by Cole Shelton
He edged himself up on one arm. There was fire in his left side, and when he inched his hand downwards, he felt sticky blood as well as trickling raindrops. His shaking hand fumbled for his other wound. He ran his fingers over his chest and found he’d been hit in the top of the shoulder.
He was breathing in carefully measured gulps. How badly hit he was, he had no way of telling, but one thing he knew. He had to reach Kathleen Wainwright, and fast.
Although dazed, he was thinking more clearly now. Those two hard cases must have left him for dead. Well, they were going to find out that Shane Preston didn’t die that easily.
There was the touch of a warm muzzle on his face—he turned his head and his horse, Snowfire, nuzzled him again. The loyal animal had remained with him through the storm, and Shane reached up to rub the animal’s white face. The palomino whickered gently.
Shane grasped the rough bark of the tree he’d fallen against. Slowly, tortuously, with ripples of pain surging through his stiff frame, Shane began to haul himself upwards. Every inch was agony, and momentarily, the gunfighter thought he was going to lose consciousness and plunge to the ground. But summoning every ounce of strength, Shane Preston heaved himself to his feet. The rain stung him as he clung to the tree trunk.
“Easy ... Snowfire,” he breathed.
He placed one boot in the stirrup and groped for the saddlehorn. He began to lever himself into the saddle, and his two wounds screamed at him. But he fought the pain, falling forward over his horse’s neck and lying there to get his strength back. Mercifully, the rain was easing, but the wind was still screaming like a banshee through the trees. Shane raised his head and saw the branches of the big tree above him. Coldness gripped him as he remembered the hanging tree at Destiny Creek. He didn’t have much time left if he were to save Luke Wainwright.
He whispered a command to Snowfire, and the horse walked away from the trees. It climbed back to the trail, and moving slowly, headed back through the canyon. The rain had stopped now, but the horse’s hoofs squelched in the sodden ground. Once out of the canyon, Shane turned the stallion south, knowing that if he held that line he must strike the westbound trail that led to Kathleen Wainwright’s place.
The clouds were blown away by the wind and the moon showed its wan face. He passed a shack, but Shane didn’t stop. He wasn’t going to halt until he reached Kathleen’s home. By now he was becoming used to the excruciating pain, and although once or twice he almost drifted into unconsciousness, his spirit forced him to stay awake. He didn’t know what time he reached the western trail, but it was still pitch dark when Snowfire’s hoofs began to follow the rutted stage trail.
Vaguely, he remembered climbing the ridge and when he reached the barren crest, the gale almost blew him from the saddle. Shane pressed on, bowing his head against the wind, desperately keeping the horse moving. His head was reeling as he turned down the side trail. Despite his will to keep moving, the pain was overwhelming. He found it hard to breathe. His senses spun and suddenly he felt himself sliding. He let go of the reins and plunged into the soggy grass.
Next moment, a lantern was thrust close to his face.
“Jonah!” The scream sounded a long way from him, but Kathleen was standing right over him. “Jonah—come quickly! It’s Shane—and—and, oh God! He’s been shot!”
“Hold the lamp closer!” Kathleen ordered.
Jonah Jones leaned over the bed and lowered the lamp. The whiskery old-timer gulped as he watched her surgical knife slice deeper and deeper.
Kathleen twisted the knife, and Shane moaned. Slowly, she levered the dark slug upwards and reached for the pincers. The twin steel fingers fastened around the blunt end of the slug and deftly Kathleen pulled the lead from the wound.
“Plug the wound,” she ordered Jonah.
“Sure,” the old gunfighter mumbled. “But how about his shoulder?”
Kathleen stooped down to examine the other wound.
“Bullet passed right on through,” she observed as Jonah plugged the wound in Shane’s side with a clean piece of linen. “Only a flesh-wound, thank God.”
