by Cole Shelton
The riders moved into the wide street, heading past two sets of hastily-erected buildings. Some of the pioneers had simply planted their wagons along the edges of the street, and more than one home had been built onto the side of a prairie schooner. There were more substantial buildings, like the Cattlemen’s Bank and the Town Hall, and the Golden Garter was a big two-storey complex of iron and clapboard. The saloon front was painted a gaudy gold, but the paintwork had been marred by mud-splashes. There was, as Shane had been informed, no law in Gun Creek. The residents had built a jailhouse, and work had commenced on a law office, but a large notice swung from the tie rail out front.
WANTED—THE FIRST SHERIFF OF GUN CREEK.
$60 per month.
APPLY TO MAYOR FREDERICK CANDICE
It was a primitive community. No boardwalks lined the street, and the gun hawks rode their horses in deep dust which would become a quagmire after rain. An old tub served as a water trough. There were two general stores, and the smallest one had no window—just a big aperture in the front wall. Shane noticed that the alleys branching away from Front Street were mostly lined by lean-to shacks and the remains of wagons.
Gun Creek in its present condition reminded Shane of the northern boom towns which sprang up around a gold strike, but he told himself that as more emigrants poured west and settled around the town, amenities would follow. Sorenson was probably right. Next fall there would be a church. He glanced aside at the preacher. Abel Sorenson had lost some of his starchiness on the long trek, and Shane now admired the man. The preacher, too, was a pioneer, and it would take a measure of courage to build a church in a raw, rough town like Gun Creek.
Shane reined in beside a gaily-painted wagon which almost straddled the street. A portly little man wearing a bow-tie, silk shirt, and matching gray pants and derby, beamed at the three strangers. Arrayed on a long shelf attached to the length of his wagon was a variety of bottles and cans.
“Good afternoon, gents,” the travelling salesman boomed. “Can I interest you in salts for the liver, tonic water, liniment or maybe pills guaranteed to prevent fever before it strikes you? The name, by the way, is Adam Buckle, travelling doctor, and since there is no medico in Gun Creek and folks have to travel to Fort Defiance for treatment, then you would do well to stock up on medicinals.”
Shane picked up one of his bottles of red tonic water and noted the price was one dollar.
“Of course,” Adam Buckle murmured confidentially, “should you prefer some—er—good strong brandy, for medicinal purposes only, you understand, then right here in my wagon I have the very best you can buy—”
“Mr. Buckle,” Shane addressed the salesman, “maybe I’ll come back and take a look-see at your wares, but first I’d like a little information.”
“Ask away.” Adam Buckle puffed out his chest.
“We’re looking for three men—prospectors,” Shane told him.
“Blake, Morton and McKay,” Adam Buckle recited.
The gunslingers exchanged glances at the swift reply, and Abel Sorenson frowned.
“You seem to know who we’re looking for,” Shane murmured.
“Everyone’s looking for Blake, Morton and McKay,” the salesman grinned. “So I naturally assumed that you were, too. Most everyone I talk to is looking for those three gentlemen.”
“Why’s that?” Jonah demanded.
“They struck it rich!” The salesman spread his hands. “They cashed their gold nuggets and it’s been drinks on the house in the Golden Garter ever since last night. Mind you, I figure they can afford it! The bank manager happened to let slip that those three lucky prospectors banked enough money from the sale of those nuggets to set them up for life! They’re mighty popular boys right now—in fact, since they’re buying drinks all round, you could say they’re this town’s heroes!”
“Heroes!” Sorenson said indignantly.
“Pity about that wagon train they were travelling on, however. But then, it goes to show how in spite of tragedy, Lady Luck can shine on honest men.”
The preacher was about to blurt out something, but Jonah cautioned him with a soft word.
“You’re—ah—friends of the three prospectors?” Adam Buckle asked.
“We know them,” Shane said.
“Well,” Buckle nodded over at the saloon, “you’ll find them in the Golden Garter—been there since last night, celebrating. First time the saloon’s been open all night in the history of Gun Creek!”
