A Lust For Lead (8 page)

He had always been excitable. Now, as the hour of Shane’s match grew near, Buchanan grew wild. Springing from his seat, he stalked over to join Shane at the edge of the boardwalk. He grabbed the wooden upright with his good hand and swung off it, leaning over so that his face was close beside Shane’s.
‘You can’t deny it, Shane. It’s in you,’ he enthused. ‘And don’t lie to me and tell me that you don’t want it; you and I both know you do. We’re alike, you and I, two of a kind. I want it, you want it. You just don’t have the guts to accept it the way I do.’
Shane was not really listening. He was aware of the content of what Buchanan was saying but the actual words he just tuned into the background.
Across the street the other contestants were gathering once again, this time for the seventh match of the day, the battle between Valentino Rodrigues and the man they called the Gentleman.
Rodrigues was a handsome man: tall, dark and suave, with slicked-back hair and a fluid, cat-like grace. He was dressed in fancy black pants and a ruffled shirt, with a jacket that was heavily embroidered in silver and white thread. He wore a pair of Remington revolvers, one chambered for a .38 cartridge and the other chambered for a .44-40.
He strutted and he preened as he strode out in front of the crowd and offered his opponent a theatrical bow. The Gentleman returned the gesture with a shy nod of his head.
Rodrigues may have been playing to the crowd but it was the Gentleman they were interested in. The East Coast city gunslingers – called ‘Button Men’ by the mobsters of the Italian, Jewish and Irish gangs who hired them – were an enigma to the rugged gunfighters of the West. Their fancy clothes and diminutive revolvers led most to call them sissies but, in New York and Detroit and Chicago, the term ‘Button Man’ was a mark of respect. A mobster who called on one to erase his enemies knew he would get the job done, as easily as if he just reached out and pressed a button.
The Gentleman had earned his name because of his impeccable good manners. He spoke rarely but when he did it was with a stiff British accent.
Before stepping onto the crossroads, he removed his pinstripe jacket and rolled up his sleeves. His gun – a Webley British Bulldog .44 calibre double-action revolver – was worn in a shoulder holster under his left arm. He straightened his glasses and took his mark opposite Rodrigues.
The two men waited for Nathaniel to give them the signal.
They waited.
And waited.
And then Nathaniel called it.
The fight was over in seconds. As Rodrigues drew, he dropped to one knee. Sweeping out his other leg to the side and flinging one arm for balance, he dodged the Gentleman’s rapid fire and shot back with deadly accuracy. His bullet passed between the Gentleman’s eyes, neatly clipping his spectacles in two, and blew out the back of his skull. He fell as if he had been pole-axed.
Rodrigues rose smoothly back onto his feet and bowed to Nathaniel like a matador, then again to everybody else who was watching. The other contestants regarded him icily. There was nothing in the rules to say that a man could not dodge if he wanted to and now that Rodrigues had set the precedent others were sure to follow. In the second round, nothing could be taken for granted.
Shane was not thinking that far ahead, however. The match was over and it was his turn next. His stomach twisted itself into a knot.
Buchanan, still in a maniacal mood, clapped him excitedly on the back. ‘Better get you a gun,’ he said.
Shane closed his eyes. He had never wanted this moment to come.

The sun rose on the town of Wainsford, beginning the fourth day since Benedict Hunte had rode into town. The streets were empty save for the bounty hunters, who kept constant vigil on the jailhouse. The wind was lonely as it blew, stirring up the dust so that it drifted above the ground like a mist.
Shane stepped out of the hotel.
There was a new feeling in the air that morning, a sense that violence was soon to erupt. Fletcher had stopped walking his rounds. The streets were too dangerous for that now.
It was all about ready to kick-off.
Castor Buchanan stood a short distance away by the side of the road. He had his back to Shane but knew that he was there. He did not move as Shane walked over to stand next to him. Both men were silent for a long time.
‘Seems like every fucking bounty hunter in the country’s in town.’ Buchanan growled. ‘The marshal must be shitting his breeches.’
Shane did not reply. The silence stretched between them, becoming taut.
‘I heard you rode in a couple of days ago.’ Buchanan said, almost accusingly. ‘What you been doing?’
Shane turned to stare at him. His bleak, expressionless gaze challenged Buchanan to come out and say whatever it was he was skirting around. Never one to back away from a fight, Buchanan obliged him.
