The Loner 2

by Sheldon B. Cole

  Jesse remained near the bat wings. Blake grinned at him, waved him to the bar. The boy came forward, slowly at first, then in a stumbling rush.

  “I think Hap can get you a sarsaparilla,” Blake said.

  Jesse shook his head. “I—I came into town with ma,” he said hesitantly.

  Blake grasped the boy’s shoulder. “You got trouble, partner?”

  Jesse nodded.

  “Well, how about you tell me what it is.”

  “It’s money trouble, Mr. Durant.”

  Blake smiled. “It usually is.”

  Jesse looked down at his boots. “Seems like I’m always comin’ to you.”

  Blake’s grip tightened on the youngster’s shoulder. “Maybe that’s just how I want it. Now, look. You tell me why your ma’s in town and why you look like the world suddenly dropped right out from under you.”

  “We got no money at all,” Jesse said, the words coming in a rush. “Ma can’t meet the mortgage note pa took out on the place. We figgered the weather’d break and things’d be better for us—grass for the cattle, vegetables for ma and me. But now we—we—”

  Jesse’s voice broke. Blake rolled a cigarette and waited for the boy to get control of himself. Finally Jesse said:

  “Ma had a talk with Mr. Darrett at the bank. We gotta get off the property—then that skunk Cowley’s gonna take over, just like he always wanted to.”

  Blake shook his head. “Gus Cowley isn’t going to take over, son.”

  “But we can’t pay that note!”

  Blake grasped the boy’s arm. “Now you listen to me. You tell your ma to have Mr. Darrett with her. I’ll be outside to see both of them in five minutes. You got that, Jesse?”

  “Yeah, but—”

  “You just do like I say. Pronto.”

  Blake turned his back to the boy and Jesse shuffled off frowning.

  Blake sighed. Something deep inside him had been stirred by the boy’s mother. His sympathy for her was something he just could not ignore.

  Blake let out a tired smile. Nothing seemed to go right for him in Crimson Falls. Then Belle joined him, fresh and smiling. “Just ran a brush through it,” she said.

  Blake cooled her enthusiasm by saying, “I’m cutting out for a time, Belle.”

  Her face showed disappointment. Blake turned away from her and saw Jesse’s face pressed against the glass of the saloon window. He finished his drink and slid the glass along the clean counter.

  “The Grays?” Belle asked.

  “They’ve had it rough,” Blake replied.

  Belle gave a twisted smile. “Mrs. Gray?”

  Blake’s face carried no expression and he said nothing. Belle grabbed his wrist and dug her nails in hard.

  “I’m sorry I said that, Blake. Terribly sorry. It was wrong of me.”

  Blake smiled wryly. “Nobody’s sore at you, Belle. Only obliged.”

  He went into the yard and saddled Sundown. The big black had his eye on a glossy-coated brown filly at the far end of the yard. The filly was shifting about excitedly, plainly baiting Sundown. But Sundown submitted to the saddling and when Blake hit the leather, he went straight for the gate. Only when he was through it did he swing back and nicker. Then he made a playful lunge, moved into a brisk canter and, black mane gleaming, went up the saloon alleyway.

  On the main street, Mrs. Gray and Jesse sat in an old buckboard outside the bank. Darrett stood beside the buckboard. Blake rode up to them, aware that Belle was watching from the saloon batwings. The young widow’s face was pale and strained and her lips were pressed tightly together. Further along the street, Sheriff Tom Dowd leaned against an overhang post trying to look inconspicuous as he dragged on a cigarette. And, on the high verandah above Belle Hudson, Marie brushed her gleaming red hair, making no effort to disguise her interest in the proceedings below.

  Blake guided Sundown behind the buckboard and nodded to the banker, Griff Darrett. Then he said, “I’m meeting Mrs. Gray’s note.”

  Jessica Gray gasped.

  “We’ll settle right now,” Blake said. “That all right with you, Mr. Darrett?”

  The banker nodded, smiled. “That’ll be just fine, Mr. Durant.”

  “But—but why?” Jessica Gray asked.

  Blake turned to her. “It’s a good investment, Mrs. Gray.”

