by Cole Shelton
She hung the picture back on the wall hook.
“Of course,” Susan mocked. “You’ll have to ride out to tell Boormann about Shane!”
“You listen to me, Susan!” snarled Crawford. “If it wasn’t for Boormann, I wouldn’t have this badge and what’s more, you wouldn’t have this home!”
“Maybe not,” the lawman’s wife shrugged. “But I reckon we’d have something else, Len.”
“And what’s that?”
“Our self-respect.”
He stared at her, then at the floor.
“You know how it is, Susan,” he said. His tone had the edge of defeat.
“Sure,” she drawled. “Go play message-boy, Len! Because in my book, that’s all you are! Ride on out, and I’ll have supper ready when you get back.”
Crawford headed outside into the dusk and Susan walked over to the window. She watched him mount the sorrel, one of Linc Boormann’s horses, and her eyes followed him as he rode down the side alley that led towards the main valley trail.
Anger started to rise in her, a kind of frustrated fury. Then her fingers drifted to her bruised lips, and her anger died. She wasn’t recalling her husband’s crude, demanding mouth, but instead another man’s lips which she hadn’t tasted as yet. The lips of a real man, Shane Preston.
Fire – Gunfire in the Last Deuce
It was night now. New life was already springing up along Main Street as Shane Preston rode to the long rail that fronted the Last Deuce Saloon. He could hear the clatter of hooves. Men were converging on the town, swooping in from ranches and mines to spend the evening in the saloons. Lamps had already been lit along the row of sporting houses, and flickering yellow shadows splashed out over the boardwalks. There was a dance hall just past the saloons, and the plaintive sounds of a violin came to Shane as he looped his rein over the rail.
Two black aces had been hand-painted on the batwings of The Last Deuce and, pacing up the boardwalk, the gunfighter shoved them apart. He stepped inside and the familiar smell of cheap whisky and cigar smoke hit his nostrils. Half a dozen lamps hung from chains in the ceiling and tobacco-smoke hung like a haze around their hot, oily chimneys.
The Last Deuce was filling fast.
Two rowdy cowpokes shoved past Shane and stalked to the bar, bellowing their orders to the young bartender who was already working furiously to maintain the liquor flow for his thirsty customers. Three poker games were in progress, each with five or six men seated around the table. A hard-faced percentage girl was standing next to the faro wheel. And all around the saloon, men stood or sat in gabby groups.
Shane’s eyes roved the length of the saloon, taking in the faces, searching as always for the man he knew only as Scarface. Once found, that face would be a target for Shane’s bitter gun. Only when he had squared the score with Scarface would he hang up his six-shooter.
But tonight there was no Scarface in that bar.
Shane strode to the counter and ordered a rye. More cowpokes waded through the batwings while he waited for his drink, and a rousing cheer went up as one of the saloon girls, plainly very popular, walked daintily down the long, carpet-covered stairs that descended from the gallery.
“Her name’s Elsie,” the grinning bartender told Shane. “And, man! Is she well-stacked!”
Shane gave no reaction. He flipped coins onto the bar, and the barkeep scooped them up with a shrug. The town’s barber, who doubled as the saloon’s piano-player sauntered in from a side room and sat down at the keyboard. Soon his fingers were pounding out a beat and percentage girls were grabbed by eager patrons and dragged onto the dancing-space at the end of the saloon. Shane Preston gulped his rye and motioned the barkeep to pour him another.
“Sufferin’ polecats!” A high-pitched yell rang out above the cacophony of music, drinking and laughter. “Look who’s here! The nester-lover!”
Poker games came to a standstill. The dancers stopped their prancing on the polished floor. Behind the bar, the gaping bartender was like a statue holding a bottle of redeye and two empty glasses. A hush fell on the Last Deuce.
“Yeah! That’s him!” Every eye was fastened on Bart Boormann as the rancher’s son pointed a quivering finger at Shane. “Nester-lover! Ain’t that right, Ridge?”
Bart wasn’t exactly drunk, but he was halfway there. Ridge Martin was beside him.
“Didn’t you hear me, Ridge?” Bart Boormann swayed and grabbed hold of Martin’s arm.
