A Lust For Lead (3 page)

‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Nathaniel wants you to get cleaned up.’
Shane left the hoof pick where it was and followed him outside. They walked back onto West Street, where a pair of riflemen passed them by. ‘They’re not contestants.’ Shane observed.
‘No.’ Buchanan replied. ‘Nathaniel calls them his invigilators. They’re here to make sure everyone plays nicely.’
‘Does that include you?’
‘Hell, I always play nicely. It just depends on what kind of a game you happen to be playing.’
He led Shane down a narrow alleyway into a yard, enclosed by leaning walls and a ramshackle fence. At one end was a shed in which were three tin baths and a hearth for heating water. Buchanan showed him where there was a pump across the yard, then left him to it.
Alone, Shane filled his bath. He could not shake the suspicion that, even though he could not see anyone, he was being watched. His bath water was steaming when a soft tread alerted him that he had company. He expected it to be Buchanan, returning to taunt and threaten him some more, but instead it was the man from O’Malley’s Saloon. He leaned himself in the shed’s open doorway and glared at Shane through slitted eyes. ‘I heard you’d be competing this time,’ he said. ‘I had to kill three men before I got an invite, just so I can finally be the man to put you in your grave.’
Shane unbuttoned his shirt. ‘What’s the matter, Sullivan? You like me so much you’ve come to watch me undress?’’
‘No, I just come to look you in the eyes, tell you I’ll be seeing you in Hell real soon.’
Shane turned slowly away and finished undressing. ‘You’ll have to save me a seat,’ he said. The man swore at him and left him to his bath. It had been a good long while since Shane had bathed and the hot water felt good against his skin. He scrubbed himself clean. After a while, Buchanan returned with a razor and clean clothes.
‘I heard you had a visitor.’
‘Nobody special.’
Buchanan leaned his back against the wall and grinned. ‘David Sullivan. I heard he was looking for you a while back. You the man that killed his brother?’
Shane didn’t answer. He had killed lots of people.

After he had washed and dressed, Shane was taken back to the crossroads where a cell had been prepared for him in Covenant’s jailhouse. The building was a squalid brick extension added onto the side of the town hall and courthouse. In it, eight years ago, Jacob Priestley had shot three prisoners through the bars of their cells and the bullet holes remained, the mortar surrounding them coloured brown where the dead men’s blood had splattered. Only one of the cells had been empty on August Third, and that was the one that Shane was now put in. Some work had been done to strengthen it: the bars were set in fresh stone and the lock on the door was new. Buchanan produced the key from a chain around his neck and locked him in.
A guard was stationed in the next room and Buchanan spoke to him as he left. ‘No visitors. Anyone wants to speak with him, you send them to me.’
Shane walked over to the bars and tested them for strength. He was not surprised to find that they were properly secure. If he had any notion of escaping then he had left it far too late to put into action now. Feeling wretched, he sat on the edge of his bunk and put his head in his hands. He had always known that he would end up in a situation like this. For six long years he had known it was inevitable, but had run from it nevertheless. Now, the weight of his fear, all his certainty, bore down on him and crushed him with despair.
What made it worse, what really made him hate himself, was the joy he felt deep inside: that this was where he wanted to be. That finally he was where he belonged.
A noise outside made him cross to the window. His cell looked out into an alleyway, down which it was possible to see out to the front porch of the Grande on the opposite side of the street. Three riflemen had drawn up outside the hotel. Shane recognised them as the men from Saddle Horn Rock. Tethered in a line behind them were five horses that had once belonged to Noonan and his men, and a sixth that carried the money boxes containing the twenty-thousand dollars that Nathaniel had paid for Shane’s capture.
Nathaniel’s servant met with them and Shane overheard one of them refer to him by his name: Whisperer. He had them carry the boxes inside, then the horses were taken away to be stabled. Shane returned to his bunk and sat down to brood.

It had all started when a Chicago newspaper printed a story exposing a list of senators who had been receiving bribes from members of the Prosperity Union Investment Company. Congress had formed a special committee charged with investigating the allegations and bringing those involved to justice. It was to blossom into the biggest political scandal since Credit Mobilier.
The year was 1881.
Shane lay atop a low rise in the southern plains, spying on a ranch about a mile away. It belonged to a man called George Babson, who had recently gone to town and hired six gunfighters to protect his home. The reason was that he had a new houseguest: his brother-in-law, a man by the name of Benedict Hunte.
It was Hunte that Shane had come to kill. He was the lynchpin of the Prosperity Union scandal, an accountant who knew the names of everybody involved. A lot of powerful men stood to suffer if what he knew was ever made public, and one of those – a US congressman – had hired Shane to ensure his silence, permanently.
Hunte was no fool; he had guessed what his co-conspirators would do to him if they thought he was going to spill the beans, and when Congress had sent for him to give evidence at a special hearing he had chosen to skip town instead. It was too bad that he had run to his sister’s family for safety. Tracking him had been just too damned easy.
