Chapter 9
Shane had waited until sunset before leaving
his hotel room. The streets of Wainsford were bathed in the cool
blue shadows of twilight while the sky overhead burned like fire,
shades of orange, red and gold melting against the horizon. A
coyote howled in the distance and was shortly answered by its
mate.
Shane paused momentarily and checked his holster before setting out
along the street. On his right, the jailhouse loomed darkly on the
other side of the road. Shane had watched the marshal and his boys
turn the place into a fortress over the past couple of days. They
had barricaded the windows and hacked loopholes into the walls,
giving them a clean line-of-fire in every direction. Twelve
gunfighters had arrived in town and the marshal was hopelessly
out-numbered.
About half a dozen of the men lurked just out of sight, concealed
in alleys and doorways on both sides of the street. One of them
glared at Shane as he walked by. Shane met his gaze and held it
until the man backed away, muttering an apology.
Shane continued on along the street. He had not gone far when he
saw a surreptitious movement out of the corner of his eye. Another
man stood in an alleyway across the street and, thinking that Shane
had not noticed him, he drew his gun.
Shane moved in an instant, spinning and dropping to one knee. His
whipped his gun clear of the holster and fanned off a pair of shots
before his opponent had time to register the danger. Both shots hit
their target and the man staggered from the alley, clutching at his
bleeding chest, and fell down in the road.
Hearing footsteps behind him, Shane whirled about and saw that it
was the man he had just passed. He had his gun drawn but Shane
didn’t give him time to use it. He fired off another pair of shots,
drew his second revolver and fired again as the man fell.
Further down the road, somebody began to applaud. Shane turned and
brought his guns to bear but checked himself when he saw that it
was Marshal Fletcher. The old man still walked his evening rounds,
defying the men who would kill him in order to show that there was
still a law in town. He openly carried a Winchester rifle and Ben
walked on the opposite side of the road, shotgun in hand. That
shotgun was presently trained on Shane.
Shane holstered his guns. ‘You going to arrest me,
Marshal?’
‘No.’ Fletcher replied. ‘It looked like self-defence to
me.’
Even if it hadn’t been, Shane doubted that Fletcher would have put
him in jail, not while Hunte was in there. It would just be asking
for trouble.
‘I reckon it was you they were waiting for.’ Shane said.
‘In that case I suppose I should thank you. You may have just saved
my life.’ Fletcher signalled over to Ben, who lowered his weapon.
The boy’s eyes scanned the darkness for anybody else who might
cause trouble.
‘I’d be mighty obliged if you feel like shooting any more of them
while you’re at it,’ Fletcher said.
‘Are you deputising me, Marshal?’
‘No, just an old man making fun. We’ve not seen much of you these
last few days. You found the man you were after?’
‘I found where he is,’ Shane replied casually. ‘But he’s out of
reach for the moment.’ His meaning was not lost on Fletcher but the
old man made no comment. ‘Your federal marshals haven’t shown up
yet.’
‘They’ll come.’
‘You reckon?’ Shane had his doubts. Federal marshals were paid even
less than a town sheriff and were seldom known to stick their necks
out for anyone, especially if someone bribed them not to. ‘A man
would have to be a fool to come here.’
‘We’ve got plenty of fools in town already; a few more ain’t gonna
hurt.’ Fletcher replied.
Shane laughed. ‘No offence, Marshal, but the men you’ve got
flocking into town: they’re getting paid a hell of a lot more than
your Federal Marshals will be.’
‘Not all men fight for money, Mister Ennis.’
‘All of the good ones do.’ Shane replied cruelly.
‘And what of you? Do you only fight for money?’
Shane hesitated. Lately he had been asking himself the same
question. It wasn’t money, it wasn’t even pleasure, and fame wasn’t
as important to him now as it had used to be. ‘I’m just doing what
I’m good at,’ he replied lamely.
