by Cole Shelton
Verrier shrugged. “Decided to print the truth, Sheriff.”
Crawford groaned, “You’re done for now, Verrier.”
Outside, it seemed as if everyone was reading a copy of the ‘Clarion’. Never before had Anton Verrier seen such a response to a printing! The bank manager was standing right in the middle of the street, his nose buried deep in the editorial. Beside him, two tinhorns were guffawing at the article on the trio’s nude ride. Groups of towners had formed on the boardwalks, all eagerly discussing the daring seventy-third issue of the Lodestone paper. Suddenly Lodestone looked to be the most studious, well-read town in the West!
Crawford swept past Anton Verrier and paced outside, leaving the editor to sell his last few copies to the line of eager buyers. He glimpsed the undertaker reading a copy out front of his parlor, and the dumpy man in the pin-striped suit was smiling grimly.
“Reckon I’ll soon be in big business, Sheriff,” the mortician said cheerfully.
Len Crawford ignored him, heading back to his office.
“Figured you’d be here,” he greeted his wife, who was perched on his desk with a copy of the paper on her lap.
“I’ll say one thing for Anton,” she said. “He’s got what you men would call guts.”
Crawford sat behind his desk. “He’s a loco fool.”
“For standing up for the truth?”
“What in hell’s the use of standing up for the truth if it makes you dead?” Crawford demanded.
“And what’s your next move?” There was a hint of mockery in Susan Crawford’s tone. “A fast ride out to the Circle B to let Mr. Boormann know someone’s dared to defy him?”
He said nothing.
Susan slid off the desk.
“Well,” she flashed. “What are you waiting for, Len? What’s keeping you? Someone’s told a nasty story about Mr. Boormann and he needs to be informed!”
Susan stormed out of his office.
Crawford stared at the open door. He heard the distant thunder of many hooves, but didn’t bother to even glance up the side alley. Instead, he looked down at his desk top.
His right hand strayed to the front of his shirt and his fingers brushed the hardness of tin. He unpinned the badge and let it drop onto the desk. Right here, out of the sun, the tin star wasn’t gleaming. It was dull, just a piece of tin.
“About time,” Shane said good-naturedly to his whiskery pard. “You stayed out all night!”
Jonah slid from the saddle and strode past the line of riders. They were all homesteaders, small farmers, and their mounts were shaggy and unkempt. But they’d made it. They’d ridden in.
“There could be more men on the way,” Evan O’Reilly told Shane. “But some of the nesters wanted to get their womenfolk and kids to safety first.”
“Jonah’s told you the scheme,” Shane held up the newspaper. “This will bring Boormann and his hardcases to town, right to this office. He’ll come to blast Verrier, but instead, he’ll find us.”
“Right here?” Beaver Cummings asked. He was a small Texan with a tiny scar on his face. Shane glanced up at that face for a brief moment, then dismissed it from his mind.
“Some on the opposite roof,” Shane said. “A couple in the office with me, a few with Jonah in the alley just down the street, maybe one behind the water trough. All of us will be hidden and ready and waiting.”
“How about the towners?” O’Reilly growled. “When Boormann rides in, won’t they tell him we’re staked out?”
“I don’t think so,” Shane predicted. “The way I see this town, it’s wavering. The story about Boormann’s hired guns helped that along.”
“Heck, Shane,” a lean settler said, looking intently at him. “Talking about those galoots, I’ve an apology to make.”
“What do you mean?”
“Luke told me last night,” Jonah broke in to save Luke Bromley from his embarrassment. “He was the one who told Cluny and his crew where we were staying.”
“They swooped on my cabin,” Bromley explained apologetically. “One of them held a gun at my daughter’s head—she’s only seven years old—and threatened to blow a hole in her if I didn’t talk. I had no choice, Shane.”
There was no condemnatory frown on Shane’s face.
“As it turned out, Luke,” the gunfighter flashed a smile. “You did the right thing. Cluny found us, and you all know what happened then.”
