Shane and Jonah 4 Read online

  “You lousy hypocrites!” Dolores used the harsh tones of a saloon girl.

  “In other words,” Shane said, “you figure you owe Eckert nothing because you gave him a badge.”

  “Again, Preston, you’ve summed up our feelings pretty well,” said Ames pompously.

  “Gents,” Shane said, his voice brittle, “my pard and me came here to do a job. I don’t give a damn what you think of us. We’re here to stay. We’re here to do the chore none of you have the guts to do. Now get the hell out of my room and crawl back to your homes!”

  Fury reddened the mayor’s face. He opened his mouth to retort but thought better of it. He twisted around and tramped to the door. The men stumbled after him, and it was the storekeeper, Potter, who blurted out a warning from the doorway: “If you cause trouble in this decent town we’ve built up, Preston, we’ll—we’ll run you out!”

  “The decent town you’ve built, Potter?” Shane demanded. “Or was it Dan Eckert?”

  He heard their boots thudding down the stairs.

  “My room’s number four in the saloon,” Dolores said at the door. “Same number as this one here.”

  And then she was gone.

  The flickering fire glow played over the stubbled face, fingering the dark burn that would remain on McCabe’s face until the day he died. The glow framed his hunched figure and gleamed on the long rifle that lay beside him.

  “I don’t like it, Evan,” whined Spavin.

  McCabe turned to fix his eyes on the younger man. Soon after they’d broken out of jail, they’d swooped on a lonely cabin, killed the occupants and outfitted themselves with clothing they found around the place. Prison garb was burned, and in its place, the four fugitives had put on whatever fitted them best. Right now, Matt Spavin looked almost comical in an oversize pair of pants and a baggy shirt.

  “Quit squawking!” McCabe snapped. “Hell! Ever since we jumped prison, you’ve been moaning. It started at that cabin—”

  “We didn’t need to kill those trappers,” Spavin said.

  “We had no guns and we needed some. Guns and clothes.”

  Spavin shuddered at the memory. They’d swooped on the cabin, battered the two trappers to death with staked branches and their hard prison boots, and then snatched every gun and all the clothes they could lay their hands on. Next they’d grabbed two horses, and together with a couple of mounts they’d stolen earlier, they’d ridden south with posses in hot pursuit.

  “What about that rancher at Apache Wells?” Spavin asked.

  “What about him?” McCabe muttered. “He was in my way, so I killed him. Listen to me, Matt, and listen good. When we climbed those walls, you happened to be around, so we took you with us. But when you came, you threw in your dice with ours, you became one of us. Savvy? That is, of course, unless you choose to ride on out ...”

  On the other side of the fire, Brumby and Docker exchanged glances. McCabe’s fingers slid almost imperceptibly to the butt of the rifle. Matt Spavin swallowed.

  “Like you said, Evan,” Matt Spavin said, “I belong to the outfit now.”

  “Good,” McCabe purred. He stirred the fire with a long stick and the flames leapt into the darkness.

  “How much longer?” Brumby asked. Twenty years had reduced him to a hollow shell of a man. Once he had the long, tapering fingers of a tinhorn, and now as they lifted his coffee mug, they were gnarled and calloused.

  “Tomorrow night, maybe,” McCabe said.

  “The sooner the better,” Clint Docker snarled. He was the one man the years had been kinder to. Apart from graying hair around his high temples, he hadn’t apparently aged over-much. “And remember, I’m putting one bullet into him.”

  “We’ve waited for twenty years,” McCabe said, staring into the fire. “A few more hours won’t matter.”

  McCabe sipped his coffee.

  Twenty years out of his life! Two decades of work and imprisonment, of dreary labor carving a trail out of rock faces, of lonely nights in a tiny two-person cell he’d shared with a negro thief. Twenty long years. And McCabe had brooded all that time, nursed a terrible, festering hatred, waiting for that one moment he knew would come when escape would present itself. Often at nights he’d stared open-eyed at the high barred window, thinking of the free air outside the walls, the air Dan Eckert was breathing. Occasionally, newspapers were smuggled inside, and one day McCabe had read the report of the appointment of Sweetwater’s new sheriff. Lawman Dan Eckert!

