by Cole Shelton
Seven – Ambush
Jonah Jones squinted up at the noon sun, then focused again on the three riders lined on the rimtop. The oldster grabbed hold of his rifle and cautiously parted the branches of the thick brush behind which he crouched. From this distance, he couldn’t make out any faces, but he wasn’t going to take any chances.
He scrambled back through the brush and made his way swiftly down the slope. Below him was the cabin, and wood-smoke curled lazily from the tin chimney. The old-timer slithered to the foot of the slope, splashed through the creek, dodged around the woodpile and raced for the open front door of Marcia’s cabin.
As he lumbered inside, Shane Preston looked up from cleaning his Winchester.
“Shane,” he panted, “we got callers! Three of ’em!”
Shane stood up. “Marcia—hide!”
Marcia Harding, emerging from the inner room, started to protest, but Shane was already loping outside. The tall gunfighter strode to the foot of the slope with Jonah struggling to keep pace with him. For one whole night and half a day now, the two gunfighters had shared a vigil over the trail, waiting for Boormann’s bunch to show.
Shane reached the scattered brush and knelt down in the prepared lookout. There came a stealthy scuff of boots and Jonah crouched beside him. With his right hand firmly clenched around his gun, Shane parted the leaves.
The gunslinger’s piercing brown eyes roved up the long, twisting trail. The three riders were well clear of the ridge and coming down, Indian-file, with a big blocky individual leading the way. Shane’s stare focused on the leader and slowly a grim smile came to his lips.
“See anyone you know?” Jonah wheezed. The older gunhawk’s eyes weren’t quite what they used to be.
“Someone we both know, Jonah,” Shane murmured. “Not that we’ve been formally introduced, but we know him, sure enough.”
“Hell,” Jonah muttered impatiently, “who is it?”
“Brett Cluny.”
“That blasted snake-in-the-grass!” Jonah croaked. “What in hell’s name is he doing in this valley?”
“He’s a long ways from his stamping-ground, Jonah,” Shane Preston said, thumbing back the hammer of his six-shooter. “So he ain’t here for his health. Furthermore, Linc Boormann’s the kinda polecat Cluny likes to work for.”
“So you reckon …?”
“I reckon we haven’t only got the Circle B to fight, but Cluny and his rannies as well.”
“He’s got Soames with him?” Jonah wanted to know.
The riders were coming clear of the woods.
“Soames for sure,” Shane identified the second rider. “And the third man looks like Ed Hooper. He was with the James outfit a few years back.”
“Do we just take ’em one by one?” Jonah Jones asked hopefully.
“Nope,” Shane shook his head. “I’ve a better notion.” Shane didn’t have time to elaborate. Cluny had just reached a big smooth boulder on the edge of the draw, and Shane leveled his six-shooter in readiness.
The trio moved closer, right into the very sights of their guns.
It was Shane who pulled the branches aside and leapt to his feet.
“Get ’em up!” The tall gunfighter’s brittle command cracked out like a whip, and to back his pard, Jonah reared himself up and aimed his rifle muzzle right at Cluny’s chest.
For a moment the three hardcases merely stared in shock at the gaping gun muzzles. Brett Cluny’s mouth fell open, but no sound came out as Shane snarled:
“I said—get ’em up!”
Three pairs of hands reached for the sky.
“Preston!” Cluny found his voice as he gazed incredulously at the tall gunhawk. “How in the hell—”
“Been expecting someone, Cluny,” Shane said. “Jonah, I reckon you can relieve these boys of their hardware.”
Ed Hooper’s eyes were bugging. He glanced down at the old-timer who marched towards them and, suddenly, his right hand swooped like an eagle. Shane’s gun roared and Hooper yelped like a whipped dog as the bullet smashed through his wrist. He lurched forward in his saddle. Shane’s face was devoid of any emotion as he stared at the outlaws.
“Anyone else aim to slap leather?” he challenged.
Hooper was wringing his wrist and blood spilled between his fingers. Brett Cluny whispered a curse as his six-shooter was jerked from its holster by the eager Jonah.
“Five notches, Cluny,” Jonah grinned, stuffing the gun into his belt.
