Read Online A Lust For Lead by Robert Davis - Free Book Online

Out of all the bounty hunters that had pursued him during the last six years, Sullivan had been the most determined. Had it not been for him, Shane might have vanished into obscurity years ago but Sullivan had always been there wherever he had fled, following him like a shadow and never giving him chance to rest. Twice, Sullivan had almost succeeded in catching him, and on one of those occasions he had put a bullet in Shane’s leg that still caused him to limp sometimes when the weather was humid.
Matt Nesbitt was a grim and solemn-looking man in his late-thirties with a square-jaw and fierce, unforgiving eyes. He was every bit as imposing as his reputation made him out to be. In 1878, Nesbitt had brought order to the town of Averil by killing every man who broke the law. Three years later, he had done the same at Valour, and then again two years after that at the notorious cattle town of Packard’s Well. There were some who said that he was a man in love with violence and that the only law he enforced was a law of his own choosing. He was famously precise in all things, from the symmetrical cut of his moustache to the polished buckle on his belt. He reached into his pocket for a watch that had been a gift to him from the grateful people at Valour, checked the time, then snapped the watch shut. He straightened his waistcoat, adjusted the cuffs of his shirtsleeves and strode out into the crossroads to take his place.
Realising that it was time, Sullivan let his last handful of dirt fall to the roadside and brushed his hands off on his pants before following his opponent.
They took up position on either side of the crossroads: Nesbitt to the north and Sullivan to the south. An expectant hush settled over the town and even Kutcher fell silent as they all waited for Nathaniel to give the signal for the tournament to begin.
Shane held his breath.
‘Gentlemen.’ Nathaniel rose to his feet and laid his hands on the wooden porch rail. ‘The tournament will begin when you are ready to fire.’
His voice travelled clearly over the crossroads.
The two contestants stared at each other but neither of them moved.
And then Matt Nesbitt suddenly wrenched his gun from its holster. He shot from the hip, the flat of his palm striking three times against the hammer in rapid succession, fanning off a blaze of shots. They hit Sullivan and tore straight through him as if his body was made of wax, the first striking him in the belly, the second in his chest and the third ripping through his shoulder and picking him up, spinning him around and flinging him to the ground.
As he landed, his head rolled over and his dull, lifeless eyes – fixed wide in a look of frozen astonishment – flung a last accusing stare towards Shane.
The tournament had claimed its first victim.
    Invigilators came in from the sides of the street and dragged the carcass away while Nathaniel offered his congratulations to the winner.
‘Next match in one hour!’ he called, and the contestants dispersed until then.
Buchanan was laughing, slapping his knee as he rocked backwards on the bench. ‘And that man actually thought he could beat you?’ he said. ‘The Shane I used to know would have killed him years ago.’
Shane very nearly had. It was in 1879 that he had shot David’s brother. Chris Sullivan had been the sheriff of a Wyoming cattle town known as Ladd’s Corner. He was a good and honest man, which had been his downfall. A local beef baron had taken offence to him locking up his boys when they got rowdy and so had taken steps to remove him. Chris had stood firm, backed up by his deputy and by his younger brother. David was a drifter in those days and had come to town looking to bum a few dollars off his brother to cover a gambling debt. Together, the three of them had fought off every attempt to put pressure on them and finally Shane had been called in to put an end to it all.
News travelled quickly in Ladd’s Corner, as it was prone to do in any small town,