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The Loner 3

Page 6

by Sheldon B. Cole


  “Get it open, Simpson, or by hell, we’ll break it down!” Blake recognized the banker’s voice, shrill with bitterness. Then a brick smashed through the window, sending a spray of glass over Rufe Simpson. Cursing, Simpson backed further into the room. Blake saw that the lawman’s back was within his reach as a battering pole was driven against the front door, bringing a drift of dust down from the rafters. Simpson’s face was a study in fury. Atkins was at the other end of the jailhouse, crouched against the wall, his wizened old face creased deep with worry but grimly set.

  Simpson backed a step closer to Blake and snapped, “Damn them, they’ll pay for this!”

  “After I’m hanged, Sheriff?” Blake said.

  Simpson glanced at Blake over his shoulder. “Over my dead body, Durant. You’re in my custody and by hell that’s how it’ll stay.”

  Suddenly the jailhouse door buckled under the pounding of the heavy pole. Rufe Simpson turned his back on Blake and looked anxiously to where Lee Atkins crouched. His confidence in the old-timer showed clearly as he said:

  “Get ready, Lee.” He lifted his voice. “First man in loses his kneecap!”

  At that moment Blake reached out with both hands. He lifted Simpson’s Colt clear of leather and jerked the rifle free of the lawman’s grip. Simpson whirled about, his face mirroring both surprise and anger. Blake hurled the rifle back against his cell wall. The gun exploded and the shouting outside died to murmurs.

  Blake said, “Get the keys, Atkins, and open this cell. Don’t argue, just move!”

  Simpson grasped the cell bars and glared at Blake, his face working, his eyes burning. Atkins went to the wall where the keys hung, then turned to Blake.

  “By hell, Durant, this ain’t the way. If you run, we’ll hunt you down and then there’ll be no way in the world to keep those half-drunken fools off’n your back.”

  “Hunt all you like, mister,” Blake said, “after I’m gone. For now, get this door open. I reckon I’ve got one minute, no more. Then it’s Simpson or me.”

  Atkins muttered under his breath. But when he went to reach for the keys, Simpson grasped his arm and held him back. “No,” he said. “He’s bluffing.”

  Blake fired off a shot which tore through Simpson’s sleeve. The hammering on the door had started up again, but now it stopped abruptly. As the shot still echoed in the law office, Atkins broke clear of Simpson and plucked the ring of cell keys from the wall. Then he moved past Simpson and fitted a big key into the cell door lock. Blake pushed the door open, flattening the little man against the wall. Then Simpson moved forward quickly and lunged at Blake. But Blake caught the lawman’s wrist, turned him around and twisted his arm behind his back. He pushed Simpson away as the door shattered completely. Blake heeled about, fired two shots high into the doorway and sent the incoming men scurrying backwards, falling over themselves. A bullet ripped past his shoulder and nicked Lee Atkins in the leg. The old-timer let out an oath and limped for the cover of the desk. Simpson wheeled back from the wall and charged at Blake again.

  Blake Durant said tightly, “If you won’t learn, Sheriff, too bad.”

  He brought the gun butt down hard against the side of Simpson’s head. The lawman fell at his feet, his limp hands dragging down Blake’s shirt and Levis. Another two shots ripped at Blake as he broke into a run. He lifted the bar from the back door, pulled it open, and jumped out. Landing on widespread feet, he spun at a sound, saw four men coming at the run across the small yard and emptied the sheriff’s gun at them, aiming low. Then he ran on, reached the stables and grabbed up his saddle. While he quickly saddled Sundown, bullets ripped through the slat boards of the lean-to. When he had Sundown under him, Blake heeled the horse into the open. Men scattered from the black’s path. One knelt and aimed. Blake drove the horse straight at him. The man threw himself sideways and the shot went wild.

  Then Blake was in the clear. No horse was going to keep pace with Sundown.

  Six – Some Town, Moon

  Sundown covered five miles before Blake drew rein and gave him a breather. They were in sight of the dim lights of Moon prison. Remembering that Corey Starr had started all this trouble for him, Blake was tempted to pay the warden a visit and hammer some of the acid out of him. But there were too many men in the stone fortress. So he let Sundown pick his way through the sparsely timbered slopes and then up to the high ground where he had killed Larry Parrant. The bodies of the four dead had been taken away but Parrant’s brother’s blood showed black on one of the two boulders. Blake thought of Rance Parrant. The outlaw was somewhere in this country, on the run. But he knew enough of Parrant to be certain that he wouldn’t run for long. Nor would he leave the area where his brother’s killer was alive and on the drift.

