The Loner 1

by Sheldon B. Cole

  Blake outlined a hole big enough to hold both Madie boys’ bodies and was deepening it when Isaac came and knelt beside him. The old man put his Bible down and began to claw at the ground with his bare hands. Blake saw a fingernail tear and blood begin to flow, but the old man continued to work, no sound coming from him, no expression on his shocked face. When the grave was deep enough, Isaac rose and with John’s help carried Mark’s body there and laid it gently to rest. Then they went to get Luke’s body. When his sons were side by side, Isaac dusted his hands on his black silk coat. Then he picked up his Bible and thumbed through the pages until he found the page he wanted. He lifted the book and once more tears rolled down his face.

  Isaac’s lips moved in silent prayer for many minutes, then he pressed his lips together and tenderly placed the Bible across the joined hands of his sons and started to kick the earth over them. Blake Durant helped with his spade and John filled in the top of the grave, using his battered old hat as a bucket. When the earth had been pounded hard and covered with rocks, Isaac Madie went back to his horse and drew in a ragged breath.

  Turning finally to Blake Durant, he handed him his gun without a word. Later, riding across the bench country in the dead middle of the buckboard tracks, Isaac Madie dedicated his life to vengeance.

  Eight – “Heathen!”

  Angela Grant’s head began to roll about on her shoulders. The heat was drawing the last of her energy. They had not stopped the whole morning, and Ragnall had kept up a non-stop barrage of threats and orders. But she had long since closed her ears to his abuse and now she tried to blank her mind to the pain growing in her body.

  The weary buckboard horses plodded spiritlessly through the thick dust. The hills ahead loomed black and uninviting. Angela couldn’t see a way through them. But she was positive that Zeb Ragnall knew what he was doing.

  It was dead on noon when Ragnall, sweating heavily and looking worried, rode to the top of a small hill. Angela drew rein and slumped forward, letting the reins fall slack. The horses came to a stop.

  Ragnall came out of the saddle and kept his horse down below the line of the hill. He went forward on his hands and knees, his gun lifted just out of the dust. Only his hat and forehead showed over the rimline as he checked the country behind. Suddenly he flattened himself to the ground, dragged himself back, then scrambled to his horse in a crouch. In the saddle, his head turned and his eyes raked the terrain. Finally he pointed to heavy brush.

  “We’ll put the horses in there. By hell, make a noise and I’ll kill you, woman!”

  Angela didn’t know what was going on and she was too weary and weather-burned to argue. She held Ragnall’s horse while he unharnessed the buckboard horses and drew them off. Hitching them in cover, he grabbed his own horse from Angela and tied it beside the pair. Then he grabbed Angela by the shoulder and pushed her towards the buckboard.

  “Get in and stay down!”

  Angela hesitated, recognizing fear in him now. “What is it?” she asked.

  “Forget about what it is, damn you, and move! They’re comin’ fast.”

  They! Angela backed away from him. This was her chance, perhaps the only chance she would ever have. She turned to run but Zeb Ragnall was too quick. He grabbed her, lifted her over the side of the buckboard, then pushed her legs in. He scrambled into the buckboard bed beside her and pushed her head down to the flooring. Angela could feel hard objects under her legs. The bullion. She lay completely still, wondering and hoping.

  A stench came from Ragnall which Angela knew was the smell of fear. She calculated that her chances of getting out of this mess were now about as good as they were ever likely to be.

  “Why don’t you let me go?” she asked him. “I’ve done you no harm.”

  “Done me no good either, damn you, breakin’ that wheel on me. Without that we’d be through the hills now and on the way to the border.”

  “It wasn’t my fault,” she protested, hoping to distract him, force him into an error.

  “No matter whose damn fault it was. Ain’t nobody gonna tie down Ringo Nyall. Nobody!”

  “Ringo Nyall?”

  “That’s me, Angie, girl. Maybe you saw the name on wanted dodgers or in the paper?”

  “Who is Zeb Ragnall? Did you kill him, rob him?”

