The Stranger from Abilene

Chapter 31

Securely rope-tied to his saddle, Parker Southwell supervised the burial of the dead at the spur.

“Plant ’em deep, boys,” he yelled. “We don’t want dead men walking.” He grinned. “Or talking.”

“Damn it, Park, I told you we were culling too close,” Shad Vestal said. “Now we got Apaches on the warpath. They’re breaking out.”

Southwell was angry. “White men did this, not Apaches, and we’ll hunt them down and kill them.”

Vestal was taken aback. “There’s Apache sign all over the damned place. The men who did this rode unshod ponies, and white men don’t use knives on their captives. You saw the railroaders. You got any idea how long it took them boys to die?”

“Is Clayton among them?”

“No. I reckon the Apaches killed him earlier.”

“Good.” Southwell glared at his segundo. “White men, Shad. Get that into your thick skull. This outrage was perpetrated by white men.”

“How can you deny that it was Apaches done this?” Vestal said. “Who else would have a motive to kill our men, the Mexicans, and the railroaders?”

The two men sat their horses in the shade of the trees. The eight riders they’d brought with them dug graves, and complained plenty about doing it.

Southwell turned to Vestal again, his stare cold, lethal.

“Shad, you’re an idiot,” he said. “If I tell the Denver and Rio Grande railroad shareholders that Apaches killed their engineer and fireman, you know what they’re going to do?”

He didn’t wait for an answer.

“They’ll squawk like ruptured roosters and they’ll complain to Washington that their trains are being attacked by bloodthirsty bronco Apaches. How many senators do you think have shares in the D and RG? More than a few, depend on it.”

His face suffused by a barely contained anger, the old man said, “Next thing you know, we’ll have the army camped on our doorstep and then the questions will start.”

As though he were acting a part in a play, Southwell mimicked a perplexed Yankee voice. “‘Why did our red brothers take to the war trail? Dear me, whatever could have been the cause? Wait. Their women and children were being kidnapped and killed, ye say? Right, we’ll get to the bottom of this, and, by thunder, heads will roll.’”

Southwell’s thin finger poked into Vestal’s shoulder. “How long before they discover that we’ve been harvesting the savages and sending their bodies east—where at least they’re finally making themselves useful?”

Vestal was bright enough to see the problem. And a couple of others. “How are we going to pin the blame on white men? And why would they attack the train?”

“The outlaws attacked the train because they heard a rumor that we were making a secret gold shipment.”

“Do you expect people to believe that?”

“Of course. If the lie is big enough, people will believe it. More to the point, the railroad will be happy to swallow it hook, line, and sinker.”

Southwell spread his hands, the gesture of a man who thought he was stating the obvious. “Now all we have to do is find the culprits and kill them. Then I can tell the D and RG that the murderers of their men were found and brought to justice.”

“Find the culprits? Where? I don’t catch your drift.”

Southwell smiled, a humorless, skull-like grimace. “I’d guess at this very moment they’re holed up at the dugout saloon and hog ranch in Smokestack Hollow. It’s a well-known nest of thieves, border riffraff, Meskins, and outlaws of every stripe.”

Awareness dawned on Vestal, and his smile was genuine.

But if Southwell had known the real reason for that smile, he would have hung his segundo from the nearest cottonwood.