“Yeah, Bart,” Martin said tonelessly, “it’s the nester-lover, sure enough.”
Shane sipped his rye, watching Bart’s unsteady right hand as it fumbled at his holster. The saloon patrons were gaping at the object of Boormann’s accusation, and Shane was aware of the mounting hostility.
“You denyin’ it?” challenged Boormann.
The gunslinger watched the rowdy youth over the rim of his glass. Ridge Martin was muttering caution, but the rancher’s son thrust him aside. Shane suddenly spoke, and everyone froze.
“If you stick the tag nester-lover on a man who gets riled up when Circle B butchers murder innocent settlers, then I guess I’m due for the tag,” Shane said bluntly.
The onlookers held their breaths, but young Boormann laughed.
“Saddle bum,” he declared, “I aim to acquaint you with two-three facts.”
“Hey, Bart!” A tousle-haired cowpoke pawed at Bart’s sleeve.
“What’s wrong, Blakey?” Enjoying being in the limelight for once, Bart grabbed his glass of whisky with a flourish. “Come on, man—talk up!”
“Bart,” Blakey lowered his voice and squinted aside at Shane Preston, “I don’t reckon you know who this man really is.”
“All I need to know is he’s a lousy nester-lover!” Bart Boormann snickered.
“He’s no saddle bum,” muttered Blakey. “And he ain’t just a nester-lover! He’s Shane Preston, the gunfighter!”
On reflex, Bart dropped his glass and it smashed into fragments on the floor.
“What you drivin’ at?”
“I’ve seen him in action, Bart,” Blakey stated and now his voice was raised. “It was in San Diego. Him and his pard took the Quade brothers, gunned them down in ten seconds flat!”
“Hell!’ exclaimed another saloon patron. “Shane Preston and Jonah Jones! I’ve heard of them!”
“Who hasn’t?” A tall, bearded miner appraised Shane with critical respect. “The gunfighter in black! Hey, Boormann, this rooster ain’t the kind to tangle with!”
Shane watched as nearly every man reacted, most moving away, leaving Bart Boormann and his companion alone in the center of the saloon floor. The rancher’s son stared around at the wary faces, and then squinted at Shane.
“I don’t give a damn who you are, mister.” He’d had enough liquor to give him bravado. “Far as I’m concerned, you’re a nester-lover, and that just about makes you one of them.”
“You through gabbin’?” Shane’s voice was cold and deadly, and three patrons rapidly left the saloon.
But Bart sneered. “Know what my pa would be doing if he was here? He’d be running you outa town, Nester-lover!”
“We haven’t exactly been introduced, formal,” Shane Preston snapped. “But I take it Linc Boormann’s your father. Well, I’ve a message for him, and I reckon you can ride back with it. Tell him to quit railroadin’ nesters, as of now. Or else.”
“Or else what?” Bart sneered.
“I’ll bury him.”
The patrons of the Last Deuce gasped. Nobody talked that way about Linc Boormann in that town. Hot anger blazed in Bart’s eyes as he surveyed the tall gunhawk, but without turning, Shane flipped his fingers at the barkeep.
“Slide the bottle along,” he said nonchalantly.
“Nester-lover!” Bart Boormann croaked. “I want you out of this saloon, and out of this town. Now!”
“Bart!” Ridge Martin muttered frantically. “Back down!”
By way of answer, young Boormann yelled to the crowd, “This is a ca
ttle town! My pa’s town! I want you all to back me up!”
There was a heavy silence.
“Reckon there’s your answer,” remarked Shane, mildly. “Now the way I see things, you have a choice. You can either get the hell out of this saloon and ride back to your pa with my message—or you can try to make me move on.”
Bart’s features were contorted. He looked wildly around, trying desperately to summon some semblance of support, but he could find none in the faces of cowpokes and townsmen alike. Indeed, there were some who seemed to be relishing the young upstart’s discomfiture.
The rancher’s son lowered his hand whilst Shane watched him like a hawk.
“If you want me out of this saloon, you’ll have to draw your gun.” Shane’s tone was filled with menace. “And the minute you draw, I’ll kill you, Boormann.”
Bart’s chest heaved. “Take him, Ridge!”