  Ringo Nyall laughed. “Ain’t ever been a Ragnall, woman. It’s just a name that I figured might belong to a miner, that’s all. First time I seen you in Cheyenne with that cripple limpin’ along beside you, I figured to have you one day. I made some inquiries and found out all I wanted to know about you—a man runnin’ out on you, folks dead and that loco brother of yours dependin’ on you. The rest was easy. You took to it like a fish to bait.”

  Angela let out a deep groan. “You swine. You’d even use a woman’s—”

  “I’d use anythin’, ma’am. Always have, always will. Now shut down because I got some concentratin’ to do. I also got me some killin’ to do—that fool Isaac Madie, his idiot boy, and that big man on the black folks in Glory Creek took for me. Be a pity to kill him though—he sure took a lot of weight off my shoulders in that fool town.”

  “Mr. Durant,” Angela breathed. “Is—is he coming?”

  “I guess he is.” Ragnall glanced at her and frowned. “Sounds like you got some feelin’ for him. How come?”

  Angela shook her head. “I hardly know him. But he helped me. Why should you want to kill him, or anyone? Will your killing never stop?”

  “They stretch your neck for one killing just as much as they do for four or five or ten. As to why I should kill this Durant and them others, that’s about the simplest thing a man ever had to answer.” Nyall thumped the sacks behind him with his boot. “For that, Miss Angela Grant. For the bullion. Now why the blazes do you think those two Madie boys came after me last night unless it was to get their thievin’ hands on my gold? The same goes for Durant and Isaac Madie and his dim-witted son.”

  Angela was suddenly cold despite the sun burning down on her. Pressed flat, she could hardly breathe without taking in dust from the flooring. She bit her lower lip and waited, frightened and lonely, fighting to get her mind working on a plan to escape from this cold-eyed killer.

  They were in the heart of the open stretch when Isaac Madie’s horse faltered under him. Isaac reined up and rubbed the stallion’s shoulder, but the horse did not move on. It stood, head down on its chest, sides heaving with exhaustion. Isaac slipped from the saddle. John and Blake Durant slowed their mounts, turned them and came back to him.

  Isaac patted the horse’s nose and then he pulled his canteen from the saddle. His face was red and sweat ran down his face and neck. His black coat was white-caked with his body’s salts.

  “Spent,” he said to Blake. “Guess I’m too much weight for him.”

  Blake examined the horse and nodded in agreement. “Best walk him.”

  “No time,” Isaac said.

  “It’s that or leave him here.”

  John dropped to the ground beside his father and extended the reins of his mare. “She ain’t much, Pa, but she’s better’n she looks. Keeps goin’.”

  Isaac Madie’s eyes clouded thoughtfully. He looked at John steadily for some time before he reached out and patted his head. “No, boy, you keep your horse. It’s the only thing I reckon you ever really had for your own. I’ll walk and I won’t get too far behind. In fact, I don’t reckon I got to walk too far now.”

  John turned his horse and broke into a walk beside his father, leading both horses behind him. He tripped once, wiped his nose with his sleeve and then picked at a sore on his chin. But Isaac Madie was oblivious to his actions. Blake sent Sundown into a fast canter and quickly covered the open stretch. Then he worked Sundown into tree shade and stared ahead. He stiffened in the saddle, frowning, when he saw the buckboard standing in the open, the horses gone from the shafts. There was no sign of anybody.

  Blake remained there for a long time, watching, knowing enough about Ringo Nyall to
be wary. Without the buckboard, Nyall couldn’t carry all the gold bullion with him. Not far or fast, anyhow. And he doubted that the killer would ride off and leave it behind.

  He turned Sundown, rode back to Isaac Madie and informed him of what lay ahead. Isaac came to a halt.

  “Nobody there?”

  “I didn’t say that,” Blake told him.

  “You said the buckboard was—”

  “I said I didn’t see anybody. Maybe something happened to the horses but we can’t find that out here. My advice to you is to take it easy for awhile.”

  Isaac Madie glared furiously at him. “We just buried my boys—my flesh and blood, Durant! Maybe they weren’t all that honest, but there’s worse than them masqueradin’ as good folks in banks, jailhouses and on court benches, believe me. They strayed from the path of righteousness and turned a deaf ear to my instructions, but I say they were more good than bad.”

  “Maybe, Madie, but walking straight into drygulch gunfire won’t do you or them any good.”

