The Home of Great Western Fiction!
A storm forced Blake Durant to seek shelter in a broken-down roadhouse. That was where he first met the mysterious gunman-gambler called Parrant. And it was also the moment Blake’s life turned upside-down … because Parrant turned out to be trouble all the way.
The next time they met, it was through a curtain of gunsmoke. Men died during that confrontation, and Blake found himself being hunted by a town marshal and a vicious prison guard, both of whom wanted to see him swing from a gallows. In order to prove his innocence, Blake had to make his way back to the roadhouse to find someone to vouch for him – but all he found when he got there were more bodies.
All at once he could feel that noose growing ever tighter around his throat …
THE LONER 3: BOOTHILL IS ANYWHERE
By Sheldon B. Cole
First published by Cleveland Publishing Co. Pty Ltd, New South Wales, Australia
© 2019 by Piccadilly Publishing
First Digital Edition: February 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 – Slash and Venom
As he stood under the big poplar with the rain pelting hard, Blake Durant watched the river rise. Inch by inch it came up the sodden bank, sucking at the mud and causing great sections of ground to landslide into its raging torrent. There was the howl of the wind, the lash of the rain, the icy coldness, and the misery in Sundown’s eyes. The big horse’s black sides gleamed wet and he quivered as he nuzzled against Durant’s shoulder.
Durant squinted into the curtain of rain. Everywhere it was gloom, wetness, vagueness, as it had been for days. At Pinto Creek and up through the Platte River country, everybody had been rejoicing. The two-year drought had broken. And how!
Blake allowed himself a smile. One man’s meat, another man’s poison. He had crossed four river branches in the last two days, each more swollen than the last. Now he was looking at the Night River, a swirling, impassable torrent that tore its way towards Moon, the town Blake had decided to visit. Why Moon? He had no definite reason; it was just a town on the way south. Why south? Why anywhere? A man with things to forget had to keep on the move, had to keep drifting.
Finally Blake patted Sundown’s head. “Got to be better country ahead,” he muttered and Sundown gave a light nicker. Blake swung into the saddle. The horse shifted under him, then moved from the shelter of the big tree. Blake caught the reins in short and let the horse push into the slanting fury of the storm.
They kept to a thin ridge backboned across the waterlogged terrain until Blake sighted the deep, over-sized hoofmarks of steers heading west-of-south. Knowing of the instinct of animals for survival, Blake followed the tracks. They led for two miles into gradually rising country and then he came on the cattle standing on high ground, backs to him, heads turned away from the drive of the icy rain. Blake went past the steers and topped a sloppy rise to find a faint blue-haloed light winking at him in the distance.
A house of some kind ...
It took him another twenty minutes or so to cross the open country, continually buffeted by the rain, the chill wind driving under his soaked hide coat and gnawing at his bones. His hands were cramped with cold even under his wool-lined leather gloves when he came to the muddied clearing of a trailside building.
He turned Sundown along the side of the building and came out of the saddle just short of a lean-to. Six horses stood inside, bunched close. Blake unsaddled his horse and Sundown shifted among the other animals, shouldering his way to warmth. Hay was scattered on the dry floor of the lean-to, so Blake left Sundown to make his own arrangements.
Reaching the corner of the building, Blake braced himself against the fierce stinging race of the storm, and, slithering and plodding, caught at the doorway jamb, drew in a ragged breath and lifted the latch. The door broke away from his grip as the wind caught it and he felt himself driven in after it. He lost his footing on the slippery boards, regained his balance and grabbed at the door as a voice growled:
“Damn you, close it!”
Blake ignored the sour cry, pulled the door shut and worked the catch into place. Then he turned slowly, rain dripping from his clothes, his face shining in the warm glow of the pot-bellied stove. Seated around the stove were two unshaven, sullen-featured men who glared at him.
“Ain’t you ever been where doors got to be closed, mister?” said one of them.
