Shane and Jonah 4 Read online

  “Not exactly the friendliest town I’ve seen,” remarked Jonah as a shutter was hastily pulled across a window.

  The oil-lamp had just been lit inside the law office, and the yellow splash from the window spilled over Shane as he eased his rangy frame out of the saddle. Still astride Tessie, Jonah let his gaze move over the mud-brick and wooden building with high barred windows in its western wall. There was a prominent blue sign painted on the front wall which told the world that Sweetwater had two lawmen, Sheriff Dan Eckert and Deputy Vince Madigan.

  Shane looped his reins over the tie rail as Jonah prepared to dismount.

  Right then there was a shuffle of boots inside the law office and the door whined wide.

  The man in the doorway glanced first at Shane, then at the older gun hawk. He was a thin figure of a man, gaunt, hollow-eyed, with receding hair and stooped shoulders. There was an unpolished sheriff’s badge pinned to his red shirt.

  “I reckon,” he said quietly, “that you’ll be the gents I sent Cleve to fetch. I’m Dan Eckert.”

  “Shane Preston.” The gunfighter’s hand gripped the lawman’s. It wasn’t often that he shook hands with a sheriff. “We left Cleve at the way-station.”

  “I hoped you’d come,” said Sheriff Eckert. “I’m not exactly a praying man, Preston, but I’ve sure been prayin’ these last coupla days!”

  “My pard, Jonah Jones,” Shane introduced the oldster.

  “Knew it was you, Preston,” Eckert breathed. “It had to be you, dressed in black, toting that gun—”

  “Let’s mosey inside,” snapped Shane.

  The tall gunfighter strode into the law office. A solitary lamp hung from the ceiling and in its glow a broad-chested man leaned back on his chair against the rifle rack. He was a youngish man, almost boyish in his looks, and he was smoking a cigarette with ash drooping from its tip.

  “Gents,” Eckert said without enthusiasm, “meet my deputy.”

  “Howdy, Madigan.” Shane Preston recalled the name from the signboard.

  Vince Madigan smiled faintly, flicking the ash from his cigarette.

  Eckert slumped wearily into a chair behind his desk. For a lawman’s desk, it was oddly tidy. Shane didn’t exactly make a habit of visiting law offices, but on those rare occasions he’d been in them, the desks were usually piled high with reward dodgers and documents. This one had three articles on the top—an old newspaper, an empty holster and a document file.

  “I’ve never actually met you, Preston,” Dan Eckert said, his faded eyes on the gunslinger, “but I’ve heard a damn lot about you.”

  “What lawman hasn’t?” Deputy Vince Madigan’s quip wasn’t quite a sneer, but nevertheless, it brought a frown to Jonah’s face.

  “And to put it bluntly, Preston,” Sheriff Eckert said, “it was what I’d heard that caused me to send Cleve. Preston—I’m in one helluva jam.”

  Shane sat on the corner of the desk and picked up the newspaper. The pages were yellowed with age, and the print was faded, but the headline was plain to see. It headed the story of how Dan Eckert received the governor’s pardon in return for betraying the McCabe gang. The pictures of the outfit filled the entire length of two columns, and Eckert’s photo was displayed on the top right of the page. He’d been portrayed as a hero.

  “Cleve told me the story,” Shane said, examining the paper. “There’s no need to go over the details, Eckert, because your son filled us in. You want us to protect you—right?”

  “You’ve got my money?”

  “That’s why we’re here, Eckert. To earn it.” Shane strode over to the window. His eyes scanned the darkening street. “By day we’d see them coming, but once it’s dark—”

  Dan Eckert was trembling. “I called you here because you’ve the reputation of being the fastest guns in the territory, the only men who could stand up to a buzzard like McCabe! Preston—I wasn’t at McCabe’s trial, but I heard about it. When that Quaker judge gave them life and not a hangrope, McCabe grinned like an ape. He repeated what he swore when they captured him. Some day he’d find me and see me in hell!”

  Shane surveyed the pathetic figure of the Judas sheriff. Eckert had worked for years to wipe out the stigma of once being an outlaw, even to the extent of becoming a lawman. He’d built up a new world to live in. He had a son, a home, a position to be proud of, a far cry from riding the outlaw trail. But now the past was coming back to shatter that new world, and the lawman had been reduced to a wreck.

