“I’ll be here,” Shay told him, and watched the old-timer move off, bowed legs stepping out spiritedly. Blake Durant came along the side of the building, astride Sundown, and leading McHarg’s pack mule. Handing the mule’s reins to McHarg, he nodded to Beth.
“Do as McHarg advised and you’ll be all right,” he said. “And steer clear of Iverson. Don’t trust him and don’t turn your back on him no matter how much you might sympathize with him. He’s not as bad hurt as he’ll likely try to make out.”
Beth nodded acknowledgment and her gaze softened. Blake swung Sundown about and the big black broke into a canter, went through the gate and then lunged into a gallop. Beth drew in her breath and old Conrad Cantrell patted her hand and said:
“We were warned, girl, that this is a country where people just come and go. We have to be prepared for it.”
Beth said nothing but Tim Shay saw the sadness in her eyes. He didn’t blame her one bit for her feelings. The happenings of the two days he’d known Durant had given him a great deal of respect for the big man. Durant, he decided, had an air about him which generated confidence in other people. What he said somehow always seemed to matter. And what he did was dead right.
He watched McHarg push his mule along in Durant’s wake and muttered, “His kind, they don’t ever stay long. Pity you couldn’t have convinced him to link up with you for awhile, Mr. Cantrell. Durant would have been right handy to you, helpin’ you get settled.”
“We’ll manage,” Cantrell said as he went inside.
Tim Shay leaned across the porch rail and there was a wistful expression in his eyes as Beth looked at him.
She said, “Do you think he may get into trouble for helping Rance Parrant cross the river, Mr. Shay? I mean, after what happened to Ludlow and Iverson.”
Shay shrugged. “Trouble? Don’t see how, ma’am. Only we know what he did, and then we don’t know if he did right or wrong, do we? Iverson, should he get to his feet, will try to make trouble if he can, but there ain’t many folks in these parts stupid enough to listen to him.”
Beth settled against the wall and let the sun warm her ankles and legs. She felt a deep sense of loss for a time, but then the dull echo of the hoof beats died and she straightened. After all, she hardly knew Blake Durant and she didn’t expect to see him again. Excusing herself, she left Shay and went inside where Roy Iverson scowled at her.
“How about changin’ this damn bandage, ma’am?”
Beth studied him grimly for a moment before she shook her head. “Not now, Mr. Iverson. I think you’ve had all the attention you need for one day.”
Iverson’s mouth thinned and his stare hardened. “Then get me a drink, will you?”
“No, not that either. Just sit quiet and give that wound a chance to heal. If you behave, I’m sure that within a week you’ll be fit enough to travel.”
Iverson tossed a curse at her departing back and worked painfully about in his chair. Conrad Cantrell had settled down at the side table with some bank documents and then Shay returned and cleaned down his plank bar. Iverson watched each of them in turn, then brought his gaze back to the girl. He no longer thought about Ed Ludlow. Ed had fouled up everything and was now buried, which was in Iverson’s opinion, where he belonged. Durant had gone and taken that interfering old buzzard, McHarg, with him. Iverson felt he could handle these three easily enough if he had to, even with his wound. But why take chances? He made plans for the day after tomorrow, the day he guessed Cantrell and his granddaughter would pull out. Then there would only be Tim Shay to deal with.
A smile crossed his thin-lipped mouth. Shay’s money tin was full. He’d take it and get the hell out of this isolated place. If Shay bucked him too much, he’d kill him. Then he’d have a quick look at Moon. Maybe he could even take Cantrell’s ten thousand dollars and light out for the border.
Iverson began to feel better as he thought about his future. Damn fools, the heap of them, was his final summing up of the people he was stuck with. Not one of them was half as smart as Roy Iverson.
McHarg led Blake Durant down the slope towards the river. His shrewd old eyes carefully took note of the water level, the detritus along the banks, the uprooted trees and tangled brush. He let the mule plod slowly through the mud. Finally he brought the mule to a halt and pointed ahead.
“That’s where the bridge was. Too deep there. I reckon a mile or so farther down we’ll find some shallows.”
