Shane and Jonah 5

by Cole Shelton

  “Ride back to the wagons with me, Huss,” Shane told the bewildered wagon master. “On the way, we’ll have a talk about both those hombres.”

  Shane paced across the street to where Snowfire was tethered at the tie-rail. Scratching his head, the wagon master trailed along behind him.

  Shane swung into the saddle, and moments later he was heading back up the street to the prairie trail.

  Jonah joined Shane and the wagon master, and the trio walked their horses towards the crest.

  “Figured that was real interestin’—the way you brought in Sheriff Hogan’s name,” Jonah Jones quipped.

  “Yeah, real interesting,” Shane drawled. “’Specially since I’ve never met Hogan in my life!”

  “Move ’em out!”

  Whittaker’s raucous command rang out over the prairie and the wagons began to creak and sway into the sunset.

  Whips cracked, steers bawled, horses snorted as the wagon train moved farther away from civilization into the wide prairie country. Sundown was a vivid blood-red streak across the distant ridges as Shane and Jonah rode ahead of the first ponderous wagon. For one full hour, the emigrants pressed farther along the trail, but after the dark hand of night enclosed them, Shane called a halt.

  The nightly ritual of making the wagons into a circle was soon accomplished, and Shane sat just beyond the camp to keep watch as preparations were made for the evening meal. The gunfighter smoked alone, his keen eyes staring out into the night. Beyond the camp, night owls called to each other and the prairie scavengers, the coyotes, padded around in hunting packs. It was in situations like this, when he was alone, that memories would flood back. Memories of a happy wife, slim, dark-haired, incredibly beautiful in his eyes. He remembered her musical voice, the way she’d come out and help him on the range, the times they spent together out riding, the soft warmth of her young body in his bed. Then he saw that bloodied, lifeless heap on the floor, the woman he loved murdered by two thieves, and once again he was trailing them to that border saloon. Coldness came over him as he recalled shooting the fat outlaw before Scarface blasted a slug into his belly. Scarface, the last of the two killers, the man he had to find!

  “Preston!”

  “What is it, Blake?” Shane asked, without turning his head.

  Damien Blake drew deeply on his cigarette. “The roster says it’s my turn to stand guard.”

  Shane slid off the boulder and faced the beefy teamster.

  “Okay,” the gunfighter said, “I’ll leave you to it.”

  “Before you go—” Blake said harshly. “There’s something I want to say to you.”

  “I’m listening,” Shane said in the silence.

  “Some of the folks heard what that fool lawman said about me,” Damien Blake growled.

  “About you being in the pen?”

  “What he said was true,” Blake admitted grudgingly. “Once I was a rustler. Maybe I even took more beeves than those from the Circle K! But that was ten years ago, and I served my time. I paid the penalty, Preston.”

  “And now you’re a decent, God-fearing citizen?” Shane Preston was unable to conceal the mockery in his voice.

  “Yeah.” Blake’s face darkened. “That’s exactly what I am, Preston!”

  Shane contemplated the teamster with cold eyes.

  “There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you, Blake,” the gun hawk said.

  “Ask away,” Damien Blake invited, squatting on the boulder.

  “Did you hear anything the night Jim Cutting was knifed?”

  Blake glanced sharply at him, and there was a long moment before he replied, “Nothing.”

  “He was knifed right beside your wagon, yet you heard nothing?”

  “That’s what I said.”

  “You know, Blake,” the gunfighter murmured. “There’s a story going around that you and Cutting didn’t exactly see eye to eye.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “Did you and Cutting quarrel?” Shane insisted.

  “Preston,” Damien Blake growled, “chow’s ready back in the camp.”

  Shane studied him for a moment, then he headed away towards the wagons. He passed the prospectors’ wagon and Eli McKay watched him from the front seat. He strode to the roaring fire where Juanita shoved a plate into his hands.

  “Soup, Shane?” she asked him. “I made it myself.”

  Six – Rendezvous With Murder!

  “How much longer?” Preacher Sorenson leaned forward in the wagon seat as Shane rode past and signaled towards the hollow in the prairie just ahead. “When shall we see Gun Creek?”