Blake’s look settled on the speaker, taking note of the twisted, surly mouth, the hooked nose, and drawn, lean cheeks. The man’s hat was perched on the back of his head and his untidy black hair spilled across his rutted brow. His companion, a little bigger, was no less contemptuous in his study of Blake. Blake ignored them and let his look sweep the room.
The barkeep, behind a counter of planks on two barrels, studied him, blue-gray eyes making an appraisal of Durant’s rigout. What he saw must have satisfied him because he nodded his head and said:
“Don’t worry about them two sour-bellied jaspers, stranger. They ran outa chips a day ago and been bellyachin’ ever since. Come across and get some rotgut into you.”
Blake accepted his invitation with a grin. Discarding his coat, he dropped it on one end of the counter and removed his hat. He ran wet fingers through loose yellow hair and removed his golden bandanna. As he wrung the bandanna then used it on his face and wrung it out again, his eyes took on a thoughtful look. Not until he replaced the bandanna around his neck did he turn his attention to the two men at the other end of the counter. One was short, with a deep-rutted old face, and a habit of sucking his toothless gums. A slight nod of his head was Blake’s welcome.
The other man was tall, wide-shouldered and trail-leaned, with cold black eyes deep-set in a face devoid of expression. He was dressed in black except for a white shirt to which hung a black string tie. He had his hands planted on the planking, spaced out so that each was level with the holsters on his hips. He gave no hint of welcome.
The barkeep brought a glass and a black bottle with no label. Pushing them at Blake, he said, “Reckon you’ll be laid up like the rest of ’em, stranger, so best get to know each other. Name’s Tim Shay.”
Blake poured his drink before he answered. “Blake Durant.”
“From?” Shay asked.
“Down through the Platte River country.”
Shay’s bushy eyebrows arched. “Hell, wonder you ain’t drowned out, Durant. Last word we got was all the rivers were up, bridges down and the whole section stormin’ a treat.”
Blake tossed down the raw whisky and whistled softly. Shay grinned.
“It was about as comfortable a ride,” Blake said, “as that was a drink.”
Shay chuckled. “Warms you, I’ll bet. Got it from an old trader who knows his likker better’n any man in the mountains. Gave me a guarantee it’d clean brass, rot leather, and stand in for kerosene in me lanterns. Kinda useful, eh?”
Blake filled his glass and brought money from his pocket. “Till some other poison comes along, it’ll have to do,” he said, and sipped his second drink.
Shay turned and dropped the money into an old bucket on a board shelf behind the counter. Against the bucket lay a hand pistol, and propped on the floor beneath the shelf wa
s an old rifle. Shay looked at the two down the bar.
“Gents, this here is Blake Durant. He come through the Platte River country, which I guess proves he ain’t no fancy dude and also proves he’s keen-blessed by the old Lady upstairs. Durant, thet old codger you can hardly see behind his whiskers is Josh McHarg—been in these parts near on a century they reckon. The other is ... er ...”
The tall man in black eyed Shay coolly and offered no name. Blake nodded at McHarg who was eyeing the bottle hungrily and said, “Join me if you like.”
The cracks in the old face drew deeper. “Don’t mind if I do, Durant. Kinda over-quiet down this end.”
McHarg came down the bar with eager strides. Shay set a glass down for him and another for himself. Outside the rain was still belting down, making a background of noise which somehow made the room warmer for Blake Durant. McHarg lifted the glass in recognition of Durant’s generosity and emptied it with one fling. He licked his lips noisily and broke into talk:
“Been holed up here two days now, them two at the stove for four, Shay says, and the other two, the old man and the woman, for five. Reckon we ain’t seen the last of being cooped either.”
Blake felt the tall man’s eyes upon him. There was no criticism in the stranger’s look, nor bitterness, yet Blake felt somehow he was being laid bare. He held the man’s gaze, ready to respond any way the other played it.
Then a call came from the stove:
“Hey, Durant, you buyin’ all round?”
