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It all started with the discovery of three dead men, each of whom had been shot from ambush. Blake Durant did the decent thing and buried them, and that should have been the end of it. But then he met up with Ben Adamson, discovered that the men had been working for him, and decided to help the old-timer drive his cattle into the next town down the trail.
That was when all hell broke loose. There was an attempt to steal the cattle, and in the process Durant was accused of a cold-blooded killing and sentenced to hang.
Loyal to the end, Ben Anderson fought tooth and nail to save him from the trumped-up charge … but that only led to even more problems, including a terrifying manhunt and, finally, an audacious plan to get even with the bad men who ruled Outcast County.
THE LONER 6: OUTCAST COUNTY
By Sheldon B. Cole
First published by Cleveland Publishing Co. Pty Ltd, New South Wales, Australia
© 2020 by Piccadilly Publishing
First Digital Edition: August 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 – Doom Trail
Two of the dead belonged to Carver City. No one knew where they had come from. The streets were dark when they rode in and converged on the Lucky Lady Saloon and took their places along the counter; grim-faced men with bitterness etched into their trail-grimy features. They drank their drinks, ignored the townsmen and didn’t even bother to talk to each other.
Sheriff Luke Appleby had been informed of their presence but he was late going down to check on them. Before he arrived, another stranger, Blake Durant, had entered the saloon. As Hap Dooley, the barkeep, told it later to Appleby, Durant had come casually through the batwings. A man, later identified as Sonny Balsam, had drawn his gun. The first shot went an inch wide of Durant and tore a splinter from a still-swinging batwing. Then the fight was on.
Dooley said he saw all of it, and he told about it in full detail, although some skeptics wondered later how he could have seen anything from the floor behind the counter. Durant, said Dooley, threw himself to the floor. His gun had come out of his holster even before his shoulder hit the boards. Durant’s first bullet killed Balsam, and his second tore the throat out of Sed Danielson. His third shot missed Muller, but then his fourth caught him in the chest, killing him instantly. The other two lit out through the back door. The echo of their horses’ hoof beats had barely died when Sheriff Appleby arrived and learned that three men were dead.
Appleby’s decision was the only one open to him. He told Blake Durant to leave town. There was nothing to hold him for, but the town didn’t want Durant’s kind cluttering up their streets. The only thing Blake Durant got from Carver City was a parting wave from Little Pino, only survivor of the Pino family from San Maradas. On his ride out of town on his blue-black stallion, Sundown, Blake Durant worried about Little Pino’s future. Orphaned at thirteen, his swarthy skin an invitation for scum to badger him, Pino would need a lot of friends if he was to live to be big enough to fight his own battles. Little Pino had only one friend, and tears flowed from his sad, questioning eyes when he saw Blake Durant ride away.
Carver City had nothing but terrible memories for him; a sister raped and killed, a father butchered going to her assistance, an older brother shot down before he could get to his gun. If it had not been for Blake Durant, the stranger who had happened by and read the sign correctly, Little Pino would have no fond memories to sustain him.
So the Mexican boy rode his mule the other way out of Carver City, and went into a loneliness that Blake Durant knew only too well.
The sun was high. A blisteringly hot wind cut its way down the steep slopes. Even along the valley floor, there was no breath of coolness. Blake Durant veiled his eyes against the sun’s glare and smelled death in the air. Sundown caught the scent too and his action was proppy as he responded to the prod of Durant’s boots. Man and horse were the only moving things along the long, narrow valley.
When he reached the valley’s end, Durant worked up the final slope patiently. The air was still filled with dust and there was no breeze to drift it along. Into the haze of heat and dust, Durant rode, remembering Carver City, the men he had killed, and the little Mexican left to fend for himself. He spared no thought for Balsam, Muller or Danielson. Boot Hill could have them with his compliments.
At the top of the slope, Sundown stopped dead. His head lifted and his nostrils flared. Then Durant saw the three bodies, piled together, a scattering of dead branches partly covering them. Durant backed Sundown away and came out of the saddle. He removed his golden bandanna and mopped his sweating brow. Standing there, he made an arresting figure against the heat-seared country, wide of shoulder, deep-chested and slim-waisted, a man taller than six feet. His range clothes and boots showed the wear of travel, weather and time. Only the bandanna was clean.
He finally walked to the pile of bodies and discovered dried drops of blood on the shoulder of a rock. Had a survivor, weakened from his wounds, done what little he could to cover his slain friends?
Blake Durant stopped wondering and took the small spade from his saddlebag. The bodies buried, he followed the tracks of a man through the trees until he saw where a horse had been tethered. Looking into the dust-choked distance beyond the swirling heat devils of the prairie he saw vague movement. But the longer he looked, the less he could make out of that shapeless blur.
Returning to Sundown, he climbed into the saddle and let the horse pick its way down to the second valley. Through the heat of noon he rode, letting the big black make its own pace. Afternoon came and went and finally some of the heat left the day under the wash of a breeze. By then Durant had reached the end of the valley, and before him stretched a wide, treeless plain. At its end he saw a herd of cattle. Tailing the herd was a single rider.
