Chapter 8
The sound of hoof beats on the road outside his
window startled Shane from his thoughts. He rose and parted the
curtains a crack so that he could see outside.
The horseman was a wild-looking man, dusty from the trail, with a
revolver worn prominently in a shoulder holster and a pair of
knives strapped across his back.
He was the fifth bounty hunter to have arrived in Wainsford in the
last couple of days, and Shane did not think that he would be the
last. Word had gotten out that Hunte was in town and now bounty
hunters from all across America were flocking in, each one vying to
be the man who killed Hunte.
Marshal Fletcher had stopped greeting them as he had greeted Shane
and now just watched from the jailhouse porch. He was outnumbered
and outgunned and praying that the federal marshals would arrive
soon.
Shane withdrew from the window and let the curtains fall back into
place, dimming the light. It was hot and stuffy in his hotel room
and Shane’s naked body was greased with sweat. He crossed to where
he had laid his guns out on the floor and sat down, cross-legged in
front of them.
Both were Colt 1873 Single Action .45 calibre revolvers. A lot of
people criticised the Colts but Shane had always preferred them
over competing manufacturers because they were finely balanced and
leant themselves easily to the kind of fast handling that he
preferred.
Some gunfighters chose to personalise their weapons with ivory or
solid silver handles, or with stylised engravings on the frame and
barrel, but Shane disliked such affectations. A gun was a tool, not
an ornament. The only modification that he had made to his guns was
to have the barrel of one of them shortened from seven and a half
inches to just five inches long. This made it faster and easier to
draw and it was this gun that he fired with his right hand, for
while Shane could shoot accurately with both hands he was
marginally better with his right.
He had arranged both guns on the floor before him pointing
outwards. Both had been cleaned and oiled reverently and the
blackened metal gleamed in the dusky light. Their scent, acrid and
sharp, reminded him of the smell that lingered after sex. It was
perversely erotic.
Both guns were fully loaded and the hammers cocked. Danger radiated
from them. A slight knock was all that it would take to set them
off. A door could be slammed in another part of the hotel and the
vibration might cause the hammer to fall, discharging one of the
powerful .45 Long cartridges. Capable of penetrating through as
much as four inches of solid timber, the result of being on the
receiving end of one of those bullets was likely to be fatal and as
Shane sat there, meditating on his weapons, he fancied that they
wanted to be fired, that they wanted to kill and that, while he was
a necessary medium by which they could achieve that desire, they
would gladly kill him if there was no one else around.
The idea that his guns could think and that they had desires of
their own was nothing new to Shane. He had often thought as much.
During the long times that he spent alone, travelling across the
country he had formulated quite a complex mythology for
them.
A gun existed solely to kill. Unlike a knife that could be used for
a variety of purposes, a gun was singular in its design. It was
good for nothing else. Shane had admired that simplicity ever since
he was a boy. He had been envious of it. Human life was so full of
questions and uncertainties, so bewildering in comparison that the
world of the gun had seemed seductively well-ordered to him, and he
had sought to emulate it in his own way of life. He had many times
sought to find solace in them as he did now, meditating on them and
seeking to perfect his state of mind and be more like them, to
eliminate doubt and focus purely on the task at hand.
This time, however, the clarity that he sought kept eluding him. He
kept thinking back to that night at the Babson ranch. Each time, he
vividly recalled the look of surprise on the woman’s face, the
splash of wet blood.
What was more, he kept thinking about how he had not felt in
control of himself at that time but rather as if some other mind
was working him while he had been just a spectator. He stared at
his guns, his body sheathed in perspiration, and wondered if he was
going crazy.
Outside, the bounty hunters were gathering and Shane knew that he
was wasting time. The more bounty hunters that arrived in town, the
more competition he would have to contend with, and yet he felt
unmotivated to do anything about it. He sat in his room, plagued
with strange doubts and staring at his guns.
And trying to deny something that he knew in his heart was
true.
He blinked and came out of his reverie as if waking from a dream.
The contestants were gathering again. It was time for the next
match.
‘Half-past one, Shane. Not long for you now.’ Buchanan told him.
‘Isn’t it exciting?’