There were hoof beats from the edge of town and both men turned to
see a new bounty hunter come riding in.
‘Well, I’d better see about getting this mess cleared up.’ Fletcher
said, motioning to the bodies that were strewn around.
Shane left him to it. He glanced down the road at where the
newcomer had hitched his horse outside the hotel. There was
something familiar about him but in the dark it was hard to make
him out. Shane turned and walked on to the town saloon, where he
pushed his way through the butterfly-wing doors and strode up to
the bar.
It was mostly deserted. The locals were too scared to drink there
with all the bounty hunters hanging about. Most of the men who
weren’t watching the jailhouse were in the saloon, drinking. They
eyed Shane suspiciously. He was a lion among the wolves and they
knew it.
Shane ordered a whisky and mentally assessed them while he drank.
He discreetly observed who was friendly with who; who looked
dangerous and who he guessed would be the first to run when the
bullets began to fly; which of them would be his allies and who was
better off dead.
He was thinking on this when the butterfly-wing doors swung open
and the newcomer strode in. He paused in the doorway. ‘Well, aren’t
we just balls-to-the-wall with gunfighters in here!’
The newcomer was Castor Buchanan.
He had always been excitable. Now, as the hour
of Shane’s match grew near, Buchanan grew wild. Springing from his
seat, he stalked over to join Shane at the edge of the boardwalk.
He grabbed the wooden upright with his good hand and swung off it,
leaning over so that his face was close beside Shane’s.
‘You can’t deny it, Shane. It’s in you,’ he enthused. ‘And don’t
lie to me and tell me that you don’t want it; you and I both know
you do. We’re alike, you and I, two of a kind. I want it, you want
it. You just don’t have the guts to accept it the way I
do.’
Shane was not really listening. He was aware of the content of what
Buchanan was saying but the actual words he just tuned into the
background.
Across the street the other contestants were gathering once again,
this time for the seventh match of the day, the battle between
Valentino Rodrigues and the man they called the
Gentleman.
Rodrigues was a handsome man: tall, dark and suave, with
slicked-back hair and a fluid, cat-like grace. He was dressed in
fancy black pants and a ruffled shirt, with a jacket that was
heavily embroidered in silver and white thread. He wore a pair of
Remington revolvers, one chambered for a .38 cartridge and the
other chambered for a .44-40.
He strutted and he preened as he strode out in front of the crowd
and offered his opponent a theatrical bow. The Gentleman returned
the gesture with a shy nod of his head.
Rodrigues may have been playing to the crowd but it was the
Gentleman they were interested in. The East Coast city gunslingers
– called ‘Button Men’ by the mobsters of the Italian, Jewish and
Irish gangs who hired them – were an enigma to the rugged
gunfighters of the West. Their fancy clothes and diminutive
revolvers led most to call them sissies but, in New York and
Detroit and Chicago, the term ‘Button Man’ was a mark of respect. A
mobster who called on one to erase his enemies knew he would get
the job done, as easily as if he just reached out and pressed a
button.
The Gentleman had earned his name because of his impeccable good
manners. He spoke rarely but when he did it was with a stiff
British accent.
Before stepping onto the crossroads, he removed his pinstripe
jacket and rolled up his sleeves. His gun – a Webley British
Bulldog .44 calibre double-action revolver – was worn in a shoulder
holster under his left arm. He straightened his glasses and took
his mark opposite Rodrigues.
The two men waited for Nathaniel to give them the signal.
They waited.
And waited.
And then Nathaniel called it.
The fight was over in seconds. As Rodrigues drew, he dropped to one
knee. Sweeping out his other leg to the side and flinging one arm
for balance, he dodged the Gentleman’s rapid fire and shot back
with deadly accuracy. His bullet passed between the Gentleman’s
eyes, neatly clipping his spectacles in two, and blew out the back
of his skull. He fell as if he had been pole-axed.