  But he wasn’t going to be sheriff much longer. Soon Sweetwater would have to find a replacement for the dead lawman. Eckert would be expecting him, of course. The news of the escape had been wired to most every town in the territory, and McCabe wondered how Eckert had taken the information.

  “Evan,” Brumby said, “what if Eckert’s got the town guarding him? After all, they won’t let us just ride on in and kill him!”

  McCabe downed his coffee.

  “I’ve something all worked out,” he whispered in the stillness.

  The outlaws stared at him, and just beyond the camp, a coyote howled.

  Four – The Old Goat Wore a Gun!

  The moment he saw him at the bar counter, Jonah figured there’d be trouble.

  He’d seen a dozen like this young upstart—fresh-faced, loud-mouthed, wearing guns in fancy new holsters, and most of them had one thing on their minds—to make a name for themselves. This one’s name was Oxenham.

  “Another redeye,” Jonah Jones mumbled to the bartender.

  Barkeep Hunt glanced sideways at Oxenham. The flashy youngster was snickering to his companion and making comments to impress a percentage girl who was probably old enough to be his mother.

  “Mister,” Hunt said softly to Jonah, “maybe it would be better if you moved on.”

  “What in hell for?” Jonah demanded, bristling.

  “Look, mister,” the bartender shrugged, “I’ve got nothing against you, but I don’t want a ruckus in my saloon. I don’t exactly own the place, but I reckon I’ll be the one to clean up any mess afterwards.”

  “I won’t be starting any ruckus,” the oldster grunted. “Now—that redeye.”

  Hunt looked aside at Oxenham as he poured the drink. A subdued bunch of patrons sat behind Jonah Jones, and more than one uneasy glance was being cast young Oxenham’s way. Only one poker game was in progress, the piano player was sipping a drink, and conversation was merely a low buzz. The towners were expectant, and Jonah sensed their tension as he drank with his back to them.

  “Didn’t expect to see you over here, old-timer!” Oxenham’s remark was loud enough to plunge the saloon into a hush.

  Jonah sipped his liquor.

  “Figured you was playing nursemaid to Dan Eckert!” Oxenham guffawed.

  “Come on, Ox,” his companion muttered. “Don’t be a loco fool!”

  “You stay outa this, Britt,” Oxenham turned to face the bearded gunslinger. “Hey—old-timer!”

  Jonah placed his glass on the bar-top. “You want somethin’, son?”

  For a moment Oxenham was taken aback by Jonah’s voice. Maybe he’d expected a hoarse rasp or an oldster’s croak, but instead, the gun hawk’s tone was soft and firm. Suddenly a grin exploded across Oxenham’s face.

  “I said—I figured you was playing nursemaid to Dan Eckert,” he repeated.

  Jonah surveyed him coldly. “My pard and me are taking it in turns to watch Eckert. Anythin’ wrong with that?”

  Oxenham laughed. “Well, I guess when a gunfighter gets close to retirement, all he can handle are nursemaid chores?”

  Someone snickered, but the majority of the towners sat in stony silence.

  “What are you trying to prove, sonny?” Jonah leaned back on the bar counter.

  The smile vanished from Oxenham’s face. “Just quit calling me ‘sonny’! The name’s Oxenham ... Joe Oxenham. It’s a name folks aren’t gonna forget in a hurry, old-timer.”

  “Why don’t you have a drink, sonny,” Jonah invited him. “I mean, you are past the milk stage, aren’t you?”

  Oxenham’s eyes bugged in anger as all around him, folks urged caution. His right hand quivered over the studded rim of his freshly tooled holster.

  “Now just let an old-timer hand you out a piece of advice,” Jonah Jones said. “I knew what was in your mind the moment you started sizing me up. You’d like to build yourself a rep, so you figure that taking an old gun hawk like me’ll start you out on the road to fame. No, sonny—don’t try it. Besides, I don’t usually like plugging kids still wet behind the ears.”

  “You ole goat!” Oxenham yelled. “You’re just a has-been, a nursemaid gunslick!”

  They’d stopped urging him to back down by now.

  Maybe they’d known all the time that Joe Oxenham would seize the chance to build his reputation once Jonah walked into the saloon. After all, ever since the gunfighters had hit town, he’d been boasting to all and sundry that he could take either of them.

