The Stranger
The Stranger
By Herschel Cozine
Copyright 2013 by Herschel Cozine
Cover Copyright 2013 by Dara England and
Untreed Reads Publishing
The author is hereby established as the sole holder of the copyright. Either the publisher (Untreed Reads) or author may enforce copyrights to the fullest extent.
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold, reproduced or transmitted by any means in any form or given away to other people without specific permission from the author and/or publisher. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to the living or dead is entirely coincidental.
Also by Herschel Cozine and Untreed Reads Publishing
Delinquency Report
Saint Nicked
The Birds
The Humpty Dumpty Tragedy
The Porridge Incident
The Stranger
By Herschel Cozine
The stranger rode into town late one afternoon, alone as always. He climbed off his horse, stretched and looked up and down the deserted street. It was always that way; people suddenly disappearing when he came through town. It didn’t bother him. In fact, he liked it that way.
He patted his horse, threw the reins over the hitching post and walked slowly to the saloon. Standing in the doorway, the stranger surveyed the room through wary eyes. Spotting a table in the corner of the room, he strode over to it, swung a long leg over the back of the chair, and sat down, his back to the wall. Eyes alert under a wide-brimmed hat, he kept his hand on the holster of his gun. His body was tense, ready to react to the slightest movement. His dark, leathery face wore no expression. A scar ran the length of his cheek, the result of a near miss. He had won that gunfight, just as he had won so many others.
He motioned to Jake, the bartender. “Whiskey,” he said. “Bring the bottle.”
Jake hurried over, placed a bottle and a glass in front of the man, and went back to the bar.
The stranger made no move for the bottle. A few men sat at the table across the room, talking in murmurs. Occasionally one would cast a quick glance over at the stranger, then just as quickly look away. Jake busied himself with washing glasses, watching the stranger from the corner of his eye in case he was beckoned. The muted voices of the men at the table were the only sounds in the saloon. The stranger couldn’t make out what was being said. But he didn’t care. He knew without hearing that they were talking about him. It was that way wherever he went. Empty streets, muffled conversations, furtive looks in his direction. He had long ago come to accept it.
The saloon door swung open and a tall man pushed through. He wore a badge on a plain brown shirt and a six-gun on each hip. He stopped as the doors swung behind him and looked around the room. His eyes fell on the stranger. With purposeful steps, the sheriff walked over to the table, touched the brim of his hat in a greeting and nodded to a chair. The stranger pushed the chair toward the sheriff with his foot. The sheriff sat down.
“Jake,” he called to the bartender. “Beer.”
Jake took the glass he was cleaning and set it under the spigot. The sheriff turned back to the stranger.
“Luke Clayton?’ he asked.
The man nodded. “And you’d be Sheriff Trenton.”
“You know me?” Trenton asked.
“It’s my business to know who the law is when I come to a strange town.”
“Passin’ through?”
Clayton nodded.
“You plannin’ to stay long?”
Clayton leaned forward, picked up the bottle and studied it. He raised his eyes to meet Trenton’s. “Haven’t made up my mind yet, sheriff. Is there a law says I have to leave?”
Trenton shook his head. “Nope.” He took the beer from Jake, handed him a coin and drank. Setting the glass on the table next to Clayton’s glass, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “But this town ain’t no place for you. Too many young bucks with big ideas. Trouble.” He sighed. “I don’t need trouble.”
Clayton laughed softly. “I hear that ever’where I go. Seems to follow me around. Mind you, Sheriff, I don’t look for it.”
“That don’t seem to make a whole lot of difference,” the sheriff said. “Don’t matter who starts it. Trouble is trouble.” He looked around the room. Two men stood at the bar, backs to the sheriff. One of the men at the table nodded at Trenton, took a swallow of beer, and looked away again quickly. Sheriff Trenton lifted the glass again and drank.
