Shane and Jonah 3

by Cole Shelton

  “My friends call me Shane.”

  Verrier stared at the gunfighter in the flickering lamplight.

  “Shane,” he said at last, “before you go, I want to show you someone.”

  He beckoned Shane to follow him, and the tall gunhawk strode past the printing press to the rear of the office. Verrier opened a door which led into a long passageway, and the editor walked quietly to where lamplight filtered through another doorway.

  Verrier eased the door open and Shane could hear the laughter of children at play.

  “Take a look,” Anton Verrier murmured.

  Shane stepped to the crack and peered inside. Two little girls, both in nightdresses, were romping around the table. His eyes drifted to the sofa, and he drew in his breath. A young woman was curled up on the cushions reading a book. She had a slim, delectable figure, beautiful long raven hair, but right down the side of her face was an ugly weal.

  The gunfighter closed the door and the two men faced each other in the darkness.

  “They did more than ravish her, Shane,” muttered Anton Verrier, “they promised that next time they’d cut her up so badly that I’d never recognize her.”

  “A warning?” asked Shane. “In future just print nice harmless editorials?”

  “Or else,” the editor said. “That was the message.”

  Shane stubbed his cigarette. “I’ll be moseying along now. If you want me for anything, I’m staying at Marcia Harding’s homestead.”

  He strode through the office, went out and mounted Snowfire.

  The darkness of the night enveloped him as he rode out of town and took the valley trail. Just before he dropped down into the basin, his eyes were drawn to a distant splash of light on the far ridge. The lamps were blazing in Boormann’s ranch house. Shane reined in and a chill wind moaned around him. He hadn’t met Linc Boormann face to face as yet and he found it hard to conjure up a mental picture of this man who ordered hangings and rope, and whose riders stopped at nothing. All he knew was that Linc Boormann was on the rampage. How to stop him? Shane’s right hand fastened on the coldness of his jutting gun butt. With a curt word to Snowfire, he rode down the slope into Wolf Valley.

  Six – Three Guns to the Funeral

  It was the most lavish funeral Lodestone had ever seen. The whole crew of the Circle B was there, from the ramrod Klaus to the negro cook, all sporting black neck-scarves. Standing at the head of the grave, right beside the cadaverous-faced preacher, were Linc Boormann and Emily. The official pall-bearers, men from Boormann’s ranch, were lined either side of the grave, awaiting the preacher’s nod to lower the pine box into the clay. It seemed like the whole town was there, as witnesses, and Boormann’s eyes had roved over the mourners to check on who’d turned up—and who’d insulted him by staying away.

  “Rock of Ages, cleft for me, let me hide myself in thee.”

  Boormann wasn’t singing and his cronies from the Circle B were making heavy work of the hymn. Some of them couldn’t read, let alone sing. But the church choir, specially summoned for the occasion, was making a good job of the verses. Linc Boormann’s eyes wandered down to the coffin. He felt little grief right then, only savage, implacable hatred for the gunfighter who’d cut short Bart’s life. His gaze drifted from the coffin to where Sheriff Crawford and his wife were singing. Towards the end of the hymn, Crawford raised his head, and his eyes met those of Linc Boormann over the grave. Boormann’s nod told him he was to stay around after the service.

  Preacher Lewis closed his hymn-book and the men of the Circle B tried to look as pious as possible as he began to read the time honored words that preceded the burying.

  Two pages later, the preacher nodded to the pall-bearers.

  Boormann was poker-faced as slowly they lowered the pine box into the freshly dug grave.

  “Ashes to ashes ... dust to dust ...”

  Every eye was on the coffin as it hit the bottom of the grave. A handful of clay was thrown down, but suddenly Linc Boormann took a step backwards, ignoring the mourners as they stood respectfully around. The rancher’s eyes had taken in three shadows moving along the trail which looped around Lodestone’s hillside graveyard. The riders reined in, surveying the funeral crowd as they sat saddle beyond the fence. Recognition lit up Boormann’s somber face and he raised his hand to attract their attention. The move was successful because they filed towards the open gate and headed through the rows of tombstones.

  “Let us pray,” Preacher Lewis said.

  All the heads were bowed except Boormann’s, but then, when he saw the riders dismounting just beyond the circle of mourners, he closed his eyes.

