Shane and Jonah 5

by Cole Shelton

  The Home of Great Western Fiction!

  Following the death of its guide, a wagon train bound for Gun Creek had stalled outside the small town on Conchita. But when Shane Preston and Jonah Jones rode in on the trail of the scar-faced man Shane had sworn to kill, wagon master Huston Whittaker saw an answer to their problems. Whittaker was an old friend of Shane’s, and when he asked for help in getting his emigrants to their destination, the black-clad gunfighter and his crusty old sidekick couldn’t refuse.

  The trail ahead was going to be mighty hard, though. Somewhere out in the vast wilderness, a band of renegade Cheyennes were on the warpath. And there was no shortage of problems right inside the wagon train itself. A killer with a price on his head was trying to work his way west to a new life. A fiery half-Mexican girl on the run from a vengeful husband set her cap for the preacher who hoped to bring religion to Gun Creek. And three men masquerading as prospectors were planning a double-cross that would send the wagons and their occupants straight to hell!

  SHANE AND JONAH 5: WAGONS WEST OF HELL

  By Cole Shelton

  First Published by The Cleveland Publishing Pty Ltd

  Copyright © Piccadilly Publishing

  First Digital Edition: June 2020

  Names, characters and incidents in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information or storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law.

  This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book

  Series Editor: Ben Bridges

  Text © Piccadilly Publishing

  Published by Arrangement with The Cleveland Publishing Pty Ltd.

  One – Scarface Trail

  They came out of the deep, pine-dotted canyon with thick red dust clinging to the sweat of their horses.

  They rode swiftly, heading away from the long shadows of the pumice walls to where a contorted rim presided over another valley. The tall man came first, a lean, rugged streak with his leathery face set towards the western ridges. Right behind him, his oldster pard muttered curses at the weary mare he was prodding along.

  The riders moved across the rim, and it was Shane Preston, the younger man, who reined in first. Sitting saddle, he let his cold eyes rove the length of the valley below. It was a vast basin carved out of the pumice, stretching into the dying sun and matted and tangled forests. Right at the far end, a river gushed over the rock wall and plunged into the valley, and even from this promontory, Shane could hear the distant roar.

  “Another coupla hours and it’ll be dark,” Jonah Jones hinted as he drew alongside his companion.

  Shane’s eyes picked out the trail below them. It dropped from the rim down a huge rock staircase and wound like a thin ribbon through the darkening pines.

  “And it’s another two days and nights to Conchita,” Shane reminded him. “That’s if we keep riding.”

  “Aw—hell!” Jonah wheezed. “We haven’t slept for three nights!”

  “You’ll have plenty of time for shuteye at Conchita,” Shane said.

  Jonah fingered his shaggy white beard and frowned.

  “Shane,” the old-timer said seriously, “don’t go settin’ your hopes too high.”

  “What do you mean?” Shane Preston asked him sharply.

  “There are a helluva lot of scar-faced hombres on the frontier,” the older gunfighter said. “This one at Conchita mightn’t be the bastard who killed your wife.”

  Shane fixed his eyes on his pard. They were deep-set, piercing eyes, the kind which seemed to look right through a man.

  “Maybe not,” the tall rider conceded softly. “But there was a report of a Scarface at Conchita, a real hardcase by all accounts, and I’ve no choice but to check him out.”

  “Sure,” Jonah Jones shrugged, “I agree, Shane. But I’ve been watchin’ you ever since you left Blacksmith County. You don’t sleep, you hardly eat, and all that matters is reachin’ Conchita. Seems you’ve set your heart on a showdown, and it’s gonna be one helluva let-down if this Scarface ain’t your man.”

  Shane turned his face away. There had been many false leads since the fateful day when he’d come home to find his wife murdered. Let-downs had become commonplace, the anticipated specter which haunted the end of every trail. And yet he had to keep on riding, driven by hate, nurtured by the hope that the next sundown would see the end of his quest—Scarface sprawled dead at his feet.