“There’s one young buck in particular who thinks he’s the fastest gun that ever lived. He’ll come lookin’ for you as soon as word gets around that you’re in town.”
Clayton shook his head ruefully. “Been through that hundreds of times, Sheriff. I can handle myself.”
“I ain’t worried about that. I’m just warnin’ you. I don’t take kindly to killin’ here. Don’t matter who starts it. Understand?”
Clayton nodded. “Never killed a man except in self-defense, Sheriff. That’s God’s truth, no matter what you may have heard.”
“How about Hooker?”
Clayton made a face. His eyes clouded. He traced the pattern on the tablecloth with a calloused finger. “It was a fair fight,” he said at last. “That was a long time ago.”
Trenton studied Clayton’s troubled features. “Reckon you’re right,” he said. “But that don’t seem to matter much. It ain’t somethin’ folks forget.”
Clayton laughed without humor. “You’re dead right about that.” He leaned forward, his eyes looking directly into Trenton’s. “But I ain’t lookin’ for a fight. I’m mindin’ my business, peaceful like. And I’ll be on my way when I’ve a mind to. You just tell this kid to stay out of my way and there won’t be no trouble.”
Sheriff Trenton finished the beer, set the glass down hard, and stood up. “I’ll do that, Luke. But it won’t do no good, you know that.” He patted the gun on his hip. “As you say, there’s no law that you have to get out of town. You ain’t wanted for any crime, at least not by me. But there’s nothin’ in this town that would make you want to stay. I’d be obliged if you finished your business here and went on your way.”
Luke smiled sadly. “Ain’t no town where I want to stay. Hell, Sheriff, a guy like me don’t have a home.” He rubbed a stubbled chin.
The two men faced each other. Finally, Trenton looked away. “You watch yourself now, you hear? I’ll have a little talk with Frank. That’s the kid I told you about.” He touched the brim of his hat again, nodded to Luke and left.
Luke watched the sheriff’s retreating form and sighed. He poured whiskey into the glass, pushed the cork back into the bottle and sat back. Taking a cigar from his shirt pocket, he put a match to it and puffed it to life. A man came through the door, looked over to Clayton, then quickly looked away and headed for the bar. He was followed by another, then another, all giving him a quick look. Word was out, he knew. Luke Clayton, the famous gunslinger, was in town.
Luke had smoked the cigar down to a stub when the doors swung open and a young man walked through. He was short and thin, with small black eyes and thin lips that cut a gash in a pale, immature face. The gun on his hip, in a fancy leather holster, hung almost to his knees.
The kid hitched at his gun belt, stepped toward the bar, and glanced around the room. Seeing Luke, he curled his lip in a defiant sneer.
“Luke Clayton?’ he asked in a reedy voice that was too high even for his small size.
Luke blew smoke out of his nose and squinted through it at the youth.
“I asked you a question, stranger,” the kid said.
Luke pushed his hat back on his head with his thumb. His eyes narrowed. He put the cigar in the ashtray and stubbed it out.
“Who the hell are you?” he said.
“The name’s Warner. Frank Warner.”
Luke grunted.
“I asked you a question and didn’t get no answer,” Frank replied. “Now that ain’t very polite. I don’t take kindly to people who don’t have manners.”
Luke shrugged. “I got no beef with you, kid,” he said. “But I sure as hell don’t need your company.”
“Are you lookin’ for trouble?” Frank said. “The big shot Luke Clayton?”
Luke scratched the back of his neck, tugged at his nose and sighed. “I meet your kind wherever I go, kid. If you want trouble you came to the wrong place. Now get out of here and take your big mouth somewhere where I can’t hear it.”
Frank spread his legs apart, faced Luke and put his hands to his side. “Now that ain’t very friendly, Clayton. Are you so high and mighty that you can’t talk civil to a man?” His small eyes went from Clayton to the men at the bar as if seeking approval. His lips curled into a sneer as he squared his shoulders and turned back to Luke.