  She stared into his gaze and her eyes moistened. “I—Mr. Durant, I don’t know what to—”

  “Say nothing,” he clipped out. “It’s a business proposition.”

  “But we won’t be able to repay you for a long time. Perhaps we’ll never be able to, what with the drought and—”

  “Droughts lift,” Blake said. “Don’t you worry. We’ll work it out. You see, I intend to look after my investment, and the only way to do that is to be right there.”

  “You’re gonna work for us?” Jesse asked excitedly.

  “With us,” Jessica Gray corrected. “Mr. Durant is a partner now, Jesse.”

  The boy’s face lit up. “That’s great, Ma!” He turned to Blake. “Gee, Mr. Durant, maybe you can teach me how to shoot and—”

  “Hush,” his mother admonished. She looked at Blake, gratitude plainly mirrored in her eyes. “When can we expect you?”

  “I’ll go out with you, Mrs. Gray—as soon as I settle things with Mr. Darrett.”

  Minutes later, Blake turned in the saddle to give Belle a wave. Then he followed after the buckboard. As Blake rode down the street, he saw young Red dragging his boots down the boardwalk, head hanging dejectedly. Further up the boardwalk stood Laslo Callinan, his face expressionless. Life went on, Blake told himself, predictably for most other people, but damned unpredictably for him.

  He ate the dust thrown up by the slow-moving buckboard and felt a sense of freedom when they had the town behind them. Sundown, stepping out briskly, went on with an eagerness that told Blake that the big stallion, like himself, had had his fill of towns for the moment.

  The week passed and Jesse rode the range every day with Blake Durant. They worked side by side, Durant advising him how to string wire, hogtie a calf for branding, deepen a run-off from the creek. Despite his mother’s reproaches, Jesse was at the barn each morning calling for Blake even before the sun was up. He seemed to grow taller in that one week and Blake could see him beginning to fill out.

  But it was in the woman that Blake Durant noticed the greatest change. From the very first morning, she seemed to be brighter, and she moved about her work with more enthusiasm. He and Jesse were away most of every day but when they returned to the ranch house, usually dead on sundown, she was there to greet them, showing almost as much welcome for Blake as for her son. Each night Durant retired to the barn loft, where a comfortable bunk had been erected for him and clean sheets laid out. No day passed without something being added to his room, to make it more comfortable for him. So he did his work and taught the boy, and kept a respectable distance from the widow without making it obvious. After seven days he felt as if he was back home, riding the range with his brother.

  On the seventh night of his stay and the fifth of harsh dry winds, he washed for supper and headed for the house with the intention of putting their partnership, as she had called it, on a firmer footing. There had been no sign of Slater, Cowley or any of the Box C hands.

  Entering the ranch house after knocking lightly on the open door, Blake found Jesse standing in the middle of the main room holding the rifle to his shoulder. His mother was at the stove, her face clouded.

  Jesse said, “I just asked ma, Mr. Durant, and she said maybe it was all right by her if you was agreeable.”

  “Agreeable to what, Jesse?”

  “Well, to learnin’ like you, how to handle a gun, Mr. Durant. Hell, you know what I was like last time ... you even made me hand over the rifle less’n I got myself hurt. Well, like I just said to ma, a rancher’s got to know how to use a gun.”

  Durant remembered how, when he was Jesse’s age, his father had thrown him a gun and told him to l
earn how to use it. He had gone off on his own, chest bursting with pride. In his young mind, the rifle was proof that his father considered him to be on the threshold of manhood. To a boy, that mattered.

  “He said, “How old are you, Jesse?”

  “Sixteen.”

  “Rising sixteen,” Mrs. Gray corrected.

  “Hell, I’m so close to sixteen it don’t hardly matter,” Jesse threw in.

  “It matters a great deal,” Jessica Gray said. “I don’t want you growing up before your time, son. Now put this gun business out of your head for a moment and sit down to dinner. Have you washed your hands?”

  Jesse reluctantly put down the rifle. Then he rushed outside. In a few minutes he was back, on the run, eyes gleaming. When his mother put his dinner before him, he looked eagerly at Blake.