  The tall gunfighter urged Snowfire towards the head of the trail. The big palomino ran easily, its magnificent white mane flowing wild and free in the late afternoon breeze. Behind this stallion came Jonah’s old mare, Tessie, a horse which had seen better days long before her rider had met up with Shane, and that was three years ago. Now Jonah kept up a constant running battle with her, cursing, cajoling, and occasionally kicking the mare with his boot to keep up with his pard. Predictably, Shane had suggested trading Tessie for a more spritely mount, but Jonah had stubbornly refused to get rid of the horse. For a hardened gun hawk, Jonah could be strangely sentimental.

  The trail clung to the sheer rock like an eyebrow, forcing the two gunfighters to ride single file. The tall man sat erect in the saddle, his steady hands in full control of his horse. He cast a long shadow, and the stark black of his shirt and Levis stood in sharp contrast against the fading red of the valley wall. Jonah Jones, however, presented a far more flamboyant figure. He was pudgy, white-haired, and dressed in a vivid blue vest and a pair of new check pants he’d spent ten bucks on back in Blacksmith County.

  Shane reached the foot of the slope.

  Without waiting, he flicked his rein and Snowfire headed along the narrow trail that twisted through a bunch of cedars. He was in the needle shadow of the first tree when a whip-crack sounded above the distant thunder of the falls, followed by a high-pitched scream that made Shane rein in, instantly.

  “My God!” Jonah gulped as he drew alongside. “That sounded like—like a dang—”

  “A woman’s scream, Jonah,” Shane Preston supplied.

  The whip whistled again, but this time the gunfighters only heard a low moan instead of the frantic scream.

  “Down-trail,” Shane said aside to Jonah. “Just through those cedars. We’ll take a look-see.”

  Jonah was about to mumble that maybe this was none of their business, but Shane was already guiding Snowfire between two towering trees. The thick bed of loam and pine needles muffled the sound of their horses’ hoofs, and gloom enveloped them as they rode under the dark roof of interlaced branches. The gunfighters slowed their mounts as a sharp staccato of voices came to them, and Shane, riding just ahead, suddenly reined in.

  The tall rider slid from his palomino and parted the branches.

  The sinking sun was filtering through the trees, its fading light playing over the clearing. Right in the center of the hollow were three men, their backs to Shane, and looking past them, the gunfighter saw the object of their attention. A girl with long raven hair had her roped wrists lashed to the lowest branch of a gaunt cedar. The back of her blouse had been ripped away, exposing her bronze skin and two bloodied cuts that sliced from her right shoulder-blade almost to the base of her spine. She was groaning softly, her whole pain-wracked body trembling.

  One of the men stepped towards her. He was a squat, frog-like figure, and Shane saw him slowly uncoil the long bull-whip in his hand. His two companions stood by watching, and one of them was casually rolling a cigarette.

  “I reckon just one more lash, Juanita.” The
stumpy individual addressed the limp figure of the girl as he stood measuring her bare back. “Then I figure you’ll have learned your lesson!”

  The captive girl whipped her face around, and Shane saw the flash of hatred in her dark eyes and the scorn which curved her lips.

  “Learn my lesson?” she gasped as the twin rivers of blood trickled to the waistband of her fringed buckskin skirt.

  “So you think that whipping me will stop me from running away! You’re a fool, Matt! I’ll run the first chance I get!”

  Jonah dropped down beside the tall gun hawk.

  “Know something, boys?” The stocky individual smirked at his two companions. “I reckon she needs to be taught a real lesson! Maybe I’ll fix it so she won’t be able to even stand up, let alone ride away from me!”

  “Do what you like,” the red-haired man shrugged as he dragged on his cigarette. “After all, Woolrich, she’s your wife.”

  “Wife!” Juanita echoed. “I was never a real wife to him, Hayter! I don’t sleep with rattlesnakes!”

  “Ah, for God’s sake, Matt—get on with it,” the other man said. He was a lean, ferret-faced ranny and he stomped impatiently over to his waiting horse to grab a whisky bottle.

  The stumpy one raised his bull-whip, and the long lash was poised in his hand. Juanita stared defiantly at her husband, then turned her face against the cedar trunk as the whip described a practice flick over the pine needles. The bow-legged man with the leather measured up her glistening back.

