Shane and Jonah 6

by Cole Shelton

  “Sure,” the half-breed cowpoke nodded.

  Yuldara swung into his saddle and the pinto pony loped away towards the slope.

  Gowrie’s gun muzzle prodded into Luke’s back.

  “Get onto your horse.”

  With his wrists bound behind him, Wainwright found it difficult to mount, and finally Clegg’s iron hands helped him into the saddle. The ramrod caught King’s chestnut and with flies buzzing around the rancher’s limp body lumped over the saddle, he gave the word to move out.

  Still bewildered and gripped by fear, the trapper kept his balance as the sorrel moved forward and the cavalcade headed across the valley. At first, Luke Wainwright tried to convince himself that Sheriff Harper would uphold his innocence. After all, he wasn’t found with Jacob King’s money in his hand, and on examination of his gun, the law officer would find it hadn’t been fired. Yet, as he was prodded towards the pass, he had to admit to himself that the circumstantial evidence was strongly against him.

  Time fled with unwelcome haste as they rode towards Destiny Creek. The Diamond C men spoke no more to him, merely setting their faces for town and riding. Close to Destiny Creek, they passed a line of mining shacks, and bearded prospectors peered out from doorways and windows.

  “Heck—that’s Jacob King daid on a hoss!” a blocky prospector exclaimed.

  “And that varmint must have killed him!” another said.

  “Shot him in the back,” Brent Gowrie announced harshly.

  “The lousy polecat!” scowled the blocky miner.

  As they moved away from the mining camp, Luke glanced back over his shoulder. Three of the prospectors were mounting up, and the prisoner felt a cold shaft of fear as he saw their grim haste. He reminded himself that Jacob King had been a popular man in these parts, and more than one settler looked up to him as a benefactor. The rancher had been a town committeeman, a foundation member of the chapel and it was Rolling Wheel money that had built the school. It had been said of King that he was a rare breed—a powerful, rich man without enemies, and Luke knew that Gowrie had been telling the truth when he stated that relations between King’s ranch and the Diamond C had been most cordial.

  Now the miners joined themselves to the cavalcade moving into town, and Luke heard their angry murmurs. Main Street loomed ahead, and as the riders headed in, more folks stood around to watch or began to walk with them. Wainwright hardly dared to look at their faces, because he could hear the murmurs of hostility around him. Towners took one look at Jacob King’s bloodied body and then glanced up at the prisoner. Gowrie didn’t need to offer a comment because the gathering crowd already knew what must have happened. They passed the Bethlehem Chapel, and the huge signboard out front blazed forth a monument to a man who’d written out a check to Pastor Dugan five years ago.

  BETHLEHEM CHAPEL

  Thanks be to God and to Jacob King for his generosity

  The procession reached the main business section, and immediately the street became flooded with furious towners. They surged out of stores to throng around the prisoner, and Wainwright’s sorrel snorted as they pressed against its flanks. A couple of women shook their fists at Luke Wainwright, and one of them scooped up a handful of street dust and threw it at him. Mercifully, the law office loomed closer, but Luke shook as he saw the wall of towners forming across the street. Still Gowrie pushed on.

  The door of the law office grated open and Sheriff Harper shoved his way through the milling crowd. The lawman was pushed and elbowed by the towners who were intent on pressing closer to the prisoner, but Harper soon found a way of clearing himself a space. His hand whipped out his gun and he fired twice into the air. The crowd melted away from Luke Wainwright, and Sheriff Harper waded up to him. He glanced at the prisoner, then ambled over to where King’s body hung over the saddle. “What happened, Brent?” he demanded.

  “We found King dead and this sidewinder standing over him with a gun,” the ramrod said, loud enough for all to hear. “King has three bullets in his back!”

  “You dirty bastard, Wainwright!” One of the towners spoke for them all.

  “Someone get a rope!” a pot-bellied storekeeper yelled.

  “Yeah. String him up now and save the town the expense of a trial!” the first towner cried.

  “Wait!” Harper’s command cracked out. “There’ll be no hangin’ rope—not yet, anyhow, so you can all simmer down. Brent, take Wainwright inside and lock him in cell two.”

