The Loner 2

by Sheldon B. Cole

  The Home of Great Western Fiction!

  Blake Durant was on his way to Crimson Falls when he stopped by Jessica Gray’s ranch for water. Before he could move on again, the young widow’s son came galloping into the yard, badly beaten. Three men had stolen their two calves and beaten young Jess when he tried to stop them. Much as he knew he should just ride on, Blake knew he couldn’t. So he stood shoulder to shoulder with the young widow and her son against a vicious land-baron with an army of gunnies on his payroll. And when the gunsmoke finally cleared, the winner would take all!

  THE LONER 2: TRAIL TO NOWHERE

  By Sheldon B. Cole

  First published by Cleveland Publishing Co. Pty Ltd, New South Wales, Australia

  © 2019 by Piccadilly Publishing

  First Digital Edition: December 2019

  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 – Dust and Distance

  All the anger that a fifteen-year-old boy can muster stabbed at the core of Jesse Gray as he kicked the mare along. A mile back he’d seen how the fence wire enclosing his mother’s mean little property had been bellied out and broken so two calves could be forced through. Now he followed the signs of the calves plus a trio of horses.

  Three horses. Three men. Jesse reined up the mare. Suddenly his freckled face looked older, strained. His wiry body was tight and tense and he could feel a nerve jumping in his jaw. Three men. Maybe he should ride to town and tell the sheriff. After all, it was the sheriff’s job to go after rustlers.

  Jesse bristled. Why go for help? He wasn’t just a boy. He’d been looking after the cattle and the chores ever since his father died six months ago, hadn’t he? Well, he’d done some growing up in that time. As for the calves, they were the future, and he couldn’t run away from that.

  He kicked at the ribs of the mare and moved off. He knew he had to be careful; but, more important, he had to get those calves back. When they were born, just hours apart, he’d been man-proud ... and he’d never forget the look in his mother’s eyes at the sight of the calf heifers fighting to their feet. He had felt her pride in him at that moment and it was a good feeling. But there were times when he’d seen something else in her eyes as she stared at him. Doubt. Well, it wasn’t easy for her. No husband, the parched land, the miserable little herd of cattle, the debts

  She was afraid. As this thought struck Jesse, fingers of fear clutched at his stomach. He jerked back on the reins and the mare pulled to a stop. What if his ma knew what he was doing now? She wouldn’t want him to go on with it, that’s what.

  “Son, a man keeps what he’s big enough to hold ...”

  His father’s words repeated themselves in his brain. Funny. His father had said many things to him, but he remembered only that.

  The track ran straight ahead before disappearing over a rise some few hundred yards distant. Jesse clucked his tongue and the mare moved along at a walk. Maybe the three men had too big a start on him, he thought. If they had already reached Box C land, that would be the end of it. He couldn’t track men over the Box C—Jesse knew that hardcase Gus Cowley, owner of the spread, wouldn’t take kindly to such a thing. So, if he reached Cowley range without overtaking the men who’d stolen the calves, he’d just have to turn around and go home. Then no one would be able to lay blame on him for the loss of the calves.

  The tracks definitely led towards the meandering creek bed. The men would follow the creek north for sure. Jesse looked up. He could climb into timberland and save a few miles. He brought his feet forward in the stirrups, ready to kick back. All at once the cold hand of fear clutched harder at his innards. He didn’t have a gun, he reminded himself. Without a gun, what could he say to the three men? Yet he knew he had to go on or the calves would be lost forever. Besides, if he turned away now, could he ever again feel the pride of being a man?

  Decision made, he brought his heels back hard. The mare squealed in surprised protest, then brought her rear down and plunged ahead. Jesse jerked rein and the mare turned sharply and climbed up to timberland and then along a narrow trail. Finally Jesse came to an open place from where he could see the winding creek bed below and, far ahead, Box C fence. He sucked in his breath. Hardly half a mile away were the two calves being pushed along by three riders.

