The Loner 3

by Sheldon B. Cole

  The big man leaned back on his heels and shook his head. “You’ll have to do a lot better. I had Larry Parrant in custody, holding him for trial, and he’d have hanged surer than hell’s a hot place. Then your bunch rode in, killed two guards and set that murdering skunk free. We seen you close enough when you was breaking out through the gate.” He turned and eyed the men behind him. “Let’s have it. Any of you seen this jasper close enough to brand him now?”

  Blake lifted his head and studied them evenly. The first three showed some measure of doubt about him. But the fourth, black-bearded and sour-featured, grumbled, “I seen him close enough, Corey. He’s one of ’em all right. Could even be the one that got my brother, Wal.”

  The big man nodded. “He’ll hang high for it.”

  Blake stepped forward, anger draining the color from his features. Starr raised his gun.

  “Now hold it right there, mister. What’s your name?”

  “Blake Durant. What’s yours?”

  “Corey Starr ... Where you from?”

  Blake hesitated. “A long way off and it doesn’t matter.”

  “You say you were at Tim Shay’s place?”

  “That’s right.”

  Corey Starr grinned mirthlessly. “That section’s been flooded in real good, mister. Nobody could come outa there in the last week, not you, not Rance Parrant, nobody.”

  “I did and Rance Parrant did, damn you, Starr!”

  Starr’s grin became a chuckle. Then he sobered. “Wastin’ time here.” He walked to Blake and pulled his six-gun free and then he went to Sundown and lifted the rifle from the scabbard. After that he watched while Blake untied his golden bandanna and tied it around his torn forearm. Finally he said,

  “Get aboard your horse, mister.”

  Moments later, Blake rode at the head of the five men. They went down to the rock formation and turned into the gully. But it wasn’t a gully. Blake looked up at the sheer rock sides and saw how dynamite had helped nature along.

  After some sixty feet the rock-sided corridor took a turn and Blake saw a circular clearing and three stone buildings. The largest structure in the middle had iron bars on the windows. The windows of the other two buildings held glass panes.

  Hitching rails at the two outside structures accommodated a large number of horses—at least twenty, Blake estimated. A like amount of men stood in small groups watching Blake being brought in. All but a few of them wore gray uniforms. Corey Starr kicked his paint ahead of Blake and reined up before one of the men.

  “Any more trouble here?”

  “Nope, Corey. Got ’em all quietened down. Two been hit bad, but we’ll see that they’re nursed so they don’t escape what’s due ’em.”

  “Fine,” said Corey Starr. “No rations for two days, for anybody. See if that’ll keep them down. Bolliver will ride into Moon with me and this murderin’ jasper. Meantime take a detachment of men and bring in the dead from up there. Wells and Johnston got it, but so did two of them. As soon as I’ve handed over this scum for trial I’ll be back and we’ll see about gettin’ after them others.”

  The uniformed man gave a sloppy salute and Blake found one of the guards settled close beside him. Corey Starr looked heavily about him and swore before he told Blake, “You speak one more word on the way into town, Durant, and I’ll put a bullet in you. You slow us down, do any damn thing to rile me, same result. Let’s go and you lead. Bolliver, flank him.”

  Bolliver turned out to be thin, hawk-eyed and sharp-nosed. Blake looked into his eyes and decided he’d be about as cruel and sadistic as any man he’d ever met. His grin mocked Blake as he dug a gun into his side and growled:

  “You heard Mr. Starr, Durant. Move on.”

  Blake gave no argument. He let Sundown have his head but was careful to keep the big black down to a steady gait. They left the prison fortress behind them and cut into open country. They rode close-packed, Corey Starr keeping a watchful eye on Blake. Two hours later they topped a rise and Blake saw a town below, big and sprawled-out, with busy streets.

  “Circuit judge don’t come by for another week, Durant, so what you see ahead there is your new home till he does. Then you’ll come out to me, and I’ll see if I can’t take some strips off you for killing four of my good men and helpin’ a skunk murderer get away.”

  “My story will hold up—just as soon as I can talk to somebody with commonsense, Starr,” Blake told him. “When they let me go, keep to hell out of my way.”