  “Ain’t Line Rambler in there?” someone growled.

  “That’s right.” Harper rubbed his chin. “Arrested him last night for being drunk and disorderly, but I reckon he’s cooled off some now. Let Rambler out, Brent.”

  Gowrie rode right alongside the prisoner and urged him towards the law office. The murmuring mob parted at the last moment, and cold sweat was covering Luke’s skin as he reached the boardwalk. The Diamond C ramrod dismounted and then prodded Luke. “Get down!”

  Wainwright eased his right leg over the saddle and edged his frame to the street. The ramrod jabbed the gun muzzle into his ribs and ordered him into the office. Once inside, Gowrie prodded him towards cell two where a stubbled-faced old-timer gaped at them through the bars.

  “Go home, Line,” Brent Gowrie advised him. “That is, unless you want to share a cell with a cold-blooded killer.”

  With the door unlocked, Destiny Creek’s permanent drunk needed no second invitation. He loped across the law office and vanished up the street.

  Wainwright felt almost relieved as he stumbled into the cell and heard the crunch of the lock. He slumped down on the bunk, hands still lashed together. The lawman tramped inside and closed the door on the angry town.

  “I’ll need a statement from you, Brent,” Harper said, pulling out a desk drawer. “Here’s some paper.”

  “Sheriff!” Luke Wainwright implored him from the cell. “You must listen to me! I can prove my innocence!”

  “Yeah?” Harper raised his eyebrows.

  “Gowrie has my gun. When I left home, I had a full chamber, and there’ll still be a full one now.”

  “Where’s his gun, Brent?” asked Sheriff Harper.

  The ramrod dragged the six-gun from his belt and handed it to the lawman.

  “There were three shots fired,” the trapper argued, his chest heaving. “Now if my gun’s full, it means I couldn’t possibly have used it to kill Mr. King.”

  Harper held up the gun and casually spun the cylinder.

  “Well?” Luke Wainwright breathed, triumph lighting up his sweaty face.

  “You said three bullets were fired into Jacob King’s back?” the sheriff queried.

  “Yes—three,” the trapper said.

  “Well, Wainwright,” Sheriff Harper mused, “things don’t look so good for you. There are three slugs missing from the chamber of your gun, and I reckon this is your gun sure enough. Your initials are carved on the handle. L.W.”

  Stunned and trapped, Luke Wainwright merely stared at the ramrod. Brent Gowrie had taken one of the lawman’s cigars from the carved box on his desk, and now he was striking a match. The yellow flare illuminated the strange half-smile on Gowrie’s hard-bitten face.

  Three – The Gathering Storm

  The noose hung high from the tall old tree and it was swinging gently in the warm noon breeze.

  Sitting his saddle just beyond the town’s old hanging tree, Shane Preston saw the noose’s stark silhouette against the azure sky. He contemplated the rope for a moment, and then jogged his horse, Snowfire, down into Destiny Creek’s wide street.

  He’d seen and heard the symptoms of a lynching before, and today they were unmistakable. The groups had gathered on street corners and the saloon was full and noisy. He could feel the tension and the anger as he rode in. The undertaker’s was open, and a long line of rigs stood out front.

  He wasn’t too late. If the necktie party had already taken place, the street would have been deserted. It was his experience that after an illegal lynching t
empers quickly dissipated and folks crept away to wrestle with their consciences. So the lynching was still to come, and the rope had only been hung in readiness. Shane passed the Ace of Diamonds, hearing the shouting from inside.

  Suspicious stares were being sent his way as he reined in outside the law office, and towners exchanged glances as he swung easily out of the saddle. He mounted the boardwalk and opened the law office door without knocking.

  Harper was munching hot biscuits behind his desk, but he stopped chewing as the tall gunfighter marched inside and kicked the door shut behind him.

  “I told you that you ain’t welcome in Destiny Creek!” Sheriff Harper greeted him.

  Shane ignored him, his eyes sweeping across to the far side of the office where three cells lined the wall. One of them was empty, the third housed a squat Indian, and the cell in the middle held Kathleen’s brother. Luke scrambled to his feet. They’d taken the ropes from his wrists, and now his hands clenched the cell bars as he stood there.