  The prayer droned on, but finally the ‘amen’ was said and Preacher Lewis closed his book. Very slowly, the towners and cowpokes began to drift away.

  “Much obliged, Reverend,” Boormann said insincerely, and pressed five dollars into his hand.

  “I—ah—I don’t usually accept a fee for funerals, Mr. Boormann,” Preacher Lewis stammered awkwardly.

  The rancher ignored his protests and walked over to where Anton Verrier was standing alone, hatless and motionless in the early morning sun.

  “Mrs. Verrier couldn’t make it?” the rancher smiled, but not with his eyes.

  “She doesn’t come out much anymore,” Verrier said quietly. “I reckon you should know why, Mr. Boormann.”

  “A pity,” Boormann shrugged. “Oh, by the way, Verrier, I want this funeral report to make the front page. You can forget about your editorial this week. Front page, remember! And I want you to write about how he was murdered by Shane Preston. Murdered in cold blood—use those words.”

  “Murdered?” the editor frowned. “But surely it was a fair fight, Mr. Boormann?”

  “Fair fight?” Linc Boormann echoed with a sneer. “My boy was under the influence of liquor! A professional gunfighter goading a drunk! Now I know that calling my son a drunk doesn’t say much for him, but it says less for that nester-loving gunslick! It says he’s a murderer—and that’s what you’ll print, Verrier!”

  Boormann glanced past the editor to where the three men were waiting for him. Big Cluny was leaning on a tombstone, smoking a cigarette. The strangers’ three horses grazed on the juicy green tufts of grass between the graves.

  “One other thing, Verrier,” Boormann murmured, “I appreciate that your last editorial wasn’t in your usual vitriolic style, but some of my boys took exception to it all the same. In fact, a couple of them wanted to teach you another lesson.” Verrier swallowed painfully.

  “But I stopped them,” Boormann told him. “I figured you were starting to see the light. You should be encouraged. So I’m encouraging you from here on out. You’ll come down squarely on the side of the men who helped put this territory on the map, the cattlemen. Get the message, Verrier? I don’t have to tell you twice.”

  The rancher brushed past the editor and shoved his way through the crowd of mourners. A couple of neighboring ranchers murmured their condolences, but Linc Boormann had more important things on his mind and he hardly heard them.

  He hurried over to the three strangers.

  “Glad you could make it, Brett,” Boormann greeted.

  Brett Cluny stubbed out his cigarette on top of a headstone.

  “Too bad about your son, Mr. Boormann,” Cluny nodded towards the open grave. “The folks in town told us all about it when we passed through. Figured we’d come straight up here to the funeral.”

  “He was killed by a gunslick who’s siding with those damn nesters,” Boormann told him. “You’ve maybe heard of him. Hombre name of Shane Preston.”

  Cluny turned to his two companions.

  “Hear that, boys? Shane Preston!”

  “The tall galoot who rides with that crazy old man,” Ed Hooper grinned. He was a rugged, weather-beaten rider with massive shoulders. He wore two guns at his hips. “Now what in hell’s the oldster’s name?”

  “Jonah Jones,” Cluny’s other rider supplied. Sam Soames was the ol
dest of the three, an overweight, paunchy little man with a double chin. “But he ain’t exactly crazy, and for an old-timer, he’s got one helluva fast draw.”

  “So you know these boys,” Boormann stated.

  “Sure do,” Cluny mumbled. “You say they’re helping these nesters?”

  “For some damn reason I can’t work out. The settlers wouldn’t have the money to pay them.”

  “Hombres like Preston and Jones ain’t the charity kind,” said Hooper.

  Cluny grinned. He was a heavy-framed man, built like a buffalo, with shaggy brown hair which he wore long.

  “When you wrote, Mr. Boormann,” Brett Cluny drawled, “you asked for help to clean the nesters out of your valley. No mention was made of Preston and Jones.”

  “I didn’t know about them when I wrote,” the rancher explained.

  “The point is,” Cluny said, “five hundred dollars ain’t enough. Now Preston and Jones are mixed up in this, our fee comes double.”

  “Hate like hell talkin’ about money at a time like this, Mr. Boormann,” smirked Soames.