  Starr mouthed a curse, drew his gun and brought the butt down in a glancing blow off the side of Blake’s head. Blake collapsed forward on Sundown’s neck, tried to fight off the whirling darkness fast enveloping him. He heard Starr’s voice and it sounded like it came through a long tunnel:

  “I told you to shut down, mister. Now you will, by hell!”

  Then there was nothing but the deepening blackness and a roaring building up to blot out the pain in his head.

  “Dump him there.”

  Blake heard the words through a daze. His ears were still ringing and pain throbbed heavily in his head. He was pushed around and then thrown to the floor.

  While he lay there, trying to get his bearings, he smelled mud from the boards and felt the wash of heat over him. Boots thumped on the floor close to him before one cracked into his ribs.

  “All right,” someone said sharply, “enough of that, Starr. He’s in my care now.”

  “He’s a damn murderin’ scum, Simpson,” growled the now-familiar voice of Corey Starr. “Don’t deserve no good treatment. He and four other mongrels, Rance Parrant among ’em, busted into my prison and got Larry Parrant free. They killed two guards doing that—and killed another two when we bailed ’em up.”

  “Larry Parrant escaped?”

  “For a bit,” said Starr.

  Blake lifted his head and saw the prison warden grinning thinly. “But not for long,” Starr went on. “Got him when he tried to go over a hill. Got another of them, too, on the way through. Them others will get stopped in the flooded country and I reckon if we can get onto their trail late today, we can corral them up in the wet and settle some differences with them.”

  Blake rubbed his eyes and leaned his back against the wall. The throb of pain in his head threatened to burst right through his glazed eyes. But at least his arm didn’t hurt so much now, and his blood was caked solidly over the wound. However, his mind was still triggered by anger and he couldn’t think straight. Looking up at Corey Starr, his only thought was a yearning to get his hands on Starr and beat the hell out of him.

  Blake turned his head and saw the other man standing against his desk, hands spread at his sides. There was a badge pinned to his shirt. He was of medium height and build. Although his face had a hint of hardness in it, there was a softness at the corners of his mouth.

  Seeing Blake looking at him, the sheriff said, “Get up if you can. No sense lying down there.”

  “He’s a cur,” Corey Starr said, and Blake noticed a quick tightening of Simpson’s mouth. But the lawman said nothing to Starr as he pushed himself back and sat on the desk top, boots dangling. Then he turned and watched Blake struggle to his feet.

  “Well, now. Durant, is it?”

  Blake put a hand across his blood-soaked bandanna and nodded.

  “Mr. Starr has laid a complaint against you, one backed up by Mr. Bolliver in the doorway. They claim you rode with Rance Parrant and raided the Moon prison and helped a killer escape. What have you got to say in your defense, mister?”

  “Only that Starr’s lyin’. I figure he’s had his mind twisted by his inability to stop a hellion crowd breaking into his prison and out of it. I had nothing to do with the escape.”

  Simpson’s eyes arched, creasing his high, broad forehead. Blake figured him to be no more than thirty years of age.

  The sheriff had the confident look of a man who did his job as well as anyone could expect.

  Corey Starr let out a curse. “They all lie, don’t they, Sim
pson? Hell, he was identified by Bolliver who saw him real close. And Bolliver ain’t blind, is he?”

  “Mistakes are sometimes made,” Simpson said. “Especially when bullets are flying. I think you’ve said all I need to know, Mr. Starr. Just as soon as Durant’s trial comes up I’ll send word out to you. Good luck with those others.”

  Simpson’s voice hardly rose above a whisper but there was authority in it. He picked up a ring of keys and opened the first cell. Then he motioned Blake to come across and when Blake moved past him, he locked the cell and tossed the keys onto his desk. Corey Starr walked slowly to the door, pushing Bolliver in front of him. Then he hesitated, regarded Blake coolly and turned to the Sheriff.

  “Wouldn’t want him to get away, Simpson. Be bad tellin’ it to the relations of those who were killed.”

  “This is my jailhouse, not your prison, Starr. He’ll be in court to answer the charges you’ve laid against him.”

  “Fine,” Corey Starr muttered, and he went out. Simpson stayed near Blake’s cell, studying him gravely.