“Well, Clayton? What’s it gonna be?”
Luke turned to the bartender. “Get him out of here before he gets hurt,” he said.
Jake hesitated, uncertain. He started around the bar, but Frank waved him away. “You stay out of this, Jake. It ain’t your fight.”
“It ain’t anybody’s fight, kid,” Luke said. “Go home to your momma.”
Frank snorted. “What’s the matter, Clayton? You afraid of me?” He turned to the men at the table behind him. “The great Luke Clayton. Afraid to fight. Ain’t that a kick?”
One of the men stood up, put his hat on and left the saloon. The others sat there, afraid to move. Frank turned back to Luke. “Come on, Clayton. Are you afraid I can outdraw you?”
Luke dropped his hand to the holster on his hip. “For the last time, kid. Git! If you know what’s good for you you’ll get the hell out of here pronto.”
Frank laughed. “I ain’t leavin’ until you and me have settled this,” he said. “Frank Warner don’t run from nobody.” His right hand went toward the gun on his hip.
A shot rang out. The pistol in Frank’s hand spun crazily through the air, landing a few feet away. It skittered across the floor, coming to rest at the foot of the bar. Frank grabbed his hand and grimaced. Blood dripped from the young man’s hand, forming a small red pool at his feet. The men at the bar retreated to the back of the room, watching nervously. The men at the table dove for cover. Frank’s eyes widened in panic.
Sheriff Trenton burst through the door, gun drawn. He looked at Luke, seated calmly at the table, a gun in his hand with smoke rising from the barrel.
Frank stood frozen in the middle of the room, his small body trembling. When he saw Trenton his shoulders slumped and the fear retreated from his eyes. Rubbing his hand, he glared at Luke.
“What’s going on?” the sheriff asked.
“Nothin’ much, Sheriff,” Luke said. “The kid, here, wanted a fight, so I gave him one. It’s over. Nobody got hurt, leastwise not bad.”
Trenton looked to Frank. “Are you all right?”
Frank snarled. “Clayton drew on me ’fore I had a chance. It’s like shootin’ a man in the back, Sheriff.” He looked to the group of men huddled across the room. “You guys saw what happened. He gulled me. He shot me while I wasn’t lookin’.” He whirled back to face Luke. “Why didn’t you kill me while you were at it, you weasel-faced coward.”
Luke laughed. “Like I told the sheriff, I only kill men in self-defense. This woulda been cold-blooded murder.” He spat. “You was beat before you drew your gun. Hell, I coulda wrote a letter while you were gettin’ your gun out of your holster.” He spat again. “Fastest gun in town,” he said disdainfully. “Son, you ain’t even the fastest gun in this room, even if I wasn’t here.” He laid his gun on the table. “I have a one-armed granddaddy who could outdraw you.”
Frank kicked at the sawdust on the floor. “Lucky. That’s you, Clayton. Lucky I wasn’t ready or you’d be on your way to Boot Hill. You shoulda killed me when you had the chance.”
“You got it wrong, kid,” Luke said. “I’d say you was the lucky one. If you hadda killed me your life wouldn’t be worth a buffalo chip. You’d be dead before the week was out. Why, there’d be hundreds of big shot kids just like you—and a lot faster—wantin’ to kill the guy who shot Luke Clayton.”
“I can take care of myself,” Frank said.
Luke shrugged. “Sure you can. They’ll put those words on your tombstone.”
Frank stared at the floor.
Luke shook his head. “And if you was lucky enough to live past the week you’d be sittin’ at a table, back to the wall, afraid somebody would sneak up behind you and put a bullet in you. You’d keep movin’ from town to town.” He picked up the glass of whiskey. “You’d be afraid to take a drink because it slows your reflexes. You’d be runnin’ for the rest of your life. All because you thought it would be so high and mighty great to be the fastest gun in the territory.” He snorted. “You ain’t got the least idea what it’s all about.”
