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Ahead was a cold-blooded killer and an innocent woman who wanted to believe he was no such thing. Behind was a God-fearing tyrant by the name of Isaac Madie and Madie’s three sons, all of them with vengeance in mind.
And Blake Durant was caught smack in the middle.
He wanted to rescue the woman and return a fortune in gold bullion to its rightful owners. But Madie had other ideas. And if it came to that, so did Ringo Nyall, the killer who’d set his mind on the gold … and the girl!
THE LONER 1: WHERE GUNS TALK
By Sheldon B. Cole
First published by Cleveland Publishing Co. Pty Ltd, New South Wales, Australia
© 2019 by Piccadilly Publishing
First Digital Edition
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 – Built for Distance
The dry westerly came hot off the plains. Blake Durant turned his black stallion, Sundown, out of the wind’s blast and looked at the town below the butte. It had no interest for him. Just another town. In the fading light of day there was the outline of stores, the sky-jutting sweep of rooftops, holes of blackness indicating alley-mouths, the broad dark carpet of the two wide streets ... people walking, horses tethered, a buckboard disturbing the night with its wheel-creaking sound.
The town meant nothing to him because his mind’s eye, as always, was fixed on something else, something he wanted, faint and indistinct in outline. Once that something had shape and form and color, depth, meaning. He doubted if it would ever take real shape again. Louise Yerby was gone. She was not in this town. She was in no town. Time had stopped for her. Eternity had claimed her.
Sundown shifted impatiently under Durant so he leaned forward and stroked the stallion’s sweat-slicked shoulder. The big black became quiet again, assured that everything was all right by the big man’s gentle touch.
“Okay, boy, let’s look it over.”
Sundown nickered and Durant gave rein. They went down the trail and into the town of Glory Creek. Now Durant pulled himself out of the past and faced the present. He saw a marker indicating that J. B. Holmer tended horses at the most reasonable prices in town. Durant put Sundown into an alley-way. At the end of it he found a barn with night yards back of it and a line of stalls in an adjacent building. The establishment looked well kept.
Coming off Sundown, he led the big black into the light. The smell of hay brought up Sundown’s head, sent his nostrils flaring. Blake removed the saddle as a bow-legged attendant, shirtless, came out of the depths of the barn. He was a middle-aged man with a gaunt face, shallow chest, sloped shoulders. His lusterless gaze lifted to Blake’s sun-baked face and then swung to take in the horse. His lips pursed and his eyes widened a little.
“Come aways, eh?”
“Some distance, yeah.” Blake tilted his flop-brimmed hat to the back of his head.
The attendant reached out for Sundown’s bridle but the big black minced away. The attendant dropped his hand to his side. “Got fresh hay and oats,” he said.
“Plenty of oats. He’s travelled hard.”
The attendant nodded and his look became more serious. “Cost you two dollars, mister—in advance. Oats is hard to come by this time of the year. Had me a store of it, but what with the boom everybody’s loose with money and figurin’ to treat their horses best they can. Store’s fast thinnin’ down.”
Blake fetched money from his pocket. “Give him a rubdown, good oats, and leave him plenty of room to move. Don’t try to handle him much. He’s a one-man horse.”
Blake pulled his hide coat from his shoulders and slapped range dust from it. Then he removed his bandanna and crossed to a trough on the other side of the barn. He dipped the golden bandanna into the water, wrung it partly dry and replaced it on his neck. As he went on his way, looking for drink for himself and some food, he heard the attendant mutter:
“Hoss, you found yourself a good feed, you’ll see. So you behave. Quit shiftin’ now.”
Blake liked the confident sound of the man’s voice and worried no more about Sundown. Not that he ever did worry much ... somehow the blue-black stallion always fixed things to his own liking. Between man and horse there was an attachment that no pressure, no hardship, could destroy. They had been too many places together, had known too many different trails.
Blake headed back up the laneway towards the front street. It was night now and the glow from the oil lights cut across the alley’s opening. Sounds came in from the street, the ordinary sounds of townspeople living out another evening of their monotonous lives. Blake pulled a pouch from his shirt pocket and stopped to build a cigarette.
His attention was suddenly attracted by the fleeting, furtive movement of somebody coming into the laneway. The figure flattened against the wall and the oval face of a young woman was caught in the flow of street light. Blake saw dark brown hair, small features. A pretty girl. But it was a face full of worry. Suddenly she flattened against the wall and her body tensed. Durant heard her gasp.
He looked in the direction of her gaze. Three figures loomed up, two close together, one hesitantly trailing. The woman sidled along the alley wall, ignorant of Durant’s presence.
Blake studied the three men. Streetlight gleamed from the bald head of one and highlighted his narrow forehead, small mouth and pointed chin. His clothes were grubby and untidy on his long, lean frame. The man beside him was much the same. He held his left shoulder low, positioning his right hand just above his gun butt. The third was a runt, with a round, apprehensive face, sagged mouth and a look of uncertainty.
They were walking towards the frightened young woman when Blake lit his cigarette. The girl turned as the flame attracted her attention.