  “What about the arm, Durant?” he asked.

  “Hurts some.”

  “I’ll get the doctor to look at it as soon as I can. There’s blood on the side of your head, too, and a lump. A gun butt?”

  Blake nodded.

  “Starr?”

  “Who else?”

  Simpson moved back to the desk, wrote out a report and then he looked thoughtfully out the doorway at his town’s main street. Watching him, Blake had the impression he was not too friendly with Corey Starr, and that he was somewhat concerned over the way things were going.

  Blake said, “What I said before is true, Sheriff. I left Tim Shay’s depot in the hills early this morning. If you send a man out there to check I’m sure Shay will come and clear me. If he can’t, there’s three other people up there—a Miss Cantrell and her grandfather and a man carrying a wound from Rance Parrant.”

  Simpson showed interest. “Wound?”

  “Man name of Roy Iverson. He and a sidekick named Ed Ludlow attacked Parrant two nights ago. Parrant shot Ludlow and put a bullet into Iverson. Later yesterday I helped Parrant cross the river. I was to come in with him, but he put one over on me and rode off on his own.”

  “You helped Rance Parrant?” Simpson’s voice was gruff now.

  “He said he had to see his brother who was due to hang. Well, I reckon that’s as good a reason as any for a man to cross a river.”

  “And how’d you get across?” the sheriff asked.

  “When the rain eased I was steered to a crossing place by an old-timer named Josh McHarg.

  “I know McHarg,” Simpson said. “Comes and goes. He’d be a reliable witness for you.”

  Blake smiled thinly. “I think I can forget about McHarg helping me for awhile. He’s on a fur-trapping trip in the mountains.”

  Simpson closed his desk ledger and stood up. He studied Blake for a moment before he said, “Starr says the river’s still in flood. How could a man get in there to talk to Shay?”

  Blake went to the cell bars and took hold. “McHarg showed me a way across. There’s two big cottonwoods about a mile down from where the bridge was. The river’s broad there, but the worst flow is against the sides where there’s good footing for a horse. A fair rider could get through to Tim Shay’s place.”

  Simpson pursed his lips. “How long did it take you to get here?”

  “I’d say five, six hours at the most.”

  Simpson looked out the doorway again. The afternoon sunlight was bright on the empty street. “I could send somebody out tomorrow first light, Durant, provided it doesn’t rain again. That’d mean he wouldn’t get to Shay’s till afternoon, noon at the earliest. Then, after he rested his horse, he might be able to get back by late tomorrow night.”

  Blake swore under his breath. A day and a half in a cell didn’t appeal to him in the least. But he could see no alternative. He said, “Guess that’s the best you can do, Sheriff. I’d be obliged if you’d send a man.”

  Simpson nodded and then looked across the room as a tired-eyed old-timer entered the law office. The old man tossed his battered hat onto a wall peg and nodded in Blake’s direction.

  “Well, Rufe, what we got here?”

  “Blake Durant,” Simpson told him. “Keep an eye on him while I go get the sawbones. You might rustle up some grub for him while I’m gone.”

  The old-timer nodded agreement and waited until Simpson had gone before he shuffled over to the bars to study Blake closely. “My name’s Lee Atkins. What’ve you been up to, young feller?”

  “Taking wrong trails,” Blake told him.

  The old-timer’s eyes crinkled. “Well, of course that’s your story. But it does happen sometimes. Well, settle down and don’t give me no trouble and you’ll get treated fine. Rufe Simpson’s just about the gentlest man I ever worked for.” He paused. “Unless he’s got to be tough, and then he’s just about as gentle as a bobcat with a toothache. That’s the Rufe Simpson you don’t ever want to see.”

  Blake Durant was on his bunk, eyes closed, not thinking of anything in particular when an explosion shattered the town’s sundown quiet. He was immediately in a sitting position watching Lee Atkins and Sheriff Simpson jump to their feet. Atkins was the first to cross the room, picking up his rifle as he went.

  “Sounded like it came from near the bank,” he called as he ran on bowed legs out to the boardwalk. Simpson charged across the room to the window and swore when he saw three riders gallop out of the bank laneway and head south along the town’s main street.

