The Loner 3

by Sheldon B. Cole

  “I’d be real obliged,” said Simpson. Then he stepped past Beth and went to the door. Opening it he leaned out and looked down the boardwalk. “We’ll have to wait it out,” he said.

  Beth and her grandfather nodded at him and smiled as they left. Simpson waited until they had passed the saloon before he followed. He checked his gun as he went, feeling tension build inside him. Turning into the saloon he sighted Corey Starr standing alone against the counter, a drink in his hand, his deep-set eyes shifting shrewdly across the faces of the men about him. Rufe Simpson crossed to the bar, placed some change on the counter and turned to the big man.

  “Might be an interesting night, Starr. Go easy on the drink.” Then, to the bartender, “Whiskey.”

  Starr studied Simpson heavily. “What did they have to say?”

  “Nothing much.”

  Starr’s look hardened. “I don’t believe that, Simpson. By hell, don’t you figure to crowd me out of this. I want Durant’s hide.”

  “Durant won’t be running far if at all, Starr. I think you’ll get your chance at him.” He paused before adding; “Maybe you’ll regret getting it.”

  Starr scowled. “You figure he’s better than me, Simpson—”

  Simpson shrugged. “If his story’s right, he killed Larry Parrant. He was also attacked by Rance Parrant and two sidekicks. He killed the two men. And at Tim Shay’s depot he looked for all the world to me like a man who could handle most bad situations.” Simpson threw his drink down and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. A glint of amusement showed in his blue eyes. Returning the empty glass to the counter, he said, “So if I was you, Starr, I’d walk careful and I wouldn’t push Durant into a corner.”

  Rufe Simpson gave the warden a curt nod and walked out.

  Blake Durant moved slowly along the main street beyond the jailhouse. From the corner of a store he could see down the deserted street. Two women and a man were the only people in sight. Blake edged out of the dark alley and rubbed his hands down his Levis. The short nap in the livery stable loft had freshened him considerably.

  He walked along the boardwalk, turned up the jailhouse laneway and came into the jailhouse yard. Sundown was standing in the first stall. A guard sat on a box, a rifle across his lap. Blake drew back before the horse could nicker at him, and returned to the front street. He went straight up to the door of the law office and listened there a moment before he stepped past it and peered through the solitary barred window. Rufe Simpson was sitting at his desk, hands folded, hat pulled down over his forehead hiding the eyes and upper part of his face.

  Blake turned away and went on, keeping to the shadows of the street until he reached the hotel laneway. He looked around and then crossed the yard. After climbing the steps, he walked along the landing. The clerk was sleeping at his desk, looking as comfortable as Rufe Simpson had in the jailhouse.

  Blake went down to the desk and turned the desk ledger around. There it was—Beth Cantrell’s signature and room number. He made his way up the stairs.

  Beth’s room was at the end of the passageway. A light showed under the door. Blake knocked lightly and heard movement inside. Then the door opened and Beth, fully dressed, looked out at him.

  “Mr. Durant.” There was no hint of surprise in her voice.

  Blake was immediately suspicious. Things were going too smoothly. With the whole town alerted and on the lookout for him, too many people were acting normally.

  “Can we have a talk?” he asked.

  “Certainly, Mr. Durant. Come in.”

  Blake hesitated, but then he eased past her and removed his hat. Beth closed the door and Blake stopped dead. Conrad Cantrell was on a chair near the bed with a rifle in his hands.

  “Glad you happened by, Durant,” the old man said. “As you can see, you were expected.” The old man smiled slyly and nodded at his granddaughter. “You can go fetch the sheriff now, Beth. Hurry, or Mr. Durant might get the idea that I’m an old man unused to the ways of violence.”

  Beth looked slightly disturbed when she saw Blake’s lips tighten. “It will be all right,” she said. “Sheriff Simpson merely—”

  “Let the lawman do the talking, Beth,” Conrad Cantrell said quickly and motioned her to move on. Beth still hesitated, her lips parting as if she had something urgent to say. Blake held her look, making no effort to disguise his annoyance. Beth pulled a wrap about her slender shoulders and slid past him. But when she opened the door to the passageway, she stiffened and turned, her face white with horror. Blake’s gun was out before he grabbed her and pulled her back into the room.

