A Lust For Lead (17 page)

The sound of Covenant’s nightly chorus rumbled eerily through the town, its gentle rhythm surging in and out. In and out.
As the noise crept inwards along West Street, it did not travel alone. A furtive shadow crept in its wake, ducking out of sight whenever the patrolling invigilators came near. It moved with infinite care and patience and made its way to the rear of the Grande. There the figure stole to the door and entered the hotel unseen.
The building creaked around her as Vendetta made her way silently along the hallway and into the lobby. She was uncomfortable skulking about like a common thief or assassin but, considering all that she had done in the name of revenge already, it was much too late for her to start having qualms now.
The lobby was dark. A faint moonlight filtered through the tall, dirt encrusted windows and made dancing shadows as it fell through the gently swinging chandelier. Vendetta moved to the foot of the stairway. The balcony above seemed to rear before her, ominously dark.
Sounds drifted down from one of the upstairs rooms: a woman’s voice raised in the throes of an exaggerated passion her body did not share.
It was not the only sound that Vendetta heard. From behind her came the creak of a floorboard as a stealthy foot was lowered. Reacting on instinct, she whirled about, hand reaching for her gun.
But she was too late.
A figure stepped from the shadows opposite her. His gun was already drawn and the grin that exposed his teeth to the murky light told her plainly that he would not hesitate to use it. Vendetta left her gun holstered and slowly raised her hands in the air in an admission of defeat.
‘I’m disappointed,’ the figure said. ‘I’d expected you to put up more of a fight.’
She did not need to hear his voice to know who he was. Castor Buchanan was the only man in Covenant who carried a gun in his left hand. She cursed herself for not having seen him earlier. It was stupid to have come all this way only to have her revenge cut short now. She was so angry with herself that she could not find the words to speak but simply glared at him instead.
‘I was wondering when you’d come looking for me,’ he said. ‘What did he offer you? The secrets of the Cordites, or another way to kill Brett?’
‘What’s it to you?’
‘Just curious. I’ve known since this morning that Shane was trying to get you to help him, but I couldn’t quite figure out what it was he’d offer that would bring you around. For a time I thought he couldn’t do it, but then Shane can be a silver-tongued devil when he wants to be. He has a knack of getting inside your head. Trust me, I should know.’
Vendetta did not have the patience to deal with his taunts. ‘If you’re going to shoot me, do it already.’
Buchanan sighed. ‘That’s the problem with women. Always jumping to conclusions. I don’t want to shoot you darling; not unless you make me. This here gun is purely for my own protection. You did come here to kill me after all.’
He fished the key to Shane’s cell out from underneath his shirt and dangled it by its chain for her to see. ‘This is what he sent you for, right?’
Vendetta neither confirmed nor denied it.
‘If I wanted to kill you,’ he continued. ‘I’d give you this key and let you take it back to him. He’ll kill you as soon as he’s finished with you, or hadn’t you realised that? Oh no, wait. Of course not, because you wouldn’t be here otherwise, now would you?’ He laughed harshly at her. ‘He’s playing you, bitch! He’s putting your life on the line to save his own and it’s lucky for you that I know what he’s like, because I’m willing to look the other way for you, just this once.’
‘Why?’
‘Why?’ he echoed nastily. ‘Because it suits me to, that’s why. I’ve got a lot resting on this tournament, darling, and I don’t want Shane fucking it up. Now I could kill you. I could haul your ass up to Nathaniel and let him know what you and Shane have been planning.’
Vendetta clenched her fist.
‘But frankly that would just be a waste of time,’ he continued. ‘You’re fighting Chastity tomorrow and, I’m sorry darling, but that’s a death sentence for you for sure.’ He took off his hat and laid it against his chest as if mourning the dead. ‘Pity really, nice girl like you.’
She curled her lip in anger. ‘Fuck you, Buchanan.’
He grinned malevolently and walked over towards her, his gun still pointing at her. Vendetta edged backwards but she had her back to the wall and could not go far. He trapped her, putting his bad hand up on the wall next to her to cut off her escape. He leaned his face in next to hers and sniffed her hair, enjoying the discomfort he caused her.
‘Nice,’ he whispered. ‘You know, tonight’s probably your last night on Earth. It’d be a shame if you spent it alone.’
Vendetta looked him straight in the eye. ‘Unless you want me to break the other two fingers on that useless stump of a hand, I suggest you get it out of my way,’ she snarled.
Buchanan laughed and stepped aside. ‘Time of the month, huh?’ he said. He gave her a small bow and gestured towards the doorway. It took all of Vendetta’s nerve to maintain her composure. She stepped away from the wall and forced herself to walk slowly.