Shane ran his eyes along the row of nesters. They weren’t exactly gunhawks and there was nothing professional about the sloppy way some of them wore their guns. And yet Shane was impressed by their very presence. These were pioneer stock, rough-and-ready maybe, but the very salt of the earth. And they were here fighting for a cause, their homes, their families, their very right to life itself.
“In just a moment we’ll spread out,” Shane said, walking slowly along the row. “But first, remember this. No one fires a shot unless I give the word. And if it does come to shooting and all hell breaks loose, shoot to kill. Any questions?” There were none.
“Jonah,” Shane directed, “pick out four nesters and stake out in the alley.”
The oldster pointed to the first four in the line, and these led their horses away.
“Evan O’Reilly,” Shane said, nodding to the roof of the dance hall across the street. “Take a couple and get up there.”
Shane selected two settlers to crouch behind the water trough where the street forked, and he led the remaining three men into the printing office. Bromley relished the opportunity of fighting alongside Shane, and stood just inside the door with his eyes glued on the street. The gunfighter hadn’t met the other two nesters before. One introduced himself as Sawyer. Older than the rest, he was a gray-haired, stubble-faced man with two guns resting in his twin holsters. Shane had the distinct feeling that Sawyer hadn’t always been a nester, and although he wasn’t going to ask any leading questions, the gunfighter hoped that his hunch about his past was right. The third settler was Cain Gladis, a morose, and most likely scared individual. Then Verrier tramped inside.
“Well,” the editor grinned, “one thing’s for sure, Shane. If I live through this and remain publisher of the ‘Clarion’, I’ll have no trouble selling papers in the future. Folks will become regular readers to find out just what I’ll be printing next!”
Shane grinned at him.
“You have a gun?”
Verrier shook his head. “I’m a man of letters, not a gunslinger.”
“Know something, Anton? After this is over, I reckon you’ll look back and realize that it took the pen and the sword to clean up the valley.”
Sawyer took out one of his guns and thrust it into Anton Verrier’s hand.
“Here, Mr. Editor,” Sawyer grunted. “Have a lend of one of mine.”
Verrier stared at the weapon and looked helplessly at Shane.
“You’d better show me how to use it,” the editor said.
Lashing his bay gelding, the rider headed swiftly down the grassy slope, cutting his way through the milling steers and ignoring the yells of cowpokes. Sweat stood out in streaks of foam across his horse’s flanks, and now the gelding was starting to stumble, close to the end of the trail. Spurs raked tired flesh. An urgent voice cursed the weary animal.
At length, however, the rider emerged from the stirrup-high grass and headed straight for the long homestead fence. A group of cowpokes converged on him, but the horseman ignored them and finally reined in beside the fence. The bunch came at him, pulled in their horses, and sat saddle while he climbed down.
“This is a long way from the Last Deuce, Mahoney,” Matt Klaus remarked, kicking his horse forward out of the bunch.
“I want to see Mr. Boormann,” Mahoney said huskily.
“He’s over at the corrals.” Klaus cocked a finger. “Follow me.”
The saloonkeeper found it hard to keep up with the ramrod’s horse as he ran behind him like a dog at heel. Klaus rode around the western side of the ranch house, leading the w
ay to where Boormann was leaning on a corral fence watching a colt being broken in by one of his rough-riders.
Spotting Boormann, Mahoney broke into a run.
The rancher turned around sharply as Mahoney came up, calling, “Mr. Boormann!”
Boormann didn’t give him a second glance.
“Listen, Mahoney,” the rancher snapped irritably, “when I want to order extra wines, I’ll send one of my men into the Last Deuce to select them. Okay? Right now, I’m busy—”
“But, Mr. Boormann,” the saloonkeeper protested, “I’m not here to sell you anything.”
“Watch him, Johnny!” Klaus warned the horse breaker as he circled the wary colt.
“I—I rode out here special to bring you this,” Mahoney told Boormann, pulling the folded newspaper from his shirt.
“Good,” Boormann mumbled his disinterest. “Put it on the table in the parlor. And get Emily to make you coffee for your trouble.”
“For pity’s sake, read it!” Mahoney blurted out desperately. “Most everyone in Lodestone has!”
