The two tall sons wiped the sawdust off their clothes and looked about them. Then John came alongside Isaac and pointed towards the end of the bar counter where Blake Durant stood, a glass in one hand, a cigarette in the other. Cowhands flanked him but his striking figure stood out against the nondescript crowd. Isaac’s brow rutted and his teeth bared.
He grabbed John by the scruff of the neck and lifted him off the floor. “Where, boy?”
“There, Pa, the big man. It’s him.”
Isaac let out a blast of words and hurled him away. Then he grabbed Luke and Mark and pushed them against the counter.
“Him?” he asked, pointing a massive finger at Blake. “That’s your Zeb Ragnall?”
“Yeah, Pa, it’s him all right,” Luke said. “Him who killed Matthew.”
Isaac let out a growl and slammed their heads together. John had regained his balance, and now he stood behind his father.
“Take care, Pa, he’s right handy with a gun,” John advised. “And tricky, you can bet.”
Isaac sideswiped him away and regarded Blake Durant grimly. “Seems there’s been some mistake made against you, Durant, by these snivellin’ scum I got landed with. If you’ll bide your time, I’ll fix it proper in the true justice of the Lord.”
Isaac turned and pulled Luke and Mark together again. He gave John a nudge in the ribs and made him rise from the floor. They had a great deal of room now, with the crowd backed off, most of them watching in amusement. Isaac shook Luke and Mark until their hats fell off and their hair fell loose about their faces. When he stopped, he held them towards Blake Durant and said:
“This here’s Mr. Blake Durant, you fools. Durant, who happened by my place when you was skulkin’ in the dirty shadows of a sin town leavin’ me to sweat till I near dropped keeping things together for you. Now look good and never forget this man who is as blessed with goodness as you scum are cursed with badness.”
Isaac grabbed John and hurled him at the other two and when they fell against the counter, he switched his Bible to his left hand and pushed the hand towards Durant.
Blake Durant accepted the handshake and said, “Howdy, Madie.”
“Durant, I’m bedeviled by fools of sons. They figured you for a man named Ragnall, the murderer of my other son, Matthew, in Cheyenne.”
Blake looked at the thoroughly depressed Luke and Mark. “I figured there was some mistake.”
“Mistakes are their habit, Durant. Mistakes are what they fatten on, one stupidity after another. Their minds are filled with the foulness of what they see about them, and they can’t climb above it.” Isaac Madie turned and swept an empty rye glass off the counter. It smashed at John Madie’s feet, causing him to shrink again, so frightened that saliva glistened at the corners of his gaping mouth. The skin of his face was stretched taut, as if there was barely enough of it to cover the bones.
Isaac pulled Luke to him and pointed at the rye-stained bar counter. “Buy, boy, sarsaparilla, all round! Then beg forgiveness from your Maker for not making anything of the chances He gave you.”
Isaac pushed his three sons together and turned back to Blake. “It’s not the failures I fret about, Durant. Far be it for me to fret on any account. Manna comes or it doesn’t. A man must make his way with what the good Lord decrees is just for him. He must sweat and toil for the betterment of those placed under his care. He must stand solid to see that the fresh, clean air of the world is not stenched by the aroma of sin. He must do what he must.”
Blake sipped his drink. Isaac Madie cast a glance at the glass and licked his lips. Then he settled back against the counter and eyed the onlookers defiantly. Under his glare the hard-bitten men shuffled their feet a bit and then returned to their own interests.
“And so, out of evil there is sometimes good, Durant,” the old gray-haired man went on. He put his Bible on the counter and patted it. “In there is truth and guidance for those who want to pay heed. I am obligated to you, mister, and I have never forgotten that obligation. So tell me what you have been doing, a man like you, who will sweat beside an old man in need, who will share his food, share his thoughts and who will maybe one day kneel beside him at the altar of Him who counts.”
Luke was still clearing his throat and Mark was rubbing his jaw where the brick-like side of Isaac’s palm had struck him. John crouched beyond them, adoring eyes on his father, the earlier abuse forgotten.
Isaac broke the silence when he asked again, “What have you been doing with yourself, Durant?”
