The Loner 3

by Sheldon B. Cole

  Two – The Fury of a Man

  “Wait,” whispered Ed Ludlow. He grabbed Roy Iverson’s arm and dug his fingers in. The stormy night’s gloom had swallowed him to such an extent that Iverson could not see his face, could not read the strain in it. But he felt the pressure of those fingers and swore under his breath. The squelching of boots in the mud before them was loud against the howl of the wind. Inside the trailside depot all was quiet. Ludlow licked his lips.

  Long minutes passed. Then the sounds made by the boots died, to be immediately replaced by the jangle of harness.

  Ludlow said, “You go out deeper, Roy, but by hell, be ready for anything. He’s quick, you can be sure of that, and I got a mind he’s tuned for trouble. We got to get him quick, and no mistake.”

  “Be no mistake,” answered Iverson. Getting a push from Ludlow, he moved past the corner of the building.

  Ed Ludlow, gun in hand, slid along the side wall, unmindful of the rain slashing into his face and soaking through his clothes. He could hardly breathe. Just ahead he saw the faint glow of a lantern and a big man moving back and forth across its glow. The horses were all standing quiet. Ludlow lifted his gun a little higher, passed it into his left hand, wiped his right dry under his coat and then grabbed the gun more firmly. Despite the wash of rain on his face he was sweating.

  Rance Parrant threw the saddle over his high-backed roan and busied himself with the cinch. He was whistling to himself. Durant struck him as a drifter, a man from nowhere, a man going nowhere. But he didn’t want money, was willing to help somebody in distress. Parrant grinned. Distress was only half of it, but things were beginning to look brighter. Crossing the river didn’t worry him at all, nor did getting to Moon in time. But in Moon things would take on a different perspective. It was one hell of a town for Rance Parrant, for any man wearing the Parrant brand.

  The cinch tightened, Parrant looked across to where the big black stallion stood. His eyes lighted with admiration. The horse hadn’t even budged when he leaned his shoulder against his side and had in fact looked at him almost with disdain.

  A slight sound behind Parrant made him tense. But he didn’t straighten. He strained his ears to pick up a following sound as his left hand closed around the butt of his gun; and then, slowly, noiselessly, he began to slide the gun clear of leather.

  The black stallion lifted his head quickly. Parrant saw Sundown’s eyes widen in apprehension and whipped about, gun level.

  A man’s shape loomed before him and the light from the lantern caught the glint of metal in the man’s hands. Parrant’s gun belched flame, then he looked past the falling intruder and caught the shape of another figure in the dark, coming forward. His gun bucked again. The man came to a halt, swayed, and became part of the darkness.

  In front of Parrant a man coughed painfully. He picked up the lantern, ignored the stamp of hoofs behind him, and played the light on the back of the dead man’s head. A curse came from his thin-lipped mouth when he toed the body over and Ed Ludlow’s muddied face stared up at him, uglier in death.

  Parrant let him flop back into the mud and crossed to the other man. He heard him groaning, writhing about in the mud. He leveled his gun on him and the wind whipped away his vicious curse. Roy Iverson lifted his head, fear-filled eyes begging for mercy. Blood ran down his chin, raking a line through the slush dripping off his face. Parrant held his fire, savoring the moment, watching Iverson’s fear consume him.

  Blake Durant got into dry clothes and crossed to the bar. Shay had left his night lantern on. Blake helped himself to a drink and looked disinterestedly about the room. The Cantrell woman was slumped in a seat near the dying fire.

  Her grandfather was asleep beside her, a rug tucked under his chin. Shay had gone into a side room and McHarg lay on the floor, huddled up like a discarded blanket. There was no sign of Parrant, Ludlow or Iverson.

  Blake wiped his face hard, pulled off his bandanna and studied it thoughtfully. When had Louise given it to him? How many years ago, how many miles away?

  Blake screwed his knuckles into his eyes and tried to push the memories away. But the picture of Louise kept rising in his mind ... her beautiful face, her eyes filled with love for him, the promise there. Then another picture came racing up to blot out her face. He saw her motionless body on the porch floor, saw her father’s gray face, cowhands standing about, eyes shocked.

