by Cole Shelton
“Shane!” Juanita had spotted the silent watcher, too, and her voice was edged with anxiety.
“A Cheyenne buck,” Shane murmured, his eyes narrowing.
The rider was motionless. Sitting astride his pinto pony, he was a stark silhouette, naked from the waist up.
Jonah’s gaze, straying away from the preacher reading the lesson, had found the rider, too, and the oldster nudged Huss Whittaker beside him. Soon a murmur was running through the assembly, and Janie Craig drew in her breath sharply. Perceiving that he’d lost the attention of his congregation, Abel Sorenson glanced up from the Old Testament and stared at the ridge at which everyone else was looking.
Shane stepped swiftly up to the preacher’s side.
Craig had thrust his violin away, and his right hand was groping for his gun.
“No!” Shane’s restraining command was like a whip-crack in the silence.
“But, heck—that’s an Indian, a red savage!” Brett Craig croaked.
“One of those Cheyenne renegades, I'll be bound!” Whittaker blurted out.
“And he’ll be a scout,” Shane informed them. “If we kill him, the shot’ll bring a war-party right this way.”
“What can we do?” Janie Craig wailed, clutching her little daughter to her skirts.
“Right now we’ll carry on with the church service,” the gunfighter commanded. “If those redskins from the Reservation are out there and meaning to attack us, they’ll come anyway. If that rider’s just a stray buck, and harmless, we’re worrying about nothing. The main thing is to act normal but keep your hardware handy—and that means the womenfolk, too. Keep a gun by you at all times.”
“And after church?” Craig asked.
“We pull on out,” Shane said. “We should reach Gaucho late this afternoon, and we’ll just keep going till we make the town. And remember what I said about guns, but no shooting unless I give the word. There’s no telling that those Cheyennes will attack, and we sure don’t want to provoke an incident.”
“I must confess,” Abel Sorenson said, “that I don't possess a gun.”
“Jonah carries a couple of spares.” Shane nodded to his pard sitting with a hymn sheet on his lap. “That is, Abel, if it ain’t against your beliefs to shoot a man?”
Sorenson swallowed. “The Good Book does say an eye for an eye, Shane.”
“Yeah,” Shane said, his eyes still on the lone rider. “But then,” Sorenson soliloquized, “I am a man of the cloth!”
“Jonah will give you a gun,” Shane said gently. “Whether you use it or not is up to you, Preacher.”
The Indian moved, edging his pony slowly along the ridge.
As if hypnotized, the pioneers watched the lean figure, and when he turned his head, they glimpsed the long black hair held back by a red band.
“Abel,” Shane said, “you haven’t finished the lesson.”
Sorenson continued reading, his voice quavering a little in the silence. Shane stepped to one side, his eyes focused on the lone scout. The preacher announced a hymn, and Craig struck up a half-hearted tune. Shane glanced at the grim-faced wagoners as they rose to their feet to sing, then he looked back at the ridge.
It was empty.
The rider had vanished and now only the solitary pine thrust up from the bare ridge. Right then, a cloud obscured the sun and the prairie was blotted out as if by a dark tide. A moaning wind seemed to spring up from nowhere, providing an eerie accompaniment of the strains of the violin. And the emigrants huddled together to sing the hymn in the middle of the wilderness.
Four – Lawman of Gaucho
Gaucho seemed to jump up out of the prairie. One moment the wagons were swaying through the whispering grass, the next moment they spilled out of the yellow sea to the mouth of a small valley.
Whittaker spurred his mount to where Shane and Jonah sat saddle, surveying the prairie community below them. Gaucho had once been a fort, and when the military abandoned it in favor of Fort Defiance, settlers moved inside its walls and built their homes inside the stockade. Now the town had spread beyond the walls, and rows of adobe houses were built along a crudely paved street.
“Remember the last time we stopped off here for the night?” the elder gun hawk grinned broadly.
“Seem to recall that the sheriff didn’t take too kindly to our presence,” Shane Preston said dryly.
“He wouldn’t be the only lawman to take that unreasonable attitude,” Jonah quipped.
“From the way you two talk, you ain’t exactly in the good books with the territory’s badge-toters,” Huss Whittaker remarked.
