The Stranger from Abilene

Chapter 8

Nook Kelly, more experienced in the ways of the wannabe gunfighter, saw it coming down before Clayton.

Mitchell leaned across the table and said something to the man picking his teeth. That man, small and mean with the face of a ferret, looked over at Clayton and laughed.

Mitchell said something else and the ferret shrugged and said, his voice loud, “Hell, he wants your woman, Charlie. He made that clear.”

The ferret said it and Kelly heard it.

He turned to Clayton. “Bad stuff coming down.”

“Looks like,” Clayton said. “But I have no quarrel with that man.”

“He has a quarrel with you, though.”

“Can you make it go away?”

“Yeah, I can kill him. You want that?”

“I can’t step away from this, can I?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Charlie is no bargain. Some fellers would.”

“Some fellers can’t hold up their heads in the company of men either.”

“I can stop it. Just say the word.”

Clayton shook his head. “If it comes, it’s my play. I’ll go it alone.”

“Suit yourself. But I’ve seen Charlie shoot. He’s good.”

“You ever seen me shoot?”

Kelly made no answer and Clayton said, smiling, “I’m not good. At least, that’s what I think.”

“Your gun’s back at the livery.”

“Didn’t think I’d need it this early in the morning. Anyhow, you were here to protect me.”

“Trusting man, ain’t you?” Kelly said

Mitchell was on his feet. He was a tall, muscular man, somewhere in his midtwenties. Back along the line, he’d decided to affect the dress and manner of the frontier gambler. He wore a black frock coat, boiled white shirt with a string tie, black-and-white-checkered pants and a low-crowned flat-brimmed hat.

“Charlie keeps his gun in the right pocket of his coat,” Kelly whispered. “And he’ll probably have a hideout in a shoulder holster.”

“Ready for war, ain’t he?” Clayton said.

“Only with you,” Kelly said. The marshal grinned. “Damn it, Mr. Clayton, even without trying, you make things happen. You surely do.”

Mitchell walked to Clayton’s table, his boots thudding on the wood floor. There were a dozen men and a few women in the saloon, and now Mitchell addressed them.

“You’ve all heard about this man.” He pointed at Clayton. “He says he won’t leave Bighorn Point until he’s killed one of our citizens, man, woman, or child.”

“Shame,” a woman said. She looked at Clayton. “For shame.”

“Well, I’m giving him his chance,” Mitchell said. He looked down at Clayton. “I’m a citizen of this town. Let’s see you try to kill me.”

“You tell him, Charlie,” a man said, a giggle in his voice.

Kelly rose to his feet. “Charlie, this man is unarmed,” he said. “Draw down on him and I’ll hang you before sundown.”

“You in on this, Nook?” Mitchell said.

“Keeping it fair, is all.”

Mitchell turned and called out to the ferret, “Wilson, give him a gun.”

The man called Wilson strode to the table. He wore two Colts, slung low in crossed belts.

Clayton grimaced. Another damned tinhorn.

Wilson laid a short-barreled Colt on the table and Mitchell sneered, “You got a gun now, mister. You bragged you’d kill a woman or child. Well, let’s see how you stack up against men.”

The bartender and pretty waitress had moved out of the line of fire and a silence, taut as a fiddle string, stretched across the sun-slanted saloon.

Mitchell had a hand in his coat pocket. “Pick up the iron and get to your work,” he said. “And damn you fer a yellow-bellied coward.”

Clayton said nothing, his head bent, staring at the oiled blue steel of the revolver on the table.

Seconds ticked past....

Beside him, Clayton heard Kelly groan, a lost, disappointed sound. Sensing faintheartedness, he’d stop it soon.

But Mitchell would not let it go so easily. He took a step toward Clayton, right leg forward, and readied himself to cut loose a backhanded slap across the older man’s face.

Mitchell knew what would happen. He could see it, almost taste it.

He’d slap the stranger around, make him bloody, then run him out of Bighorn Point. He’d be a hero, a fearless gunfighter who stood up for his town. Hell, they might even erect a stat—

Clayton’s right boot found its target.

The two-inch leather heel, hardened into the consistency of iron by years of sun, snow, wind, and rain, slammed hard into Mitchell’s right kneecap.

The man screamed, staggered back. But Clayton was on his feet, crowding him. As Mitchell’s gun came out of his pocket, Clayton drove a work-hardened right fist into the man’s chin.

Mitchell went down like a poleaxed ox, his back crashing so hard onto the wood floor the bottles behind the bar jumped.

But Wilson was drawing.

Clayton dove for the table and, before it collapsed under him, palmed the blue Colt. He landed on his right side, rolled. Wilson was four feet from him. The little gunman fired first. Too fast. The bullet kicked up pine splinters inches from Clayton’s head.

Clayton shoved the Colt out in front of him, thumbed off a shot, then a second.

Hit twice, one of them in the belly, Wilson shrieked and went down, black blood frothing into his mouth.

Mitchell, his right kneecap shattered, was hurt bad, but still game.

He scrabbled around the floor, found his Colt, and tried to bring it into play. Clayton, on his feet now, stepped through smoke and raised his gun.

But Kelly ended it. He kicked the gun out of Mitchell’s hand and yelled, “Damn you, Charlie. It’s over. He’ll kill you.”

Mitchell groaned and lay on his back, his right leg from the knee down jutting out at an impossible angle.

But Clayton’s blood was still up. His ears ringing from the concussion of the guns, he waved his Colt around the openmouthed crowd and hollered, “I’ve never harmed a woman or child in my life. Let any one of you bastards step forward and call me a liar.”

But only Kelly took that step. He laid a hand on Clayton’s shoulder and said, “It’s over. You won, so let it go.”

Without waiting for an answer, Kelly called to the bartender, “Clem, Hennessy brandy. And two glasses. Damn, I need a drink.”