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Blake Durant wasn’t looking for trouble, but as usual, trouble found him anyway. It came in the shape of a crusty old miner called Pete Doubell, who was outnumbered and under attack by a bunch of gunmen when Blake ran across him. Ever the loner, Blake wanted no part of it, but somehow he got drawn into a complicated web of lies, death and double-dealing. Along the way he locked horns with gunfighter Vance Carter, and vengeance-hungry Reke Bodie and his gun-hung crew. But when he looked into the eyes of Doubell’s niece Christine, all the danger seemed a price worth paying …
THE LONER 4: BRAND OF THE FORGOTTEN
By Sheldon B. Cole
First published by Cleveland Publishing Co. Pty Ltd, New South Wales, Australia
© 2019 by Piccadilly Publishing
First Digital Edition: April 2020
Names, characters and incidents in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information or storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law.
This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book
Series Editor: Ben Bridges
Text © Piccadilly Publishing
One – Everywhere, Thunder
It was the seventh day of the wind. Blake Durant slumped into the hull of the saddle and squinted his eyes into the afternoon sun glare. He was bone-weary with all the miles behind him and more saddle-cramped than he had been since he quit his ranch a year ago.
A year. He sighed, the skin at the outside corners of his green eyes crinkling as though something amused him. Sitting on his black stallion, Sundown, he appeared to be a man withdrawn from the desolation about him. His skin was rough and brown from wind and sun. He was tall and wide, deep-chested, a man hardened by the seasons. There was no sign of softness in his rugged face; there was a hint of toughness, ingrained and deep, in the gaze he gave the country about him. He sat there, watching, listening, hearing things above the howl of the wind.
He was always careful. Long trails, strange pastures, confrontation with the unknown and the unexpected had made him that way. He neither trusted nor distrusted. He was reserved about almost everything. His opinions were his own, tainted by no other man’s pressures.
The afternoon air, heavy with the day’s heat, brought a curious mingling of wasteland smells and the stench of decay from a carcass recently torn apart by buzzards.
Suddenly the brush ahead parted and a man’s heavy footsteps sounded. Blake Durant dropped a restraining hand on Sundown’s shoulder and the horse stood there, stiff-legged. Durant drew his gun as he heard a horse shifting beyond the slight slope of ground before him. A man cursed. Blake Durant came out of the saddle noiselessly, then he tethered Sundown to a low branch and pulled his rifle from the saddle boot. He slowly made his way up the slope.
He was careful to pick his trail, keeping away from the loose gravel, easing his weight onto his feet noiselessly. A gray-haired head showed at the top of the slope. A rifle glinted. The man’s face was lined with age and worry.
“Stay put!”
The man’s hooded gaze measured Durant as the rifle rose, the knuckles of the man’s gnarled hands whitening under the pressure of his grip. He worked to his elbows. Durant stopped and lowered the angle of his rifle until it pointed at the ground. The old man’s gaze swung past him, searching the creek bank, then came back.
“I’d just as soon gut-shoot you as anythin’ else, mister. So do exactly what I say.”
“I’ll string along with that,” Durant said coolly.
“Best you do. Come up here now, slow. When you get here, hand me that rifle, butt first. Then your handgun, same way.”
Blake hesitated a moment, drawing in a deep breath. The man rose to his knees, his body tensed, neck muscles sticking out like frayed string on skin with a hundred ruts in it. His toothless mouth gaped as the old man drew in a deep breath. Blake Durant went towards him and handed across his rifle and then his handgun. The old man nodded as he put the rifle in his saddle scabbard and the handgun into his belt. He moved his rifle from Blake’s middle to indicate the little clearing beyond him.
“Down there—and move slow, mister.”
“What’s it all about?” Blake asked, keeping his voice low, suspecting that whatever ailed this old-timer could push him toward violence in a blink.
“You know, damn you. No tricks now.”