  Jonah faced him squarely. He was angry at the kid’s jibe, but felt a tinge of pity for this upstart reveling in the role of town strongman. It was a dangerous role, made easier by Sheriff Eckert’s predicament.

  “You’re talkin’ big, sonny,” Jonah said coldly. “I wonder if you’ve the guts to back up what you’re sayin’?”

  “Why don’t you try me?” Oxenham gritted.

  “I was thinking about some other way,” Jonah shrugged.

  “What in hell do you mean?”

  “By rallyin’ around and helping your town lawman,” the gunfighter rasped. “But maybe you’re like the rest of them—yeller!”

  Oxenham drew in his breath, his wild eyes flitting over the saloon patrons. They wouldn’t be thanking him for protecting a sheriff who’d signed his own death warrant
by becoming a Judas, but he’d certainly rise in their esteem if he gunned down this notorious gunfighter. And right now esteem and reputation was what Oxenham craved.

  “Ole goat—any time you’re ready!” mouthed Oxenham.

  Jonah Jones watched him, knowing that nothing was going to stop this young fool from what he intended to do. The oldster didn’t relish what he had to do but knew it was inevitable.

  “I’m ready, sonny,” Jonah said wearily.

  For a moment time stood still. Oxenham hesitated on the brink, but suddenly his right hand plunged for the fancy holster. Jonah Jones let him fasten his eager fingers around the gun butt before his own hand streaked downwards. The oldster’s blurred draw brought a gasp from the onlookers, and even as Oxenham lifted his six-shooter, Jonah blasted him. The slug carved a hole right through the youth’s left shoulder, shattering the bone and throwing him back against the bar counter. Oxenham’s gun exploded and the bullet ripped splinters out of the floor. He spun around, terrible pain creasing his face into that of an old man. He dropped his gun and stared helplessly into the naked muzzle of Jonah’s gun.

  Very slowly, Jonah eased down the hammer of his six-shooter, and Oxenham folded over the bar and wept like a child.

  “You’ve been a damn fool, sonny,” the gunfighter said softly. “Now mosey on home before I change my mind and kill you!”

  The batwings were swept wide.

  Mayor Ames burst his way through, followed by three bustling men. The town mayor fixed his angry eyes on the wounded, bloodied figure of Oxenham, then focused on the gunfighter. Hot fury made the mayor’s jowls quiver, righteous anger that purpled his lips. No one moved as Ben Ames took two paces towards Jonah and then halted.

  “Get outa town, Jones!” Ames blurted out. “Right now! Ride on out and stay out—and take Preston with you!”

  Jonah heard the murmurs of sympathy from some of the saloon patrons, but it was a little sand-miner who urged caution.

  “Ben—it was a fair fight! You didn’t see it, Ben, but it was fair and square!”

  “I didn’t need to see it,” Ames sneered. “A professional gunfighter against a boy! That’s all I need to know!”

  The gun was still in Jonah’s hand. Maybe the folks had believed that Oxenham was a fool to take him on, but nevertheless, they were supporting their fellow towner.

  “Someone fetch a doc for the boy,” Ames said.

  Jonah motioned the bartender. “I’ll finish my drink.”

  “Oh, no, Jones!” Ames cracked. “You’re leaving!”

  Potter, the storekeeper, let his hand stray to the gun at his hip. Another hand dropped to a concealed derringer. The tall rake beside Mayor Ames rested his fingers on the rim of his holster. The mood was catching, spreading through the saloon patrons. No one had actually drawn a gun, but hands were slithering close to hardware.

  “Anyone want to make me leave?” Jonah challenged.

  Ben Ames strutted another few paces into the center of the Last Chance.

  “Having trouble, Jonah?”

  Shane’s question stopped Ames in his tracks. Every head whipped around. Shane Preston’s six-shooter was pointing over the top of the batwings, and behind this gun, the tall man’s rugged face was set against the darkness of the night.

  “You could say that, pard,” Jonah Jones said, breathing a sigh of relief.

  “Heard the shooting.” Shane shoved the batwings wide and stood there with black-handled six-shooter poised. “Figured you might have been in strife.”

  The tall gunfighter glanced around the saloon, finally fixing his gray eyes on the doubled-up figure of Joe Oxenham.

  Shane guessed what had happened. “Another trigger-happy gun-fool?”