Tim Shay frowned. “I don’t allow good customers to be crowded, Ludlow. You and Iverson done your share of drinkin’ and cussin’ and ain’t nobody’s fault you’re broke and I ain’t givin’ credit this time of year. Just set and clean your livers some.”
Blake heard a curse and the scrape of a chair. He turned to see the bigger of the two cowhands rising, his face ugly with rage, his mouth working. The smaller man, though slower to come to his feet, was no less put out by Shay’s remarks. Then they came across the room together and Tim Shay hurried back to the bucket and swept up the rifle.
Blake said, “Give them a drink, Shay.”
Shay frowned at him. “They been causin’ me trouble all along, Durant. I’m tellin’ you—”
“Man said we can drink his likker, Shay, so you shut down or by hell I’ll belt you!” The bigger of the two men came forward and swept the bottle from the counter. He was glaring at Tim Shay when Blake’s hand closed on his wrist. The man’s fierce look swept back to Blake and annoyance ringed his mouth.
“Two glasses,” Blake said.
Shay put down the rifle and pushed two glasses across the planks. Blake poured and handed the glasses to the two men. He then put the bottle on the counter.
“Obliged,” the big man said. “Real obliged.”
The sarcasm in his tone was not lost on Blake but he said nothing.
“The ungrateful joker is Ludlow,” Shay said with acid in his voice. “The other jasper is Iverson.”
Ludlow emptied his glass and tossed it at Shay who juggled it before he caught it, cursing all the time. Ludlow laughed scornfully, gave Blake a sour look and stomped off. Iverson turned and took his glass with him. Blake poured McHarg another drink, refilled his own glass and was just lifting his gaze to the tall man at the end of the counter when the man straightened, picked up his own bottle of whisky and walked to a table set against the wall. He sat down, turned his chair to the wall and weighed back comfortably in it. Then his look crossed the room and he said:
“I’d like to talk to you, Durant. It’s important.”
Tim Shay put on an expression of mock surprise. “Hell, the man has a tongue.”
McHarg grunted, then put in, “With two big guns to boot, Tim. Leave him be would be real sensible, that’s my notion.”
Shay shrugged, but it was plain that he had no intention of bucking the old-timer’s advice. Blake filled his glass a third time. Now, feeling warmth seeping through his body, he slid the bottle towards McHarg and said, “Help yourself.”
Blake moved away from the old-timer and crossed the room. The tall man booted a chair out for him, his black eyes probing Blake’s features with something more than curiosity in his gaze. Blake lowered himself onto the chair as a side door opened and a young woman stepped out, followed by a stoop-shouldered old man. The woman looked uneasily about her, then Tim Shay hurried down to the end of the counter and said:
“Feel better, Miss Cantrell? Mebbe your grandpa could do with a drink now?”
“No, no thank you,” the young woman said and Blake could see worry growing in her face. Her look stole across the room and when she saw Iverson and Ludlow seated at the stove, she licked at her lips and her gaze moved Blake’s way. Blake nodded and after a moment she gave him a shy smile. Then the tall man shifted in his chair and clipped out:
“Iverson, Ludlow, shift your frames. Other folks might want to sit and warm themselves.”
Blake saw the woman shake her head and heard Ludlow growl. Then the tall man got to his feet, and for the first time his face showed emotion. Ludlow frowned and Iverson nudged him. The tall man turned to the young woman.
“Help yourself, ma’am. You won’t be disturbed.”
The woman looked longingly at the stove as Ludlow and Iverson rose slowly. She began to shake her head again but she stopped as her grandfather coughed into his handkerchief.
“Thank you,” she said. “My grandfather isn’t well.”
“They had more’n their fill of that stove, ma’am,” said the tall man, sitting again, and giving her a faint smile. “And being mannered gents they couldn’t sit with a lady in the room anyhow.”
The young woman took the old man’s arm and steered him across to the stove. Ludlow and Iverson, surly expressions on their faces, walked to the counter where McHarg caught up Blake’s bottle and shifted away.
