Six-Gun Law Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  TO THE RESCUE

  Lew stepped away from the window, froze his body to the back wall, next to the door. He could barely hear the sound of boots on the hardwood flooring. The light in the window shuddered and broke up as a body passed close to the pane. The dock plunged into darkness for a few seconds; then the light wavered again as Canby walked past the window to the door. Lew heard the latch rattle, as if Luke was testing to see if it was still locked.

  Then, silence.

  Canby was still at the door. Lew heard the sound of pressure on the wood.

  He figured Canby was pressing his ear to the door, listening for any alien sounds.

  Lew held his breath, his right hand gripping the butt of his pistol.

  His heart jumped when he heard Seneca scream. The sound pierced his eardrums and all traces of the rain faded into the background.

  Then Lew moved, his muscles bunching, his eyes narrowed to burning slits.

  And Seneca screamed again . . .

  Berkley titles by Jory Sherman

  THE VIGILANTE: SIX-GUN LAW

  THE VIGILANTE

  BLOOD RIVER

  TEXAS DUST

  SUNSET RIDER

  THE DARK LAND

  THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

  Published by the Penguin Group

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  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  THE VIGILANTE: SIX-GUN LAW

  A Berkley Book / published by arrangement with the author

  PRINTING HISTORY

  Berkley edition / November 2006

  Copyright © 2006 by Jory Sherman.

  All rights reserved.

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  eISBN : 978-0-425-21281-3

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  For Pat and Dusty Richards

  1

  HE WORE THE GUN ALL THE TIME NOW. IT HAD BECOME A PART of him and he carried it on his gunbelt as he had once carried a claw hammer when he was small, helping his father to nail boards together. The single-action Colt .45 lay under his pillow at night, was always close at hand. The loops in his gunbelt were filled with the gleaming bullets, like jewelry. He kept the pistol cleaned and oiled and he practiced with it almost every day. He had drawn it from its holster so many times that the leather inside was worn smooth, and he rubbed hog lard into the leather until the holster was as supple as a baby’s soft skin.

  There was a darkness in him after the killings, a stain that would not go away. No matter that he had saved the lives of two people, Edna and Twyman Butterfield, his friends and neighbors. No matter that the dead were two killers, Fritz Canby and Wiley Pope, who had murdered his parents. Revenge had not been his motive. It was only justice that he sought, a justice that had been denied by a crooked sheriff in Alpena dancing to the tune of Wiley’s father, Virgil Pope, and Fritz’s father, Luke Canby, two of the most powerful men in Alpena, Arkansas. There was blood on his gun and he knew that his own life would be changed, shaped by forces beyond his control.

  The threats he had gotten were all blunt. These were in the form of notes left at the store his parents had owned, tacked on his barn door during the night, nailed to his buggy.

  Lew Wetzel Zane, you’re a dead man for killing Wiley and Fritz.

  Each note bore much the same message.

  None of the notes were signed, but he had a pretty good idea who had written them. They were written in two different hands, with crude lettering. The handwriting was probably disguised. Canby and Pope. Or their wives. Nothing he could prove, and even if he could prove who wrote the notes, the law in Alpena, where both men lived, would do nothing. The sheriff there had not done anything about Fritz and Wiley, and an eyewitness had identified them as the murderers of Lew’s parents. That eyewitness was later killed, too.

  His neighbors, Edna and Twyman Butterfield, who now managed the store in Osage, had brought him the two most recent notes just yesterday, and these were even more ominous than the others. One had been left at the store; the other had been tacked on the Butterfields’ front door.

  Lew wasn’t afraid, he was just careful. He no longer rode into Osage on the road, but traveled through the woods, where he was more comfortable. He had changed his habits and routines in the past two weeks. He went to the barn at different times. Before he went anywhere, he scanned the woods around the house, the field, the road. He looked and he listened. He waited. When he did move, he did not dawdle, but went quickly to the outhouse or the barn, the creek or the pond, and he never followed a straight line.

  So far, so good, but he knew he had to make even more drastic changes in his life. And with a deep feeling of sadness, he knew he was going to have to leave Arkansas. He had to leave, he knew, or he would be forced to defend his life. He would be forced to kill again, just to survive.