  “You already have five hundred,” Linc Boormann informed them furiously. Then he bit off what he was going to say when he saw their stony faces. “Okay,” he said, “you get another five hundred when the valley’s clear and those two gunhawks are hanged.”

  “Your word’s good enough for us, Mr. Boormann.” Cluny looked around. “Right, boys?”

  But Hooper was frowning. “Did you say you want them hanged?”

  Boormann nodded. “One of them for sure—Shane Preston. I want him hanged lawful on the town gallows. He’s a murderer.”

  “But—hell!” Ed Hooper exclaimed. “How do we fix that? We don’t ride for any damn town law!”

  “For that extra five hundred bucks, you’ll play the game my way,” the rancher informed them. “After the hanging, you can take my Circle B crew with you and drive out the nesters. But first, I want Preston on those gallows.”

  The three hired guns exchanged glances as Boormann called out to the man wearing a tin star. They stood very still when Sheriff Len Crawford came towards them.

  “Boys—meet Sheriff Crawford. My very good friend. Right, Len?”

  “For sure,” Crawford nodded energetically. He avoided Cluny’s bleak eyes.

  “Sheriff,” Linc Boormann took out his cigar case, “what’s your opinion of what happened in the saloon?”

  Crawford shifted uneasily. He saw that his wife Susan was watching him, a mocking smile on her full lips.

  “Well—er—your son was shot down—”

  “In cold blood?” prompted Boormann. “A foolish lad under the influence of liquor was goaded into a draw by a professional killer. That it?”

  The sheriff looked at the clay at his feet. “Yeah, Mr. Boormann. I guess that’s the way it happened.”

  Crawford glanced aside at his wife, but Susan had turned her back on him. A breath of wind rustled through the trees around the graveyard.

  “Well, Sheriff,” said Linc Boormann briskly, “if those are the facts, then Shane Preston should be behind bars awaiting trial and a hanging.”

  Len Crawford nodded. “That’s right.”

  “But he’s alive and free,” the rancher accused.

  “But hell, Mr. Boormann!” Sheriff Crawford spluttered his protest. “I couldn’t bring in a hombre like Shane Preston on my own! I mean, he’s got that sidekick of his, as mean as himself—”

  “Precisely,” Linc Boormann nodded. “That’s why I’ve arranged some deputies for you, men who believe in law and order, and are ready to be sworn in. In fact, these deputies will fetch in Shane Preston for you, and all you have to do is get the cell ready for him, arrange a quick trial and right fancy hangin’. Like sundown tomorrow. We’ll hang Preston from the town gallows for all to see.”

  Crawford gaped at him.

  “And don’t worry about the jury,” Boormann assured him. “I’ll arrange twelve good men and true.”

  “Who—who are my deputies?” demanded the sheriff.

  “You’re looking at them right now,” Boormann smiled. Len Crawford saw a sour grin form over the beefy man’s face.

  “Name’s Cluny,” the gunslick introduced himself. “And these are my pards, Sam Soames and Ed Hooper.”

  “Your deputies,” Boormann told him. “Three men dedicated to law and order!”

  “Nice to know you, gentlemen,” Crawford said nervously.

  Boormann clapped the sheriff on the back. “We’ll take these men down to your office, swear them in, and get them on the trail. What do you say?”

  “Sounds like a good idea,” muttered Crawford.

  “How about Jonah Jones?” Cluny growled. “Is he gonna be tried and hanged, too?”

  Boormann smiled at the lawman. “Oh, I figure we’ll find something to charge him with, don’t you think, Sheriff? I mean, we never did find the man who murdered old Jake Rennick a couple of weeks back.”

  The mourners were moving away now, men and women heading back to the line of rigs waiting outside the gate. The preacher was talking to Anton Verrier at the graveside. “We’ll head back to the law office,” Boormann said.

  The bunch moved towards the gate, and behind them, old Seth Garlon, the town’s official gravedigger, started shoveling the clay over the coffin.

  Sheriff Len Crawford surveyed the three hard-faced men who were lined up in front of his desk. Cluny had his cigarette drooping insolently from the corner of his mouth while the other two faces were adorned with mocking grins.

  “Raise your right hands,” Crawford said, attempting to sound official.

