Chapter 4

It had all started when a Chicago newspaper printed a story exposing a list of senators who had been receiving bribes from members of the Prosperity Union Investment Company. Congress had formed a special committee charged with investigating the allegations and bringing those involved to justice. It was to blossom into the biggest political scandal since Credit Mobilier.
The year was 1881.
Shane lay atop a low rise in the southern plains, spying on a ranch about a mile away. It belonged to a man called George Babson, who had recently gone to town and hired six gunfighters to protect his home. The reason was that he had a new houseguest: his brother-in-law, a man by the name of Benedict Hunte.
It was Hunte that Shane had come to kill. He was the lynchpin of the Prosperity Union scandal, an accountant who knew the names of everybody involved. A lot of powerful men stood to suffer if what he knew was ever made public, and one of those – a US congressman – had hired Shane to ensure his silence, permanently.
Hunte was no fool; he had guessed what his co-conspirators would do to him if they thought he was going to spill the beans, and when Congress had sent for him to give evidence at a special hearing he had chosen to skip town instead. It was too bad that he had run to his sister’s family for safety. Tracking him had been just too damned easy.
Getting to him was going to be trickier, however. The ranch was located way out in open country, making it difficult for anybody to get close without being seen, and it was well-protected with men and firepower.
Shane slithered back out of sight and retreated to the small copse of trees where he had tethered his horse. As he drew close to it, he saw a rider approaching from the west. It was getting time for the spring round-up and Babson had a number of cowboys working for him, some of which had been patrolling the land since Hunte’s arrival. Shane quickly ducked out of sight among the trees.
The rider was a younger man than Shane by maybe five or six years and looked handsome and strong. He wore a Smith and Wesson Model Three Russian revolver and, judging by the way he carried himself in relation to it, Shane figured that he was not one of Babson’s men. This man was a professional killer of the kind that Babson could not afford and had likely come to kill Hunte.
Shane was not overly surprised to find that he had competition. Given the number of powerful men who were liable to suffer if Hunte testified, it was not unthinkable that several of them might have despatched assassins to ensure he didn’t make it to the committee. Shane held back among the trees and watched as the man rode closer. He was headed straight for him, no doubt figuring, as Shane had, that it was a good place to leave his horse while he climbed up onto the ridge to get a feel for what he was up against. When he had drawn within fifty paces – close enough that he was in pistol range but far enough away that only a well-aimed shot could kill – Shane stepped out into the open. He kept his guns holstered but his hands ready.
The man reined in before him and mentally assessed him before deciding not to go for his gun either. ‘Looks like I chose me a popular place to take a rest,’ he said.
‘There’s not a lot of shade in these parts.’ Shane replied. The exchange was amicably done.
The man nodded past him at the ridge. ‘I hear the Babson ranch is over there.’
‘It is.’ Shane confirmed.
‘I heard he bought himself some gunfighters.’
‘Nobody special, but add them to what he’s got and there’s more than twenty guns there now, and no cover for close to a quarter mile in any direction.’
‘Sounds like it’d be best to go in at night.’
‘That’s what I figured.’
Shane walked over to his horse and unhitched the reins without ever once letting the man slip out of his peripheral vision. He was ready to reach for his gun at the slightest provocation.
‘You’re Shane Ennis, aren’t you?’
Shane did not reply. He mounted his horse and turned her around in the direction of town. The stranger fell in beside him. ‘You are, aren’t you? Shit and buggery!’ He whistled through his teeth. ‘I never thought there’d come the day when I’d meet you. I’m Castor Buchanan.’
‘The man who shot Rick Valentine?’
‘Hey, you’ve heard of me! Ain’t that a breeze.’
Castor Buchanan was a killer with the sort of reputation that a certain breed loved to foster. To him, killing was less a vice and more a pleasure. He was a brutal and sadistic man whose fondness of torture and rape bordered on the demonic. He was also a very talented gunfighter, almost as good as Shane in fact. ‘I wouldn’t have reckoned on you having heard of me, a big shot like you,’ he said.
‘I keep my ear to the ground.’
‘Like a fucking Apache.’ Buchanan laughed. ‘Hey white man, heap many men want you dead.’
‘Very funny.’
They rode on in silence for a time. Presently, Shane began wondering if they had rode far enough that a gunshot would not be heard at the Babson Ranch and contemplated killing his rival before Buchanan got the drop on him instead. He was just about to reach for his gun when Buchanan spoke: ‘It could get messy.’
Shane stayed his hand. He could not be sure if Buchanan had read his intention or not, but if the man wanted to talk, Shane was of a mood to let him.
