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The oldster’s historical reference didn’t surprise the man from Abilene.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.