The Stranger from Abilene

Chapter 33

“Wait!” Vestal said. “There’s a better way.”

Southwell’s irritation grew. The War Between the States had taught him his soldiering, and now it showed. “There’s no better way than the cavalry charge.”

“Park, we’d have to cross a hundred yards of open ground and we’d run right up on their guns. We can’t outflank the dugouts or attack them from above. We’d lose half our men in the first charge and the other half in the second.”

Southwell was stubborn, but he wasn’t a stupid man.

“Then what do you suggest?” he said.

“The men in the saloon don’t know we’re here,” Vestal said. “We can ride right in there as friends, only we ain’t.”

“They’ll be suspicious of an armed party. I doubt that they’d consider us friends.”

“We drape Benny over his saddle, say we heard gunfire and saw him riding away from the saloon. He shot at us, and we returned fire and killed him.”

“And now we’re doing the right thing,” Southwell said, his eyes suddenly aware. “We just wanted the good folks up there in the saloon to know that a killer has been brought to justice.”

“Right,” Vestal said. “We wait until they lower their guard, and then we cut them down.”

Southwell thought that through, then said, “All right, Shad, we’ll try it your way.” He called to his men, “Throw that fool over his horse. We’ll go play good citizens.”

A few men laughed as the dead man was tossed over his saddle.

“Forward, boys,” Southwell said. Then to Vestal, “Shad, if this doesn’t work, I’ll have you shot.”

“It will work, Park,” Vestal said. “Trust me.”

Vestal led Benny’s horse. Beside him, adding respectability, was Southwell, wearing his expensive English riding outfit.

Vestal called out to the men inside the dugout, but they were wary.

Finally a voice yelled from inside, “What the hell do you want?”

“We had to kill a man,” Southwell said. “We think you might know him.”

There was no answer from within.

The man Benny had shot lay sprawled in the dust. His pockets were turned inside out and his boots and belt were gone. His bare feet revealed crooked toes with overgrown nails.

A couple of minutes passed; then Vestal said, “Well, if you folks don’t want this stiff, we’ll take him back to Bighorn Point.”

The voice from inside said, “Hold up there. We’ll take a look.”

After a few moments the door swung open and two men stepped outside. They were long-haired, bearded, and dirty—typical frontier riffraff. But the guns they held were clean enough, and Vestal noted that the man on the right had a repeating shotgun, a Winchester model of 1887. In a close-up fight it could be a devastating weapon.

It was this man who stepped to Vestal’s horse.

He was big, well over six feet, and despite the heat, he wore a bearskin coat.

The fastidious Southwell wrinkled his nose. The man smelled like a damned goatherd.

“What you got?” the man asked.

“We were riding past and heard shots,” Vestal said. “Then this feller came down off the ridge at a gallop. He saw us and took a couple of pots, so we had to kill him.”

The big man grunted. “You done good.”

He stepped past Vestal to Benny’s horse and lifted the dead man’s head by the hair. He glanced into Benny’s face and nodded. “That’s him all right. He kilt poor Bob Henry over there an’ stabbed another one inside.”

“Well, we’ll be leaving now,” Vestal said. “You can keep the dead man’s hoss and traps.”

“I surely do appreciate that, mister.” The big man flashed a brown and yellow smile. “But I’m what ye might call a thankin’ man, an’ I’d be right grateful if you and the others in your company would let me buy you a drink.”

Vestal turned his head and called out to the men lined up behind him, “How about it, boys? Are you thirsty?”

A ragged cheer went up, and Vestal grinned. “This gentleman is paying, so let’s belly up to the bar.”

Another cheer and the men dismounted, leading their horses toward the dugout.

Vestal looked at Southwell. “Want me to untie you so you can join us, Park?”

The older man shook his head. On horseback he was a colonel. On the ground he was a helpless cripple.

“Bring me a stirrup cup, Shad,” he said.