  The hardest part was going to be when he had to say good-bye to Seneca Jones. He had developed a fondness for her t
hat threatened to lead to more passionate emotions. She was a beautiful young woman and they had grown close following the murder of his parents. The last time he had seen her, a week ago, there had been a brief flash in her eyes, when they were parting, that stirred something so deep inside him that he was startled, both by its suddenness and its intensity. It felt as if she had ignited a hidden cauldron in his loins that flowed like burning lava to his brain. Those blue eyes of hers had sparkled with a look that needed no words, a sultry look of longing, the smoking signal of a woman in season. She had told him, with that bold, quick look, that she wanted him, wanted him as a mate, wanted to take him to her bed at that very instant.

  It had been unsettling, that look, and he had responded with an uncommon awkwardness, shuffling off her porch like a gangly kid still wet behind the ears. And not a word spoken. Not even “Good-bye.” Just off into the night atop his horse for the long ride home from Possum Trot and feelings boiling inside him like a mysterious porridge, full of conflict and indecision.

  Lew had made his painful decision to leave the Osage Valley before anyone else got hurt or killed. Now he waited for Edna and Twyman to show up at his place on their way into town to open the store. They had been minding it since the death of his parents, and he was grateful. But now it was just another millstone around his neck. He walked to the front room and looked out the side window toward the lane that streamed off the main road and led to his home. He had heard something, or thought he had, and he wanted to make sure.

  He saw them, then, in their buggy, turning up his lane toward the little cemetery where his folks were buried. He walked to the dining room table and riffled through a sheaf of papers, then went to the back door to let the Butterfields in when they arrived. He did not have to wait long. He opened the door for them as their buggy came to a halt.

  “Good morning, Lew,” Edna said in a cheery tone of voice.

  “Howdy, Lew.” Twyman set the brake, swung down, then walked to the passenger side and helped Edna alight.

  “Good morning,” Lew said without any enthusiasm. He tried to smile, but such an action had to fight its way out of the darkness that was within him. Edna and Twyman didn’t notice, however, as they were both reaching for the cigar box that was on the floor of the buggy. Twyman retrieved it, and the two walked to the door and entered the log home’s kitchen.

  “We brought the week’s receipts, Lew,” Edna said. “I guess you wanted us to bring them, along with the money we took in last week.”

  “Let’s sit in the dining room,” Lew said.

  They all sat at the table. Twyman set the cigar box in front of him. Both he and Edna looked at the papers at the place where Lew sat.

  “I won’t be needing what you brought, Twy,” Lew said. “I’ve got some legal papers here I want you both to look at. If they meet with your approval, we’ll all sign them.”

  “What are they?” Edna asked, a note of suspicion in her voice.

  “I’m turning the store over to you and Twyman, Edna. I’m leaving Osage.”

  “Leaving Osage? Why?”

  “I think you know why. I don’t want any more run-ins with the Popes or the Canbys.”

  “This is terrible,” Twyman said. “This is your home. What about your place here?”

  “I saw a banker in Berryville the other day. I told him I wanted to sell my place. He bought it right then and there, said he could sell it easily. He paid me and said it was a good investment for him.”

  Both Edna and Twyman reeled back in their chairs, their mouths open in disbelief.

  “Read the papers. And please keep this to yourselves until after I’ve gone.”

  “When are you planning to leave?” Edna asked.

  “In a week or so. I should be ready by then.”

  He shoved duplicate sets of legal papers toward both Twyman and Edna. They started reading.

  “I’m taking my horse, leaving the other stock to you, as well,” Lew said.

  “You’re just giving us the store?” Twyman said. “You don’t want no money for it?”

  “I am. No strings attached. I think Ma and Pa would approve.”

  “But that store is worth good money,” Edna said.

  “Not to me,” Lew said. “Do you want it?”

  “Why, yes, but this is all so sudden. I can’t believe you’re just giving us the store your folks built up and . . .”

  “Please,” Lew said. “I’ll feel better about going away if you own it. And my stock here. You can have the wagon and the buggy, too. It’s all in those papers, giving you ownership.”

  “I know,” Twyman said. “I just can’t get over it. Are you real sure, Lew?”

  “Dead sure,” Lew said with a laconic twist to his lips. “Just sign the papers and I’ll sign them, too, and have them duly filed.”

  Edna’s eyes started to leak tears as she signed the papers. Twyman choked on something in his throat when he put down his scrawl of a signature. Lew signed them and stood up.

  “Thanks,” he said. “I wish you prosperity and good health.”

  “Lew, oh, Lew,” Edna wailed, “I can’t believe you’d leave Osage. You grew up here. You’ve got friends. . . .”

  “I know. It’s best this way, Edna. Now, you two go on. I’ll take care of these.”

