The Stranger from Abilene

“I owed you a favor, Ben, and I repaid it. Now, the way I look at it, you owe me one.”

“And now you’re calling it in.”

“Under the circumstance, I consider it only right.”

“All right, John, out with it. How much?”

Quarrels shrugged. “Talking money is so vulgar, but since this is between friends, let’s call it two hundred a month.”

St. John was aghast. “You mean, on top of what I already pay you?”

“Of course, Ben. Don’t be a piker.”

A hot scarlet anger gripped St. John, squeezing his chest, constricting his throat.

“I never liked you, Quarrels,” he said, his voice tight. “I should’ve killed you back in Texas.”

The mayor smiled. “I don’t think so. I was faster than you, and so was Park. You came in a slow third, Ben.”

St. John forced himself to calm down. “All right, another two hundred to keep your big mouth shut.”

“Good for you, Ben. I mean, I’d hate to whisper in Edith’s ear about the murdered whores. I reckon she’d walk out on you, Ben, and take her money with her.” Quarrels grinned. “Now, that would be a real shame. Put you out of business, I should think.”

He shook his head. “What a loss to the community.”

“You’ve made your point. I’ll pay you the money.”

Quarrels rose and brought the whiskey bottle to the desk. He paused, the bottle in his hand, and raised his eyes to the ceiling.

“Ah, Ben, remember the good old days, you and me and Park? You recollect the banks we robbed, the folks we killed?”

He poured the whiskey into each of their glasses. “Remember the bank down Galveston way when you gunned that hick sheriff, then—”

“Shut your damned trap,” St. John said.

“Gunned the sheriff, then went back that night and talked up his woman? ’Course, you was Lissome Terry back then. We called you Liss—at least I did. I can’t recall what Park called you.”

St. John rose to his feet. “Tell me if Clayton agrees to take the money. And from now on, let’s keep our meetings to a bare minimum.”

Quarrels grinned. “You don’t like to talk about the old days, Ben, do you?”

St. John looked at the mayor, his eyes dead.

“You and me, our talking is done,” he said. “For good.”

For a long time, Mayor John Quarrels stared at the door that had slammed shut behind St. John.

He was a worried man. This Clayton business was getting out of hand.

Ben was starting to run scared and could do something foolish, like trying to shade Clayton on the draw-and-shoot.

Once Liss had been pretty good with a gun, but that had been a long time ago and even then he wasn’t a named man, a feared gunfighter.

Clayton was no pushover. He could take Ben, Quarrels was sure of it.

And if that happened he’d lose his meal ticket.

The mayor’s salary didn’t run to Havana cigars and the best bonded bourbon he enjoyed. Or to high-class whores, for that matter.

Quarrels poured himself another drink.

Maybe he was worrying over nothing. There was always the chance that Clayton would take the thousand dollars and leave town.

As soon as the thought entered his head, he dismissed it.

Clayton wanted Ben dead and nothing else would satisfy him.

Quarrels held the cool glass to his hot forehead and closed his eyes.

Think, man. Think.

Then it came to him. . . .

Liss couldn’t shade Clayton, but he could.

Back in the old days, Quarrels had been fast on the draw and had piled up enough dead men to prove it. Even as out of practice as he was, he was too good for Clayton. After all, what was the man? Nothing but a damned Kansas drover who’d gotten lucky against amateurs in the Windy Hall Saloon.

Quarrels drank, smiling around the rim of the glass.

Then it was settled.

He opened a drawer, pulled out a sheet of paper, and began to write.

After that was done, he carefully folded the paper, slipped it into an envelope, and scrawled Cage Clayton across the front.

He had one more letter to write, longer and more detailed. This he left on top of his desk where it would be easily found.

Quarrels’s words to Clayton were written in ink, but he was confident they’d soon be branded across the man’s consciousness in flaming letters a foot high.

He rose to his feet.

First have a boy deliver the envelope to Clayton’s hotel, and then it would be time to call in another favor.

Chapter 65

“Kid brought this for you,” the desk clerk said, stopping Clayton on his way out the door.

He handed over the envelope.

Clayton slipped out the folded paper, opened it up, and read.

The message was straightforward enough, but he scanned it twice to make sure his eyes were not playing tricks on him.

I can help you put a rope around Lissome Terry’s neck.

Meet me at the Southwell Ranch at sundown.

There was no signature.

“Did the kid say who gave this to him?”

“No, he didn’t,” the clerk said. “Bad news?”

Clayton shook his head. “Good news, maybe.”

Before the clerk could question him further, he stepped onto the hotel porch and glanced at the sun.

There were still a couple of hours until dusk.

Clayton glanced over at the marshal’s office, but there was no sign of Kelly, and that was good.

He planned to do this himself without Nook’s meddling.