  “Way I see things, Eckert,” Shane said. “Someone has to be with you night and day. One of us will act as your bodyguard while the other one scouts around town, taking it in turns to sleep. Reckon we’ll start right away, which’ll put your mind at ease, some. Jonah—you shadow Eckert here while I mosey across the street.”

  “We ain’t expecting McCabe tonight, are we?” Jonah Jones demanded.

  “He could come any time,” said Shane. “So we don’t take chances.”

  Madigan drew on his cigarette. “Maybe we’re all jumping to conclusions.”

  “How come?” demanded Jonah. He hadn’t exactly taken a liking to the deputy.

  “Maybe McCabe’s more interested in shakin’ off pursuit than coming here,” Madigan shrugged. “Most hombres like McCabe make threats when they go to jail. Hell! We’ve heard enough in our time here in Sweetwater. Remember Rourke, Dan? You arrested him for attackin’ that sheepherder. He swore in court he’d plug you after he served his six months, but a coupla weeks ago you were drinking together in the saloon.”

  “Vince,” Eckert said hoarsely, “you know damn well that McCabe ain’t like Rourke!”

  “Like I said,” Shane informed him. “We’re taking no chances.”

  He nodded to Jonah, and the oldster checked his six-shooter.

  “I’m not to let him out of my sight, huh?” Jonah guessed.

  “Stick closer than a brother,” Shane said. “In all situations. Where he goes, you go.”

  “Keno.”

  “Gentlemen,” Sheriff Dan Eckert said, “I’m grateful. I’m here to tell you—I’m spooked. I’ve arrested men, even killed men while wearing this tin star, but never once have I faced a man like McCabe. In fact, come to think of it, Preston—McCabe’s no man. He’s an animal.”

  Shane headed outside, leaving Jonah with Eckert.

  He paced across the street, walking from shadow to lamplight and into shadow again. Beyond the town limits, sundown was drenching the salt flats a vivid purple and a solitary tree stood up like a ghostly hand in the stillness.

  He made his way to Ma Mason’s rooming house which was directly opposite the dusty windows of the Last Chance Saloon. A single lamp burned on the porch as Shane Preston headed in.

  Ma Mason was seated behind her desk, and her piercing, deep-set eyes peered at him over gold-rimmed spectacles. She was a tiny woman, sharp-faced, with a long nose.

  “I’d like a room with two single beds,” he said amiably.

  Ma Mason stared up at him. “Name?”

  “Shane Preston.”

  The rooming house owner wrote his name in the leather-bound guest book.

  “Mr. Preston, it’s a dollar a night per room,” she informed him, adding, “that doesn’t include any chow.”

  “Suits me fine.”

  Ma Mason tilted her head to scrutinize him through her spectacles. “You’re one of the gents just rode into town and went over to the law office.”

  Shane nodded. “My pard will share the room with me when he finally beds down.” Shane didn’t volunteer any further information, even though Ma Mason obviously hoped to gain more.

  There was a long silence, but realizing that Shane wasn’t going to elaborate on his reasons for the law office visit, she reached behind her for one of the keys.

  “It’ll be room number four, Mr. Preston,” she said. “Follow me.”

  Number Four was at the head of a narrow, rickety staircase with one stair missing. It wasn’t exactly plush, but it was clean and com
fortable. There were two beds, one either side of the lone window which overlooked the street, a single chair, and a rickety little table in the far corner. A basin of clean water stood on the table.

  “Money in advance, Mr. Preston.” Ma Mason held out a bony hand.

  Shane placed three bucks in her palm. “That should cover us.”

  She managed a vague smile and stuffed the bills into the pocket of her long woolen dress.

  “Now, Mr. Preston,” Ma Mason said, hands on hips. “The rules of my rooming house.”

  Shane Preston was over at the window. He pulled the sacking curtain aside and let his eyes rove the dusty street.

  “Rule number one,” she recited. “No smoking. Please let your pard know this. Rule two concerns liquor. I’m a member of the Sweetwater Ladies for Temperance League. No liquor will be brought into my rooming house. Rule three—no gambling on the premises. There are poker tables over at the Last Chance should you wish to indulge.”

