The Loner 3

by Sheldon B. Cole

  Simpson shrugged clear of the hand on his arm. But his deputy’s words had the desired effect and he stood there watching Durant run across the yard. Two more shots ripped at Blake, one gouging the ground and spurting dust between his feet. Blake Durant was halfway across the yard.

  “Get down!” Simpson shouted as Parrant’s gun roared its violence again.

  Blake was hit. The force of the slug knocked him to the side and he almost went down. Simpson stopped and fired. His bullets ripped into the stack and shook it.

  Corey Starr laughed. “Good damn riddance to both of ’em!”

  Lee Atkins gave the warden a furious look and walked off the boardwalk, shouting to the crowd, “Stay back, all of you!”

  Blake Durant, nicked in the thigh, regained his balance and went on. He reached the end of the timber stack and stopped dead. There was no sign of Parrant. Blake heard the pounding of Simpson’s boots across the yard and he waved for the lawman to stop.

  Then Rance Parrant’s voice cut into the silence. “Durant, when I saved your damn life in that river it was the biggest mistake of my life. You gunned down my brother and now I’m gonna kill you.”

  Blake worked out where Parrant was, but instead of charging him recklessly, he went around the stack the other way. Rufe Simpson was walking slowly now, his gun lifted, his face tight with determination. Blake ignored him. If Simpson wouldn’t listen to reason that was his error. Blake reached the end of the stack, breathed in hard and stepped out. But as he turned past the jutting ends of sawn timber he heard the crunch of a boot on the hard ground. Then he saw Rance Parrant go to ground only twenty feet away.

  Both men fired. Blake felt the burn of Parrant’s bullet in his right side as his own bullet rammed home in Parrant’s chest. The outlaw cried out but somehow he fired off another shot and then he fought to his feet, his eyes ablaze with hate.

  “Now!” he growled. “Now, by hell!”

  He raised his gun. But Blake’s gun bucked twice and both slugs ripped into Parrant. The big man staggered back against the stack of timber and his gun fell from nerveless fingers. He looked at Blake, no fear in his eyes and nothing in his face but loathing and hatred.

  “Shoulda let you drown,” he croaked through blood bubbles. “Figured you for a dude, Durant.”

  “You made a lot of mistakes, Parrant,” Blake said. “The worst was when you killed Josh McHarg.”

  Parrant stared down at the gun lying between his feet. He spat out blood. Then he lifted his head, straightened up and took a step, his hands reaching for Blake’s throat. Rufe Simpson came into view, his gun leveled on Parrant’s back. But Blake shook his head and the lawman lowered his gun. Parrant took one more step, then pitched forward on his face and was still.

  Conrad Cantrell pulled on his town coat and looked reflectively at his granddaughter. Beth held his gaze with moist blue eyes and bit her lip.

  “I’ll see Blake Durant for you,” the old man said. “But I think it’s a mistake.”

  “Perhaps it is, Grandfather,” Beth agreed. “But I have to know. When I looked at him, before the shooting, I felt something I will never feel again for any man. I can’t explain it to you, but it seemed to me then that life without Blake Durant just wouldn’t mean anything to me. So I must know.”

  “And you’ll take my answer for the truth, girl?” the old man said.

  Beth bit her lip again and gave him a solemn nod. “Yes.”

  Conrad Cantrell went out. He walked down the hotel stairway, went through the lobby and walked along the boardwalk to the saloon. He saw Durant’s big black hitched at the rail. The sunlight on the stallion’s hide gave it a strangely blue tint. The horse looked at him, gave a light nicker, then shifted to eye the street.

  Cantrell entered the saloon and saw Rufe Simpson and Lee Atkins at the counter, drinking. The tall lawman seemed pleased with himself.

  Cantrell drew up and asked, “Where can I find Blake Durant?”

  “Be in soon,” Simpson said. “Drink, Mr. Cantrell, to help us celebrate?”

