Shane and Jonah 5

by Cole Shelton

  The Craig kids were hauled aboard. Tim Whittaker was grabbed by his mother and dumped in front of her. Abel Sorenson moved forward in the saddle and Juanita vaulted up behind him. With guns slotted in holsters, belts and saddlebags, and with food tied in sacks, the fugitives kicked their horses into a run.

  Shane led the way out of the wagon circle, setting his hard face for the dark outline of the ranges. He rode swiftly, topping the hollow and striking out across the grass. The emigrants did not look back, lashing their horses away from the camp. Riding ahead, it was Shane who first saw the spread-eagled shape.

  “Jonah,” he called the oldster to him, “make sure Gloria keeps riding.”

  “Huh?”

  Then the oldster saw the reason, and with a nod, he seized the woman’s reins and spurred Tessie to move faster as Shane veered away from the line.

  Shane headed over to the dark tangle of limbs and flesh. The long knife was buried to the hilt in Huss Whittaker’s back, and the gunfighter felt anger in the pit of his belly as he glimpsed the bloodied mess at the crown of the wagon master’s head. The savages had taken the body here to secure their grisly trophy. There was no time to stay, so Shane wheeled Snowfire, and the horse loped back to the others.

  Wordlessly, they rode for the high country. Soon the plateau was broken up by deep ravines and long, grassy slopes that climbed towards the towering rims. Still Shane urged them on, not stopping to rest as they plunged through a pass. The horses slowed to a walk as the grassy ridge angled higher. Here and there patches of pumice rock stood out and Shane told the emigrants to ride over the hard rock to make their trail more difficult to follow.

  The wind lashed them as they mounted the slope, a cold, biting wind from the north. The riders bowed their heads and wrapped coats and blankets around the kids. Shane led them higher, searching for the mouth of the pass—the gateway to the high country.

  Finally he reined in under the knife-edged walls of the rock passage, and Shane turned in the saddle as the others filed up behind him.

  “Look!” Sorenson pointed a quivering finger down at the prairie. “Fire!”

  “They’ve put torches to the wagons,” Shane murmured as the bitter wind whistled down the high pass.

  There was a crimson glow in the darkness, and a vast pall of smoke was curling into the starlit sky. Tongues of fire were leaping wildly upwards, throwing out dancing shadows in the night. Shane glanced at the faces of the emigrants, sensing their frustration and feelings of defeat. They’d transported their treasured belongings all this way, through flood and desert, only to see them become a pyre so close to the Promised Land.

  “Some of my books were priceless,” Abel Sorenson whispered to Juanita as she clung to him on the horse. “But I did manage to bring one with me.”

  He patted his saddlebag.

  “Your big Bible?” she guessed softly.

  He shook his head.

  “Jonah said it’d be too heavy and take up too much room,” Sorenson said. “I’ve just a small New Testament in my saddlebag, one I received when I graduated.”

  “That’s all you’ll need when you start your new church in Gun Creek,” Juanita said reassuringly, her hands clasped around his chest.

  “If we reach Gun Creek,” Abel Sorenson said.

  “Abel,” she spoke gently now, almost chidingly, “where’s that faith of yours, the faith you preach about?”

  He turned his head around, and momentarily their eyes met.

  “Let’s move,” Shane said.

  The walls of the pass rose sheer on both sides as the cavalcade pushed upwards. Here the clay had given way to solid rock, and the hoofs clattered as they rode. Once, the walls seemed almost to meet but there was a gap just wide enough for a horse, and one by one, they squeezed through. The floor of the pass became slippery, fed by tiny cascades of water trickling out of the rock face.

  Quite suddenly, the pass widened dramatically.

  Shane prodded Snowfire to the rim, sitting saddle as the pink fingers of sunrise began to stretch out over the high country. The darkness fled, and Shane lifted his eyes to the far-off peaks. The snow-coned mountains rose like a stockade, a dark, forbidding barrier, the last refuge of the bear and timber wolf. Shane picked out the narrow semblance of a trail along which he had intended taking the wagon train, but because the Cheyennes would probably consider that this would be the trail they’d follow, the scout decided to lead his charges straight across country, ignoring the known trail.