“You all right, ma’am?” he asked.
The girl took several quick steps towards him. “Please help me.”
“Sure.” He moved to the mouth of the alley, the cigarette smoking in his hand. The two men stopped in their tracks. The third stood back and sucked on his teeth noisily.
“You there, you keep out of this!” came from the middle man.
He threw a look at his companion and motioned with his right hand. His companion came two more steps into the alley then stopped as the sound of a ruckus came from the boardwalk behind him. He wheeled and was immediately knocked backwards by the weight of a man crashing into him. Both of them went down. Blake Durant eyed the first man, seeing the anger and annoyance rise in his face. His hand went to his gun butt. The runt against the wall let out a terrified howl as four big men came bustling against him. Caught in the brawling melee, he went down and crawled through legs. Blake made no move. The young woman came against him and her frightened face lifted towards him. Wide eyes studied him apprehensively. She was trembling.
Blake Durant said, “Stand still. Nobody will hurt you.”
Another three men came charging off the boardwalk. Foul curses rose above the explosion of punches and grunts. The runt had found clear space on the other side of the alley and stood with his hands pressed against the wall, much the same as the young woman had. Blake gave him a casual look and concentrated on the other two. Caught in the swirl of bodies, both were cursing. Baldy, grasped by the shir
t, was dragged forward. Two punches narrowly missed his ducking head. He lashed out angrily and got a smack in the mouth for his trouble. More men thundered along the boardwalk.
Blake, taking advantage of the fight, grasped the woman’s hand and led her back into the gloomy depths of the alley. Fifteen yards away from the brawl he stopped and smoked, his face lined with concentration.
“Who are the three men?” he asked.
She shook her head and the clean scent of pine came from her. He saw that she was slender in the right places.
“I don’t know,” she whispered as if afraid somebody might overhear her. “They’ve been following me for days and days. Everywhere I go.”
Blake nodded and stamped on his cigarette. The brawling mob had gone past the alley and were still slugging it out. Then the two tall, lean men came bursting through the melee of punches, lashing legs, rolling and falling bodies. The runt followed, but feet behind, shuffling with urgency.
Away from the trouble, the bald-headed man stopped. His eyes shone fiercely. He regarded Blake heavily for a moment, then snapped out a curse.
“You! Git!”
Blake shook his head slowly. The young woman noticed that his hands were slack in front of his waist. Yet she had the feeling that those hands knew where the holsters were. Blake’s face was expressionless.
“Mister, you’re out of your depth,” he said.
A twist of worry worked across the bald-headed man’s weathered wolfish face. His lean shoulders squared. His mouth moved and sullen sounds came from him. Then his right hand swept down. Blake Durant dropped his hand and the gun came swinging up. He put a shoulder partly in front of the young woman.
“Don’t be a fool,” he said tightly.
The lean man’s hand stopped on the gun butt. His companion’s hand had stopped short on his holstered Colt. The runt floundered to a halt, tripping into the back of the man on the right. A growl and an elbow push sent him reeling into the wall. Behind them the brawling crowd had gone along the boardwalk and their curses were dying in the deepening silence of the street.
The young woman worked herself a little more behind Blake and said urgently, “Ask them who they are. Find out what they want of me.”
Blake nodded. He left her and walked towards the trio. As he drew closer, coming out of the deep shadows, the two tall men gasped and exchanged a hurried look.
Then, “Ragnall!”
Blake allowed a slight frown to pucker his brow. At the same time he heard the woman gasp. Then she came to his side and peered curiously at him, the fear leaving her face.
Blake asked, “Who the hell are you and what do you want with this woman?”
The tall man licked at his lips nervously. The runt stood wiping his face on his sleeve. Smears of dust blotted his pinched face. When Blake got no answer, he added, “Seems you’ve made a mistake. Back off and leave her be, now and later.”
The runt was the only one to move. But a vicious look from the other two stopped him in his tracks. The runt’s face twisted painfully and he shook his head desperately, spluttering out incoherent noise.
Blake stepped towards them. They backed off, shouldering each other out of the way. Blake crowded them to the main street. His gun stayed fixed on them as they turned and hurried off, grumbling. On the boardwalk, the two tall men hesitated but when Blake lifted his gun and the hammer clicked back, they continued to retreat, with the runt already ahead of them. Blake waited until they disappeared into the shadows beyond the saloon before he turned back. The young woman had followed close behind and now she swept her hair back and regarded him with more composure. The hint of a nervous smile began to break the rigidness of her mouth.
“I thought you’d never come,” she said. She let out a deep sigh of relief and began to tidy her hair again. Then she worked on her clothes, tightening the silk blouse across her high, full breasts. She colored a little when she saw Blake’s look go to her bust. But the guarded smile remained.
“I’m staying at the rooming house, Mr. Ragnall. We can go there. We must talk.”