Durant gave a nod of agreement. He had already decided that McHarg knew his business. Fifty feet below, the river still ran strongly, the sun gleaming on its muddy surface, giving it the appearance of a huge flow of dark coffee. The air was tainted with the stink of mud and the wind was still cold. But within him, Blake Durant felt a warmth growing. Sundown was walking strongly under him. The day of rest had brought back the strength the black had lost crossing the storm ravaged country. And Moon was just ahead. A town, new faces, a chance to bury memories ... Suddenly he found himself thinking about Beth Cantrell, but then McHarg’s voice cut into his thoughts.
“There. Should be shallow enough and the water’s flowin’ quieter.”
Blake looked to where the old-timer pointed. The river was considerably broader here and the fastest rush was against each side; the middle was almost glassy smooth.
“Seems fine,” he said.
McHarg studied Sundown admiringly before he went down the steep slope, walking ahead of his mule. McHarg picked up a stick and pitched it into the river. It was carried fast downstream, then it slowed and began to float towards the opposite bank.
“Fair enough,” McHarg muttered.
Blake stopped Sundown on the bank and looked at McHarg’s mule. “Figure you can make it on him?”
McHarg shook his head. “Hell, no, I’ll push along on this side for a couple of hours till I get to Fletcher’s Crossing. Easy water there. Been good knowin’ you, Durant. Who knows ...? We might bump into each other again some place.”
“Likely,” Blake said and shook McHarg’s rough hand.
The old-timer’s eyes were dulled with regret as Blake sent Sundown into the river. For several yards Sundown had good footing, then the river bottom sheered off and the horse struck out strongly in deep water. Blake came out of the saddle, and swam with the reins while Sundown was washed downstream for a quarter of a mile or so before he found firm footing on the other side. McHarg had followed down the bank. Now he gave Blake a final wave as the big man swung into the saddle, the river’s mud sloshing from his clothes.
Blake waved back and hit the horse into a run. Sundown responded eagerly, glad to be at full stretch, with the wind drying his hide. For half an hour Blake kept Sundown at a good stride before he slowed him and allowed him to regain his breath. The country was high now, and the wind sharper despite the warming burn of the mid-morning sun.
An hour later, his clothes dry, Blake came onto a trail rutted with wheel tracks. The ground was still muddy in places and farther below were muddy pools from which the sun gleamed brilliantly. Blake turned in the saddle and took in the country. It was fine land for somebody like Conrad Cantrell; good grazing grass. He went on, warming to the ride. Then far to his right, he sighted a huge fortress of rock. He reined in and studied the rock formation thoughtfully. It looked cold, isolated, an ugly intrusion on the rich pastureland around it. He turned Sundown in that direction; the going would be firmer there.
The heat was oppressive now and he knew another storm was on the way. He set Sundown into an even gait and checked the country for likely places to sit out the next downpour. Damn rain! He had his belly full of it.
Then a shot cracked across the country. Sundown shifted and Blake drew back hard on the reins. Two shots followed on the rolling echo of the first, then gunfire rose loud and clear. Rifles, Blake told himself. He sat his horse and watched five riders burst through a gully in the rock formation and come thundering in his direction. Blake was still sitting still when the riders left the exposed country and d
isappeared into heavy brush. Almost immediately another seven riders raced into view from the same gully, guns exploding in the riders’ hands.
Blake pushed Sundown towards higher land. He came out between two huge boulders and reined up. From there he could see a second trail running south in a wide circle, and on it the first five riders came into view, pushing their horses to the limit. At their head rode a man in full black, hatless. Blake swore, recognizing him immediately.
Rance Parrant!
Parrant turned in the saddle and sent lead behind him, his fierce gunfire forcing the four trailing riders to break off. Two came into the brush just below Blake, then one of the horses lost its footing and pitched the rider headlong. Parrant whipped back. Blake could see him clearly now, lips tight, as he turned his horse and charged back. The seven riders following closed in, their gunfire smashing through the timber and brush, sending leaves scattering. Parrant came off his horse and another rider came back to him. Parrant reached up and pulled the man from the saddle. Then he helped the thrown man to his feet and pushed him towards the riderless horse.
