The Stranger from Abilene

Chapter 1

It was midnight when the man from Abilene came to the ferry.

He could have been there earlier, but had taken his time along the trail, in no hurry to kill the man he hunted.

A steel triangle hung from a rope, suspended from the low branch of a cottonwood that stood by the riverbank. Tied to the triangle was a length of scrap iron.

The man—tall, lanky, the weight of forty hard years hanging heavy on him—groaned as he swung stiffly out of the saddle. He led his pony to the river and let it drink.

A bloodstained moon had impaled itself on a pine on the opposite bank, and the night was still, the silence as fragile as glass.

Only the misted river talked, an ebb and flow of whispers as it washed back and forth over a sand and shingle bank.

The night was cool, the stars frosted.

Once the buckskin had drunk its fill, the man led it back to the triangle.

He grabbed the chunk of iron and clattered and clanged the triangle awake, its racketing clamor ringing through the splintering night.

The man smiled and twenty years fled from his weathered face. He dropped the iron, mightily pleased by his act of acoustic vandalism.

A couple of echoing minutes passed, and a couple more.

He heard a splash from the far bank; then a man’s voice, cranky, rusted with age, reached out through the darkness to him.

“Hell, did you have to wake the whole damned county?”

The man from Abilene grinned and made no answer.

But the ferryman, invisible in the darkness, wouldn’t let it go.

“Alarming good Christian folks like that. ’Tain’t right and ’tain’t proper.”

The man, still grinning, took hold of the iron again and banged it lightly against the triangle, once, twice, three times.

“And that ain’t funny,” the ferryman yelled.

The ferry, a large raft with a pole rail on two sides, emerged from the mist like a creature rising from a primordial swamp. Its algae-covered logs ground over shingle and shuddered to a stop.

“Howdy,” the man from Abilene said, raising a hand in greeting.

The ferryman dropped the rope he’d been hauling. Even in the darkness he looked sour.

“You the ranny making all the noise?” he said.

“Sorry I had to wake you,” the man said.

“Hell, you could’ve camped out tonight and rang the bell in the morning when folks are awake.”

The man nodded. “Maybe so, but I’m mighty tired of my own cooking and spreading my blankets on rocks and scorpions.”

The ferryman was old and he’d lived that long by being careful around tall night riders with eyes that saw clean through a man to what lay within, good or bad.

Like this one.

“You won’t find no vittles or soft bed around here,” he said.

“There’s a town just three miles west of the river,” the tall man said. “Or so I was told.”

The ferryman nodded. “You was told right. But Bighorn Point is a quiet place. God-fearing people living there, and everything closes at eleven, even on Friday nights.”

He gave the tall man a sideways look. “There ain’t no whores in Bighorn Point.”

The man from Abilene smiled and flicked the triangle with the nail of his middle finger. As the steel tinged he said, “Right now all I want is food and a bed. I guess I’ll just have to wake up some o’ them God-fearing folks.”

The old man shook his head. “Well, just don’t let Marshal Kelly catch you doing that. He’ll call it disturbin’ the peace an’ throw you in the hoosegow quicker’n scat.”

Suddenly the tall man was wary. “Would that be Nook Kelly, out of the Sabine River country down Texas way?”

“It be. You know him?”

The tall man shook his head. “Heard of him, is all.”

“Nook Kelly has killed fifty men.”

“So they say.”

“Do you believe it?”

“I’d need to hear it from Kelly himself. People believe what they want to believe.”

The man showed the ferryman an empty face, but inwardly he was worried. Having a named gunslinger like Kelly as the law in Bighorn Point was a complication he didn’t need.

Ferrymen were spawned by the same demon as trail cooks, and curiosity was one of the many traits they shared.

Interest glowed in the old man’s eyes, like a cat studying a rat. “Here, you ain’t thinking of robbing the Bighorn Point Mercantile Bank, are ye?”

The tall man smiled. “Now, why would I do a fool thing like that?”

The ferryman looked sly. “Mister, you’re a hard case. Seen that right off. You’re dressed like a cattleman, but you’ve seen better days. Except for the new John B. on your head, your duds are so worn I wouldn’t give you two bits for the lot, including the boots.”

The old man grinned. “Maybe that’s why you planned on doing a fool thing like trying to rob the Mercantile.”

Getting no answer, he said, “But Nook Kelly would kill you. You know that now.”

The tall man said, “Talking yourself out of a fare, ain’t you?”

“No. You’ll cross the Rubicon because you’re headed to Bighorn Point for another reason.”

The oldster’s historical reference didn’t surprise the man from Abilene. Back in the day, this old coot could have been anything.

“You’re right,” he said. “I’m going to Bighorn Point to kill a man.”

“Anybody I know?”

“Maybe. But I don’t know the man myself. Hell, I don’t even know his name.”

“You mean you aim to kill a man, but you don’t know who he is?”

“That’s how she shakes out, I reckon.”

“Mister, he must have done something powerful bad.”

The tall man nodded. “Bad enough.”

“How you plan on finding him?”

The tall man smiled. “He’ll look like he needs killing.”