The Loner 3

by Sheldon B. Cole

  Atkins licked at his cracked lips and regarded Durant more intently. “Got a killer streak in you which ain’t been satisfied so far, eh?”

  “I’m thinking of an old man who offered to help me and got killed for his trouble,” Blake said.

  “Like who?”

  “Josh McHarg. He’s the only one who matters to me now. I knew the old-timer for only two days but in that time I got to know him well enough to want to spend some more time in his company, maybe trap some furs with him, air my lungs in his mountain camp. Things didn’t turn out that way but before I leave this town, Atkins, I aim to settle a debt for him.”

  Atkins moved lightly across the room, rubbing his jaw thoughtfully. Suddenly he turned about and fixed Blake Durant with a probing look. “It ain’t bounty on Parrant, is it?”

  “No.”

  “Why in hell not? Parrant’s got a big price on his head.”

  “I make out fine enough on my own.”

  “Driftin’?” Atkins swore under his breath and shook his head. “Why do that, Durant? Hell, from what I seen you got enough ability to hold down a good job. Country’s opening up and young men like you should find a place in it for yourselves, get some cash together, improve yourselves. Ain’t nothin’ in driftin’ except saddle sores.”

  Blake nodded agreement, drew on his cigarette and said quietly, “I have my reasons, Atkins, none of which concerns you in the least. Will you draw off Simpson and Starr?”

  Atkins sniffed doubtfully. “Draw them to where?”

  “Out of town. Say that you got wind I was cutting out. I’ll take my horse and put it someplace where he won’t be found. With Simpson out of town, Parrant will come into the open again. He won’t risk further trouble until he’s sure of his ground.”

  Atkins shook his head. But his mumbling convinced Blake that he was getting through to the old man.

  “Do it for Josh McHarg,” Blake said. “If this country ever amounts to anything, it’ll be because of men like him. And men like you.”

  Atkins lifted his head sharply and fixed Blake with a sharp look. “You blarneyin’ me, Durant?”

  Blake shook his head. “I don’t treat an old man’s killing lightly at any time, Atkins. What do you reckon?”

  Atkins drew in a sharp breath and pouted his cracked lips. “Ain’t sure.”

  “Think about it. I’m taking Sundown anyway.”

  Atkins straightened, his eyes hardening. “I ain’t said you could, mister. I ain’t said it yet.”

  “Time’s short,” Blake gritted and went out. He crossed the yard, drew Sundown from his stall, threw the saddle on him and swung up. As he turned the big black from the yard, he saw Atkins standing outside the shack, his hand on his gun butt, his shoulders as square as he could get them.

  Blake ignored him, turned Sundown into the laneway and rode down the back street.

  Rance Parrant packed the torn-off tail of his shirt about his arm wound and came out of the barn carefully. There was no sound in the town. He swore as his boots crunched gravel. Walking slowly, he made the end of the town and turned towards the main street. Only the jailhouse light showed in the darkness.

  Crossing the street, Parrant stopped on the opposite boardwalk and gritted his teeth against the pain in his neck and shoulders. He knew from that throbbing pain that poisoning from the wound had already set in. If he didn’t get some medical attention soon, he would never need any again. He waited ten minutes outside the white-fenced cottage before he opened the gate and dragged himself inside. He waited another five minutes before he went up the walk to the porch. On the porch, he turned and checked the town behind him.

  Rufe Simpson and Lee Atkins rode out of the jailhouse lane and sped along the main street. Parrant scowled after them. He hated Blake Durant then more than he had ever hated any man in his life. It was Durant who had messed things for him, right from the beginning. Yet he had saved the drifter’s life, dragging him by the scruff of the neck from the raging river torrent.

  But the fact that they had gone suited him, for the moment. He knew he had all the time in the world now that the rest of the town lay sleeping about him. Some attention, a few drinks, a little rest, and then he would get back to the money he had hidden outside of town. He intended to cache that haul some place, let his wound repair completely and then get somebody to ride into Moon and check on Durant. With the Cantrell people in town, Parrant knew Durant would no longer have to hide from the law. He saw that when Simpson and Corey Starr didn’t gun Durant down even though they had him fair in their sights outside the Cantrells’ room.