The oldster whipped the gun from Sam Soames’ holster, and it joined Cluny’s in his belt. Finally, he grabbed hold of Ed Hooper’s guns and stepped back.
“Well, now,” Shane regarded the three gunslicks with disdain. “Linc Boormann must really be scraping the bottom of the barrel bringing you three hardcases in!”
“We’re not only working for Linc Boormann,” Brett Cluny flung at him. “We also happen to be deputies. Sworn deputies!”
“And, Preston,” Sam Soames grated, his face red with anger. “We’re here as lawmen, on duty!”
Jonah broke into spluttering laughter and even Shane had to hold back a grin.
“You three galoots—lawmen?” Jonah guffawed.
“That’s right, you old he-goat,” snarled Cluny. “Duly sworn in by Sheriff Crawford of Lodestone!”
Shane kept his gun steady.
“And what are you three deputies doing here in the valley?” he asked politely. “Sightseeing?”
“We’ve come to arrest you,” Ed Hooper hollered. “There’s a warrant out for your arrest.”
“The charge?” Shane wanted to know.
“Murder!” Cluny informed him. “And we got the law to back us!”
“Murder!” gasped Jonah in mock dismay. “Who’d we kill?”
“Let me guess,” Shane Preston said sarcastically. “Bart Boormann?”
“Good guess,” Brett Cluny said. “Right now you’re hinderin’ the law—so just throw down them guns and surrender!”
Shane grinned at his trail-pard. “Say, Jonah—you feel like surrenderin’?”
“Not right now,” chuckled the old-timer.
Then Shane’s mood changed. The grin left his face. He snapped out:
“I know why you’re here, Cluny. You’ve been hired to work for Linc Boormann, and that means one thing—you’re here to torment and kill innocent settlers and drive them from their lands.”
“You don’t say.” Cluny’s tone was still cocky. “Preston, was you ever in Carson City?”
“What’s Carson City to do with it?”
“I’ll tell you what happened there in ’63. The place was overrun by rats. They were everywhere, Preston, in barns, stables, homes, shops, everywhere. The town committee decided to hire a man to trap and kill the vermin. They paid him well, but it was worth it for them. He cleaned up every rat in Carson City, made it a nice clean place to live in. Now, Preston, you might class us as vermin-hunters, aimin’ to make this valley a decent place again.”
“By burning homes and murdering nesters,” Jonah nodded.
Cluny spread his hands. “So?”
“So I know the way Boormann thinks,” Shane said. “Just by putting you on his payroll he’ll spook the nesters, and those who have the guts to stay on regardless will be killed when you three galoots and his own men get to work.”
“You put it right well,” Cluny mocked him.
“Maybe then,” Shane showed his teeth in a mirthless smile, “it’s time we showed the nesters, and Boormann, too, that you three are straw men.”
A spasm of fear shook Brett Cluny as he stared down into Shane’s ice-cold eyes. Suddenly all the mocking bravado left him. He licked his lips.
“I didn’t think your style was shooting unarmed men, Preston.”
“Climb down from your horses,” Shane ordered.
The men exchanged glances, then obeyed.
Shane surveyed them. “Take your shirts off.”
“What?” Soames gaped.
“Your shirts!
” Shane Preston reiterated.
They pulled off their shirts and soon three bare chests, two muscular, one flabby, were being warmed by the unwelcome sun.
“What in hell is this?” Hooper whined.
“Boots and socks next,” Shane commanded.
Red-faced, muttering to each other, the three gunhawks bent down to pull off their boots. Holed, dirty socks were peeled from their sweaty feet, and old Jonah held his nose in disgust.
“Don’t you hombres ever take a bath?” he quipped.
“Button up!’ Cluny told him in a fury as he felt the hot earth under his bare soles.
“Your gun rigs, boys. Unbuckle them and let them drop.”
Still bewildered, the three gunslingers complied. Belts and gun holsters dropped to the clay.
“Your pants,” Shane directed. “Drop them, too!”
“For Pete’s sake, Preston!” Cluny’s yell echoed back from the far ridge.
“Hurry up and unbuckle those pants’ belts,” Shane intoned. “That’s unless you want me to blast your buckles off.”
