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  Twenty years earlier, Dan Eckert had been an outlaw with a desire to go straight. By selling out his companions, the notorious McCabe gang, he earned himself a full pardon.

  There was just one problem.

  Two decades later, the McCabe gang broke out of prison and came looking for revenge.

  Eckert, now the respected town marshal of Sweetwater, knew he couldn’t fight them by himself, so he hired Shane Preston and Jonah Jones to help even the odds. But the one thing nobody anticipated was the actions of Sweetwater itself.

  Fearful of the McCabe gang and what they might do if crossed, the locals decided to offer up Eckert as a sacrificial lamb … and there was no way on earth that Shane and Jonah could buck an entire town!

  SHANE AND JONAH 4: THE DEATH RIDERS

  By Cole Shelton

  First Published by The Cleveland Publishing Pty Ltd

  Copyright © Piccadilly Publishing

  First Digital Edition: April 2020

  Names, characters and incidents in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information or storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law.

  This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book

  Series Editor: Ben Bridges

  Text © Piccadilly Publishing

  Published by Arrangement with The Cleveland Publishing Pty Ltd.

  One – A Rendezvous With Judas

  “There it is, Sheriff,” Dan Eckert nodded at the little homestead. “Come sundown, they’ll be riding down that canyon trail and they’ll leave their horses right out front.”

  Sheriff Lee Hunter studied Eckert with a stare which showed his contempt. In just a few minutes he’d be presented with the opportunity to write his name in the annals of Nevada’s famous lawmen, while Eckert would buy his freedom with a betrayal.

  “And then?” Hunter prompted him.

  Eckert surveyed the silent soddy beside the dry creek bed. A lone cottonwood shadowed the front porch. It was a dead, stunted tree in a parched canyon.

  “And then the boys will mosey on inside to wait for me,” Dan Eckert murmured. “But I won’t be riding in, Sheriff. Instead, it’ll be you and this posse of deputies.”

  Behind Hunter, a dozen riders waited, sitting saddle as dusk began to settle on the gray edges of the wilderness. They’d ridden for a whole day, men prepared to risk their lives to round up McCabe’s bunch of killers. Most of them could hardly be called adept with a gun, but nevertheless, they’d come at Sheriff Hunter’s bidding because here at last was a chance to rid the territory of a gang which had robbed, raped and murdered almost unchecked for three years. And that rampage might well have continued if it hadn’t been for the rider who’d brought them here, the man who was betraying his fellow-outlaws in exchange for an unconditional pardon.

  “Me and my posse?” Sheriff Hunter shook his head. “That’s not the way it’s gonna be. You’ll be coming down with us.”

  “Like hell!” Eckert’s lean face whitened. “That wasn’t part of the deal, Hunter! All we agreed on was me leading you and a posse to where McCabe would be. That’s all, and in exchange, I get a free pardon.”

  There was cold scorn in Hunter’s gray eyes. “I’m making it part of the deal.”

  Eckert swung around, searching the dozen faces for support and sympathy. But all he found was a measured disdain, an utter disregard for his fears. Sure, they were grateful for this chance to corner McCabe’s outfit, but they had an inborn contempt for the man who’d offered his services as a traitor.

  “Stake out,” Sheriff Hunter grunted, tossing away his cigarette butt. “Eckert—you stick around with me.”

  The betrayer hesitated but when the lawman’s hand dropped to his gun butt, Dan Eckert swallowed and began to ease his rangy frame out of the saddle. The lawman dismounted beside him and indicated a jagged rock just below their horses.

  “Down there,” Hunter said.

  Reluctantly, Dan Eckert slid behind the slice of pumice and waited as the paunchy sheriff barked out orders to the posse men. He saw the deputies run along the canyon rim to selected rocks and crevices, scrambling for cover as the daylight died. Finally, the badge-toter waddled over to Eckert and joined him behind the rock.

  “Don’t worry, Eckert.” Hunter’s voice held a sneer. “You’ll be safe. McCabe won’t even risk slapping leather when he sees how many guns we have.”

  “But he’ll see me,” Dan Eckert insisted.

