A Lust For Lead (4 page)

The meeting ended as soon as the last pairing had been called. Vendetta kicked back her chair and was the first to leave. One by one, the saloon began to empty. John Devlin made a point to make eye-contact with Shane before he left. He was a young man, not much in his twenties but he had eyes as deep and cold as gun barrels.
‘He shot fifteen kids in a schoolhouse.’ Buchanan told Shane. ‘Killed their teacher and half the posse they sent to find him. That man sure likes to kill.’
Shane had already heard Devlin’s story and likened him to a lesser Jacob Priestley. He did not think that he would lose against him, although the thought of winning made him feel cold with dread. He began to think of what would happen to him but was distracted when Kip Kutcher walked up and stuck out his hand in greeting. Shane ignored him but Kutcher had the sort of ego that glossed over small details like rebuffal.
‘Wow, it sure is an honour to meet you Mister Ennis. I’d like to introduce myself, my name is Kip Kutcher. That’s Kip with a K, Kutcher with a K. And this here’s my girl, Madison.’
The girl ducked her gaze, feigning bashfulness. ‘Pleased to meet you, Mister Ennis.’
Shane fixed her with a withering stare. He knew her kind: gunfighter groupies. They clung to a man like lice, drinking up his fame to compensate for their own lack of character. Shane had tolerated a few in his time but never one as striking as Madison. Towards the end he had grown to scorn them for they had distracted him from what he had believed was the purity of the kill.
The girl had no place being in Covenant and Kutcher should have known better than to bring her along.
‘It’s not often that a man gets to meet a bona fide legend.’ Kutcher told Shane. ‘So I’ll understand if you’re feeling a little shy.’
He laughed at his own joke. ‘Seriously, I thought you’d retired. Don’t you know that gunfighting’s a young man’s game now?’
Shane did not rise to him, only turned and reached for his whisky glass. He was wondering if getting drunk would go any way to solving some of his problems. He decided not.
Madison dragged her boyfriend away and they left the saloon, laughing. Nathaniel came over. ‘So what do you think of the new generation of gunfighters, Mister Ennis?’
‘I think the Fastest Guns’ standards must be slipping.’
Nathaniel laughed politely. He turned to Buchanan: ‘You and I have matters to discuss. Why don’t you show Mister Ennis back to his accommodation? We’ll speak again, Shane.’
Buchanan put his hand on Shane’s arm and steered him to the door. It was dark outside. The embers of a rust-coloured sunset burned on the edge of the horizon leaving Covenant to skulk in blackness. The air was still, quiet and foreboding.
‘Less than twenty-four hours, Shane.’ Buchanan said as they crossed the street. There was excitement in his voice. ‘Don’t tell me you don’t feel it too: that fear, that anticipation. Knowing that tomorrow you’re going to take a man’s life, Shane. Doesn’t that feel good to you?’
Shane was in no mood to talk about how he felt. He was excited but he was also afraid and the worst part of his fear stemmed from the fact that he was excited. He did not want to feel good about the prospect of shooting a man tomorrow but it was so hard for him. He had lived by the gun for the greater part of his adult life and, however much his conscious will despised it, his heart would always crave the power he had once wielded with a gun in each hand.
Back then he would have never fallen so low as this.
They entered the jailhouse and Buchanan took a lantern from the guard in the sheriff’s office and used it to light the way to Shane’s cell. Its flickering light set Buchanan’s eyes ablaze. ‘I know you feel it,’ he said knowingly.
He locked the door and took the lantern with him back to the sheriff’s office, closing the door behind him so that Shane was left in darkness. Despondent, Shane sat on his bunk and counted Buchanan’s footsteps as they receded into the distance. When he heard the front door slam, he rose and crossed to the window. There, he could see Buchanan as he crossed the street to the Grande. He saw Buchanan pause at the foot of the porch and turn to face the sunset.
Waiting for something, Shane thought.
And then it began. As the last of the sunlight faded from the horizon, the town began to creak and groan.