  “Hold it!” Shane’s brittle command rang out over the clearing.

  The two gunfighters shoved the branches apart and stepped together out of the foliage. Shane’s black-handled six-shooter was clenched in his hand, while the old-timer clutched his .45 and the long Winchester he had taken from his saddle sheath. Bewildered and gaping, the three men simply stared as the strangers held them at gunpoint.

  “Who—who in the hell are you?” the man with the whip sputtered furiously.

  “Mister,” Shane snapped. “Drop that whip!”

  “Now listen here, whoever you are.” Woolrich composed himself. “This ain’t none of your business and you ain’t welcome! Now get the hell outa here!”

  “The whip, mister!” Shane reminded him.

  There was something about the way Shane spoke that seemed to unnerve Woolrich. Slowly, he opened his fingers and the whip slithered down like a snake.

  “Jonah,” Shane directed his older partner, “cut the lady down.”

  “Like hell!” Juanita’s husband snarled, barring his way.

  “Listen—both of you! What’s goin’ on here is my business, and only mine—”

  “When a lady gets bullwhipped I make it my business,” Shane told him bluntly.

  “For Pete’s sake!” the other croaked. “This is between man and wife!”

  “Where I come from, we don’t use bull-whips,” Shane said wryly. “Go ahead, Jonah.”

  The bearded gun hawk strode right up to Matt, whose bloated face was red with fury. Still the husband barred the way, but Jonah jabbed the muzzle of the Winchester into his flabby belly and gave him a choice.

  “Either you step outa my way, hombre—or I’ll blast you out!”

  “You—you interferin’ skunks!” the frog-like man grated.

  “I told you—this is between me and my wife—”

  Nevertheless, he stepped sideways and Jonah sauntered up to the prisoner. The gunfighter drew out his long hunting knife and slashed the rope that held her wrists to the branch. Juanita held out her bound wrists, and Jonah carefully cut through the ropes.

  The gun in Shane’s fist was rock-steady. “Ma’am—what’s your side of the story?”

  Juanita glanced defiantly at her husband. “I was running out on him! I had to go because of the things he wanted to do with me!”

  “Juanita!” Matt rasped. “What happened in our marriage is private between you and me. It’s not for the ears of damn strangers!”

  “I made a mistake in marrying Matt Woolrich,” Juanita flashed. “The biggest mistake in my life. He never cared for me, he was a drunkard, and he spent his time with the likes of—of these polecats with him now. I stood it all, even tried to be a good wife to him, but then—then—”

  “Button up, Juanita!” Woolrich snarled.

  “Go on, ma’am,” Shane countered.

  “He wanted me to sell my body,” she snapped. “He wanted to make me into a common whore to earn filthy money to pay off his gambling debts. He was no good, so I left him, rode as far as I could. An hour ago he and his men caught up with me and—”

  “And decided to teach you a lesson, huh?” Shane concluded.

  Juanita was rubbing her wrists, trying to restore the circulation.

  “Right!” Woolrich smirked at Shane. “So you know the story of our marriage! So what?”

  “You must be the worst kind of buzzard, mister,” old Jonah spat out. “Makin’ your wife sell herself just to pay off gambling debts!”

  Woolrich snickered. “Listen here ole goat! Juanita’s a breed. Half-Mexican, half-Indian—and all breed women are whores!”

  Juanita’s right hand slapped hard across Woolrich’s cheek, bringing the blood to his skin. His head flopped sideways and the girl prepared to vent her venom on him again.

  “Ma’am,” Shane Preston’s upraised hand arrested her, “what do you want to do from here?”

  “What does she want to do?” Matt Woolrich cried. “Hell, man! She comes with me! I happen to be her husband and she belongs to me! Maybe I did act a mite hasty in whipping her, but—”

  “Mister!” Juanita was no longer defiant, but suddenly pleading. “Don’t leave me here! Not with these—these polecats! Take me with you—anywhere—I don’t care, as long as it’s away from these pig-dogs!”