  Cantrell shook his head and his mouth tightened. “I don’t think the death of any man is a cause for celebration, Sheriff.” He turned away. Then Blake Durant came through the batwings. Cantrell went straight to him, gave a nod of greeting, then said:

  “My granddaughter would like to speak to you, Durant.”

  Blake tensed. “What about, Mr. Cantrell?”

  “You and her.”

  A frown etched lines in Blake’s forehead. He glanced at Atkins and Simpson, saw that their attention was fixed on him. He shook his head.

  “No. I’m going to ride on.”

  Cantrell nodded grimly. “I thought as much. She’s a fine girl, smart as paint and beautiful, as you’ve likely noticed. I don’t want to see her hurt in any way, so perhaps it’s best all round that you ride out without seeing her. Like most people, she just won’t believe what it doesn’t suit her to believe.”

  Blake licked his lips and dragged a hand through his yellow hair. After being patched up by Dr. Partridge, Blake had walked Moon’s streets, wondering about the town, wondering if there was any place for him in it. But he had decided, as he had about so many other towns in his travels, that too much violence had dogged his trail and too many people had been hurt. Trouble followed him and Moon had had enough trouble.

  “Look after her,” Blake Durant said, then he stepped aside and let the gray-haired old man go on. After a moment he went to the bar and accepted a drink from Simpson.

  Simpson said, “Movin’ on, then?”

  Blake nodded.

  “Don’t have to, you know,” Atkins said. “Like I told you before, you could hold down a good job if you took a mind to. Folks here think mighty highly of you.”

  Blake shook his head. “No.”

  Atkins scowled. “What the tarnation is wrong with you, son? You got some kind of sickness eatin’ at you? Listen to m—”

  “Hold it down, Lee,” Simpson interrupted. “Durant has his reasons. Say your goodbye and then go and check out the jailhouse. Could be it needs some cleaning up.”

  Atkins mumbled and sniffed in annoyance, then he put out his hand. “Come back sometime, Durant. Have a drink and some grub.”

  Blake gave the weathered old-timer a warm smile and watched him go off. When the batwings flapped behind Atkins, Simpson asked, “What is it actually, Durant?”

  “What is what?”

  “The driftin’. You’re a loner, sure—but hell, Cantrell just handed you a future on a plate. Don’t tell me that Cantrell woman doesn’t get to you!”

  Blake looked solemnly at the lawman for a moment but his eyes didn’t see him at all. His thoughts had drifted into the past, into other towns along the way, and back to the town where his drifting had started. But he shook away the memories, picked up his glass, emptied it and shook Simpson’s hand.

  Then, without another word he made his way across the room. The batwings creaked as two townsmen came in. They saw Blake Durant and stepped aside. Blake thanked them with a nod and went out to the boardwalk. As he was striding towards Sundown, he saw a figure loom up behind the horse. It was Corey Starr and he was running a hand across Sundown’s rump.

  “Leave him be,” Blake said.

  Starr jerked about, his face ugly with anger. “Fancy-Dan horse and a fancy-Dan rider, eh, Durant?”

  “I’ve had enough,” Blake said.

  He grasped Starr’s arm, pulled him away from the horse and pitched him across the boardwalk. Starr’s back slammed against the saloon front. The warden shook his head, let out a roar and charged at Durant, fists flailing the air.

  Blake wheeled about, caught Starr by the shoulders and after backing into the rail, held him at arm’s length.

  “I told you once, Starr, don’t crowd me. This is the second and last time—”

  “You’re gonna eat teeth,” Starr said, raising his fists.

  At that moment, Rufe Simpson came barging out of the saloon. When he saw Starr he le
t out a vicious curse. “Damn you, Starr, I told you to get out of town and stay out till you got your feelings down some.”

  “Go to hell, Sheriff!”

  Starr threw a punch that went over Blake’s ducking head. Blake came up with a straight left to Starr’s jaw and followed with a right that ripped the man’s eyebrow open, sending blood running down his face. Starr staggered back, moaning in pain, and crashed into the saloon wall.