Fumblingly, bleating curses, the deputies loosened their belts. First Hooper’s pants slithered to his ankles, followed by Sam Soames’ black pair, and finally Cluny dropped his. Shane suppressed a chuckle as he looked them over. They were a sorry sight, but Shane felt no pity.
“Well, Jonah, do you figure we’ve gone far enough?” Shane asked his sidekick.
The oldster stroked his beard. “There’s still their underpants.”
“Yeah,” Shane nodded, looking at the assorted array of grubby underwear that faced him.
“Preston!” Brett Cluny warned him darkly. “One day I’ll kill you for this! Kill you slow!”
Shane shrugged. “Right now I want to see those drawers on the ground.”
They hesitated, and Shane gave them a sharp reminder by thumbing his gun hammer. Soames groaned like a man about to breathe his last. Ed Hooper was muttering like a crazy man, and Cluny was cold-eyed as he pulled his last garment down and stood naked on the trail. The others followed his example.
“Right, Preston,” Cluny was having trouble with his breathing. “Game’s over. Now what?”
“Heap their clothes together,” Shane told Jonah.
Gleefully, the oldster piled the grubby clothing into one pile.
“What would you say, Jonah?” Shane’s eyes were without expression as he watched the three gunslicks. “Too filthy to wash?”
“Smell like skunks’ skins,” Jonah sniffed.
“Well,” Shane said, “I reckon there’s just one thing we can do to duds like these. Got your matches?”
“Hell no!” Soames was almost weeping. “Don’t!”
With Shane keeping his gun on the three quivering chunks of flesh, the old-timer crouched down and flicked a flaming match into the clothes. Smoke began to rise, and then suddenly the whole pile burst into flames. The deputies howled in horror, hopping up and down like Indians doing a war dance. Right before their eyes, their garments were going up in smoke.
“All right,” Shane said, “now for the next move. Mount up!”
The naked trio complied, wincing as their bare flesh hit hot leather.
“Personally, I figure the best place to go for a lend of some clothes is the Circle B,” Shane drawled. “Mind you, it’ll mean riding right through the valley, but that’s too bad. By the way, don’t figure on stopping at some nester’s homestead to grab some free duds. I reckon men seen riding naked in such an indecent manner will get a blast of shotgun lead where it could prove a mite embarrassing.”
“You bastards!” Brett Cluny raged. “I’ll see you both in hell for this!”
“Ride!” Shane ordered them.
Humiliated, enraged and snarling, the trio of deputies kicked their horses away from the grinning gunfighters. They rode trail, then cut across open sagebrush country to head for the Circle B.
“I reckon,” Jonah understated, “we made ourselves two-three enemies today.”
Right then the riders vanished over the ridge, and Shane and Jonah heard yells of mirth rise from a couple of settlers on the other side. Shane sheathed his gun, telling himself that if that merriment spread through the length of Wolf Valley, the humiliation of Cluny and his men would have been worthwhile. Up to now, the nesters hadn’t banded together but Shane hoped that when the word spread about Boormann’s hired gun-toters, and how they had fared, the settlers would take fresh heart.
“Let’s go back,” Shane said. “I need coffee.”
It was mid-afternoon. Matt Klaus was lazily smoking a cigarette in the shade of a cottonwood. Just beyond him, part of the vast Circle B herd was grazing around the muddy waterhole, and Klaus had taken time out for a rest-up. He drew on his cigarette, reflecting on the three riders who’d been called into the fray by Boormann, and in a way, the ramrod resented their intrusion. Up till now, he’d handled the situation well, he figured, and the coming of Cluny’s bunch into the valley annoyed him.
He trod on his cigarette stub, shrugging off his annoyance. Soon Cluny’s bunch would be gone, anyhow. In the meantime, he had to cooperate with them in driving out the nesters from Wolf Valley.
Some of the steers he’d cut out were drifting back to the main herd and Klaus decided he’d better round them up. He’d just levered his frame into the saddle when he spotted the approaching riders. He blinked at them, then blinked again. It looked like they were clad in white garments, and Matt Klaus wasn’t exactly a believer in angels.