  The boy looked at the riders, his squinting blue eyes recognizing each one. They were Box C hands. Sully Benjamin, big and fat and sloppy, never clean and sitting his horse now like a greasy hunk of lard; Will Pearl, lean as a beanpole, good with a gun and proud of it; and Arch Briller, a sullen-tempered brute of a man who seldom spoke and whose eyes were always cold and penetratingly cruel.

  Something like a moan escaped from Jesse’s throat as he kicked savagely at the mare’s flanks. He just couldn’t let them take the calves—had to do all in his power to get them back. The mare went into a hard gallop and travel wind whipped back the brim of the boy’s tattered hat and entered his wide-open mouth.

  The three men turned at the sound of pounding hoofs and reined up to watch, curiously, as the boy sent the mare down the slope to the flat and over the creek bed. Jesse reined up hard and the mare reared, sending fore hoofs kicking at the sky. When the mare came down Jesse had to fight to hold his seat. The men still stared at him. Then Sully Benjamin showed crooked teeth in a smile.

  “Well,” he said, “look what we got here—young Jesse Gray.”

  Jesse was angry and uncertain at the same time. The three grinned at him.

  “You got some kind of trouble, Jesse, boy?” Pearl asked.

  “Hell ...” Jesse struggled to bring out the words. His mouth felt dry and raw. “Them calves ... they’re my ma’s.”

  “How’s that again about the calves?” Benjamin said gratingly.

  “They’re ours!”

  Pearl laughed. “Listen to the boy. We’re walkin’ back two calves that strayed from the Box C and here he is claimin’ they’re his.”

  “They got our brand,” Jesse said, the words coming in a rush. “That big G—it’s there plain as day. I put the iron to ’em myself.”

  The smile left Benjamin’s mouth and his face went hard. “Now, hold on, boy. A mistake is one thing, but accusin’ men of rustlin’—well, that’s somethin’ else again.”

  “They hang you for rustlin’,” Pearl put in. “You sayin’ we oughta be hanged, boy?”

  “I think maybe you better apologize real nice,” Benjamin said, his voice thin-edged.

  “I—I ain’t apologizin’,” Jesse said. His throat seemed tight and he felt like he was choking. “Them’s our calves—they’re branded clear.”

  “Branded clear, eh?” Benjamin said coldly. “Now is that so, boy?”

  Jesse’s gaze fell on the two calves. As he saw the sharply defined brand marks, anger lanced into him like a knife, cutting past the fear Benjamin’s presence had put in his stomach.

  “You got no right!” he gritted.

  “No right!” Benjamin echoed. “You’re crazy, Jesse Gray. You think anybody’s gonna listen to you? If you lost two calves, then you’d best be out lookin’ for ’em instead of botherin’ men goin’ about their rightful business. Now you clear outa the way before I forget you’re still wet behind the ears and stupid.”

  �
��No!” Jesse turned the mare side-on to Sully Benjamin. “I’m takin’ them calves!”

  Benjamin shifted in the saddle, and turned to Briller. “Well, now, Arch, just listen to the kid mouthin’ off at us. What do you reckon we oughta do about it?”

  Briller smiled crookedly and shrugged. Then saddle leather creaked as Benjamin turned to look at Pearl.

  “You got any ideas, Will?”

  Pearl sucked at his teeth and said, “The kid’s full of sass. He sours my guts.”

  “Yeah.” Benjamin nodded. “He sure does that, don’t he?” The big man turned towards Jesse. The last trace of amusement had left Benjamin’s bloated face. “You sound real sure of yourself, son. Tell you what I’d do if I thought somebody was stealin’ my calves ... I’d just take ’em back.”

  Jesse swallowed. “Didn’t say you were stealin’ them.”

  “Well now, that’s a mite better,” Benjamin drawled.

  “But they’re still our calves,” Jesse added nervously. “I—I’ll just turn ’em back then and no harm done.”

  Jesse urged the mare towards the grazing calves but suddenly Benjamin’s big stallion was in the way.