“A painted Jezebel!” Sorenson exclaimed as a scantily-clad saloon girl sauntered out of the Golden Garter.
She was a vivacious redhead dressed in a low-cut flimsy gown and she stood in front of the swinging batwings with a challenging air. Jonah grinned at her but Sorenson snorted in disgust.
“Jezebel!” Sorenson repeated.
“You a Bible-thumper, or something, mister?” Adam
Buckle frowned at him.
“The Lord has guided me here to build a church,” Abel Sorenson stated. “And to speak out against dens of iniquity!”
Buckle reached for one of his medicinal brandies and took a swift swig.
“I wish you luck, Reverend,” the salesman gulped. “Because you’re gonna damn well need it!”
The three riders left the travelling salesman to mutter to himself and crossed the street to where at least thirty horses and rigs were lining the tie rails.
“Abel,” Shane murmured, “I reckon it’s about time for you to go looking for vacant plots.”
Sorenson glanced at Shane and Jonah. There was a coldness in their eyes, and he saw that their hands were resting on their gun butts. They were men who were about to ply their trade, and in a very short while there would be death in Gun Creek.
“Maybe—maybe this isn’t exactly good theology,” Sorenson whispered, “but I’ll be praying for you.”
“You do that,” Shane murmured.
They could hear the clink of glasses and loud, raucous laughter coming from inside the Golden Garter, and the redhead outside the batwings gave them a welcome smile. Shane ignored her as he slipped from Snowfire’s back.
“Howdy, boys!” the percentage girl greeted them. “Strangers in town?”
“Yeah,” said Shane. Someone had started to play the piano in the saloon, and the jigging notes were wafted out over the batwings.
“Then welcome to the Golden Garter,” said the girl, her frank eyes moving over Shane Preston in an appreciative manner. “You’ve come at the right time, boys! Drinks are free—paid for by the most popular three fellers ever to set foot in Gun Creek! In fact, if you’re hankering to spend some time with a lady like me, then those generous prospectors might even pay for that if you just ask them. They’re loaded with cash, boys! But you’ll have to hurry. You see, they’re planning to leave town soon, could be sundown.”
Shane eased past her and stood at the batwings.
The Golden Garter was full to capacity. There was a heaving sea of men inside, drinking, gambling, laughing and dancing with percentage girls. Liquor was flowing like a river from two wooden barrels perched on the bar counter, and saloon patrons were lining up to recharge their glasses. A bald-headed man was clowning at the piano. Shane ran his gaze over the patrons. Most of them were bearded, hard-bitten pioneers relishing the free liquor and singing the praises of their benefactors. For the three killers, however, this was merely a token gesture, and the cost to them would be small compared with the loot they had just lodged in the bank. Not understanding the real value of white man’s gold, the renegades had paid dearly for their rifles.
Shane’s eyes found McKay. He was swigging a bottle of redeye at the center table, and perched on his lap was an underage saloon girl. Right behind him, guffawing and joking with several men, stood Reb Morton. Shane searched for Damien Blake, finally finding him over at the bar, surrounded by drinking patrons. The gun-runners were enjoying themselves, whooping it up with the proceeds of the gold.
“What’s your name?” Shane asked th
e girl.
“Anita,” she pouted.
“And where’s your room, Anita?”
“Upstairs,” Anita smiled seductively. “Number Five. Right on the balcony. Why, mister? You planning on spending some time with me?”
Shane took out a wad of bills from his pocket and Anita’s eyes glowed like stars.
“What’s more,” he said, “I don’t have to ask those three prospectors to pay you. I’m a man who pays for his own female company.”
“Follow me,” she smiled.
Anita made sure she brushed tantalizingly against him as she swayed for the batwings.
“There’s just one thing,” Shane arrested her.
“Oh?”
“I’m a mite shy,” the gunfighter said in a whisper.
She placed a soft hand on his arm. “Don’t worry, mister! I’m an expert at handling shy men!”
“I mean,” he said hastily, “I’m too shy to walk with you right through that saloon and up the stairs with everyone looking on and—well—knowing what I’m going for!”