Blake fingered sweat off his brow and walked to the top of the slope, then down into the shade. Suddenly the thunder of hoof beats sounded on the rimline a hundred yards away, on higher ground. The old-timer let out a grunt and stepped to Durant, driving his rifle up under his chin as his eyes went cold with threat.
“One damn noise, a signal of any kind, and I’ll blow your teeth through the top of your head, mister.”
Blake held his gaze. “You’ve got a few things wrong,” he muttered. “I don’t know you and you don’t know me. If you’re in any kind of trouble, it could be that we can talk it out, then maybe ...”
“Shut down, damn you!” The rifle butt slammed against Blake’s chin and his teeth clacked together. He let out a curse. The old-timer pushed him towards a tree and roughly prodded him against it. He then stepped back, putting the rifle muzzle against Blake’s neck. From where he stood, Blake could see a group of riders reining up on the rimline. There were ten of them, dust-covered, grim-featured, all with guns drawn. One of them worked his horse away from the others and signaled for the men to spread out. He was a big man with a checked shirt and a black bandanna about his neck. His features were grooved with weariness, bitterness. He sat astride a high-backed range pony which was already heavily sweat-flecked.
“Wouldn’t hurt to tell me why they’re after you, old man,” Durant said.
The rifle end was pushed harder against his neck, forcing his mouth into the bark of the tree. He swallowed hard. The old-timer’s horse shifted suddenly as the wind came down the slope. Its head lifted and it turned suddenly, giving out a loud nicker. The old-timer jumped back, swearing savagely. Blake Durant saw the lead rider coming down the rutted slope slowly. He stopped at the sight of the horse and his rifle swung up to his chest. His gaze hardened and Blake noticed the sudden widening of his eyes.
Then he pointed, calling, “Down there. We got him. Spread out.”
His companions immediately broke company. Dust rose from the slope as they came thundering down in a strung-out line. Rifles barked and bullets ripped into the small clearing. The old-timer’s horse reared and tried to break its tie-rein. The old man swung on Durant, smashing his rifle stock down hard on his shoulders. Blake twisted around and the old-timer growled:
“Get down now and stay put. By hell, don’t buck me, mister.”
Blake eyed him coolly. “The odds are stacked against you, old-timer. Maybe, if I had my gun ...”
“You heard me, damn you! Get down!”
The old-timer waited until Blake hit the ground. He then hurried to the edge of the clearing and dropped flat, pushing his rifle out. Gunfire blasted through the clearing over the horse’s back, scattering the brush, stripping bark from the trees. Blake Durant worked himself closer to the horse as the old-timer began to return the fire. The riders came on with a determination that the old man’s gunfire could not break. Because they were now closer and off the high ground, the shots from the attacking riders began to gouge the ground around Durant and the old man.
Durant snapped, “Damn you, mister, I’m not going to get it cold.”
The old man’s head swung around and his rifle leveled on Durant. “Don’t move or you’ll get it from me. I got your measure, mister, and I’m tellin’ you that none of you scum are gonna take from me what I got.”
“I don’t want anything you’ve got,” Blake returned fiercely. “Another minute and they’ll be swarming all over us. You’ve got no chance without my help.”
The old-timer gave an angry grunt and started to blast away again. Blake saw one of the riders pitch out of the saddle, grabbing at his shoulder. The others slowed at the sight of this, three of them coming to a final halt only fifty yards short of the clearing. Blake saw now that the old-timer had picked his site shrewdly, the hollow giving him ample protection while opening up the slope perfectly. He also saw a glint of satisfaction in the faded eyes as the rifle bucked and the old man’s bullet ripped into an arm of one of the attackers.
Blake knew it was only a matter of time. He had to get to his handgun or rifle. The handgun was out of the question. He wormed back on his stomach as the old-timer kept up a constant barrage of shots at the riders. Six riders had cut to the bottom of the slope and were circling to make another charge. When the assault was finished he knew he’d be dead alongside the old-timer. He rose onto his elbows and began to work his way back faster. He was within ten feet of the horse and his rifle, when he sighted a lone rider on the rimline, black clothes in sharp contrast to the backdrop of yellow sun-glare. The man in black drew his mount to a halt, surveyed the scene, and then, gun barking, came thundering down behind the line of riders. Two turned to confront him and his shots blasted them from their saddles. The others backed off, two staggering under the impact of lead.
