Chapter 6
Shane was released from his cell at ten o’clock
and taken out onto the street where the other contestants had begun
to gather in anticipation of the tournament’s opening bout. It was
a bright and clear morning, the sky a bleached shade of pale blue
in which the sun burned like an open sore. Scarcely a breeze
disturbed the turgid air.
Nathaniel’s invigilators were out in force. Four stood on the
rooftops overlooking the crossroads while six more guarded the
streets. Two more flanked the Grande’s porch, where Nathaniel
reclined, eating an orange in the shade, Whisperer towering behind
him.
There was a bench against the courthouse wall and Buchanan seated
himself at one end. Shane was disinclined to sit with him and chose
to stand instead. He leaned against the remaining upright of the
half-broken porch and let his gaze roam across the assembled
gunfighters.
Kip Kutcher and his girlfriend sat on the boardwalk opposite, the
girl reclining in the sun while Kutcher chattered inanely. She was
dressed in a pair of tight buckskin pants and a man’s white shirt
that she had tied short, exposing the smooth, flat skin of her
midriff. Her appearance attracted looks from several of the men,
David Sullivan being one of them.
He sat on the edge of the boardwalk outside of O’Malley’s,
absent-mindedly playing with a handful of dirt. He would let it
slide between his fingers into his open palm, then switch hands and
repeat the process again and again, nervously occupying himself
until the time came for him to face Matt Nesbitt on the
crossroads.
Shane hoped that Nesbitt would win. He despised David Sullivan. Out
of all the bounty hunters that had pursued him during the last six
years, Sullivan had been the most determined. Had it not been for
him, Shane might have vanished into obscurity years ago but
Sullivan had always been there wherever he had fled, following him
like a shadow and never giving him chance to rest. Twice, Sullivan
had almost succeeded in catching him, and on one of those occasions
he had put a bullet in Shane’s leg that still caused him to limp
sometimes when the weather was humid.
Matt Nesbitt was a grim and solemn-looking man in his late-thirties
with a square-jaw and fierce, unforgiving eyes. He was every bit as
imposing as his reputation made him out to be. In 1878, Nesbitt had
brought order to the town of Averil by killing every man who broke
the law. Three years later, he had done the same at Valour, and
then again two years after that at the notorious cattle town of
Packard’s Well. There were some who said that he was a man in love
with violence and that the only law he enforced was a law of his
own choosing. He was famously precise in all things, from the
symmetrical cut of his moustache to the polished buckle on his
belt. He reached into his pocket for a watch that had been a gift
to him from the grateful people at Valour, checked the time, then
snapped the watch shut. He straightened his waistcoat, adjusted the
cuffs of his shirtsleeves and strode out into the crossroads to
take his place.
Realising that it was time, Sullivan let his last handful of dirt
fall to the roadside and brushed his hands off on his pants before
following his opponent.
They took up position on either side of the crossroads: Nesbitt to
the north and Sullivan to the south. An expectant hush settled over
the town and even Kutcher fell silent as they all waited for
Nathaniel to give the signal for the tournament to begin.
Shane held his breath.
‘Gentlemen.’ Nathaniel rose to his feet and laid his hands on the
wooden porch rail. ‘The tournament will begin when you are ready to
fire.’
His voice travelled clearly over the crossroads.
The two contestants stared at each other but neither of them
moved.
And then Matt Nesbitt suddenly wrenched his gun from its holster.
He shot from the hip, the flat of his palm striking three times
against the hammer in rapid succession, fanning off a blaze of
shots. They hit Sullivan and tore straight through him as if his
body was made of wax, the first striking him in the belly, the
second in his chest and the third ripping through his shoulder and
picking him up, spinning him around and flinging him to the
ground.
As he landed, his head rolled over and his dull, lifeless eyes –
fixed wide in a look of frozen astonishment – flung a last accusing
stare towards Shane.
The tournament had claimed its first victim.
Invigilators came in from the sides of the
street and dragged the carcass away while Nathaniel offered his
congratulations to the winner.
‘Next match in one hour!’ he called, and the contestants dispersed
until then.
Buchanan was laughing, slapping his knee as he rocked backwards on
the bench. ‘And that man actually thought he could beat you?’ he
said. ‘The Shane I used to know would have killed him years
ago.’
Shane very nearly had. It was in 1879 that he had shot David’s
brother. Chris Sullivan had been the sheriff of a Wyoming cattle
town known as Ladd’s Corner. He was a good and honest man, which
had been his downfall. A local beef baron had taken offence to him
locking up his boys when they got rowdy and so had taken steps to
remove him. Chris had stood firm, backed up by his deputy and by
his younger brother. David was a drifter in those days and had come
to town looking to bum a few dollars off his brother to cover a
gambling debt. Together, the three of them had fought off every
attempt to put pressure on them and finally Shane had been called
in to put an end to it all.