Durant touched Sundown into a canter and gradually pegged back the herd and its lone attendant. But when he was only a couple of hundred yards away, the rider suddenly bore off to the left, raced for a brush thicket and disappeared.
Durant slowed Sundown. If this was a survivor of the valley massacre, he wasn’t surprised that the man was wary. He made for the thicket and pulled rein minutes later when he saw the horse standing unattended. Blake moved Sundown beside the other horse and carefully stepped through the brush. Then, as he stepped into a barren clearing, a shot blasted.
Before Durant could call out, a bullet holed his range coat and another belted the hat from his head. He went to the ground and rolled as more shots rang out. Then, for what seemed a long time he lay flat and listened. There was no sound from below him. He rose to a crouch and inched forward. Another shot sent a scatter of brush into his eyes. But he held his fire.
Then a haggard, red-eyed face appeared before him. Blake heard the bellow of a curse and saw the gleam of a lifted gun.
Blake Durant threw himself forward and sent a vicious right-handed punch. The man’s gun exploded and the bullet went within an ace of holing Durant’s head. But his fist had hit home and the man’s legs buckled. However, the hate riding the man was backed by devils of fury and he swung the gun again blindly, lashing out like a maniac. Blake ducked under the handgun and cracked a short left onto the poin
t of his stubbled jaw. The man went down on his back, gave a grunt and then his head rolled.
The bloodshot eyes opened. The man lay there with his head on a pile of brush. The old man looked to his right, then to his left. He lifted a hand and touched his bullet-smashed shoulder, then winced as pain lanced into him. After a moment his gaze settled on Blake Durant.
Durant held a steaming mug of coffee out to him. “Have this.”
The old man hesitated before raising himself to a sitting position. He rubbed the point of his jaw as he looked over the prairie where the herd of cattle had stopped and bunched, their backs dulled by dust and shapeless in the twilight. Then he took the mug of coffee.
“Who are you, mister?”
“Name’s Blake Durant. I came this way from Carver City, saw three dead men and buried them. Then I kept riding and saw you. You must have taken me for somebody else.”
The old man nodded and sipped at his coffee. Color began to come back into his leathery cheeks. He leaned forward, disregarding the pain from his shoulder wound and hooked his arms about his knees. He breathed in deeply.
“Yeah, I took you for one of the bunch that jumped us early this morning. Those three you found were hired hands of mine, taken on in Sonora. Good men. They didn’t have much of a chance but they made the most of what they had. That other bunch rode off with a few bullets in them, too.”
Durant listened attentively while he looked down at the night-settled herd, then he said, “When you’re ready, I’ll take a look at that shoulder. Since you’ve carried it all day, it’s likely giving you hell.”
The old man nodded, transferred the mug to his left hand and pushed out his right. When Blake shook his hand he said, “Ben Adamson. I’d be obliged for any help you can give me. For those shots I fired at you, I can’t say much more than ...”
“Forget it,” Blake said as he continued to check the country below them. He didn’t mention it to Adamson, but he wondered why a bunch of hellions had made a raid, killed three men and then left a lone survivor to go on his way. Maybe they had been harder hit than Adamson thought. Durant moved about, getting the saddle cramp out of his legs. Even now there was a quality of indifference about him. He was a man who lived in continual expectancy of trouble, not looking for it but always prepared.
His coffee finished, Adamson sat hunched over. He shivered although sweat glistened on his brow and cheeks. Durant wet a piece of clean blanket with boiling water and walked across to him. He tilted Adamson’s shoulder back and pulled the shirt free of Adamson’s left shoulder. As he dabbed the blood away, he looked warily about him. Everything was quiet. It was a good quiet which the cattle themselves would disturb if there was danger close by. Durant found the wound to be deep and ugly. He fetched a bottle of whiskey from his saddlebag, and after saturating the wound with it, offered the bottle to Adamson. The rancher’s eyes sparked but he shook his head.
“Go on,” Blake prompted him, and this time the old rancher took the bottle and had a long drink. He breathed in deeply and then Durant bandaged his shoulder. Moments later Adamson got to his feet and stood drawing air into his lungs and looked thoughtfully at the fire.
“They might come back, Durant. I don’t see why they wouldn’t. They’ve got me beat.”
“Not yet,” Durant said. “How far do you have to take the herd?”
“Eighty, ninety miles.”
Eight days, maybe nine, Durant calculated. He kicked dirt over the fire, then pulled Sundown free of the brush and turned him about. Adamson studied Durant more intently, rubbing a hand across the bandaged shoulder. It felt a lot better, but he knew without asking Durant that a sawbones would be needed eventually.
When Blake swung up and held Sundown checked, waiting for him to mount, Adamson licked his dry lips and cleared his throat. “What about you, Durant?”
“I’ll tag along.”
The bloodshot eyes gleamed with relief and gratitude. “I can’t pay much. I had that understanding with the other three I hired. They were going my way and didn’t mind.”
“I don’t mind either,” Durant told him.
For the first time Ben Adamson smiled then, but went to his horse and, hiding his face, swung into the saddle. Blake saw him draw in a quick, ragged breath but then he was smiling again.
