The Stranger from Abilene

Chapter 52

Kelly followed the Apache tracks south, five men riding unshod ponies and in no hurry to scamper back into the Sans Bois.

Clayton thought their leisurely pace indicated an absence of guilt, as far as Lee and the Southwell hands were concerned, but he said nothing, in no mood for another tongue-lashing from Kelly.

After an hour’s ride through rolling country heavily forested by pine and hardwoods, they crossed Cunneo Tubby Creek, named by the Choctaw for one of their famous war chiefs.

In the shade of cottonwoods, Kelly swung down and crumbled horse dung in his fingers.

He looked at Clayton. “We’re getting close.”

“How do we play this, Nook?” Clayton asked.

“We ride up and arrest them.”

“They’ll fight.”

“Maybe, maybe not. I don’t know how much sand the Apaches have left.”

Kelly straightened. “I reckon a mile ahead of us, no more than that.”

He stepped into the saddle. “Cage, see to your weapons, revolver and rifle. I don’t want a gunfight, but it may come to that.”

Clayton thumbed a round into the empty chamber under the hammer of his Colt, then fed shells into his Winchester until it was fully loaded.

He turned to Kelly. “I’m ready.”

The marshal smiled. “I’ll say you are. Hell, for a minute there with all that artillery, you even scared me.”

Kelly kneed his horse forward, but immediately drew rein.

“Cage, what I said about you not being a white man an’ all don’t go. You’re true blue and I’ve never thought otherwise.”

“Did we ride all this way just for you to talk pretties or to get the job done?” Clayton said.

Kelly nodded. “Just wanted you to know, is all.”

After another mile, Clayton smelled smoke in the breeze.

Kelly pointed ahead of them. “There, among the trees. They’ve made camp.”

A thin string of smoke rose above the tree canopy, tied in wispy bows by the wind.

“We . . . just ride in,” Clayton said, more question than statement.

“Stay on my left,” Kelly said, “and give me room. If the ball opens, it will be fast, close-up work, so go to your revolver.” He looked at Clayton. “Got that?”

Clayton nodded, but said nothing.

“Then let’s get ’er done,” Kelly said.

They rode into the trees and the Apaches rose to their feet.

The old warrior who had taken Clayton captive stepped forward.

“You speak English?” Kelly said.

“I do,” the old man said.

“Then listen up good.” Kelly’s eyes were never still, measuring the men opposite him, judging who was reckless enough or desperate enough to make a play. “I’m arresting you men for the murder of Lee Southwell, Shad Vestal, and six others.”

He leaned forward in the saddle.

“I will escort you to Bighorn Point, see you get a fair trial, then hang you at the mayor’s convenience.”

Kelly looked beyond the old man to the others. “You men, drop those rifles. Now!”

The youngest Apache was the one who was desperate enough to make the play Kelly feared.