  Parrant tried the door of the cottage. It wasn’t locked. He had never met a sawbones who wasn’t so damn sure of himself and his standing in any community. Parrant went inside and closed the door softly behind him. He struck a match and cupped his blood-caked hand around it. The faint light showed up the corridor with four rooms leading off. There was a lantern on a table. Parrant was feeding flame to the wick when a footstep sounded behind him. He wheeled about and the vague, shadowy figure of an old man in a nightshirt down to his knees loomed up.

  The shadow said, “Want somethin’?”

  “Yeah. Got myself hurt, Doc. You’re gonna fix me up.”

  Doc Partridge peered suspiciously at his visitor. “Heard some shootin’ a while back. You involved?”

  Parrant felt impatience riding him along with the pain. But he’d lost his gun in the buckboard crash, so he curbed this impatience and controlled himself enough to say:

  “Sure was, Doc. Got in the way of a bullet thrown by some jasper named Durant. Hear he’s wanted.”

  Partridge nodded. He wasn’t completely sure of this man, but nevertheless he came across and picked up the lantern. When he lifted the light into Parrant’s stubbled, pain-grooved face he stepped back quickly, recognition distorting his face.

  Parrant saw the truth in the old man’s eyes. He snatched the lantern away and shoved the doctor into a side room. Partridge lost his footing on the edge of the carpet and pitched forward on his face. Parrant left him there as he checked out the room. Bottles of medicine were lined along shelves on two of the walls. A table with a white cloth over it stood in the middle of the room. But, much more pleasing to Rance Parrant’s gaze was a gun atop a cabinet. While Partridge was coming to his feet, Parrant crossed the room and picked up the Colt. It was loaded. He turned, his face bright with satisfaction.

  Partridge gulped. “Don’t shoot, Parrant!”

  Parrant grinned. “You got good eyes, Doc. Now crawl to your feet and get me somethin’ for this arm. Bullet’s wedged inside. Probe it out.”

  Partridge climbed to his feet and rubbed his hands clean on his long nightshirt. He was frightened but there was a glint of defiance in his eyes.

  Parrant waved the gun. “Move, Doc, or so help me—!”

  “You’ll get nothing from me by making threats, Parrant, not a damn thing.”

  “I’m offerin’ more than threats, old man.” Parrant worked the hammer of the gun back and the doctor’s face paled.

  Parrant used the gun to point to the medicine bottles, then to a knife in a basin.

  “Fix me up real quick and watch the hurt, Doc. I ain’t in no mood for rough treatment from you or anybody else.”

  Partridge swallowed a few times and then, under the sweep of the gun, held by a dangerous killer, he collected some bottles from the shelf and brought them back. Placing them on the table, he said:

  “I’ve got to get some hot water and clean bandages.”

  “We got to, Doc, the two of us. We’re gonna be as close together as twins till you fix me up.”

  Partridge bit down on his lip. Then he led the way into another room, got a second lantern lit and filled a basin with water from a pot on the stove.

  “You’re doin’ right fine,” Parrant said. “Just keep at it and nothin’ is gonna worry you tonight.”

  Partridge moved Parrant’s arm into the light. Parrant watched the old man carefully, saw
his face tighten. The outlaw pushed the gun into the old man’s stomach.

  “I know it’s bad, so you draw on everything you know, Doc, and fix me good. Get at it.”

  Partridge washed the dried blood from the gaping wound and told Parrant to sit down. The doctor then proceeded to probe for the slug with long-pointed tweezers. Sweat ran freely down Parrant’s whitening face but he made no sound as the metal moved against torn flesh and sinew.

  The minutes ticked by and Partridge worked quickly, washing, probing, washing again until finally he located the slug and drew it out. He dropped the lead chunk into the basin and applied ointment and lint, then a bandage. Finished, he stepped back and mopped his brow as Parrant came unsteadily to his feet.

  “Always appreciate what folks do for me, Doc,” he said and brought the gun butt down on Partridge’s head.

  The old man’s knees buckled and he went down. But the blow was only powerful enough to send him to his knees. He looked up, bleary-eyed, to say:

  “Some men are scum through and through, Parrant.”

