by Cole Shelton
It was Shane’s sharp eyes which picked out the ghostly shadows in the gloom. They were filtering down the ridge, gray shapes of men molded to their ponies, and Shane’s warning was a soft whisper in the last glow of sundown. Hands clutched guns. Brett Craig stroked the cold length of his rifle. Juanita stood there coolly, her eyes fixed on the oncoming Cheyennes. Old Jonah glanced aside at Shane. They’d been in tighter spots than this before, but never had the lives of so many women and kids depended on them.
They could hear the guttural voices of the riders. One of the renegades, a huge, near-naked Cheyenne, was pointing at the fierce glow of the campfire. They rode closer and, slowly, Shane Preston began to level his Winchester.
Shane squinted down the sights, drawing a bead on the massive renegade at their head. The ponies were jogging nearer to the crevice, and the gunfighter could distinguish the copper faces and black hair of the oncoming scouts. The Indians halted their ponies, drawing together to discuss and nod towards the campfire.
“Take them!” Shane’s command was a whip-crack in the dusk.
Four guns boomed in deadly unison from the crevice and a wall of screaming lead splattered into the milling renegades. The giant rider crumpled as a bullet smashed into his chest, and the pinto pony reared when the Indian plunged downwards and sprawled on the rock. Another Cheyenne had been shot in the face, and his hands were two bloodied claws digging into his ruptured flesh. Shane’s second slug lifted the dying man clean off his pony, and he joined the beefy Indian on the ridge. In desperation, the other renegades wheeled their ponies. They grappled with their newly-acquired rifles, and one lean Indian fired his as he veered sideways. The bullet ripped into the top of Brett Craig’s shoulder, and the fugitive dropped against the wall of the dip. Craig’s gun slithered down as the outlaw’s right hand tried to stem the gushing blood-flow.
Juanita’s gun belched a second time, and the renegade who’d just blasted Craig caught her bullet in his hip. The Indian’s eyes bulged with pain, and suddenly he urged his pony right at the crevice on a suicidal charge. Jonah raised his rifle and fired, and the bullet lifted him clean off his pony.
The last three renegades were pumping bullets at them now, riding to one side as they kept low and blasted haphazardly at the crevice. Shane heard the ’breed girl gasp in agony right alongside him, and glancing towards her, the gunfighter glimpsed the dark stain across the front of her blouse. She slumped down, groaning and holding on to his body. Shane leveled his gun over her head at the Cheyenne who’d plugged her, and the brave’s throaty cry rang out as the bullet tore into his chest. The last two renegades shouted hoarsely to each other, gesticulating in near panic.
Jonah threw away his empty Winchester and lifted his six-shooter from its holster. Both of the gun slicks fired simultaneously and one of the renegades crashed to the ground with a burning slug in his back. The last rider fled into the night with the gunfighters blasting the void until their gun-hammers fell on empty chambers.
“Damn it to hell!” Shane stood up, jamming a cartridge into his loading chamber. “Look after things here while I go after that last one, Jonah.”
The tall gunfighter climbed out of the crevice and whistled for his horse. Snowfire was just down from the ridge, and the palomino trotted up the slope as Shane ran to meet him and vaulted onto the stallion’s back. Gloria and Janie were hurrying towards the ridge to assist with the wounded as Shane urged Snowfire into the night. No questions were directed at him, because every emigrant realized the emergency that had arisen. If that renegade made it back to the main bunch, the war-party would soon be here to butcher them all. That last scout had to die.
Shane rode Snowfire past the bloodied bodies of the Indians, heading farther up the flat-top ridge. The Cheyenne had vanished, but Shane figured that the scout would retrace his trail in order to ride straight back to the main bunch. The stallion responded to Shane’s touch, and heeling it fiercely, the gunfighter mounted the ridge. By now, the dying sun had surrendered to nightfall, and a wan moon was rising in the blackness. Soon, pallid light was drenching the ridge, and the rocks cast strange shadows as Shane rode higher.
Suddenly he heard the sharp rasp of metal on rock.