  “Don’t worry, ma’am,” Shane assured her. “We won’t be leaving you here, and as far as I’m concerned, you can come with us.”

  At first Jonah Jones gulped, then he nodded his approval as a smile of gratitude sprang to Juanita’s lips.

  “You—you goddamn wife-stealers!” Woolrich fumed, his eyes bright with anger.

  “We ain’t stealing her, Woolrich,” Shane Preston said. “She’s free to ride away from us any time she wants. In fact, we’re only taking her to safety, and then she’s on her own. If she wants to, she can even ride back to you.”

  “Never!” Juanita assured him.

  “Ma’am,” Shane said, “which one’s your horse?”

  “The pinto.”

  “Jonah,” the tall gunslinger murmured, “fetch the lady’s horse.”

  Matt Woolrich stared at him, stunned that this black-garbed stranger was going through with it. His mouth dropped open and he shook with rage as he watched Jonah heading towards Juanita’s pinto pony, and suddenly his anger erupted.

  “Take them!” he screamed.

  Hayter’s hand plunged downwards for his gun, and the ferret-faced man dodged to one side, drawing from his hip. Two guns boomed in deadly unison. Shane’s bullet smashed into the ferret-faced man’s chest, boring into his heart, lifting him clean off the ground and plastering him against the whipping-tree. Hayter had his gun clear of the holster, but even before he could level it, Jonah’s bullet was blowing a hole right in the center of his forehead. Speechless and motionless, Matt Woolrich saw his two partners pitch forward and drop like sacks at his feet.

  “You next, Woolrich?” Shane Preston demanded as the thin gray smoke drifted from his gun muzzle.

  “Who—who are you?” Woolrich whispered, fear mingling with his anger.

  “Shane Preston and Jonah Jones,” the tall gun hawk introduced the pair of them.

  “I’m damned!” Woolrich drew in his breath as he recalled a legend he’d heard in more than one saloon. “Preston and Jones, huh—two gunfighters! Well, Juanita, do you know just who you’re riding off with? Two of the scum of the territory—two vultures who hire out their guns for cash!”

  There was no f
ear in the half-breed girl’s eyes as she surveyed Shane Preston, only wide-eyed interest.

  “Whoever they are,” Juanita informed her husband, “I’m riding with them.”

  Jonah led her pony past Woolrich, walking it to the edge of the clearing.

  “You might be a coupla gun hawks,” Woolrich grated. “But you’ll pay for this!”

  “Any time you’re ready, Woolrich,” Shane invited him.

  Juanita regarded her husband with scorn. “He won’t draw, Mr. Preston. Matt never takes part in a fair fight. The only time he fires on a man is from ambush or behind him!”

  “Thanks for letting me know, ma’am,” Shane said wryly. “Reckon we’ll make durn sure he won’t be coming along behind us in the near future.”

  Shane nodded to his partner.

  “Run off their horses?” Jonah asked him.

  “Yeah.” Shane paced right up to Woolrich and extended his right hand to his holster. He whipped out the squat man’s gun and stuck it into his own belt. “I want them so spooked that our friend here won’t find them for days.”

  “You—you can’t do this!” Matt Woolrich whimpered fearfully. “This is Cheyenne country! Hell, if those redskins see me without a horse and gun, they’ll kill me!”

  Shane ignored him, letting his frank eyes rove over the girl. She was a tall, slim figure with raven hair splashing over shoulders that had been made bare when Woolrich ripped her blouse Shane surveyed the torn garment thoughtfully.

  “You’ll find my horse the other side of those trees, ma’am,” the gunfighter told her. “It’s the palomino, and there’s a spare shirt in my saddlebag if you haven’t got any other clothes to wear.”

  “Thank you,” Juanita said gratefully. “I left in such a hurry that I didn’t bring any more than I’m dressed in now.”

  Jonah untethered the three horses ridden by Woolrich and his cronies and walked them out of the clearing. Seconds later, Shane heard his pard whooping and yelling and shooting like a wild man. There was a terrified whicker, then the frantic thunder of hoofs.

  Meanwhile, Juanita ran to the other side of the clearing and disappeared behind the trees.