  “Will you, Mr. Durant?”

  Blake saw Jessica Gray’s mouth tighten. But there was also resigned acceptance in her face.

  He said, “After the weekend, son. We’ve got the bottom fence to fix and plenty of wood to put by for winter.”

  “Monday then?”

  Durant nodded and started on his meal. There was little talk between the adults but Jesse prattled on about the ranch and gulped through his meal and was chided for his bad manners by his mother. Durant had only got through half of his supper before Jesse asked to be excused. Tired of his prattling, his mother let him go. Jesse scooped up the rifle, called out that he was going to clean and oil it and then he ran off in the direction of the barn.

  When her son was out of sight, Jessica Gray apologized to Durant who waved her words away and said:

  “He’s a boy.”

  “Yes, but for how long, Mr. Durant?”

  “No need for the mister,” Blake said.

  She smiled shyly. “Well, Blake then.” She blushed when she said it, then went on, “You’ve been so good to us, and Jesse’s real fond of you. He needs a man about—needs the kind of discipline only a man can give him.”

  She was relaxed now, as Blake seldom saw her. He found it easier to talk himself. “Boys have a habit of learning things themselves. He’s bright and willing and keen. He’ll make it, don’t trouble yourself about that.”

  “I feel he will now,” she said and her smile was warm and grateful.

  She left the table and began to clean the dishes. After finishing his meal, Durant went outside and leaned against the hitch rail.

  A light came on in the barn and dusk was settling in quickly. By the time Jessica Gray came out to get a breath of evening air, it was dark. Blake was at the rail, where he spent a short time each evening, looking into the distance as if the emptiness out here held something for him. But now he was working out plans for the ranch and did not hear her come up. She said, close to him:

  “What do you think about?”

  He turned, accidentally brushing a shoulder lightly against her. She caught her breath but didn’t move away.

  “I don’t think, Jessica,” he said. “I just look, and remember. We all have things to remember.”

  “Yes,” she said, her gaze going past him to the darkness beyond the valley. They stood together, the light from the house fading short of them and the light from the barn not strong enough to reach them. They could hear Jesse whistling, and off in the hills a coyote wailed.

  Time stood still for both of them. Then, as Jessica turned and looked straight at him, her lips trembling, Blake Durant felt a stirring that had been locked away too long, deep inside him. Her hand touched his arm and he pulled her gently to him. Jessica’s lips settled on his and her body came against him.

  For a long moment they clung together before Jessica pulled away, her face flushed.

  “I’m sorry, Blake, really sorry.”

  “No need to be.”

  “I led you into that. I shouldn’t have ... I don’t know what got into me.”

  “It was honest,” he said.

  Her lips were moist and her hands shook a little. Then she looked quickly towards the barn where Jesse’s shrill whistling still disturbed the night. She touched her hair, then the ribbon of her blouse and regarded him intently for a moment before, with a sudden turn, she hurried towards the house.

  Blake Durant stood in the darkness, still feeling the responsive softness of her lips on his. Then he walked to the barn and watched Jesse working on the gun.

  “In the morning I’ll start teaching you about guns,” Blake said suddenly.

  Jesse looked up, eyes wide with disbelief. “For certain, Mr. Durant?”

  “Yeah. Best turn in. It’s late.”

  Jesse grinned. “Yes, sure, Mr. Durant. First thing in the morning!” He called his goodnight on the run and tore down the clearing.

  Durant saw the house door open and close and then deeper darkness settled on the clearing. He picked up the lantern and climbed to the loft. As soon as he had his bearings he blew out the light, kicked off his boots and stretched out on the bunk. He lay there blanking his mind against the present and the past and thinking only of the future.

  Back at the house, Jesse broke into his mother’s thoughtful silence. “Ma, Mr. Durant changed his mind! He’s gonna teach me about guns tomorrow, first thing.”

  Jessica looked at him for a moment, then placed her hands behind his head and drew him down to her bosom. Despite the feeling that real men didn’t allow this, Jesse was too thrilled with the prospect of tomorrow to draw away. Jessica patted his head for a moment, then said:

  “Go to bed, son.”