Instinctively, Shane Preston threw himself from his horse’s back, and his body crashed onto the hard rock a split-second before the rifle screamed. The bullet winged high over Snowfire, and as Shane rolled for the cover of a boulder, he saw the glimmer of steel in the moonlight. The renegade had heard his approach and was staked out ready for him behind a pyramid of boulders.
Shane scrambled behind the rock. He thumbed back the hammer of his gun and waited. Gradually, he eased his gun around the rock but moments later the rifleman fired at him and the lead tore splinters of pumice from the boulder.
“Can you hear me?” Shane’s yell sounded above the fading echoes of the gunshot.
There was no answer, but Shane figured that the renegade understood him. These Cheyennes had been on a Reservation, and they would know the white man’s language.
“Hear me, redman!” Shane called to him.
His answer was a whining slug that sang off into the night sky.
“I’ve got all the time in the world!” Shane told him. “But you haven’t, redman! You’re a long way from your other braves, but my friends are just down that ridge! Already they’ll have heard the shooting, and more will be here soon! Better climb down and kill me so you can ride on your way—while you can.”
There was a deep hush, and Shane edged his face around the rock. The Cheyenne mightn’t have understood every word, but he’d grasped enough of the logic to realize he had to act now. In fact, the renegade’s tanned body was sliding down the rocks. Shane wormed around so he lay flat on his belly.
The Cheyenne crouched at the foot of the pile of boulders. His beady eyes surveyed the lonely rock behind which the gunfighter was waiting for him.
Shane raised his gun.
The Indian began to circle, hoping to sneak up on Shane from the side, but the gunfighter’s cold eyes followed him—and so did his gun muzzle.
Then the renegade halted. He hesitated before gliding towards the side of the rock. Shane meanwhile had slithered around to face him, and he leveled his six-shooter at the oncoming shadow. The Cheyenne seemed to loom up out of the ridge. Two pairs of eyes met. Two guns thundered. The Indian’s bullet carved a furrow in the rock beside Shane’s head, but the gunfighter’s slug sliced like a knife into the red man’s heart.
Shane climbed to his feet and looked down at the body.
He walked over to where Snowfire was waiting for him, mounted up and rode back to the camp.
“I’ve cut Brett’s slug out.” The fire glow reddened Jonah’s whiskery face as he glanced up at the towering gunfighter. “It wasn’t in that deep, though it smashed some of his shoulder bone. I’ve taken out some of the splinters, but I’ll leave the rest for the medic at Fort Defiance.”
“And Juanita?” Shane asked him.
“Janie’s plugged her wound,” the oldster gulped.
“But her bullet?” Shane demanded.
Jonah Jones swallowed and he stood up to face his partner.
“It’s in too deep,” Jonah said, his tone blunt. “I couldn’t risk cutting it out.”
Shane stalked around the other side of the campfire. The women had made the girl as comfortable as possible, propping her up on a makeshift pillow of saddlebags, and covering her with two blankets. She was still conscious, and Shane saw the dark trickle of blood ooze from the corner of her mouth as she tried to speak.
“Easy, Juanita,” he said softly, crouching down beside her.
Somehow, Shane’s presence seemed to reassure her, and the wounded girl forced a faint smile.
She watched him intently as his hand gently pulled away the bloodied shreds of her blouse, exposing the swell of her left breast and the ugly crater just above.
“Janie,” Shane murmured, “water and clean linen.”
They’
d already heated some water over the fire, and Janie Craig simply lifted her riding dress and tore a length off her petticoat. Shane grabbed the linen, dabbed it in the water, and began to wash away the blood from her flesh. Her firm breasts heaved as the pain raced through her like a tide. Shane bent over her, his eyes taking in the dark outline of the bullet deep beneath the surface of her flesh.
“Juanita,” the gunfighter said, “the slug’s in one helluva long way. Now, you can wait till we reach Fort Defiance or—”
“Or what, Shane?” Her whisper was barely audible.
“Or you can take a chance and I’ll cut it out now,” the gunfighter said.
Her trembling hand reached out of the blankets and gripped his. He looked hard at her and saw the trust in her eyes, the kind of trust most women reserve for only one man in life.
“Cut it out,” Juanita Woolrich summoned the strength to say.
Shane stood up.
“Jonah!”
