Free The Stranger by Herschel Cozine Page A

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