slicker, stormed into the bank, letting a glass door slam shut behind him.

A startled clerk looked up from the counter, his face registering puzzlement, then shock.

“Where’s St. John?” the marshal said.

The clerk fumbled for words, finally found his tongue, and said, “He’s with a client and can’t be disturbed.”

Kelly walked to the end of the counter, lifted the flap, and strode purposely toward St. John’s door. He tried the handle but the door was locked.

He looked at the clerk. “You, key!”

The man wrung his hands, his face anguished. “Marshal, there’s only one key to that door and Mr. St. John locked it from the inside.”

He managed a weak smile. “If you’d care to wait . . .”

Kelly smiled in turn, nodded. Then raised his boot and smashed the door in, splintered oak erupting from the lock. The door slammed hard against the wall and Kelly heard the terrified clerk shriek.

St. John, his huge arm draped over Minnie’s narrow shoulders, jerked his head toward the door. Now he hurled himself up from the leather couch.

“This is an outrage!” the man yelled, his face purple with fury.

Minnie leaped from the couch.

“Marshal Kelly, I didn’t do nothing,” she said. “I’m a good girl. Honest, I am.”

“Get out of here, Minnie,” Kelly said.

The girl hurriedly stepped toward the door, then stood as still as a statue, her eyes wide as silver dollars, as Kelly said, “Wait!”

He looked at St. John. “Pay her.”

“What?”

“I said, pay her.”

The fat man protested. “Damn you, I never even started.”

Suddenly a Bulldog was in Kelly’s hand. “Pay her or I’ll put one right in your fat gut.”

St. John tried to retreat into bluster. “Kelly, I’ll have your job for this. I’ll see you jailed.”

Kelly thumbed back the hammer of the Bulldog, shortening the trigger pull so much a breath of wind could set it off.

“I won’t say it again, Terry. Pay her.”

The fat man blanched and his jowls trembled. “That’s not my name.”