Davis - A Lust for Lead

A novel by Robert DavisCopyright Robert Davis 2009The right of Robert Davis to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988A catalogue record of this book is available from the British LibraryFront cover artwork by Jason Lynton

After six days of stifling heat, the storm had finally broken. Still air had erupted into a savage fury; harsh winds that stripped the desert raw. The sky had become choked with grit, turning the midday sun into a murky twilight, stained brown, like the colour of dried blood.
At the edge of the storm, the town of Santa Morgana trembled on shallow foundations. It was little more than a shanty, grown up around a weak copper mine in the middle of nowhere. Thin clapboard walls bowed beneath the winds ferocious energy and tarpaulin roofs strained the tacks that held them down. Some had broken loose already and the tarps flapped in the maelstrom like crows with broken wings. Wood creaked and groaned in a tortured cacophony of stress. The scaffold above the main pit swayed drunkenly, taut cables screaming.
It was during this storm in the spring of 1881 that Death and the Devil faced each other at the edge of town. The two gunfighters stood with ten paces between them, their faces muffled with scarves, hats drawn low to shield their eyes from the driving gusts of sand, their hands poised above their six-shooters, tensed and ready.
The man known as Death was tall and gaunt, with a pale and leathery complexion. His eyes were cold and unfeeling as oblivion, pitiless and devoid of mercy. He stood like a man carved of stone, motionless but for his long white hair whipping in the fury of the gale.
The man they called the Devil had the broad-shoulders of a farm labourer and a handsome, square-jawed face. A look of madness glimmered in his eyes. As wild as the storm, he rolled his shoulders, tapped his feet and drummed his fingers against the stiff leather of his belt, enervated by the thrill of the duel.
A dust cloud blew between them and suddenly the Devil ceased his constant motion. He became as still as his opponent, muscles tensed like stretched wire. Neither man could see. All was darkness and spitting sand, the air hotter than the fires of Hell.
And then the cloud parted.
And each man drew his gun.

The sudden crack of gunfire became the words of a man, spoken harshly and accompanied by a sharp kick in the ribs.
Wake up, Ennis! Its time to go.
Shane Ennis surfaced from the dream with a start. He was grateful for the interruption until he remembered where he was. Groaning, he shifted from where he lay and fended off a second kick with his forearms.
It had been a cold night and he had slept on the bare earth, his overcoat wadded for a pillow. Old scars felt stiff and painful and his joints cracked noisily as he rose. The morning air was crisp and contrasted sharply to the hot, sand-choked world of his nightmare. His wrists ached where his tossing and turning had made the ropes that bound them chafe.
The man who had woken him was a bounty hunter, an old grey wolf of a man in faded denims and a brown leather waistcoat. Alijah Noonan was his name, and Shane had learned to curse it in the week that had passed since Noonan and his gang had captured him. Shane was a wanted man in thirteen states and faced the death penalty in just about all of them but Noonan was not taking him to the authorities. Somebody else had put a price on Shanes head that was worth a lot more than the ten-thousand dollars the federal government was willing to pay for him, and it was to this mysterious figure that Shane was being taken. To a place called Saddle Horn Rock, way out in the badlands near the Mexican border.
Go on, get moving you cuss! Noonan hauled Shane to his feet and pushed him over to where his horse was waiting. It had been saddled and Noonans men were ready to set out on the last leg of their journey. One of them spat at Shane as he passed. Theyre gonna hang you today, Ennis.
Maybe, one of the others remarked. If hes lucky.
Shane voiced no comment to their taunts. He had long since lost the will to fight them. He bowed his head and stumbled clumsily to his horse, mounted as he was told and turned to face the southern horizon with a grim sense of resignation.
Today was the last day of his life.

There had been a time, six years ago, when none of this would have happened. Shane had been a different man then, colder and more ruthless. It would have taken much more than a man like Noonan to bring him in.
At forty-one years old, Shane was a gaunt, hard figure of a man dressed in patched and tattered clothes. His hair was long and bleached white by the sun, his face sharp and angular and dominated by cold, pitiless eyes. If the saying was true and his eyes really were the windows to his soul, then Shanes soul was as barren as the desert. He did not look at his captors directly, even when they taunted him and called him a coward. His surroundings passed by unregarded. His mind was elsewhere.
They had travelled far beyond the civilised lands and all around them the desert stretched seemingly into infinity: a sea of rust-coloured dirt that was broken sporadically by islands of coarse dry grass and cacti. Two isolated mesas marked the horizon and Saddle Horn Rock was only a short distance from there.
Shanes thoughts were of his future. Not even Noonan knew who would be waiting for them at Saddle Horn Rock. He had spoken only with middlemen: lawyers who had despatched telegrams to another lawyer based in Santa Fe and who had divulged nothing of his employers identity. Shane could think of a dozen enemies who might have the resources to go to such trouble. He had killed hundreds of men during the twenty-odd years that he had sold his guns as a professional killer, any number of whom had wealthy friends or family left who might now seek revenge. And likely not a quick revenge at that. Shane expected to be tortured. He expected to die slowly and in great pain.
At least, that was how he hoped it would be.
Shane was not afraid of suffering; it was dying that he feared. He had seen beyond the veil of death and knew what waited for him there. And it scared him so badly that he would gladly endure any pain, any humiliation, if only to prolong his life another second.

It was almost midday when Saddle Horn Rock showed on the horizon. It was a weathered finger of stone that rose abruptly opposite a rounded slope known as Cantle Ridge.
Noonan sent two of his men on ahead to scout things out while the rest of them kept their distance. The desert shimmered in the ferocious heat. One of Noonans men removed his hat and wiped the sweat from his balding pate. You think theyll be there? he asked.
Theyll be there. Noonan said solemnly. Last chance to turn back, Hooper.
The man shook his head. Shane had heard them have this discussion several times already. You want to? he asked
No.
Ten-thousand dollars is a lot of money.
Twenty-thousand is a whole lot more. Noonan replied.
But it was risky. There were no guarantees that Noonans anonymous contacts would be willing to part with such a large sum of money and that was why he had gathered his gang together to make a show of force. They all knew this. They had all come ready for a fight.
The two scouts returned. They were young men, twin boys belonging to one of Noonans old army buddies. At seventeen, Chris and Cole Dalton were eager to make their mark on the world and to them this ride was an adventure. Coles eyes were wild with excitement as he described what they had seen: Theyre there all right. Three men. They got themselves a pair of rifles. Third mans packing a six-gun. Looks like hes the leader.