Blake looked back down the boardwalk. Ragnall? He couldn’t pick the name from his memory. The trio of hardcase individuals had stopped just past the saloon and were bunched, watching him closely. But they kept their hands away from their guns. He drew in a ragged breath and asked:
“Where is the rooming house, ma’am?”
“Up here.”
The young woman went a couple of paces past him before she stopped and turned back. Uncertainty worried her beautiful face.
“I’m Angela,” she said. “Angela Grant.”
Blake nodded at this information. He checked again on the rough-bred trio and saw them inching closer. Blake took the young woman’s arm and steered her off.
“We’d best talk indoors. They’ve still got an itch in them.”
Angela stiffened as his powerful grip took hold. But after the first slight drawing back she allowed Blake to escort her down the boardwalk. They passed a few townspeople who looked at each of them in turn. A big woman gave them an approving smile. At the rooming house, Blake let her step before him, and following, removed his hat. He ran leather toughened fingers through his thick yellow hair and took the foyer in. It was deserted except for a clerk busy at a desk ledger. Blake pointed to a seat by the window and followed her across, noticing that she had the normal woman’s way of fussing with her person. The light came onto her face again and he was surprised to find her features slightly familiar. There was a proud tilt to her head. She had a small upturned nose, a soft, mobile mouth. There was a gentle expression in her brown eyes.
“First thing we have to get straight, Miss Grant, is that I’m not Ragnall. Name’s Blake Durant.”
Her stare became troubled. The self-possession which he’d seen taking hold of her was immediately shattered.
“I don’t understand,” she said. “Back there—”
“They called me Ragnall, Miss Grant. I didn’t figure it mattered at the time. Now how about telling me what it’s all about? If they mean to pester you some more, we’ll call in the law.”
Angela clasped her hands on her lap. Her cool eyes, the color of drought grass, disconcerted him somewhat by reflecting a smile. She touched at her hair again, putting a soft ringlet back into place.
“You’ll think me a fool,” she said, and when the warmth in her eyes died, she added, “Or worse.”
Blake sat down, still watching the street. The cut of the trio in the laneway had told him that they were no more than bullies on the prod. He dismissed them from his mind and looked more intently at her. She wasn’t really pretty, he decided. But she had an appeal which was beginning to get its hooks into him. Perhaps it was sympathy, he told himself.
“Just tell it from the beginning. If I can help, I will. Don’t worry about time. That’s something I have plenty of.”
“Thank you,” she said and lowered her gaze to her hands. She sat very still and Blake had the impression she was collecting her thoughts. He waited.
Two – “Pa!”
In the street two lawmen had broken up the cowhands’ brawl. Blake overheard a thick-voiced man issuing a warning to a bunch of battered, bleeding men. Within minutes, the trouble-makers shuffled off, divided into two groups, one moving west and the other east.
“I was so relieved when those men called you Mr. Ragnall, Mr. Durant. I thought all my waiting was over.”
“Waiting, Miss Grant?”
Blake divided his attention between her and the street outside. The trio had evidently gone off when the lawmen arrived. It told him just a little more about them.
She pinched her lips a little and worked her hands about on her lap. Her voice, deep and husky, went on:
“I’ve been waiting for Zeb Ragnall. I’d arranged to meet him here in Glory Creek. I drove all the way from Cheyenne, through some of the most terrifying towns I’ve ever seen. It was in Barnaby that those three men first showed an interest in me, and they’ve turne
d up everywhere I’ve gone since then. Tonight was the first time, though, that they attempted to speak to me.”
Blake frowned, considering what she said. Then, “If you came to meet Ragnall, how come you mistook me for him? Surely the light wasn’t that bad.”
Color rose in her cheeks. “I—I’ve never met him before.”
Her eyes settled on his face, then her gaze dropped away. “Mail bride?” he asked.
Her brown eyes were troubled again. “I suppose you might call it that, Mr. Durant. You see, I answered an advertisement in the Cheyenne Post. Mr. Ragnall had inserted it, asking for communication with any young woman who might be interested in coming out this way. I wrote back, telling him I was interested and asking for more details. We communicated three times after that. He told me he was a miner, that he’d struck it rich and could see no sense in having money unless there was somebody to share it with. Judging by his letters, he’s well educated and sincere.”
Blake nodded. He’d heard it all before. Although some lasting contacts had been made in that way, mutual happiness for the parties involved was not the usual result.
“This is hardly the kind of territory for a young woman to come to alone,” he said.
“Mr. Ragnall sent me money for a new buckboard and expenses. He had pressing business which would not allow him to come to Cheyenne. My brother was ailing again so I decided to take my courage in both hands and—”
“Brother?”
She nodded, her face solemn. “My young brother. He is very sick. He needs hospitalization all the time. And that requires a lot of money. I mentioned all this to Mr. Ragnall in my second letter. He was very sympathetic and more than willing to help. He told me to get my brother settled as I liked and he’d fix the bills when they came in. I was so relieved. It was the first time anybody has done a kind thing for me or for my brother. I just had to take the chance.”
Blake drew easily on his cigarette. “What’s wrong with your brother, Miss Grant?”
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