Rodrigues rose smoothly back onto his feet and bowed to Nathaniel
like a matador, then again to everybody else who was watching. The
other contestants regarded him icily. There was nothing in the
rules to say that a man could not dodge if he wanted to and now
that Rodrigues had set the precedent others were sure to follow. In
the second round, nothing could be taken for granted.
Shane was not thinking that far ahead, however. The match was over
and it was his turn next. His stomach twisted itself into a
knot.
Buchanan, still in a maniacal mood, clapped him excitedly on the
back. ‘Better get you a gun,’ he said.
Shane closed his eyes. He had never wanted this moment to
come.
The sun rose on the town of Wainsford,
beginning the fourth day since Benedict Hunte had rode into town.
The streets were empty save for the bounty hunters, who kept
constant vigil on the jailhouse. The wind was lonely as it blew,
stirring up the dust so that it drifted above the ground like a
mist.
Shane stepped out of the hotel.
There was a new feeling in the air that morning, a sense that
violence was soon to erupt. Fletcher had stopped walking his
rounds. The streets were too dangerous for that now.
It was all about ready to kick-off.
Castor Buchanan stood a short distance away by the side of the
road. He had his back to Shane but knew that he was there. He did
not move as Shane walked over to stand next to him. Both men were
silent for a long time.
‘Seems like every fucking bounty hunter in the country’s in town.’
Buchanan growled. ‘The marshal must be shitting his
breeches.’
Shane did not reply. The silence stretched between them, becoming
taut.
‘I heard you rode in a couple of days ago.’ Buchanan said, almost
accusingly. ‘What you been doing?’
Shane turned to stare at him. His bleak, expressionless gaze
challenged Buchanan to come out and say whatever it was he was
skirting around. Never one to back away from a fight, Buchanan
obliged him.
‘They say you’ve been shut up in your room, jerking off.’
Shane didn’t particularly care what people thought he had been
doing. By the end of the day, most of them would be dead.
Buchanan turned his attention back towards the jailhouse. ‘They’ve
been talking to you, haven’t they?’ He said it so mildly that Shane
thought he had misheard.
‘What did you say?’
Buchanan didn’t answer. He smiled secretively and nodded to
himself. ‘I thought so.’
A chill crept through Shane’s body as the realisation sank in that
Buchanan hadn’t been talking about a group of people; he had been
talking about Shane’s guns. It sounded ludicrous. Shane wanted to
believe that he was being paranoid but the smugness in Buchanan’s
attitude told him otherwise.
Warily, Shane dared to ask: ‘Yours too?’
Buchanan nodded.
‘For how long?’
‘A while now, but I think they’ve been in my head since the
beginning.’
Shane knew exactly what he meant. He felt the same way. ‘It’s like
I didn’t want to believe it at first,’ he said. ‘I thought I was
going crazy.’
Buchanan nodded. ‘It was the same for me. They tell you about the
tournament?’
‘The one in Covenant?’
‘That’s the one.’
Shane’s mouth felt dry. He hadn’t told anyone about the tournament.
It was an idea that had come into his head one day. He couldn’t
remember when. If Buchanan knew about it too then that meant it was
real, and that meant everything else that Shane had begun to fear
was real too.
‘I figure this thing with Hunte is some kind of a test.’ Buchanan
told him. ‘Sort of like a qualifying round. Only one of us can go
through to fight at Covenant.’
Shane thought about how he had recognised Buchanan as an equal the
moment they had first met, how he had seen it in the way he carried
himself and in the look in his eyes. He thought about how badly he
wanted to go up against him in a fair fight to prove himself. ‘I
think you’re right,’ he said at last.
Buchanan nodded. ‘We work together to kill the rest of these
losers,’ he said, looking pointedly at the bounty hunters who were
watching the jailhouse. ‘And we kill Hunte. Then we’ll settle
things properly, you and I.’
The two men looked at each other, and Shane nodded. ‘Agreed.’