by Cole Shelton
The Home of Great Western Fiction!
An innocent man was going to hang at sundown, for a murder he didn’t commit. But not if Shane Preston and Jonah Jones could help it!
Who could have possibly wanted to kill Jacob King? The rancher was universally admired, and had done great work for the town of Destiny Creek and its people. So he hated him enough to put three bullets in his back?
The town had made up its mind to Luke Wainwright’s guilt. The trial was a sham, and the hanging was set for just twenty-four hours’ time.
There wasn’t much Jonah could do to help – he was in a sick-bed, recovering from a gunshot wound. So everything hinged on Shane being able to expose the guilty party in time to prevent the hanging.
Then the unthinkable happened.
Shane himself got shot – twice.
And all of a sudden, Luke Wainwright was facing the hangman’s noose alone.
SHANE AND JONAH 6: HANG THE MAN HIGH
By Cole Shelton
First Published by The Cleveland Publishing Pty Ltd
Copyright © Piccadilly Publishing
First Digital Edition: August 2020
Names, characters and incidents in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information or storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law.
This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book
Series Editor: Ben Bridges
Text © Piccadilly Publishing
Published by Arrangement with The Cleveland Publishing Pty Ltd.
One – Showdown at Destiny Creek
“I reckon this is it, Jonah,” said Shane Preston quietly to his bearded companion. “They’re riding in now.”
Standing by the dusty window of the saloon, the tall man could see the whole length of the town’s wide street. Right now, with the hot sun a burning ball in the hazy sky, Destiny Creek looked to be sleeping. Mostly the towners were inside their homes where they could enjoy the relative coolness. A few were hunched over bottles in the saloon. And the street itself was deserted except for the three riders coming in from the western trail.
Jonah Jones downed his third rye in a single gulp, waiting with his hand resting on his gun butt. The man at the window did not move. He stood very still, a towering figure dressed in black, his cold eyes fixed on the three riders they were expecting.
“You sure it’s them?” Jonah asked him softly.
“The big one in the lead is Hudson,” Shane murmured. “Rat-face McCabe’s just behind him, and the one they call Kid Tudor is trailing behind.”
The tall gunfighter stepped back and resumed his seat beside Jonah. This was the end of a long trail for Shane Preston and Jonah Jones. For eight days and nights they’d trekked over mountain and desert, riding to be here in this saloon ahead of Hudson’s outfit. Precisely one hour before, when the shadows were shortest, the two gunfighters had tramped into the Ace of Diamonds—and now they were ready for the showdown.
Gaunt hands shoved the batwings wide, and the gunslingers sat with their faces looking away at the faro wheel as the grumbling, loud-mouthed trio blundered into the saloon. Boots trudged through the sawdust. McCabe bellowed at the little bartender, and out of the corner of his eye, Shane glimpsed the Mexican behind the bar come scampering up to serve them.
“Whisky, Mex-boy!” the giant Hudson ordered, as he straddled a stool.
The patrons of the Ace of Diamonds paid the newcomers scant attention. Many travelers passed through Destiny Creek on their way to the southern cattle towns, and to the bleary-eyed towners, strangers were commonplace. The big man, Hudson, had his back to the gunfighters now, and he grabbed the first drink that Pedro Ramez poured. He swigged it down in one gulp while Tudor and McCabe waited for the Mexican to slide their glasses along the bar top.
“Hell!” Hudson spluttered loudly, waking up most of the slumbering day-customers at their tables. “What sorta damn rot-gut is this? We’re not payin’ for colored water!”
“Yeah, Mex-boy,” whined Kid Tudor. He was a lean streak of a man, still in his early twenties, yet going prematurely bald. “We want the best whisky you have. Pronto!”
“Certainly, señors,” Pedro Ramez stammered. “You may have a bottle of our very best sour-mash for two dollars.”
“Two bucks!” Hudson winked at his grinning companions and his hand snaked across the bar to grasp the Mexican’s bow tie. “You greasy little bandit!”
“Please, señor!” Ramez pleaded.
The three riders were so intent on hazing the barkeep that they didn’t even notice Shane Preston standing up and walking slowly towards the far end of the bar. The rangy gunfighter halted, his hand hovering close to his gun butt. Over at the window table, old Jonah rested his gun on his lap.
“Just give us the sour-mash for the same price we’re supposed to pay for this fire-water,” McCabe snapped.