  Lew watched the two walk numbly from the room and heard the back door slam. Good-byes were tough, and this was only the first of even tougher ones to come before he left the town. He felt a great weight lift from his shoulders. He had considered selling the store, but the Butterfields had been loyal friends to him and his folks and he knew they couldn’t afford even to put up any earnest money for the store in Osage. He certainly didn’t want to profit off them, considering all they had done over the years and after the murder of his parents.

  He heard the buggy creak as it turned and rolled down the road. He drew in a deep breath and clenched his teeth. There was still so much to do.

  And the hardest part would be telling Seneca that he was leaving.

  2

  LATE IN THE AFTERNOON, LEW SADDLED RUBEN AND RODE into Osage. As he crossed the bridge over the creek, Ruben’s hooves rang hollow on the wood. He would miss that sound, he knew. There were so many things he had taken for granted in that long valley. But now he paid close attention to everything, knowing that all that he loved here would vanish, be consigned to memory, and then even the memory would fade into wisps of fog that would blow away like cobwebs in a high wind.

  He intended to ride straight through town to Possum Trot, on his way to see Seneca, but he caught sight of Don Swanson, the sheriff, who hailed him and waved him over to his small office across the street from the general store. Lew turned his horse and waved back, relieved that he could delay saying farewell to Seneca for a while longer.

  “Don,” Lew said as he rode up.

  “Ridin’ up to see Ed Jones?” Swanson said. His black trotter, Nox, was tied to the hitch rail in front of his office. Swanson looked at the pistol on Lew’s hip, squinted his eyes. He wore no side arm, seldom did.

  “Well, to see Seneca, yes.”

  “Got a minute?”

  “Sure.”

  “Come on in. Something I want to talk to you about before you go up there.”

  Lew wrapped his reins around the rail, patting Ruben on the rump as he followed Swanson up the steps and into his office.

  “Have a chair, Lew.”

  Swanson walked around his desk and sat down. The desk was clean. There was little crime in Osage, and what there was didn’t involve a lot of paperwork.

  “I see you’re packing a new Colt, Lew.”

  “Shorter barrel, bigger punch. Lighter than the old .44/40, Don.”

  “You huntin’ snakes?”

  “There’s a passel of ’em this time of year.”

  “Makes me no nevermind. I don’t much like snakes myself.”

  “You call me in here to talk about killing snakes, Don?”

  “Something I want to sho
w you. First, though, I got a question.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “You still friends with Danny Slater, Bobby Gleason, and Kevin Smith? I know you went to school with those boys and they were real close to your brother, David.”

  “I haven’t seen much of them since my folks’ funeral, tell the truth. Why?”

  “I got ’em in the back. Want you to talk to them, see what they have to say.”

  “They’re in jail?”

  “Well, this ain’t really no jail, Lew. Y’know. More like a storeroom I got back there.”

  “It’s a jail.”

  “All right.”

  “What’d they do?”

  Swanson pulled open a drawer in his desk. The wood made a screeching sound. He reached in and pulled out three bills. He laid these on the desk, spread them out evenly, one next to the other. He looked at the bills for a moment, then at Lew.

  “Yesterday, the church had a horseshoe-pitching contest and a feed. Lots of people came down out of the hills. Way for the church to raise some money. I spotted Virgil Pope and Luke Canby there. Pretty good horseshoe players.”

  Lew stiffened at the mention of those two names.

  “Well, real late in the day, when the church folks were cleanin’ up, there was old Virg and Luke over talkin’ to them three boys. Real serious like. And them boys was nod-din’ their heads and listenin’ real serious. Then I seen Virg and Luke dig into their pockets and hand something to the boys. They all shook hands. Luke and Virg rode on back to Alpena. I got up real early this mornin’, come down here with Nox and kept out of sight, but right near that window yonder. Had me a real strong hunch, Lew. Real strong.”

  “Good story, Don, but what’s the damned point?”

  “Now, now, don’t you get your dander up, Lew. I’m get-tin’ to it.”

  Lew slumped back in his chair, waited for the rest of the story.

  “This mornin’, I seen the three young’uns ride through. I caught up to ’em on the bridge and asked ’em where they was goin’. They said they was goin’ fishin’, but I told them I didn’t see no poles ner bait, nary a can of crawlers, nothin’ like that. But each of them boys had a rifle with them and I asked if they was goin’ to shoot fish. They said they might hunt some squirrels and could cut some cane poles over to the Blue Hole. More I talked to them, more their stories drifted away from fishin’ at the Blue Hole. I made them turn out their pockets. Each of ’em had one of these bills. Take a look at them, Lew. Look real close.”