‘The two of us being hired for the same job like this; we can’t both get paid, now can we?’ Buchanan grinned like he had said something funny. ‘So we kill each other now and get it over with, but what does that solve, right? We still got all those men back at the ranch to contend with and that’s not likely to be easy, not for just one of us on his own. So whaddya say we team up? We can settle our differences afterward. Partner?’
Shane would later regret not killing him when he had the chance, but at the time he had weighed his options and foolishly answered: ‘Sure.’

It was getting late in Covenant and the daylight was beginning to fade when Buchanan came to collect Shane from his cell. He was taken across the road to O’Malley’s Saloon.
Shane saw other men go in ahead of them. ‘Nathaniel’s drawing lots tonight to decide who fights who in the first round.’ Buchanan explained. ‘No prizes for guessing who’s already asked to fight against you.’
‘What did Nathaniel tell him?’
‘Refused him of course. The matches are picked at random, those are the rules.’
‘The Fastest Guns never used to care much for rules.’
‘No.’ Buchanan agreed. ‘But you’ll find there’ve been a few changes made since you knew them last.’ He stepped up to the saloon’s butterfly-wing doors and pushed them open.
The atmosphere in the saloon was tense and fragile as glass. Shane counted about a dozen men spread throughout the room, each with at least the space of a table separating him from his closest neighbour. A flight of stairs climbed to a gallery on the first floor, where whores had used to ply their trade in small private rooms. Three of Nathaniel’s invigilators occupied the gallery now, armed with Winchester repeating rifles and standing vigilantly over the men below.
Everybody had turned to face the new arrivals and Shane felt the weight of their scrutiny bear down upon him. Buchanan shrugged it off and strode across the room to the untended bar, where he poured himself a drink. Shane joined him.
‘Did you ever see such a mean bunch of desperadoes all crammed into one place?’ Buchanan said loudly. He slid a shot glass full of whisky into Shane’s waiting hand. Shane did not drink it but slowly turned to sweep his gaze across the room.
He recognised most of the contestants gathered there, by reputation if not by face. Among them was John Devlin, the insane mass-murderer; Daniel Blaine from Canada; and Escoban Cadero, an outlaw king from the desert wastes of northern Mexico. They had come from all over the continent to compete, not for money, but to be recognised as the best of the best.
Seated with his back to an old piano was Nanache, also known as Nathan Sanders, a renegade Apache spiritwalker. He wore a faded blue US Army jacket and a grisly necklace made of finger bones, each of them supposedly cut from the hand of a gunslinger he had killed.
Across the room was a man with a star-shaped scar on his face that identified him as Evan Drager. He had been shot in the head five years ago but had miraculously managed to survive. The wound had left him in a coma for twenty-seven days, after which he had woken and proclaimed himself to be the Fastest Guns’ new holy messiah, spared from death by the bullet’s own mercy. Since then he had amassed a small cult following.
Not all of the contestants were men. A hard-faced brunette sat with her back to the wall. She wore a man’s clothes and had a .44 calibre Forehand and Wadsworth revolver strapped to her thigh. Shane had never seen her before but he knew by her reputation that she could only be the woman they called Vendetta. No other woman alive was more deadly with a gun.
She was not the only woman in the room, although the other was certainly not a contestant. She was a pretty young thing, maybe eighteen years old, with a trim figure and long blonde hair that was black at the roots. She sat on a young man’s lap, himself not more than a year or two her senior and Shane was appalled to find that a man had brought his girlfriend to watch him compete.
The girl was looking at Shane. ‘You never told me Shane Ennis was competing,’ she whispered excitedly.
The boy stopped nuzzling her and looked up. ‘Oh yeah, hey! Whatever.’ He reached his hand around her and gave her arse a squeeze.
At that moment, the butterfly-wing doors swung open and David Sullivan strode in. Everybody looked up at him and there was a moment of reckoning, then it passed and Sullivan stalked to the bar. He paused beside Shane, glared at him hatefully, then snatched up a bottle of beer and found himself a table far from anybody else.
Shane went to find a seat of his own but Buchanan laid a restraining hand on his shoulder. ‘Here’s just fine,’ he said.
The butterfly-wing doors swung open again and this time it was Nathaniel who came in. He was followed by Whisperer and two more of his invigilators who, once inside, took up flanking positions guarding the door.
Nathaniel walked over to the bar and poured himself a drink. He nodded to Buchanan and Shane. ‘Nice to see you here, Mister Ennis. In fact,’ he said, turning to include the rest of the room with a sweep of his arm. ‘It’s good to see all of you here.’