A deep hush fell on the Ace of Diamonds as the three men waited.
“You heard him, Mex-boy!” Tudor said, his voice high in the silence.
Shane drew out his notched six-gun and thumbed back the hammer. The sharp metallic click wrenched three faces around, and the trio stared at the naked muzzle of Shane Preston’s gun.
“Seems like you make bullying your normal occupation,” the lean gunfighter remarked, his voice like ice. “It’s sorta like second nature to you!”
“Mister,” Hudson croaked, “you’re interferin’ in something that ain’t your business. Now put that damn hardware away where it belongs—we ain’t gonna harm the Mex-boy none!”
“Who the hell are you, anyhow?” Kid Tudor muttered resentfully.
“Like I said,” Shane snapped, the notched six-gun steady in his fist. “Bullying comes natural to the likes of you three hard cases. What did you plan to do to the bartender—kill him like you killed Sam Freeman?”
The three strangers froze. Hudson fixed his bleak eyes directly on the gunfighter and his face went grim. Behind the big ranny, Tudor and McCabe stood with their eyes bugging.
“Who sent you, mister?” Hudson snarled.
“Stuart Freeman,” stated Shane. “I reckon you’ll remember him, Hudson. He’s the father of the boy you murdered back in Santiago Creek.”
“And what’s it to you?” Hudson growled.
“Let’s just say we’ve been hired to bring justice to Sam’s killers,” Shane said coldly.
“We?” Kid Tudor whispered in the tense silence.
Jonah Jones stood up, and his chair scraped on the wooden floor. The trio swung around and gaped at the stocky individual with the snowy beard and the leveled six-gun.
“The names, gentlemen,” Shane said, “are Preston and Jones. And correct me if I’m wrong, but you’ll be Hudson, McCabe and Tudor, three no-account hell-raisers who passed through Santiago Creek just over a week ago, headed south for Chisum. You planned to stop here for a night or so, then ride west through the pass—”
“You see,” Jonah smiled through his whiskers, “we always check things out before taking three polecats like you. And it wasn’t over difficult since you all did a lot of braggin’ back in Santiago Creek.”
“Preston and Jones, huh!” A mirthless smirk had formed on Hudson’s fleshy lips. “Well, gents, I reckon most folks have heard of you two! Quite a reputation you’ve built up for yourselves in this territory, so it seems—but this time, I reckon you’ve bitten off a mite more than you can chew.”
“Hudson!” McCabe wheezed fearfully. “F
or Pete’s sake, shut up! They’ve got the drop on us!”
Hudson forced a grin. “Ah, but Preston and Jones have a reputation to keep. Call it a code. They won’t gun us down without giving us a chance to slap leather. You see, McCabe, I’ve heard all about these two hombres.”
“So you’ve heard all about us, huh?” Shane Preston said in a monotone. “Then you’ll have heard how we always like to try to tell snakes like you just why they’re gonna die before we actually plug them!”
Hudson stared at him with narrowing eyes. No one moved in the Ace of Diamonds, and the bartender stood like a statue with his right hand clenching the neck of a bottle.
“You murdered Sam Freeman,” Shane accused them. “Blasted him to death because he resented you molestin’ his girl. Three of you against a cripple, a man with one leg—”
“He was only a half a man!” Hudson jeered. “And besides, the woman would have started liking our style if he hadn’t interfered.”
“But he was a cripple,” Shane Preston insisted. “The way we see things, you three must be vermin. And we’re being paid by Stuart Freeman to exterminate you. Now!”
Slowly and deliberately, Shane holstered his gun. To his right, old Jonah kept his eyes on the trio as he too shoved his six-gun back into its leather. Right behind Shane, a saloon-girl stifled a scream, but the tall gun hawk’s attention did not waver. For a long, terrible moment, death hovered in the stillness.
Suddenly, Hudson rasped a command to his men.