  Blake pulled his denim jacket closer. The evening wind was cool and there was a hint of further rain in the air. The moon was out, but clouds continually cut across it, blotting out its light. This suited Blake and he kept as much as he could to cover and cantered Sundown along the high country until he came to the clearing he’d reached after angling away from the river.

  Tracks on the soft ground showed that he was not the first rider to come this way. A careful examination of the tracks told him that two sets of riders had passed through today with only hours between them. Rance Parrant and his two companions probably explained one set of tracks. He figured they’d come through here after the Moon bank robbery. He decided that the second outfit could only be Corey Starr and some of his guards, after Parrant’s hide.

  Blake put Sundown into the river. The current was still strong enough to take the horse downstream a few hundred yards. On the other side, he soon picked up the tracks of both sets of horses. Riding easily he went into the high country and at sunup came to a ridge-line and drew rein. He was checking his forearm wound when he heard a noise in the brush behind him. He came about in the saddle, calling himself ten kinds of a fool for being careless.

  Then the brush parted and old Josh McHarg came through astride his mule. He smiled a greeting at Blake but his wrinkled old face showed plainly that he was deeply worried about something.

  Blake snapped, “Damn you, McHarg, you could get yourself shot down creeping up like that.”

  “Figured it was you in danger of gettin’ your head blowed off, Durant. I had a bead on you for the last five minutes.”

  Blake scrubbed his hands down his face, drawing the tiredness out of his features. McHarg swung off the mule. But then, glancing nervously around, he pushed the mule back into a hole in the heavier brush and pulled his rifle from the pack. After working a bullet into the magazine he walked to the edge of the ridge-line and peered anxiously down.

  Blake edged Sundown into a clump of young juniper and legged out of the saddle. He walked over to the old-timer who was still looking around anxiously.

  “Something bothering you, McHarg?”

  The trapper grunted and ran a hand over his grizzled face. “Damn right there is. Been camped up here for the past two nights and I ain’t never seen so many people prowlin’ around. What’s it all about, Durant?”

  “Well, things have been popping a bit and none of it’s good, at least not from my standpoint. But finding you sure helps.”

  “Eh? How come, son?”

  “Well, I ran into some trouble after I left you.” Blake filled the old man in on what had happened.

  McHarg’s jaw fell. “You busted out of jail! Took a lawman’s gun and fired a shot at him? Hell, you sure did put your head into a coil of rope, didn’t you? But I don’t see how runnin’ into me can help you any.”

  As McHarg spoke Blake made a cigarette. Now he licked the paper and twisted an end of the cylinder. “McHarg, I’d like you to put off your trapping for awhile.”

  “You want me to quit trappin’?” McHarg shook his head vigorously. “Can’t hardly do that. Sellin’ skins is how I make a livin’.”

  Blake fired the cigarette. “I want you to return to Moon with me.”

  McHarg
made a face. “Moon? I hate that damn place!”

  “You won’t have to stay long. You can back up my claim that I didn’t cross the river with Parrant. When I can convince Sheriff Simpson that I stayed at Shay’s place as long as I did I’ll be in the clear. Then I’ll have only one worry.”

  “And that’s what?”

  “Rance Parrant. He’ll be after me for killing his brother.”

  McHarg hitched up his low-hanging trousers and grunted. “Well, I can’t see a man made an outlaw for somethin’ he didn’t do. All right, son, I’ll go along to Moon with you.”

  Blake hit him on the shoulder. “Much obliged, McHarg. Whenever you’re ready, I am.”

  McHarg frowned. “Be some time yet before I figure it’ll be safe enough to leave here, Durant. I mean to stay till that country down below cleans out a bit. I got no great wish to lock horns with that Parrant feller, not with him totin’ bank money and with a posse after him. He struck me as a real mean-livered individual first time I set eyes on him. Silky mannered and all that, sure, but underneath I reckon there’s real hard rock in him.”