The old-timer climbed to his feet and left Craig. He bustled around the campfire.
“I want you to give Juanita some of that special firewater you carry in your canteen,” Shane said dryly. “Reckon it’ll help deaden the pain.”
Jonah flushed as the emigrants thrust him quizzical looks. He ambled to his saddle and unhooked his canteen. Meanwhile, Shane drew his knife out and placed the blade deep into the fire to cauterize it. He waited while Jonah knelt down beside the girl and gently tipped the canteen to her lips.
“Shane,” Abel Sorenson murmured as the gunslick watched the blade glow red.
“What is it?”
“I—I feel so helpless,” the preacher admitted. “What can I do to help?”
The red was turning to white.
“I’m not a praying man, Abel.” Shane kept his eyes on the knife. “But you are.”
Shane took hold of the wooden handle of his blade and crouched down beside the whisky-drugged girl. Her eyes were blurred and the bewildered emigrants frowned as Jonah bemoaned his empty canteen.
“Hold her,” Shane commanded.
Someone slid a piece of wood between Juanita’s teeth just before Shane’s knife delved into the wound. Juanita stiffened, squirming and moaning, but relentlessly, Shane moved the knife in farther. The sharp point probed deeper, and with a shudder, Juanita passed out. The gunfighter found the lethal slug, and without taking out the knife, he continued to dig. Finally the point reached the base of the bullet and Shane began to prise the lead upwards. The emigrants watched in silence as their trail scout eased the bullet to the surface. The thumb and forefinger of Shane’s left hand gripped the slug and pulled it free. Blood gushed out over her flesh and Shane held out his hand for linen. Another piece of Janie’s petticoat was handed to him, and it was used to plug the wound. Shane lowered his head to the girl’s bosom. Her heart was still thudding, and he could hear a tiny moan escape her lips.
“Bandage her tight and keep her warm,” he directed the women. “She has a chance to live.”
Nine – Fort Defiance
“Major Bentley will see you now,” the stiff-lipped adjutant said as Shane dusted his Stetson against his thigh.
The soldier opened the door for him, and Shane Preston stepped inside the log-walled office. The moment he entered, a lean, lynx-eyed man stood up from his desk chair and extended a gaunt hand.
Shane shook it warmly.
“Nice to see you again, Preston,” Major Bentley said. “Take a seat.”
“I’ll stand, thanks,” Shane said, meaning to make this interview as brief as possible.
“Suit yourself,” the soldier shrugged.
Bentley slumped back in his chair and reached for his pipe. He’d been commander of this outpost for several years, and this was the third time he’d met up with the gunfighter who’d blazed a legendary trail across his territory. Last time, Bentley had tried to persuade Shane Preston to don a uniform, but the tall rider had politely declined.
“Didn’t expect to see you riding in with those emigrants,” Major Bentley confessed. “In fact, I was just about to roster a burial detail to ride out there and find the bodies.”
“Then three men rode in with the news?” Shane asked him.
Bentley stuffed tobacco into his pipe. “Three prospectors, Preston. They said they were here to report a wagon massacre and they said they were the sole survivors.”
“And those three men rode on to Gun Creek?” Shane recalled Blake’s boast.
“Yes.” Bentley frowned. “I remember what one of them said. They had to take another trail here to escape the renegade Cheyennes after everyone else on the wagon train had been butchered—but by taking that trail, they struck it lucky. They camped in a dry wash and found some nuggets. In fact, they left the fort yesterday to cash their gold in Gun Creek, and I reckon right now they’ll be celebrating there.”
“They received the gold from the Cheyennes,” Shane said tersely. “In exchange for the latest repeating rifles. On top of that, they left the wagoners to get killed by those gun-crazy renegades.”
“My God!” Bentley stared at him then jumped to his feet and listened in silence as Shane recalled what had happened. Grim-faced, Bentley heard the whole story, and when Shane had finished, he walked over to the big map nailed to his wall.
“And where do you figure these Reservation-jumpers are?” he asked.
“Send out a whole platoon, Major,” Shane advised him, standing by the map and indicating where he believed Vittorio’s bunch would be. “Those red devils aren’t gonna be too easy to round up now they’re toting those guns.”