All this time Blake Durant looked on, wanting no part of the proceedings. The dislodged rider came to his feet and reached for his gun. Parrant put a bullet in him and swung onto his own mount. By then the seven riders had come to within fifty yards of Parrant. They reined up and sent a hail of bullets at him, but he belted his horse into a run and crashed his way through the timber. Directly behind him came the man he had helped, hard down on the neck of his horse and hanging on for dear life. The other two had ridden on and were almost a quarter mile ahead when Parrant came out of the brush and pointed to the high country where Blake Durant waited.
Parrant came on, swinging about in the saddle and shouting for the second man to hurry. As they came closer, the glare of sunlight revealed the other man as thin, haggard, his jaw scarred. He had at least a week’s growth on his jowls, the black stubble ringing his features.
Rance Parrant reached the heights and halted a moment, looking back again. Then he sent his horse straight at the two boulders, driving at the opening between them—straight at Blake, who saw recognition streak Parrant’s face. Parrant jerked upright in the saddle, and his gun came up, thundering. The bullet smashed into the face of one of the boulders and sent rock gravel biting into Blake’s face. Blake’s own gun lifted but a second shot forced Sundown to shift quickly under him. The slug thudded into Blake’s pommel and Sundown let out a snort, and pawed the air wildly. By the time Blake had him quietened, Parrant had gone on and the second rider appeared on the rim of the ridge.
For one brief moment Blake and the rider looked at each other. Then a savage snarl came out of the little man and his gun lifted. But Blake fired first, his bullet smashing into the little man’s neck. Blake heard his scream above the clatter of the hoofs.
Blake dragged Sundown roughly about and leveled his gun again. The man was still in the saddle. His black eyes dwelt on Blake Durant for a moment and his lips curled back in a snarl of rage. Seeing his gun lift, Blake sent off a second shot. The bullet ripped the little man’s chest wide open and lifted him from the saddle. He pitched against the side of the bigger of the two boulders and the thud of his body sounded ugly to Blake Durant’s ears.
He ran a hand down Sundown’s neck and spoke to him and the horse stopped shifting and stood quiet, nostrils flared. Blake let him walk towards the dead man and was coming out of the saddle to make a closer inspection when Rance Parrant appeared on the edge of the drop behind him.
Parrant yelled, “Damn you, Durant, damn you to hell!”
Blake heeled about, saw the other two riders appear behind Parrant. There was no time for argument. Parrant’s gun belched fire and slugs buzzed around Blake. He turned Sundown hard about and made for the cover of the boulders.
A voice shouted, “Get him. He killed Larry!”
Bullets from the three guns ripped at Blake’s clothes. He felt the sharp burn of a bullet along his side. Then he was in cover, out of the saddle and ready for whatever fight Parrant wanted to go on with. There were shrill screams as bullets ricocheted off rock, sending Sundown shifting, dragging on the reins Blake held. Blake swore. To hell with what he knew of Rance Parrant. To hell with what he might ever come to know. The man plainly meant to kill him.
Parrant exposed himself riding past, firing from the hip.
Blake Durant hit the ground and rolled as three bullets ripped past his head, one whipping off his hat. He answered Parrant’s challenge with shots of his own as the other two thundered up. Blake looked anxiously about him. There was only one way out and Parrant had it covered. The best thing was to get onto Sundown and take his chances going back the way Parrant and his companion had come. He was dragging Sundown to him when Parrant tore past again, this time sending out a slug that tore through the flesh of his forearm. Blake cursed again, stirruped into the saddle, hauled Sundown around and was about to charge out when five riders came into view on the far slope. They sighted him and opened fire.