  Blake tugged hard at the bandanna. Then the breath came out of him. He straightened quickly, ran the golden bandanna back and forth through his fingers. He thought about Luke, his brother. Luke would be doing fine, running the place as well as he ever had.

  Blake Durant was draining his glass when the first shot sounded above the howling storm. Heeling about, he saw the Cantrell woman jerk upright, fear in her face. Then Blake raced for the door, tore it open and went into the night. He rounded the corner of the building and saw Parrant standing with a lantern in his hand, the rain-screened glow from it playing on the terror-bloated face of Roy Iverson. Parrant’s gun was slanted down at Iverson’s face.

  Blake said, “Don’t, Parrant!”

  Rance Parrant wheeled, his gun coming to bear on Blake Durant. Blake moved into the glow of the lantern and looked grimly down at Iverson. In the cowhand’s face there was an appeal for mercy.

  “What happened?” Blake asked.

  “These two sidewinders tried to get me.” Parrant indicated the still form of Ludlow. “This here jasper had the same thing in mind that his sidekick did. Too bad for him I didn’t kill him right off.”

  Iverson let out a muffled groan. There was a plop of sound as he hit the mud and lay still. Parrant turned his gun onto Iverson and Blake Durant said:

  “You’re better than that, Parrant.”

  Parrant’s eyes blazed. “Better’n what, mister? They crawled up on me like stinkin’ vermin. You reckon I’m goin’ to let him live?”

  “I don’t know what you’ll do, Parrant, but I don’t think you should shoot him cold. He’s a nothing; he doesn’t count.”

  Parrant’s face worked as he thought about it. Blake used the moment of indecision to grab Iverson by the shirt and drag him upright. A brief examination showed that Iverson had been hit in the stomach. Half his gunbelt had been shot away and his shirt was soaked with blood and rain. Ignoring Parrant’s next curse, Blake hauled Iverson back to the depot. Beth Cantrell stood just inside the door, pale as death.

  Dragging Iverson inside, Blake said, “I don’t know how bad he’s hurt, but you might be able to do something for him.”

  Beth backed off. Blake pushed past her and propped the suffering Iverson into the chair she had left. He examined the man’s wound. Straightening, he had to jostle Beth to get to the stove top where a pot boiled.

  “Rags,” he told her. “Any kind.”

  Beth sucked in her breath. Blake did not pursue the point but glanced at Parrant who was holstering his gun. Tim Shay had come into the doorway of his room, face rutted with curiosity.

  “Ludlow and that buzzard tried to jump me,” Parrant explained. “When the weather clears, bury Ludlow. This one you’ll have to stake to some time here.”

  Parrant crossed the room and picked up his saddlebags. Slinging them over his shoulder he came back to Durant. “Okay, what did you decide, mister? Do I go alone or do you help me?”

  Blake watched Beth Cantrell emerge from Shay’s room with a sheet. Shay came hurrying behind her and both of them took a wide detour past Parrant. Blake had torn Iverson’s shirt free of a gaping hole that was still spewing blood. Iverson had passed out again. Blake didn’t think he’d make it. He took the sheet from Beth, soaked part of it and washed the wound. Then he made a pad, clamped it over the hole and used the rest to hold the pad in place. Parrant was pacing up and down impatiently, scowling at him.

  Blake turned to the white-faced Beth and said, “You’ll be okay here?”

  Beth’s look stayed fixed on him. She wasn’t over the shock of the killing yet.

 
“I don’t think he’ll make it,” Blake said, “but see if you can get some broth into him. When the weather lifts, go with McHarg. He’ll get you to where you want to go.” Blake went past her, dug some money from his pocket and pushed it into Shay’s hand. “If Iverson wants a drink, see that he has it.” Then he nodded to Parrant who turned briskly and pulled open the door.

  Parrant looked into the driving rain and swore. Daybreak was beginning to throw its gloomy light across the sodden clearing. He went out, leaving the door open for Blake.

  But Blake stopped in the doorway, turned back and looked at Beth Cantrell who stood beside the stove, regarding him curiously. She was nothing like Louise, yet there was something about her eyes that reminded him of her. He gave her a terse nod and looked to where McHarg was crawling out from under his blanket. McHarg cleared his throat and, shucking the blanket away, asked:

  “You’re goin’, Durant?”