He stepped away from the bar, moving out into the centre of the room where everyone could see him. ‘In this room I see fifteen of this country’s finest gunfighters. I salute you all,’ he said, raising his glass. ‘Welcome to the second tournament of the Fastest Guns.’
Buchanan whooped and began to applaud but he was alone in openly displaying his enthusiasm. The other contestants remained tight-lipped and insular. Nathaniel took his drink with him to the stairs and climbed halfway to the gallery. From up there he towered over everyone in the saloon, imposing his authority on men who normally followed no rule save their own.
‘It has been six years since the last tournament was held,’ he said, his voice rich and flowing. ‘Since then, a new generation of gunfighters has emerged and it is time for the greatest among them – you! – to settle who is truly the best. This time there can be only one winner. For the rest of you there is only death and the anonymity of failure. But for the victor–’ Nathaniel paused, savouring the moment – ‘Lies the greatest of all treasures: immortality! The immortality that will come from being recognised as one of the legendary Fastest Guns.’
Shane glanced around the room and saw that all of the faces staring up at Nathaniel burned with ambition.
‘There are rules.’ Nathaniel said. ‘These men with the rifles whom you are all no doubt familiar with by now are here to see to it that you abide by them. If you do not–’
Every invigilator in the room cranked the lever-action of his rifle in unison, jacking a cartridge into the breach. Nathaniel let that formidable sound echo around the room before he continued: ‘I trust that I make myself clear.’
There was a deadly silence.
Nathaniel went on: ‘You are all in this to the end. In coming here you have made a commitment that you cannot go back on. You will have seen the men stationed around the perimeter of town. They will shoot anybody who tries to leave. They will also shoot anybody who tries to enter.’
He counted the second rule off on his fingers. ‘There is to be no fighting outside of the tournament. You will each of you shortly be paired with an opponent drawn at random and given a time when you will fight. You will fight only with that opponent and only at the allotted time. Any act of fist-fighting, wrestling or any attempt to draw down on another contestant will be met with lethal force, without hesitation, by my invigilators.
‘Lastly, no fight will be deemed to have finished until one of the combatants is dead. You will all fight to the death and if you do not kill your opponent with the first shot you will carry on shooting, reloading if necessary, until he is dead. The last man left standing at the end of the tournament will be deemed to be the winner by virtue of being the only survivor.’
Several of the contestants began glancing around at each other, trying to gauge who would win and who would die. Shane had made his own predictions already and they did not bode well. There was not a single fighter in the room that he was not confident he could beat, assuming of course that he chose to fight at all. He was not being cocky. It was not without good cause that men had once claimed he was the best gunfighter who had ever lived. Six years on and he was undoubtedly out of practice, but even so he knew that it would not take long for him to get back into his stride.
He just didn’t know if that was something he wanted to do. The risk was too great that if he started killing he might never stop.
Whisperer passed Nathaniel a bag, which he held up for everyone to see. ‘In this bag are the names of each contestant. Sadly, there is one contestant who is absent this evening. Her name will be drawn for her and she will be advised of her time and pairing in due course.’
‘Who is she?’ It was David Sullivan who spoke. ‘And why ain’t she here?’
‘Her name is Chastity, and she is currently resting. Chastity is . . . different.’ Nathaniel replied.
Shane had never heard of any gunfighter who went by the name of Chastity, and there were few enough women gunfighters that, if she had any reputation at all, he should have heard of her. The fact that he had not struck him as unusual. Lately, too much information that he would have expected to have heard had managed to slip him by, and he did not think it a coincidence.
Nathaniel began drawing names from the bag. ‘The first match of the first round,’ he said. ‘Will be held at half-past ten tomorrow morning, and will be fought between. . . Matt Nesbitt and David Sullivan.’
The two men each turned to look the other over. David Sullivan, the unrelenting bounty hunter and Matt Nesbitt, the die-hard lawman. Whisperer chalked their names up on a chalkboard at the foot of the stairs. Shane was relieved that his name had not been one the first to be drawn. He tensed when Nathaniel drew the second pairing:
‘Escoban Cadero and the absent Chastity. To fight at half-past-eleven.’
Cadero, the scarred Mexican outlaw, wrinkled his face in disappointment. He knew nothing of his opponent, whether she was a challenge or if he could beat her easily. He poured himself a drink and knocked it back.
Nathaniel drew again. ‘The third match will be held at half-past-twelve and will be fought between Vendetta and Luke Ferris.’
The woman gunfighter barely acknowledged the call. She stared at her table, where she had been drawing abstract images in a pool of spilt beer.