  The fugitives headed into the new day, twisting down from the rim. They rode over a craggy stretch of rock, following Shane as he moved into a deep ravine. The sun showed above the eastern ridges as the wilderness beckoned the emigrants deeper into its rugged jaws.

  The long day went by.

  The noon heat was abating, and the shadows lengthening over the boulder-strewn canyon as the riders picked their way through. A great eagle swooped across their path, and from the cave-lined wall of the canyon, a mountain lion watched the travelers pass.

  The horses were tired now, flecked with foam. A couple of them carrying two burdens began to stumble, and reluctantly, Shane raised his hand for a halt.

  The emigrants dismounted wearily. Janie Craig slumped down on a boulder and wiped the grimy sweat from her face. Eager fingers unscrewed canteen tops, and Shane Preston stood apart from the others to build a cigarette.

  “Jonah!”

  The oldster ambled over, swigging what everyone else thought was water from his canteen. In actual fact, as Shane only knew, it was a mite more fiery than water and considerably stronger.

  “What’s on, pard?”

  “Trouble catching up with us,” Shane Preston told the oldster, keeping his voice low.

  “Cheyennes?” The old gunslinger sounded almost casual.

  “Seen them twice since noon,” Shane murmured, poking the cigarette between his lips.

  “Hell!” Jonah Jones grunted.

  “Only saw a couple of them, but there could be others,” the tall gunfighter informed him. “Last time I caught sight of them was when we moved into this canyon. The riders were behind us on that saw-tooth ridge, just sitting their ponies and watching.”

  “You never said anything,” Jonah accused.

  “I kept it to myself because I didn’t want folks to panic,” Shane muttered. “Anyway, the riders were too far away to start shooting at us. Listen, Jonah—there are women and kids here, not to mention a preacher man who’s never fired a gun. I’m not gonna let them know about trouble until it’s almost on us—that way there’ll be no time for panic, only action.”

  “So what happens now?” Jonah took another swig from his canteen and some of the red liquid spilled down over his beard.

  “I want to find out how many of them we have to face when the time comes,” Shane said. He lit his cigarette.

  “And that means I go take a look-see,” the old-timer guessed with a grin.

  “That’s right, Jonah.” Shane dragged on his cigarette and let his eyes wander over the Craig kids as they played around a clump of boulders. “When folks ask questions about you riding out, I’ll just say you’re checking. Okay?”

  “When do I leave?”

  “I reckon now’s as good a time as any,” Shane said quietly. “I’ll be taking them west of that peak and we’ll wait for you there, right under that black rock rim—”

  Jonah’s aged eyes picked out the landmark and he nodded.

  “Don’t get into any trouble,” Shane advised him. “Unless—”

  “Unless what?” Jonah asked suspiciously.

  “If there’s only a couple of ’em and you can pick ’em off with a rifle before they can make cover. Don’t go tangling with the whole Cheyenne Nation!”

  Jonah ran his hand through his mop of white hair.

  “I aim to keep my scalp, so there’s no chance of me playin’ hero,” Jonah said bluntly.

  “See you in a couple of hours,” Shane farewelled him.

  He
watched his trail-partner amble away to old Tessie and mount up. Jonah didn’t look back as he headed down the canyon, and Shane waited as the emigrants clustered around him for an explanation.

  “Figured it might pay for someone to check the back-trail.” Shane sounded casual.

  The folks glanced at each other.

  “Check for—for Indian-sign, Shane?” Janie Craig spoke for them all.

  Shane flicked the ash from his cigarette.

  “Time to move on out,” the gunfighter said.

  “Damn grizzly!” Jonah Jones cursed as the mountain bear grunted and lumbered out of its cave.

  The bear, disturbed in its lair by this bearded human, padded away in disgust and irritation. The huge animal clambered down the ledge and plunged into the brush below, while Jonah backed a little farther into the cave. The bear-stench was formidable, but Jonah pegged his nostrils with two fingers while he gradually accustomed himself to the odor.