  Ben Ames snapped back at him, “This town has no place for your breed. I’ve said it once, and I’ll say it again in front of everyone. We want you both out of Sweetwater. And as mayor, I speak for all of this town.”

  Shane regarded the saloon customers. Hands had been hastily removed from guns, and some palms were even flat on the table tops. And yet there was cold hostility on many faces.

  “You probably speak for some of them,” Shane observed. “But that’s too bad, Ames, because we’re staying. That is, unless you and some others want to try your luck at forcing us to leave?”

  Not one eye flickered.

  Jonah downed his redeye in a quick gulp and strode past the mayor to the batwings.

  Still no one moved, no one jumped to accept Shane Preston’s challenge.

  Shane stepped back through the batwings, and Jonah joined him on the boardwalk. Together they marched across the street, and behind them, the Last Chance erupted.

  “I get the distinct impression we’re not wanted,” Jonah Jones said wryly.

  “Know why?”

  “Because we’re gunslingers?”

  “That’s not the real reason,” Shane said as they approached the law office. “They’d hate us just the same if we were a coupla saddle bums, or even folks who lived in this town. The fact we’re backing Dan Eckert has hurt their consciences, and most folks don’t like that to happen.”

  Shane opened the law office door and they strode inside. Dan Eckert and his deputy were drinking coffee, and Shane slammed the door on the angry town.

  Five – The Hostages

  “We’ll have the blessing,” Lacey Quinn said.

  Sadie Quinn bowed her head, and seeing April do the same, Cleve closed his eyes. Lacey stood up to recite the ritual table grace while the strong aroma of venison soup was wafted to Cleve Eckert’s nostrils.

  “Amen,” they all repeated together.

  Cleve sipped his soup, aware that April was watching him closely. She’d brewed the soup especially for him, and she anxiously waited for his reaction.

  “Real good,” Cleve smiled at her, and she lowered her eyes demurely.

  The dog started barking outside on the porch.

  “Lie down, Sam!” called Quinn.

  “Tonight,” Mrs. Quinn said, “you two young folks can have the parlor to yourselves. Last night Lacey and I felt real guilty, sticking around till late! But it won’t be like that tonight. We’re going to bed early.”

  April flushed, and outside, Sam was still barking furiously.

  Suddenly Lacey Quinn stood up and took the napkin from his belt. There was a little whine from the dog. It no longer barked.

  “Probably a coyote sneaking in close for food,” Sadie Quinn suggested.

  Lacey Quinn lifted the long Winchester from its wall hook.

  “Maybe,” the way-station owner said.

  He trod softly to the door, and frowning, Cleve placed his soup spoon in the bowl. Dropping a hand to his gun, he walked around the table to join April’s father, who began to lift the latch. The cold evening wind crept inside, making the lamp flicker. The door swung wide and Lacey Quinn stepped out onto the porch. Cleve walked with him, and together they stared out at the moonlit night. Beyond the way-station, the lonely, ancient buttes and distant ridges were stark, ghostly silhouettes in the filtered light.

  “Dear God!” Cleve exclaimed suddenly. “The dog!”

  The little mongrel lay at the far end of the porch, its throat cut.

  “Apaches!” Lacey Quinn blurted out his first thought. “Dirty, murdering Apaches!”

  “No, hombre—not Indians!” The voice from the darkness was coarse, slicing the night like a blunt knife. “We have you both covered so just drop those guns and reach!”

  They whipped around, staring into the night. The four shadows were just beyond the porch, four men with guns poised, their faces deep in darkness.

  “Lacey!” It was Sadie’s voice from inside. “What’s wrong?”

  One of the shadows moved closer to the door.

  “Those guns, boys!” The voice was harsher now.

  “Who are you?” Lacey Quinn demanded fearfully. “For God’s sake—”

  “McCabe’s the name!” snapped the voice. “Hurry it, Duke.”

  With an oath, Cleve Eckert swiveled around. The spilling lamp glow from the doorway gleamed on his six-shooter, but his finger never made the trigger. McCabe’s gun boomed from the circle of darkness and there was a dull, sickly thud as the bullet smashed into Cleve’s belly. April screamed hysterically at the door as the sheriff’s son folded and belched blood. He dropped his six-shooter and the gun clattered on the wooden porch. His eyes filmed over and slowly he collapsed over the boards.