Boormann frowned as he swiveled around once more and Mahoney thrust the paper into his hand.
“It’s the ‘Clarion’, Mr. Boormann. Special issue put out by Verrier. He was selling them in the Last Deuce, and the moment I read the headline, I grabbed one, sneaked out to the stable and rode right on here. I—er—figured you’d appreciate what I’ve done.”
Boormann’s bloodshot eyes were glued to the headline.
The horse breaker was calling out to him, but right now the rancher wasn’t listening. He began to read the editorial, rage mounting within him as he scanned the hard-hitting words.
There was a terrible, dark expression on his face as he turned to Mahoney.
“If this is some sick joke—”
“It’s no joke, Mr. Boormann,” the man asserted. “This paper’s on sale right now. In fact, most everyone’s already read it. There’s more, too. Turn over to page three. Verrier’s made fun of those friends of yours who suffered at the hands of Shane Preston and Jonah Jones.”
But Boormann didn’t turn over the page. He went on staring at the editorial, his face reddening with fury. Verrier’s defiance baffled him, but there it was, in print! An oath escaped his lips, then he rounded on Mahoney.
“How are folks taking this—this fool piece of writing?” Boormann demanded hotly.
Mahoney swallowed. “Some of them are laughing over the article on page three, but most of them are saying the same thing. Anton Verrier’s signed his death warrant.”
“Well,” Boormann whispered, “Verrier’s done just that! Matt!”
“Yes, Mr. Boormann?” Matt Klaus urged his horse forward.
“Get the boys together—all the boys, including Cluny’s crew,” the Circle B owner commanded. “We’re taking a ride to Lodestone.”
“We need all the boys?” the ramrod queried.
“All the boys,” Boormann’s anger was a simmering volcano. “Right down to the range-riders. All!”
“Just to kill Anton Verrier?”
“To kill him and to round up those two tinhorn gunslingers who’re backing the nesters.” Boormann threw away his chewed cigar. “And while we’re in town, we’ll burn down the ‘Clarion’—that’ll give the towners something to laugh over! On the way back through the valley, we’ll do that other chore, too.”
“The nesters?”
“This will be the big raid and the last!” Linc Boormann grated. “When this day’s finished, there won’t be a nester left alive nor a cabin left standing!”
“Sure, Mr. Boormann,” Klaus said. “I’ll round up the boys.”
“And tell them to bring as much hardware as they can tote,” the rancher said. He turned back to Mahoney. “I’m grateful to you for riding out here.”
Mahoney smiled, smugly. “Thank you, Mr. Boormann. Only too glad to help.”
Klaus was heading over to the bunkhouse, and Cluny was ambling slowly towards the corral. The word was spreading fast as the ramrod barked out orders, and cowpokes ran hurriedly to saddle up their horses.
“I might take you up on that offer of coffee in the ranch house,” the saloonkeeper said.
Boormann’s eyes bored into him.
“Coffee? Hell, this ain’t the time for coffee! You pack a gun, don’t you?”
Mahoney blanched. “Yes, but—”
“Then you ride with us,” Boormann stated. It wasn’t a question or even a request, but a straight-out order. “You rode out all this way to show me the paper, so you can ride all the way back again with us.”
“My horse is in bad shape—”
“Get another.” Boormann turned away. The Circle B was a hive of activity as horses were led from the home corrals, guns were piled on the front porch of the ranch house, and Klaus strutted around handing out orders. A bunch of range-riders, summoned hastily from the line-camps, came thundering in. Ridge Martin carried boxes of cartridges from inside the house and the men gathered around to receive their ammunition. More riders veered past the stables and, watching from the corral, Linc Boormann checked his own guns. This was the hour he’d been preparing for. Once and for all, the nester problem would be solved, and Wolf Valley would again become open range he could use himself. Perhaps more important than all this, the town and maybe even the territory would learn that Linc Boormann wasn’t the kind of man to be trifled with. Not now—not ever.
Boormann strode to his own horse.