News travelled quickly in Ladd’s Corner, as it was prone to do in
any small town, and Chris had gotten wind that Shane was coming. He
had known that he hadn’t stood a chance of survival but he had
stayed anyway and faced Shane like a man. David had not been so
courageous. He had skipped town and had not heard of his brother’s
death until three days after it had happened.
‘I bet you wish it had been you.’ Buchanan whispered in his ear.
‘Wouldn’t you have rather been the one who killed him?’
Shane did not want to think about it. Of course he wished it had
been him. To Shane’s way of thinking, David’s mission of vengeance
had been an affront to his brother’s memory. Chris Sullivan had
been a man of principle and Shane had respected him. David,
meanwhile, was a coward who had waited five years – until long
after Shane had laid down his guns and sworn never to shoot again –
before finding the courage to avenge his brother’s death. Shane
would have loved to have been the one to kill him, and he would not
have shown him the mercy that he had shown his brother by making it
quick.
But that was not the sole reason that Shane would have liked to
have taken Matt Nesbitt’s place. A part of him longed just to fire
a gun again, to handle the power that had once been his to command.
He yearned for it, but at the same time he was afraid of it. For
Shane knew the secret of the Fastest Guns and he had barely escaped
from them the last time.
The second match drew the contestants back to the crossroads. It
was Chastity’s turn to fight and so far the enigmatic gunfighter
had yet to be seen by any of the contestants. Shane was eager to
catch a glimpse of her and learn her measure, as was her opponent,
Escoban Cadero.
The Mexican bandit leader swaggered from O’Malley’s and drained the
last of a bottle of beer before tossing it aside and letting it
break against the saloon wall. Hands on his hips, he searched about
for his opponent, then strode boldly out into the crossroads to
wait for her.
He was a singularly foul-looking man. In the deserts where he
lived, the springtime winds blew up sandstorms so violent that they
were known to strip the flesh from a man’s bones. Cadero had
weathered countless such storms, often using them as cover when he
raided the villages and ranches of that land, and his face and arms
were covered with scars where the sands had bitten deep. His beard
and moustache were thick and matted with grease, his hair long and
wild. His eyes were as black as the night and narrow from squinting
into the ravenous winds.
He took advantage of Chastity’s absence to choose to stand on the
northern side of the crossroads, superstitiously avoiding the spot
where David Sullivan had died. Having taken his place, he heaved at
his shirts with meaty hands and tore them apart, exposing a muscled
chest that was coarse with thick, black hair. The sunlight
glimmered on half a dozen gold chains that hung around his
neck.
He roared, flecking spittle from his rotten gums. ‘Where is she
then? Where is this little puta who would fight me?’
There was no answer and Cadero laughed contemptuously. ‘Perhaps she
has dresses to mend, or is too busy cooking dinner, no?’
He raised his voice in a sing-song: ‘Come out, senora. Don’t be
shy. Escoban has something for you.’ He gestured
obscenely.
His challenges echoed desolately through Covenant’s abandoned
streets and a long moment passed in which nobody moved. Then, the
door of the Grande hotel creaked slowly open.
Nathaniel emerged, followed by Whisperer, and they were not alone.
They were accompanied by a thin, pale woman. She was in her
mid-thirties with long brown hair that hung straight and without
style. She moved timidly, her eyes pointed down at the ground and
by her manner Shane judged that she was used to being
beaten.
She led a child by the hand: a young girl who could not have been
more than seven or eight years old; who wore a pink dress and had
ribbons in her hair. Incongruously, she also wore a gun belt
fastened around her waist, the holster empty and about the right
size for a small pocket gun.
Shane turned and shot Buchanan a withering glare. It was
unconscionable that someone so young was competing. Buchanan only
grinned. ‘She’s not what you expected, is she? Don’t be fooled by
how she looks. That little bitch might even give you a run for your
money.’
Shane felt the deepest revulsion. He turned back to see that the
girl had been passed over to Nathaniel, who was now leading her
down the wooden steps from the porch. There was something odd about
the way she moved, her steps wooden and unbalanced, as if walking
was unfamiliar to her.
‘Nathaniel found her in an asylum in New England.’ Buchanan
explained. ‘One of the doctors there sold her to him for twenty
bucks.’
She had reached the foot of the steps and Nathaniel steered her
toward the crossroads. Her feet scuffed in the dirt and Shane
noticed that her attention was elsewhere. Her eyes, unblinking,
seemed fixed on something that only she could see.
Escoban Cadero thought she was a joke. ‘What is this?’ he demanded.
‘You expect me to shoot a child?’
‘If you can,’ Nathaniel replied. ‘But I assure you it won’t be as
easy as you think.’
‘You play games with me.’
‘No. No games. Chastity has the same right to be here as any of
you.’
Cadero shrugged. ‘It makes no difference to me,’ he said. ‘It will
not be the first time that I have killed a child.’
Nathaniel had to steer the girl by the shoulders to get her to face
Cadero. Even then, she seemed unaware of his presence. Her gaze
wandered, eyes distant. Her arms hung uselessly by her
sides.
