The Stranger from Abilene

Chapter 45

Men who hug the bottle too closely get drunk and noisy, then quiet and maudlin, and finally, and mercifully, they fall into a coma that’s a mean approximation of sleep.

It took the Southwell hands five hours to complete the process, just as the day slipped into night.

Vestal pretended to drink, sipping slowly and little. He joined in the laughter, the reminiscences, shed crocodile tears when they sang “She’s More to Be Pitied Than Censured,” and he watched with growing anticipation as heads drooped and men sprawled across the bottle-littered dining table and snored.

Later Vestal would tell himself that it was all sinfully easy, so easy that he reckoned years from now the memory of it would make him smile.

There was no fuss, no bother.

He fetched a carving knife from the kitchen and, one by one, cut six throats.

Oh, sure, a couple bubbled blood and one cried out, but the job was done quickly and Vestal was more than satisfied.

He walked to the kitchen, stripped off his bloody clothes, then scrubbed his hands and body with soap and water. He stepped into Park’s bedroom, found pants, slippers, and a smoking jacket he liked, and put them on.

Vestal returned to the dining room, where he sat at the top of the table, old Park’s place.

He poured himself a brandy, nodding his appreciation as he savored its musky, fruity aroma and taste.

The earth and its pleasures are for the living, not the dead.

It dawned on Vestal then, as it had many times in the past, that the dead are quiet. They hear nothing and spread no tales.

He lit a cigar, one of Park’s slim Havanas.

The hands had to die, of course.

They knew too much. All of them had culled Apaches, and alive could point fingers, tell tales.

Vestal nodded and aloud he said, “You’re in a better place now, boys.”

And that made him laugh. He splashed more brandy into his glass.

Later, he packed a single carpetbag. He could buy clothes in the latest style in Boston or wherever. He laid his holstered Colt at the bottom of the bag. He wouldn’t need it now. Later perhaps, but for the moment he wished to project an image of the rich, successful gentleman.

With that in mind, he went to his room and laid out his best go-to-prayer-meeting suit, white shirt, new elastic-sided boots, and then, his crowning glory, a cream-colored bowler hat, made in England of the finest felt.

He’d never worn these clothes before, but had bought them as part of his long-range plans.

Vestal looked in the mirror and admired the outrageously handsome man who stared back at him. Yellow hair cascaded in waves to his shoulders, his eyes were of the clearest blue, and his mustache was full, flowing, and magnificent.

That last would make the hearts of many a Boston belle flutter, he knew.

Perhaps he’d marry one, for her money of course. And then . . . well, he still had his gun.

Women were such useful but wonderfully disposable commodities.

As he had done with Lee, Vestal decided to leave the bodies where they lay. By the time anyone came out this way, he’d be long gone.

But now the silent dead bored him.

He lit another cigar, poured more brandy, and stepped outside into the cool of the evening.

The stars looked so close, Vestal believed he could reach out and grab a handful, then scatter them on the ground and let them burn out until only cinders were left.

Somewhere in the gloom the coyotes were calling close and a night bird—

Suddenly Vestal was alert.

He had never heard a bird call like that on the Southwell range.

There it was again, a soft warble. A short spell of quiet; then it was repeated.

Instinctively he reached for his gun. No! He’d left it in the carpetbag.

The Apaches came at him in a rush.