Shane and Jonah 6

by Cole Shelton

  “My little performance?” she giggled over her glass.

  “I could see the looks on those jurymen’s faces,” he recalled. “They believed you were as innocent as a spring lamb and Wainwright killed your beloved husband so he could defile you!”

  “Anyway, darling,” she said smugly, “we have no worries now. Once Luke Wainwright hangs, the case will be closed. Folks will remember him as Jacob’s murderer because he was hanged for the crime, and whatever happens afterwards—like you and me getting married and combining ranches—no suspicion will ever be pointed our way.”

  Coventry downed his drink and poured himself another.

  “And there’s one more load off my mind, too,” he ventured.

  “That gunfighter?”

  “Preston was on to something, snooping around my horse and asking questions—”

  “How could he be suspicious of you?” Celia King frowned.

  The rancher shrugged, then dismissed the subject. “It doesn’t matter now. He’s dead, and the preacher said his pard had hightailed it out of the territory.” He gazed at her, then smiled slowly. “Come here.”

  “I said not now,” Miles,” she said firmly.

  He stood up and walked over to her. He pulled her to him. At first, she reddened in anger, but as his arms held her close, the widow tilted her head.

  “Kiss me once,” she said, “but then you must leave. You’ll see me this evening at the hanging tree.”

  The rancher’s mouth covered hers, and they were so engrossed in their embrace that they didn’t hear the door open. When Coventry finally released her, and turned around, he started when he saw the man who was lolling back in one of the parlor chairs.

  “Gowrie!”

  Gowrie reached over and selected a cigar from the dead rancher’s humidor. He stuck the expensive stogie between his lips and struck a match against his thumbnail.

  “Real nice and cozy, Mr. Coventry,” the ramrod grinned around the cigar. “Liquor, a pretty woman to make love to, and—who knows what you’ll get now the widow’s inherited all this.”

  Celia gasped.

  “Get out!” Miles snapped. “You should be with your men, hunting strays!”

  “Too bad, Mr. Coventry,” Brent Gowrie shook his head, “but I’m not gonna do chores like that anymore. After all, I’m not just a two-bit ramrod—I’m a very special ramrod, one who helped his boss frame an innocent man for murder.”

  Coventry’s face was like thunder. “Now, listen here—!”

  “You listen!” Gowrie wasn’t grinning any more. “Me and the boys did a hell of a lot for you. We waited in that canyon for an innocent man to happen along, and then took him in for you. We lied inside and outside of court, and on top of that, we got rid of that nosy Shane Preston for you.”

  “Well, I’m grateful,” Coventry assured him.

  “Good,” Gowrie purred. “Because me and the boys have been doing some figuring. We reckon we oughta get more than you’ve already given us for our parts in all this.”

  “You’ll be getting a bonus,” Miles Coventry snapped.

  “We were thinking about five hundred dollars for a start, Mr. Coventry,” Brent Gowrie stated in a monotone. “And I emphasize—for a start. Later on, we might settle for other considerations—like what I saw Celia give you.”

  “You blackmailing bastard!” Miles Coventry snarled, dropping a hand to the derringer in his pocket.

  “Don’t try it, Mr. Coventry,” Gowrie grinned. “My boys are outside. Now just you calm down and listen. You need me, Mr. Coventry. You’ll always need me to keep quiet because any time I want, I could tell the town that they hanged the wrong man. I could even tell them tonight, at the hanging tree.”

  Coventry’s hand closed around his gun.

  “No, Miles!” Celia exclaimed. “No! Give him what he wants!”

  “Five hundred dollars!” Coventry snarled. “You heard him, Celia. That’s just a start!”

  “Give him what he wants,” she repeated.

  Brent Gowrie smiled leeringly at the widow. “I can see, ma’am,” he smirked, “that I’m gonna enjoy doing business with you. The five hundred dollars are coming from Mr. Coventry, but I figure that when I call around for a contribution from you later on, you’ll make it real interesting for me, if you know what I mean?”