Blake Durant saw his chance and took it. He rose to his feet and ducked under the old-timer’s horse. He had the rifle half out of the saddle boot when the lone rider came over the rim and sent his horse skidding down the rutted slope. The old-timer rose to his knees and sent a bullet over Blake’s shoulder. Before the echo of the shot died, he shouted:
“Hold it, you!”
Blake let the rifle slip back in the oiled boot. The horse reared away from him, almost breaking the tie-rein. Turning, Blake saw the new man come out of the saddle and jump lightly to the ground. The old-timer rushed across and jabbed at Durant with the rifle.
“You ain’t goin’ nowhere, mister!” he grated. “Sit now. Move again and so help me I’ll blast you down.”
The new man had started firing again. The riders, drawn back out of range, were close bunched, the big man at their head clearly worried.
“They’ll come again, Doubell,” said the newcomer between shots.
The old-timer, hurrying back to him, stopped dead, his rifle leveled. “Who the hell are you?” he barked.
“No matter about that now, Doubell. If you want to get out of this, get down here with me and let’s fight these jaspers off.”
Doubell squinted at the newcomer, uncertainty filling his heavily lined, sweating face. Then another barrage of shots ripped into the clearing and Durant went to the ground and stayed put. There was no chance of him making a break for it up the back slope, not with these two ready to shoot him down and with so many other bullets spraying the slope. He lay still and watched the riders separate again. Two lay dead and another two were wounded. When the six came thundering down, the man in black grinned.
“Like buzzards on a fence,” he said just before his gun belched flame. Doubell, still looking somewhat uncertain, dropped to the ground beside him and opened fire on his own account. The riders came only a short distance before the accurate shooting of the two defenders forced them back again. A chuckle from the man in black brought Doubell elbowing up to study him.
“Still want to know why you bought in, mister,” the old man said. “Who the hell are you anyway?”
“Name’s Carter. That’ll do for the moment.” The tall man rose and walked slowly off the top of the slope, his sharp eyes scanning. In the hollow, he planted his feet wide and dusted down his black shirt. His eyes were suddenly filled with amusement when he saw Blake Durant get to his feet.
Doubell plodded down to them and eyed Blake sourly. “They pulled right back, but they ain’t about to leave me be. We got time to work out a few things, though, that’s if you’re willing, Carter.”
Carter nodded. “I’m willing. Who’s he?”
Doubell scowled. “Came sneakin’ up behind me. Woulda likely shot me in the back if I hadn’t heard him. Reckon he’s one of them.”
Carter’s eyebrows arched. “That so, mister?”
Blake shook his head as anger worked through him. “Nothing like it. This old jasper jumped me, took my guns and wouldn’t listen to a damn thing I said. I’ve just come up through the Wirrimer country. Been trail dogging for the past three weeks. Merriment Falls, Castor Creek, Toe Junction, you name them. I’ve passed through them.”
“Damned likely,” Doubell scoffed.
Durant could feel the burn of the sun on his neck. There was no sound from the other slope or from the higher ground where the riders had fallen back.
“My horse is tethered back aways,” Durant said finally. “Check the dust on his coat. I stopped for water, heard noises here and came up to check them out.”
“On your belly, mister?” Doubell grated. “You always do your lookin’ like a damn Apache?”
“I don’t know the country or who it belongs to, whether it’s friendly or not.”
Doubell grunted a curse and Carter shifted his feet. “What about them?” he asked, jerking his gun barrel over his shoulder.
Durant said, “I don’t know anything about them—got no idea why they want Doubell’s hide. If they find me here they’ll probably skin mine, too, so why the hell don’t we all get sensible and blast our way out of this? It’s getting dark.”