  “Two days’ ride, maybe three,” Shane called up to him out of the swirling dust. “But right now we’re stopping for the night.”

  Seated beside Sorenson, Juanita let her gaze lift to the ranges. All day, the ridges and the crags had loomed closer, and as the afternoon had progressed, patches of pumice had littered the sun bleached prairie. Tomorrow, they would climb, groping up the last stretch before they reached the walls of Fort Defiance.

  Shane rode back along the wagon line, and Sorenson turned his team into the hollow. Suddenly the front wheel rim struck a sharp rock and the wagon lurched drunkenly. Juanita was thrown violently against the preacher, and instinctively, Abel Sorenson clasped an arm around her to prevent her from toppling over. The swaying stopped but the emigrant still held the girl in the crook of his arm, and Juanita made no effort to draw away from him. The young preacher trembled as he felt her softness nestling against his body, and all at once he thrust her gently away. Red-faced, he picked up the reins and flicked them over his team.

  Dusk was closing in like a gray blanket as the wagoners once again made camp. It was colder that night, and they were glad of the big fire that Jonah Jones soon lit for them. The ’breed girl busied herself preparing supper and Brett Craig took first watch. As always when her husband was standing guard beyond the wagons, Janie Craig found difficulty in controlling all three of her children. She managed to thrust a plate of food in front of her daughter and youngest son, but Pete, the eldest, had somehow sneaked away.

  The six-year-old lad made straight for the makeshift corral the men always made to pen the animals for the night. Pete’s young eyes searched the dusty square enclosed by the wooden stakes and crosslines until they found the black and white goat which was his pet. A grin came over Pete’s freckled features as Samantha scampered over to him. For a while, Pete stroked the she-goat’s head, then he tired of this and began to wander back towards the wagons. He swung on a wagon wheel, peering through the wooden spokes at the fire where his mother was anxiously scanning the darkness for him. Knowing full well that Juanita and the other women had cooked vegetable stew for supper, Pete elected to stay away a little longer.

  The boy slipped under a wagon and lay in the grass. It was then that he realized whose wagon he was under—Blake’s. Pete had explored every wagon, even the preacher’s, except the one lived in by those three gold prospectors. Always Blake’s wagon was closed up. Both the front and rear entrances through the canvas were usually lashed up with rawhide, but tonight Pete’s curiosity was reaching a peak now he actually lay under the only wagon left unexplored.

  On an impulse, Pete slithered out from beneath the wagon and climbed up the back steps. The lashed-up flap presented a challenge. Nimble fingers began to untie the rope, threading it out through the holes. Just beyond him, standing around the fire lit circle, were the wagoners. Tentatively, Pete peered inside the wagon, seeing only darkness. He edged a hand inside and touched solid wood. It felt hard and cold, like the boxes that held the preacher’s books. He poked his head inside.

  Suddenly, an iron hand grabbed him by the scruff of his neck. Pete screamed as he was swiveled around and brought face to face with the angry, bulging eyes of Damien Blake. The teamster’s fist slapped Pete’s left ear, knocking him clean off the steps and into the grass. Weeping, the boy tried to clamber up. Blake was uncoiling a short bullwhip. The folks around th
e fire stared in amazement and horror as Blake cracked the whip ruthlessly around Pete Craig’s legs.

  “That’ll teach you to trespass in my wagon, kid!” Blake grated, his eyes glowing insanely.

  Sobbing, Pete crawled away in the grass. Janie gathered up her skirts and raced towards the beefy teamster as he trod relentlessly after the boy.

  Pete screamed hysterically as the whip swished like a snake in the moonlight.

  “Blasted nosy kid!” stormed Blake, standing over him now. “If you come near my wagon again, I’ll thrash the hide off you!”

  Janie plunged past Blake, throwing herself over her son to protect him with her body. Muttering, the teamster stepped back. Reb Morton was already rethreading the rawhide at the flap as Blake stood there with his chest heaving.

  “Blake!” The harsh challenge came from across the other side of the camp.

  Damien Blake turned to face the man who had just come in from standing watch. Drawn by the commotion, Brett Craig had loped back, and now he stood with his right hand hovering over his gun holster.