“Nothing much,” Blake said. “Just driftin’.”
Isaac’s lips curled a little and his look hardened, but there was no strict censure in his gaze. “About my boys and the trouble they caused you ... That’s what I want to know about, Durant. I reared fools and now I stand for them because they’re too stupid to stand for themselves.”
Blake saw Mark and Luke Madie scowl. John, however, did nothing more than hang on his father’s words, all the time wiping his nose with his sleeve.
“They didn’t cause me too much trouble,” Blake said. “Forget it, Madie.”
“Forget? Forget when the brand of hell is upon them? I’ve cast sinners out of my house, Durant, and would do the same to kin proved bad. Tell me the truth and they’ll pay. They’ll do their penance, I swear.”
“No matter now,” Blake said. “Just keep them away from Miss Grant.”
“I want to know, mister!” Isaac Madie slammed his fist down on his Bible. His eyes were wild again. Blake shrugged.
“Okay, if it’s what you want. I rode into town, stabled my horse, came into the saloon laneway and saw your boys crowding a young woman. I naturally took her part.”
“Crowdin’? How far did they go?”
“Only as far as I let them. No harm done.”
Isaac Madie nodded acceptance of this. “Couldn’t shine your boots proper, Durant, what I seen of you a half year ago. This Ragnall now, how come you got mistook for him?”
“I don’t know, Madie. Look, let’s just forget it. All I want to do is get the saddle cramp out of me, have some good grub and stretch out. So take your boys home.”
Isaac Madie shook his head stubbornly. “Ain’t a one of us goin’ home till we find the murderin’ scum who killed my other boy. Set myself to have four sons, and I got ’em. Named ’em after the finest men ever to set foot on this earth, barrin’ the One. Matthew, Mark, Luke and John. You’ve heard of ’em, Durant ... a man like you, trimmed down for hard work, keen-minded for good living, you’d have heard.”
Blake shrugged.
“I’ll see the woman,” Isaac announced. “And then I’ll find the murdering scum my boys followed to this town. For the trouble they caused you, Blake Durant, you’ve got my most sincere apology. It will not happen again, this I swear.”
Isaac turned, grabbed Mark and Luke and heaved them away. John stepped back quickly. “Git!” Isaac shouted. “Git and find a place to kneel and turn your eyes to heaven and speak the words of the Good Book till your throats are dry.”
He laid the Bible onto Luke’s and Mark’s backs and sent them staggering away, hands held protectively above their heads. A roar of laughter came from a group of cowhands, but this changed to a howl of anger and pain as Mark, falling, buried an elbow into a big man’s groin. The cowhand hurled his glass aside and plucked Mark from the floor. He brought back his hand, meaning to punch the stuffing out of Mark, when Isaac seized John and hurled him at the pair of them. Mark and his assailant went down, the cowhand cursing. Isaac moved forward, shouldering another two men aside. He grabbed the cowhand and hurled him across the counter with one effortless heave. Then he grabbed Mark and pitched him towards the swing doors, calling out:
“Begone, Satan, to the fires that await you!”
Luke came up fast as a second cowhand lunged at his father, but before Luke could throw a blow a punch split his mouth open. He was reeling when Isaac caught him by the forearm and propelled him after Mark. Luke’s feet left the boards an
d he collected a staggering, whimpering John on the way and carried him across the saloon. Isaac then brought his huge left fist down on the second cowhand’s shoulder and drove him to his knees. He kneed him in the face and pronounced:
“He who lives by the sword shall perish by the sword!”
He was turning away when the barkeep shouted, “Hey, wait on there! This here cowboy just broke three bottles of my best whisky, mister. Somebody’s got to pay.”
“Your reward will be in the hereafter, mister, since it is a fitting sacrifice for your sins.”
Isaac picked John up from the floor, steadied him, then drove a kick into his pants. John yelped and went into the air but was soon on his feet and running. When Isaac Madie breasted wide the swing doors, he saw his three sons scrambling to their feet. He eyed them wrathfully and without a word pounded off down the boardwalk to the rooming house in search of Miss Angela Grant.