  Shane turned to face her.

  “Rule four—”

  “How many more, ma’am?” Shane asked.

  “This one’s the last one, Mr. Preston,” she said belligerently. “It concerns women.”

  “Oh?”

  “Under no circumstances will you bring a woman up to your room. That is absolutely forbidden, Mr. Preston. I’ll have no sin in my rooms!”

  Shane smiled. “Ma’am—my pard and me are here on business. We won’t have time for those things you’ve mentioned.”

  “Good,” she beamed.

  Right then there was a soft, insistent knock on the door. With a shrug, Shane lifted the latch and opened it.

  “It’s been a long time, Shane.”

  At first, Shane Preston said nothing. While Ma Mason’s jaw sagged, he stared at the woman who stood in the doorway. He knew who she was of course, but the shock of seeing her here in Sweetwater, and dressed in showy saloon clothes stunned him momentarily.

  “Howdy, Dolores,” he said softly.

  “Mister Preston!” Ma Mason snapped.

  “Sorry about your rule, ma’am,” Shane said politely, guiding Ma Mason out of his room.

  “Well, I never!” he heard Ma Mason exclaim as he closed the door on her.

  “She doesn’t like me, Shane,” Dolores smiled. “In fact, she doesn’t exactly like any of the ladies over at the Last Chance.”

  “Dolores.” He had his hands on her bare shoulders. “What are you doing here?”

  Her deep brown eyes looked up at him. He could detect the aroma of cheap perfume, and as his searching gaze went past her long raven hair, he saw where the purple saloon frock plunged deeply, revealing the twin mounds of her bosom.

  “Jim left me,” she told him.

  Shane stared at the girl he’d known over a decade ago. He recalled how he’d been best man to Jim Reid, stood beside them both while they made their vows to love, honor and obey. At the time there had been a lump in his throat because once Dolores had been his girl, but she’d chosen Jim instead.

  “What the hell happened?” Shane released her and rolled a cigarette, breaking rule number one.

  “There was a gold-strike in California,” she said. “For some time there’d been trouble between Jim and me and when the news of gold reached our town, Jim just rode on out. I never saw him again.”

  “Any kids?” Shane lit his cigarette.

  “My baby died at birth.” Dolores sat down on the bed opposite Shane. “I—I found it hard to get a job, Shane. In the end—”

  “You came to work in a saloon,” Shane supplied.

  Her eyes leveled on his. “Yes. The Last Chance is the third saloon I’ve worked in, but I’m about to quit.”

  “Oh?”

  “I was over at the stage depot, booking my ticket when I saw you ride in,” Dolores told him. “I’m leaving town in a couple of days.”

  He drew on his cigarette. Once, Dolores had been a mighty pretty girl, much sought after at town socials, but life had taken a heavy toll of her. She was still attractive and there was a certain sensuousness about her, but the lines at the corners of her eyes betrayed the kind of life she’d been forced to lead.

  “Any particular reason you’re leaving?” he asked.

  “A man,” she said softly. Then she changed the subject. “I don’t need to ask why you’re in town Shane. Most everyone knows it, and if they don’t know, they’ve guessed. You’re here to protect Dan Eckert, aren’t you?”

  “We shouldn’t have to be here,” Shane said. “A town should stand up when its lawman’s in trouble.”

  “This town stand up?” Dolores forced a laugh. “I could tell you a lot about this town, Shane. Being a saloon girl, one gets to know the menfolk real well.”

  The years had made Dolores a cynic. She crossed her legs and Shane’s eyes dropped to their black-meshed shapeliness.

  “Shane.” The saloon girl’s voice was suddenly low. “I’m sorry about what happened to Grace. I heard about it through a trapper who was a friend of yours.”

  “Badger Bloodstone?”

  “Yes,” she said.

  “It happened a long time ago, Dolores,” Shane said bleakly. “And it’s my reason for being a hired gun.”