“Thanks to those three bastards!” Bentley rasped. “Hell! I’ll get some men to ride into Gun Creek now and fetch them here.”
“Oh no!” Shane raised his hand.
“Huh?”
“Those varmints are ours, Major,” Shane said grimly. “You and your soldier-boys can fix the Cheyennes, but me and Jonah have a score to settle with those gun-runners.”
Bentley stared at him.
“They murdered a real good friend of mine, Major,” Shane explained. “Wagon master Huss Whittaker.”
“And so you’ll be taking the law into your own hands?” the soldier demanded.
“Yes, Major,” Shane Preston stated bluntly. “And don’t try to stop us.”
Bentley picked up his pipe and his keen eyes surveyed Shane as he struck a match. He crossed over to the window and gazed out over the dusty parade-ground. The emigrants were seated on the porch outside the store, and two soldiers were supplying them with food and coffee. The kids, now safe, played around the tall flagpole in the center of the yard. Ten minutes ago, they’d summoned the fort doctor who was examining Brett Craig and the ’breed girl inside the small hospital.
“You know, Preston,” Bentley said, puffing on his pipe, “gun-running’s a military offence, so I’ll want to know exactly how you—uh—deal with the culprits. Just for the report, you understand.”
“Sure,” Shane grinned. “We’ll drop by after we’ve dealt with them—just for your report’s sake.”
“There are three of them, you know,” Bentley warned him as he made for the door.
“They don’t know we’re coming,” Shane growled.
He paced outside and jammed his Stetson onto his head. The adjutant saluted him, but Shane took no notice as he walked across the sunlit parade ground.
Jonah was waiting for him.
“Those renegades will soon be back in the Reservation,” Shane predicted confidently. “Meantime, we’ve got one small chore to take care of.”
The two gun hawks strode across to their horses.
They mounted up and headed towards the double entrance gates. Four troopers pulled the heavy gates wide, and the gunfighters urged their horses out of the stockade onto the dusty plain.
The mid-afternoon sun blazed in their faces as they turned west along the rutted trail. Shane and Jonah rode away from the military outpost, following the ribbon of trail as it wound around an ancien
t butte and dropped from sight over a black rock ridge. Once at the crest of this ridge, they reined in their horses and sat saddle, surveying the settlement sprawled below.
“The Promised Land.” Jonah used the emigrants’ phrase.
“And built nice and close to Fort Defiance in case of any emergency,” Shane Preston remarked dryly. “Let’s get down there.”
“Say, Shane,” the old gunslinger grinned. “I reckon we’ve got company.”
Shane turned in the saddle. There was a rider heading their way from the shadows of the fort, a spiral of swirling dust in his wake. The two gun hawks waited as Abel Sorenson spurred his horse towards them and reined in alongside.
“Heard you were riding to Gun Creek,” the preacher said. “Figured you wouldn’t mind if I came along.”
“Listen, Abel,” Shane snapped, “this ain’t exactly a camp-meetin’ we’re riding to.”
“I know why you’re headed for Gun Creek,” Abel Sorenson said quietly. “But that’s not my reason for joining you.”
“Oh?” Shane muttered.
“I figured I’d come along to look over the town,” the preacher informed them.
Shane’s wizened sidekick scowled. “This ain’t a sight-seein’ expedition.”
“I’m not riding in to sight-see, gentlemen,” Sorenson smiled. “I’ll be looking around for vacant plots, suitable for the site of my future church.”
“Aren’t you looking a mite too far ahead?” Shane asked the pioneer preacher.
“Shane,” Sorenson sat tall and straight in the saddle, like he was giving out a pulpit announcement. “By next fall, my chapel will be Gun Creek’s house of worship.”
Shane grinned and flicked his reins. The stallion ambled down the slope, and with Jonah and the preacher right behind him, Shane set his face for Gun Creek.
The trail was steep, fringed with craggy rocks, and it spilled out of the boulders into a long, wide valley. The new settlement of Gun Creek loomed up and soon the riders were passing a line of shacks. A huge hand-painted signboard announced GUN CREEK, and farther on, another board told all and sundry that the cheapest liquor and the best saloon-girls could be found at the Golden Garter.
