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.’