It was as if the town’s foundations were contracting in the cooling night air, except that the temperature did not seem to have dropped at all. Wood groaned and screamed and in places there were violent banging noises. The sounds built in number as every building in town joined the cacophony. Shane jumped back from the window as the wall of his cell began to groan. The floor shook beneath his feet.
The noise built to a tortured howl and then, slowly, a sense of order began to emerge. It was subtle at first, but then grew more noticeable and Shane realised that every building was gradually settling into rhythm with its neighbours.
The sound became a lullaby. It started at the centre of town and rolled outwards, then crept back again.
Out and in again.
Out and in again.
Shane could almost imagine the buildings bending and flexing like stalks of corn in the wind.
Out and in again.
It sounded as if the town was breathing.

Buchanan stood at the foot of the porch for a while, letting the town’s song caress him. He had not felt anything like it since the Fastest Guns had turned their backs on him after Shane had ruined his right hand. It would have been better if Shane had killed him that day – at least then there would have been a proper end to things – but Shane was weak. He was frightened by what the Fastest Guns would make of him, and so he had spared Buchanan’s life and severed him from the truest love he had ever known.
Buchanan had spent years training to shoot with his left hand. By many standards, he was still a force to be reckoned with, but even on a good day he was nowhere near as good as he had used to be, shooting with his right. The Fastest Guns only accepted gunfighters of the highest standard and no matter how hard he tried, however violently he raged, he knew that he would never be good enough for them again.
His life had been meaningless since he had lost his right hand, up until now.
The door swung open and Whisperer appeared from the shadows. ‘Shall I leave you a moment alone?’ he asked sardonically.
Buchanan snarled a terse reply.
‘We have work to do,’ the occultist reminded him sternly. ‘Colonel Hartshorne wishes to speak with you.’
‘Of course he does.’
Nathaniel was in his study, the same room in which he had received Shane earlier in the day. He reclined in a cloth-covered armchair, sipping fine cognac which, as always, he refused to share with Buchanan.
‘How is he?’ he enquired.
‘How is who?’
‘You know who.’ Nathaniel said firmly.
‘Shane is fine. Miserable, but then he always was a gloomy cuss.’
‘Do you think he’ll fight tomorrow?’
‘Of course he will.’ Buchanan had no doubt. ‘His soul belongs to them. If he dies, they’ll take him. He knows that; it’s why he hasn’t put up a fight yet. Besides, he wants to be here. He just won’t admit it.’
‘It’s been six years. I doubt he’s even practiced at all. You’re certain he’s still got what it takes?’
‘Six years or sixty, it makes no difference.’ Buchanan replied with certainty. ‘Shane was the best. He always will be. He’ll be a bit rusty, that’s for sure, but even at his worst he’s still more than a match for anyone here.’
‘Including Chastity?’
Buchanan paused. Even he had respect for the girl’s talent. ‘Your girl’s good, Nathaniel, I’ll grant you that, but what she’s got doesn’t compare to the kind of skill that develops over time and with practice. My money’s still on Shane.’
Nathaniel grinned. ‘I find the loyalty you have for him very touching.’
‘Fuck you! The fact that Shane beat me is all the proof you need that he’s as good as I say he is. You wanted bait; they want him! Just be sure you’re ready when the time comes.’
‘We’ll be ready.’ Nathaniel assured him. ‘Our trap is set.’

The Babson ranch was a fair spread with a two-storey house, half a dozen sheds and two bunkhouses. George Babson had worked fifteen years to build it into what it was, and he would lose it all in just a single night of violence.
Shane and Buchanan had left their horses among the trees on the far side of the rise and proceeded the rest of the way on foot. It was a dark and moonless night and they moved silently across the low ground, communicating solely through a system of coded whistles which, when heard from a distance, sounded like nothing more ominous than the wind.
Babson had posted guards. Two men walked solitary patrols and a third sat on a rocking chair on the front porch, a shotgun cradled in his lap. Babson’s money had bought him loyalty, but not quality. The man on the porch was asleep and the other two had fallen into routine, as bored men were prone to do.