  “You say no harm done, boy?” Benjamin’s lips thinned out and his eyes were glittering chinks. “I don’t see it like that. You’re tryin’ to take our property. These are strayed calves. Anybody knows that you can keep calves that wander onto your own range.”

  “But this ain’t Box C land,” Jesse protested.

  Benjamin pointed a big finger. “That’s Box C fence.”

  “We’re outside the fence.”

  “You lost your sense of direction,” Benjamin said. “You’re now on Box C range.”

  “Yeah,” Pearl said. “You’re trespassin’, kid. People get shot for that.”

  None of this was true and it was obvious to Jesse that the three men knew it. They were smiling again, but there was something else in their eyes.

  “Wheel around and ride off,” Benjamin said. He added, “While you can.”

  They weren’t going to let him take the calves. They were determined to steal them. “No!” Jesse cried. He straightened in the saddle. “They’re our calves and—”

  He broke off to the clatter of hoofs, then turned towards Benjamin and saw the big man’s rock of a fist coming at him. The punch landed on the side of Jesse’s head and lifted him from the saddle. His feet slid from the stirrups and he fell to the side of the creek bank. Through the haze that was suddenly before his eyes he saw the mare step away, then he saw Benjamin dismount and the big man loomed over him, blotting out the sky.

  “We got some stray calves,” Benjamin said. “You let ’em get away from you so they’re lawfully ours. Right, boy?”

  The injustice of the whole business burned fury through the boy. He placed his hands on the ground, fought himself erect and stood defiantly before Benjamin.

  “You’re thieves!” he cried out.

  “Damn you!” Benjamin roared. “You need some teachin’.”

  Jesse tried to jerk his head away from the punch he saw coming but Benjamin’s fist exploded against his jaw and he fell. There was no pain. The force of the blow had numbed him. He looked up and Benjamin’s face danced in his blurred vision. There was only anger now. He tried to regain his feet, heard a grunted oath from Benjamin, saw the man’s boot grow larger and larger and then there was a crashing blackness.

  And nothing.

  The world was shaking. Something cold hit Jesse’s face. He opened his eyes, saw Pearl’s narrow face. Pearl poured water into his palm from his canteen, flung the water into Jesse’s eyes. Then Pearl was no longer there and Benjamin’s face was close to his own. Benjamin had him by the shoulders, was shaking him.

  “Say it, boy, say you was wrong!”

  “Nothing’s changed,” Jesse croaked out.

  “Damn!” Benjamin let go of him, brought back his hand, hit Jesse a vicious blow across the cheek.

  Blackness descended, moved away. There were clattering sounds, then Pearl’s voice:

  “Somebody might listen to him.”

  “He can’t prove nothin’,” Benjamin said.

  “There’s one way to be sure.”

  Then Pearl entered Jesse’s field of vision. His six-gun descended almost into Jesse’s face. There was the click of the hammer.

  “Leave him be,” Benjamin snapped.

  “He talks too much,” Pearl said.

  “We ain’t boy killers,” Benjamin said. “Anyhow, he can’t do us no harm.”

  The six-gun was lifted away, but Pearl’s voice came at Jesse:

  “You watch it, boy. If this ain’t the end of it, then the next time I see you I’ll be lookin’ at a man.”

  Blake Durant worked his blue-black stallion, Sundown, across the barren country. A hot breeze that fanned his face, sent a wash of memories through his mind. Overhead a buzzard wheeled in wide, lonely circles. It was a section of country which drew him back into the eternity of his own loneliness, which made his mind discard all thoughts of time or place. There was just dust and distance and the ever-present urge to move on, to keep going.

  Sundown stopped suddenly and lifted his proud head, his eyes widening in their search of the dry creek ahead and his nostrils quivered in their search for the scent of water. Blake Durant laid a sympathetic hand on his mount’s bluish head and stroked gently.

  “Not yet, boy,” he muttered.

