Shane and Jonah 6

by Cole Shelton

  “Whether you want help or not,” Shane said quietly, watching the men spilling out of the batwings, “you’re damn well gonna get some!”

  “Huh?”

  “In my book, defending my client means making sure there’s not an early hanging,” Shane said, placing a hand on the butt of his six-gun.

  Harper joined him at the window, and suddenly his tone changed. “I—uh—I reckon you might be right,” Sheriff Harper swallowed. “I might need some help—just to deter ’em, you understand.”

  “Figured you might change your tune,” Shane said. “Tell me, who’s that beefy galoot out there urging them on?”

  Charles Harper’s gaze went to the stubble-faced ranny raising his fists to the sky. Around him, the mob was red-eyed, lurching drunkenly. He could glimpse the whisky-inflamed faces of men who’d been drinking steadily in the Ace of Diamonds, and the faces of towners he’d normally have considered to be level-headed. Even old Ingersoll, the banker, was there, snarling like the rest of them, and Harper’s eyebrows were raised as he spotted three women brandishing broomsticks. Hitherto, the sounds of shouting hadn’t been heard to much extent inside the walls of the law office, but now the low murmurs were becoming angry shouts.

  “Brent Gowrie,” Harper replied at length.

  “Gowrie?” Shane frowned. “The ramrod who brought him in?”

  “Yeah.”

  “It doesn’t exactly add up, Harper,” Shane mused.

  “What are you gettin’ at?” the lawman demanded.

  “Well, right now he’s out there urging the mob on. Probably he’s just come from the saloon where he’s been doing the same thing.”

  “So?”

  “So, if Gowrie felt inclined to a necktie party, why didn’t he string Luke up to the nearest tree in the valley?” Shane Preston wanted to know. “Why go to all the trouble to bring the prisoner all the way to town?”

  “Know something, Preston?” Harper sneered. “You ride in as a gunfighter and you turn lay-lawyer. Next you’ll be a damn range-detective!”

  Shane ignored the jibe. “Unless this is all some big set-up.”

  Harper regarded him seriously now. “A what?” the lawman asked softly.

  “Gowrie brings Luke in so he keeps on the right side of the law, then whips up the towners into a lynch-mood,” Shane elaborated for him. “Once the necktie party’s in full swing, Gowrie fades into the background but the result’s the same. Luke dies but somehow it looks like Gowrie’s not responsible. Instead, the town’s to blame and when the drunken clowns sober up, the guilt’s on their shoulders.”

  “But why the hell should Gowrie want to do that?” Harper demanded incredulously.

  “I don’t know—yet,” Shane muttered.

  The gunfighter watched as the mob milled around Gowrie, and suddenly, every face turned in the direction of the law office. For a moment, a strange silence settled over the seething crowd, but all at once, the tide flowed across the street and Shane Preston paced towards the front door.

  Four – One Against the Town

  The door crashed wide and Shane Preston stood framed there.

  Abruptly, the mob came to a standstill, and the shouting died as Shane regarded them coldly. Behind him, Sheriff Harper shuffled around with his gun poised, and in front of him, the angry drink-sodden towners began to bellow orders.

  “Get outa our way!”

  “Move, hombre—or we’ll trample you!”

  “Harper! Where in hell are you? Stand aside and leave the keys on your desk!”

  Shane had seen this all before in more than one town on the raw frontier. Normal, decent citizens turned into animals by whisky and a cause. In this instance, the cause was the quick dispatch of the man they believed had murdered the town benefactor.

  “Did you hear us, hombre? Step aside!”

  “Hell!” someone exploded. “Ain’t he that Shane Preston hombre who was in town the other day?”

  The reply from a bloated miner brandishing a rifle was savagely blunt. “I don’t give a damn who he is! No one’s gonna stand in our way! We’ve come to hang the bastard who blasted Mr. King!”

  Shane took one step towards them, his hand still resting almost casually on his gun butt.

  “There’s gonna be no hanging.” Shane’s tone was razor-edged and it plunged the mob into silence.

  “Now listen here, mister,” a storekeeper yelled. “This ain’t no business of yours.”