She took a pan of hot water and Jonah stepped back to watch her carefully clean the wound and bandage it. Still holding the lamp, the old-timer looked comical in his nightshirt with his spindly legs showing. He’d been asleep when Kathleen had come running to his room. She’d heard a horse outside by the trail, and she’d hurried out ahead of him. Together, they’d carried Shane inside.
“There,” she whispered. “That’s all I can do for now.”
“He’ll be okay?” Jonah asked anxiously.
She looked straight at him. “I hope so.”
“Ma’am,” the old gunfighter said, “Shane ain’t gonna be in a fit condition to do much when he comes to. I’ll take over where he left off.”
Kathleen swallowed. “There can’t be much hope for Luke now.”
“We have till sunset.”
“It’s nearly sunrise already,” she reminded him.
“I’ll still be takin’ over,” the bearded gun hawk stated.
“But you’re in no condition, either,” she protested. “You ought to be resting up.”
“Stop fussin’ over me,” Jonah Jones grunted. “I’ll snatch some shut-eye now and ride into town at first light.”
The gun hawk ambled towards the door, but Kathleen sat on the edge of the bed. “What are you gonna do, ma’am?” he asked her from the doorway. “Like you said, you’ve done all you can for him.”
She looked up at Jonah. “I’m going to sit up with him. You see, he’s not just—well, not just another patient to me.”
With a shrug, Jonah went out.
Kathleen folded her dressing-gown tightly around her slender form, brought a chair and sat close to the bed.
Shane began to toss and turn, and after a short while, she checked his bandages. The gunfighter muttered incoherently and his body began to convulse and shudder. She saw the fingers of his right hand clench until the knuckles stood up starkly. He stiffened and, leaning over him, Kathleen felt cold sweat on his skin. Shane was becoming delirious, and as a nurse, she knew what had to be done. He had to be kept warm—very warm. She covered him with more blankets, but the fever mounted. He was calling out now, twisting on the bed. Kathleen looked at him for a long moment and then lowered herself onto the bed beside him. She pressed her warmth to him, holding him down. Slowly, his frame stopped its writhing, but for a long time he was murmuring incoherently. She could make out some of the words now, and suddenly she realized that in this terrible hour when he hovered between life and death, he was reliving the past. Some of his phrases and words had meaning for her now, and all at once his arms went around her. He said one word and it made her heart ache.
“Grace!”
Shane Preston sipped the steaming hot soup she brought to him.
“How do you feel?” Kathleen asked him.
Shane glanced past her to where the curtain was flapping at the window. Gray light was streaming into the room.
“What time is it?” he asked.
“An hour after sunup,” Kathleen told him. “You’ve been unconscious since you fell from your horse just down from the house. I cut the bullet from your side, and Jonah helped me fix you up.”
Shane Preston winced as he tried to prop himself higher against the pillow, and a spasm of pain went through his body.
“Who shot you, Shane?”
“Gowrie caught me snooping around the Rolling Wheel ranch house,” he told her, gritting his teeth. “His galoots took me out to finish me off. They must have left me for dead.”
“Gowrie was at the Rolling Wheel?” she frowned.
“Yeah,” he said. “But he wasn’t the only one on that ranch last night. Jacob King’s real killer was there.”
Kathleen drew in her breath. “How do you know?”
“He rides an appaloosa, Kathleen,” Shane informed her. He drank some more soup, feeling stronger every moment. “Know anyone around
here who rides that kind of horse?”
She thought for a long moment, then shook her head. “Old Leyton Strange used to ride one,” she said. “But he’s been dead for years—and so’s the horse, most likely.” She looked at him steadily. “Shane—how do you know all this?”
“The information was given to me in confidence,” Shane told her. “I have to respect that.”
Kathleen looked away from him. “Is there any hope for Luke?”
“Some,” Shane said. He stirred the coffee she had brought with the soup. “Where’s Jonah?”
“Saddling his mare,” Kathleen said. “He figured on carrying on where you left off.”
“Fetch the old goat back here,” Shane said and grinned.
He watched the girl leave, then downed his coffee as he waited for his whiskery sidekick to trudge protestingly inside.