  Blake puffed on the cigarette and settled in a crouch near the old mountain man. “You’ve seen him down there?”

  “I seen him and I seen Corey Starr. Don’t take much to stir Starr either, not from what I heard about him and from the way he treats men who work under him. Got a real sour streak in him, that jasper, and he strikes me as the kind that’s too damn keen to spill somebody else’s blood. You know—shoot first, apologize later.”

  “When and exactly where did you spot him?” Blake asked.

  McHarg pointed to the south. “’Bout there, an hour ago. Parrant’s camped down and he’s got two mean-lookin’ jaspers with him. Maybe twenty minutes before you started to come this way, Corey Starr swam his horse across the river and went after Parrant. I don’t know why Parrant camped out, less’n he knows somebody’s close on his trail and he means to settle that matter first. Your best chance is to go down the way you came up, forget about them and get back to Sheriff Simpson. And I’ll go with you—when I’m ready.”

  “An hour?” Blake said.

  McHarg shook his head. “Give it two hours to let Corey Starr get well clear.”

  Blake didn’t argue. He had the feeling that shifting Josh McHarg from one of his resolutions would be like shifting a mountain to blaze a trail. He went back to Sundown and rubbed down the big black. He had a drink, made himself a fresh cigarette, removed the golden bandanna and inspected his wound. It looked all right. He salted it, replaced the washed bandanna and waited for McHarg. The minutes crawled by and the silence remained unbroken.

  When McHarg finally made his move he did so without fuss. The old-timer led the way down the slope, using the trail Blake had taken earlier. The going was good and they made fast time. When they were within sight of the river, McHarg suddenly stopped. His hand went to the stock of his rifle and his head tilted to one side, his face tightening with concentration.

  Blake drew his gun. “What is it?”

  “I feel something,” McHarg said.

  Blake had heard no sound himself, but he remembered other times in his life when the absence of sound indicated the peace before a storm.

  The storm broke suddenly and furiously. Four shots ripped at them from below, then the brush parted and Rance Parrant, flanked by two hellions, charged out. Josh McHarg took two of the bullets in his chest. He whirled about in the saddle, his left hand pressed against his chest. “I’ll be damned,” he said, then he grunted a curse and fell. His mule, eyes bright with fear, broke into a run through the scrub, leaving Blake in the direct line of fire.

  Blake’s gun lifted and boomed in his fist. The slug knocked one of Parrant’s men from the saddle and he went down screaming. The other swung to the left. Parrant took a bullet burn on the arm and wheeled his mount around. Flattening out, Parrant kicked his horse to cover. Blake triggered another shot and then Parrant was out of sight behind a rise. Blake let Sundown run. Parrant’s remaining companion had run his horse to the edge of a cliff. His eyes were strained with fear when he saw Blake closing in on him. His gun bucked and Blake felt the lead hornet burn through his hat.

  Blake’s gun blasted twice. The man was torn from his horse and sent pitching through the heavy brush and onto a broken branch. Hanging there, he struggled vainly to free himself, his terror-filled face turned to Blake. Suddenly his whole body jerked just once and he lay still, hands flopping lifelessly into the brush.

  Blake reined Sundown to a hard stop, reloaded, and looked for Parrant. He gave a cry of triumph as he sighted him, heading for higher ground, but then he heard approaching hoof beats and spun around. Corey Starr and four guards were thundering towards him.

  Blake raised his gun and then holstered it. He didn’t have a chance. They were coming too fast and there were five of them. He kicked at the big black and Sundown responded with a charge that carried him across the line of Corey Starr’s approach. Starr’s bullets ripped through timber and brush.

  “Get him, damn you,” Starr cried. “Bolliver, head him off!”

  Blake saw Starr pointing to the high country where Rance Parrant had fled. Bolliver belted his horse upwards, followed by two other guards. Blake clucked to Sundown, urging the big black to full gallop. His giant strides took them across the rough terrain and at no time did Sundown falter. He gained the slope fifty feet ahead of Bolliver and when Bolliver saw that he was outrun he drew rein and took careful aim. His shot was only inches wide of Blake’s head. Blake turned back, face tight with anger. He punched off a shot that smashed the gun from Bolliver’s hand and sent the prison guard racing for cover.