  Men came out of the saloon and along the boardwalk. Starr went down on one knee and shook his head until his gaze cleared, then he let out a string of curses.

  His hand was flashing for his gun when Rufe Simpson let fly with a kick that knocked his wrist away with a snap of broken bone. Starr screamed out and bucked himself to his feet. But Simpson stepped in front of him.

  “It’s over, Starr. However, if you want to fight with a busted wrist, you go right ahead.”

  Starr looked stupidly at Simpson for a moment as Blake Durant stepped towards him. One look at Blake’s face made Starr back off.

  “I got only one hand,” he blubbered.

  “You can still get your horse and ride,” Simpson said. “I don’t want you to show your face in this town for a month.”

  Starr rubbed at his wrist. Then, in a final attempt to salvage some standing from this affair, he growled, “I’ll find you one day, Durant, you’ll see. You won’t know when it’ll happen, so while you’re driftin’ you just worry about it. One day I’ll be there.”

  “That’s the day you’ll be dead,” Blake Durant said. Then he went to Sundown and finished untying him. Stepping into the saddle, he looked back at Rufe Simpson and said, “Obliged, Sheriff.”

  Simpson nodded. “Whatever you’re looking for, Durant, I hope you find it.”

  “Thanks.” Blake let his stare sweep across the faces of the watching crowd. Good people, some of them. A good town, maybe. But not for him. He heeled Sundown into a walk. North. Into the distance. Blake Durant looked ahead.

  He hadn’t gone fifty yards when he saw Beth Cantrell in the hotel doorway. There were tears in her eyes. He let Sundown ease in towards her. Beth walked across the boardwalk, clasping her hands tightly.

  “I wanted to say goodbye,” she said.

  Blake pursed his lips but said nothing. Beth moved against Sundown and rubbed his glossy coat. She kept her gaze downcast for some time before she lifted her head and studied Blake intently.

  “Blake Durant, somehow I feel as if I know you better than I’ve known any other man in my life. Grandfather and I plan to stay here and buy a place. Perhaps someday you’ll be back.”

  “Perhaps.”

  Beth managed a smile although her eyes were still moist. “That may not be for a long while. In the meantime, might I have something to remind me of you? A keepsake of some kind ...”

  Blake frowned. “I’ve nothing much to give, Miss Cantrell.”

  “The bandanna,” she said. “I’d like to have that—”

  Blake’s hand went to the golden bandanna. It had stopped his arm’s bleeding. Parrant had dragged him from the river with it. But the square of silk had a far deeper meaning to Blake ...

  He looked into the distance and his eyes clouded. Back along the trail another woman had folded this piece of silk, had kissed it and given it to him. Her words still rang in his ears, “Keep it, Blake, and think of me.”

  He looked at Beth Cantrell and smiled apologetically. “Some things a man can’t give away, ma’am. Some things mean too much.”

  “Oh,” Beth said and stepped back from the horse. “Then it’s ... it’s ... somebody else’s. I’m sorry. I’m very sorry.”

  “No need to be.” He leaned and kissed her lightly on the forehead. Then he whipped Sundown about and the big stallion pounded into a run.

  Towards another town. There were so many of them. Perhaps, in one of them the memories would die and he’d have a new life to take up, a new love to cherish.

  And maybe not.

  About the Author

  Sheldon B. Cole was one of many pseudonyms used by prolific Australian writer Desmond Robert Dunn (6 November 1929-5 May 2003). In addition to four crime novels published under his own name, Des was a tireless western writer whose career spanned more than fifty years and well in excess of 400 oaters. These quick-moving, vivid and always compelling stories appeared under such pen-names as Shad Denver, Gunn Halliday, Adam Brady, Brett Iverson, Matt Cregan, Walt Renwick and Morgan Culp. He is also said to have written a number of the ever-popular Larry Kent P.I. novels, but at this late date author attribution is almost impossible. He married and divorced twice, and had three children. He died at the age of 73 in Brisbane, Queensland.

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