But Martin stood like a statue.
“Take him, you yellow bastard!” yelled Bart Boormann.
He groped for his gun, screaming another obscenity at the motionless cowhand. Shane waited a split second as Bart Boormann’s fingers fastened around the gun butt and began to lift it high. He waited another fleeting moment as Bart fought to level the six-shooter, and then he swooped. No one saw the gunslinger’s draw, but everyone heard the thunder of his gun. The bullet smacked into Bart’s chest. Bart Boormann let his cold six-shooter slither down over his outstretched hand. It dropped into the sawdust, followed by the crumpling body.
Shane turned his gun onto Ridge Martin. The gopher faced cowpoke was as white as a tombstone.
“Want to join him?” Shane invited.
“Hell!” Ridge Martin’s voice was broken and hoarse as he stared at the body. “Know what you’ve done, Preston? You’ve killed Mr. Boormann’s son!”
Shane kept his gun poised. “Take the body back to the ranch.”
“Know what this makes you, Preston?” Ridge Martin croaked. “It makes you as good as dead!”
Keeping his right hand clenched around his six-shooter, the gunfighter reached for his drink. Men were crowding around the corpse and finally three of them helped Martin carry Boormann’s son out through the batwings. Shane let his six-shooter slip back into its holster.
“Want a chunk of advice, mister?” A cowpoke beside him at the bar counter summed up what most of the saloon patrons were thinking. “Ride like hell! You’re a great gunfighter but you can’t fight the whole Circle B outfit.”
Shane downed his drink and turned away. He headed for the batwings, and the crowd moved aside for him. Once again the Last Deuce was heavy with silence as Shane Preston strode out onto the boardwalk. The four men were tying Bart Boormann’s body over his horse, and Shane walked past them to where Snowfire was hitched.
The gunfighter unlooped the rein and mounted up in the gathering gloom. He urged the palomino into a lope and behind him, heard the saloon erupting into uproar. He headed towards the fork in the street. He was passing the alley which ran alongside Amos Keddie’s general store when he heard:
“Shane Preston!”
Instinctively, Shane’s right hand dropped to his gun butt.
“Preston!” The man who named him was deep in shadows. “It’s a friend!”
“Show yourself,” Shane snapped.
The man moved out of the shadows, a tall man with receding hair and an angular face. He walked right out of the alley, and Shane saw his smoldering eyes and resolute, jutting jaw.
“The name’s Anton Verrier, Mr. Preston,” he introduced himself. “I’m the owner, editor and publisher of the Lodestone ‘Clarion’. Saw what happened in the Last Deuce.”
“And you want to interview me for an article?” Shane asked, ironically.
“Not exactly,” the editor said. “Of course, I’ll be reporting the facts of the incident in the next issue of the ‘Clarion’, but I wanted to have a talk with you.”
Shane shrugged. Farther down the street, Martin was riding off with Boormann’s horse and corpse on a leading-rein.
“Talk away,” the gunslinger invited.
“I’d prefer to do so in my office.”
“Okay.”
Verrier stalked ahead, pacing with long strides towards the fork in the street. He reached the door of the newspaper office, unlocked it, and tramped inside as Shane slipped out of his saddle. The gunfighter entered the office, standing in the darkness as Anton Verrier lit the solitary lamp which hung over his desk. The spreading glow showed an office that had the general appearance of chaos. Trays of type littered the tables. Pots of printing ink were piled on the floor and on the desk were proofs and pages of penciled notes. Shane looked around at the black printing press which dominated the room. Spare copies of the ‘Clarion’ were scattered around.
“This, Mr. Preston,” Anton Verrier indicated the jumble of metal type and paper and ink, “this was my dream.”
Shane closed the door.
“Came here a few months ago,” Verrier told him. “Bought out this newspaper from a man named Sealley. I had a vision, Mr. Preston.”
The gunfighter scrutinized him, then spilled tobacco into a paper.
“What kind of vision?”
“I believed a paper shouldn’t just report the facts,” Verrier stated. “It should be the conscience of the town. Of course, one has to be objective, but I felt that an editor should speak out in print when it came to injustice.”
