Shane and Jonah 3

by Cole Shelton

  Shane flicked his spent cigarette into the fire.

  “My guess is he’ll wait, try to make us sweat some.”

  And it was right then that they heard the distinct clatter of hooves outside.

  Jonah jumped clean off his chair in his haste to grab his Winchester.

  Shane whipped out his gun. “Marcia—the lamp!”

  Swiftly, she turned down the lamp wick and the light guttered out. The blackness was broken only by the flickering of the fire.

  Shane moved to the window as the drumbeat of hooves came closer. He pulled back the curtain, and with Jonah breathing heavily beside him, the tall gunslinger peered out into the night. A wan moon shed a vague glow over the ridge, and Shane saw the faint sheen of the creek. The lone rider and his horse seemed blended as one as they crossed the water, throwing up dull foam. Shane palmed his gun and motioned Jonah to the door. The oldster scrambled there and waited. Shane flattened himself against the wall.

  Suddenly the thud of hooves died, and with Marcia whispering caution, Shane edged the curtain aside once more. The gunfighter stared at the rider who’d reined in just beyond the front porch.

  “Want me to open the door and blast him outa the saddle?” the bearded gunhawk whispered.

  Shane said, “Wait.”

  The next moment, the caller yelled:

  “Shane Preston!”

  “I know that voice. It’s Verrier, my editor friend.” Shane nodded to his pard. “Open the door and let him in.”

  Marcia relit the lamp and pallid light spilled outside as Jonah gingerly opened the door. The glow framed the hunched silhouette of Lodestone’s newspaperman as he sat saddle and waited for Shane to stride to him.

  “Took some time to find this place,” Verrier said, leaning forward in the saddle. “But a couple of nesters across the ridge were helpful.”

  “Come inside,” Shane invited him.

  The editor eased himself out of the saddle.

  “It’s a long ride from town,” Shane commented as Anton Verrier walked onto the porch.

  “And I sure know it!” Verrier grimaced. “Guess I’m in bad shape for riding, these days.”

  Shane introduced the editor to his partner and once inside, Verrier took the derby from his head. He stood by the stove, warming his hands.

  “Well, Verrier,” Shane said wryly, “you didn’t come all this way just to sample some of Marcia’s coffee, although you’re welcome to it.”

  Anton grinned thankfully as Marcia took the coffee pot from the stove-top and reached for the cups.

  “You’re right,” the editor said. “Actually, I rode out here to show you something I’ve written.”

  Verrier groped deeply into his coat pocket and extracted a folded piece of paper. He handed it to Shane who held it closer to the lamp.

  Shane took one glance at the headline of the article and turned to Marcia.

  “I reckon, Marcia,” the gunfighter drawled, “this visit merits a plate of your soda biscuits!”

  Verrier sat down, and three pairs of eyes focused on Shane Preston as he read out the headline.

  “‘BOORMANN’S KILLERS MUST BE STOPPED’.” Shane glanced sharply at Anton Verrier. “This article—it’s—how d’you call it?”

  “It’s my next editorial,” the newspaperman announced.

  “‘The time has come for plain speaking from the “Clarion”, and this newspaper will not shrink from its duty,’” Shane quoted. “Pretty strong stuff, Verrier.”

  “Read on,” the editor invited.

  “‘For some time now, the “Clarion” has been pleading for caution and wisdom in the conflict between cattleman and nester, but one faction seems determined to ignore that advice. Lincoln Boormann and his Circle B ranch have instituted a reign of terror against settlers whose only crime has been to stake out land in accordance with the law. Now Boormann has bought the services of three well-known gunfighters ...’”

  Shane looked up again. “This stuff’s red-hot, Verrier.”

  “Know something?” Anton Verrier murmured. “I’m a newspaperman and proud of my profession, and I believe in the sign that hangs outside my office.”

  “‘The paper that campaigns for truth and justice,’” Shane Preston recalled.

  “When you came into my office, Shane, I believed it just as much, but I was scared and you know why.”

  “Your wife?” Shane spooned sugar into his coffee.

  “Yes,” Verrier admitted.