  “You lay a hand on her and by God—”

  “You’ll do nothing, Mr. Coventry,” Brent Gowrie said harshly. “You’ll just do like I say. After all, if I spill the truth, you’ve got the most to lose. You pulled the trigger and killed Jacob King, and it’d be you who’d hang on the testimony of me and the boys. Now, let’s be sensible, huh? Ma’am—I’ll have a glass of brandy while Mr. Coventry writes me a check. I reckon I can trust his check. After all, he is the owner of the Diamond C.”

  Celia walked over to the liquor cabinet and selected a glass. She poured a drink while Coventry fumed at the table.

  “Make it payable to me,” Gowrie directed him as he placed his checkbook on the table. “I know the boys will trust me to share it out with them when I cash it at the bank. Next time, you’ll have to arrange to have the cash ready. That’ll be about one month from now.”

  Coventry wrote out the check, while Celia moved towards the ramrod and handed him his drink. Gowrie’s eyes roved frankly over her figure as she bent over him and he wet his lips with his thick tongue.

  Then Gowrie stood up and raised his glass. “I reckon we should drink to a long and happy relationship—what do you say?”

  A gun boomed like a cannon and the bullet burned into the back of Brent Gowrie’s head. The ramrod swayed on the balls of his feet as the second slug smashed the base of his spine. He dropped the glass and the red wine spilled over the plush carpet and, dead on his feet, Gowrie plunged over the table. He slithered wetly in his own blood and finally collapsed onto the carpet.

  Smoke curled from the gun muzzle at the window, and Celia gasped as Sheriff Harper’s face showed above the sill.

  “Nice work, Charles,” Miles Coventry complimented him.

  The lawman straddled the sill and swung his frame inside. His face wore a broad grin, and he shoved his six-gun back into its holster.

  “Lucky I happened along,” Sheriff Harper said. “But I wanted to see you about two or three matters, and I figured you would be here with Mrs. King. When I rode in, I dismounted round by the stable and overheard Gowrie and his hard cases discussin’ this little episode by the tie-rail. Clegg and Yuldara are handcuffed to one of the corral rails.”

  Celia was stunned, aghast that the town lawman could know the truth. She began to cry but Miles Coventry went to her and placed his arm around her shoulders.

  “I think our sheriff would like a drink, dear,” Coventry informed her. “He certainly deserves one.”

  The widow was trembling.

  “I guess there’s something you should know, Celia,” Miles Coventry grinned. “Sheriff Harper’s in my pay.”

  Mrs. King drew in her breath sharply at this revelation from the rancher.

  “Been in my pay for a couple of weeks now,” Coventry said, tearing up the check he’d written. “It’s unofficial, of course. None of my men knew it.”

  “Neither did I,” she remarked accusingly.

  “Sorry, Celia,” Coventry said. “I must learn not to keep secrets from you. But the fact is that Sheriff Harper’s been invaluable. He’s certainly simplified the lawful dispatch of Wainwright. He did everything legal and fitting, even called in the county prosecutor to make Wainwright’s conviction look absolutely straight in everyone’s eyes.”

  “Figured I might have to cancel that wire to the judge when that lynch mob got liquored up,” Harper said, accepting the glass of whisky from Celia.

  “The lynch mob was a last minute idea, my notion, I have to admit. But it appealed to Gowrie, sure enough, and he figured he could carry it through.” Coventry lit a cigar. “However, the trial worked out well.”

  “Thanks to you, ma’
am,” the sheriff congratulated her.

  “What about Gowrie’s cronies?” Celia murmured.

  “Ma’am,” the sheriff said, “did you give your ranch hands the day off?”

  “Apart from a few hands hunting strays, I gave the others the rest of today off,” she told him. “I expect to see them all at the hanging, of course.”

  “Then the ranch is virtually deserted,” Sheriff Harper mused. “So I reckon I’ll take care of Clegg and Yuldara for you.”

  “Charles,” Coventry said, “I’m very grateful for all you’ve done.”

  Harper downed his drink. “As long as you keep your promise to me, I’ll be happy.”

  “It’ll be kept,” the Diamond C owner assured him. “A new home for you and your family, paid for with Diamond C money.”

  “That’s what I’m doing this for,” Harper said. “For my wife and kids.”

  “Who will you replace Gowrie with?” Celia nodded to the sprawled body on her carpet.