  Simpson jerked out his gun but held his fire and ran out to the boardwalk. Blake stood on the bunk and stared out through the barred window. People were rushing up the street in droves, all shouting, some waving their hands. Women and kids stood on the boardwalks, looking fearfully at the menfolk hurrying towards the bank.

  Blake gave his attention to the bank, where a man staggered through the doorway and pitched headlong onto the boardwalk. He had his hands pressed to his forehead, but as he hit the boards his hands were jolted away, revealing a crimson splotched face distorted in pain.

  Then Simpson was cutting down the street, Atkins hurrying in his wake. They pushed their way through the crowd and Simpson entered the bank. Atkins stayed on the boardwalk and waved the crowd back. The dead man lay in the sunlight, the main object of the crowd’s interest.

  Five minutes passed before Simpson emerged from the bank, his face stiff with anger and his dark eyes blazing. He gave orders sharply, pushing his way back across the street and pounded into the jailhouse.

  He spared a vicious look Blake’s way before he hurried to a wall cabinet, opened it and took down a new rifle. Simpson shucked the gun open, sighted along it, then rammed shells home. He filled his shirt pocket with spare cartridges and slammed the cabinet closed. He was turning, his face hard and tight with bitterness, when a group of angry-faced men surged into the jailhouse.

  The man in front, pink-faced and fat, wore a vest and town trousers. He glared furiously at Blake, turned to the lawman and snapped, “Okay, Simpson! What do you aim to do?”

  “Get after him, what else?”

  “And him?” The fat man pointed at Blake Durant.

  “He’ll stay put.”

  Simpson was packing cartridges into his gunbelt. That chore done, he took out his handgun and checked the cylinders. His face was still livid although Blake saw that some of his resentment was turned against the crowd.

  “Why waste time with him, Simpson?” said the fat man, moving towards the desk. “Starr dropped by the saloon earlier and told us all about him. He figures the best thing to do is string him up and have it done with. Then you won’t have to worry about leaving him unguarded and you can take out every available man and hunt that damn Parrant down.”

  “Who said it was Parrant?” Simpson barked at him, holstering his gun and stepping away from his desk.

  “I did, damn you, Simpson! I seen them jailh
ouse posters of him and I seen him close enough, high-tailin’ from the bank. No doubt about it—that was Rance Parrant, wanted for murder and robbery in other places and now it’s the same here. Bellamy is dead. You see that?”

  “I saw it, Crosby,” Rufe Simpson said “I don’t like it any more than you do, but there’s nothing I can do about it with you men cluttering up this law office. You want to buy into this trouble, go get your horses. I’m going after them. Atkins, you stay behind and guard our prisoner.”

  Crosby ignored Simpson and stepped across to Blake’s cell. “You damned swine!” He shook his fist. “If I get my hands on you, I’ll choke the stinkin’ life outa you. By hell, you’ll die, mister, you and all your murderin’ scum friends!”

  Blake drew back from the bars as Crosby reached for him. Simpson hurried across the room, grabbed Nathaniel Crosby by the shirt and pushed him away from the cell.

  “Behave!” he barked. “I’m running this show. What I says goes, all the way.”

  “You’re wastin’ damn time, Simpson. You got the charges against him. All right, you get goin’ and we’ll handle this sneakin’ jasper our way. That way you won’t have to worry about hurryin’ back, or about his polecat friends returnin’ to set him free.”

  Simpson lost his temper suddenly and pushed Crosby out of the room. Then he leveled his rifle at the others. “Go!”

  They backed away, glaring at him. From the street came shouts against Simpson and frequent mention of the name of Bellamy. Lee Atkins pushed his way into the jailhouse after manhandling the last townsman out. He wiped sweat from his forehead with a sleeve.

  “Mob’s buildin’ up, Rufe. Saloon crowd’s joined in.”

  Simpson swore and drew a bar across the heavy door. Hammering on the teak started immediately. Simpson turned to his deputy. “Watch the back, Lee. Anybody tries to bust in, fire over their heads first time. Second time, do what you have to.”

  Atkins nodded soberly. Blake watched the tall lawman heft his gunbelt higher on his waist and stand back from the door, his rifle trained on it. The pounding went on, partly drowned by the roar of voices.