  “And what made you forget your fears and write this editorial?” Shane asked bluntly.

  “I haven’t forgotten my fears,” Anton Verrier confessed. “I’m still scared as hell. In fact, I’m so damn scared that before I rode here tonight, I took my wife and kids out of town to stay with friends.”

  Verrier reached for one of the biscuits.

  “The point is,” he continued, “something happened which made me so damn riled-up when I thought about it that I decided to write this article and to hell with the consequences!”

  “What happened?” Jonah was curious.

  “I was asked, no, not asked but told to print lies in the next issue of my paper,” Anton Verrier said indignantly. “I might have toned down articles to avoid trouble, but never have I printed outright lies, and that’s what Linc Boormann wanted me to do. He wanted me to prostitute my writing and printing talents!”

  Shane read the remainder of the article to himself. It was a chronicle of Boormann’s sins and a plea to decent folks to stand behind the nesters in their right to live in the valley of their choice.

  “And you rode all this way here to show me this?” Shane Preston handed him back the article.

  “Figured you’d like to see it,” Verrier said. “After all, you came here and started to help these settlers.”

  “When’s the issue going to press?” Shane wanted to know.

  “Due next week.”

  Shane was thoughtful for a moment. “Would it be possible to get out a special edition?”

  “I suppose so.”

  “How about tomorrow?”

  “Well,” Anton Verrier scratched his head, “I’ve this editorial together with a few social notes and the church notices. And of course, there’s the story of the naked riders!”

  “Word’s reached town?” Jonah grinned.

  “Sure has,” the editor assured him. “Story spread like a fire! Had lots of folks in fits of laughter, too. Mind you, it shocked certain of the ladies in the church and I understand one of them’s writing a ‘letter to the editor’ about you two men being the cause of three strangers behaving in a scandalous manner.”

  Shane raised his eyebrows. “I guess we deserve her remarks.”

  “Yes,” Verrier summed it up, “I reckon I’ve enough to print an issue tomorrow.”

  Jonah frowned. “But hell, Shane! The moment that paper reaches Boormann, he’ll come storming in with his men to wreck Verrier’s office and printing press!”

  “That’s what I was figuring,” Shane admitted. “It’ll also give us a good opportunity to trap all of Boormann’s crew together at one time. Jonah, I reckon it’s my turn to watch out for Marcia and yours to do a chore.”

  “This time of night?” Jonah moaned.

  “Call on every nester homestead where you see a light burning,” Shane said. “After hearing about that naked ride, they’ll know Linc Boormann’s men aren’t invincible, so I reckon they’ll be in the right mood to listen to a proposition. Tell them they can put an end to the Boormann terror by being at the ‘Clarion’ tomorrow.”

  “What time?” Jonah demanded.

  Shane turned to Anton Verrier. “When will the paper be printed?”

  “I’d say noon,” the editor said. “But it’ll take time for the issue to reach the Circle B.”

  “I figure Boormann will be reading it within a coupla hours,” the tall gunhawk told him. “So, Jonah, tell the nesters to be in town just after noon, earlier if possible.”

  Verrier gulped do
wn his coffee. “If I’ve a paper to print tomorrow, I’ll have to be getting back now.”

  “Just one thing,” Shane said, “don’t say a word to anyone about this. If it leaked out, Boormann and his outfit might just burn your place to the ground before we can get a crowd together.”

  The oldster screwed up his face. “Heck, what’ll happen if I can’t get the nesters to ride in?”

  “Then it’ll be just you and me against the Circle B outfit,” Shane shrugged.

  “Hell!” Jonah grimaced. He reached for his heavy coat, a relic of his army days, and shrugged into the gray garment. He grabbed his battered Stetson and pulled it down over his mop of white hair. Next he took hold of his long rifle.

  “And to think we ain’t gettin’ paid for this!” he complained.

  Shane slapped him on the back, and Jonah stepped outside with a last grumble.

  “Don’t worry about your printing office, Anton,” the gunfighter reassured him. “It’ll be ringed with guns.”