“Meant to use the night as much as I could,” Adamson said. “Had hoped to reach Outcast County tomorrow sometime. No more than fifteen miles up.”
“No water for the cattle here anyway,” Durant said.
“Creek another five miles on. We’ll give them a few hours rest and then keep going, okay?”
Blake shrugged. “It’s your herd. I’m just along for the ride.”
“I hope that’s all it will be for you,” Adamson said and then he led the way down the slope. They got the cattle bunched and moving slowly in quick time. When the herd was pushing on across the wide, moonlit plain, Adamson came back to Durant who had been riding drag. His face looked a lot younger because the soft moonlight didn’t show the scars of time. He sat straighter in the saddle, appearing to draw on reserves of energy.
For a mile they rode close, enjoying the cool breeze, watching the bobbing backs of the steers. Then Adamson said, “You ever met a man who never got a break, Durant, not once in his life?”
“I’ve come across unlucky people,” Durant said.
“Well, you’ve just met another one. I’m not grumblin’, mind you, or complainin’. Guess I’ve asked for all I’ve ever got, maybe even looked for it. But nothing ever seems to go right for me. From the very beginning, things have worked against me.” Adamson frowned. “I worked damn hard as a boy, hard as any man could. I saved my money, too, didn’t spend wildly like so many others did. I always had it in mind to have a place of my own one day, to lick wild country into shape, fence it, stock it, see things I’d planted grow.” He wiped his brow with a finger and turned his head to look behind.
“Well, in time I got enough money together to buy a place. Not much in some folks’ eyes, but it was mine and it had my brand on it. I bought some good stock and set down to work. First year was fair enough, in fact now I look back maybe it was the best year I ever had. In the second year the drought hit me and stayed with me for the third. I borrowed from the bank to keep going. Had a fair fourth year, paid back something and met my wife-to-be. Maybe I shouldn’t have married her, although I don’t regret a minute I had with her. She was a good woman, stout and made to last, and I didn’t hear one word of complaint or criticism pass her lips in the fifteen years we struggled together. We held on, mainly because of our daughter.”
Blake listened, wondering how many stories like this a man could hear if he stopped in the one place on the frontier long enough.
“Bess died of some ailment nobody could understand. I had her to three doctors in a year but none of them could help. She lost weight, got listless, finally couldn’t hardly get about. They were the bad days, Durant, watching her shrivel up and die and not being able to do anything for her. When she went, I had the girl to look after, rear, teach things to.” He sucked in breath and muttered something to himself. Then his gaze swung to Durant and there was a deep sadness in his eyes.
“I failed at that too. I was too busy, had too much to do. I couldn’t do anything for Joyce. She needed a mother. She loved me, but I’m a man. She just kinda tolerated me. Then she needed other things, other people. She left and I couldn’t do anything to stop her.”
Blake Durant pulled his whiskey bottle out and sipped it. He wiped the neck and handed the bottle across to Adamson who hesitated before taking it. He drank sparingly and nodded his thanks.
“When Joyce left I kinda mooned about for a time, but then I pulled myself together. I figured life would just have to go on. I had a good season and my place finally turned green on me, grassed so good I just couldn’t let it waste away. I borrowed enough money to buy this herd and had some kind of future looking at me. I figured that maybe one day I could show Joyce a place whe
re she wouldn’t mind living. Then this last damn trouble hit me.”
Adamson mopped his brow and worked his fingers about the grubby collar of his old shirt. “Three good men dead. If they hadn’t teamed up with me, they’d be alive now.”
“You can’t blame yourself for that,” Blake said.
Adamson’s eyes grew angry. “Who the damn hell else can I blame, Durant? I’m bad business. I’ve always been bad business. I’ve tried harder than most men but there’s a curse on me. Maybe that curse’ll rub off on you. Maybe you should move along and mind your own business instead of tackin’ onto a damn old jinx.”
Blake gave a slow smile. “Maybe you should save your energy for the ride tomorrow, Adamson. That kind of talk just doesn’t fit my picture of you.”
Adamson’s stare was hard for a moment, then he matched Durant’s grin. “Yeah, maybe I should just shut up and count my blessings, Durant. I’ll check the trail ahead. We must be getting close to that water and I don’t want to let the steers stampede for it.”
Adamson rode on and Durant drew memories from his mind and dwelt on them ... Louise Yerby standing on her father’s porch, just looking at him, her eyes smiling ... Louise, saying nothing because she didn’t need words to communicate ... Louise, who had meant everything to him, gone. Durant pulled at his gold bandanna, a gift from Louise, then he closed his eyes. So many long trails behind him. So much searching.
He forced himself back to the present. Adamson needed him. Blake Durant would stay with this old frontiersman until he was safely home. Between them was a bond of loneliness. Every trail he took seemed to bring him to undeserved misery and hardship. He had taught himself to act on instinct alone. He did things that had to be done and he would keep doing so until Louise released him.
He was pushing his horse down the side of the herd to steer back a couple of strays when he heard Adamson call, “Water ahead.”
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