  He squatted down, using his elevated position to watch the entrance to the canyon. By now, the shadows were deepening, and the sun was merely a vague outline in the west. Already the wind was chilled and the old gunfighter told himself that it would be a freezing night in the high country. He smoked a cigarette as he maintained his lofty vigil over the canyon.

  Nothing moved below him.

  Two cigarettes later, he edged a little closer to the entrance of the cave to survey the terrain beyond the canyon. It was wreathed in stillness. Yet not once did he question Shane’s orders. He’d ridden with the black-garbed gun hawk for a long time, and if Shane said he’d seen Indians, they were out there some place, for sure.

  Suddenly, he heard the dull thud of hoofs, and flattened himself against the wall of the cave. The sound seemed to come from right above the cave, and Jonah gripped his gun in a clenched fist as the hoof thuds reverberated through the hollow cavern. There was a long moment of silence, then a shadow fell over the mouth of the cave, and Jonah saw the Indian ride past. Just a few seconds later, more unshod hoofs came into view, and looking up, the old gun hawk gazed at the lean, copper-hued body of the rider. He glimpsed his hawk-like features as they slid past him. Sweat was breaking over Jonah’s face as he realized that his plan to stake out high and watch the canyon below might have proved his undoing. The Indians had been keeping to the high ridges themselves, and now they were riding this ledge which hugged the valley wall.

  Jonah crept to the entrance.

  The riders would just be ahead of him on this narrow ledge, and two well-directed bullets would put an end to their menace once and for all. The hapless Cheyennes would have no room to maneuver and his slugs would cut them down.

  Thus thinking, Jonah was about to sneak out onto a ledge when he was startled by the sound of more hoofs. Hastily, he drew back, melting into the shadows as first one, then three more bucks rode past the mouth of the cave.

  He waited for fully two minutes before crawling cautiously to the ledge.

  The Cheyenne braves were filing away from him now, and he breathed a long sigh of relief. He slid his gun into his holster, telling himself that he certainly wasn’t about to take on six Indians. They were obviously a scouting party from the main bunch, and Jonah figured that the main force of the renegades would be following the normal trail. The oldster watched the riders picking their way along the ledge. Each man carried a rifle. There was no doubt that these scouts had seen the fugitives, and rather than return to fetch the main bunch, they were intending to grab all the glory for themselves.

  Jonah waited until the last rider was out of sight.

  He moved out of the cave and clambered down into the canyon.

  Moving with surprising agility, Jonah ran through the brush below the cave, loping to the tree where he’d tethered Tessie. He swung into the saddle and headed to the verge of the rim. Somehow he had to sneak past those Cheyennes and get back to the emigrants.

  Eight – Hell Trail!

  Dusk was a gray shroud over the high country, dropping like a mist over the ridges. Already it held the towering rim in a darkening hand as Jonah slipped from his mount where Shane was waiting for him.

  “Six of them,” the old gun hawk announced. “Scouts from the main bunch, I reckon.”

  Shane glanced over to where the emigrants were eating together. There was no fire, but uncooked food was better than nothing at all. They were weary, and one of Janie’s lads was fast asleep out of sheer exhaustion.

  “Sure the main bunch is nowhere around?”

  “Sure as I can be,” Jonah said.

  “Then we have to take care of these six scouts,” Shane mused.

  “All toting rifles, too,” the oldster growled. “Shane—they ain’t far away. Last time I saw them, they were moving this way under the peak.”

  Shane gazed up at the mountain. There was a long, low ridge which seemed to protrude right out of the side of the escarpment, and any riders heading for the rim would have to cross its flat face. In any case, the Indians would see their trail among the patches of pine needles they’d been unable to avoid.

  “They’re devils!” Jonah mouthed. “I watched them, Shane—saw them picking up our trail over hard rock!”

  “They’re Injuns, remember. Go grab yourself something to eat,” said Shane.

  The tall scout paced back to the emigrants who looked up at him expectantly.

