The Stranger from Abilene

A FINE LINE

Clayton walked a few yards away from the barn and looked down the shadowed street. Somewhere out there was a man who would try to kill him. Not tonight, but maybe the day after or the day after that.

He lit a cigarette. He knew that if he stepped out of line, Nook Kelly would gun him. But where was that line?

Only the marshal knew, and he wasn’t telling, at least not yet.

Kelly told Hinton he was bored, wanted to see what would happen. But when it did happen . . . what then?

Clayton might have to kill a man Kelly didn’t want dead. The little gun exhibition he’d given tonight wasn’t really directed at Hinton. It was a warning to Clayton: Cross me and I’ll kill you.

The rancher’s cigarette had gone out. He lit it again, the match flame reflecting orange on the lean planes of his face. Clayton had no crystal ball. He couldn’t predict the future. But one thing he did know—he could never match Nook Kelly’s skill with a gun. Not in this lifetime or in any other.

He ground out the cigarette butt under the sole of his boot and shook his head. All he could do now was take things as they came. There was no use building barriers on a bridge he hadn’t even crossed yet.

Yet, as Clayton lay again on his uncomfortable bed of straw and sacking, a man was already plotting his death.

He didn’t know it then. But he would know it soon.