Despite the dragging weariness in his legs, Blake Durant strode on. Thirst raked his throat. He chewed on jerky but found he could hardly swallow. The sun rose in the sky and burned down relentlessly. He reached the end of the valley and slumped against a cottonwood. There was a slight breeze, but it was hot and dry and gave no relief. Sun glare came from the barren stretch of country before him. He took off his hat and mopped his sweating brow.
Then something moved beyond a line of dead brush only a hundred yards ahead. For a moment Blake Durant thought his eyes were playing tricks on him. He crouched, gun in hand, and waited. The brush rustled and then a horse came through. Durant saw the sweat-flecked black coat of Sundown and breathed a deep sigh of relief. He rose to his full height and waved his battered range hat. Sundown lifted his proud head, whinnied, pranced a few steps excitedly and came running. Blake waited and when the stallion nudged him with a dry, hot nose, Blake hugged the big head against his range coat. A frayed rope that hung from the black neck told its own story. There were also a few burn marks.
Blake rubbed the horse’s shoulders and neck for some time before he swung up. Once in the saddle, he felt weariness falling from his shoulders, arms and legs. Even the wind seemed cooler.
“Okay, boy, let’s move,” he said, and Sundown went forward with a lunge before settling down into an even gait. For another hour Durant followed the clear tracks up the valley. Finally he came to a spot that showed only three sets of tracks. Working out the time it would take Sundown to find his way back to him and to reach this point again, he decided that Doubell, his niece and Carter were no more than three or four hours ahead.
“They can go to hell,” Durant said.
Somewhere ahead was a town. He decided to forget Doubell and Carter for the time being. Somehow he knew he’d meet them again.
The town, built on a slope, was a hodge-podge of houses, stores and business premises. At the highest point was the saloon, its bold sign proclaiming it to be the best drinking house west of the Mississippi. Beside it stood a law office with a badge painted on its one window. On the other side was a barn with a long lean-to under which tethered horses stood. Durant made his way up a winding alley, then past three close-bunched stores, a run of old shacks, and a large building bearing a sign that said “Cattlemen’s Arms.” He hitched his horse to the rail outside the saloon and came out of the saddle. His mouth was so dry he could hardly spit, but he delayed fixing his own thirst until he saw Sundown drinking from the trough alongside the tie-rail, then he removed his hat long enough to wipe sweat and dust from his brow and face before climbing the warped steps to the saloon porch. He stopped there to take a better look at this settlement which seemed to have jumped up out of the ground.
Few people moved through the noon heat, and these, to Durant’s mind, were ordinary folk with the cut of settlers about them, people who chose their own pace, unhurried, interested only in their own business. It was a town, he decided, that might as well not have been.
Turning, Durant walked towards the batwings. He had just lifted a hand to push a door open when a man came lurching out. The man struck him a glancing blow across the shoulder and went past without a word. Then Durant recognized Pete Doubell. He was in full flight, heading for the top of the alleyway Durant had just used.
A cry jumped to Durant’s lips but before he could get it out, the batwings burst open again, one side slamming into his right arm. Carter came crashing through, his face ugly with viciousness. He flicked a wild glance at Durant and tried to sweep him aside, but Durant grasped at the arm Carter flung at him. His fingers clamped down hard on Carter’s left wrist. Carter gave an angry grunt and threw his right fist at Durant’s face. But Durant twisted clear of the blow and hurled Carter against the wall. Carter’s face smashed into the timber. He whirled away from the wall and sent his hand streaking for his gun, but Blake moved close and rammed Carter’s gun hand against his side.
He said, “Want that arm broken, Carter?”
For a moment Carter’s stare raked Blake Durant’s face. Then his lips peeled back in a snarl of rage and he sent his left hand against Durant’s chest, breaking the grip. Driving forward with all the power in his tall frame, he swung another punch at Durant’s head. Durant ducked under the blow, sidestepped, and when Carter floundered past, he stuck out a boot and Carter stumbled over it. The tall man in black pitched headlong, somersaulted down the three steps and finished up on his back in the dust.