  “I hope so,” Verrier said fervently, “with all my heart.” The editor walked outside to his horse and mounted up. Shane watched him ride off, and a minute later Jonah came from the stable urging his reluctant, foul-tempered old mare into a lope.

  Shane closed the door.

  “Shane,” Marcia murmured, resuming her position on the hearth rug, “you know, this is the first time we’ve been alone. I mean, just the two of us.”

  The gunhawk came and stood by the fire. His frank eyes looked down at her.

  “Does it worry you?”

  She shook her head and stared into the flames. “One day, Shane, you’ll find that man you’re hunting.”

  “Yeah,” Shane nodded. “One day my gun will blast Scarface to hell.”

  “And what happens then?” she asked him.

  “I hang up my gun.”

  “And settle down?”

  “Maybe,” Shane shrugged. “The trouble is, once a man’s been a wanderer, he might find it hard to settle down.”

  “That’s unless he had someone to come home to,” Marcia Harding pointed out.

  Shane’s eyes met hers and held them. “I reckon that could make a difference.”

  There was a long pause. “More coffee?”

  “No, Marcia,” Shane said. “I figure I might as well turn in. I’ve a feeling some shut-eye might do me some good, ’specially as it looks like being a long day tomorrow.”

  “Sure.” He saw a look of loneliness on her face.

  He walked to the spare room where he and Jonah had been sleeping. He headed over to his bunk and shrugged out of his shirt. The moonlight was seeping through the thin hessian curtains and in the half-light, Shane pulled off his boots and unstrapped his gun rig. He tossed the rig onto the end of his bunk, found his tobacco pouch and eased his tired body down onto the bed. Propping a pillow against the wall, Shane sat there in the near-darkness.

  He listened to Marcia moving around in the parlor as he rolled his cigarette. Finally she went into her bedroom, and all was silence. Shane lit his cigarette and its tip glowed in the gloom, illuminating his rugged, tired face. He could hear the sounds of Marcia undressing now, the soft pad of her feet on the boards in the adjacent room. There was another lengthy silence and his cigarette burned low. He stubbed the cigarette on his bedside ashtray.

  Then he heard the soft tread of feet outside his door.

  “Shane,” Marcia whispered.

  The door moved slowly open and he saw her dark, nightgown-clad figure.

  “Anything wrong, Marcia?” he asked.

  “No, Shane—nothing’s wrong.”

  She came over to his bunk. She was wearing a long woolen gown that reached right down to her feet, and the garment clung to the soft curves of her body.

  She sat down beside him on the bunk, and by the faint light of the filtered moon, he saw the need mirrored in her melancholy eyes.

  “I was just thinking, that’s all,” she told him. “You lost your wife, I lost Slim. Now—now we’re two lonely people together.”

  Her trembling hand reached forward to rest on his shoulder.

  “Marcia,” he murmured, “I’ve told you how it is with me. Once this is over, I’ll be riding out.”

  “But until then you’re here,” Marcia Harding reminded him.

  Her fingers were moving along the flesh of his shoulder, then began to drift down over his chest. Shane waited a moment, then pulled her to him. Her mouth was hot under his and her breasts swelled warmly against his chest. Shane’s arms held her tightly and she sighed like a contented child.

  “Marcia,” he murmured, “you sure this is what you want?”

  “Shane, if this happened with anyone but you, I’d feel guilty. But I’m lonely. And I need you.”

  For a moment her fingers teased the back of his hand, and he was reminded of Sheriff Crawford’s wanton wife. But suddenly he forgot Susan Crawford. He dismissed everyone and everything from his mind because right then only Marcia seemed to matter. Her eyes were luminous as she began to unbutton the top of her nightgown.

  Nine – The Gathering Storm

  Ink-stained and grinning, Anton Verrier handed the first copy of the Lodestone paper to the waiting Preston.

  “Hot off the press,” Verrier stated.

  Shane Preston scanned the front page with its big black headline blazing boldly at him. The ink was still wet and it came off on his hand as he flipped over the four page edition, number seventy-three, of Verrier’s ‘Clarion’. This issue, he predicted, would be a best-seller. It had everything, from the front-page scathing attack on Boormann to a humorous account of the trio’s nude ride through the valley. The latter article was sandwiched between the advertisement for the church prayer meeting and social notes about the mayor’s wife.