‘They say you’ve been shut up in your room, jerking off.’
Shane didn’t particularly care what people thought he had been doing. By the end of the day, most of them would be dead.
Buchanan turned his attention back towards the jailhouse. ‘They’ve been talking to you, haven’t they?’ He said it so mildly that Shane thought he had misheard.
‘What did you say?’
Buchanan didn’t answer. He smiled secretively and nodded to himself. ‘I thought so.’
A chill crept through Shane’s body as the realisation sank in that Buchanan hadn’t been talking about a group of people; he had been talking about Shane’s guns. It sounded ludicrous. Shane wanted to believe that he was being paranoid but the smugness in Buchanan’s attitude told him otherwise.
Warily, Shane dared to ask: ‘Yours too?’
Buchanan nodded.
‘For how long?’
‘A while now, but I think they’ve been in my head since the beginning.’
Shane knew exactly what he meant. He felt the same way. ‘It’s like I didn’t want to believe it at first,’ he said. ‘I thought I was going crazy.’
Buchanan nodded. ‘It was the same for me. They tell you about the tournament?’
‘The one in Covenant?’
‘That’s the one.’
Shane’s mouth felt dry. He hadn’t told anyone about the tournament. It was an idea that had come into his head one day. He couldn’t remember when. If Buchanan knew about it too then that meant it was real, and that meant everything else that Shane had begun to fear was real too.
‘I figure this thing with Hunte is some kind of a test.’ Buchanan told him. ‘Sort of like a qualifying round. Only one of us can go through to fight at Covenant.’
Shane thought about how he had recognised Buchanan as an equal the moment they had first met, how he had seen it in the way he carried himself and in the look in his eyes. He thought about how badly he wanted to go up against him in a fair fight to prove himself. ‘I think you’re right,’ he said at last.
Buchanan nodded. ‘We work together to kill the rest of these losers,’ he said, looking pointedly at the bounty hunters who were watching the jailhouse. ‘And we kill Hunte. Then we’ll settle things properly, you and I.’
The two men looked at each other, and Shane nodded. ‘Agreed.’

Nathaniel sat on the front porch of the Grande, flanked by his two bodyguards and smoking a cigar. As ever, Whisperer lurked behind him, keeping to the shade and regarding everything with a look of supercilious calm.
As Buchanan crossed the street to join them, he mentally suppressed his hatred of them both. For the time being, he needed them.
‘Well, Buchanan?’ Nathaniel called out to him. ‘How have you been enjoying the show so far?’
‘It’s okay. Have you noticed how it’s only the fighters I picked who’ve gone through to the next round?’
Nathaniel’s smile was replaced with a frown. ‘That’s not entirely true. The woman, Vendetta, made it through. And Chastity of course.’
‘Vendetta don’t count; Ferris was one of yours as well. And I never said Chastity couldn’t beat Cadero. I only said she won’t beat Shane.’
‘And your predictions for Shane?’
Buchanan smiled. ‘The same as before. He’s going to win this tournament.’
One of Nathaniel’s bodyguards laughed at him. Buchanan shot him a withering stare and the man instantly fell silent.
‘You’re confident that Mister Ennis will shoot then? Yesterday when we spoke, he seemed quite adamant that he would rather die,’ Nathaniel said.
‘You underestimate him. He wants this almost as much as I do.’
‘He hides it well.’ Nathaniel observed, glancing over to where Shane sat, staring gloomily into the distance.
‘He always did.’ Buchanan replied. He climbed the steps and joined Nathaniel on the porch. ‘How are we doing?’ he asked quietly.
Nathaniel twisted about and gave Whisperer a querying look. Obediently, the tall man closed his eyes. There was a moment in which his expression became distant. ‘We have their attention,’ he said at last.
‘They’re watching? Now?’ Buchanan eagerly glanced around him, looking at the empty windows and doorways that lined the street, hoping to see something. Whisperer laughed at him.
‘They are close, but not that close.’
The mocking tone of his voice raised Buchanan’s temper. He started forward, his good hand tightening into a fist. The two bodyguards moved to bar his path.
‘Calm yourself, Buchanan.’ Nathaniel snapped. ‘Whisperer is correct. It is too early for you to see them. Be patient. They will come to us in time.’