  “I’m making it my business.”

  There was something about the way Shane spoke that sent a wave of uneasiness through them. If he’d yelled at them, that might only have sent their seething emotions to boiling point. Instead, he spoke quietly but coldly and, momentarily at least, their fury seemed to simmer down.

  “Wainwright murdered one of the best citizens this town has ever known,” the storekeeper rasped. “We’re just seeing he gets his just reward!”

  “By lynching him?” Shane demanded.

  “Call it what you like, mister. The fact is, we’re making sure Wainwright dances rope—and fast!”

  “You said ‘call it what I like’,” Shane returned as the men glanced at each other. “I still say what you’ve got in mind is an illegal lynching. And I’m here to make sure none of you carries out a hanging that’s against the law.”

  “Law!” a miner guffawed, slapping his sides. “Hell, Preston! You’re a fine one to lecture us on law and order! It wasn’t so long ago that you and that old goat you ride with gunned down three hombres in the saloon!”

  “That’s right,” someone else spoke up. “Now get outa the way, Preston or we’ll move you!”

  “You might be a gunslinger,” the miner sneered, “but you can’t take us all!”

  “Maybe not,” Shane said, his tone still calm. “But the first man who draws a gun on me, or puts his foot on this boardwalk, is writing his ticket to Boothill.”

  “For God’s sake! Are we spooked by one man?” The speaker was somewhere at the back of the mob.

  “I’ll tell you what’s gonna happen,” Shane said. “Luke Wainwright’s to stand trial tomorrow. Sheriff Harper has wired the county seat, and the judge is on his way. There’ll be a proper legal trial and if Luke Wainwright’s found guilty, then, and only then, he’ll be executed. He’s not gonna be lynched by some liquor-sodden mob who ought to know better. Most of you here are probably decent citizens, and I reckon you ought to be gettin’ home to your wives and kids.”

  “Sure we’re decent citizens!” the miner called back. “That’s just why we want Wainwright hanged! We want to see justice done!”

  They were beginning to murmur again, nodding to each other. One of them made a tentative step forward. There were some who were wavering as the hot blast of the wind assailed their whisky-fuddled heads, but the more fiery elements in the mob were urging each other on. Maybe some of them knew that lynch-law wasn’t the answer, but they weren’t going to take orders from a gunslinger who hired out his gun for cash. Another half dozen pressed forward. Two men reached the tie rail fronting the law office.

  “Harper,” Shane said quietly.

  “I’m right behind you.”

  “Get back into the office and stand by the cells. I’m gonna try something, but if it doesn’t work and they come inside, shoot the first man dead.”

  “Hell—!”

  “Do like I say!”

  Shane turned his attention to the mob. By now they had edged almost up to the boardwalk, inching forward, closing in on him, and he knew that it was time to play his last card.

  “Gowrie!” Shane’s voice was suddenly harsh. “You started this party! Where in hell are you?”

  Instinctively, the towners turned their heads, looking to where Brent Gowrie was leaning nonchalantly against the saloon wall, smoking a cheroot. There was a gun drooping from his hand.

  “Thought you’d be out front making a big noise, Gowrie,” Shane taunted him. “After all, it was you who arranged all this.”

  “
Me?” the ramrod shrugged innocently.

  “I saw you, Gowrie,” Shane said. “And it sorta brings a question to mind. Why didn’t you hang Luke Wainwright out in the valley if you were so all-fired anxious to have a necktie party?”

  The cheroot dropped from Gowrie’s lips, and his eyes narrowed into two slits. Shane’s veiled accusation seemed to jog him from his detached state and he trod away from the wall and surveyed the gunfighter with an insolent stare.

  “Let’s just say I brought Wainwright in because it seemed the right thing to do at the time,” Gowrie hedged with measured care. “But after a while, I started thinking what a damn waste of public money a trial would be. We all know Wainwright’s as guilty as hell.”

  “So you bought these towners some drinks and started lynch-talk,” Shane supplied.

  “There was lynch-talk as we rode into town,” Gowrie defended himself.

  “And you stirred things up till the mob spilled out here,” Shane stated. “I notice, however, that you’re standing back while others came forward to do the chore.”