Shane said nothing. He had tried not to think about the passage of
time and how it was steadily running out on him. Only two more
bouts remained after this one and then it would be his turn. Four
hours in total before he stood on the crossroads and held a gun for
the first time in six years. The prospect filled him with a
confusing mixture of emotions: part dread, part
excitement.
Right now, the present match belonged to Kip Kutcher and Tom
Freeman. On the opposite side of the street from Shane, Kutcher was
counting out six bullets into his palm. He held them out to his
girlfriend. ‘Blow on them,’ he said.
The girl was puzzled. ‘What?’
‘For luck,’ he explained. ‘Like when gamblers shoot
dice.’
She smiled to herself and indulged him, blowing gently. Kutcher
slotted the bullets one by one into the chambers of his Colt 1873
Peacemaker. He was trembling with nervous energy, not frightened
but invigorated. His eyes were wild.
He got up and sprang down off the boardwalk with a lightness in his
step. Tom Freeman stood lounging against the hitching post outside
of O’Malley’s, waiting for him. He was a handsome black man with
closely-cropped hair and a muscular physique. He wore his shirt
with the sleeves rolled up and was smoking a cigar.
Kutcher grinned at him. ‘I promise I’ll make this quick.’
‘You’d better hope you can shoot your guns as fast as you shoot
your mouth.’ Freeman replied.
‘My friend, I can talk so fast that I can be running six
conversations all at the same time, but my hands, well they move
even faster than that.’ Kutcher boasted. To demonstrate, he waved
his hands rapidly in the air as if drawing imaginary guns, moving
them at such a whirling speed that they became a blur. Freeman was
unimpressed. He stubbed out his cigar on the hitching post, checked
his heavy Schofield revolver, and followed Kutcher out onto the
crossroads.
Kutcher took the north and Freeman took the south, facing off to
each other. Kutcher waggled his fingers to get the blood flowing
while Freeman stretched out the tension in his neck, turning it
first to one side and then the other, his bones popping
audibly.
Nathaniel rose to his feet on the porch of the Grande and called
for them to make ready.
The two fighters tensed and the street became deathly
silent.
The moment stretched.
And then Nathaniel called it.
In an instant, both fighters drew. Kutcher’s hands once again
became a blur as he slapped the hammer back with one and then drew
with the other.
In the very next instant, the .44 calibre bullet fired from Tom
Freeman’s Schofield revolver smashed through Kutcher’s ribs like
they were made of glass.
It was followed by another and another, and Kutcher fell to his
knees. His eyes were wide with shock and he did not appear to be
able to make sense of what had happened to him. He looked down at
himself in bewilderment, saw the blood that stained his shirt and
reached out with a shaking hand to touch it. Finally realising what
had happened to him, he gave a small cry of alarm. Blood dribbled
from the corners of his mouth and ran down his chin.
Freeman calmly walked the distance that separated them and shot
Kutcher through the elbow, causing him to drop his gun. Kutcher
opened his mouth to scream but was silenced as Freeman suddenly
thrust the barrel of his revolver into his mouth. He used it to
turn Kutcher’s head until they were looking eye-to-eye. ‘Looks like
your hands aren’t as fast as your mouth, son.’
He glanced sideways to where Kutcher’s girlfriend stood. She
watched helplessly, her hands tightly clenched, not making a sound.
A girl like her had seen plenty of men die.
Kutcher tried to call out to her but gagged on the revolver in his
mouth. He choked, spitting up blood that landed on Freeman’s
boots.
Tom Freeman stared at him in disgust. ‘She’s a pretty girl,’ he
said quietly. ‘What was it, you think, that attracted her to a
nobody like you? Was it your pretty-boy face or your smart
mouth?’
Tears began to roll down Kutcher’s cheeks. Freeman exaggeratedly
cupped a hand to his ear as if waiting for his answer. Seconds
passed. Kutcher slipped in and out of consciousness.
Hearing no answer, Freeman gave a shrug. ‘Guess it couldn’t have
been your smart mouth then,’ he said. He tilted his gun sharply, so
that it was aimed straight up through the roof of Kutcher’s mouth,
and pulled the trigger.
The shot rang out loud and was followed afterwards by a long
silence, broken by the heavy thump as Kutcher’s faceless body
toppled over into the dirt. Tom Freeman wiped the blood from his
hands and from the barrel of his gun and strode casually away. He
tipped his hat to Kutcher’s girlfriend as he passed her.