  Jesse stepped back from her, frowning because he detected a troubled note in her voice. “You all right, Ma? You ain’t sick or nothin’?”

  She smiled faintly. “No, Jesse, I’m fine. I’m really all right.”

  “Well, okay then,” he said and made his way up to his room, where he wondered about grownups who could be as happy as hell and the next minute be all caught up in some worry which wasn’t there earlier. He decided that this even happened sometimes to Mr. Durant, though not often. He took off his clothes, put on his pajamas and tumbled into bed. As he drew the sheets up to his neck, he smiled.

  By hell, after tomorrow he’d stand alongside Mr. Durant and help him against the likes of Cowley and Slater. It did not enter Jesse Gray’s mind that one day Blake Durant would not be there. It just seemed natural that he always would be.

  Downstairs Jessica Gray sighed heavily and wondered how long it would be now before Blake Durant left. Tonight her lack of control had put a barrier between them which neither of them could ignore. She liked this man, admired him, respected him. But he was not Chad Gray. He was just a stranger who had come along the trail and helped them. She rose, confused still and remembering his tenderness and how he’d neither denied her nor encouraged her. Going to her room, she promised herself it would not happen again, ever.

  But later, lying in bed, she touched at her lips and warmth moved through her. She felt suddenly unknotted, loose, released from a tension she realized had been of her own making.

  Eight – Gunsmoke Talk

  They left their horses on the rim of the slope and made their way down to a shaded valley. Suddenly Durant stopped Jesse by pulling at his arm. Jesse looked curiously at this big man who, every day, managed to surprise him in some way.

  “Never walk on the warm side of a rock when the day’s cool, Jesse. When it’s hot never walk on the cool side.”

  Jesse frowned at him, unable to get the gist of this.

  “Rattlers like their comforts, too,” Durant told him and went on past the shaded side of the big rock.

  Jesse looked at the sun on the ground and shrugged. He had no mind for nature lessons today, only gun-play and things like that. They walked on for another hundred yards before Durant picked out a place where there was both sunlight and shade and a boulder sitting squat, as it had for centuries, dead ahead.

  Durant pointed. “Put the can there, boy.”

  Jesse hurried off, put the preserve can on the boulder and ran back. He wa
s more excited than he’d ever been. Durant handed him his own six-gun, saying:

  “A handgun is most likely to serve you best since you can carry it into most trouble-spots. Get the feel of it.”

  Jesse took the gun and balanced it in his palm. It seemed immensely heavy to him. But after a few moments he nodded, saying, “Okay, I got the feel of it, Mr. Durant.”

  Durant had settled down on a tree stump and was making himself a cigarette. He did not look up when the boy spoke.

  “To get the proper feel of a gun, boy, you’ve got to wait until it’s like a part of your hand, an extension to it. When you draw, it nestles into your palm as if it belongs there.”

  Jesse kept changing the gun from hand to hand and after a while he said, “Hell, it’s right. It gets to feel more and more comfortable.”

  “If it doesn’t feel comfortable, never pick it up,” Durant said. He rose, took the gun from Jesse, aimed it at the can and squeezed the trigger. Jesse braced himself for the roar of the shot but no sound came, only a dead clack as the hammer hit home on an empty chamber.

  His face darkened and he frowned at Durant who handed the gun back. “Try it.”

  “But, hell, how’ll I know how I’m doin’ with no bullets?”

  “I’ll know,” Durant said.

  Jesse aimed and triggered, aimed and triggered again. He then turned to the tall man and said, “Ain’t nothin’ to this.”

  Durant gave him a wry smile. “The way you jerk your hand up, those bullets might’ve knocked down a buzzard, but nothing else. Just stretch the hand and tighten on the trigger, easing it back. Never take your eyes off what you’re shooting at.”

  Jesse went through the motions unhappily. Durant kept him at it for a long time until the boy’s arm ached from holding the gun out.

  “What’s the use of all this?” Jesse grumbled. “You got to get the gun out first before you can fire it. Teach me to draw.”

  Durant shook his head. “What’s the use of drawing a gun if you don’t know how to fire it? First things first. Tired?”