  “He needs somebody to help him.”

  “If it looks too bad, you come on back. I know a way out of here that takes a lot longer but by hell it’s sure safer.”

  “Look after the old man and the girl,” Blake told him and, giving Shay a wave, went out.

  After saddling Sundown, Blake led him out of the lean-to. One of the mares nickered and Sundown pricked his ears and stamped about. Showing off, Blake thought, and caught him in close and swung up. Parrant was waiting for him across the yard. Blake put the eager Sundown into a run and joined him. Parrant reached across and patted Sundown’s head. Sundown drew back, snorting, and Blake told Parrant,

  “One man horse.”

  “No matter,” Parrant said without annoyance at Sundown’s rejection. “Saved my life, gave Ludlow away. You might say I saw Ludlow in your horse’s eyes. Got a price on him, Durant?”

  Durant smiled thinly. “Sure. My hide.”

  Parrant eyed him evenly for a moment before his wide grin came back. “Fair enough. Let’s go.”

  He led the way out of the rain and down the muddy trail. They rode with the drive of the rain now instead of into it. An hour later they drew up on the river bank. A huge embankment had been washed away and the water was seething below them. Uprooted trees, debris, and a section of a fence with brush and grass caught in its trailing wires, went flashing by.

  Blake said, “That’s a bad rush of water.”

  Parrant nodded, his heavy-lidded stare sweeping up and down the bank. “We’ll wait, get to know the run of the water. Got to be places where the sweep goes into the other bank. When we find the place, I’ll go in and you keep a rope on me, stop me from getting washed downstream. I’ll get another rope on somethin’ on the other side, and you can let me drift in slowly, keep me from being smashed into the opposite bank. Okay?”

  Blake just grunted. The frothy swirl of water was running into this wide section from the opposite bank where the river turned sharply. Logs and brush were piled high out from the bank, caught in a tangle of vines and fence wire. The stream rose over this barricade and plummeted down, sending white-topped water high into the air. An uprooted cottonwood rode the cross-current and hammered into the barricade, driving the broken branches home. The barricade shook but did not move and the tree remained lodged in it, making a bigger obstacle for the wildly rushing water to get past.

  Parrant said, “The debris over there’ll hold. If I can get across the current and into that still water below it, I’ll get my rope on that big tree.”

  Parrant pointed. Blake saw what he hoped to do and didn’t like it. But he had to agree that Parrant had some chance, however slight.

  “You could kill your horse,” Blake said.

  “Sure. And they could kill my brother, too. Durant, you just get your rope out and we’ll work down the bank. We’ll get you hooked up on this side and then I’ll start prayin’.”

  Parrant grinned, and then he worked his horse down through the mud. The animal shied and backed away, but the tall, lean man drove it forward with savage spur kicks. Then a sudden gust of wind ripped through the timber behind Durant. A branch broke with an explosive crack and Sundown reared high, pawing in fright. Blake slid along the greasy saddle and reached for Sundown’s black mane, but his numbed fingers didn’t take hold. He pitched from the horse and hit the downslope on his chest. He dug his hands in but the momentum of his body tore his fingers free, ripping them on a stake.

  Durant slid on his belly past Parrant’s horse and nosedived off the bank into the swirling water. He went under and felt the breath-taking iciness of the water drive into his bones. He came up only a few feet from the bank to see Parrant charging down towards him.

  Parrant slipped and skidded and when Blake went under again the tall man continued further up the bank. Blake surfaced and struck out for the bank, but the choppy, swirling, racing water tore at him. Suddenly a torrent-driven log cracked against the back of his neck. Pain drove down through his shoulders. The blow, however, knocked him closer to the bank. He sighted Parrant again, at the river’s edge, holding a long pole to him. Blake reached out and grasped the pole with one hand as a fresh swirl turned him about. He clapped his other hand over, got a second grip and held on desperately, firming his grip until he thought his palms might be ripped raw. His head went under again and brush raked his face. His breath was near spent and his energy all but gone when he came up.

  Parrant’s face seemed a long way off now. Parrant was shouting something but Blake couldn’t make out the words above the roar of the river in his ears. He drew in a deep breath and risked seeking a higher grip on the pole. Parrant was braced against the pull, his face strained with effort.