  Isaac mumbled to himself and John said eagerly, “Pa, I can go look for you. I can sneak in real quiet. Won’t nobody see me. I won’t—”

  “No!” Isaac pushed John away and looked at Blake. “What do you suggest, Durant?”

  “That I ride in and draw Nyall’s fire if he’s still there.”

  “And lay claim to the gold if it’s been left behind? You take me for a fool?”

  “I take you for a money-hungry jasper if you don’t listen to me, Madie. Nyall’s a killer and he’s got that girl with him. He won’t be taking any chances.”

  “You said the horses were gone. Why in hell would he do that?”

  “To fool us. We’ve made up over an hour and a half on him by my reckoning. So he would have had half an hour to set himself up. That’s time enough to unharness his horses, put them in hiding and—”

  “In hiding? Where, damn you? What are you up to, mister?”

  “Beyond the buckboard, Madie, is brush heavy enough to hide a half-dozen horses.”

  Isaac Madie mopped his brow and planted his feet wide. He looked up solemnly at the clear, cloudless sky and seemed to be debating with himself. Then he said:

  “Okay, Durant, you go on in. But I’m warnin’ you—take off with that gold and so help me I’ll hunt you for the rest of my life. I’ll put the curse of the Lord on you and be a scourge to you every waking hour of your days.”

  Blake nodded easily. “Just keep as close behind as you can. If there’s a shot, hit the ground and stay there.”

  Isaac Madie said nothing. Lips pinched tight, he moved ahead of John, leaving his son to drag the two unwilling horses in his wake. Blake let Sundown have his head and gradually drew ahead. He continued on in a straight line for the buckboard, keeping the sun across his left shoulder, when a sudden shout from the buckboard made him wheel Sundown. The fiery black responded immediately and after almost going down in the turn, the big horse lunged on. A rifle shot whipped past Blake’s head, and he went down on Sundown’s neck and headed for the brush.

  Angela Grant, recognizing Blake Durant and his big black stallion, waited for him to get within a hundred yards of the buckboard before she suddenly rose to her knees and shouted at the top of her voice:

  “No, Mr. Durant, no!”

  Ringo Nyall grabbed Angela’s arm and slammed her down. When she struggled to rise he smashed his palm into the back of her neck. Angela’s chin hit the boards and an explosion erupted in her head. Groaning, she flattened on the floor of the buckboard and lay still.

  Ringo Nyall lifted his rifle to his shoulder and fired off a shot. But by then Durant had wheeled his black and was heading for the brush. Nyall peered into the shimmers of heat rising from the ground between him and Durant, then his attention was drawn away. Coming at the run, hands waving wildly and coat flapping behind him, was the mountain of a man, Isaac Madie.

  Directly behind Madie was his son, John, stumbling, falling, rising, calling anxiously to his father to wait. But Isaac Madie had eyes only for the buckboard before him and for the man kneeling in it, a smoking rifle in his hand.

  Isaac, hair flying wild and saliva running from his lips, cried out, “You’re the devil, Nyall, the scum of the earth, the accursed offspring of Satan!”

  Ringo Nyall took careful aim and punched off another shot. Isaac Madie came to a sudden halt and his hands dropped to his sides. He looked down at his shirt and the spreading stain of blood. A vicious curse came out of him. John rushed to his side.

  “Pa, Pa, you’re shot!”

  Isaac swept him aside and John went down and stayed down, legs doubled under his scrawny body, eyes fearfully regarding his father. Isaac Madie, gritting his teeth against the pain in his chest, pounded on again. He managed to get his hands halfway up and began to shout again.

  “You can’t stop an agent of the Lord, Nyall! The Lord has appointed me to act for Him, to rid the world of all sinners, to cleanse the minds of the wicked, to wash the evil from the offenders of this world.”

  Nyall spat out a curse and lifted his rifle again. This time, believing his last shot must have been wide of Madie, he took more careful aim and gently squeezed the trigger. Isaac Madie stumbled to a halt and stood with his feet braced wide, his chest heaving and blood pumping out of a hole in his chest. John crawled along behind him, keeping his head close to the ground, frightened of being shot himself, but unable to stop from following his father. For John Madie, there was only one man in the world, only one love.