She frowned, then brightened.
“Look, mister,” she said, her hand still toying with his arm, “this is strictly against the rules, you understand, but with a special case like you, I’m willing to make an exception. I’ll take you in the rear entrance and up the back stairs that lead to my room.”
“I sure am grateful, Anita,” Shane grinned warmly. Anita planted her hands on her hips and scrutinized him with a long stare.
“You know, you don’t look the shy type!”
“But I am,” he reassured her.
“Come on, then.”
“I’ll just have a word with my sidekick first,” Shane excused himself.
He turned towards the grinning Jonah.
“Just mosey inside and keep your head down,” the tall gunfighter told him. “Don’t attract the attention of those three killers.”
“And you?”
“You’ll see me on the balcony when I’m ready,” the tall gunfighter said aside.
“Well,” the oldster chuckled softly, “don’t get lost in that filly’s room!”
Shane turned and followed the percentage girl along the front of the saloon, moving with her down the side alley.
Sorenson, who hadn’t as yet left, was looking aghast. “Don’t worry, Abel,” Jonah grinned. “Shane’s safe. He doesn’t hanker after redheads!”
Leaving the preacher standing by his horse, Jonah Jones slipped unobtrusively between the batwings. He spotted a vacant table in the far corner, and slouched to it through the sawdust and empty liquor bottles.
Jonah slumped down on a chair, head lowered. He placed his gun on his lap under the table.
Ten – Trail’s End Showdown
“Well, now,” Anita purred as she closed the side door, “how about a drink first?”
“Rye,” Shane said, as she crossed the pink carpet to the liquor closet beside her bed.
This was no ordinary whore’s room, he told himself. It was spotlessly clean, and his eye was taken by the satin bedspread that stretched alluringly on her four-poster. There was a hand-carved dressing table, and in front of this, a mahogany stool and two chairs.
But Shane only gave the furnishings a brief glance as his attention became fixed on the other door right opposite the street window. Anita had obligingly led him up the side passage and they’d entered by the door next to the dressing table, but now he looked long and hard at the other one.
“That door,” she murmured, seeing his attention focused on the latch, “leads onto the balcony, and a shy man wouldn’t want to walk out there.”
She swayed towards him with a glass of whisky.
“Now, mister,” she said, getting down to business straight away, “there’s the small matter of paying me …”
He pulled out ten dollars and placed them on her dressing table. She lowered her eyes, sitting at the mirror and brushing her flaming hair while Shane downed his drink in a single gulp.
“Well, mister,” she said, swiveling around on her stool, figuring it was time to drop the small-talk, “whenever you’re ready.”
But Shane had lifted the latch, and when she saw the black-handled six-shooter in his hand, Anita stifled a scream.
“Just stay right here, ma’am,” the gunfighter ordered her.
He edged outside onto the balcony and closed the door.
The saloon uproar rose to meet him, and as he padded to the head of the stairs, he saw the source of the current merriment. An old-timer, obviously under the influence of too much whisky, was stomping on the bar counter. Now, the folks had probably seen such antics before, but this time a touch of spice had been added. The old fool had taken off his Levis, and was dancing in his long, woolen underwear. Suddenly he slipped and crashed into the crowd who helped him to his feet and heaved him back onto the bar.
Shane’s eyes went to the big oil-lamp chandelier hanging above the saloon floor.
Still no one had noticed him as he leveled his six-shooter and thumbed back the hammer. He squeezed the trigger and the thunder rocked the Golden Garter. A saloon girl screamed hysterically as the chandelier plummeted down and crashed into the crowd. Drinkers and tinhorns scrambled away as glass flew in all directions. Light from the wall-lamps was enough to illuminate the scene. Then a deep hush settled over the Golden Garter, as every eye looked up at the tall man dressed in black and holding his six-shooter with smoke curling from the muzzle.
“Hell!” McKay’s exclamation broke the silence as he stared upwards at the gunfighter.
Morton whimpered, staring white-faced as if he were looking at a ghost. “Preston!”