  “So he’d find out anyway.” The sheriff lit a cigarette. “Twelve men know your part in this trap, and there’s no way the word won’t get around. But like I said—don’t worry about McCabe. He’ll hang, along with the others in his outfit. And you, Eckert, will be a free man.”

  Free? Dan Eckert felt coldness creep over him. Would he ever be free from the memory of this? For the past three years he’d ridden, looted, killed and fought with McCabe and his outfit. He’d been one of them. He’d eaten dust with them when the hot wind lashed across the desert wastes, frozen with them when the snow blocked the Navajo Trail, and nearly drowned with them in the Snake River floodwaters. Their experiences had been his. And yet, lately he’d yearned to be away from them, free from the outlaw trail, and when he’d been sent into San Palo for supplies, he’d seized his chance. Two hours with Hunter, a swiftly-arranged Governor’s pardon made out for him, and freedom was within his grasp.

  Once McCabe and the boys were under arrest, he’d ride away with that official document in his pocket, the pardon which stated that every crime he’d committed was blotted out.

  Eckert felt the sweat grow cold on his brow as silence settled over the wasteland. Away in the west, the sky was a ragged crimson and the shadows deepened over the lonely peaks. The huge pumice butte behind the canyon stood like a silent sentinel over this ancient land, and Eckert raised his eyes to the monument of rock as he heard the distant thunder of hooves. It was around this butte that McCabe would ride. He pictured them now. McCabe would be at their head—tall, lean, rugged as the desert, his face marred by a livid burn-scar across his left cheek. Clint Docker would be beside him. Docker was a foul-mouthed little Texan, wizened, with the fastest draw Eckert had ever seen. Then there would be Duke Brumby, one time tinhorn gambler and ladies’ man, but a ruthless killer. A year ago he would have included Jim Reeves, but today Reeves was in a shallow grave somewhere in the desert. Reeves had tried to break away from the gang, ride out on his own, and McCabe had put a bullet in his back.

  A tiny dust spiral showed alongside the butte. Sheriff Hunter stood up, waved his gun to the ring of riflemen, then crouched down alongside Eckert. The spiral rounded a clump of boulders, the dust lingering in the stillness. Suddenly the riders surged up to the opposite rim and began to file down the old Indian track the Navajos used to ride along as they descended into the canyon. Sweat broke out all over Dan Eckert’s body as the riders moved off the track into the basin. Horses lunged into the dead watercourse, hooves slipping on the dryness of hard rock. Beside Eckert, Hunter gripped his long Winchester.

  The outlaws mounted the bank and reined in out front of the hovel. Years ago, an old-timer had built this soddy from clay dug from the banks after a flash flood, and he’d lived there while he searched for the elusive yellow dust. The owlhoots had found him dead from a sidewinder’s bite, and they’d taken over his soddy, meeting here before or after a raid.

  McCabe dismounted first. He shoved open the door and the o
thers headed in after him. The posse men waited until lantern-glow spilled out of the glass window, then Lee Hunter slowly stood up. He motioned with his rifle, and the posse men emerged from the gloom and began to climb down the rocky decline, their guns poised and ready. Lee Hunter led the way, and when he reached the creek bed, he crouched low. Dan Eckert ducked down beside him.

  Like specters in the gathering grayness, the posse men glided around the soddy to take up their positions.

  A raucous guffaw exploded from inside the hut. That would be Clint Docker’s laugh, and Eckert swallowed. Right now Dan Eckert was feeling sick in the pit of his belly. Fear mingled with guilt as he watched the deputies slide behind rocks, but it was too late now for any regrets.

  The die had been cast.

  Hunter cupped his mouth with his hands.

  “McCabe!” The sheriff’s yell echoed out over the canyon. “McCabe! We have you surrounded!”

  Someone doused the lantern and a babble of voices broke out as the hand of darkness closed over the primitive dwelling. Suddenly, silence fell, ominously.

  “McCabe!” Sheriff Lee Hunter croaked. “There are a dozen deputies around you! Now come outside with your paws high—or we’ll blast you out th’ hard way!”