‘If I see you around Shane again I’ll know you’re up to something,’ he told her.
‘Shane Ennis can rot in Hell,’ she replied. She had never much cared for Shane’s promises anyway.

It was an hour later that Shane first began to suspect she wasn’t coming.
From the window of his cell he had watched Vendetta creep out of the hotel and slink away into the night, but after that there had been nothing, not a sign.
Something had gone wrong.
He returned to his bunk and sat down, wrestling with his disappointment. He cautioned himself to be patient, that perhaps everything was not as bad as it seemed and that the problem was only a temporary setback. But his pessimism would hear none of it.
Haunted with bleak thoughts of failure, his mind turned in on itself and dredged up memories of the past.
He remembered the sun and how it had beaten down on the blasted white landscape, how the rocks had shimmered in the heat as if they were on fire and burned with invisible flames. He remembered the slow pace of his horse, the dry taste of dirt in the back of his mouth and the angry throbbing of his head from the cut where Grant had struck him.
It was the morning after the day when they had fought the cowboys at the spring. Every step his horse took sent a jarring pain up his spine, igniting fireworks in his skull, and Shane was in a foul temper even without the heat and his thirst to contend with. He stared at Grant with a murderous look in his eyes and Grant stared back at him with equal venom.
Fletcher could hardly have failed to notice the tension between them but he was worn and tired and no longer seemed to care. He rode on ahead, spying out Buchanan’s tracks in the dusty land and left them both to their mutual hatred of one another.
They travelled deeper and deeper into the wasteland, well beyond the civilised reaches of that place and far from the known watering holes. Grant suffered the heat worst of all and that night, as they settled down to camp, he tipped his waterskin to his lips and only a small trickle came out. Shane and Fletcher were down to less than a quarter skin each but, on Fletcher’s command, they redistributed it equally. Later, as Grant lay sleeping, his face bathed in sweat, Shane approached Fletcher and told him: ‘We aren’t going to last long if he keeps drinking all our water.’
‘If it comes to it I’ll give him yours and you can go without.’ Fletcher replied unsympathetically.
‘We’d be better off without him.’
‘Don’t even think it, Ennis.’
‘Send him back to San Alejo. We don’t need him.’
But Fletcher was adamant. ‘He stays with us.’ And that was the end of the discussion.
They were able to collect some water from the morning dew but it was barely enough to wet their lips with and the following day started hot and thirsty. They walked their horses for most of it, leaving the animals to carry only the weight of their baggage so as to conserve their strength. The day grew hotter as the sun rose higher and nowhere was there any shade or any water.
Grant fell behind. At first he lagged by only ten or twenty paces but later the distance grew until Shane and Fletcher were waiting for him to catch up. As time went on, he got slower and slower and they had to wait longer. Shane again suggested that they abandon him but Fletcher would hear none of it and, when they discovered that Grant had drunk all of his water, he redistributed all they had left again, further depleting their already meagre supply.
They saw buzzards circling in the distance and went to investigate. A man lay facedown in the dirt; the victim of a short and one-sided conflict. Fletcher scared the birds away and bent to examine him. ‘Shot,’ he pronounced. ‘At close range.’
Shane held up a cartridge that he found in the dirt. ‘.44 Russian,’ he said. ‘Buchanan did this.’
‘It could have been anyone.’ Grant scoffed.
‘His cartridge; his style.’ Shane said. ‘He shot him for his water.’
Fletcher had been studying the tracks. ‘He’s got a couple of hours on us.’
‘Then take these cuffs off me. We can be on him by nightfall.’
Fletcher said nothing, merely took the reins of his horse and set off towards the horizon. Shane swore irritably but followed him nonetheless and their journey resumed. In very little time, Grant was lagging behind again. In less than an hour, they had lost sight of him and had to wait.
‘We’ll never catch up with Buchanan at this rate.’ Shane warned him, but Fletcher had become adept at turning a deaf ear to what he said. They waited until Grant caught up and Fletcher asked if he was okay. Grant nodded. At the time, they both assumed that he was keeping his silence out of shame because he knew that he was slowing them down. Twenty minutes later they realised it was worse than that when he collapsed and failed to get back up again.
Fletcher hurried back to where his friend lay barely conscious against some rocks. Shane followed him, but at a more casual pace. He had been patiently waiting for this to happen all day and his only regret was that it had taken so long. By the time he joined them, Fletcher was crouched at Grant’s side and trying to force water down his throat. Grant retched and brought it all back up again.
