The Stranger from Abilene

Chapter 63

“Mr. Clayton, you’ve played hob.”

Mayor Quarrels mopped up the last of the gravy on his plate with a piece of bread and, to reinforce his statement, said, “Just . . . played . . . hob.”

“Is that why you invited me to lunch, to tell me that?” Clayton said.

“Yes, that, and to ask you, nicely, mind, to get the hell out of my town.”

Clayton smiled, but said nothing, waiting for the mayor to talk again.

They were the only customers in Mom’s kitchen. Quarrels had made a late-afternoon appointment with Clayton for that very reason.

The mayor sat back in his chair, sighed, and lit a cigar.

“Since you got here, there’s been nothing but death and destruction,” he said. “Colonel Southwell, his wife, Shad Vestal, now Moses Anderson and his woman . . . the list seems to go on and on.”

He stabbed his cigar in Clayton’s direction. “To say nothing of the man you gunned in the saloon and the one you crippled.”

Quarrels sighed and shook his head.

“I’ve got nothing against you personally, Mr. Clayton. You did well when you helped Marshal Kelly track down the Apaches, but, damn it all, you seem to have been born under a dark star.”

The mayor attempted a smile, failed, then said, “You’re a bad influence on this town and I want you far away from it.”

Clayton waited while Mom refilled his coffee cup, then lit a cigarette and said, “I’ll leave when I prove that Ben St. John is really Lissome Terry, the man responsible for the death of my mother.”

“Nook Kelly told me about your suspicions. He says you also claim that Mr. St. John murdered Moses and his woman.”

“He’s right. I do, and I mean to prove it.”

“All that is errant nonsense. Mr. St. John is a valued member of this community, a man of impeccable reputation. Why would he commit murder, for heaven’s sake?”

Clayton didn’t feel like going into it. Nothing he could say would change Quarrels’s mind anyway. He sat in silence, waiting. It was a while before the mayor spoke again.

Finally, as though he’d just gotten all his thoughts in order, Quarrels said, “Here’s what we’re willing to do—”

“Who’s we?”

“Myself and the leading citizens of Bighorn Point.”

“Ah.”

“One thousand dollars in gold, Mr. Clayton, cash on the barrelhead.”

Quarrels beamed. “What do you think of that?”

“What do you want in return?”

“Leave this town and never come back.”

“Who’s putting up the money? St. John?”

“He and others, including myself.”

Clayton smiled. “Bighorn Point must want to get rid of me real bad. I must be a desperate character.”

“Oh, we do and you are. I thought I made that clear.”

What Clayton didn’t want now was an ultimatum—get out of town by dark or else.

He played for time. “Let me study on it, Mayor. A thousand in gold is a lot of money.”

Quarrels’s face hardened. “All right, but don’t think about it too long.”

“I’ll let you know my answer soon.”

“For your sake, Mr. Clayton, I hope you decide to take the money.”