  Isaac placed a hand against his chest and watched the blood flow through his fingers. His face was white with pain. He drew in a deep breath. “The ways of the Lord,” he intoned, “are difficult to understand.”

  Then he drew himself to full height and started to drag himself forward. This time he kept both hands on his chest and his lips moved in prayer. He was within twenty yards of the buckboard now and he could see Nyall’s face peering at him. Isaac spat out blood and lifted his head defiantly.

  “Scum!” he screeched. “Bred in the filth and stench of degradation, damned at birth and exiled and forsaken by the Lord!”

  Nyall hastily reloaded the rifle and wiped sweat off his brow. He could see the big man’s shirt, shiny with blood. How he stayed on his feet he did not know. He lifted the rifle again and had to wipe sweat from his eyes to see the big man clearly.

  “To the devil with his devil’s gold!” Isaac Madie roared. “Damn you, Madie!” Nyall shouted, and then he fired his third shot into the big man. The impact knocked Isaac Madie to his knees, but he refused to fall to his face. Kneeling, he swayed from side to side, his face distorted by the savage pain which worked through his body.

  “I heed not the words of he with Satan in his mind, Nyall. My spittle will cleanse your soul, black as it is. The wise and the good shall inherit glory. Shame shall be the only reward of the wicked!”

  Nyall rose and blasted away at Isaac Madie, who had scrambled halfway to his feet when Nyall’s next shots ripped into him, spinning him about. He staggered to the side, straightened, came on a step, then stumbled crazily.

  On the ground behind Isaac, John whimpered like a puppy. Tears rolled down his sunken cheeks and all he could see was the swaying, jerking hulk of his father’s body.

  Isaac drove himself towards the haze-obscured buckboard. He reached out with both hands and his blood dripped onto the ground before him. He was within ten yards of the buckboard when his knees finally gave way under him. He hit the ground with a thud but managed to lift his head. His eyes were steamy with pain when he croaked out:

  “Forgive them not, I beseech Thee, Lord, for they do know what they do!”

  Nyall’s last shot smashed Isaac’s head wide open and he fell, clawing at the ground.

  Nine – Day of Reckoning

  Blake Durant swung down from Sundown and dropped behind a rock. Hearing a shot, he waited for the rush of the slug through the brush nearby. When it didn’t come he lifted his head and saw Isaac Madie walkin
g defiantly towards the buckboard, waving his hands and calling on the Lord to help him.

  Blake could see no way he could help Isaac now and he crouched there, helpless, too worried about Angela Grant to risk a shot even if he were within side gun range of Nyall. He saw the bullets pour into old Isaac Madie, saw him stagger and finally wilt under the weight of his wounds. But admiration for the old man rose inside Blake Durant. He had seen many men die, but never in his life had he seen the likes of this man’s blind courage.

  Madie went on and on, seemingly indestructible until the end came, swiftly, brutally. Blake caught up Sundown’s reins and began to circle about the brush, hoping to get between the buckboard and the hills. That way he would be positioned to get Nyall. He moved quietly, hearing the echoes of the rifle shots die in the noon stillness.

  Angela Grant wiped blood from her mouth and looked fiercely at Ringo Nyall. She saw kill lust in his eyes and was jolted by the gunfire roaring in her ears. But she saw fear rise in his face and her own terror of the man suddenly diminished. She reached out and grabbed for the rifle. Nyall jerked the Winchester free and swung it at her, the butt catching her behind the ear. Angela fell back across the bullion and lay still.

  Nyall stared across the clearing towards the brush where Durant had disappeared. Isaac Madie had completely ruined his ambush. With better luck he would have got Durant, had the girl not shouted a warning, then old Isaac Madie would have been easy prey. What John Madie was doing he had no idea nor did he care. One bullet would rip the little runt in half.

  Nyall eased himself over the buckboard’s side and sprinted towards the clearing where the horses stood, stomping nervously. Nyall dragged the buckboard horses out and quickly harnessed them between the shafts. Then he ran back and tied his own horse behind the buckboard. Angela Grant was still unconscious, a lump showing behind her ear. Nyall felt for a heartbeat and, finding one, decided to take her along. Maybe he could use her.