‘They had better.’ Buchanan snarled. He was tired of waiting. He had waited six years already and now that his goal was at hand it was frustrating to find it still just outside of his reach. He breathed deeply, fighting against the rage that swelled up inside of him. Slowly, he brought it under his control.
‘You cannot rush the occult.’ Nathaniel told him. ‘Why don’t you take Mister Ennis’ gun back to him? Let that amuse you for a while.’
Buchanan grinned, his anger forgotten. Taunting Shane would be fun. He was looking forward to seeing the expression on his face when he showed him his surprise.

Shane discretely watched them talking from across the street. The conversation ended and Buchanan went into the Grande. Nathaniel said something to Whisperer and the tall man nodded in agreement.
Shane would have liked to have known what they had talked about. There were certain things about the tournament that didn’t add up, and either he didn’t know as much as he thought he did or else there was something strange going on.
It wasn’t that he particularly cared. He did not expect to survive his fight with Devlin and looked no further into his future than the twenty minutes he believed he had left. If Nathaniel was up to something then it could hardly affect him but, still, he was curious. If Nathaniel really was fucking with the Fastest Guns then he was playing with fire and likely to get burned.
All along the street, contestants who had wandered away to pass the hour alone were returning. It wouldn’t be long now, Shane told himself.
He thought back to that night at the Babson ranch and recalled how it had felt when he had shot the woman and her child. It hadn’t been the first time that he had shot someone without really wanting to but it was the first time that he had actually been aware of it. There were men – women, even – that he had callously shot out of hand and never stopped to ask himself why. He had done that for years and had just always assumed he’d had a reason.
Shooting the child had been different. He had been unable to justify it, not by any standard, and it had opened his eyes.
It was said among the Fastest Guns that beyond skill there is mastery.
But Shane had wondered, if that is the case, then who is the master and who is the tool?
He had not liked the answer.

Buchanan returned bearing a mahogany box and a gunbelt, which he gave Shane to put on. Shane did not argue. He fastened the gunbelt and adjusted it until he was satisfied. The feel of it was natural, as if a piece of his body had been missing for a long time and he had only now discovered what it was.
Buchanan held out the box. It was fancier than it needed to be. Its surface had been lacquered and buffed to a shine and it was inlaid with brass catches. ‘Open it,’ he said.
Shane was afraid to touch it.
‘Open it.’ Buchanan repeated, and this time the command was reinforced by Shane’s jailer, who drew a revolver and cocked it in his direction.
Nervously, Shane reached out and released the brass catches. His fingertips were electric as he opened the lid and exposed the gun inside.
It was a Colt 1873 Single Action .45 calibre revolver. Not a new weapon as Shane had expected; its frame was scratched from years of use. It had been customised: the barrel was a couple of inches shorter than the factory model. Shane remembered paying a gunsmith to have it done.
It was his gun, the self-same weapon with which he had destroyed Buchanan’s right hand. The gun he had thrown away at Santa Morgana.
‘You wouldn’t believe how many people I had to kill to get hold of that gun.’ Buchanan told him. ‘It was about a year after you shot me that I decided I wanted it. I rode back to Santa Morgana but by then it had moved on. One of the miners had taken it with him to Nevada, lost it in a game of poker there. Word had gotten out that it used to belong to you and it was sold to a collector. A powerful man, with protection. Not very good protection it turned out, or at least, not as good as me.’
Shane stared at the gun. He was sure it was not just his imagination that made him think it was staring back at him.
‘I’d got it into my head that I wanted to kill you with your own gun.’ Buchanan continued. ‘I liked the idea of it. I was going to start with your hands and feet and work inwards, one shot at a time. Then I met up with Nathaniel and, well, everything just seemed to fall into place.’
‘Destiny.’ Shane said.
‘What can I say; the two of you were meant to be together.’
The gun had been lovingly cleaned and oiled. Shane could tell that it had seen some neglect since he had abandoned it, but Buchanan had restored it. The gun lay nestled on a velvet cushion, the metal gleaming in the afternoon light. It was beautiful and Shane hated it.
Nervously, he reached out to touch it, running his fingers along its barrel and tracing the contours of its cylinder, the loop of the trigger guard. As soon as he touched it, he felt it in his mind. He recoiled as if stung.