Carter turned to Doubell and said, “Watch him.” He climbed the slope and disappeared beyond. Moments later he came back leading a kicking, angry-eyed Sundown. Doubell went to the big horse and ran his hand over his rump. He was inspecting the dust on his palm when Sundown shouldered him away. Doubell almost lost his balance but managed to swing his rifle up.
“Why, you misguided contrary critter!” he barked, but Carter stepped up to him and pulled the rifle away.
“No sense in that,” Carter said. He turned to Durant. “Name, mister?”
“Blake Durant.”
“You’re not from these parts?”
“That’s right.”
“Why are you here?”
Blake leaned against the tree. “Just drifting, Carter, and trying to mind my own business.”
Doubell gave a snort. “I’m tellin’ you, Carter, he tried to sneak up behind me. For my money, he’s one of them. Give him a spit of a chance and he’ll do us both in.”
“He won’t be doing me in, old man,” Carter said. He paused. “No sense in not using him now that we got him.”
Carter’s face creased as he smiled. Then he turned and looked over the clearing. After a moment he said, “Like Durant mentioned, it’s getting dark. Those spoilers will likely wait before coming at us again. We wouldn’t have much of a chance in the pitch dark, would we, Doubell?”
Doubell said nothing but his eyes pinched down and it was plain to Blake Durant that the old man had not fully accepted Carter yet. The way Durant saw it, Doubell was as much a loner as himself.
“There’s only one smart thing to do and that’s make a break for it,” Carter said.
Doubell stared hard at him. “Across that open stretch, Carter? You loco?”
“You can ride the bottom of the slope, me next, and our friend Durant can ride top. That way, we’ve got all the cover we want. Two of us, anyway.”
Carter looked at Durant again. The loner returned his gaze levelly, fighting down the taste of bitterness that the gun hand’s words lifted inside him.
Doubell said, “Seems you’re putting a powerful lot of store by Durant here, Carter. Why don’t we just let him make his own way once w
e’re out of this hollow?”
“I never put weight on a weak reed, mister,” Carter said, then he motioned for Blake to get onto Sundown. He swung onto his own horse as Doubell, grumbling, shuffled to his mare. When all three were in the saddle, Carter shifted his horse close to Blake and said, “You’d make a run for it, Durant, only if you were dead loco. I don’t think you’re that. So ride top and keep up with us. Don’t get in front or drift behind. If we get through, you’re on your own.”
Resentment dug its nails into Blake Durant. He knew exactly what his chances were if the others spotted them quickly. Outlined against the sky without a gun he saw he’d be an easy target. But he could see no way of besting this pair. He said: “Don’t take your eyes off me, Carter.”
Carter’s gaze took in Durant from his hat crown to his boot heels. “I won’t, mister. Let’s ride. Doubell, see can you keep up. I wouldn’t want to lose you now.”
Doubell’s head jerked around. His eyes were hot. “You won’t lose me, Carter.”
They worked into position, Carter turned his gun on Durant and said, “Okay, drifter, move out.”
Durant kneed Sundown into a walk. They came out of the hollow three abreast, then Carter said, “Now! Hit it!”
Blake sent Sundown running. The big black responded with all the strength in his massive frame. Even so, Carter, whipping his horse viciously, kept up with him. Doubell, choking on their dust, managed to swing in close to Carter. Then, the three horses bounded up the slope for a few precious seconds before the first shots sent slugs their way. Durant heard the deadly whisper of bullets past his face. He flattened himself against the big black’s neck and began to draw ahead of Carter, who had turned in the saddle to shoot into the hump of the hill where eight of the men, two on foot, could be seen in the last of the day’s light.
It took hardly a minute to cross the open stretch, then a sprinkling of boulders gave them all the protection they needed.
Sundown exploded through tight brush and galloped across a timbered slope. Carter was following on behind, shouting for Durant to slow down. Durant put pressure on the reins. When Carter drew level, his eyes were fired with viciousness.
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