  Rance Parrant stood in the passageway, grinning evilly, his gun leveled. For one brief moment the two men stared into each other’s eyes, then both guns roared. Blake felt the bullet slice through his sleeve. His own bullet plowed into Parrant, knocking him back against the wall. Parrant’s gun was jolted from his grip and clattered to the floor.

  Blake fired off a second shot but Parrant dived to the side. He bent to pick up his gun and broke into a run. Blake pushed past a terrified, white-faced Beth Cantrell and tore the door fully open.

  He ran into the passageway as Durant rounded the corner and disappeared onto the verandah. Drops of blood on the floor and a smear on the wall told Blake that his shot had done some damage.

  Then Corey Starr came lunging up the stairway, gun in hand. When he saw Blake, his gun bucked. The bullet came so close to Blake’s cheek that he could feel its heat. He swung about, gun sweeping up. Then Rufe Simpson suddenly appeared behind Starr. He took one look at the menace in Blake Durant’s face and knocked Starr aside. Starr’s second shot ripped into the ceiling.

  Blake glared at the two men for only a moment before he broke into a run. He reached the verandah in time to see Rance Parrant sprinting across the yard. Blake fired off two quick shots and heard the slugs thud harmlessly into the ground. He went down the steps in pursuit. But when he reached the yard, Parrant was nowhere in sight.

  Blake slowed, walked across the yard and entered an alley. All the while he cursed Beth Cantrell and Corey Starr. But for Rufe Simpson he had a warmer feeling. The lawman had likely saved his life.

  Eight – Time Out for Killing

  Rance Parrant stood against the wall of the store holding tightly to his right arm. Blood had soaked through his sleeve and ran down his hand. Pain drove through his arm, neck and shoulders. He had been a damn careless fool.

  His angry eyes checked out the dark street. The saloon was in total blackness and only the light from the jailhouse’s barred window broke the gloom. A buckboard slowly ground its way into the main street and Parrant saw the driver sitting forward, plainly weary from a long drive. Parrant licked his lips and clamped his hand harder on his bullet-torn arm. He turned to check the street behind him again and when the buckboard drew level, he rushed out.

  The buckboard horses immediately swung wide of the shadow lunging at them. The driver let out a cry of surprise but by then Parrant was on the passenger side of the buckboard. With one quick grab he lifted the rifle out of the seat holder. He shoved the rifle barrel against the driver’s back and growled:

  “Keep goin’, mister—dead ahead and fast!”

  The driver shied away from the rifle and glared defiance. But another hard prod from the rifle made him swallow all argument.

  “Okay, okay, take it easy.”

  “Move, damn you!”

  “Sure, sure.”

  The buckboard picked up speed. Parrant worked his way to the back, dropped flat and kept the rifle against the driver. They were halfway down the street and just passing the saloon when Blake Durant came out of the darkness, gun in hand.

  Parrant, unable to resist the opportunity, fired off a shot. The slug burned past Blake’s head. He threw himself down and came up on his haunches, triggering fast. His gun bucked and slugs tore past the terrified driver who let out a shout, tossed the reins forward and jumped clear.

  The buckboard tore on, the horses wild-eyed and straining aga
inst the harness. Parrant tossed the rifle down and climbed into the seat. It took him several moments to find the dangling reins but once he had them he drew the horses to the right and in a sharp about-turn directed them down the dark mouth of an alley. Blake ran in pursuit, ripping shots after Parrant. Then, adding to his gun thunder came a barrage of shots from the side of the hotel. Parrant crouched low and drove recklessly towards the back street. When he reached that area of comparative safety, he slowed the buckboard, jumped down and slapped the rump of a horse. The team raced on, the buckboard swinging crazily behind them. Gradually the horses veered off the street in their panic and the side of the buckboard smashed into a fence and with a night-shattering explosion of sound the buckboard jumped, turned and skidded along on its side. The harness broke and the two horses raced clear and headed out of town, leather trailing.