“Where in the hell are you going?” Shane demanded.
“Well,” Jonah said, “since you’re the one who’s laid up in bed, I figured I might as well pull some weight myself.”
“And where would you start?” Shane challenged.
Jonah shrugged. “How in hell should I know? But I have to do something. I mean, Luke hangs at sundown, and that ain’t so very far off.”
“Just simmer down and listen to what I know.”
Kathleen walked out to fetch more coffee. Shane quickly related the events of the previous day, telling him that the man they were looking for rode an appaloosa horse, and that last night he had seen such a horse on the Rolling Wheel spread.
“So I ride out to the Rolling Wheel and have a look around?” Jonah spoke up brightly.
“And get yourself shot like I did?”
“So you’ve got a better suggestion?” the old-timer snorted.
“Yeah,” Shane drawled. “We both stay here for most of the day.”
“Come again?”
“When I was on the Rolling Wheel, they caught me looking at that appaloosa, and I also asked a few questions which they ignored—like who owned the horse.”
“So?”
“So by now Gowrie will have told the owner of that horse about me.”
“Which won’t worry him a damn now he thinks you’re dead,” Jonah deduced.
“Dead right,” Shane grinned. “So to keep him out in the open, we want him to figure there’s no danger to himself and that whatever information I might have died with me in that canyon.”
“But how about me?” Jonah spread his hands.
“You’re my pard,” Shane reminded him bluntly. “He’ll rest easier if you’re miles away. In fact, with me dead and you moved on, he’ll figure all’s well.”
“So we just sit here and do nothin’?” Jonah asked incredulously.
“I’ve been shot up.” Shane tried to move and pain jolted him. “A day’s rest will do us both good. It’ll mean we’re both in better shape for what we have to do at sundown.”
“We?” the oldster echoed. “You’ll be in no shape to do anything for quite a few sundowns.”
Shane looked at him seriously. “After I’ve had my next cup of coffee, I want you to help me out of bed.”
“But, heck—!”
At that moment, Kathleen carried in a fresh pot of coffee.
“Kathleen,” Shane said, “I’ve a chore for you.”
“Yes, Shane?”
“Ride to town. You’ll want to see Luke anyway, and Harper can hardly refuse him a visitor on his last day. I want you to spread the word around that Jonah picked up my body and my horse, and headed out. You’ve no notion where he went.”
She appeared bewildered.
“Make it sound convincing,” Shane added. “Then stay in town and wait for us.”
“Wait?” she gasped. “Wait where?”
“At the hanging tree,” said Shane Preston.
Nine – After the Funeral
“Ma’am,” Preacher Dugan complimented her warmly, “I must say that you’ve borne up very well under the terrible strain you must be suffering.”
Celia handed him a cup of coffee. “We all have our cross to bear, Pastor Dugan.”
“Jacob was such an exceptional man,” the preacher said. “A fine citizen indeed. Never missed a Sunday in chapel—except the week when he went east on business and brought back a bride.”
She smiled wanly. “I have good reason to remember that,” Celia told him. “That will be one of my most treasured memories.”
“I’m sure,” Dugan said. He was a tallish man, round-shouldered, and dressed in somber black.
“Thanks for the way you conducted Jacob’s funeral service,” Miles Coventry spoke up.
The bulky owner of the Diamond C was leaning back against the liquor cupboard which was closed.
“What I said about him was the truth, Mr. Coventry. I was glad of the opportunity of speaking.”
Miles Coventry extracted a billfold from his pocket. “I want to show my appreciation, Pastor.”
“Oh, I don’t charge for funerals,” Dugan protested.
“Then put it in your church funds,” Coventry suggested, placing twenty dollars in his palm.
The preacher gaped at his generosity.
“Thank you, indeed, Mr. Coventry. This will go a long way towards the new harmonium.”
“After that sermon today, you might even see me in church now and then,” Coventry said, with an air of sincerity.