The girl barely seemed to notice him. Her face was blank, drained
equally of both colour and expression. She looked as if she was
having difficulty coming to terms with what had just happened. Her
eyes began to shine with tears as the shock subsided, but she
admirably held on to her composure. When the invigilators came to
drag Kutcher’s body away, she stepped down off the boardwalk and
quietly followed them.
Shane did not expect that she would survive much longer. Covenant
had a way of dealing with its unwelcome guests and now that Kutcher
was dead the girl had no further excuse for being there. The town
would swallow her up and nobody would miss her.
A part of him wondered if maybe he should feel sorry for her, but
he had problems enough of his own and none of his pity to
spare.
Only two more bouts remained and then it would be his turn on the
crossroads.
The next hour passed quickly and it was not long before another
pair of gunfighters stepped out to face each other. This time, the
fight was between Evan Drager and John MacMurray.
Evan Drager was a freak of a man. Shot in the head five years ago,
his injury had left him with a large star-shaped scar that covered
the left-hand side of his forehead, leaving him partially bald. All
of the muscles along the left-hand side of his face had been
paralysed by the injury and it was only the right-hand side that
showed any expression; the left remained slack.
‘This could be interesting.’ Buchanan commented. Like Shane, he had
never actually seen Drager fight, although he had heard the
rumours. In the days before his injury, Drager had been a man of
little repute, a brawler, a cattle rustler and a small-time crook.
He had picked a fight with the wrong man coming out of a saloon in
Dodge City and the rest was history. It was a .45 calibre bullet
that had split his skull and it was nothing short of a miracle that
he had survived. The bullet had penetrated his skull and lodged
itself deep within his brain, where it still remained, completely
beyond the reach of any doctor.
A kindly Samaritan had taken him in and nursed him during the long
month that he had lain in a coma. He had been a changed man when he
had woken. Drager claimed that the bullet had spoken to him while
he had been unconscious. It had shown him visions of a future in
which terrible wars inflamed the whole world, spawning guns of such
awesome power that they could annihilate whole cities. The bullet
had told him that he must prepare for this coming age and, to help
him in his mission, it had promised him that no shot he fired would
ever miss.
He had since developed into a formidable gunfighter and his
reputation, coupled with his feverish charisma, had attracted a
small cult following who had sprung him out of jail some nine
months ago.
Old-hand gunfighters like Shane and Buchanan were sceptical of his
claims and the Fastest Guns themselves had yet to formally accept
him but, nevertheless, there were few who could say that there was
not something special about him.
His opponent was the ‘The Christian’, John MacMurray. He was a
stocky man with a wrinkled, pig-like face and a humourless
attitude. As Shane watched him, he pinched his nose with one hand
and blew out one nostril and then the other, clearing them messily
before wiping his hands off on his dusty pants.
Drager faced him with his hands gently clasped before his waist,
radiating an air of ministerial calm. He looked like a preacher
about to deliver a sermon.
‘No way is he the new Jacob Priestley.’ Buchanan said dismissively.
‘I don’t care what anybody says. I wouldn’t follow him.’
Shane said nothing. He was keeping his own opinions to himself. He
looked across to where Nathaniel stood, Whisperer present by his
side as usual. Nathaniel called for the two men to make ready and
they both tensed.
At Nathaniel’s signal they both drew. Their hands moved so quickly
that it was hard to see who fired first. MacMurray went down,
hissing through clenched teeth as Drager’s shot punched a hole in
his chest. At the same time, his own shot ripped into Drager’s left
thigh. The specially-cut bullet deformed instantly, mushrooming in
size to almost twice its original width. Blood splashed across the
hot sand.
MacMurray was mortally injured but still alive. Tottering on his
remaining good leg, Drager fired a blaze of shots that hammered
deep into MacMurray’s torso, denying him the chance to fire a
second shot in return, firing again and again until MacMurray
pitched over backwards and fell dead. Only then did Drager lower
his smoking gun and limp painfully to the side of the
road.
Shane turned and looked meaningfully at Buchanan, who merely
shrugged. ‘I still ain’t following him if he is,’ he muttered.