  “Correct,” said Rance Parrant. He booted the old doctor aside and flicked open the gun cylinder. The six holes were plugged with cartridges. He slapped the cylinder home and holstered the gun. Then, as Partridge struggled to his feet, the outlaw hipped the table aside and headed for the door.

  But the door opened before he reached it. Parrant gave a strangled cry.

  Blake Durant stood in the corridor, right hand over his gun butt.

  Parrant jerked his head around. Partridge didn’t see Durant as he staggered towards Parrant in a crazy attempt to stop him. Parrant grabbed at the old man’s shoulder and moved behind him.

  “I’ve come to pay off a debt,” Blake said.

  Parrant shoved Partridge forward and dived at the table, bringing it down. He reefed out his gun. “You killed my brother, damn you!”

  “It was him or me,” Blake said.

  “Now it’s you or me, mister!”

  Parrant craned around the table and blasted off a shot. But Blake was already in the air. He hit the floor on his side and rolled and triggered off two shots that tore great hunks of wood from the table. Then he rose again and dived to get Parrant in his line of fire. The outlaw shot to his feet and his gun bucked. The slug tore into the floor inches from Blake’s face just before his Colt kicked twice. One of the slugs took Parrant in the leg and spun him around, sent him staggering to crash into the room’s one window. He went through, hit the ground on his shoulder and rose shakily, snapping shots through the window to hold off Blake Durant. Then he stumbled along the cottage wall.

  His head whirled. Pain wracked his body. He knew with absolute certainty that he’d never ride out of this town. Life had ended for him. But he wouldn’t give in. And, strangely, he didn’t care about dying because raging inside him was an emotion stronger than fear.

  Durant ...! The name was burned into his consciousness. Durant! Hatred for the tall man blocked out all other thoughts. He had to kill him. Life had come to this—gunning Durant down, watching the life pour from him in great gushes of crimson.

  Inside the cottage, Blake cursed himself. It was the second time that night he had failed to settle with Parrant. He brushed past Partridge and hurried back to the porch. But as he swung off the steps, two riders burst down the main street. On the saloon boardwalk, shirt flapping as he ran, was Corey Starr.

  Blake paid them no heed. He reached the side of the house to see Parrant limping off. Parrant’s gun barked and bullets ripped hotly around his head and shoulders. Then Starr sighted Blake, gave a cry and opened fire. Blake was forced to go to ground. He punched off a shot that sent the warden into a doorway, then he wheeled around to concentrate on Parrant. But the outlaw had lost himself in the darkness.

  Blake jumped to his feet and sprinted along the side of the cottage. Then, out of the night’s blackness came a wild cry from Rufe Simpson:

  “Durant, you got him?”

  Blake turned at the creaking of the old gate and saw Simpson pounding up the pathway. Blake went on, ignoring the sheriff. He reached the end of the yard and saw that a portion of the old paling fence had been kicked down. Long grass beyond it had been trodden flat for twenty yards before the grassed section ended in a narrow lane leading to the back of town.

  Simpson drew up. “Damn you! You let him get away!”

  Then Lee Atkins came on the run and behind him was Corey Starr. Blake holstered his gun and heeled back, shouldering Simpson aside. He went past a panting Lee Atkins, grabbed Corey Starr by the shoulder and hefted him hard against the cottage wall.

  Durant’s right hand went back and his fist cracked home against Starr’s chin. The warden grunted as Blake’s second blow doubled him.

  “You damn fool!” Simpson shouted. He reached at Blake and got a grip on his shirt but Blake twisted free and cracked a final blow into Starr’s face.

  As the warden dropped at his feet, Durant wheeled on Simpson and snapped, “Tidy your town, mister, and leave me be.”

  He went off then, straight through the fence, across the flattened grass and into the narrow laneway.

  Nine – The Search to the End

  Blake Durant Comanche-stalked the gray-streaked gloom at the end of the town. For three hours he had dogged Parrant’s blood trail, meaning to end this night in only one way. His arm throbbed painfully again but he paid it no heed. Nothing in the world, pain or ecstasy, could drag Blake Durant’s thoughts away from putting paid to the debt owed to old McHarg.

