The Stranger from Abilene

Chapter 66

As he rode through the deepening day, Clayton took the note from his shirt pocket and read it again, as though the letters would suddenly leap from the page and rearrange themselves into the name of the person who wrote it.

He knew with almost one hundred percent certainty that he was riding into a trap—but there was always a slim chance the note was genuine. To positively identify St. John as Lissome Terry was a gamble worth taking.

The sky above the Sans Bois peaks was rust red, streaked with pale lilac, when Clayton reached the Southwell Ranch.

When he was still a ways off, he drew rein and studied the house and the surrounding terrain to be sure he wasn’t the target of a hidden rifleman.

Nothing moved and in the fading light the ranch house was silent, still, as though it had been abandoned a hundred years before.

But the house had a hold over him that Clayton did not understand.

It seemed that he was being constantly drawn to the place, a moth to flame, as though the dead were reaching out from the grave and beckoning to him.

Closer . . . Come closer....

Clayton shifted in the saddle, uneasy. He felt he was being watched by a thousand eyes, hostile, malevolent, cold.

His attention was drawn to the creek, where a solitary Hereford bull shambled to the water and drank. Suddenly the animal lifted his head and peered with shortsighted intensity toward the cattle pens.

After a full minute, the bull tossed his head and went back to drinking, apparently undisturbed by what he’d seen.

Clayton uneasily noted that.

It had probably been a prowling coyote or bobcat, neither of which would make the Hereford feel threatened.

But it could have been a man, a two-legged animal the bull had learned to trust.

Yet there was no movement around the cattle pens or the toolshed, and the Hereford finished his drink and walked away without another glance in that direction.

Clayton wiped his sweaty palms on his pants, then let the black pick its way forward.

He drew rein in front of the house, then stepped out of the leather to make himself a less conspicuous target.

The long summer daylight was lingering. Clayton glanced at the sun, sinking in the western sky like a copper penny. Maybe another hour until full dark.

To his right, the bunkhouse door was ajar, creaking slowly on its hinges in a whisper of wind. Behind that, the barn, a smokehouse, and a corral, timber planks stacked up nearby for repairs that had never been done.

The place was deserted. Had the note been somebody’s idea of a practical joke?

Feeling foolish, Clayton called out, “Anybody here?”

“Right behind you, Mr. Clayton.”

Clayton felt the hair rise on the back of his neck. How could he have been blindsided like that?

He turned slowly, his hand away from his gun.

Then his jaw dropped when he saw the man standing there, smiling at him.

“Mayor Quarrels. How—”

The man smiled. “I could’ve gunned you. Easy. You must learn to take more care, Mr. Clayton. Of course, now it’s too late.”

His anger flaring, Clayton said, “Why are you here? Did you write the note?”

“Of course I wrote the note. I didn’t tell a lie. I can put a rope around Lissome Terry’s neck anytime I choose.”

Quarrels stepped around Clayton and stopped when his back was facing the ranch house.

It was a seemingly casual move, but it set Clayton on edge, as did the style of the mayor’s dress.

Gone was his businesslike broadcloth; in its place a black hat and shirt, black leather vest, pants of the same color, tucked into polished black boots. His gun belt was black; the only touch of color in his entire outfit the yellowed ivory handles of his Remingtons.

He looked, Clayton decided, like an outlaw from the cover of a dime magazine, but there was an aura of violence and danger about him, as palpable as the stench of an unwashed body.

“You sent me the note,” Clayton said, painfully aware that he was restating what Quarrels had already told him.

“Yes,” Quarrels said, smiling, offering him no help.

“About Lissome Terry.”

“Yeah, him. I’ve already said all this.”

“And you have information for me?”

Quarrels smiled. “Information? You know who Terry is. You don’t need me to tell you.”

“Ben St. John?”

“Huzzah for the man from Abilene.”

“Were you there? I mean, in Kansas, when it happened?”

“I was there. I didn’t see Liss screw the woman, but she squealed plenty, so we knew it was happening, me and Jesse and them.”

“Why didn’t you stop him?”

Quarrels shrugged. “Man wants to hump a woman, it’s no concern of mine.”

Keeping his anger in check, Clayton said, “Thank you for your help, Mayor. Now I can kill Terry with a clear conscience.”

“Ah, but it’s not as simple as that, Mr. Clayton.”

“It is to me.”

“Yes, I know. And that’s why I’m going to kill you.”