  “Came here as soon as I heard, Luke,” the gunfighter said.

  “The stage driver pulled in by the house and let Kathleen know what had happened, and your sister asked me to help.”

  “Shane!” Wainwright’s eyes were luminous with fear. “You have to believe me! I didn’t kill King!”

  “Hell—hang on!” Charles Harper exploded, leaping to his feet. “This is a law office, Preston, and you can’t come busting in here to carry on a conversation with a prisoner! Now get the hell outa here! In fact, ride clear outa town!”

  The gunfighter fixed his eyes coldly on the exasperated law officer. “Has this man got an attorney, Harper?” Shane demanded.

  “Well—uh—” the sheriff blustered.

  “I’ll answer that, Shane,” Luke said. “No, I haven’t.”

  “Fact is,” Harper said, “the only lawyer in town won’t handle Wainwright’s defense. Not that I blame Dawson, mind you. He has his reputation to uphold, has to live alongside the folks of Destiny Creek. That’s why he doesn’t want to get involved in defending the man who murdered Jacob King.”

  “Murdered?” Shane Preston flashed. “I reckon that’s for the jury to decide, Harper.”

  Harper shrugged. “Wainwright was found standing over King’s body with a gun in his hand, and that same gun had fired three bullets when I examined it in Wainwright’s presence. There were three bullets in King’s body, Preston. Now, in my book, that amounts to murder.”

  Shane looked hard at Luke Wainwright. He’d gotten to know Kathleen’s brother over these last two days, and he’d formed his own opinion of him. Luke had seemed resentful of his presence, and Shane had judged that he didn’t approve of the profession that he and Jonah followed. Nevertheless, he found it hard to dislike the earthy trapper. On the debit side, Luke wasn’t fond of work. He was, frankly, lazy. However, Shane was certain that murder wasn’t in Luke’s book. In Shane’s occupation, he was used to summing up a man quickly—sometimes his life depended on trusting a comparative stranger—and Shane was rarely wrong. Luke Wainwright, he’d told himself, was slothful and sometimes a mite insolent, but he wasn’t capable of shooting a man in the back. It was because of this judgment that Shane hadn’t hesitated, after the stage driver spilled out the story to a frantically worried Kathleen.

  “Every citizen’s entitled to an attorney,” Shane Preston snapped.

  “I can’t force Dawson to act for Wainwright,” Sheriff Harper said testily.

  “Then I’ll act for him,” the gunslinger stated.

  Harper stared at him. “But you ain’t a qualified lawyer!”

  “Check your law book, Sheriff,” Shane said.

  “Huh?”

  “Any man can act as a lawyer provided he respects the court,” Shane cited. “It ain’t every town in this territory that boasts a qualified attorney-at-law.”

  “A gunfighter as a lay-lawyer!” Harper sneered. “Wainwright would do better defending himself!”

  “That’s up to him,” Shane pointed out.

  Wainwright’s knuckles were white around the bars and Shane could see the sheer desperation on his face.

  “Shane,” Luke whispered, “I want you to be my attorney.”

  “Hear that, Sheriff?” Shane asked. “I’ve just been appointed. Now I want some time with my client.”

  Harper’s eyes narrowed and he ran his fingers through his mousy hair. “This ain’t exactly legal,” he lied.

  Shane ignored him, stalking over towards the cell. The frowning lawman watched as Shane stood beside the bars.

  Shane wasted no time. “Luke, I want to hear everything that happened in your own words—and leave nothing out.”

  “I didn’t kill Mr. King!” Wainwright insisted.

  “I believe you,” Shane said quietly. “Now let’s hear your story.”

  Harper scowled from his desk as Luke Wainwright blurted out his version of the incident. Shane didn’t interrupt him as the words flowed out in a desperate torrent, and when the prisoner had finished, the gunfighter handed him the cigarette he’d been building. Harper glared but said nothing as Shane lit the cigarette for Luke.

  “How’s Kathleen?” Luke asked, still agitated.

  “Out of her mind with worry,” Shane said simply.

  Luke drew on the cigarette. “Shane, thank you for riding in and offering to help.”

  “Your sister saved my pard,” Shane said. “And you both took us in. I’m just returning a favor.”