  The horse’s coat was so dark that the sunlight striking it gave the illusion that it was black, the satin-smooth black of the true midnight cayuse. Sundown’s head went down and Blake Durant clucked his tongue, the horse responding as always to the only man who’d ever swung onto his back and managed to stay there. Horse and man made the long, dry trek along the high creek bank until the creek bed turned sharply to the south. Before Blake Durant was a sun-washed pocket of country that reminded him of another place—of somebody who belonged there. Louise Yerby. A mental image of her came to him. His mouth tightened and his stare narrowed. Instinctively his hand stole up to the golden bandanna about his neck ... once again he went back to that late afternoon, with the shade from the poplars thrown coolly from her father’s porch ... the crowd of people, silent, shocked ... her mother, collapsed in her husband’s arms ... the cowhand who brought the news. Everything was very distinct, sharp in detail, a scene that pained him more with each day that passed. Dead. Louise Yerby, dead ...

  Blake pulled the horse roughly to the left. Sundown shucked a shoulder in rebellion of the unjust treatment, but Blake kneed him on, saying:

  “Nothing here, boy. We’ll try the valley.”

  He set the powerful horse into an even pace and struck off into the heat-shimmered distance. Craggy peaks rose into the sky a long way ahead. The desert was behind him now. Austere, forbidding country ran to the right, a stark contrast to the lush range he’d ridden from one month previously, leaving his younger brother, Luke, to work the place. Reliable, positive-thinking Luke who did not really understand but had asked no questions.

  Morning gave way to noon and noon to afternoon and still none of the creeks held a hint of water. Stopping in the shade of dead locust trees, Blake Durant wet the silk bandanna and moistened Sundown’s mouth with it. He drained the last drops from the canteen himself. The heat was oppressive now.

  The afternoon was near spent and a cooler wind had come up when he finally topped a long rise and looked down into a narrow valley. At the far end was a small, wood slab ranch house with smoke coiling away from a brick chimney. Blake worked the horse into shade and let Sundown pick his own trail. Sundown went directly for the house, ears pricked, gait eager. Ten minutes later they were on a barren clearing with the cabin only fifty feet away. Blake drew rein, removed his hat and ran long, leather-burned fingers through his yellow hair. His green-eyed stare went over the clearing, to the barn, the horse yards, the trough Sundown was staring thirstily at. Sundown nickered impatiently, shoulders lifting, sides sweat-slicked and head twisting awa
y from the pull of the bridle. The trough was filled to the brim, the afternoon sun gleaming from its unruffled surface. Blake kept a tight hold on Sundown, saying, “Wait, boy.”

  A sound from inside the house drew Blake’s attention. The door came slowly ajar but no definite shape materialized. Blake was sure he was being watched. He let the horse walk on to the hitch rail, then he lowered the hat to his head and sat motionless, looking straight at the partly open door.

  He kept his hands high up on the pommel of his saddle and braced himself for questions.

  The door creaked fully open a moment later and a rifle poked out, its bearer following—a young woman with untidy red hair, small curls loose about the side of her grave face.

  “Don’t move, stranger.”

  Blake nodded calmly and told her, “We’ve come up bench country, ma’am. Been going all day. Be obliged for water for myself and the horse.”

  The young woman was still in the frame of the doorway, rifle held forward. Blake saw the wear of harsh years in her pretty, straight-featured face. Her uncertain stare was fixed hard on him. But Blake sensed no real animosity. This harsh country would breed distrust in anyone.

  “There’s a trough at the side of the house,” she said finally. “Help yourself.”

  Blake nodded again, then came out of the saddle. The woman’s gun lifted and he saw her hands whiten under the pressure of her grip, saw, too, that her look sized him up fully with no opinion touching at the expressionless pattern of her features. He led the horse to the trough, cuffed a slight dusty film from the water’s surface and let the horse nudge past him to drink. Blake stood beside Sundown and dusted down his glossy back before loosening the cinch. Then let the reins drop and pulled a tobacco pouch from his pocket. He had the cigarette rolled and was lighting it when she said from just behind him:

  “The horse is tuckered out.”

  He had not heard her come up, yet her voice did not startle him. Turning, he measured her with a calm look. She stood some twenty feet away, still firmly clasping the rifle.