Ralph Compton 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.

Chapter 2

Bighorn Point was a cow town like any other. Its single street was lined on both sides with false-fronted clapboard buildings that held the place together like bookends.

A rising wind kicked up veils of dust from the street, and hanging signs outside the stores screeched on rusty chains.

Oil reflector lamps marched in lockstep along the boardwalks, but those, like every other light in town, were dowsed.

The man from Abilene walked the buckskin to the end of the street, where a church blocked his way, its tall and lonesome steeple like an upraised hand, defying him to ride farther.

The church was too big and ostentatious for the town, a high-maintenance pile as out of place as a rich Boston belle at a prairie hootenanny.

It was a powerful symbol of the church militant, proclaiming to all and sundry, This is a God-fearing town and we aim to keep it that way.

The tall man lit a cigarette, then slowly walked his horse back the way he’d come.

He saw only one saloon, the Windy Hall, squeezed meekly between a hardware store and a ladies’ dress and hat shop.

The place was as quiet as the dark end of a tomb.

Again the man drew rein. The end of the cigarette in his mouth glowed like a firefly in the gloom.

Across the street to his left was a fair-sized hotel, but that too was locked and shuttered, its guests apparently enjoying the sleep of the just.

Try the livery stable, or pass on through.

The male voice came from behind him, and the man from Abilene stiffened. He was irritated that he’d allowed someone to walk up on him like that.

Without turning, he said, You must be the only person in town who’s still awake.

I don’t sleep much. Get to my age and bad memories crowd in on a man, keep him from his rest.

There had been humor in the voice and a hint of it lingered in the blue eyes that looked up at the man on the horse.

We don’t get many night riders through Bighorn Point.

Figured that out my own self.

Name’s Nook Kelly. I’m the town marshal.

Figured that as well.

You heard of me?

Yeah. Some good, some bad.

Kelly accepted that and said, You’re not an outlaw. You look too steady at a man.

I’m a rancher. From up Abilene way.

You got a name?

The one my ma and pa gave me.

You care to share it?

Name’s Micajah.

It’s a mouthful, but only half a handle.

Clayton.

Does anybody call you Micajah without getting shot?

My friends call me Cage.

Well, I ain’t your friend, so I’ll call you Mr. Clayton.

Suit yourself.

Kelly was short, reed thin, two .450-caliber British Bulldog revolvers hanging from shoulder holsters on each side of his narrow chest.

He could have been any age, though if you studied the lines on his face closely, forty would have been as good a guess as any.

The ferryman had said that Kelly had killed fifty men. That was an exaggeration. He’d killed thirteen in fair fights, seven more in concert with other lawmen.

He was exactly what he seemed to Cage Clayton, A cool, professional killer who had mastered his craft, the way of the revolver, and the understanding of the manner and habit of violent men.

Why are you in Bighorn Point, Mr. Clayton?

The man from Abilene hesitated. His showdown with Nook Kelly had come earlier than he’d planned.

But the marshal had a right to know. Besides, he’d spread the word—if he didn’t cut loose with his guns right away.

I’m here to kill a man.

A career gunman is trained not to show his emotions, and Kelly was no exception. He absorbed Clayton’s words like a sponge, his face unchanging.

But he was ready. Men like Kelly always were.

Is it me?

I don’t know, Clayton said. But I reckon you’re a tad too young.

What’s the name of the man you plan to kill?

I don’t have that information.

Met him before, back along the trail?

Clayton shook his head—then realized it was the kind of momentary lapse that could get him killed around a man like Kelly.

You idiot, Cage! Never take your eyes off his gun hand!

Aloud, he said, No. I don’t know the man.

Kelly smiled, about as warm as a snake grin. Then how will you know who to kill?

Because he’ll try to kill me first. Then I’ll have him pegged as the one.

Chapter 3

Nook Kelly took a step back, and for a moment Clayton thought he was going to draw. He recalled the lawman’s reputation and figured he was a dead man.

But the marshal raised a hand, index finger extended, aimed at Clayton’s face, and then dropped it until it pointed at the ground. Step down. Walk with me.

Clayton swung out of the saddle. Now that he stood beside Kelly, he was struck by how small the man was, his own rangy six feet dwarfing him.

Walk where? he asked.

To the livery. I’ll see you bedded down for the night.

I’m hungry.

Benny Hinton always has coffee and stew on the stove. He’s an old range cook, and habit dies hard.

Clayton hesitated. I reckoned you’d draw down on me for sure.