“Blake! Morton! McKay!” Shane spat out the names with cold vehemence. “Stand clear of the crowd!”
Damien Blake was shaking, but nevertheless, he was the first gun-runner to tread into the space cleared when the falling chandelier sent the patrons scurrying. Reb Morton followed him, eyes still bulging his disbelief, and last of all McKay came and stood tentatively beside his companions.
“What in the hell’s goin’ on?” a towner yelled from the gaping crowd.
Shane pointed his gun at Blake. “I’ll tell you what’s going on! I’ve come to deal with three murdering gunrunners who sold rifles to the Cheyennes!”
A murmur floated through the crowd.
“Men of Gun Creek!” Damien Blake kept his hand conspicuously away from his gun as he addressed them confidently. “I’ll tell you who this man is and why he’s acting loco! He’s had a grudge against me and my boys for years, and at last he’s caught up with us! Now, you can believe his fool story about gun-running if you like—or you can help me get rid of him and we’ll return to our fun! Remember, we’re the boys who’ve been paying for your drinks!”
“And you’re the boys who gave the Cheyennes rifles for their gold,” Shane Preston grated.
“What the heck are you talkin’ about, mister?” the towner yelled again. “These are three prospectors who survived a wagon train massacre and who happened to strike it rich on their way here.”
“I’ve heard what their story is,” Shane stated grimly. “Now I’ll tell you the truth and you can all stand aside while I deal with them. These lousy polecats used a wagon train to run rifles to the Indian renegades, leaving the emigrants to die while they rode off with the Cheyenne gold.”
“Blake!” McKay rapped. “Shut him up—”
“You can’t prove that!” Damien Blake challenged.
“That’s where you’re wrong, Blake.” The gun was steady in Shane’s iron fist. “There are emigrants now at Fort Defiance who’ll back up my story and confirm what stinking liars you three are. And it’s quite easy for the citizens of this town to prove for themselves. It’s a real short ride to Fort Defiance.”
“Gun-running’s a serious offence,” a stubble-faced towner spoke up. “Reckon we owe it to ourselves to check out his story.”
“Meantime,” another patron grunted, “we could lock these men up i
n the jail. It’s as good a time as any to give that cell block its baptism.”
“Listen—all of you!” Damien Blake spoke strongly. “We’ve been buying you drinks! We’re your friends! What the heck has that no-account saddle bum ever done for you?”
The saloon patrons were edging away now, and suddenly the three prospectors stood very much alone in the center of the saloon with the shattered pieces of the chandelier sprinkled around them. Blake looked around desperately at the men he’d spent money on, but there was no sympathy on their faces.
“I’m riding to the fort,” someone said at the batwings. “I’ll check out the truth and come back in a few minutes.”
Ashen-faced, the gun-runners exchanged frantic glances.
“Take the bastard!” Blake whispered.
McKay groped for his gun, and Morton glanced around wildly as he too slapped leather. There was a wild, hysterical scream from one of the saloon girls as Shane’s six-shooter belched. The bullet smashed into Eli McKay’s ribs, carrying him backwards over a poker table. The chips and cards flew, and as men fled farther away, McKay dropped like a log in the sawdust.
Morton’s gun boomed from the hip, and the tall gunfighter darted to one side as the bullet ripped into the satin drapes behind him. Suddenly another shot thundered from the body of the saloon, and Reb Morton caught a bullet in the side of his head. Clawing the wound, he spun around, firing again as Jonah stood there with a smoking gun in his hand.
The second slug from the killer’s gun bored into Jonah’s shoulder, and the old-timer clutched it with a yelp. Like a wounded animal at bay, Jonah Jones backed as he fired twice in rapid succession. Two black craters opened in Morton’s chest and he died on his feet, finally to crumple down and sprawl at Damien Blake’s boots.
Blake hadn’t moved.
The gun-runner had his hands high, and he smirked at Shane as he came slowly down the stairs.
“You won’t shoot a man who’s surrendered, Preston,” Blake grinned mirthlessly.