  “I know two of my boys who would jump at the position,” Miles Coventry said. “And neither of them will get too big for his boots. Ridge Glover and Tom Parkinson—know them?”

  “Yes,” Celia replied. “I know them.”

  Coventry looked across at Harper. “You’ll take care of Gowrie’s body?”

  “Leave it to me.”

  Sheriff Harper grabbed the ramrod by the shoulders and began to drag him outside.

  “By the way, Charles,” the rancher said. “You mentioned you wanted to talk over a couple of matters with me.”

  “They can wait,” the badge-toter said quickly. “Just domestic things really, like how many rooms my wife wants in this house you’re building us, and that business with Thamper’s water-hole. You recall how you wanted him arrested on some excuse to get him jailed for a coupla nights while you arranged to poison his water?”

  “With his stock dead, he’ll sell out to me,” Miles Coventry predicted. “That’ll make our combined ranch even bigger, Celia.”

  “Under the circumstances,” Harper glanced down at the limp body he had hauled to the door, “I reckon those matters can be deferred.”

  “Till after the hanging,” the rancher said.

  Sheriff Charles Harper backed his horse into harness, then heaved the ramrod’s bloodied corpse across the muddy yard. Gowrie’s dragging boots described a twin trail in the sodden surface as the body was hauled to the buckboard.

  Harper mounted the buckboard and hoisted up the lifeless Gowrie and tossed the body into the back.

  He took Gowrie’s gun from its holster.

  Just a couple of weeks ago, Charles Harper had been a no-account small-town lawman, taking home twenty-five dollars a month to a wife who demanded a better standard of living than the two cramped rooms the town committee provided. During his time in office, he’d been offered more than one bribe, but he’d always figured he had a duty to the concept that his tin star represented. And his status-seeking wife had usually admonished him when he told her he’d rejected the bribe.

  Then Miles Coventry had come along one night, offering not a two-bit bribe, but a whole new way of life. The rancher was about to become the most powerful man in the territory, and he wanted to make sure the law didn’t stand in his way—especially when he had to use unorthodox methods to gain his ends. And Coventry’s offer of Diamond C money to build him a new house and a regular monthly supplement to his normal pay dirt, proved far more persuasive than the oath he’d sworn when he was appointed lawman. Besides this, there was security. Coventry would make sure the lawman had a job for life. As for his wife, Maria couldn’t care less how he obtained his money—as long as her home was one she could be proud of.

  Harper strode towards the stable.

  He thrust open the scraping doors and peered inside. Just a few minutes ago he’d handcuffed Gowrie’s cohorts at gunpoint, marched them over here and cuffed them to a railing of a stall. Now his eyes searched the gloom until they found Clegg and Yuldara sprawled in the hay.

  Bewildered, Lindsay Clegg gaped up at the town lawman. One section of the handcuff was fastened around his right wrist, the other was snapped over the stall rail.

  “What the hell’s goin’ on?” Clegg asked miserably.

  Ruthlessly, Charles Harper cocked his gun. The sheriff stood, legs apart, a half-smile forming on his fleshy lips. The six-gun thundered, and as two horses reared in their stalls, Lindsay Clegg fell limp. There was a small red hole in the center of his left cheek.

  “For God’s sake—no!” Yuldara tugged frantically on his handcuffs. “Listen, Sheriff—what you heard out there—we didn’t mean it—look, we wouldn’t—we wouldn’t—!”

  “Mr. Coventry’s my friend, Yuldara,” Harper smiled. “I don’t like polecats who try to blackmail a friend of mine.”

  Yuldara stared at him, horrified.

  Harper edged closer, his gun still level. Suddenly, the sheriff squeezed the trigger, and the bullet screamed into the man’s head. Yuldara was throw violently back against the rail before he slithered down.

  The lawman holstered his gun and surveyed his handiwork. The two would-be blackmailers lay like two rag dolls. He stooped down and unlocked the handcuffs. One by one, he dragged the bodies outside and heaved them into the buckboard.

  He climbed onto the front seat, flicked his whip over the horse, and the buckboard creaked and groaned across the yard. Harper didn’t look back. He turned the horse north, heading for the canyon country. He had a particular canyon in mind. It was deep, surrounded by sheer pumice walls and rugged crags. Not many riders ventured into the knife-edged pass that spilled into the canyon’s depths. They called the ravine Scavenger Canyon, and for a good reason. It was frequented by wolves, and buzzards often perched around its lonely rims. By sundown, the scavengers would be enjoying a feast—and by noon next day, only three skeletons would lie in the sand.