Seeing him arrive, Fletcher held out his hand to Shane expectantly. ‘Give me your water!’
‘It’s all we’ve got left.’
‘Damnit, I don’t care! He needs it.’
‘Not for much longer he won’t.’
Fletcher swore at him and drew his revolver. ‘I’m not asking you, Ennis. Now give me your goddamn water.’
Reluctantly, Shane untied his waterskin from his saddle and threw it into Fletcher’s waiting hands. He watched as the old man used it to wet his friend’s lips, letting him drink it slowly so that he wouldn’t bring it up again.
‘I hope you like the taste of piss because that’s all we’ll be drinking from here on.’ Shane said.
‘We’re going back.’ Fletcher said.
Shane had expected this. ‘What about Ben?’ he asked solemnly.
‘Ben wouldn’t want any of his friends to die for him, not like this. No, this manhunt’s over. We’re taking Alan back.’
‘Ben was no friend of mine.’ Shane argued. ‘I’m sure he won’t care if I die out here. Take these cuffs off and let me go after Buchanan on my own. I’ll make better time without you anyway.’
‘I’m sure you would.’ Fletcher said harshly. ‘And when you find Buchanan you’ll join up with him again and the two of you will go on after Hunte. I’m no fool, Ennis.’
‘Sure you are. Hunte’s a dead man whether I kill him or not. Even if he makes it all the way to Washington, somebody there will put a bullet in his heart. You did your bit to help him, Fletcher. Be proud of it, but have the sense to know that it’s time you left it alone.’
‘I said no, and that’s an end of it!’ Fletcher snapped. He was getting angry.
Shane gave an insolent shrug. ‘Have it your way,’ he said, and he stood back and watched while Fletcher tried to lift Grant onto his horse. ‘You’re making hard work of that,’ he said after a while.
‘Shut up!’
Fletcher’s back was not what it had once been and he was forced to lower Grant back to the ground. While he did so, Shane surreptitiously wandered in the direction of Fletcher’s horse, where his guns were stashed in a saddlebag. He had not made it a few steps when the cocking of Fletcher’s gun warned him to go no further. ‘Get over here where I can see you.’ Fletcher warned. ‘You can make yourself useful.’
He gestured towards Grant’s unconscious figure. Shane groaned in protest but did as he was told. Stooping, he tried several times to lift Grant onto his back but each time he failed. ‘This would be a whole lot easier if you took these cuffs off,’ he said.
Fletcher considered it. The sun was beating down on them, sweating the water from their bodies and it was only a matter of time before they both ended up like Grant. Against his better judgement, he threw Shane the key to his handcuffs and let him set himself free. Shane bent to lift Grant again, finding the job much easier now but, with his hands free, he no longer had any need to do what Fletcher told him. Grant had a revolver slung from his waist and Shane drew it, turned and had Fletcher in his sights in one fluid movement.
He resisted the temptation to simply pull the trigger. ‘Lose your gun, Fletcher. I could have killed you already if I wanted to so don’t do anything silly. There’s no need to make this worse than it is.’
Fletcher cursed him, ashamed that he been caught out so easily. He reluctantly allowed his gun to fall to the ground and kicked it away at Shane’s prompting. Shane walked over to his horse and retrieved his Colts, then stripped their baggage of every gun and cartridge and added them to his own. When he was done he had an extra two revolvers, a Winchester rifle and Grant’s twelve bore shotgun. It was a good-sized arsenal, but Shane would have preferred a skin full of water instead.
He turned to Fletcher: ‘If you’re smart and you don’t waste time coming after me, you might make it to Amberville. That way,’ he said, pointing. ‘It’s probably the closest town from here.’
‘Don’t play games with me,’ Fletcher muttered. ‘If you’re going to shoot me just get it over with.’
Shane shook his head. ‘You haven’t been listening to me, Fletcher. I don’t want to kill you; I never did.’ He could not begin to explain how hard he had tried to keep Fletcher alive, or what it meant to him to have done so. Fletcher would not understand. Hell, Shane was not even sure that he understood it properly. Nothing was as simple as he liked it to be any more.
He walked over to where Grant lay in the dirt. With no more feeling than if he was putting an old dog out of its misery, Shane pressed the barrel of his gun to Grant’s forehead and pulled the trigger.
Fletcher swore at him. ‘You’ll pay for all this one day, Ennis. Mark my words: your sins’ll find you out.’
But Shane was not listening. He seized his horse by the reins and led her away into the wasteland. Somewhere up ahead, Castor Buchanan had water and Shane intended on finding him and making him share it.