Durant looked past him to the top of the alleyway. Pete Doubell had vanished. Durant moved to the dazed Carter and pulled his gun from its holster. He stepped back as Carter jumped up, eyes bright with meanness and fight.
Durant thumbed back the hammer of Carter’s Colt and the gun handler froze.
A line of heads now showed over the batwings and a big man came pounding down the boards. Durant saw the tin star on his checked shirt as the man barked:
“Enough of that!”
The lawman stepped down from the boards and plucked Carter’s gun from Durant’s hand. Carter’s fists were clenched and his chest was heaving.
“By hell, Durant …”
“I’ll do the talkin’,” said the lawman. He moved Carter back with a palm against his chest, then he tossed the gun to Carter and said gruffly, “Holster it, and keep it there.”
Carter caught the gun, hefted it thoughtfully for a moment and then dropped it into the holster.
The lawmen looked both men over carefully before he said, “Now that we’re all cooled down, let’s have your names. You first, big man.”
“Blake Durant.”
“And you, mister?”
Carter scowled and wiped his blood-smeared mouth. “Carter,” he mumbled.
“Vance Carter?” the lawman asked, frowning.
A hard gleam rose into Carter’s black eyes. “What if it is, lawman?”
“Is it?”
“Yes.”
“Then I’m deeply interested in you, Carter. From what I’ve heard, you and that gun of yours made quite a name for yourselves along the Platte. But this ain’t the Platte.”
“I don’t care where the hell it is, mister,” Carter said sullenly. “This is just another town to me and you’re just another lawman nosin’ into my affairs. If you’ve said your piece and learned what you want to know, then breeze off.”
The big lawman shook his head. “You got it wrong, Carter. You move when I say so, I move when I damn well like.” He cast an uncertain glance Durant’s way before he went on:
“What was the ruckus all about? I don’t care who tells me, but I’m gonna get to the bottom of it. First let’s have somethin’ on the old jasper who went out of the saloon like a fire was catchin’ at the seat of his pants too.”
Carter smiled thinly. “You want his whole history, lawman?”
“Just what matters to the peace of this town, that’s all, Carter. Shut down now. I think I’ll give Durant a chance to say his piece. Strikes me that if he’s locked horns with you, he knows what’s goin’ on.”
Carter laughed disdainfully. “Durant don’t know what anythin’s about, mister. We bumped into each other and that’s the full story. Two men bustlin’ about, no more. Now get!”
Again the lawman shook his head. Four men had come from the saloon and stood on the boards above them. Blake noticed a kind of satisfaction digging into the big lawman’s beefy face. Carter noticed it, too, and his gaze flicked to the men, defiance tightening his features.
“That’s about it, Sheriff,” Blake said calmly. “Carter came tearing out of the saloon and near knocked me down. I just wanted him to know I don’t take to that kind of thing happening. Now that he knows, there should be no more to it.”
Carter studied Durant coolly for a long moment before he nodded. The lawman looked from one to the other before he dragged a hand across his face and sighed.
“Okay, guess that’s it. Like you say, Carter. You can go. But take some advice, mister. I run a clean town and I’ve got
full backin’ from the folks who live here. It gets so quiet here sometimes we can hear the bugs scratchin’ themselves. We like it that way and we don’t mean to change it.”
The lawman walked slowly past Durant. Carter stood rubbing his jaw for some time before he muttered, “Next time watch where you step, drifter.”
He was turning away when the lawman suddenly stopped. “What about the old man?” he asked.
“Tried to steal my drink,” Carter said and kept going, striding towards the laneway. He was almost there when six riders came thundering through. Carter was forced to jump aside and flatten himself against the wall of an old house. His hand dropped again to his gun butt. The lead rider glanced at Carter, then reined his mount to a skidding halt and wheeled it around.
“You, damn you!”
Carter’s gun cleared leather. “Yeah, it’s me, Bodie. What you want to do about it?”