Shane and Buchanan dropped to a crouch in the tall grasses and Buchanan signalled that he would cut around back. Shane whistled agreement and remained where he was while Buchanan scrambled off into the darkness. The next time they met, Benedict Hunte would be dead and they would be enemies again. Shane looked forward to it. He had come to recognise Buchanan as a man whose skills were equal to his own, and he was eager to test himself against him in combat.
A period of time passed in which the guards walked two circuits of their patrol, each time treading exactly the same path. By the time Buchanan gave the signal that he was in position, Shane had planned his attack. He crept quietly to a shack near the edge of the ranch and waited in the darkness. Soon enough, one of the guards walked past him. He was a young man, not yet old enough to grow a proper beard. He did not see Shane but searched in his pockets and drew out a cheroot. Shane struck him from behind while he was trying to light it, clubbing him across the back of the head with the butt of his revolver and knocking him unconscious.
The man had a belt revolver holstered by his side and Shane took it from him. He left him where he lay and stepped out boldly from behind the shack. He was of a different height and build to the unconscious guard but, from a distance and concealed in the dark, he doubted that anyone watching from the house would know any better. He crossed to the first of the two bunkhouses, drew a gun in each hand and then kicked down the door.
He was inside and shooting before anyone had time to respond. Two men died instantly in their beds, while three more had time to scramble for their weapons. Shane fired like a machine, thumbing back the hammers of both guns and pulling the trigger in a murderous rhythm of death. The flash of exploding cartridges illuminated the room in fractured bursts.
One man drew a gun and fired in return. Shane flattened himself against a wall, discarded a spent revolver and drew another, with which he shot the man in the head.
Outside, men had begun shouting in alarm. A series of shots rang out from somewhere on the opposite side of the ranch as Buchanan began his half of the attack. Women began to scream.
Shane looted the dead of their guns. His own guns were Colts and though they were fine and accurate weapons they were slow to reload and he did not have the time. He stepped outside with his purloined weapons, aimed one and fired at the man on the porch. He was awake, and ducked as the shot blew splinters from the doorframe beside him. Shane fired with his second gun and this time he did not miss. The man fell dead.
The door of the second bunkhouse suddenly burst open and a gang of men emerged, their guns blazing. Shane dropped to the ground and rolled sideways, shooting on the move. The men were gunned down. Others jumped over their bodies and scattered among the other buildings for cover. Shane was quickly caught in a crossfire and forced into shelter behind a log pile.
He discarded his empty guns and drew fresh ones. Thinking that he was empty, a pair of men rushed him and he gunned them down. He pirouetted, coat tails billowing, and fired two shots in opposite directions, killing two more.
Kicking down a door, he skirted through one building and came out the other side, catching a gunman by surprise. He shot another through the bunkhouse window and the slaughter was complete.
He tossed aside a pair of smoking guns and advanced toward the ranch house.
A man shot at him from an upstairs window and the bullet whipped past Shane’s ear. He retaliated with a lethal hail of bullets and a moment later the window exploded, the gunman toppling out to land on the hard earth below. Shane stepped up to the front porch and relieved the dead sentry of his shotgun.
There was mayhem inside. Shane kicked through the door, then stepped back immediately. A shot from within ripped the doorframe into splinters. Shane thrust the barrel of the shotgun around the door and fired. As he stepped inside, an elderly man and a boy of fifteen were both picking themselves up from behind cover. Shane emptied the shotgun into the old man’s chest then tossed it aside, drew a revolver and shot the boy. He stole a fresh gun from the dead, stepped over the bodies and followed the sound of fighting deeper into the house.
Buchanan had taken the fight to the upper floor. Shots rang out above and a man’s voice was shouting for the women to take the children and run. As Shane reached the stairs, the pretty young wife of Babson’s eldest son came rushing down. She was dressed in her nightclothes and dragged a four-year old child by the hand.