  “Listen, all of you!” Gowrie raged, assuming a leadership role once again. “What in hell are we wasting time for? Jacob King’s killer is still breathing.”

  “Gowrie!” Shane shouted above the tramp of boots as they surged even closer. “Drop that gun!”

  “Like hell!” the Diamond C ramrod sneered.

  No one saw Shane’s draw. One moment he was standing there motionless, a solitary rampart between Luke Wainwright and the town, the next moment his six-gun was leveled. Gowrie whipped his own gun up, but Shane’s trigger finger touched the arc of steel first. There was a sudden gun blast, the towners rocked back on their heels, and Brent Gowrie spun around as the bullet burned into his right arm, ripping a groove through his flesh and winging into the window of the saloon. Gowrie yelled hoarsely, and behind him, spidery cracks travelled across the shuddering pane. The ramrod opened his fingers and his gun dropped harmlessly into the dust of Main Street, while Gowrie clutched at his wound with his other hand.

  Shane’s gun swung slowly along the teetering row of towners. “Who’s next?”

  His challenge froze every man. Gowrie cursed in the silence, and those who glanced around at him saw the blood gushing between his claw-like fingers.

  Shane repeated his question as the uneasiness spread like a chill wind. The ramrod was staggering away now, and Lindsay Clegg was following him down the side-alley. Three other men slipped out of the crowd, suddenly not wanting to be part of the ruckus. The women who’d been vocal earlier on had run away like scared children. It was as if the mob was starting to sober up. The men in the front row began to shove backwards, muttering as they pushed. One of the towners plunged into the saloon, and Shane knew that tempers were cooling. This lynch mob was the same as others he’d witnessed. It consisted of men transformed into irrational animals by liquor, and sometimes it only took one bullet to jerk them back to reality. Mumbling threats or slinking away, the towners were retreating. Sheriff Harper ventured outside onto the boardwalk to join the gunfighter.

  “Don’t worry, Preston!” someone called to him. “We’ll still see Luke Wainwright dance rope!”

  “After the trial,” Sheriff Harper added.

  The crowd was melting even faster now and Harper turned to Shane Preston. “I guess I oughta say thanks,” the lawman conceded. “At first I was cussing you for interferin’, but I reckon you were right.”

  Shane watched the receding towners. “They won’t be back,” the gunfighter predicted. “Reckon they’ll be content to wait for the legal trial.”

  Shane stalked past the sheriff and re-entered the law office. Luke Wainwright was seated on his bunk mopping the sweat from his brow.

  “I’ll be over to see you just before the trial,” Shane informed him. “Meantime, try not to worry, I’ll book in over at the rooming house so I’ll be around if there’s any more trouble.”

  Wainwright breathed his gratitude and Shane took his leave. Sheriff Harper nodded to him as he headed outside.

  “See you in court,” Harper commented.

  The knock on his door was soft.

  “Who is it?” Shane let his hand stretch towards the gun rig which hung over the bedpost.

  “Kathleen.”

  The gunfighter slid from the bed and stepped to the door. He lifted the latch and Kathleen Wainwright glided inside.

  “I asked around,” she said. “Folks said I’d find you here.”

  “What are you doing in town at this hour?” Shane asked, closing the door behind her.

  The glow from a streetlight filtered through the thin curtains, and his oil lamp flickered on the bedside table.

  “I had to come, Shane,” she said seriously. “I had to find out what had happened—”

  Shane turned his frank eyes on her, taking in the honey-colored cascade of hair and the soft complexion of her classically-molded face. His eyes dropped lower to where her firm breasts pushed proudly against the tightness of her simple dress.

  “Luke’s standing trial tomorrow at ten,” Shane told her as she sat down on the only chair in his room. “Harper’s wired the county seat for the judge and I’ll be appearing for Luke. Dawson, the town lawyer, apparently declined.”

  “I see,” she whispered.

  “The evidence seems stacked against him,” Shane admitted, not wanting to build up her hopes.

  “But I know Luke!” she protested. “He isn’t capable of shooting a man in the back!”

  “Both you and I know that,” Shane said. “It’s the jury I have to convince.”