“We’re gunfighters, Huss,” Shane reminded him tersely. “I reckon that just about sums it up.”
The wagons had ground to a halt, and now the emigrants were either riding or walking towards the crest. They gathered around the wagon master.
“We pull out at sundown,” Whittaker said. “Which gives us about two hours in Gaucho for buying supplies and such.”
The emigrants needed no second prompting. Leaving their wagons, they streamed down the slope, each one wanting to be the first to enter this oasis in the wilderness. The towners had seen them coming, and folks gathered in groups on the main street to await the pioneers. Traders, looking forward to a bonanza, hastily marked a few prices up and opened their doors wider. Within minutes, the emigrants were flocking along the street, exchanging greetings with the towners of Gaucho, who made them more than welcome, it wasn’t often that this community had visitors.
Shane and Jonah made straight for the town’s only saloon, the Faro Wheel, and strode up to the bar.
“Name it, gents,” the bartender said cheerfully.
“Rye,” Shane said.
The Faro Wheel was almost deserted. In fact, the only patrons sat hunched around a table playing cards, while a good-time girl who looked like she’d seen better days hovered over them like an elderly hawk.
“Heard of any Cheyenne trouble?” Shane Preston asked the lanky bartender.
“Not exactly trouble,” the man replied guardedly. “But there’s Indian signs all over the prairie.”
Shane sipped his rye.
“Last night, Sam Napier checked his game-traps beyond the ridge where your wagons are,” the saloon man said. “A couple of Injun bucks had raided the traps, and Sam saw them sneakin’ off.”
“Did he plug them?” Jonah Jones asked.
“Hell, no!” the bartender exploded. “Gaucho’s a long ways from Fort Defiance, mister, and if those Cheyennes got riled, they’d take this town apart. Same goes for your wagon train, too.”
Shane downed his drink and reached for the bottle.
“There’s a story goin’ around, ’bout this bunch of renegades,” the bartender informed them. “Ole Mert Sinclair passed through a week ago.”
“That old mountain goat!” Jonah grinned widely.
“He’s still a travellin’ salesman,” the bartender rejoined. “Seems he was visited by a coupla Cheyennes just out from Milly’s Well.”
“Hell!” Jonah ejaculated. “Has Mert still got his hair?”
“They came to trade,” the bartender said. “He ended up selling them some blankets and tobacco, but here’s the funny bit. They paid him in gold.”
“Gold!” Jonah gaped.
“He showed me the nuggets himself,” the bartender recalled. “Big chunks of yellow rock!”
“But—but where in the hell would those redskins get gold from?” the old-timer frowned.
“He asked them that same question,” the barkeep shrugged. “They claimed they dug them out of the dry creek on their Reservation. And there’s more to the story. Ole Mert claims they showed him a whole bag full of the damn rocks.”
“So those pesky red varmints are ridin’ around totin’ a fortune?”
“Seems so,” the saloon man said. “And it’s got the army worried. After all, if the renegades have gold, that means they could buy rifles.”
“But you wouldn’t find many white men who
’d sell guns to Indians, specially a renegade bunch,” Jonah said.
“Not too many, Jonah,” Shane Preston agreed. “But there’s always the man who doesn’t give a damn about the consequences so long as he gets rich.”
It was a sobering thought, and one which made the old-timer gulp down his drink and build a cigarette.
Right then, the gunfighters heard the thud of boots on the creaky wooden boardwalk outside. The batwings lurched open and the white-faced figure of Janie Craig stood in the saloon entrance. Unsure of herself in this man’s province, she glanced around timidly at the bottles of liquor, the garish posters on the walls and the hag-like saloon woman who faced her with arms folded over her spilling breasts. Then Janie’s eyes found the men she’d been looking for.
“Oh, please,” she cried to Shane and Jonah. “Come quickly!”
Shane dumped his glass down on the bar counter, and with Jonah close, the tall gunfighter loped across the sawdust.
“Shane,” the emigrant woman said frantically, “something terrible’s happened. My Brett’s been arrested!”
“By the damn sheriff of this town?” Jonah snapped.