Nanache and Daniel Blaine were drawn next, followed by Tom Freeman and Kip Kutcher. Freeman was a serious-faced black man from North Carolina with more than eighty kills to his name and Kutcher was the young man who had brought his girlfriend with him. Shane was able to place him now that he knew his name. Kip Kutcher was one of a dozen or more wild young men who had made a name for themselves tearing up the Comstock Lode. He was a renowned fast draw. Supposedly, not once in over fifteen gunfights had he been the first man to draw. He was handsome and clean-shaven and dressed fine with a shiny Colt Peacemaker slung from his belt.
‘The sixth match will be fought between Evan Drager and John MacMurray and will take place at half-past three.’ Nathaniel announced
Drager nodded his approval. MacMurray, an engineer in the US Army, went back to cutting into the tips of his bullets with a pocket knife. He was renowned for his signature-kill ammunition. He cut a cross into the tip of each bullet he fired. This caused them to deform on impact, inflicting massive tissue damage. One shot was nearly always enough to kill, the massive weight of impact literally dragging the victim’s blood from his heart. The cross incisions had led most people to call him ‘The Christian’.
Shane tensed as Nathaniel reached into the bag for the fourteenth time, knowing that his own name was sure to be drawn soon.
‘The seventh match.’ Nathaniel announced. ‘Will be between Valentino Rodrigues and the Gentleman, and will be held at half-past four.’
Whisperer chalked their names up on the board. Rodrigues was a Mexican assassin and the Gentleman was one of a new breed of city gunfighters from the streets of New York. A shy and neatly-dressed man with tortoiseshell-rimmed spectacles, he looked more like a banking clerk than a gunfighter.
Nathaniel drew the last pair of names. At half-past-five the next day, Shane would fight John Devlin.
After six years abstinence, he would either kill or be killed.

The meeting ended as soon as the last pairing had been called. Vendetta kicked back her chair and was the first to leave. One by one, the saloon began to empty. John Devlin made a point to make eye-contact with Shane before he left. He was a young man, not much in his twenties but he had eyes as deep and cold as gun barrels.
‘He shot fifteen kids in a schoolhouse.’ Buchanan told Shane. ‘Killed their teacher and half the posse they sent to find him. That man sure likes to kill.’
Shane had already heard Devlin’s story and likened him to a lesser Jacob Priestley. He did not think that he would lose against him, although the thought of winning made him feel cold with dread. He began to think of what would happen to him but was distracted when Kip Kutcher walked up and stuck out his hand in greeting. Shane ignored him but Kutcher had the sort of ego that glossed over small details like rebuffal.
‘Wow, it sure is an honour to meet you Mister Ennis. I’d like to introduce myself, my name is Kip Kutcher. That’s Kip with a K, Kutcher with a K. And this here’s my girl, Madison.’
The girl ducked her gaze, feigning bashfulness. ‘Pleased to meet you, Mister Ennis.’
Shane fixed her with a withering stare. He knew her kind: gunfighter groupies. They clung to a man like lice, drinking up his fame to compensate for their own lack of character. Shane had tolerated a few in his time but never one as striking as Madison. Towards the end he had grown to scorn them for they had distracted him from what he had believed was the purity of the kill.
The girl had no place being in Covenant and Kutcher should have known better than to bring her along.
‘It’s not often that a man gets to meet a bona fide legend.’ Kutcher told Shane. ‘So I’ll understand if you’re feeling a little shy.’
He laughed at his own joke. ‘Seriously, I thought you’d retired. Don’t you know that gunfighting’s a young man’s game now?’
Shane did not rise to him, only turned and reached for his whisky glass. He was wondering if getting drunk would go any way to solving some of his problems. He decided not.
Madison dragged her boyfriend away and they left the saloon, laughing. Nathaniel came over. ‘So what do you think of the new generation of gunfighters, Mister Ennis?’
‘I think the Fastest Guns’ standards must be slipping.’
Nathaniel laughed politely. He turned to Buchanan: ‘You and I have matters to discuss. Why don’t you show Mister Ennis back to his accommodation? We’ll speak again, Shane.’
Buchanan put his hand on Shane’s arm and steered him to the door. It was dark outside. The embers of a rust-coloured sunset burned on the edge of the horizon leaving Covenant to skulk in blackness. The air was still, quiet and foreboding.
‘Less than twenty-four hours, Shane.’ Buchanan said as they crossed the street. There was excitement in his voice. ‘Don’t tell me you don’t feel it too: that fear, that anticipation. Knowing that tomorrow you’re going to take a man’s life, Shane. Doesn’t that feel good to you?’