  “Shane.” She placed a soft hand over his. “Tell me the real truth. Has Luke got a hope of being acquitted?”

  Shane looked hard at her. “I’ll do what I can,” he promised.

  Kathleen opened the basket she’d carried into his room and took out a dish covered with a white napkin.

  “Baked them this afternoon,” Kathleen told him with forced brightness. “Jonah came nosing around grabbing a few, but I saved these for you.”

  Grinning, the gunfighter picked up a soda biscuit and sampled it. He nodded his appreciation.

  “Reckon you can leave these here, Kathleen,” Shane Preston told the girl. “By the way, how’s that sidekick of mine?”

  “Jonah’s fine,” she smiled. “Real chirpy in fact! He’s been up and about all day and he said it was quite okay to leave him while I rode into town to see you. In fact, he actually encouraged me! You see, Shane, I—I think he’s trying to match us together!”

  “The old goat!”

  “Of course,” she whispered, turning her face away. “I know why that’s not possible.”

  For a fleeting moment, his thoughts were wrenched away from this room, this town, and the problem in hand. Once again, time was rolled back to that sickening hour when he saw his wife Grace dead, spread-eagled where the killers had left her. Once again, he was in that border saloon. There was a roar of guns. One of the outlaws died on his feet, and then Shane folded with the second killer’s slug in his belly. Scarface! He recalled how old Jonah had tended him, nursed him back to health, and he planned to ride with the oldster until he found the man with the scar. Until that last showdown, what Kathleen said would stand. There could be no loving relationship with another woman for a man who hated so much.

  “Sheriff Harper wouldn’t let me see Luke,” Kathleen Wainwright said after a long pause. “But he did tell me what happened this afternoon. It wasn’t like him—he actually praised you!”

  Shane finished eating his biscuit.

  “He said the mob would have burst into the law office and taken Luke if you hadn’t been there.”

  Shane Preston shrugged.

  “I want to thank you,” she said sincerely. “Luke would’ve been dead by now if it hadn’t been for you.” Her voice broke, and impulsively she got up and came into his arms. She groped upwards with her mouth and found his lips parted and waiting. Shane drew her against his body, feeling the
warm swell of her breasts pressing against him.

  “I know there can be no future for us,” Kathleen murmured as his lips moved from hers. “But at least we have the present. We have now.”

  Kathleen’s fingers found the winder of the oil lamp, and with her eyes luminous as they looked intently into his, she turned the wick slowly down. The lamp was doused but light from the street was filtering through the curtains as she came to him again. There was enough light—all they needed.

  The old man rode in one hour before midnight, sitting astride his spotted mule and casting wary looks around the lamp lit Main Street. It was quite an occasion for Judd Sampson, because he very rarely came to town, and when he did, it was usually to collect supplies and have a bottle of rye in the Ace of Diamonds.

  Tonight, he wasn’t riding in to fetch food, nor was he really intending to visit the saloon. He had other things on his mind, and in particular, a certain incident he’d witnessed earlier that day.

  He headed past the undertaker’s parlor and swallowed as he realized that Jacob King’s body would be inside, resting in the best casket Mr. Weatherbee, the mortician, could provide. Nothing but the best would be good enough for the rancher who’d become a father figure to the town.

  Judd prodded and argued with his ancient mule as they progressed up the street. It seemed like a quiet night in Destiny Creek, and only a few horses were lined up outside the Ace of Diamonds. Just as Judd Sampson passed the chapel, a rig moved slowly away from the front porch, and the old prospector’s eyes fell upon a slim woman dressed in black. The preacher stood on the porch, watching her leave accompanied by her neighbor, Miles Coventry, owner of the Diamond C. The carbide streetlight played over the rig as it swayed gently down the street, framing Celia King’s wan face. Jacob King’s wife had been a lot younger than he, and the town had marveled when he’d brought her home to Destiny Creek after one of his eastern business trips. Nevertheless, Celia King had fitted in well, and the community had accepted her readily. She had often been seen on his arm at functions, and it seemed that the only cloud on the horizon had been her inability to provide Jacob with an heir.