  Harper urged the horse into a fast trot.

  He had to be back in Destiny Creek in time for the hanging.

  Shane Preston lurched forward over his horse’s neck, and reining in old Tessie, Jonah Jones surveyed his friend with worried eyes.

  “Heck, Shane,” the oldster admonished him. “I knew you weren’t up to this durn caper!”

  Shane’s eyes were jammed shut as the pain raced through him. The wound in his side had been opened up by the constant jogging of his horse, and now a dark stain showed through the fabric of his shirt.

  The tall gunfighter opened his eyes and looked up at the western rims.

  “We keep riding,” Shane gritted.

  All morning, he’d fought the painful stiffness around both his wounds, alternately resting and moving from room to room. Soon after noon, he’d climbed slowly and painfully into the saddle and headed for the trail with Jonah alongside him. Dizziness had swept over him, numbing his senses and for a while dulling the tides of pain.

  “You stay here,” Jonah Jones mumbled. “I’ll ride into town by myself.”

  Shane shook his head.

  He murmured to Snowfire, and the palomino walked down the slope towards Moose Valley. Mouthing a curse, Jonah joined him, and together they set their faces towards town. And the sun dipped lower to an horizon already touched with gold.

  For one man waiting in a cell in Destiny Creek, it could be the last sundown.

  Ten – A Noose Waits at Sundown

  Sheriff Harper stood in the front doorway of his office, glanced up at the fading sky and drew the silver watch from his pocket. He turned around.

  “Well, Wainwright,” the law officer called out, “I reckon your time has come.”

  Luke drew on his cigarette and watched as Harper crossed to his desk and pulled out a drawer. Harper picked up the key ring and stalked over to the cell door.

  “Sheriff,” Wainwright whispered hoarsely, “I didn’t kill Jacob King!”

  “I’m just a badge-toter, Wainwright,” Harper said. “The trial’s over and I have to do my duty.”

  He fitted
the key into the lock and stood back.

  “Don’t give me any trouble,” the sheriff warned him, resting one hand on his gun butt.

  He kicked the cell door open.

  “It’s a short walk to the hanging tree,” Harper said. “I reckon you know where it is.”

  Luke moved out of his cell, and with Sheriff Harper right behind him, he walked falteringly to the door. He knew that escape was impossible. There were a hundred towners out there who’d gladly gun down the man they believed had killed Jacob King.

  The condemned man headed outside into the dying day. He held his head high.

  Townsfolk lined the boardwalk, men who’d emerged from the saloon and women pausing on their way home to cook an evening meal for their families. Luke could see the hatred on their faces as he walked slowly up the center of the street. But it was subdued hatred now. The fire that the lynch-talk had kindled had long since gone out. This execution would be a cold, sober affair.

  He passed the undertaker’s parlor. His coffin would be the one already dragged onto the boardwalk. In just a few minutes they’d cut his lifeless body from the rope and dump him into a plain pine box. There wouldn’t be many mourners at his funeral.

  The crowd was following him now.

  The street stretched like a ribbon ahead of him, and right at the end was the lonely tree with a noose dangling darkly against the blood-red of sunset.

  “Keep walking,” Harper prompted him.

  Luke swallowed. All hope was gone now. He glimpsed King’s widow rounding the corner, and for a long moment Celia stared at him. Then she deliberately turned her face away from him and the rig wheeled ahead of him towards the hanging tree. He saw Celia’s neighbor, Miles Coventry, follow the rig with two of his men. Luke recognized the blocky figure of Glover and the little ranny with a patch over his eye, Parkinson. He found himself wondering where Gowrie was.

  The solitary old tree loomed closer, and gradually the shapes around the dangling rope resolved themselves into people. He saw Rupert Mortimer, standing to attention like a soldier, and beside him, the town’s preacher, Dugan. Gathered behind them were those who’d decided to watch the spectacle. Like buzzards, they stood around, silent witnesses to ‘justice’.