Buchanan laughed. ‘You’re going to have to get better acquainted than that, Shane. Go on,’ he said. ‘Take it. You know you want to.’
He was right; Shane did want to. It called to him and he touched it again, stroking his fingers along it before taking it into his palm. It felt so perfect in his hand that his fear was momentarily forgotten. Then he remembered himself and cursed himself for a whore. After six years of abstinence it had taken only a few seconds for the gun to become a part of him again.
Now he wanted to shoot with it.
He held it up for inspection, checking that the barrel was clear and the mechanism smooth and professional. Buchanan had taken good care of it.
It was not loaded however.
‘Patience, Shane.’ Buchanan chided. He dug around in his pocket and produced a single .45 Long cartridge. Holding it out, he teased Shane by refusing to give it to him, only dropping it into his palm when the game grew tiresome.
‘You’ll understand if I only give you one.’ Buchanan said. ‘But I wouldn’t want you to get carried away. Can’t have you doing a Priestley, now can I?’
Shane wasn’t listening. He took the cartridge and inserted it into the Colt’s side loading gate, then spun the barrel until the loaded chamber was under the firing pin. It was all exactly as he remembered it, as familiar as the day he had thrown the gun away.
‘Knock him dead,’ Buchanan whispered excitedly.
Shane stepped onto the crossroads on legs that felt stiff and wooden and not his own. It was like being in a daze. The gun was not yet in control of him. In fact, he barely felt its presence at all. He was simply numb.
He could not believe that it was all really happening. Everything had acquired a dreamlike quality and he felt as if he would awaken at any moment to find that everything that had happened to him in the last few years was only a nightmare. He imagined he would wake up and find himself at Santa Morgana and he fervently wished it was true. But in his heart he knew better. This nightmare was his reality.
And his time had just run out.
John Devlin was waiting for him. He was like a younger, paler, more fanatical mirror-image of Shane. They could have been father and son they were so alike. Devlin was only twenty-two years old. He was tall and willow-thin, with a pale complexion made whiter in contrast by the black clothes that he wore. His straight black hair fell halfway down to the small of his back and was held in place by a small black ribbon, tied in a bow. He could not quite master the same expressionless gaze as Shane, but his stare was bleak and if his eyes were the window to his soul then his soul was a maelstrom of screaming torment and pain.
Devlin was a maniac. He had once shot up a schoolroom in Ohio in an attempt to emulate Jacob Priestley’s rampage in Covenant, killed more than a dozen young children and their teacher, then gunned down half the posse they had sent to catch him. He had twice been sentenced to hang and twice had escaped from the gallows, once so closely that he still had a rope scar on his neck. All of this he bore with pride, believing that it made him special somehow, better than the rest of the world which had so wisely chosen to shun him.
Shane found his mark opposite him and looked down at the blood that stained the dirt. He wondered if his own would shortly mix with it. The crossroads seemed vast and open, the sky above him almost impossibly broad. Shane felt open and exposed, conscious of the people that were watching him. Nathaniel reclined lazily on the edge of the porch, a half-smile on his lips. Whisperer, behind him, his expression oddly knowing but otherwise unreadable. Buchanan, his eyes throwing off sparks he was so excited.
The invigilators were curious, the contestants wary. Shane noticed that Kip Kutcher’s girlfriend had come back to the street and was watching him. She, like all the others, was wondering if the stories about him were true. Had he really lost his edge? Was he a coward like everybody said he was? And if so, would John Devlin kill him now?
Shane really didn’t care what they thought. To be honest, he didn’t much care about anything any more. He felt drained of all emotion, used up and desiccated by the burning heat.
Devlin stared at him and Shane stared back.
He heard the floorboards of the porch creak as Nathaniel rose from his chair, that telltale signal that preceded the call and, in that moment, Shane’s entire future condensed into a handful of seconds. In those brief moments of time, his mind raced.
He had not yet decided for certain what he would do, whether he would shoot Devlin or simply let himself die. Whatever he chose, the end result would be the same. The Fastest Guns had taken hold of his soul and they would claim him one way or another, dead or alive. His only real option was whether to give himself up to them willingly or fight them every step of the way.
Nathaniel’s voice broke his train of thought. ‘Gentlemen,’ he called. ‘The time has come. You may fire when ready.’
Devlin drew and Shane’s decision was made for him.