Shane was in no mood to talk about how he felt. He was excited but he was also afraid and the worst part of his fear stemmed from the fact that he was excited. He did not want to feel good about the prospect of shooting a man tomorrow but it was so hard for him. He had lived by the gun for the greater part of his adult life and, however much his conscious will despised it, his heart would always crave the power he had once wielded with a gun in each hand.
Back then he would have never fallen so low as this.
They entered the jailhouse and Buchanan took a lantern from the guard in the sheriff’s office and used it to light the way to Shane’s cell. Its flickering light set Buchanan’s eyes ablaze. ‘I know you feel it,’ he said knowingly.
He locked the door and took the lantern with him back to the sheriff’s office, closing the door behind him so that Shane was left in darkness. Despondent, Shane sat on his bunk and counted Buchanan’s footsteps as they receded into the distance. When he heard the front door slam, he rose and crossed to the window. There, he could see Buchanan as he crossed the street to the Grande. He saw Buchanan pause at the foot of the porch and turn to face the sunset.
Waiting for something, Shane thought.
And then it began. As the last of the sunlight faded from the horizon, the town began to creak and groan.
It was as if the town’s foundations were contracting in the cooling night air, except that the temperature did not seem to have dropped at all. Wood groaned and screamed and in places there were violent banging noises. The sounds built in number as every building in town joined the cacophony. Shane jumped back from the window as the wall of his cell began to groan. The floor shook beneath his feet.
The noise built to a tortured howl and then, slowly, a sense of order began to emerge. It was subtle at first, but then grew more noticeable and Shane realised that every building was gradually settling into rhythm with its neighbours.
The sound became a lullaby. It started at the centre of town and rolled outwards, then crept back again.
Out and in again.
Out and in again.
Shane could almost imagine the buildings bending and flexing like stalks of corn in the wind.
Out and in again.
It sounded as if the town was breathing.

Buchanan stood at the foot of the porch for a while, letting the town’s song caress him. He had not felt anything like it since the Fastest Guns had turned their backs on him after Shane had ruined his right hand. It would have been better if Shane had killed him that day – at least then there would have been a proper end to things – but Shane was weak. He was frightened by what the Fastest Guns would make of him, and so he had spared Buchanan’s life and severed him from the truest love he had ever known.
Buchanan had spent years training to shoot with his left hand. By many standards, he was still a force to be reckoned with, but even on a good day he was nowhere near as good as he had used to be, shooting with his right. The Fastest Guns only accepted gunfighters of the highest standard and no matter how hard he tried, however violently he raged, he knew that he would never be good enough for them again.
His life had been meaningless since he had lost his right hand, up until now.
The door swung open and Whisperer appeared from the shadows. ‘Shall I leave you a moment alone?’ he asked sardonically.
Buchanan snarled a terse reply.
‘We have work to do,’ the occultist reminded him sternly. ‘Colonel Hartshorne wishes to speak with you.’
‘Of course he does.’
Nathaniel was in his study, the same room in which he had received Shane earlier in the day. He reclined in a cloth-covered armchair, sipping fine cognac which, as always, he refused to share with Buchanan.
‘How is he?’ he enquired.
‘How is who?’
‘You know who.’ Nathaniel said firmly.
‘Shane is fine. Miserable, but then he always was a gloomy cuss.’
‘Do you think he’ll fight tomorrow?’
‘Of course he will.’ Buchanan had no doubt. ‘His soul belongs to them. If he dies, they’ll take him. He knows that; it’s why he hasn’t put up a fight yet. Besides, he wants to be here. He just won’t admit it.’
‘It’s been six years. I doubt he’s even practiced at all. You’re certain he’s still got what it takes?’
‘Six years or sixty, it makes no difference.’ Buchanan replied with certainty. ‘Shane was the best. He always will be. He’ll be a bit rusty, that’s for sure, but even at his worst he’s still more than a match for anyone here.’
‘Including Chastity?’
Buchanan paused. Even he had respect for the girl’s talent. ‘Your girl’s good, Nathaniel, I’ll grant you that, but what she’s got doesn’t compare to the kind of skill that develops over time and with practice. My money’s still on Shane.’
Nathaniel grinned. ‘I find the loyalty you have for him very touching.’
‘Fuck you! The fact that Shane beat me is all the proof you need that he’s as good as I say he is. You wanted bait; they want him! Just be sure you’re ready when the time comes.’
‘We’ll be ready.’ Nathaniel assured him. ‘Our trap is set.’