  “What time is it?” the editor asked.

  “Close on noon.”

  “And still no sign of your pard and his nesters,” Anton Verrier remarked soberly. “I sure hope they’ll all be riding in.”

  Shane frowned. “I expected to see Jonah by now. When will the rest of the edition be ready?”

  “Less than an hour.”

  “I’ll help you.”

  It was a new experience for Shane Preston. He was unused to taking orders from any man, but he was a complete layman when it came to printing newspapers, and he did as he was told.

  “More ink,” Verrier called out.

  Shane complied with his request, passing one of the messy ink pots to the active printer. Every copy had to be printed separately, pressed firmly on the metallic original, and as each page was processed, Shane piled them onto the desk. The minutes fled, and still Jonah hadn’t appeared with the nesters. In fact, Shane hadn’t set eyes on his pard since the night before.

  Finally, at twenty-three minutes after twelve, the ‘Clarion’ was printed.

  “What now?” Shane asked.

  “Some go outside the office and folks buy them as they walk past,” the editor said. “Some get sold in the shops. I’ll mosey on out and distribute them.”

  “I’ll wait here for Jonah,” Shane grunted.

  Verrier piled fifty copies outside on the self-service table and walked farther down the street. He glanced over his shoulder, saw the barber stop at the table and take a copy. The hairdresser gaped at the headline and waddled away in a great hurry. Anton Verrier swallowed as he told himself that now the die had been cast. He walked into the general store.

  “Heck—haven’t you got your days wrong, Anton?” the storekeeper’s assistant, old Moses Moppet, exclaimed.

  “Special issue, Moses,” Verrier said. “Read one for yourself and sell as many as you can.”

  Moppet stared at the front page.

  “By all the saints!” the old-timer said hoarsely. “Have you gone loco, Anton Verrier?”

  The editor strode out of the store and hummed a tune to himself as he headed over to the Last Deuce. He thrust open the batwings and strode up to the bar counter.

  �
��Here you are, men,” he brandished two copies in the air. “The ‘Clarion’s’ for sale. Extra special issue—a dime a copy.”

  One cowpoke flipped him a coin and Verrier slid a paper along the bar counter to him. At first the reader said nothing. He merely fixed his incredulous eyes on the editorial and then gaped up at Verrier. In doing so, he held up the newspaper with the editorial facing the saloon patrons, and within seconds, Anton Verrier was doing a roaring trade. In fact, he told himself with glee, this issue would be a sellout.

  Coins were piling on the bar counter as eager hands snatched papers from him. Three men even raced in from the street to buy copies, and an excited line of men filed past him to secure the most controversial ‘Clarion’ ever printed in Lodestone. A couple of saloon patrons complimented him on his courage, but it was old Stovey Smith who summed up the general feeling.

  “I reckon, Anton,” he sniffed, “that you’ve just signed your own death warrant. Saying that cattlemen and nesters have to get on is one thing—blasting Linc Boormann, calling him a killer, well, that’s plain stupid!”

  The batwings parted and Sheriff Crawford strode in.

  “What’s going on?” the lawman demanded, sizing up the crowd around Verrier.

  “Ah, Sheriff!” Verrier called out. “Glad you’re here! Just in time to take home a special edition of the ‘Clarion’.”

  Crawford grunted his disinterest. “Another crazy article about me?”

  “No.” Anton Verrier shook his head. “This issue contains nothing about Lodestone’s ineffectual lawman!”

  “Now see here, Verrier!” Len Crawford snarled, and took a step forward.

  “Len,” Stovey Smith advised, “better take a look-see at what he’s selling.”

  “A dime, Sheriff,” Verrier reminded him, holding out his hand.

  Crawford dumped the coin into Verrier’s hand and grabbed a copy. Silence settled over the Last Deuce as the town’s law officer scanned the front page. An expression of horror formed on Sheriff Crawford’s face as he read the first column and his fingers began to shake.

  “What—what in the hell did you print this for?” Crawford blustered.