  There was another eruption of voices inside, a sudden, violent argument as the outlaws fought a verbal battle between themselves. But finally McCabe’s counsel seemed to prevail. His loud voice drowned out the rest, and as Hunter’s command became more insistent, he kicked the door wide.

  Rifles were leveled.

  Eyes squinted down sights.

  At first the door was merely a blank aperture, but then a tall streak was framed there. Eckert trembled as he glimpsed the pale face of Evan McCabe. The outlaw’s coal-black eyes burned at the rifles as they slid over rocks, and Eckert heard him whisper restraint to someone behind him.

  “All right, McCabe!” Lee Hunter stood up, his Winchester leveled. “Take another step outside, and tell your boys to do the same! It’s all over, McCabe! There are men all around you, and our bullets would cut through those mud walls like a knife through paper!”

  “Who the hell are you?” McCabe’s voice was a rasp as he addressed the shadow with the rifle.

  “Sheriff Lee Hunter,” the lawman informed him. “Now you’ve got a choice, McCabe. Either you ride back to stand trial in Silver City, or we take your bodies back to the graveyard. What’s it to be, McCabe?”

  Eckert saw the outlaw boss stare out at the ring of guns. He knew McCabe like a book and McCabe was a fighter. But this time the killer realized that the position was hopeless. The naked muzzles of a dozen long rifles were ready to blow the outlaws apart, and right now the odds were too long even for a man like Evan McCabe. Very slowly, the owlhoot boss let his right hand slide to his gun butt. The posse men held their breath as McCabe lifted his six-shooter and finally opened his fingers.

  The gun dropped.

  “Boys,” McCabe whispered, “come on out. It’s the end of the trail—for now.”

  The deputies waited as first Brumby, then the wizened, cursing Docker filed out to join him. Docker’s wide eyes roved around the ring of guns, at length coming to rest on Sheriff Hunter.

  “Know what this means, Evan?” Docker whined. “A goddamn rope! If they take us in, we’ll hang for sure!”

  “We have no choice,” McCabe said fiercely.

  “Where the hell’s Eckert?” Docker muttered.

  “Your gun!” Hunter reminded Docker as Dan Eckert shivered beside him.

  Clint Docker shrugged, and every eye watched him as his thin fingers slithered downwards to his hip. Docker’s hand fastened around the gun butt and stayed there. McCabe snarled a warning, ordering him to comply, but desperately, Docker whipped his six-shooter into play. Hunter’s rifle belched and Clint Docker screamed as the slug smashed his left shoulder. The outlaw tossed away his gun, crashing backwards against the wall of the soddy, moaning in pain as he clutched at the gushing wound. Without even being told, Brumby threw his gun into the dust.

  The posse men emerged from behind rocks, and with rifles poised, they closed in on the unarmed outlaws. Dan Eckert hovered behind them, a pale shadow against the last, dying crimson of sundown. He felt a lump in his throat, a choking sensation as handcuffs were slipped over wrists. But then he reminded himself that he was free now, free to ride without the brand of outlaw marking him down.

  Nevertheless, he stood alone as the outlaws were herded like cattle away from the soddy. Two posse men fetched the gang’s horses, while Hunter directed another three deputies as they searched through the darkened dwelling.

  “Abe,” Hunter nodded to one of his men, “you and Brett get these buzzards into their saddles.”

  But suddenly a deep hush fell over the posse men. McCabe had halted, his piercing eyes staring in the gloom. Sheer bewilderment masked his stubbled face as his gaze fell upon the lonely figure, and for a moment it seemed that he couldn’t believe his eyes.

  “My God!” McCabe’s voice was an incredulous croak in the terrible silence. “Eckert!”

  Sheriff Hunter grunted. “Figured you’d know him, McCabe.”

  “Dan!” Evan McCabe called through the stillness. “What is this? What are you doing here?”

  “To put it bluntly, McCabe,” Hunter said dryly, “Eckert was the one who led us here. Eckert made a deal with us. and he’ll be riding away with the Governor’s free pardon in his pocket.”

  Dan Eckert turned his face away, staring down at the dry creek bed. Behind him, McCabe’s cuffed hands clenched into fists and his eyes narrowed into twin, heavy-lidded slits.