“He was waiting for him.” Janie started to cry. “We—we headed into the general store, and the lawman was there ready with his gun to arrest him. I—I came to you because Brett said that—that you were on his side, Shane!”
“Where’s Brett now?” demanded Shane.
“I ran straight over here,” Janie breathed. “He’s probably still in the general store with that sheriff.”
“Right now he’s coming up the street with a gun in his back,” Jonah Jones grated, peering over the batwings.
“Janie,” the lean gun hawk murmured, “go to your kids and leave this to us.”
Shane stepped out onto the boardwalk.
A crowd was gathering on the street, towners and emigrants all watching as Brett Craig trod the dust with his hands high. Behind him, swaggering and grinning, walked Sheriff Wayne Vandermann, his gun poking into Craig’s spine. The prisoner glanced helplessly around him as Vandermann shoved him towards the Spanish-arched door of his law office.
Shane didn’t run. He headed slowly and deliberately in the direction of the door.
Suddenly, Sheriff Vandermann’s eyes narrowed and his guttural curse halted Brett Craig in his tracks.
“Preston!” Sheriff Vandermann blinked. “What in hell are you doing here?”
“Now, Sheriff, what sort of a welcome is that?” Shane chided him, leaning against the wall of the law office.
“The welcome you damn well deserve!” Vandermann blurted out.
“Fact is, Sheriff,” Shane said, “me and Jonah are scouts for this outfit.”
“Scouts!” Vandermann echoed scornfully. “Since when have you two polecats earned your keep other than by gunslinging?”
The crowd listened in silence, thronging the boardwalks to watch. Whittaker was holding onto one of Brett Craig’s children, a little lad who was sobbing violently.
“Anyhow, Preston,” Vandermann growled, “right now you don’t bother me none. I’ve other things on my mind.”
“Like taking in an innocent man?”
Vandermann stared at the gunfighter. Gaucho’s sheriff was a thickset lawman with a middle-aged spread that folded over his belt. Almost bald, Vandermann’s big, bullet head showed a sparse growth of hair.
“Once a month, Preston,” Sheriff Vandermann stated slowly, “this town gets its mail, and in the last drop, I got a reward dodger on Brett Craig. In the same dispatch was a message givin’ me a tip-off from a fellow-lawman that Craig was on this wagon train. Seems this outlaw was figuring that Gun Creek was far enough away from the scene of his crime, and the law wouldn’t bother to chase him there. And Craig’s probably right. That’s why I’m grabbin’ him now, before he gets to Gun Creek. Any objection to an elected lawman doing his duty, Preston?”
“Sheriff!” Brett Craig croaked. “Sure I killed Tramner, but it was a fair fight! I’m only on the run because Tramner had friends—powerful friends!”
Vandermann shrugged callously. “Tell it to the judge. Craig.”
“A judge back in Tombstone?” cried Craig. “With a jury loaded with Tramner’s old friends?”
Shane had moved to stand directly in front of the law office door.
“Any objection to me doing my duty, Preston?” Sheriff Vandermann repeated.
“Right now—yes,” Shane said bluntly.
Vandermann smirked at him. “I’m real surprised at you, Preston. I know you ain’t exactly loved by us badge-toters, but you’ve always managed to stay inside the law. Hinderin’ a sheriff in the course of his duty happens to be a felony.”
“I’m not hindering you, Vandermann.” Shane heard the gasps from the onlookers as he slipped the gun from his holster and weighed it in the palm of his hand. “I’m just objecting to you grabbing my prisoner.”
“Huh?” Vandermann was nonplussed.
“You heard me, Sheriff,” Shane murmured, his left hand stroking the gleaming steel of his six-shooter. “My prisoner.”
“But—hell!”
“You asked me what we were doing here, and I said we were scouts for this wagon train. Reckon that’s only partly true.”
Vandermann looked around him, bewildered and frowning. Just along the boardwalk, old Jonah was squatting on his heels, and the pudgy gunslinger’s six-shooter was resting casually in his hands.
“Fact is, we’re on two jobs,” Shane Preston said. “In addition to being scouts, we’re taking Craig in for the bounty money on his head. We joined the wagon train so we could grab him.”
Sheer disbelief clouded the lawman’s face, then a sneer curled his lips.