  “I want you all to listen carefully,” he told them. “And then you’ll do exactly what I say.”

  He looked at their tense faces and heard Abel Sorenson clear his throat nervously in the stillness.

  “What is it, Shane?” Brett Craig asked.

  “Jonah’s just come back with a report,” the gunslinger informed them. “There are six Cheyennes on their way here, right on our trail. Now, there’s several things in our favor. One is they’re just a scouting party, by all accounts, a long way from the main bunch. If we account for this lot, we probably won’t even run into the rest. The other thing is they don’t know that we’re aware of them coming in.”

  “Oh, God!” Janie closed her eyes.

  “Ma’am!” Shane’s voice was suddenly harsh. “We’ve all got to keep calm!”

  “I—I’m sorry!”

  Brett Craig placed a protective arm around his wife’s shoulders.

  “We’re going to stake out an ambush,” Shane Preston told them. “You see that ridge? They’ll be riding down it in just a short time, and that’s where some of us will be waiting for them.”

  “Some?” Craig asked.

  Shane ran his eyes over the emigrants.

  “I want a fire built,” the gunfighter commanded.

  “A fire!” Preacher Abel Sorenson echoed. “But—but won’t that attract them?”

  “I’m hoping it will,” Shane said. “In fact, Abel, you’ll be right here under this rim with the women and kids, sitting round the fire—and you’ll be in charge. I want it to look good and normal, just an ordinary camp. I’m hoping that the moment those varmints see the campfire, they’ll have their eyes fixed on it so they won’t see much else—until it’s too late and we have them in our sights.”

  “In other words,” Gloria Whittaker spelt out falteringly, “we’re the bait in a trap.”

  “You could put it that way, Gloria,” Shane admitted bluntly. “Our only chance is to set a trap for those renegades rather than let them creep up on us.”

  “Sounds sensible,” Juanita agreed.

  “But—but what if the ambush fails, and the Indians still ride in on the camp?” Janie shuddered.

  Shane surveyed the women one by one with his cold eyes. For a while he said nothing.

  “I want every one of you to have a loaded gun ready—just in case things don’t go according to plan.”

  Juanita leapt to her feet, a long rifle in her hand. “And who’ll be staked out on that ridge?” Juanita asked him fiercely.

  “The menfolk,” Shane returned. “All except Abel, and he’ll be looking after things by the campfire.”

>   “Shane!” the ’breed girl whispered. “You’ll need more than three in that ambush!”

  “Like I said, I decided that Abel should stay by the campfire,” he grunted.

  “I’m not talking about Abel.” Juanita’s breast heaved. “I can handle a rifle, Shane.”

  The gunfighter looked closely at her.

  “All right,” Shane conceded, after a pause, “you can come with us.”

  Sundown was a crimson streak as the pioneers hastily gathered wood for the fire. Abel Sorenson seemed like a man possessed, directing operations and personally lighting the dry pine cones under the larger pieces of timber.

  Just before he walked away from the campfire, Shane called Gloria Whittaker aside.

  “Gloria,” he said, his tone low, “I’m saying this to you because I figure you’re the best person to say it to, even though you’ve just suffered your loss.”

  “What is it, Shane?” the widow asked.

  “If the worst happens,” the gunfighter said, “you know what someone has to do.”

  Gloria looked past him at the darkness of the ridge, and then she nodded. She’d lived too long on the frontier and heard too many stories of rape and torture not to know the answer.

  “I know what I must do,” she stated gently. “No woman or child must be taken alive. Leave it to me, Shane.”

  He stalked away from her. Behind him, tongues of fire were leaping and crackling through the heap of timber. Juanita was waiting with the two men. Shane nodded to them, and they began to strike out for the ridge. They climbed the slope in silence, and finally Shane stood on the flat top. He motioned them into a crevice that crossed the rock face diagonally, and they slithered down the gritty sides.

  Shane glanced back at the camp.

  The fire down there would be seen all the way from the peak, and he had no doubt that the six Indians would already have spotted the fiery glow.

  The wagoners didn’t have long to wait.