  For a long moment, McCabe said nothing, but when he spoke, his brittle words chilled Dan Eckert to the marrow.

  “You bastard, Eckert!” McCabe yelled, as Hunter’s gun jabbed into the outlaw who had raised his cuffed fists in a gesture of bitter hatred. “You lowdown, yeller sidewinder!”

  “We’ll see you in hell for this!” Brumby snarled bleakly, his face burning with savage hatred.

  Gun muzzles prodded the outlaws to their horses. Docker kept up a tirade of curses as he tried to plug his wound with his cuffed hands, and by the time they were sitting saddle, Lee Hunter had marched over to Eckert.

  “Well, Eckert,” the lawman said, contempt still in his voice, “you might as well take this.”

  Eckert turned and Hunter placed a document into his shaking hand.

  “Open it if you like,” Sheriff Lee Hunter invited. “You’ll find it’s all there. The official pardon signed by Governor Jason Masters himself.”

  Eckert pocketed the document without opening it. Right now all he wanted to do was get on his horse and ride, out of this canyon, out of this territory.

  “We’ll find you, Eckert!” McCabe screamed in fury. “Damn you, we’ll find you and see you rot!”

  “Don’t worry,” Hunter smiled at Dan Eckert, “they’ll hang real high.”

  Dan Eckert cast a glance back at McCabe.

  “So long, Judas!” yelled the outlaw leader.

  Eckert strode away, heading across the dry creek bed. No one spoke as the lonely man climbed the slope, and Eckert did not look back as he clambered to the top and found his horse. The cold wind lashed him as he mounted, and right then, the last glow of gold died in the western skies.

  Dan Eckert turned his horse, riding away. The dark night swallowed him.

  Two – Twenty Years On

  Rainbow trout sizzled in the pan and smoke from the campfire drifted lazily above the forest, a blue-gray column rising into the fading sky.

  Leaning back on his saddle which had been propped against a tree trunk, Shane Preston watched the big trout as it fried over the glowing logs.

  “I still don’t know how in hell you caught it,” the old-timer grunted from the other side of the campfire.

  The tall gunslinger grinned at his older pard. “I told you, Jonah. I tickled the damn thing.”

  “Tickled!” Jonah Jones looked baffled behind hi
s white whiskers.

  “Look,” Shane smiled as he rolled a cigarette, “I eased my hand under its belly and just kept on tickling until I got a grip. That’s how you catch trout.”

  Jonah was still mystified, but he let the matter drop. The main thing was, this fish would afford them a welcome change of diet from the venison and rabbit their guns had killed in the high country.

  “I reckon this’ll be our last day,” Shane said after a pause. He was a tall, rangy man, head and shoulders above most men on this raw frontier. He was dressed in black, a somber figure presenting a contrasting picture to the luxuriant greenery of the grass and pines of the high country. “We’ve had a long enough vacation.”

  Jonah swore softly. He’d been enjoying this break, one the two gunfighters had earned for themselves. For a few peaceful days and nights, the old-timer had been able to forget gun-chores and border showdowns. He’d been able to relax. But he wondered about his partner, Shane Preston.

  Even while resting-up, the tall gunslinger had been restless and brooding. Sure, Shane had hunted and fished, and at nights he’d slept soundly by the campfire, but in Jonah’s opinion, his companion hadn’t exactly enjoyed the vacation. As always, for Shane Preston this had been merely a brief respite between gun-toting assignments. Even while on vacation, Shane’s deep-set eyes had betrayed his obsession, the force that drove him on from one gun-chore to another.

  “Where will we head next?” Jonah asked him, casually.

  Shane turned the fish over in the pan. “Back to Lodge City. That was the last forwarding address we used. Could be there’s a letter waiting at Lodge City for us, an assignment maybe.”

  Jonah Jones glanced to where their two horses grazed on the lush grass. Shane’s big white stallion, Snowfire, was a splendid silhouette against the fading sky. Beside the stallion, Jonah’s ancient mare pawed the sod. Tessie was getting worn in the tooth, as Shane reminded him often, but the old mare had taken Jonah all over the territory during the years he’d been riding with this tall, silent gunfighter.