Blake flattened in the saddle. He was caught in a crossfire. Parrant wheeled his mount and faced the oncoming riders. His gun bucked. Behind him, his two companions triggered a curtain of hot lead that cut two of the riders from their saddles. But the other three came on, backed soon afterwards by the trailing pair. Blake urged Sundown into a run and sent the black straight for Parrant. He was still outside six-gun range of Parrant when he heard one of the others shout urgently:
“Come on, Rance, we got to get to hell outa here!”
The gun hand blasted another two shots at Blake before he doubled over in the saddle, clutching at his shoulder. Then he kicked his spurs back hard and his horse ran on. Blake drew rein as shots from the oncoming five whistled about his head. He jumped to the ground, and stood beside Sundown, both hands lifted into the air.
The riders came on, the first of them snarling an oath at Blake before he snapped, “Hold him!”
Two men broke from the group and reined in near Blake. They stood in the irons, then settled back and leveled their rifles at him. In neither face was there any trace of tolerance for him. Each wore a hard, bitter look which all too plainly told Blake that in no way had his troubles for this day ended.
Five – Hard Held Opinions
Blake Durant watched the three riders come back up the slope, clothes brush-raked, faces grim, rifles held across their saddles firmly, the barrels pointing his way. He had made no attempt to explain the situation to the two men who still sat their horses with guns trained on him. As they had kept watch on him they told him only that Corey Starr would know best what to do with him.
The three others riders drew up and Blake’s attention went to the man in the middle. He sat tall in the saddle and was wide-shouldered and deep-chested, with a neck lost in the muscles of his powerful shoulders. His jaw was square, his mouth wide and snarling.
“Two dead and him to talk,” the big man said. He came down from the saddle easily, even gracefully, glanced at Blake’s bleeding forearm and then walked up to him and smashed a powerful blow into his face. Blake was taken by surprise but even so he managed to ride the punch a little. He staggered back against the shoulder of the boulder, shook his head hard and glared at his attacker.
“Easy, damn you! You’ve got your trails all mixed.”
“Got nothin’ mixed, damn you,” the other clipped out as he took a step towards Blake. But this time Blake shifted to the side and met the big man’s attack with a driving blow to the stomach that doubled his opponent over. The man’s hands went down. He was wide open but Blake only grabbed his shoulders and pushed him away.
“I had nothing to do with this, damn you!” Blake gritted. “I was trailing through on my own, heading for Moon.”
The big man cleared his gun from leather. “To hell you was, mister! You’re in this up to your stinkin’ teeth.”
“I told you, you’ve got it wrong. How the hell do you think I got this slug in me?”
“From us,
damn you,” said the big man. Then, after looking Blake over from hat to boots, he moved back from him, rubbing his jaw. A gleam of satisfaction came into his black eyes. “No matter. When we’re finished with you, you’ll wish to hell that bullet had hit you dead center.”
The other four had stayed on their horses, boxing Blake in. Sundown, now that the shooting had died down, was standing quietly, his dark eyes taking in the big man.
“Won’t hurt you to listen to my story,” Blake said.
“Go right ahead,” he was told.
“I was coming through minding my own business, fresh out of Tim Shay’s place back aways. I saw five riders come from the rocks down below, and when they got closer I recognized Rance Parrant.”
The big man’s eyes gleamed again. “You’re admittin’ you know him?”
“Just hear me out, damn you!” Blake snapped. “Parrant came thundering up here, sighted me and put this slug in my arm. When the other man came on, he went for me, too, and I killed him. Then Parrant went berserk and if you hadn’t come up when you did, I might not have made it.”
Blake let his look swing to the others. They remained tight lipped and silent, regarding him sullenly.
“Likely story, mister,” said the big man. “Now here’s how I see it. You were with them. You high-tailed off on your own, rode up here and likely couldn’t find the way down. When we shot that scum Larry Parrant you didn’t know what to do and got yourself in such a tangle you ran right into us. The others rode on, to hell knows where, but we’ll track them down in time.”
“Damn you, you’re as wrong as a man can be!” Blake growled. He turned to the others. “I met Parrant when we were flooded out at Shay’s place for two days. I helped him cross the river because he wanted to get to Moon in a hurry, said he had to be on hand when the town hanged his brother.”
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