Blake Durant grinned down at his glass. About him a group of cowhands were cursing bitterly, some wanting to go out and settle with the Bible-toting old hardcase. The barkeep had helped the unconscious cowboy to his feet and was trying to shake him back into consciousness. Blood ran down the big man’s right cheek.
Blake drank and let the noise settle down. He thought of the time he had spent with Isaac Madie, on his place in the Sonora Valley, which the old fox claimed as his own in defiance of the law, the townspeople, neighboring ranchers, and anybody who put foot on his soil. Blake had come to like the old buzzard, despite his over-zealous attention to the Bible’s dictates. Underneath it all though, Isaac Madie was a conniving miser.
A tin star wearer entered the saloon and began talking to the barkeep. When Blake was pointed out to him, the lawman strode over. He eyed Blake speculatively for a moment before he leaned an elbow on the counter and flicked a coin towards the barkeep.
“Seems trouble finds you, mister,” he said.
Blake shrugged. The lawman removed his hat to mop at his brow, then he took his drink and swilled it about in the glass. He was short, solid, and good looking. His dark hair was thinning in front and beginning to gray at the temples.
The lawman said, “There was trouble with the woman in the laneway, then that Bible-toter sought you out here. Mind if I ask you a few questions?”
“Ain’t much to know,” Blake said.
“I think that may be wrong. I saw you ride in. Come aways, eh?”
“Up through the Platte River country, across to Meredith, then south to here.”
“Just lookin’?”
“Taking my fill of the country, yeah.”
“Lookin’ for work?”
Blake shrugged. “Yes and no.”
The sheriff frowned and tugged at his chin before he sipped at his drink. He wasn’t nearly as tall as Blake, but his eyes had a definite way of looking at a man. Blake held his gaze, the beginning of a smile touching at his mouth.
“Name’s Blake Durant,” he told the sheriff and extended his hand.
The lawman took it. “Sheriff Lasting, and I don’t much go on cracks about the name. I was called Curly but that was before the mop began to thin out. Now we’ve got that settled, what’s with the big man and his Bible?”
Blake took a sip of his drink before he said, “His name is Isaac Madie. I worked at his place about six months ago. His boys followed a man on a black stallion to this town and figured he was connected with a woman named Angela Grant. I don’t know apart from that what it’s all about, Lasting, except they took me for the other man.”
Lasting had stiffened and frowned, as if the information meant plenty to him. “Mistake on their part, eh?”
“Yeah, a mistake.”
Lasting screwed up his mouth and eyed the big Colt that nestled in Blake’s right side holster. “Witness in the lane yonder said he seen you clear leather faster’n a rattler could strike.”
“There are slow rattlers,” Blake said.
Lasting grinned briefly. “Somebody else said you took that purty little woman to the rooming house, talked a time with her and then came down here. Then Madie showed with his boys and started to tear this place apart.”
Blake chuckled. “He kicked his boys around for making a mistake about me, Sheriff. Maybe he tossed a cowboy across the bar, and maybe he asked for it. Don’t do for anybody to buy into Isaac Madie’s troubles, no matter which side they get on. He kinda explodes and doesn’t care much who gets hurt, as long as what happens is his idea of the way of the Lord.”
“Way of the ...?” Lasting scratched his head.
“Him and his Bible, they’re quite a combination, Sheriff. But he doesn’t do much more harm than bang a couple of heads when he gets going, unless maybe somebody crowds his kin. Then I guess he’s just about like the rest of us.”
Lasting shook his head. “What I heard, Durant, is a little different to that.”
“Anybody get shot?” Blake asked. “Did you hear a shot?”
Lasting was forced to shake his head again.
“So no real harm was done, right?”
Blake finished his drink and stepped back from the counter. As far as he was concerned it was time for grub. Then he meant to look in on Sundown again and see that he was settled comfortably for the night before finding quarters for himself. So far Glory Creek had had its moments, more than enough to do him for the evening. He was turning away when Lasting dropped a restraining hand on his muscled forearm.
Blake looked calmly at the lawman.