“Craig your prisoner?” demanded the sheriff. “And you let him walk loose in the streets of town?”
“Why not?” Shane shrugged. “There’s no place he could go. Gaucho’s a town plumb in the center of the wilderness. A man would be loco to try to cross the prairie on his ownsome, with Cheyennes skulking around.”
Vandermann gave his prisoner a shove with his gun muzzle, moving him right to the very edge of the boardwalk. Still Shane stayed by the door.
“Well, Preston,” Sheriff Vandermann grinned for the benefit of the onlooking towners. “Thanks very much for holding this prisoner until now. I’ll be taking him into custody and I’ll see that you get the reward bounty.”
“Too bad, Sheriff.” Shane Preston leveled his six-shooter. “That ain’t convenient to us.”
“What’re you sayin’?” fumed Vandermann.
“It ain’t that we don’t trust you, Sheriff,” Shane said politely. “But it so happens we promised Dan Hogan we’d take him back to the County Seat so he can stand trial there.”
“Hogan?” Vandermann stared at Shane. “Hogan sent you?”
“Well,” Shane drawled, “there’s no way you can check it out, so you’ll just have to take my word for it. We’re taking Craig with us while we guide these settlers to Gun Creek, then we’re cutting north straight for the County Seat to deliver this outlaw and collect our bounty money. Right, Jonah?”
“Right,” beamed Jonah Jones.
Vandermann glanced around him. It was like he was on trial. He could see that the emigrants didn’t want to leave one of their number in his jail, but the towners were waiting for a show of strength from the man they’d appointed to wear the badge. Vandermann stood on the brink. Suddenly his face hardened.
“You’re a coupla liars!” he accused Shane and Jonah. Then he jabbed the prisoner with his gun. “Keep walking right into the law office.”
“Vandermann!” The tone of Shane Preston’s voice told everyone that the time for talking was over. He thumbed back the hammer of his six-shooter. “I’m taking back my prisoner.”
The lawman froze.
Jonah eased his stocky frame upright and leveled his gun.
Vandermann’s eyes darted around at the onlookers for a sign of support from the people of Gauc
ho. But no one moved, not one hand even crept gun-wards. There wasn’t a single towner who’d take his chances against the two fastest guns in the State. Sweat beaded Sheriff Vandermann’s brow. Cold sweat.
“All right,” the badge-toter backed down, his voice quivering with anger. “Take your prisoner, Preston. And keep him close—or by God, you’ll answer for it.”
“Craig,” Shane said quietly, “get back to your wagon.”
“Sure, Mr. Preston,” the outlaw said respectfully.
Sheriff Vandermann’s face was grim as Brett Craig sauntered away. The lawman stared at the gunfighter leaning against his door, and then he mounted the boardwalk. There was a half smile on Shane’s face as he stood aside for the fuming badge-toter.
“One helluva law-abidin’ wagon train, I must say!” The lawman’s sarcasm was directed at the emigrants as well as Shane Preston. “Two gunslingers, one outlaw, and one hombre just out of the damn penitentiary!”
“What do you mean?” Shane demanded.
“Do I have to spell it out for you?” Sheriff Vandermann laughed. “First there’s you and that bearded ole coot—”
“Who’s just out of the penitentiary?” insisted Shane Preston.
“You mean you don’t know?” the law officer snickered. “Damien Blake!”
Whittaker had detached himself from the crowd and joined Shane on the boardwalk.
“Saw Blake a few minutes ago up the street,” Vandermann recounted. “First time I’ve seen him since Tonto Rim—that’s where I was deputy to Sheriff Anderson ten years ago. I remember the night they brought Blake in, caught red-handed rustlin’ beeves from the Circle K. Anderson arranged a real quick trial and Blake was sentenced to ten years behind bars. Unless he was sprung earlier for good behavior, I reckon he’s just been released.”
Shane digested this piece of information as he holstered his gun.
“Next time I’m passing through I’ll buy you a drink,” the tall gunslinger told him.
“Don’t bother!” Sheriff Vandermann grated, storming inside and slamming the door.
“Shane,” Huss Whittaker’s face was creased with concern. “What the hell’s going on? First Craig, now Blake—what sorta wagon train have we got?”