“You know, Mrs. King,” Dugan said, sipping his coffee, “it’s when troubles beset us that we know who our real friends are. Your neighbor, Mr. Coventry here, has really stood by you since Jacob was killed.”
“Jacob King was my friend, Pastor,” Coventry stated simply. “I owe it to him to help his widow in any way.”
Dugan finished his coffee.
“Well,” he said, standing up, “thank you for inviting me out here. I always like to spend a short time with the bereaved after a funeral. However, I must be heading home—I have another appointment tonight. At sundown, in fact.”
“The hanging?” Celia asked him, with a ladylike shudder.
“Much as I dislike having to minister to worthless killers like Luke Wainwright, every man has the right to a prayer before he dies.”
“I hope you don’t think I’m being morbid, Pastor Dugan,” Celia said, “but I want to see Jacob’s killer hang! I shall be there.”
Dugan frowned. “Try not to harbor revenge, Mrs. King.”
“It’s only natural, Pastor,” Coventry said. “She loved Jacob and wants to see his murderer pay the penalty.”
“You know,” Pastor Dugan remarked as he moved towards the door, “there’s one person I do feel sorry for. That’s Wainwright’s sister, Kathleen.”
Coventry mumbled something inaudible.
“She’s completely blameless in this situation and now she has a double burden to bear. Not only will her brother hang for his crime but her friends will forsake her. You know who I mean—folks in town are giving her the cold shoulder because of what Luke did. I saw it myself today. Added to that, those two men who tried to help her have gone. One of them I believe was shot, and when I spoke to Miss Wainwright, she told me that his friend had taken Preston’s body and had ridden out.”
“Vamoosed?” Coventry asked, suddenly interested.
“She said that by now Jonah Jones would be clear out of the territory.”
“Good riddance,” grunted Coventry.
“Perhaps later on I might be able to visit Miss Wainwright and help her,” Celia said.
“That’s a real Christian spirit,” Pastor Dugan beamed.
Later, Coventry stood at the window and watched the preacher climb into his rig. Pastor Dugan flicked his whip and the rig rumbled out. The owner of the Diamond C turned to face the widow, and immediately Celia swept forward. He wrapped his arms around her, and their open mouths locked fast. She returned his kiss hungrily, molding her young, vibrant body hard against his. Miles Coventry kissed her white neck, and she moaned softly as his hands travelled ove
r her. Coventry’s fumbling fingers found the top button of her black mourning dress, but reluctantly, Celia pushed him away. “It wouldn’t do for someone to come in and find us making love, with Jacob only just buried.”
Muttering to himself, he strode over to the liquor cabinet and wrenched the door open.
“Another thing,” said Celia, “you’d better not be seen over here too much until I’m out of mourning.”
“Ah, hell!” Miles Coventry exploded.
“However,” Celia King lowered her voice seductively, “I’ll be sleeping in the main bedroom and you know the back door leads right into the passage that leads to it.”
He grinned now as he looked at her lush body. They’d made love often over the past few months, but somehow the expert Celia always seemed to find a new way to delight him every time they met.
“How long do you figure?”
“I’d say a couple of months, Miles, and then you can come calling on the lonely widow.”
“A lonely widow who can’t manage her ranch on her own,” the Diamond C owner said smiling. “We sure planned it well, Celia! With Jacob dead, the ranch falls to you, and when we become man and wife, we’ll combine the Rolling Wheel and the Diamond C into one damn big spread. Not just the biggest in the territory, Celia, the biggest in the country! And the most powerful.”
He poured out a glass of brandy for her.
“And we’ll control that empire, Miles,” she breathed, raising her glass to her lips. “Let’s drink to that.”
Miles Coventry eased himself down onto the sofa. “You know,” he said, “I must admit I had one or two anxious moments.”
“When the lynching didn’t come off?”
“Not that so much,” Miles frowned. “Lynchings leave a bad taste, don’t you think? I was worried at the trial. Gowrie didn’t make a good impression. Those differing testimonies of his made me uneasy, but things worked out all right, thanks to you.”