Ludlow cursed, then the stranger called out, “McHarg, you’d best get over here, too. Want to talk some to you.”
McHarg was only too glad to leave the counter. Ludlow and Iverson hooked themselves across it and Blake saw Ludlow’s lips move. The cowhand was working himself into a black mood.
The stranger, pushing out a chair for McHarg, said, “My name’s Rance Parrant.”
Blake saw McHarg’s whiskered face jolt. He said, “Glad to know you, Parrant.”
“Likewise, Durant. You handled them sour-bellied jaspers just right. I reckon, if what you said is true—and I got no reason to doubt it—that you just come down through real country. A man’d need a good horse under him to make that trip.”
“My horse is the best,” Blake said without hesitation.
“Played out?”
“He comes to hand quick.”
Parrant turned and peered through the window, his face suddenly thoughtful. “I got to get outa here, Durant, and quick. McHarg’s been tellin’ me there’s no chance, what with the rivers flash-flooded and runnin’ fast.”
“That’s so,” said McHarg. “Hell, a man’d have to be plumb loco to go out in that weather. Even if he reached the river, there’s no way across. Bridge is down and there ain’t a shallow fordin’ place nowhere.”
Parrant looked at the old man and nodded acceptance of this. “I believe he’s right, Durant. He strikes me as a man who knows what he’s talking about. But I’ve still got to go. I figure that with a good man along I can get a rope across the river some place and drag myself through.”
Blake studied Parrant’s grim-set face. “Why risk it? Why not wait till the weather breaks? We’re all safe here, and snug enough.”
Parrant shook his head and his eyes went cold. “No time. Has to be tonight. It’s forty miles to Moon and I got to make it by tomorrow afternoon. That’s when my brother is booked to hang.”
McHarg almost dropped his glass. Blake Durant pursed his lips and sat back, noticing shock lift in the young woman’s face. The old man beside her frowned heavily and dropped a hand on hers.
“Why’s he to hang?” B
lake asked.
“My business and his,” Parrant said tightly. “Don’t mean nothin’ to anybody else. I had in mind gettin’ those two scum to help me, but their stink’d worry me too much. McHarg’s too old and Shay ain’t got enough muscle to tackle it.” He worked his mouth and drew in breath. “Leaves you, Durant. I waited, hoping, and you came along. Don’t let me down.”
Blake ran a finger along his jaw and rubbed. To McHarg he said, “Can it be done?”
McHarg started to shake his head but then he caught sight of the stiffening of Parrant’s fingers on the table near the bottle. “Don’t know,” he said. “Folks in trouble sometimes do the impossible. You’d have to belly a horse into the river, steady him with a rope this side, take a risk of getting swept down and then mebbe the rider could loop a rope onto a tree on the other side.” He looked away, avoiding Parrant’s tense stare. “Could be that you’d get enough drag to make it. But, by hell, you wouldn’t get me tryin’.”
Parrant looked at Blake Durant. “I’ll give you one hundred dollars if you get me across. I’ll go into the river and you can hug the bank this side. I’ll take all the risks. I got to get to Moon. I got to.”
“It’s not the money,” Blake said. “I make my own way.”
“Will you do it?”
Blake shook his head doubtfully. “I’ll think about it. I’m staying the night, that’s certain. First light in the morning, I’ll let you know.”
“I got some chance, Durant?” Parrant asked anxiously.
Blake nodded. “It’s more your way than not mister.”
Parrant grinned and then he reached across the table and filled McHarg’s glass. The old man frowned at him, still shaking his head.
“Loco,” he muttered. “Dead loco.”
Silence settled between them and Rance Parrant shifted his gaze to the sodden country outside. A nerve jumped in his temple and his fingers drummed on the bare boards of the table. Watching him, Blake Durant decided that whoever was going to hang Parrant’s brother had better have a damn good reason for doing it.
The Loner 3 Page 1