Bodie’s hand had clamped around his gun, but he didn’t draw. His men stopped, milling their horses about and grouped, each regarding Carter through hate-slitted eyes. Outside the saloon the lawman and Blake Durant watched keenly, the lawman finally giving out a grunt before he pounded over the boards to the group. Squaring his shoulders, he studied the riders in turn before letting his gaze settle on Bodie.
“What is it, Reke?” the lawman asked.
Reke Bodie growled a curse before he pointed a finger at Carter. “Him, Ray. Damn thief linked up with an old buzzard name of Doubell and robbed us of a fortune in gold from the river. We been trailin’ him and Doubell and another interferin’ jasper for two days and nights. We’ve been shot at, had two of our boys killed, and sent another two back to camp to get patched up.”
Ray Coulston walked to Carter, whose gun was still aimed at Bodie. Coulston knew by the look on Carter’s face that the gunfighter, despite the odds against him, was ready, even anxious to fight. Men would be killed.
He said, “Put up the gun, Carter, and we’ll talk this out. Could be there’s a mistake of some kind.”
“Mistake?” Reke Bodie exclaimed. “No damn chance. I’m tellin’ you, Ray, this killin’ scum and his ...”
“Mind your talk,” Carter said fiercely. “Of course, if you want to go all the way, Bodie, just you and me, well, that’s different ...”
Blake Durant remained on the saloon steps until Coulston’s backers started to shift their mounts to give the lawman their backing, then he joined them. He was not sure whether he should buy into this business or not, but he felt he owed it to himself to get the matter settled so he wouldn’t have Bodie’s outfit breathing fire down his neck during his stay in town.
He stopped just short of Coulston. The lawman shot a hard look of suspicion at him. Coulston sucked in his breath and spat, his gaze moving quickly to Bodie, then to Carter and back to Durant.
Finally he growled, “Okay now, all of you cool down. Damn it to hell, I’ve had enough trouble for a day this hot. There’ll be no more, you hear? Reke, see that your men keep their guns where they are ... you and Carter, you put that damn iron away. If you don’t, mister, by hell blood’s gonna flow here and now and a good bit of it is gonna be yours.”
Carter’s mouth relaxed but the bitterness in his face remained. He made no attempt to holster his gun but his eyes told Durant that he’d weighed his chances and didn’t like them.
Durant said, “What happened, Sheriff, is this. I rode up to an old man just before these men started shooting. The old-timer forced me to stay with him. Then, after Carter joined us, I was left stranded at a cabin and forced to walk most of a night before my horse came back to me. When you boil it all down, I don’t want a thing to do with these people, so I’m going for a drink. I’ll be obliged if you tell Bodie and his outfit to keep off my neck.”
Bodie let out a fierce growl. “You lyin’ scum! You were in this up to your teeth all the way!”
Durant gave him a disgusted look. “Can’t you read trail sign?”
“Sure I can read trail sign, mister. Better’n anybody ’round here. What the hell has that got to do with it?”
“If you can, Bodie, you’ll remember that you followed the trail of only one horse ... and it belonged to the old-timer. So that makes my story hold water. I got mixed up in something that didn’t interest me one spit. I just wanted to see that my hide wasn’t filled with holes, that’s all. Leave me be from now on and I’ll leave you be.”
Durant turned to Carter. The gun handler’s lips peeled back in a snarl but no sound came from him. “Right, Sheriff?” Durant said to Coulston.
Coulston’s heavy-jowled face remained dark with worry. “Damned if I know. There’s just one thing I want to know. That old-timer ... was he the one who ran from the saloon?”
“That’s right.”
Coulston swung around to confront Carter. “And you were chasin’ him, mister, lookin’ mean enough to blast his guts out.”
Carter smiled. “I got reason to be mad, Sheriff. You know, Bodie has a lot of things wrong. Maybe he can explain why I helped that old-timer get away from him and then wanted to beat him to a pulp myself.”
Bodie looked confused. “You killed two of my men, damn you!”
