'Why in the Devil's name should I?' Webber asked.
Fenner cocked the pistol. 'Because you'll be dead if you don't,' he told him.
'Is this fair?' Webber thundered. 'What have I done? I run a gambling-house. I have killed no one
— save in fair battle.'
'You are a thief and a scoundrel,' said Josiah Broome, pushing forward, 'and we are closing you down.'
'Who says I am a thief? Let him stand forward,' Webber shouted.
Fenner waved Broome back, but the man pushed on.
'People who win from you are killed. Do you deny any responsibility?'
'Why is that my fault, Meneer? A man who wins a great deal of coin is seen by many other -
unluckier — gamblers.'
Fenner glanced around. The crowd had fallen back now and Webber's men ringed the group.
Brisley was sweating heavily and two of the others were shifting uneasily. Fen-ner's pistol levelled at Webber's chest.
'You will move now, Meneer. Or suffer the consequences.'
'You would shoot me down? Murder me, Meneer? What sort of law is this you are proposing?'
'He.. he's right, Alain,' whispered Broome. 'We didn't come here to kill anyone. But let this be a lesson to you, Webber! We'll not stand for any more violence.'
'I stand and quake in my shoes, Meneer Bacon-server. Now all of you put down your weapons, or my men will blow you into tiny pieces.' Brisley's gun clattered to the floor and the others followed… all save Alain Fenner. His eyes locked to Webber's and understanding flowed between them.
But Fenner was no killer. He uncocked the pistol and thrust it deep into the scabbard at his hip, but as he did so Webber drew his own pistol and shot Fenner twice in the chest. The young man scrabbled for his gun and fell to his knees, but a third shot struck his breastbone and spun him back to the floor.
'Emily…' he whispered. Blood bubbled from his lips and his body twitched.
'Get the fool out of here,' ordered Webber. 'There's a game in progress.'
Brisley and the others hauled Fenner out into the street and back past the Traveller's Rest.
Shannow was sitting on the porch; a great sadness weighed down on him as he stood and walked to the group.
'He just shot him down,' said Broome. 'Alain was putting away his gun, and Webber just shot him down.'
Shannow leaned over and touched his hand to Fenner's neck. 'He's dead. Put him down.'
'Not in the street,' Broome protested.
‘Put him down!' stormed Shannow. 'And wait here.' He took off his coat and left it by the body, then walked swiftly to Webber's establishment. He entered and stalked across the room where the gambler was drinking and joking with his men. Then he drew his pistol, cocked it and slid it against Webber's lips.
'Open your mouth!' said Shannow. Webber blinked twice and saw the light of fury in Shannow's eyes. He opened his mouth and the barrel slid between his teeth. 'Now stand!' Webber eased himself to his feet. Shannow walked him slowly back through the throng and out of the door into the street. He did not need to look back to know that everyone in the gambling-house had followed. Word spread to other establishments and the crowd grew. Webber backed away, the gun almost making him choke. His own pistol was still in its holster, but he kept his hands well away from it. Shannow halted by the body of Alain Fenner, and turned slightly to look at the crowd.
'This young man risked his life for many of you. And now he lies dead, and his wife is a widow, and his sons have been robbed of a father. And why? Because you have no courage. Because you allow the vermin to walk among you. This man died as a result of sin.' His eyes swept the crowd.
'And as the Book says, "The Wages of Sin is death"!'
Shannow pulled the trigger. Webber's brains mushroomed from his skull and the body fell back to the earth with dark powder-smoke streaming from the blackened mouth.
'Now you listen to me!' Shannow roared into the stunned silence dial followed. 'I know many of you brigands. If you are in Pilgrim's Valley come morning, I will hunt you down and kill you on sight. You may be sitting breaking your fast, or sleeping snug in a warm bed, or quiedy playing Carnal with friends. But I will fall upon you with the wrath of God. Those with ears to hear, let them understand. Tomorrow you die.'
A stocky man stepped from the crowd, wearing two guns thrust into his belt. 'You think you can tackle all of us?' he challenged.
Shannow's pistol boomed and the man flew from his feet, his skull smashed.
'There will be no questions,' declared the Jerusalem Man. 'Tomorrow I will hunt you down.'
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The long night had begun. Shannow sat in his room with his Hellborn pistols on the table beside him, his trusted cap and ball weapons in the scabbards at his side. He had cleaned the old guns and reloaded them; he had only sixteen shells for the Hellborn revolvers, and if the night turned sour he would need more than that. He had moved his chair away from the window and now sat in the darkness of his room. The pillows of his bed had been rolled tight and placed under the blankets to imitate a sleeping form, and now the Jerusalem Man had nothing to do but wait for the inevitable.
As the first hour crept by he heard the sound of horsemen leaving the town. He did not look from the window to check the numbers. At least two-thirds of the brigands would be leaving before dawn, but it was not the runners who worried Shannow.
He sat in the darkness, his fury gone, blaming himself for Fenner's death; he had known deep in his soul that the young man could not survive, and yet he had let him walk into the Valley of the Shadow.
Am I my brother's keeper? The answer should have been yes. He recalled the shocked looks on the faces of the mob as he had blown Webber to Hell, and he knew what they had seen: the crazed fanatic the world knew as the Jerusalem Man taking one more helpless victim. They would forget that Webber had mercilessly murdered poor Alain Fenner, but they would remember the tormented Webber, standing in the moonlight with a pistol barrel in his mouth.
And so would Shannow. It was not a good deed. He could convince himself of its necessity, but not of its virtue. There was a time when Jon Shannow would have fought Webber man to man, upright and fearless. But not now.
His powers and his speed were waning. He had seen that well enough when he watched Clem Steiner shoot the jug. Once, maybe, the Jerusalem Man could have duplicated such a feat. Not any more. Not even close.
A floorboard creaked in the corridor outside. Shannow hefted a pistol, then heard a door open and close and the sound of a man sitting down on a mattress. He relaxed, but left the pistol cocked.
Rivervale. That was where his life had changed. He had ridden through the wild lands and found himself in a predominantly peaceful community. There he had met Donna Taybard. Her husband, Tomas the carpenter, had been murdered, and she herself was under threat. Shannow had helped her and had grown to love her. Together they had journeyed with Con Griffin to a hoped-for new life in a world without brigands and killers. Griffin had called it Avalon.
Yet what had they found? Shannow had been wounded by the Carns, a strange race of cannibals, and rescued by the saintly Karitas, a survivor of the Fall of the world. Donna had believed Shannow dead and had married Griffin.
And something in Jon Shannow had given up the ghost and died. He remembered his father once saying: 'Better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.' But it was not true.
He had been more content before he met Donna. Perhaps not happy, but he knew who he was and what he was…