  Corey Starr still came on. Twice Blake had the chance to cut him down, but he held his fire. He figured he had enough complications for the moment. Parrant was close by, wanting his hide. Bolliver was wounded. McHarg was dead.

  Blake kept Sundown running. The big black cut the slope effortlessly, ran onto clear country and then stretched out as if all the devils of hell were after him. Five minutes later, Blake Durant reined in on Sundown and had to fight the horse for a moment before he could quieten him. He turned and looked over the trail. Rance Parrant was visible on the rim of the ridge-line, riding hard. Corey Starr’s mount was struggling up the slope, a few hundred yards behind. There was no sign of the others.

  Blake came out of the saddle and refilled his gun. McHarg was dead. That was his main worry. The old-timer had been willing to help him. Blake mouthed a savage oath. A good man gone, killed by Rance Parrant. All right, he told himself, Parrant had asked for it. Now it wasn’t only a case of clearing his name; he had to even the score with Parrant.

  He pushed Sundown up the trail towards Tim Shay’s place. If Beth and Conrad Cantrell were still there, he could get them to ride to Moon and clear him with Sheriff Simpson. Then he would hunt down Parrant and either kill him or take him back to Moon for trial. After that he would seek out Corey Starr and bring him down to size.

  Shay’s depot looked a lot more bleak and isolated than it had when Blake came on in at the height of the storm. Although the main door was open, Blake could see no movement inside. He had purposely come up the broad trail so Shay would see him and recognize him. The fact that Shay had not revealed himself worried Blake a little, but he was more concerned over the failure of Beth Cantrell to greet him.

  But maybe his idea that the young woman was interested in him was another mistake he’d made. Blake eased Sundown into the yard, walked him to the porch and came out of the saddle.

  The rising wind blew against the front of the old building, making the weathered timbers creak. The surface of the mud had dried and the crust crunched under Blake’s boots. He pulled his hide-coat hard about his burly chest and loosened the gun in his holster. Then he stepped onto the porch, eased the door open wider and peered in.

  The front room was empty.

  “Shay, you there?”

  No answer.

  Blake sidled pas
t the doorway, his hand touching the butt of his gun. Suddenly he drew it as tension plucked at his nerves. Something was wrong. Every instinct told him so. His boots plucked hard sound from the boards as he walked across to the counter. A glass lay on its side against an overturned whisky bottle. A cigarette had been stubbed into the planking of the bar. On the shelf where Tim Shay kept his money tin lay another overturned bottle. Beyond the counter, the door to Tim Shay’s private quarters had been smashed open; it leaned crazily on one hinge.

  He walked quickly past the bar and stopped dead in the doorway. Roy Iverson, Shay’s money strewn about his body, lay face down on the floor. A hole the size of a man’s palm showed black against the back of his head and the hair on his neck was singed. But more unsettling than that sight was the figure of Tim Shay, propped up against the back of his bunk, his rifle over his lap and his hands limp across it. A long-bladed knife had been plunged through his neck, pinning him to the timber of the bunk head. His face seemed almost relaxed in death and in his wide-open eyes Blake thought he saw a trace of satisfaction.

  Blake drew in a ragged breath. McHarg, Iverson and now Tim Shay. The only people who could clear him with Rufe Simpson and the townspeople of Moon were Beth and Conrad Cantrell.

  Blake searched through the depot rooms before going out to the lean-to. Here he found the tracks of a buckboard leading towards the hills. He breathed a sigh of relief. Apparently Conrad Cantrell and his granddaughter had pulled out. The tracks looked to be only a few hours old so he guessed they had left the depot early that morning.

  He returned to the main building and pulled the knife from Tim Shay’s throat. Shay’s body was still warm. So it seemed that Iverson had tried to rob the depot man after the Cantrells’ had left. Blake went outside, found a spade and dug a double grave, then he returned to fetch the bodies. He had just come through the doorway when he heard the sound of hoof beats. A lot of horses, he figured, coming up the trail from the river. Blake hurried out, pulled Sundown into the side wall’s cover and then he took a position inside the depot from where he could check out the visitors. He hissed in his breath a moment later when he saw Rufe Simpson at the head of a dozen men. They drew rein outside. Simpson looked about as companionable as a rattler.

 

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