  Rance Parrant rested against a fence breathing heavily. Then the sounds of running footsteps made him move on. He staggered into an old barn and leaned against the cool tin door. The sounds came closer, then faded. He stood there, swearing to kill Blake Durant, come what may.

  Blake Durant crossed the street and picked the buckboard driver from the boardwalk and hustled him into another alleyway. The driver fought him off but then he saw Durant’s gun and tensed.

  “What the Sam Hill ...?”

  “Just keep quiet, mister, and nobody will get hurt,” Blake said. “Where are you from?”

  “I live here.”

  “Then lead on. Take me someplace quiet. It’ll be worth your while, enough maybe for you to buy another buckboard.”

  The driver’s face was bloated with anger in the dim light of the alley. He shuffled back from Blake and shook his head.

  “You can go to hell, stranger. I don’t want nothin’ from you. I don’t want nothin’ but to get to hell away from you and your trouble, be that what it may.”

  Blake jerked up his gun and pushed it into the man’s stomach. “I’ve got no time to argue, mister. Move on. Try a trick and you’ll regret it.”

  The driver shifted nervously away from the gun. Behind them people were running along the street and Rufe Simpson’s voice was shrill above the pounding of boots. Then the driver mumbled, “Okay, just take it easy. If the law’s after you and the other feller, I guess it ain’t none of my business. I’m a family man—got three growin’ kids and mind my own business.”

  Blake motioned for him to go on, then followed him into a side street where the man stopped and turned to him.

  “What you lookin’ for anyway, stranger?”

  “Just a place where we can talk.”

  The driver wet his lips. “Look, hell, I’m just a simple jasper tryin’ to—”

  “I won’t harm you, damn you! I’ve done no wrong by this town or anybody in it, but I’m finding it damn hard to get that across. The man who jumped your wagon is a killer after my hide and I’m after his. The law is getting in the way.”

  The driver drove a hand through his tousled hair. “Don’t matter to me, none of that. I just want to get to blazes home and see my wife and kids. Ain’t had a decent meal or a rest in ten days.”

  “Then answer some questions now, mister, and I’ll let you go. First where does the deputy, Atkins, hang out?”

  “You after him, too? Hell, old Lee ain’t never hurt nobody in his whole life. He’s just a nice, easy-goin’ old man who—”

  “I want to see him, that’s all—want to get him to do something for me. I’m not going to hurt him. Fact is, I like the old galoot.”

  The driver hesitated. “Well, he lives back of the jailhouse. Got an old shed there.”

  “Obliged,” Blake said. “And the sawbones of this town?”

  “Doc Partridge has a place on the north end of town, up past the jailhouse. It’s a little house—white fence, creepers on the porch.”

  Blake nodded his thanks for this information. “And you?”

  The driver frowned. “What do you want to know that for, mister?”

  “I have my reasons. And you have my word that no harm will come to you or your family. You’ve helped me this far, so I’ve got no reason to go sour on you, have I?”

  The driver took a deep breath and said, “Thet’s my place dead ahead with the light on. Now I got to go, tell my wife I’m home then see about my buckboard.”

  Blake looked around. The sounds of excitement from the front street had died. The crash of the buckboard in the back street meant that Parrant had been in an accident. Maybe he’d been caught. If not, he was still prowling the streets. Blake pushed the driver ahead and said, “On your way.”

  Blake moved into the darkness as the driver stood staring at him. But after a few moments the man went on his way and Blake Durant felt better. Now he didn’t have to knock the man out to keep him from revealing what questions he had asked.

  Blake went up the long back street to the jailhouse end of town and crossed into the yard. He found an old shack standing at the very end of the yard, its door open and its lantern light streaming across the front of Sundown’s stall. The man who had been on guard was missing. Blake crossed to Sundown and rubbed his head and shoulders. The big black nuzzled against him. Going on, Blake waited at the side of the shack.

  Lee Atkins studied Rufe Simpson thoughtfully for some time as they stood outside the closed saloon. His old leathered face carried a great deal of curious reflection.

  “Now maybe that it’s quietened down, you can tell me what the hell’s been going on, Rufe?”

  “Durant and Rance Parrant are both in town,” Simpson said. “And I don’t think either of them are going to leave until they’ve settled their differences.”

