The Stranger from Abilene

Chapter 44

Shad Vestal ignored the whiskey bottle and drank coffee. A man who planned to murder six human beings had to stay sober.

He sat in Park Southwell’s favorite leather chair, in a parlor with female touches that should have reminded him of Lee. It didn’t. The whore was gone. He would soon have her money, so why even think about her?

Women came cheap and he’d have his fill of them. Glutted. He’d heard Park use that word once and it had tickled him ever since. He’d have so many women he’d be glutted.

“Glut-ted,” he said aloud. The sound of the word pleased Vestal and he smiled.

“Hello the house!”

Vestal stiffened. Not the law, not Kelly. A voice he didn’t recognize.

He rose to his feet, lifted a Colt from the table, and tucked it behind him into his waistband. He opened the door.

“Hell, it’s you, Moses,” he said.

The black man moved forward in his seat. “And Mr. McLean.”

A sudden surge of panic spiked Vestal. Had the little Scotsman changed his mind?

“Just passing by, Mr. Vestal,” McLean said. “Taking another look at the range and the cattle and buildings appertaining thereto.”

Relieved, Vestal said, “Then step down and have a drink.”

McLean held up a skinny hand. “Oh, dearie me, no. I don’t want to intrude; just driving past.” He looked around him. “And where is the bonnie lassie?”

“She’s out riding,” Vestal said. “I’m surprised you didn’t meet her.”

“Well, we might see her on the way back.”

Vestal stepped beside the gig. “When are you headed back to Boston, Mr. McLean?”

“Tomorrow on the noon stage. After that I’ll make my train connections.”

The Scotsman studied Vestal’s face. “You’re not worried about the check, are ye?”

Vestal affected a smile. “Of course not. But I’ve decided to come with you to Boston.”

“Ye have? Why in the world would you want to do that?”

“Lee and I talked it over. We agreed that I should leave her here to get her affairs in order, then meet her in Boston.” Vestal shook his head. “You know what strange notions women get.”

“No, I do not,” McLean said, “since I never saw the need to enter a state of wedlock.” He thought for a few moments, then said, “Ach, weel, you’ll be company on the journey.” His face grew crafty. “But you’ll pay your own way, mind.”

“Of course.”

“Then I’ll see you the morn at the stage. Don’t be late, now. I won’t hold it for you.”

Vestal nodded. “Don’t worry. I’ll be there.”

“I’m off, then,” McLean said. “I’ll say good day to ye.”

After he watched the rig vanish from sight behind a billow of dust, Vestal walked back into the house.

Things were shaping up perfectly. He’d forget about the Hog’s contract to gun Clayton. With no time to plan, Nook Kelly, a born meddler, could make the job too dangerous.

He closed the door quietly behind him, smiling.

Now he had men to kill. And that he had planned.

Vestal had called the ranch’s six surviving hands off the range. Now that the place was sold and the servants dismissed, the men were on edge, concerned about their futures. In the changing West, gun wages were hard to come by and jobs were scarce for those who knew only the way of the Colt.

Vestal, smiling, reassuring, stepped into the bunkhouse, and tried to set the hands’ minds at rest.

Every single one of them would be well taken care of, he told them. Mr. Southwell in his will had left each man a year’s wages in the event of his death.

A lie. He had left everything to Lee.

He, Vestal, would try to find any man who wanted one a job, though he had heard—and don’t spread this around—that Angus McLean was interested in keeping gun hands on the payroll.

“See, you’ve got nothing to fear, boys,” Vestal said, beaming. “Why, old Park’s death could end up being the best damn thing that ever happened to you.”

A hollow cheer went up from the men, followed by a second, louder one when Vestal said, “Come up to the house, boys. Park had the best cellar in the territory and tonight I want to see you drink it dry.”

“Any whores, Shad?” a man yelled.

“No, Lee is spending the night in town,” Vestal said.

That last caused a bellow of laughter and Vestal joined in the mirth. Or seemed to. Inwardly he felt only a sense of triumph.

Yes, laugh now, you sorry trash. By the time the sun comes up tomorrow, you’ll be humping the Devil’s whores in hell.