  “It—it must have been terrible,” she murmured. “I mean—coming home and finding your wife murdered like that …”

  But he wasn’t listening. Instead, he was reliving that scene of long ago. Once again, he was riding home from town and seeing his front door swinging in the wind. Once again, he was crashing inside to find the butchered body of his wife. Coldness gripped him as he recalled the trail which led to a lonely border saloon and the violent close-quarters gunfight which ensued. He’d killed the fat outlaw, but before he could level his gun at the other murderer, a slug had ripped into his belly. He’d never forget the gunman’s face. It was indelibly inscribed on his memory. Just as he’d blacked out, he glimpsed the man’s evil smile and his ugly, scarred face. The next thing he knew was coming-to beside Jonah’s campfire. The oldster had dragged him from the saloon, cut the slug from him and tended him. From that moment onwards, they’d ridden together.

  “One day, Dolores,” Shane said, “I’ll find the man I’m looking for. Until then, I’m riding as gun-for-hire.”

  Dolores looked at his gun, at the big notched handle. She was telling herself how Shane had changed over the years. He was no longer the carefree rancher she used to know. He was a man without warmth, a man who’d hardened, and there was a certain cold aloofness about him.

  “I hire out my gun for cash,” he said, returning to the window. “To the highest bidder—provided I go along with their cause. The money pays for my chow and ammunition while I look for my wife’s killer, and the job keeps me in the kinda circles he’s moving in.”

  Dolores stood up. Something told her the interlude was at an end. She walked over to him.

  “Shane,” she said gently, placing a hand on his arm.

  For a moment the gunfighter looked at her, and she felt the old desires stirring deep down inside her.

  “You’ve things to do, so I’ll get along,” Dolores said. “But before I leave, please call and see me.”

  Shane saw the promise in her eyes.

  “Sure,” he said.

  She cupped his face with her hands, stood on her toes and kissed him full on the lips.

  “For old times’ sake, Shane.”

  There was a thud of boots on the stairs, and instinctively Shane dropped his hand to his gun. The knock on the door was a loud thump above the discordant sound of voices.

  “Who is it?” Shane demanded.

  “Mayor Ames and some citizens of Sweetwater!” came the reply.

  “The town’s self-righteous,” Dolores smiled at the gunfighter. “I saw them gathering while I was on the way over here.”

  “I’m used to having official visits in towns.” Shane forced one of his rare smiles. He raised his voice. “Come on in!”

  Shane folded his arms as four men f
iled into his room. The plump man leading the delegation was shoved forward, and Shane surveyed him with a cold stare.

  “Shane,” Dolores said, “I reckon I’m just the right person to make the introductions. Most of these—uh—gentlemen, are pretty well known to me in one capacity or another.”

  The man wearing a gray broadcloth suit winced.

  “This is Mayor Ames.”

  Ames had his thumbs stuck in the lapels of his jacket.

  “Beside him is Mr. Lance Potter, owner of the general store—”

  “It so happens, woman, that we’re not here for a friendly chat,” the mayor interrupted her. “Names don’t matter. Preston—I’ll make this short and sharp.”

  “Please do,” Shane said dryly.

  “I’m the mayor of this town and therefore I’m the spokesman for Sweetwater’s citizens. We have a decent town here, Preston ...”

  “Let me make the speech for you, Ames,” Shane Preston broke in. “This is a clean town, and you don’t want the likes of me and my pard walking your streets. Right?”

  “You summed things up pretty well, Preston,” Mayor Ames congratulated him. “You and that—that bearded ranny are gunfighters, hired killers. Sweetwater has no need of you.”

  “Good,” Shane grunted. “That means you’ll be volunteering to stand by Sheriff Eckert when McCabe rides in? Right?”

  “I didn’t exactly say that, Preston,” Mayor Ames said hastily as a couple of faces changed color in the lamplight.

  “Why not?” Shane demanded harshly.

  “I reckon that’s our business,” Ames blustered.

  “I’m making it my business.” The gunfighter’s eyes narrowed.

  “All right,” Ames said stiffly. “If you must know, I’ll give you our reasons. We think a lot of our lawman, Preston, but he owes a lot to us. We gave him that badge, took a chance and pinned it on a former outlaw. He owes his respectability to us! In return, he’s been a good lawman. Now we’ve heard that the men he once betrayed are out of the penitentiary, supposedly to come after him. We feel that what’s between Dan Eckert and them is a private matter.”