Getting to him was going to be trickier, however. The ranch was located way out in open country, making it difficult for anybody to get close without being seen, and it was well-protected with men and firepower.
Shane slithered back out of sight and retreated to the small copse of trees where he had tethered his horse. As he drew close to it, he saw a rider approaching from the west. It was getting time for the spring round-up and Babson had a number of cowboys working for him, some of which had been patrolling the land since Hunte’s arrival. Shane quickly ducked out of sight among the trees.
The rider was a younger man than Shane by maybe five or six years and looked handsome and strong. He wore a Smith and Wesson Model Three Russian revolver and, judging by the way he carried himself in relation to it, Shane figured that he was not one of Babson’s men. This man was a professional killer of the kind that Babson could not afford and had likely come to kill Hunte.
Shane was not overly surprised to find that he had competition. Given the number of powerful men who were liable to suffer if Hunte testified, it was not unthinkable that several of them might have despatched assassins to ensure he didn’t make it to the committee. Shane held back among the trees and watched as the man rode closer. He was headed straight for him, no doubt figuring, as Shane had, that it was a good place to leave his horse while he climbed up onto the ridge to get a feel for what he was up against. When he had drawn within fifty paces – close enough that he was in pistol range but far enough away that only a well-aimed shot could kill – Shane stepped out into the open. He kept his guns holstered but his hands ready.
The man reined in before him and mentally assessed him before deciding not to go for his gun either. ‘Looks like I chose me a popular place to take a rest,’ he said.
‘There’s not a lot of shade in these parts.’ Shane replied. The exchange was amicably done.
The man nodded past him at the ridge. ‘I hear the Babson ranch is over there.’
‘It is.’ Shane confirmed.
‘I heard he bought himself some gunfighters.’
‘Nobody special, but add them to what he’s got and there’s more than twenty guns there now, and no cover for close to a quarter mile in any direction.’
‘Sounds like it’d be best to go in at night.’
‘That’s what I figured.’
Shane walked over to his horse and unhitched the reins without ever once letting the man slip out of his peripheral vision. He was ready to reach for his gun at the slightest provocation.
‘You’re Shane Ennis, aren’t you?’
Shane did not reply. He mounted his horse and turned her around in the direction of town. The stranger fell in beside him. ‘You are, aren’t you? Shit and buggery!’ He whistled through his teeth. ‘I never thought there’d come the day when I’d meet you. I’m Castor Buchanan.’
‘The man who shot Rick Valentine?’
‘Hey, you’ve heard of me! Ain’t that a breeze.’
Castor Buchanan was a killer with the sort of reputation that a certain breed loved to foster. To him, killing was less a vice and more a pleasure. He was a brutal and sadistic man whose fondness of torture and rape bordered on the demonic. He was also a very talented gunfighter, almost as good as Shane in fact. ‘I wouldn’t have reckoned on you having heard of me, a big shot like you,’ he said.
‘I keep my ear to the ground.’
‘Like a fucking Apache.’ Buchanan laughed. ‘Hey white man, heap many men want you dead.’
‘Very funny.’
They rode on in silence for a time. Presently, Shane began wondering if they had rode far enough that a gunshot would not be heard at the Babson Ranch and contemplated killing his rival before Buchanan got the drop on him instead. He was just about to reach for his gun when Buchanan spoke: ‘It could get messy.’
Shane stayed his hand. He could not be sure if Buchanan had read his intention or not, but if the man wanted to talk, Shane was of a mood to let him.
‘The two of us being hired for the same job like this; we can’t both get paid, now can we?’ Buchanan grinned like he had said something funny. ‘So we kill each other now and get it over with, but what does that solve, right? We still got all those men back at the ranch to contend with and that’s not likely to be easy, not for just one of us on his own. So whaddya say we team up? We can settle our differences afterward. Partner?’
Shane would later regret not killing him when he had the chance, but at the time he had weighed his options and foolishly answered: ‘Sure.’

It was getting late in Covenant and the daylight was beginning to fade when Buchanan came to collect Shane from his cell. He was taken across the road to O’Malley’s Saloon.
Shane saw other men go in ahead of them. ‘Nathaniel’s drawing lots tonight to decide who fights who in the first round.’ Buchanan explained. ‘No prizes for guessing who’s already asked to fight against you.’
‘What did Nathaniel tell him?’
‘Refused him of course. The matches are picked at random, those are the rules.’
‘The Fastest Guns never used to care much for rules.’
‘No.’ Buchanan agreed. ‘But you’ll find there’ve been a few changes made since you knew them last.’ He stepped up to the saloon’s butterfly-wing doors and pushed them open.