  Corey Starr, still rubbing his back where Simpson’s fist had smashed him down, scowled at both of them. “Way you’re handling it, Simpson, they got the run of the town. You agin them or not?”

  “I know what I’m doing, Starr. You’d best turn in for the night—I don’t think either of them are going to show face again. But if they do, mind your manners, especially where Durant’s concerned. Gun him down and you’ll have me to answer to.”

  Starr gave a muffled curse as a reply and trudged off, mumbling under his breath. Simpson wiped sweat from his brow and worked a cramp out of his neck. He knew he had risked his position in this town by aiding Durant and he also knew that Corey Starr would make the most of it by giving the information to everyone within earshot. But right then Simpson had other worries on his mind. He motioned for Atkins to go with him and they entered the hotel together. Ignoring the nervous clerk at the foyer desk, Simpson led the way upstairs. He found the Cantrell woman’s door open, light from the room streaming into the passageway. He stopped in the doorway. Conrad Cantrell stood at the window, his rifle on the bed. Beth was in a chair, hands folded on her lap. Her eyes were rimmed red and her face was pale.

  Conrad Cantrell turned sharply when he heard Simpson pull up. His face immediately filled with resentment. “Damn you, Sheriff, that was a fool way to handle things. You must have known that murdering jasper Parrant was close by.”

  “I suspected it, Mr. Cantrell,” Simpson said. “But I had to take a measured risk.”

  “And get my girl near killed?”

  Simpson looked away. “I’m sorry about that.”

  Cantrell looked angrily at him and came away from the window. “Well, leave us be from now on. My granddaughter’s scared half out of her wits and branded a traitor by a man she thinks highly of. I won’t have her involved anymore.”

  “Just called to see if you were both all right,” Simpson said. “Best turn in and lock your doors tonight. I doubt if Durant will bother calling again, and I’m pretty sure Parrant will hide out until he can figure things better.”

  Cantrell walked to the door. “Good night, Sheriff.”

  “Good night,” Simpson said and when the door closed in his face he sighed wearily and joined Lee Atkins.

  They returned to the jailhouse where Atkins poured black coffee from the
pot on the stove. But he didn’t drink any. So much had happened lately and he was feeling a lot more tired than usual. When Simpson settled down, brooding into his desk top, Atkins walked into the yard and stopped to look at the big black stallion standing quietly in his stall. After giving the horse a gentle stroke on the head he walked down the yard to his shack. Being jailer for Sheriff Rufe Simpson could sure be an exacting job for an old man.

  He had just entered his shack when Blake Durant stepped in after him and closed the door. When Atkins dropped a hand for his gun Blake made no attempt to stop him. He just settled against the wall and busied his hands making a cigarette. Atkins had his handgun halfway from the holster before he decided that Durant meant him no harm.

  “Cuttin’ some wild capers, ain’t you, Durant?” the old man said.

  Blake shrugged, fitted the cigarette between his lips and thumbed a match alight. Drawing on the cigarette, he said, “I’m wondering if I can trust you, Atkins.”

  “Trust me?” The old-timer’s weathered face wrinkled deeply and his eyes almost disappeared behind the drop of his bushy brows.

  Blake couldn’t hold back a smile. But his face sobered quickly. “I need some help. I thought I could manage on my own but things have got out of hand. First I’ve got to have some attention for my arm and then I’ll need some grub. And I want somebody to draw Simpson and that soured-up Starr out of my hair.”

  “Draw them off? To where? And for why, Durant?”

  “So I can kill Rance Parrant.”

  Atkins gaped at him. He stood there looking incredulously at Blake for some time before he growled, “By hell, you got some nerve.”

  “Use your brains, Atkins,” Blake said. “You’ve already spoken to the Cantrells so you know my story holds water. The rest fits in as snug as it could. Parrant raided Starr’s prison, got his brother clear and I killed his brother. I was arrested, broke out of jail and killed two of Parrant’s other sidekicks. Now that the Cantrells have cleared up the first part for me, all I want is to get Parrant and cut him down to size or shape him up for Boothill.”