“Kill or be killed, Bodie. I don’t take kindly to it when folks shoot at me. I was ridin’ along mindin’ my own business when I saw you and your kill-crazy bunch bustin’ down on the old boy. So I helped him out some. A natural thing for a man like me to do, don’t you think? Later the old boy told me his name was Pete Doubell, and he said you were tryin’ to rob him of some gold he’d panned on a legal claim. For a price I helped him get away from you, but when we got to town he tried to skip out on me. It was only then that I saw he was a lyin’, thievin’ buzzard and that maybe you and your men were in the right.”
Bodie licked his lips and then he shook his head at Sheriff Ray Coulston. “I just don’t know,” he muttered.
“Well, I do, Bodie,” Carter said. He holstered his gun but his hand stayed within a few inches of the butt. He seemed to be completely relaxed now, and the hint of a smile played on his lips.
“I guess it comes down to everybody wantin’ old Pete Doubell’s hide,” Coulston said. “Is that it?”
“That’s about it,” Carter said. “But the way I see it now, things have changed. If that old galoot is bein’ tracked by men keen on shootin’ his guts out, well, I’m buyin’ out.”
Carter turned to Bodie and his gaze stayed fixed on him. Blake saw the indecision in the river man’s face. Finally Ray Coulston, looking relieved, said, “Well, Reke, what you reckon? Maybe Carter has it right, and maybe Durant has, too. You gonna keep at them?”
Bodie wiped a hand across his face. “All I want is our gold, Ray, and I mean to get it.”
“I’ve still sort of got a stake in that, Bodie,” Carter said. “Maybe we should throw in together.”
Bodie eyed him suspiciously. “How, mister?”
“Doubell promised me a cut to get him away from you. I did that but only after I damn near got myself killed. No matter about that. Put a price on my gun, Bodie.”
Bodie’s eyebrows arched. “Price? What the hell are you talkin’ about?”
“The full name’s Vance Carter. Mean anything to you?”
Blake Durant realized that the name did mean a lot to Reke Bodie. “Vance Carter,” Bodie breathed.
“Guess you have heard of me,” Carter grinned. “Well, that should tell you I know how to handle thievin’ jaspers who make a fool of me and get me shot at. I’ll get Doubell for you, one way or another, and I’ll also get back your gold. For a price.”
Bodie’s tongue flicked over his dry lips. His men waited patiently for his decision. Durant felt grudging admiration for Carter. The gunslinger had turned the trouble to his own advantage.
“How much do you want?” Bodie asked.
“Half, mister. I don’t reckon old Doubell will stick close to this town for long, and while he’s around here he’ll live like a mole. We can watch all the trails out but
I don’t think a shrewd old buzzard like Doubell will take any chances. It could be a long search, and if it takes us to other towns I’ll be worth a lot to you because I know people along the frontier who’ll help us, watch out for Doubell, likely corral him for us. Half, Bodie, and we got a deal.”
Bodie exploded. “You must be loco, Carter! Gold doesn’t come easy. You break your back for it.”
Carter shook his head. “Doubell worked only a few days for it, on your claim. Now do you want it back or don’t you?”
“What’s the alternative?” asked Coulston, seeing deep indecision rise in Bodie’s face.
“I’ll look for Doubell on my own,” Carter said. “When I find him I’ll take what I consider a fair rake-off for my trouble. But that way, Bodie and his boys here better not come too close to me. I don’t like bein’ crowded. And I don’t like bein’ trailed either.”
Carter smiled triumphantly. Durant knew that the Bodie hands had taken full stock of him and didn’t like what they saw.
Durant brushed down his Levis and began to walk away, but Ray Coulston’s bark cut through the silence. “Hold it, Durant. I didn’t say you could go.”
Blake said, “I’ve had my say, and I’m not going far.”
Durant went on. He suspected that Carter would soon take his leave of the Bodie outfit, ignore Coulston as being of little consequence, and make his own search for Pete Doubell. Durant knew the old boy was a rascal, but he couldn’t help hoping he’d get away. Not from Bodie, who might turn out to be a tolerable gent under different circumstances, but at least from Carter, who’d kill without the slightest hesitation. Blake went into the saloon and ordered a drink. He was having his third whisky when Sheriff Coulston came in, looking hot and bothered. The sheriff dropped some change on the counter and after grumbling to himself, said:
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