The atmosphere in the saloon was tense and fragile as glass. Shane counted about a dozen men spread throughout the room, each with at least the space of a table separating him from his closest neighbour. A flight of stairs climbed to a gallery on the first floor, where whores had used to ply their trade in small private rooms. Three of Nathaniel’s invigilators occupied the gallery now, armed with Winchester repeating rifles and standing vigilantly over the men below.
Everybody had turned to face the new arrivals and Shane felt the weight of their scrutiny bear down upon him. Buchanan shrugged it off and strode across the room to the untended bar, where he poured himself a drink. Shane joined him.
‘Did you ever see such a mean bunch of desperadoes all crammed into one place?’ Buchanan said loudly. He slid a shot glass full of whisky into Shane’s waiting hand. Shane did not drink it but slowly turned to sweep his gaze across the room.
He recognised most of the contestants gathered there, by reputation if not by face. Among them was John Devlin, the insane mass-murderer; Daniel Blaine from Canada; and Escoban Cadero, an outlaw king from the desert wastes of northern Mexico. They had come from all over the continent to compete, not for money, but to be recognised as the best of the best.
Seated with his back to an old piano was Nanache, also known as Nathan Sanders, a renegade Apache spiritwalker. He wore a faded blue US Army jacket and a grisly necklace made of finger bones, each of them supposedly cut from the hand of a gunslinger he had killed.
Across the room was a man with a star-shaped scar on his face that identified him as Evan Drager. He had been shot in the head five years ago but had miraculously managed to survive. The wound had left him in a coma for twenty-seven days, after which he had woken and proclaimed himself to be the Fastest Guns’ new holy messiah, spared from death by the bullet’s own mercy. Since then he had amassed a small cult following.
Not all of the contestants were men. A hard-faced brunette sat with her back to the wall. She wore a man’s clothes and had a .44 calibre Forehand and Wadsworth revolver strapped to her thigh. Shane had never seen her before but he knew by her reputation that she could only be the woman they called Vendetta. No other woman alive was more deadly with a gun.
She was not the only woman in the room, although the other was certainly not a contestant. She was a pretty young thing, maybe eighteen years old, with a trim figure and long blonde hair that was black at the roots. She sat on a young man’s lap, himself not more than a year or two her senior and Shane was appalled to find that a man had brought his girlfriend to watch him compete.
The girl was looking at Shane. ‘You never told me Shane Ennis was competing,’ she whispered excitedly.
The boy stopped nuzzling her and looked up. ‘Oh yeah, hey! Whatever.’ He reached his hand around her and gave her arse a squeeze.
At that moment, the butterfly-wing doors swung open and David Sullivan strode in. Everybody looked up at him and there was a moment of reckoning, then it passed and Sullivan stalked to the bar. He paused beside Shane, glared at him hatefully, then snatched up a bottle of beer and found himself a table far from anybody else.
Shane went to find a seat of his own but Buchanan laid a restraining hand on his shoulder. ‘Here’s just fine,’ he said.
The butterfly-wing doors swung open again and this time it was Nathaniel who came in. He was followed by Whisperer and two more of his invigilators who, once inside, took up flanking positions guarding the door.
Nathaniel walked over to the bar and poured himself a drink. He nodded to Buchanan and Shane. ‘Nice to see you here, Mister Ennis. In fact,’ he said, turning to include the rest of the room with a sweep of his arm. ‘It’s good to see all of you here.’
He stepped away from the bar, moving out into the centre of the room where everyone could see him. ‘In this room I see fifteen of this country’s finest gunfighters. I salute you all,’ he said, raising his glass. ‘Welcome to the second tournament of the Fastest Guns.’
Buchanan whooped and began to applaud but he was alone in openly displaying his enthusiasm. The other contestants remained tight-lipped and insular. Nathaniel took his drink with him to the stairs and climbed halfway to the gallery. From up there he towered over everyone in the saloon, imposing his authority on men who normally followed no rule save their own.
‘It has been six years since the last tournament was held,’ he said, his voice rich and flowing. ‘Since then, a new generation of gunfighters has emerged and it is time for the greatest among them – you! – to settle who is truly the best. This time there can be only one winner. For the rest of you there is only death and the anonymity of failure. But for the victor–’ Nathaniel paused, savouring the moment – ‘Lies the greatest of all treasures: immortality! The immortality that will come from being recognised as one of the legendary Fastest Guns.’
Shane glanced around the room and saw that all of the faces staring up at Nathaniel burned with ambition.
‘There are rules.’ Nathaniel said. ‘These men with the rifles whom you are all no doubt familiar with by now are here to see to it that you abide by them. If you do not–’
Every invigilator in the room cranked the lever-action of his rifle in unison, jacking a cartridge into the breach. Nathaniel let that formidable sound echo around the room before he continued: ‘I trust that I make myself clear.’
There was a deadly silence.