  Cluny nudged his pards and three hands wavered upwards. Leaning on the side wall, Boormann had his arms folded.

  Crawford picked up a piece of paper on which the oath had been printed. His hands trembled.

  “Hurry on, Sheriff,” Sam Soames prompted him. “We want a drink before we ride into the valley.”

  The sheriff started to administer the oath and when it was all over, Cluny dragged on his cigarette. The blocky gunslick grinned at his pards.

  “Well, boys, they say there’s a first time for everythin’!”

  “Let’s get that drink,” Hooper growled.

  “First of all, a question.” Cluny ignored the sheriff and addressed Linc Boormann. “Where do we find this pair of gunslicks?”

  “In the valley.”

  “It’s one helluva big valley,” Brett Cluny reminded him. “We’ve seen a map.”

  “If they’re helping the nesters, they’ll be shacking up with one of them. Any case, most of the nesters will know where they are, so I reckon if you call on a coupla cabins you’ll persuade someone to spill it out. The word’ll soon spread that you’re here, and that’ll sure speed some of ’em on their way.”

  “Let’s move,” Cluny grunted. “First that drink, then we bring in Shane Preston and Jonah Jones. And know something? I’m kinda looking forward to this lawman’s chore!”

  The three hired guns tramped outside.

  “Good morning, ma’am,” Cluny flipped the brim of his Stetson in a mock salute.

  Crawford heard his wife’s sharp retort on the boardwalk outside, then Cluny’s laugh. He stood at the window watching the trio saunter across Main Street towards the Last Deuce. Ed Hooper was laughing loudly as he slid his six-shooter from its holster. He took aim at the weathercock on the church roof and squeezed the trigger. The hand-painted rooster whipped around like a gale was blowing it. The three new deputies cheered and stalked into the saloon.

  “Not exactly my idea of three law-enforcing deputies,” Crawford remarked dryly.

  “Maybe not,” Boormann snapped. “But I picked them.” The rancher paused at the door and surveyed the badge-toter.

  “By the way, Len,” he said. “Next time you ride out remind me about increasing your bonus. So long—Sheriff.”

  Len Crawford slumped into his chair. Presently, the door opened again. The lawman didn’t even bother to look u
p. He could smell the perfume his wife wore.

  “I know what you’re going to say,” Crawford said. “Save it till later.”

  “Till after the hanging?” Susan mocked him. “Real interesting situation, isn’t it, Len? Shane Preston’s going to bring in any of the Circle B riders who break the law, and these three new deputies are planning to bring in Shane. Just who’re you goin’ to lock up?”

  “You know damn well who I have to lock up!” her husband snarled. “I’ve no choice. Boormann put me here, Boormann gives me a bonus over and above the wage the town hands out, and besides—I want to go on livin’.”

  “You call this living?” Susan demanded. “I’ll leave you to sweep up and get those cells ready.”

  The lawman got up and placed a hand on her arm. She said, coldly, “Please don’t touch me, Len.” She shook off his hand and went out. He listened to her footsteps along the boardwalk. His face showed how he felt. Suddenly, a gun blast echoed out from the saloon, then a woman’s scream. Reluctantly, Crawford walked out into the brilliant light of early day.

  The sun gleamed on his badge as he headed across the dusty street and mounted the opposite boardwalk. There was another scream from the Last Deuce, followed by the splintering crash of breaking furniture. The batwings flashed wide and Bartram, a bearded trapper, lumbered out. Spotting the lawman, he hollered:

  “You’re needed, Sheriff!”

  “Who’s hell-raisin’?” asked Crawford crisply.

  “Three hardcases,” Bartram spilled out. “Makin’ one helluva ruckus! One of them winged the bartender because he didn’t like the liquor. The others are hazing the saloon girls!”

  The sheriff’s hand was resting on his gun.

  “Funny thing is,” the trapper screwed up his face, “they kept braggin’ they was deputies, sworn in by you. That can’t be true, can it, Sheriff?”

  Crawford heard another gun blast but this time his hand drifted away from his gun rig.

  “Go on home, Bartram,” he advised.

  “But them hardcases—”

  “Just blowin’ off steam,” said the sheriff, and forced a smile.