  “Your kid was trespassin’, Craig,” Blake rapped. “Pokin’ his damn nose where he shouldn’t!”

  “You filthy bully!” Brett Craig erupted. “A kid of six happens to climb into your wagon and you whip him like he’s a grown-up thief!”

  “This wagon’s private property,” snarled Blake. “We’ve valuable things inside—the kid could have broken somethin’ real important.”

  “Like what?” Huss Whittaker demanded, advancing from the fire.

  “Minin’ instruments,” Eli McKay spoke up quickly. “Real intricate ones that a kid wandering around could easy break. Now I don’t go along with Damien whippin’ the lad, but we don’t want kids nosing around where they might do costly harm.”

  “You whipped my boy, Blake,” Brett Craig snapped. “Now I’m gonna give you the chance to face up to someone your own size. You’ve got a gun—make your play!”

  Blake stared at him. Janie took hold of Pete’s arm and dragged him clear.

  “Wait!” Shane Preston paced between them. “There’ll be no gunplay!”

  “That bastard attacked my kid!” Craig exploded.

  “Listen—both of you,” Shane said harshly. “All of you listen! This is no time for us to go killing each other, whatever the reason! The Cheyennes are out there somewhere, and although we’ve been lucky up to now, there’s no saying we won’t get attacked before we make Fort Defiance. And if that happens, we’ll need every man and woman on this wagon train able and ready to fire a gun. This is no time for us to be burying either one of you two.”

  “Hell, Shane—” Brett Craig was still fuming.

  “Blake,” Shane turned to the beefy teamster. “I reckon you owe Craig and his lad an apology.”

  Damien Blake looked like he was going to explode again, and he glanced first at Shane, then at Brett Craig. The big teamster’s hand was inches from his gun, but slowly he drew it away.

  “Damien,” Eli McKay urged him softly.

  “It won’t happen again,” Blake relented, and stalked off into the darkness.

  Jonah edged up to his taller companion.

  “Seems like Blake’s real touchy about anyone bein’ close to his wagon,” the oldster mumbled. “Yesterday he chawed my ear just fer sittin’ on his wagon steps to roll a cigarette!”

  Shane ate his food, his eyes on the rear flap of the Blake wagon. Morton had just finished rethreading the rawhide and was tying the rope-ends into a knot.

  “Yeah,” Shane said thoughtfully, “real touchy.”

  It was past midnight, and the fire had burned low. Just a few hours before, the flames had been leaping over the logs, but now all that remained were glowing embers fanned by the chill prairie wind. The dying fire still threw out a vague semblance of warmth, but it was a warmth that didn’t reach the lonely man hunched on the far side of the hollow.

  Huston Whittaker’s vigil was almost over. In just a half hour, Shane would come out of the camp to replace him, and the gunfighter would remain on guard until the grayness of dawn showed above the eastern plateau.

  Now Whittaker rubbed his hands together. He had considered walking back to camp for a sip of whisky to warm his belly, but thought better of it. The lives of a lot of sleeping people were entrusted to his vigilance, and his senses had to be completely alert. Anyhow, in just a few minutes Shane would take over and he could return to his wagon bed and doze beside his sleeping wife.

  It was the cracking of a twig that startled him.

  Instinctively, Huston Whittaker dropped a hand to the cold steel of his Winchester. He stood up in the darkness. He heard another sharp snap coming from the other side of the hollow. Maybe it was some animal prowling. Nevertheless, he was on guard, and the sound had to be investigated. He began to circle the sides of the hollow, passing the silent wagons. He gripped his gun as he paused and searched the night. All he could hear was the eerie moan of the wind.

  Treading softly, he glided right around the other side of the camp. Standing there beside a clump of brush, he listened intently. Apart from the wind, he heard nothing. He was about to walk back to his station when some sixth sense made him look up.

  Whittaker froze as he glimpsed the moving figure, a dark silhouette against the moon. The man was right on the crest of the hollow, and Huston Whittaker’s eyes watched him as he ran swiftly along the rim, finally to vanish into the darkness.