“One thing you best know, Durant. Matthew Madie was killed a week ago—after he robbed the Wells Fargo office in Cheyenne.”
Blake stiffened. “After, you said?”
“Yeah, after. Got clean away, him and his partner, who has since been identified as Ringo Nyall. Now ain’t this all taking a real cute turn, Durant?”
Blake gave no answer.
Lasting grinned thinly. “Quite a rundown of facts, eh? Ringo Nyall and one of the Madie boys rob the Wells Fargo office in Cheyenne and clear off with forty thousand in gold bullion. Then Matthew Madie gets his comeuppance on his way home. Next thing I know, you turn up and get tangled in a young woman’s affairs because you were mistaken for a man named Ragnall who the Madie boys are chasin’ for killing their brother.” Lasting sipped his drink and swilled the whisky around in his mouth. “You, Ragnall and Ringo Nyall ... that’s some tie-up, ain’t it?”
Blake shrugged. “Don’t rope up the wrong bundle, Sheriff.”
“Don’t mean to. But what do you think of the next little point, Durant? You come in from the Platte River country which has Cheyenne beyond it. Then the Madie boys mistake you for the man who killed their brother. Now, I ain’t found anybody who’s seen or heard of a man called Zeb Ragnall supposedly riding a big black stallion ... same as the kind you’re riding.”
Blake drew in a ragged breath. “Don’t trip on a root, Sheriff.”
Lasting shook his head. “I’m tryin’ not to, Durant. I’m a man who goes slow after his facts, but when I get ’em I act real quick. You understand?”
“Clearly, Sheriff.” Blake thought for a moment. “You know, the way I see it, Zeb Ragnall could be this Ringo Nyall.”
Lasting’s mouth gaped and a hint of confusion showed in his green eyes. “Ragnall is Nyall?”
“Ragnall contacted Miss Grant and offered to marry her. How he meant to do that and when is his business and hers, I guess. But the Madie boys, following a man riding a black, called Zeb Ragnall, mistook me for him. Mistook is the key word there, Sheriff, so remember it. Later Isaac Madie arrived and cleared me before his sons. Which leaves you with only one thing to do.”
“Tell it, Durant.”
“You have to go off and locate Zeb Ragnall. Ragnall has been corresponding with Angela Grant and has made an appointment to meet her here in town. He told her in his letters that he is a miner who struck it rich. But maybe he did his mining in Cheyenne’s main street and came up with a strike of gold bullion.
Lasting grunted thoughtfu
lly. “Nyall.”
“You got a description of him?” Blake asked.
Lasting nodded. “Word was sent to me along with the report of the robbery and the finding of Matthew Madie’s grave outside Cheyenne. My information is that Nyall looks a lot like you ...”
Blake smiled. “There you are. The Madie bunch are hunting a man called Zeb Ragnall. Angela Grant is waiting here for Ragnall. I don’t think anybody has to tell you what your next move should be.”
Lasting straightened and adjusted his gun holster on his trim waist. “No, Durant, nobody has to tell me. I’ll go and see the Grant woman. You come along.”
Blake finished his drink and without argument led the way out of the saloon. On the boardwalk, Lasting nudged Blake in the direction of the rooming house. As they walked along side by side the lawman kept watching Durant carefully, his hand resting on his gun butt. Blake noticed this but wasn’t in the least worried.
In the rooming house foyer, Blake crossed to the desk and confronted the thin clerk. “Miss Grant in?”
The clerk checked Blake over and then gave his attention to Lasting. “Some trouble, Sheriff?”
“We want to see the Grant woman, Ben. What’s the number of her room?”
“Was seventeen, Sheriff.”
“Was?”
“She left a short time ago. Big man came in, asked for her, went up to her room. Short time later they came down with her bag. She paid her bill and they went out back. I saw this stranger fixing her buckboard, then she got in and they rode off, headin’ north.”
Lasting swore. “Towards the badlands, Ben? You sure of that?”
“Positive.”
“Stranger sat with her, let her do the driving?”
Ben shook his head. “He trailed on his horse.”
The Loner 1 Page 3