“Well,” Shane rejoined, “I’m not what you’d call a literary man myself, but I’ll go along with those sentiments.”
“That was my dream,” Verrier said quietly, fingering a tray of type. “Take a look at some of these old copies of the paper, Mr. Preston, and you’ll find that I was making the dream work.”
Shane picked up several back copies of the ‘Clarion’ and glanced through them. It was soon obvious to the gunfighter that Anton Verrier had the gift of expressing himself tersely in print, and he raised his eyebrows at some of the editor’s more outspoken editorials. One in particular he picked out and held up to the light.
“‘Nesters are quite within the law’,” Shane quoted from the page. “Pretty strong stuff for cattle-town readers!”
“And especially one such reader,” Verrier recalled. “He didn’t like me spelling out the rights of the settlers and suggesting that they ought to be left alone. And Sheriff Crawford didn’t exactly relish being told he ought to act like a real lawman and protect the nesters.”
Shane nodded slowly as he read the smaller print, and after scanning one paragraph, he glanced up to where a stone had smashed part of the office window.
“I like this bit,” Shane said. “‘We should all realize that there’s room for both the cattleman and the nester to live side by side, but before this can happen, greed and prejudice must be put aside.’”
“You might like it,” Anton Verrier grunted. “But others didn’t.”
“Strong stuff,” Shane complimented him. “I—uh—thought this week’s editorial wasn’t quite so forthright, though.”
Verrier flushed. “You don’t have to tell me that.”
Shane lit his cigarette.
Verrier went on, “You see, Mr. Preston, my dream was kind of shattered. And I don’t mean just that rock someone threw through my window. They visited my wife.”
“I heard about it,” Shane said, and dragged smoke.
Anton Verrier swallowed. “You married, Mr. Preston?”
“My wife was murdered,” the gunslinger told him.
Verrier stared at him. “Then you’ll know how I feel! They—they raped my wife in front of the kids, Mr. Preston. They’re animals! Tonight, you killed one of them, but I fear for you because of what you’ve done.”
“Glad to know you’re on my side,” said Shane dryly. “But why did you want to talk with me?”
“I—I’m not too overly sure why,” Anton Verrier confessed. “Maybe it was seeing what happened in the Last Deuce tonight. Seemed there was just a ray of hope at l
ast—for law and order and decency.”
“Yeah?” Shane grinned. “But as a literary man, you’ve got to believe that the pen is mightier than the sword, right?”
“I used to believe that,” Verrier told him. “Until I came to Lodestone.” He spread his hands. “It wasn’t just your shooting of Boormann’s son. Something else happened tonight in that saloon. It was full of cowpokes, and earlier on, some of them looked as if they might back up Boormann. Yet when the chips were down, no one moved. Know how I interpret that, Mr. Preston? They didn’t really believe in Boormann’s cause. Sure, they’ve been told time and time again that nesters and nester-lovers are vermin, but I’m not convinced they really think that way. Of course, ranchers like Boormann hate the settlers for their own selfish reasons, but the average, decent cowpoke and towner hasn’t quite been swayed over—else you’d have been dead, Mr. Preston. The odds were stacked against you. But you’re still alive.”
Shane digested the editor’s speech for a long moment, then, “Apart from Boormann and his pard, were there any others from the Circle B in the saloon?”
“Not that I could see,” the newspaperman said.
“So if what you’ve been saying is right,” Shane mused. “Just about all the opposition to the nesters comes from the Circle B. The other ranchers can’t be so riled against them.”
“Most of the other spreads are small compared with the Circle B,” Verrier told him. “Boormann’s so big he has to use open range to graze the herds under his brand. You could say he has more to lose once all the open range is cut up.”
“The way I see it, Verrier,” the gunfighter flicked the ash from his cigarette tip, “there are a heap of cowpokes and others who don’t exactly love nesters, but they ain’t so all fired anxious to wipe them out as Boormann and his bunch. This heap of folks are told by Boormann to support him, so they need a force to pull them the other way. I reckon the ‘Clarion’ could be that force. Those editorials of yours carry a lot of weight.”
“They used to,” Anton Verrier said ruefully.
“They still can,” Shane stated bluntly.
“Mr. Preston—”