The ramrod blinked yet a third time as the riders came closer, and a slow, incredulous grin began to form on his lips. Sheepishly, Cluny and his men reined in and hung back as they saw Klaus.
Klaus fought for the right words to greet them, then,
“You boys been swimming?”
“Just get us some clothes!” Cluny grated furiously. “I’m Cluny!”
“Yeah. Figured you must be ... You—er—you rode all through the valley the way you are?”
“Get us some duds, damn you!”
“Follow me,” Klaus grinned.
The naked cavalcade had no option. They swung their horses around.
Klaus led the way to the ranch house and other cowpokes goggled at the three undressed riders who followed on behind.
As the cavalcade drew nearer, the nude riders had wildly differing effects on the hands employed by the Circle B. The negro cook stood on the front porch, his mouth hanging wide open. Some of the cowpokes guffawed from the corrals, but Cluny silenced these with a hostile stare. A female help joined the cook and promptly fainted. Someone had the presence of mind to grab three blankets from the bunkhouse and raced to the three gunhawks who plucked them from him. And then, looking like Indians wrapped in their blankets, the hired gun brigade dismounted.
The front door swung wide, and Linc Boormann placed his hands on his hips as the trio walked onto the porch.
“What in hell?” Boormann roared. And then: “Get inside!”
The three figures stalked past him and fled into the dim sanctuary of the ranch house. Behind them, the cowpokes were rolling around, howling with mirth, and even Klaus found it hard to maintain a straight face as Boormann ushered him inside.
Boormann and his ramrod stalked through to the office. Klaus kicked the door shut while Linc Boormann turned his furious gaze on the deputies. It was Brett Cluny who delivered a spluttering version of what had happened, and not once did Boormann interrupt him. And when Cluny was through the trio waited for a verbal blast.
But Linc Boormann was surprisingly calm. He was angry, sure enough, but when he spoke, his tone was measured and cold.
“How many saw you ride back like this?”
“Half the damn valley!” Cluny lamented.
“Then by now the word will have spread like a prairie fire,” the rancher assured them. “It’ll even be in town. For sure, Preston’s played it smart. He’s made fools of all of us.”
“So what’s the next move?” Soames gritted.
“I say we take a big bunch and raid that cabin he’s holed-up in,” Klaus suggested.
“Nope,” Boormann shook his head. “We can play it smart, too. We’ll attack the whole valley when they least expect it.”
“Like tonight?” the ramrod asked expectantly.
“Tonight they will be expecting us,” Linc Boormann replied. “And some of them might be ready for us. So we’ll wait a day or so and then strike.”
“And how about Shane Preston?” Klaus demanded. “How about the public hanging you had in mind for him?”
“I’ve still got that hanging in mind,” the rancher told him. “When we ride through that valley, we’ll kill every damn nester who stands in our way, but as for the nester-lover, Shane Preston—I want him alive. I want to see him dance rope!”
Boormann looked distastefully over the blanket-cloaked figures of Cluny and his men.
“For God’s sake go and get some clothes on!” Linc Boormann rasped.
Eight – The Power of the Pen
After sundown, night came swiftly to Wolf Valley. Here and there lamplight glowed, but some of the homesteads were unlit, and most of these were merely shells haunted by the ghosts of settlers who had perished on the Circle B’s hanging trees.
But in the Harding cabin, a cheerful fire blazed and with supper over and the dishes washed, Marcia sat down on the thick Navajo rug and talked with Shane Preston. Then Jonah came in, from keeping watch. “All’s quiet out there,” he reported. “What’s our next move?”
“We’ll have some of Marcia’s coffee,” grinned Shane.
Marcia smiled and the dancing flames threw a flickering red glow over her comely face.
“I’ll fix it for you,” she said.
Shane watched her step over to the stove. Somehow, being there and seeing her at the chores reminded him of long ago, of visits to the Hardings and the lavish suppers Marcia always prepared for Grace and himself. It seemed as if she remembered, too, because she turned at the stove and looked directly at him, and smiled.
“Well,” Jonah insisted, “I figure the next move’s really up to that polecat, Boormann. I reckon he’ll be after our hides, for sure. Could be he’s figuring on moving in on us tonight.”