McCabe’s hand plunged for his gun butt, and beside him, Kid Tudor threw himself sideways as he dragged out his .45. Shane’s draw was a blur, a sudden, lightning drop of his hand, and he fired from the hip a split second before Tudor’s finger found the trigger. There was a deafening roar and the bullet carved a hole through the hard case’s neck. Kid Tudor spun back into his trail pards, spoiling McCabe’s aim and his slug winged wildly past Shane and burned into the wall. From the side, Jonah’s gun blazed furiously, and two slugs smashed into McCabe’s ribs. Backing towards the batwings, Hudson avoided the tumbling body of McCabe, and his gun belched as Jonah’s six-gun angled his way. Shane heard the old-timer grunt in pain, and then he leveled his own gun as Hudson blundered into the batwings. Two guns thundered as one. Shane felt the searing burn of a bullet inches from his left ear, and as he stood motionless, he saw Hudson fold over his smoking gun. The hard case staggered forward and collapsed into the bloodied sawdust. There was a small, neat hole right in the middle of his forehead.
Shane stepped over McCabe’s sprawled body, kicking aside a chair as he made for Jonah. The oldster was spread-eagled on the floor in a dark pool of blood. All over the saloon, men were scrambling his way, and they stood around in a half-circle as Shane stooped down beside his sidekick.
Gently, Shane Preston turned him face-up, and Jonah groaned deeply as he was moved. Shane’s eyes went to the rip in the shoulder of his trail pard’s shirt and the wet smudge surrounding the tear. Jonah was muttering cuss-words as Shane unbuttoned his shirt and pulled the fabric away from the wound.
“Shane—it’s—it’s burnin’ like—like a damn fire!” muttered Jonah, as Shane dabbed away some of the blood.
“It’s just below your shoulder, Jonah,” the tall gunfighter said, examining the wound. “And in deep.”
A spasm of agony gripped Jonah Jones, and the older man gritted his teeth as he fought against the dark tide. Both the gun hawks had suffered bullet wounds before, and Shane had personally cut two slugs from his sidekick’s body since they’d been riding together, but this bullet was in a long way.
Shane Preston glanced up at the faces. “One of you fetch the doc—and fast.”
“Sorry, amigo,” the bartender shook his head. “Destiny Creek has no medico.”
“A town like this without a doctor!” Shane asked incredulously.
“We have a doctor’s office,” a bystander informed him. “But we’re waiting on a doc to arrive from Tuxedo. Could be a coupla weeks. You see, mister, they buried the town doctor a few weeks ago.”
“Died of over-drinking,” another supplied mournfully. “That always was Doc Lonegan’s trouble!”
Jonah shivered and screwed up his eyes against the pain. “Where’s the nearest medic then?” Shane demanded.
“Broken Bow,” the bartender said. “But it’s a day’s ride, and this hombre’s in no condition to ride that far—or wait that long.”
“I’ll—I’ll make it—Shane ...” Jonah croaked. “Just sit me—on—Tessie—and I’ll ride ...”
Shane bent over his friend. “Jonah, the slug’s in deep and if you have to wait a whole day, you’ll get lead poisoning for sure. Besides, you’re in no condition to ride that far.”
“Then ...” Jonah breathed, his eyes wide now. “Then—you cut it—out, Shane.”
Shane’s lips tightened as he surveyed the wound. There weren’t many times that he experienced fear, but he felt sweat breaking out on his forehead. He knew that the slug was in too far for him to dig out.
“Mind you,” a curly-haired saloon customer said, “there’s always Miss Wainwright.”
“Who?” Shane looked up sharply.
“Kathleen Wainwright,” the man elaborated. “She lives out of town on the western trail. She’s a kinda nurse. She delivered Mrs. Vine’s baby and she used to help Doc Lonegan when he needed her. Even filled in for him a coupla times when he was drunk.”
“She’s not a medic, though,” another saloon patron warned him. “Way I see it, she’s okay for delivering babies and nursin’ folks, but as for takin’ out a bullet like this ... I dunno.”
“I need a buckboard,” Shane stated, taking out folded money bills.
“Jim Olsen has one for hire, mister,” the curly-haired man said.
Shane put money in his hand. “Tell him I want it out front in five minutes,” he grunted.
“You’re—you’re takin’ him to Miss Wainwright?” the town miller asked, eyebrows raised.
“A nurse is better than nothing,” Shane said.
Jonah looked alarmed, in spite of his pain.
“Heck, Shane!” he lamented. “You—you ain’t gonna let a pesky female use a knife—on me?”
“She’s our last hope, Jonah.”
Jonah groaned again, and the next moment the batwings were eased tentatively apart. A lanky individual with a drooping moustache came into the saloon, and when Shane stood up, he saw a tin star pinned to the man’s shirt.
