The Stranger from Abilene

Chapter 59

“Marshal, I want that man charged with attempted murder, wanton destruction of property, and . . . and . . .”

Ben St. John’s jowls quivered, his face black with anger.

“This is an outrage! My bank is wrecked and he”—a fat ringed finger stabbed in Clayton’s direction—“is responsible.”

“Mr. Clayton has agreed to pay all the damages,” Kelly said.

Clayton, who had agreed to no such thing, ignored that and said, “Your paid killer failed.” He looked at Kelly. “With an I.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” St. John said.

For a moment the banker’s eyes met Clayton’s and he recoiled, like a man who’s just stared into the sun.

He knows. Damn him, he knows.

Clayton reached into his pocket and threw five double eagles into St. John’s face. “Mitchell didn’t kill me. You can have your money back.”

“Mitchell?” St. John said, kicking the fallen coins away from him. “Are you talking about the dead man you dumped in my place of business?”

“You should know,” Clayton said. “You sent for him.”

“I never saw that man before in my life.”

St. John looked at Kelly, a pleading expression on his face. “Marshal, I’m one of this town’s leading citizens. Are you just going to sit there and let me be abused in this way by a . . . saddle tramp?”

Kelly seemed to consider that; then he said, “Did you hire Shack Mitchell to kill Mr. Clayton?”

“Of course not. That’s preposterous. Why would I want this man dead?”

“Because I know who you are,” Clayton said.

Kelly was surprised. He’d expected St. John to fly into another rage, but the man said simply, “Who am I?”

Clayton rose to his feet, the hate in him as cold as ice. “Your name real name is Lissome Terry. Do you remember a farm in Kansas and the farmer you shot and his wife, the high yeller woman you raped?”

Clayton felt Kelly’s eyes burn on him.

“You’re a raving lunatic,” St. John said. “I’ve never been in Kansas.”

“Yes, you have, Terry, you and Jesse and Frank and them. The woman you raped was my mother, and after you’d done with her she hanged herself. You crippled my pa, and he’s been in a wheelchair ever since.”

St. John would not meet Clayton’s accusing stare. Oh God, those eyes, looking right into me. Lancing into me . . . “Marshal Kelly, I want this man locked up. I want him charged and sent to Yuma for thirty years.”

Kelly’s voice was even, unhurried.

“Mr. St. John, I can charge him with leading a horse onto the boardwalk. That’s a ten-dollar fine.”

“The horse charged into my bank, with a dead man across the saddle.”

“The horse got scared and bolted. It’s still a ten-dollar fine.”

“I’ll speak to Mayor Quarrels about this. It’s obvious that you and Clayton are in cahoots. Which one of you murdered the poor man you’re trying to pass off as a hired assassin?”

“I did,” Kelly said. “He was trying to kill Mr. Clayton.”

“So you say.”

“Right. So I say.”

The marshal reached into his drawer and pulled out a stack of wanted dodgers. He thumbed through them until he found the one he wanted. He threw it across the desk to St. John.

“Shack Mitchell is wanted in the state of Texas for the murder of one James McFaul, a lawyer,” he said. “Look at Mitchell’s likeness. He’s the man I killed today.”

“The man you hired to kill me, Terry,” Clayton said.

St. John shook his head. His quivering jowls and small bloodshot eyes gave him the look of an outraged hog.

“I’m in Bedlam,” he said. “You’re both raving mad.”

“Don’t leave town, Mr. St. John,” Kelly said.

The man smiled. “I won’t, Marshal. But you will. Depend on it.”