  The wagon master clambered up the side of the hollow. He clawed at the long grass to lever himself higher, and breathing heavily, he climbed to the crest. Below him, the wagon camp was sleeping. Beyond stretched the prairie, dark and mysterious under the jeweled void.

  Whittaker glanced around him, then made for the place where the figure had disappeared. Pausing, the emigrant looked hard into the grass until his eyes found a spot where the dry stalks had been flattened. Whittaker edged to the trail that had been made into the prairie, and with his rifle poised, he pushed his way into the grass.

  Suddenly, out here, away from the camp, he felt very much alone. He stole a quick glance over his shoulder before he inched carefully along the trail of flattened grass.

  He dropped as the sound of low voices came to him.

  Just ahead, framed in the ghostly moonlight, were three figures. One was Eli McKay, and he was talking in soft tones and gesticulating with two men who were sitting astride ponies. Shaking, Whittaker eased his shoulders up, and peered over the top of the grass.

  A terrible coldness lanced through him as he glimpsed the bronze faces and aquiline noses of McKay’s companions. The riders were naked above the waist, lean and bony, and long, raven hair splashed down over their shoulders.

  “Where’s Vittorio?” he heard McKay ask.

  The tallest Indian looked down at the teamster. For a moment, he said nothing. Then:

  “Vittorio come soon,” the Cheyenne buck stated in a harsh, guttural tone.

  McKay moved right up to the tall brave’s horse.

  “And the gold?” the white man snapped.

  Concealed in the grass, Huss Whittaker heard the second Indian laugh softly.

  “It is here,” the Indian said.

  “Where?” McKay insisted.

  “Vittorio will hand over the gold when the white-eyes give us what we want.”

  “You’ll have them sure enough,” McKay assured them. “We haven’t come all this way for nothin’! We’ve brought a whole damn wagon-load of rifles, enough to make Vittorio and all of you happy.”

  Frozen with horror, Whittaker saw the tall Indian slide like a snake from his pony.

  “And ammunition?” the savage wanted to know.

  McKay replied, “Enough to last you all for one helluva long time—more than a year.”

  “Where is Blake?” The tall Cheyenne changed the subject abruptly.

  “He’ll be here soon.”

  “That is good,” the redskin nodded. “Vittorio arranged this with Blake—he wants him here.”
>
  Anger was pulsing through Whittaker now. He’d been fooled into believing that Blake and his two companions were genuine settlers, prospectors on the way west to prospect for gold. Well, there was gold waiting for them, all right, gold in exchange for running rifles to these renegades! This was obviously a prearranged rendezvous and Blake had been using the wagon train as a cover to run his dangerous cargo to the Cheyennes. Now Whittaker understood why Damien Blake had treated Pete Craig so brutally for poking a head into his wagon. Holding his breath, Whittaker decided to crawl backwards through the grass. The emigrants had to be alerted and this vile trade prevented. Like all frontiersmen, Huss Whittaker knew the terrible cost in lives and property when Indians with rifles went on a rampage.

  He edged backwards, hearing McKay laugh as he tried to show one of the Indians how to roll a cigarette.

  All at once the wagon master saw a booted foot inches from his face.

  Filled with a terrible fear, he screwed his head sideways and squinted up. Damien Blake was straddling him and his gun was leveled at Whittaker’s head.

  “Get up!” Blake snarled.

  Damien Blake’s voice carried to McKay and the two Indians, and their faces whipped around in the night.

  “I’ve met lowdown buzzards in my time, Blake,” said Whittaker as he propped himself up on his arms. “But lousy gunrunners beat them all!”

  “Quit the sermon and get up!”

  Reb Morton was standing right behind Blake.

  “And leave that gun in the grass!”

  McKay and the two Cheyennes were approaching as Huston Whittaker gradually eased his frame out of the prairie grass and stood up. The wind ruffled his hair as he faced the gunrunners. They ringed him, white men and Indians, five of them, and it was the loneliest moment of his life.

  “Whittaker,” Blake’s voice was hoarse. “Start walkin’!”

  Morton fingered the handle of his knife, and a grim smile played over his lips.

  Whittaker hesitated.