The Stranger from Abilene

Chapter 47

For the first time in his life, Shad Vestal knew fear. Big and strong, he fought frantically, but the Apaches were too many and too determined. They dragged him away from the ranch house and in the direction of the cottonwood where he had killed Lee.

The woman’s body was still there where he’d left it, her face an eerie shade of purple in the gloom, black shadows in the hollows of her eyes and under her cheekbones.

Lee’s eyes were wide open, staring at Vestal, and there seemed to be a slight smile on her bloodless lips.

Vestal felt like screaming.

But he didn’t. Not yet. The screams would come later.

The Apaches were stripping off his clothes! He kicked out and his right boot cracked hard against a man’s jaw. The Indian went down and Vestal tried to struggle to his feet.

A rifle butt rammed into his throat and he dropped to his knees. He bent over, gagging, retching up green bile.

Again he was thrown on his back and his clothes were cut off his body, leaving him shivering and naked on the grass.

The silence of the Apaches unnerved him. There was no talk among them, no threats directed at him, just six men quietly getting on with their work.

But what work?

Vestal was dragged to his feet.

And then he knew.

A small, hot fire had been lit under a low branch of the cottonwood, its embers glowing red. Beside it, one of the Apaches held ropes.

Vestal roared his rage and fear, tried to kick out at the men around him.

But they held him, held him on his belly while a rope was tied around his hands and then his ankles.

“Money!” Vestal screamed. “I’ve got money and it’s yours. Whiskey. Anything you want. Just let me loose.”

The Apaches rolled him on his back.

He looked up, into the hard black eyes of men who did not understand the concept of mercy, but expected a man to die well.

The Hunter was not dying well.

Shad Vestal was hung from the cottonwood by his heels, his head a few inches above the fire. His beautiful hair, his pride, fell over his face and burned, turned black and crisp to the roots, charring his scalp. His sweeping dragoon mustache melted into his face. His eyebrows burned away.

He screamed; then his screams became shrieks and his shrieks became screeches and his screeches became wails.

The Apaches sat in a circle around Vestal, feeding the fire a stick at a time.

The Hunter, who had killed so many of their people, was dying like a woman and this made them deeply ashamed for him.

There are times when fire extends a small mercy. Vestal’s skull could have cracked open, spilling his brains into the coals. He would have died quickly then.

But, as the wind rose and the coyotes called close, attracted by the smell of burning hair and flesh, no such mercy was given.

Vestal suffered for each searing second of his appointed hours, babbling nonsense at the end as his brain baked.

Only when dawn stained the day with light did he die. And then, as one, the Apaches rose and walked away from him.