I’m studying on it, Kelly said. Give me time.

Hinton was a sour, stringy old man, badly stove up, with a slow, stiff-kneed walk.

Benny, can you take care of this feller’s horse, then bed him down and fix him up with grub? the marshal said.

Cost him.

You got money, Mr. Clayton?

Clayton looked at Hinton. How much?

One dollar for man and hoss, two bits extry fer the grub.

Your prices run dear.

Take it or leave it.

Pay the man, Mr. Clayton, Kelly said. Or go hungry.

Clayton paid with ill grace, but later admitted to himself that Hinton’s son-of-a-bitch stew, sourdough bread, and coffee were well worth the price.

Kelly watched Clayton eat, waited until he built and lit a smoke, and then said, Tell me about it. He looked at Hinton. Set, Benny. I want you to hear this.

You ain’t running me out of town, Marshal, Clayton said, more stubbornness than a warning.

Tell me.

Kelly and Hinton were listening men. They squatted in front of Clayton, waiting, the marshal’s head cocked to one side.

Twenty-five years ago, on the last day of the last year of the late war, a bunch of irregular Reb cavalry rode up on a farm in the Beaver Creek country of northern Kansas.

Clayton drew deep on his cigarette. They say Frank and Jesse James were with the outfit, but I don’t know about that.

Just say it plain, Kelly said. Don’t tell me what you don’t know.

All right, the telling is simple enough. The Rebs ransacked the farm, took what they could carry, but one of them, a youngster by the name of Lissome Terry, shot the farmer right there in his parlor.

For no reason?

He had a reason. The farmer’s young wife was the reason.

Clayton searched his memory, made sure he got the story right. The farmer’s backbone was broke, maybe an inch above his belt. He lay paralyzed on the floor, watched Terry throw his wife on the table and violate her.

Then Jesse was nowhere near that farmhouse.

Clayton looked at Kelly. Why do you say that?

Because Jesse would have no truck with abusing a woman, Kelly said. Neither would Frank, even though he was a mean bastard. I rode with them for a spell, back in the day, and I knew them as well as any man.

I don’t know if Jesse was there or not, and it doesn’t really matter, Clayton said.

All right, spill the rest.

Isn’t much left to tell. The Rebs rode away, Lissome Terry with them. The farmer’s wife got up from the floor, spat on her wounded husband, and stepped over him. She hanged herself in the barn.

Spat on him, though. Seems hard, Hinton said.

I guess she blamed him for not trying to save her. Later it turned out the man was paralyzed from the waist down and couldn’t have helped her anyhow.

Kin o’your’n? Hinton said.

Clayton blinked again, his answer a long time in coming. No.

Then how come you’re involved? Kelly said.

I have a ranch up Abilene way, or had. Three bad winters wiped me out. Had to pay off my hands and sell what cattle I had left. I was flat broke, down on my uppers. Then a man offered me a job.

To kill this Lissome Terry ranny? Hinton said.

Clayton nodded. Two hundred up front, another eight hundred when the job is done.

You ever kill a man before?

No. I never felt the need.

How do you know Terry is in Bighorn Point?

The man who hired me had the Pinkertons trace him this far. For a few years, Terry left a wide path behind him—murder, robbery, you call it—but then he vanished from sight. He was a hard man to track down.

Why didn’t the Pinks grab him? Kelly said.

They said Terry is living in this town under a different name, but they couldn’t pin him down further. After one of their agents disappeared, the Pinkertons wanted to investigate further, but the man I work for called them off. He convinced them that Terry, or whatever he’s known as now, could get wind of what was happening and scamper.

So the Pinks backed down, huh? Kelly said. That isn’t like them. They’re bulldogs.

Clayton nodded. They took some convincing, that’s for sure.

And that’s when your man hired you. Terry dead, the Pinks satisfied, no loose ends to tie up.

That’s about the size of it.

It was the farmer who hired you, huh?

Yeah. He’s a rich man now, but he’s confined to a wheelchair and the pain he lives with every day, inside and out, don’t let him forget.

And you reckon Terry will get wind of you being in Bighorn Point and try to kill you? Clayton said.

Yeah, once the word gets out that I’m hunting him. He has no other choice.

Clayton smiled, looked from Clayton to Hinton. I’m depending on you boys to spread the good news.

Maybe we will, Kelly said, after I make up my mind on whether to run you out of town or shoot you.

Hinton looked at the lawman. "Bighorn Point is a peaceful, God-fearing town, Marshal, and this here feller spells trouble. You take my advice and just