‘She’s got no mind.’ Buchanan explained. ‘No will. Nothing. That
girl’s a clean slate.’
His meaning was perfectly clear to Shane and it provoked an anger
in him that was fiercer than anything he had known in
years.
A clean slate.
The idea of it was so terrible that he did not want to believe it
was true, and yet the proof was right there in front of
him.
He watched as Nathaniel reached into his jacket and withdrew a
small, double-action .41 calibre pocket revolver. With only a three
inch barrel it was just the right size for Chastity’s small hands.
Nathaniel set it in her holster and, before he left, he whispered
in her ear. ‘Make daddy proud,’ he said, and then hurried from the
crossroads as if he had just lit the fuse on a stick of
dynamite.
Escoban Cadero snorted irritably, still convinced that he was being
fooled with. Chastity was not even looking at him. She stared
blindly at the roadside, her head cocked to one side, arms
limp.
Then she blinked. The change that came over her was so abrupt that
Shane’s breath caught in his throat. Her eyes suddenly became
focussed and her head straightened on her shoulders and turned
about mechanically to face towards Cadero, who gasped with
surprise. ‘Que pasa?’
‘Now he’s for it.’ Buchanan said, his voice an excited
whisper.
‘Contestants!’ Nathaniel shouted. ‘You may fire when
ready.’
Escoban Cadero reached instantly for his gun.
And the side of his head exploded in a violent shower of
blood.
His body stood there, gently swaying back and forth while the
contents of his head pattered down around him like a heavy shower
of rain. Then his knees gave way and he crumpled on the
spot.
He had not even had time to draw his gun from its
holster.
Shane was awestruck. He had never seen anybody draw so fast. All
around him, the town was gripped in silence as people stared,
dumbstruck by Chastity’s skill.
The girl stood motionless, her arm extended and still pointing her
diminutive revolver at the spot where Escoban Cadero had stood. She
had not moved at all since she had killed him, remaining frozen on
the spot as if held in a state of shock. There was a look of
confusion in her eyes, as if she was unable to make a connection
between the body on the ground and the man who had stood before
her. It looked to Shane as if she was disappointed that she had
killed him already. It had all been over too quickly for her. She
wanted to kill him again.
The invigilators who were supposed to take away Cadero’s body were
understandably reluctant to go forward while she was still so
dangerously poised. Nathaniel derided them for their
timidity.
No will of her own, Shane thought, and cursed bitterly to himself.
The girl’s plight cut through his own self-pity and he grieved for
the loss of her innocence.
Cautiously, Nathaniel walked up behind her and gently reached out
his hand to encircle her wrist. ‘It’s over now, cherub,’ he said,
speaking softly. ‘All done for today.’
The girl cocked her head sideways and looked up at him,
uncomprehending. The look of cold hatred in her eyes was something
that Shane had never thought to see in a child so young. Nathaniel
prised the gun from her hand.
Chastity suddenly threw back her head and screamed. It was a noise
of pure, animal loss, as if Nathaniel had reached into her body and
torn out her soul. The force of it was incredible. Even at a
distance, it sent a stab of pain ripping through Shane’s ears that
made him flinch. Those contestants closest to her blocked their
ears with their hands.
Nathaniel had clearly expected her reaction and had beaten a hasty
retreat to the side of the road. ‘Bethan! Take her
inside.’
The girl’s nanny came scurrying over and gathered Chastity into her
arms. The girl fought violently, striking with balled fists and
kicking while the woman tried to subdue her. In the end, Nathaniel
had to shout for one of his invigilators to grab her, and the girl
was unceremoniously tucked under one arm and carried back into the
hotel while Bethan fluttered at her side, making ineffectual
shushing noises to try and calm her down.
Her screaming became muffled as the door was closed behind her and
the resultant silence was uncomfortable, with nobody knowing what
to make of what they had just witnessed. Nathaniel smiled
reassuringly, dismissing Chastity’s outburst as just an ordinary
child’s tantrum. He turned and nodded across the street to
Buchanan, who nodded back in reply, some comment going unspoken
between them. Nathaniel then joined Whisperer and the two men
disappeared into the Grande.
‘She’s quite something, isn’t she?’ Buchanan said.
Shane was not interested in making small talk. He wanted the facts.
‘How long?’ he asked.
‘Nathaniel’s had her shooting for a couple of months now. She took
to it right away, didn’t even need to be shown or nothing. Girl’s a
complete natural.’
‘How many has she killed?’
‘Not many.’ Buchanan replied. ‘Ten, maybe twelve.’
Not many? Shane wanted to laugh except that it wasn’t funny.
Nathaniel had taken a child with no will of her own and turned her
into the perfect killer, accomplishing in her what it had taken
Shane more than twenty years of practice to achieve.
Chastity was damned, just as surely as he was.
And she had had no say in the matter.