He mounted up and rode to where some of his men were sitting saddle in the yard. Most of them had been hand-picked because they possessed certain other skills apart from cow-punching, and Boormann’s foresight was reflected in the half dozen or so low-slung gun rigs. There were others, of course, ordinary cowhands who looked rather bewildered right now as the Circle B prepared for its bloody chore. Like Mahoney, these men would soon learn what it meant to throw in one’s lot with a man like Linc Boormann.
Even the latecomers were saddled up now. All of twenty riders awaited Boormann’s order to move on out. Cluny’s outfit headed over to where the rancher was checking his six-shooter. A hush fell over the Circle B riders as Boormann surveyed them with cold, angry eyes.
“Know something?” the rancher asked. “There are certain folks who’ve lived too long. I reckon we ought to take care of them!”
He wheeled his horse around and the bunch streamed after him. They hit the town trail, riding fast.
Ten – Gunfight on Main Street
“Three o’clock,” Sawyer consulted the gold watch he wore in his vest. “Still no sign of ’em.”
“Don’t worry,” Shane remarked wryly. “They’ll be here soon enough.”
The gunfighter glanced out of the front office door.
The street was almost deserted on this warm, drowsy afternoon. Folks could be inside resting, but Shane doubted that. The town was watching, waiting for the outcome of the inevitable battle. A discarded copy of the ‘Clarion’ lay right in the center of the street, and a slight breeze stirred the pages. Shane looked up at the roof of the dance hall. The place of entertainment itself was shrouded in silence, the door locked, but up on the roof, shadows showed where men were perched like eagles.
Suddenly one of those shadows stood bolt upright.
Shane gripped his gun as Evan O’Reilly cupped his mouth with his hands.
“Big bunch!” the nester called out. “Riding in from the valley! One helluva big bunch!”
Cain Gladis trembled, and muttered a short prayer. Sawyer’s reaction was different. With a flourish, he whipped out his gun and stooped low. The editor gulped deeply and took up his position behind the press, while Bromley checked the cartridge supply in his belt. They all heard the distant drumbeat. Gladis whitened and Shane saw sweat drops form on his forehead.
The drumming of hooves swelled. The shadows crouched lower on the roof, and glancing down-street, Shane saw old Jonah ushering his brigade farther back into the alley. The tall gunfighter stepped back into the
office and closed the door. They waited as the drumming rose to thunder, and a thin little towner who’d originally figured on watching the showdown from across the street suddenly thought better of it.
He scampered away like a rabbit as the riders surged past the saloon. Shane opened the door to a narrow chink. The thunder had died as the bunch slowed to a walk.
The riders reached the fork in the street, and Shane’s eyes made out the frog-like figure of the rancher at their head. He’d never met Linc Boormann, but the fat pot-belly that overlapped his belt had been described to him a dozen times. Beside Boormann was Cluny, fully clothed and gunned-up now, and next to him Ed Hooper sat with a rifle resting over his saddlehorn. Hooper’s wrist was heavily bandaged. Shane’s eyes surveyed the rest of them. Some he’d met fleetingly at the O’Reilly cabin, others he’d never set eyes on before. Boormann urged his horse forward, riding until his gelding’s hooves trampled on the fluttering copy of the ‘Clarion’ in the center of the street. The rancher ran his eyes over the silent office of the town newspaper.
“Verrier!” Boormann’s loud summons rang out over the hushed town. “Verrier! This is Boormann here! You had the nerve to write that fool article—now let’s see if you’ve the guts to come outside and face me!”
“Face me and nineteen or so others!” Shane added wryly and Sawyer grinned.
“Can you hear me, Verrier?” the rancher yelled out.
“Shane!” It was Anton Verrier. “I want to talk to him!”
“Stay there, you crazy loon!” the gunfighter snapped.
“Please don’t try to stop me,” Verrier pleaded.
“All right,” Shane relented. “Talk to him—but do it from right here.”
Verrier stumbled out from behind the printing press.
He cupped his lips with his hands. “I can hear you, Boormann!”
Linc Boormann grinned. He dropped a hand to his six-shooter and rested it on the butt.
“Figured you’d have learned your lesson after what happened to your wife, Verrier,” Boormann called out. “What made you do such a fool thing like writing that editorial?”