Nathaniel went on: ‘You are all in this to the end. In coming here you have made a commitment that you cannot go back on. You will have seen the men stationed around the perimeter of town. They will shoot anybody who tries to leave. They will also shoot anybody who tries to enter.’
He counted the second rule off on his fingers. ‘There is to be no fighting outside of the tournament. You will each of you shortly be paired with an opponent drawn at random and given a time when you will fight. You will fight only with that opponent and only at the allotted time. Any act of fist-fighting, wrestling or any attempt to draw down on another contestant will be met with lethal force, without hesitation, by my invigilators.
‘Lastly, no fight will be deemed to have finished until one of the combatants is dead. You will all fight to the death and if you do not kill your opponent with the first shot you will carry on shooting, reloading if necessary, until he is dead. The last man left standing at the end of the tournament will be deemed to be the winner by virtue of being the only survivor.’
Several of the contestants began glancing around at each other, trying to gauge who would win and who would die. Shane had made his own predictions already and they did not bode well. There was not a single fighter in the room that he was not confident he could beat, assuming of course that he chose to fight at all. He was not being cocky. It was not without good cause that men had once claimed he was the best gunfighter who had ever lived. Six years on and he was undoubtedly out of practice, but even so he knew that it would not take long for him to get back into his stride.
He just didn’t know if that was something he wanted to do. The risk was too great that if he started killing he might never stop.
Whisperer passed Nathaniel a bag, which he held up for everyone to see. ‘In this bag are the names of each contestant. Sadly, there is one contestant who is absent this evening. Her name will be drawn for her and she will be advised of her time and pairing in due course.’
‘Who is she?’ It was David Sullivan who spoke. ‘And why ain’t she here?’
‘Her name is Chastity, and she is currently resting. Chastity is . . . different.’ Nathaniel replied.
Shane had never heard of any gunfighter who went by the name of Chastity, and there were few enough women gunfighters that, if she had any reputation at all, he should have heard of her. The fact that he had not struck him as unusual. Lately, too much information that he would have expected to have heard had managed to slip him by, and he did not think it a coincidence.
Nathaniel began drawing names from the bag. ‘The first match of the first round,’ he said. ‘Will be held at half-past ten tomorrow morning, and will be fought between. . . Matt Nesbitt and David Sullivan.’
The two men each turned to look the other over. David Sullivan, the unrelenting bounty hunter and Matt Nesbitt, the die-hard lawman. Whisperer chalked their names up on a chalkboard at the foot of the stairs. Shane was relieved that his name had not been one the first to be drawn. He tensed when Nathaniel drew the second pairing:
‘Escoban Cadero and the absent Chastity. To fight at half-past-eleven.’
Cadero, the scarred Mexican outlaw, wrinkled his face in disappointment. He knew nothing of his opponent, whether she was a challenge or if he could beat her easily. He poured himself a drink and knocked it back.
Nathaniel drew again. ‘The third match will be held at half-past-twelve and will be fought between Vendetta and Luke Ferris.’
The woman gunfighter barely acknowledged the call. She stared at her table, where she had been drawing abstract images in a pool of spilt beer.
Nanache and Daniel Blaine were drawn next, followed by Tom Freeman and Kip Kutcher. Freeman was a serious-faced black man from North Carolina with more than eighty kills to his name and Kutcher was the young man who had brought his girlfriend with him. Shane was able to place him now that he knew his name. Kip Kutcher was one of a dozen or more wild young men who had made a name for themselves tearing up the Comstock Lode. He was a renowned fast draw. Supposedly, not once in over fifteen gunfights had he been the first man to draw. He was handsome and clean-shaven and dressed fine with a shiny Colt Peacemaker slung from his belt.
‘The sixth match will be fought between Evan Drager and John MacMurray and will take place at half-past three.’ Nathaniel announced
Drager nodded his approval. MacMurray, an engineer in the US Army, went back to cutting into the tips of his bullets with a pocket knife. He was renowned for his signature-kill ammunition. He cut a cross into the tip of each bullet he fired. This caused them to deform on impact, inflicting massive tissue damage. One shot was nearly always enough to kill, the massive weight of impact literally dragging the victim’s blood from his heart. The cross incisions had led most people to call him ‘The Christian’.
Shane tensed as Nathaniel reached into the bag for the fourteenth time, knowing that his own name was sure to be drawn soon.
‘The seventh match.’ Nathaniel announced. ‘Will be between Valentino Rodrigues and the Gentleman, and will be held at half-past four.’
Whisperer chalked their names up on the board. Rodrigues was a Mexican assassin and the Gentleman was one of a new breed of city gunfighters from the streets of New York. A shy and neatly-dressed man with tortoiseshell-rimmed spectacles, he looked more like a banking clerk than a gunfighter.
Nathaniel drew the last pair of names. At half-past-five the next day, Shane would fight John Devlin.
After six years abstinence, he would either kill or be killed.