  Slowly, hand over hand, inch by inch, Blake wormed his way up the slender pole. Finally Parrant was within reach and had his hand extended. Blake, strength drained, made one last desperate lunge and threw out his right hand. His fingers clamped on the man’s thin wrist, and then Parrant’s hand clamped on his wrist. Now Parrant released the pole and leaned back, taking the full drag of Blake’s weight. Slowly Parrant began to haul Blake towards him.

  A section of the bank gave way and Parrant had to dig his boots in deeper as he changed position. Then the tall man reached out just as Blake’s grip began to slip. He caught at the golden bandanna, got a firm grip and dragged Blake clear of the swirling water. They went down together into the mud and stayed there, lungs almost bursting.

  Blake had no idea how long he lay in the mud, completely exhausted, before his head began to clear and he was aware of the throbbing pain in his limbs. Parrant sat up and swore and then grabbed Blake by the back of the shirt and dragged him another foot out of the mud. Blake got to his knees, brushed Parrant’s grip away and crawled up the slope until he reached the flatter section where the two horses stood.

  “I thought I’d lost you,” Parrant said.

  “That makes two of us,” Blake said as he got unsteadily to his feet. He dragged air into his lungs and let his strength come back. Parrant went to the horses and removed his rope. He coiled it and replaced it on the pommel of his saddle, then dragged his reluctant horse down to the edge of the bank. Looking at Blake, he said:

  “Ready?”

  Blake eyed him coolly and rubbed his jaw with blunt fingers. “That brother of yours must mean a lot to you,” he said.

  “Sure he does, only one I got. You strong enough now to get that black of yours settled? Set your rope around a tree and feed it out to me. I’ll work the horse against the current as far as I can but I don’t reckon to get straight across. With luck, I can sweep down and get into still water. Meantime you got to keep me from being washed into the other bank. Got it?”

  Blake studied the river again and shrugged. He pulled off his bandanna, wrung it, smoothed out the creases and replaced it on his neck as Parrant eyed him curiously. Then Blake went to Sundown who was standing quietly. He rubbed down his shoulders and then he went past him to put his rope twice around a tree trunk, taking up the slack before he tossed the loose end to Parrant. While Parrant tied the rop
e to his pommel, his horse shifted nervously beside him, causing Parrant to curse.

  Set to go, Parrant gave Blake a nod, swung into the saddle and hit his horse forward. The horse skidded in the mud but its response to the sudden slap on its neck sent it over the bank and into the river. Man and horse went down out of sight, came up, and moved fast downstream a moment later. Parrant had lost his hat but he dug in his knees and clung desperately as the horse bobbed up and down under him. Blake fed out the line, checking Parrant’s passage downstream every few seconds, giving Parrant’s horse the chance to cut across the current. They were halfway across when Blake took up all the slack on the rope. As his horse stopped under him, Parrant wheeled about in the saddle, cursing.

  Blake called, “The clutter above you is beginning to break up.”

  Parrant looked, saw the big tree coming out of the mess of brush, logs and fencing wire. His lips thinned, then he shouted, “No matter, I ain’t comin’ back. Give me more line.”

  Blake did not hesitate. Parrant was right—it was as dangerous to return as to go on. He let the rope out, feeling it burn at his already torn hands. Foot by foot, Parrant went across and down until finally Blake saw him rise in the saddle, balance himself, swing his rope over his head and hurl it out. The rope slapped against the branch and the loop tightened. For one fearful moment Blake thought it would not take hold, then Parrant dropped back into the saddle. His horse was pawing the water wildly, clearly on the point of drowning. Parrant lashed it fiercely and the animal went on, helped by the drag of the branched rope. Parrant’s horse made quicker progress now, got into comparatively still water, and worked up onto the other bank.

  Blake breathed a sigh of relief. Parrant had taken all the risks and made it. His own passage across would be a lot easier with two ropes to aid him. Respect for Parrant rose inside him; a good backstop in big trouble, he decided as he strained back on his rope until he had all the slack. Then he tied the rope securely and was turning to Sundown when he saw the logs break up with a mighty roar. He stepped back and lifted the rope so the logs went under it. Blake took hold of Sundown’s shoulder and worked him down to the bank’s edge.