  “Shane.” Wainwright looked him straight in the eyes. “I reckon I owe you an apology.”

  “Yeah?”

  “I mean, I sorta didn’t think over-highly of you because of what you are and—and I said a few words to Kathleen warning her about getting involved with a gunfighter,” Luke said frankly.

  Shane grinned. “Forget it, Luke. Let’s just concentrate on getting you out of this mess.”

  “There’s one thing I’m durn sure of,” the trapper returned to the business on hand.

  “What’s that?” Shane grunted.

  “My gun,” Wainwright said. “The chambers were definitely full when I left home, and I never fired it. Yet, Sheriff Harper was right. He examined it in front of me, and there were three bullets missing which could only mean—”

  “The evidence was tampered with,” Shane supplied grimly. “And by that hombre who carried the gun back here.”

  “Brent Gowrie,” Luke reminded him. “Ramrod of the Diamond C.”

  Shane was pensive. “You said it was the neighboring spread to King’s?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you’re sure there’s never been any trouble between King’s outfit and the Diamond C?”

  “I’m sure,” Wainwright murmured. “It’s been a talking point in this territory for years. Jacob King was one helluva rich man, but he never riled anyone, and the spreads all existed peacefully together—no friction at all.”

  “Who does King’s ranch fall to now he’s dead?” the gunfighter demanded.

  Wainwright shrugged. “His widow, I suppose. Mrs. Celia King—Harper told me she’s over at the chapel now, being comforted by the preacher.”

  “If Gowrie tampered with the gun it probably means he’s involved in some way.”

  “Unless he was so sure of my guilt he figured some rigged evidence would make doubly sure I’m hung,” Luke Wainwright suggested.

  “Could be.” Shane was non-committal.

  “Shane.” Luke’s right hand reached between the bars to clutch his arm. “I don’t mind tellin’ you, I’m damn scared!”

  “I’ll do my best at the trial,” Shane assured him.

  “That’s tomorrow morning at ten,” Wainwright informed him. “And Harper’s wired the county judge to come over. No, it’s not the trial I’m so scared of. It’s what might happen beforehand. The town’s in an ugly mood.”

  “So I’ve noticed.” Shane didn’t want to alarm the prisoner further by mentioning the hanging rope. “But try not to worry, Luke.”

>   Wainwright slumped down onto his bunk.

  “Anything you need?” Shane asked. “Tobacco? Food?”

  Harper erupted from his chair and took three paces towards the cell. “I reckon you’ve had enough time with him, Preston,” the lawman growled.

  Shane surveyed the irritable guardian of the town’s law with a scornful gaze. “You know what’s going on all over town, of course?”

  “What do you mean?” Harper grated.

  “They’re getting liquored up in the saloon and folks are standing around looking like they’re hell-bent on taking the law into their own hands,” Shane said bluntly.

  “I’m sure the townsfolk know better than that.” Harper’s smile was complacent.

  “But what if they come over here, Harper?” Shane insisted.

  “Listen, Preston,” Charles Harper spread his hands. “Maybe folks are a mite riled. Personally, I don’t blame them, because when I heard about Jacob King gettin’ shot in the back, so was I! But the fact is, I know the folks in Destiny Creek. They wouldn’t go as far as a necktie party!”

  Shane was thinking about that knotted rope swinging in the hot wind.

  “I’m not so sure.” Shane crossed over to the window. It seemed to him that the numbers on the street had increased and already men were spilling out of the saloon to form a big group on the boardwalk. “But whatever happens, Harper, I guess you’ll remember you’re wearing a badge.”

  “You hintin’ I don’t know my duty, Preston?” the lawman rasped furiously.

  “I’m just reminding you of it,” Shane said dryly.

  “Wainwright’s under legal arrest and he’ll be tried, convicted and hanged legally,” Harper asserted.

  “I reckon you might need some help, Harper,” Shane murmured as more liquor-inflamed towners lurched out of the Ace of Diamonds. “There’s a mob gathering.”

  “Help from you?” Charles Harper laughed. “Preston, I’m the law in Destiny Creek! I don’t need help from a hired gun who’s taking on the defense of a back-shootin’ killer!”