  Standing in the doorway of the last store in the street, Blake looked out over the lumberyard, saw piles of timber stacked along the back fence, an old shed with its door hanging askew, then another stack of sawn timber. There was the smell of sawdust in the air.

  Blake decided that he had only minutes to wait before the first light of the new day would give him the opportunity to crowd Parrant into a corner. And the corner was right here, with the town behind him and the prairie stretching out before him. Somewhere close was Rance Parrant, desperate, on the run, trapped ... It was just a matter of time.

  A voice said from behind him, “Well, Durant?”

  Durant looked across his shoulder at Rufe Simpson. Lee Atkins flanked the lawman, and both had their guns out.

  “He’s ahead,” Blake said. “His blood trail pointed here. Soon as it’s light enough I’m going after him.”

  “The three of us will,” Simpson said.

  But Blake shook his head. “I’ll do it alone, Sheriff. This started between us and it’ll end that way.”

  Simpson was about to speak when Corey Starr, his jaw swollen and one eye closed, came up behind them. Farther down the boardwalk, Beth Cantrell walked hesitantly, her worried look fixed on Durant. And on the opposite side of the street a crowd was beginning to gather.

  Blake frowned. “You turn out the whole town, Simpson?”

  Rufe Simpson turned and shook his head. His lips moved but no sound came from them. Then he motioned Starr to stay back but the big warden ignored the gesture and drew up only a few yards away. He stared hard at Blake Durant and gripped his gun butt menacingly.

  “Nobody does that to me and gets away with it, Durant. Nobody. And certainly not a no-good stinkin’ drifter.”

  Blake drew in a sharp breath. Simpson moved a step towards Starr. But Starr cleared his gun, slanted it at the lawman and grated, “Keep to hell out of this. From the beginning you’ve fouled me up. Keep back. This is between me and Durant.”

  Blake stole a look at the timber yard again, then stepped out of the doorway. Beth Cantrell had halted twenty yards away and her look was still fixed worriedly on him. Blake held her gaze for a moment and then he said:

  “This is no place for you.”

  She moistened her lips. “They said he would kill you,” she said.

  “Who would?” Blake asked tonelessly.

  “Rance Parrant.”

  Blake shook his head. “I don’t aim to let Parrant do it. Now, go on back
—there’s going to be trouble here.”

  Beth hesitated, her brow deeply rutted. Somehow the depth of concern in her eyes made her look more beautiful. Suddenly she nodded at Durant, turned and walked away with quick steps.

  Corey Starr adjusted his gunbelt and eyed Blake. “You finished doin’ your courtin’, Durant? You ready for me now?”

  Simpson’s face went thin and hard. “By hell, Starr, I warned you. You been told and told good that—”

  Starr gave a short roar of anger “Shut down, Simpson! I’m handling this affair. I don’t give a spit about Parrant. It’s just Durant for me.”

  Blake eased a troubled Lee Atkins aside and stepped around to face Starr. The others drew away, seeing in Blake Durant’s blank face and unblinking stare the kind of cold, impassionate viciousness that could chill a man to the bone. For the first time Corey Starr looked uncertain. His tongue flicked and he swallowed. The gun wavered a little in his tight-clenched fist.

  Blake’s voice was as emotionless as his face. “Starr I’ve got something to do. When I’m through with it I’ll accommodate you any way you like. But till I’m good and ready, keep to hell out of my hair.”

  Blake turned his back on Starr and returned to his position in the store doorway. Minutes passed, then a single shot ripped through the sun-up’s quiet. The window beside Blake shattered and the crowd backed off.

  Simpson pointed. “Over by the last stack. He’s got himself corralled.”

  “I put him there,” Blake said from the cover of the doorway. “I dogged him all night, pushing him until he had no place left to go. So keep out of it, all of you.”

  Blake moved to the edge of the boardwalk and then broke into a run. Simpson made to go after him but Lee Atkins grabbed his arm.

  “Leave him be, Rufe. No way to stop him. Besides, the way he’s actin’ he’ll run into a bullet and then we’ll get our chance at Parrant.”