“Took Harper a damn long time to get here,” a miner remarked quietly.
Sheriff Charles Harper took in the scene with coldly appraising eyes. He stalked over to Hudson’s body, stooped down to give it a cursory examination, and then afforded the other two bodies a swift glance. He faced the crowd around Jonah’s sprawled figure.
“You’ll be wanting to know what happened, Sheriff,” Shane broke the silence. “I’m Shane Preston.”
Harper looked Shane over. He took in his gaunt, rugged face, the broad strength of his shoulders and his somber black garb. Then his gaze rested on the gun which nestled in Shane’s holster. The sheriff’s eyes narrowed, and there was a hint of uneasiness on his face as he looked at Shane’s six-gun and the way it was slung low.
“Reckon I’ve heard about you,” Sheriff Harper ventured, shrugging off his uncertainty and giving a laugh that was almost a sneer. “Shane Preston, gunfighter! Black clothes, a notched gun! Well, as law officer of this town, I’ll put it to you straight, Preston. You’re not welcome in Destiny Creek.”
Shane wasn’t perturbed by this announcement. There weren’t many lawmen in the territory who spread out a welcome mat when he rode into their town. In fact, his arrival was usually the signal for the badge-toter to issue a terse warning to keep on riding.
“I’ll be leaving in a coupla minutes, Sheriff,” Shane said wryly. “Not because I’m gettin’ a sudden respect for your badge, but because my pard needs medical attention. Meantime, you can ask these hombres here what happened.”
Harper nodded at the bodies and sneered.
“These three hombres drew first, huh?” he asked sarcastically.
“Ask the folks who were here,” snapped Shane.
Harper placed his thin hands on his hips. “Well?”
“He’s tellin’ the truth, Sheriff,” a stumpy miner named Anderson spoke up.
Ignoring the lawman, Shane bent down and commenced to plug Jonah’s wound with his bandanna. He could hear the saloon patrons all backing Anderson’s statement, and finally Sheriff Harper stomped over and stood close.
“Seems you’re in the clear, Preston,” Harper told him. “And seeing the men you killed ain’t towners and you’re movin’ out never to return, then I’ll consider the matter closed.”
“Mister.” The curly-haired man nudged Shane. “The buckboard’s outside.”
“Help me carry him out,” Shane told the men.
Willing hands picked up the old-timer and Sheriff Harper stood back, thumbs stuck indifferently in his vest. The townsmen carried Jonah out and placed him flat on the tray of the buckboard. Then they stepped back.
“Take the western trail,” a cowpoke advised Shane as he climbed up into the rig. “Head through Moose Valley and keep moving west past the big butte. The trail climbs over a ridge and you’ll see Nurse Wainwright’s place.”
Shane nodded and glanced back. A saloon-girl was covering Jonah with a blanket. “I’ll keep the buckboard moving as steady as I can,” he told his trail pard.
Old Jonah Jones didn’t reply. He lay on the wooden floor of the buckboard, his eyes shut tight. Shane muttered a word of thanks to those towners who’d helped him, then flicked the reins over the two horses. The gunfighters’ palomino and the old mare had been hitched to the rear of the rig. They ran, tugging at their lead-reins as the buckboard rolled off down the street. Shane glanced back over his shoulder. The towners stood in a bunch around Sheriff Harper, and heaped in front of them were the three bloodied bodies of the men Shane and Jonah had come to kill.
The trail climbed out of Destiny Creek and meandered across a stretch of flowering sage. The sun was hot and shadows short as the buckboard swayed towards the towering butte. Here, the pumice walls rose sheer, blocking out the glare, and it grew cooler as Shane guided the horses through the twisting pass. The trail finally spilled out into a wide valley. Watered by a creek, this valley was covered by patches of coarse grass and scattered trees. Shane took the rutted trail that plunged from the pass and wound across the valley like a ribbon. He stopped to check on his sidekick. Jonah had lapsed into unconsciousness. The shadows were starting to lengthen by the time Shane came to the head of the valley. Right ahead, with a pine tree out front, was a sprawling homestead. Shane swung the rig along the side trail to the house. As the buckboard came to a halt with the dust billowing from its wheels, the door opened. A man about Shane’s age tramped outside, a rifle in his hand. He was followed by a young woman with long honey-colored hair that reached almost down to her slim waist.