Vestal had never heard the expression before, but he caught Southwell’s drift. “Anything you say, boss.”

“And, Shad, tie this up. Make it neat. I don’t want anything left alive in there—man, woman, child, or animal.”

“You can depend on it, Park,” Vestal said.

Inside, the saloon was surprisingly large. The area nearer the door was roofed by the hillside itself, burlap sacks stretched across the ceiling to catch dirt and bugs. But the rear had been blasted from rock and formed a wide cave, used for storage and a sitting and sleeping area. It boasted a couple of tables, each with four chairs and several iron cots.

The bar was to the right of the door, a couple of timber boards laid across trestles. The shelf behind held a few bottles, and a barrel of whiskey sat on top of the bar next to a selection of half-washed glasses.

Vestal’s gaze swept the room. A man who looked like the proprietor stood behind the bar, dressed in faded finery—a filthy white shirt, string tie, and brocaded vest. The two other white men looked so much like the man in the bearskin coat they could have been brothers.

It was the Mexicans who caught and fixed Vestal’s attention. They were dressed like vaqueros in wide sombreros and tight embroidered jackets, but Vestal pegged them as banditos on the scout from somewhere farther south. Both men wore Colts and had careful eyes and still hands.

The Mexicans would be the greatest gun danger, Vestal decided.

No matter, he would kill those two first.

The body of the man stabbed by Benny had been dragged into a corner. The three painted-up women stepped across to join the men at the bar.

Soon the women were laughing with Vestal’s men, each of whom seemed to grow an extra hand with every glass of rotgut.

Vestal sipped his own drink and glanced outside.

Southwell sat his horse under a full sun, looking in the direction of the dugout. Hell, he must be dying of thirst out there. Vestal grinned. If he wanted a drink, let him walk inside and get it.

He smelled the stink of bearskin coat before the man joined him.

“Having a good time there, amigo?”

“Yeah, it’s a load of fun,” Vestal said. “But it ain’t gonna be fun for you any longer.”

He drew his gun and pumped two bullets into the big man’s belly.

The man’s expression changed from good humor, to surprise, and then to an odd kind of hurt, as though Vestal had betrayed him.

“Get ’em, boys!” Vestal yelled.

Guns hammered and the two bearded white men went down. The man behind the bar managed to grab a shotgun before half a dozen guns opened up on him, pulping his chest into a bloody jelly.

Thick smoke drifted through the saloon like a fog and Vestal grabbed his opportunity.

The unglazed window’s shutters were open and Vestal two-handed his Colt up to eye level and drew a bead on Southwell’s skull. He fired.

The man’s head jolted to the side, fanning blood, but he remained where he was, tall and straight in the saddle.

Vestal didn’t spare Southwell a second glance. He knew he’d fired a killing shot. He’d scattered the old man’s brains and that was the end of him. And good riddance.

A woman screamed out of the smoke haze as Vestal finished reloading his gun. His men were going after the doves now, and that meant every man in the dugout was already dead.

What about the Mexicans?

Vestal stepped toward the back of the saloon and reached the rock cave. Here the smoke was thinner.

The two Mexicans were on their feet, but neither had drawn his gun.

“Oye, hombre, qué pasa?” one of the men said.

Vestal smiled. “I’m what’s happening.” He went for his gun.

The Mexicans were fast, much faster than honest men have to be. But they didn’t come close.

Both men were hit hard before they brought their guns to bear. One was dead when he hit the ground; the other, his mouth full of blood, lasted a few seconds longer.

Vestal reloaded, regarded his dead with a dispassionate interest, then turned his back on them. “We lose anybody?” he asked one of the men.

The man nodded to a body lying under the bar. “Sam Ridge. Caught a stray bullet early in the fight.”

“Too bad,” Vestal said.

He walked outside to where Southwell sat his horse, staring at the dugout with the leaden eyes of a dead man.

Vestal smiled. Lee would be pleased.