Shane did not even think about what he was doing. He levelled his gun and shot them both. He did it so quickly, so instinctively, that it was not until afterwards that he realised what he had done. He stopped in mid-stride, looked down at the woman, saw the look of shock upon her face. The boy looked peaceful, as if he was only sleeping.
‘You bastard! They did nothing to you.’ George Babson himself stood at the top of the stairs. Shane shot him, then shot him twice more as he fell. He stepped aside as the body tumbled down the stairs.
The sounds of gunfire elsewhere in the house had come to an end and the battle was over. Shane reloaded his guns and went to find Buchanan.

The smell of gunsmoke lingering in the cell made Shane think that he had not woken from his dream and that he was still back in the ranch house. He sat bolt upright on his bunk, suddenly alert and it was only then that his sense of reality came back to him. Damn, but the dream had been vivid! It lingered so fresh inside his mind that his ears still rang with the sound of gunfire and his guilt burned in the depths of his heart.
Guilt. It was a stranger to him. He had felt it for the first time that night at the ranch and it had left an indelible mark on him, one that had set in motion a chain of events that had brought him. . .
Here.
The sunlight slanted in through the barred windows, casting diagonal lines of shadow across the far wall. The air was hot and stuffy and laden with dust. Slowly, Shane stretched, easing the pain in his joints and back. A few old scars troubled him with aches. He crossed to the window for some fresh air and looked out upon the alley.
Today, he thought. He wondered if it would happen today, if killing Devlin would be all it would take to plunge him back into the nightmare that he had barely escaped from before. He looked up at the sky and tried to calculate what time it was. His fight was scheduled for five-thirty that afternoon and he estimated that it was currently sometime around seven. That gave him ten hours. After that he was not really sure what would become of him.
He sat and brooded. Some time later, the door to the sheriff’s office opened and Buchanan arrived with his breakfast. He was in a rare good mood and called out in a sing-song voice as he entered: ‘Wakey wakey, rise and shine!’
He slid the tray of hash browns, sausage and egg through a grate in the bottom of the cell door. ‘Tournament begins in two hours, Shane. Are you raring to go?’
Shane said nothing but stared glumly at his meal. He had no appetite that morning and could not bring himself to drink, even though he was thirsty.
‘Somebody’s got their grumpy-head on this morning.’ Buchanan chided. ‘I’ve got something that’ll cheer you up.’ He reached behind his back and produced a newspaper that he had tucked into the waistband of his woollen pants. ‘One of Nathaniel’s men rode in with it last night,’ he explained and tossed it through the bars. ‘Read it,’ he said. The jokiness had suddenly gone from his voice.
The newspaper was a copy of the Carson Daily Gazette, dated a week ago. The main headline immediately caught Shane’s eye. ‘Shane Ennis Killed,’ it proclaimed. Beneath it was a photograph of a dead man propped up in his coffin, flanked on either side by the men who had shot him. One of them had his arm in a sling.
The article claimed that Shane Ennis had been killed in a shoot out with three local men, who had recognised him while drinking in a saloon. Attempting to perform their civic duty and arrest the known criminal, they had approached him, whereupon he had drawn a gun and commenced firing. He had shot one man in the arm but, vastly out-gunned, he had been shot dead in retaliation.
Shane put the newspaper down and looked across at Buchanan, who was grinning like a loon. ‘How does it feel to be a dead man, Shane?’ He was clearly enjoying himself. ‘I think it’s a good likeness, don’t you?’
The dead man did indeed bear a striking resemblance to Shane. He was the right height and build and had similar white hair. The grainy quality of the photograph made it even harder to tell that he was not the real Shane Ennis.
Shane had prayed for years that something like this would happen. Every bounty hunter that had ever sought for him now thought that he was dead. He was a free man again. It was a kick a teeth that such good fortune had happened now, when it was too late for him to make good of it.
Buchanan smiled to see the anguish written on his face. ‘You should have killed me when you had the chance.’ Buchanan told him.
Shane did not answer. He sat and stared at the article. I should have killed you a long time ago, he thought to himself.