The Loner 7, page 1
The Home of Great Western Fiction!
When Blake Durant reached the town of Lincoln, he really should have just kept riding. But he didn’t get the chance.
Within moments of his arrival, a gun-tough named Nico Semole injured his horse and then tried to pick a fight with an old man. Blake stopped him and beat him to pulp.
But Nico just didn’t know when to quit. Later that day he came at Blake with a gun … and set off a chain of events that was to end in murder and bloody revenge.
Nico’s brother Kent aimed to settle the account with Blake, and he had just enough gun-speed to do it. Furthermore, the local marshal was all burnt out, and Blake knew he couldn’t rely on the man to keep the peace. So it looked as if the man they called The Loner would have to take matters into his own hands … and when he did, there was gunsmoke in the air and dead men on the ground.
THE LONER 7: SOMEWHERE – A SUNDOWN
By Sheldon B. Cole
First published by Cleveland Publishing Co. Pty Ltd, New South Wales, Australia
© 2020 by Piccadilly Publishing
First Digital Edition: October 2020
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 – Lincoln
Blake Durant took a firmer hold on his blue-black stallion, Sundown, as far-off thunder muttered among the peaks of the mountains he had just traveled through. Below him the country leveled out into lush, green prairie where a large herd of winter-fattened cattle grazed leisurely. It was by far the best country he’d seen in a year of drifting. As he rode down from the craggy heights the muttering of thunder continued among the cliffs and boulders, sounding like a disgruntled man in his sleep. Durant felt good. He’d taken his time after riding out of Lusc, had even done some fishing and hunting. Now he was on the way to Lincoln.
The wind, no more than a light breeze against his back, had the smell of rain in it. In the lower country the silence folded about him. It was the kind of day that made a man thoughtful. He thought of Lusc and his trouble there. A man had died under the fury of his gun, but he’d deserved no better than death and nobody lamented his passing. However, the memory of the gunfight remained fixed in Blake Durant’s mind, mixed with other memories, of a woman he had loved but who, like the trouble-maker in Lusc, was now dead. Dust and distance were now all that mattered to him. His trails led to nowhere in particular, going on and on, bringing him into conflict with men who disliked him for no particular reason, who misunderstood him ... men who could never leave well enough alone.
Durant rubbed the neck of the big stallion and moved steadily towards his destination. He knew little about Lincoln, but he’d been told it was a prosperous community where work was generally available to a man not frightened to sweat. With work a man could blank his mind. Durant needed to do that, needed to keep himself occupied in the present so as to blot out the searing pain of the past. He rounded a bend in the trail and then Lincoln was just beneath him.
It was a bigger town than he’d expected, with two main streets. Four narrow streets cut into the two main streets, forming fifteen sections of almost equal size. It was late afternoon, still a couple of hours till sundown, and the people were out in force. It might have been election day in Lusc or the day after roundup in Cheyenne.
Ten minutes later he rode into the main street, a big man, tall in the saddle, relaxed, expecting nothing more from this town than he was willing to put into it. His hide coat flapped against his tight-muscled body and a golden bandanna covered his neck. On his hip was a Colt .45 in a worn holster. His stallion’s hide gleamed brightly as he stepped out with effortless grace, the horse eyeing the people on the boardwalk who showed no interest at all.
There were indeed plenty of people on the street, cowhands in the careless garb of the rangeland, well-dressed ranchers and businessmen, gamblers in the sober black of their trade, prospectors with their battered hats shading eyes that still had dreams in them. Women, too, old and young; the old suspicious, the younger ones taking Durant in with undisguised admiration. Before he had gone fifty yards into the town Blake Durant decided he liked it. There was an air of excitement here that appealed to him. Things were happening and promised to go on happening. It was a town big enough to get lost in.
Blake Durant worked Sundown close to the overhang of the buildings. He saw one saloon and ignored it, then he passed an eatery and a line of business houses. The street began to broaden out, showing the bulk of the town before him. People were coming and going, some hurrying, some taking their time. Horses were hitched to the street racks, and a freighter bounced along, its wheels lifting dust which after the rain would become mud.
Blake Durant sighted a low-ceilinged building. A sign creaking on iron hooks proclaimed it to be the sheriff’s office. Blake turned Sundown towards the place, noting that a second saloon, bigger and more gaily painted than the first, stood a short distance away, beside the biggest building in the street, Cattlemen’s Rest.
Blake was walking Sundown to the hitch rail when a tall, swarthy young man smoking a short cigar, stepped from the saloon laneway. His glance flicked at Durant and went over Sundown. Immediate admiration for the big horse showed in his coal black eyes. His gaze lifted again and his lips curled back sneeringly. At that moment, Blake saw the conceit and meanness of many of his kind, half-breeds who wanted no part of whites or Mexicans. They were outcasts by choice, men who lived in a world of their own bitterness.
Durant came a little taller in the saddle. The faraway look in his eyes was gone. He sat there, tensed for action like a set trap. The swarthy man took one step towards him, eyes still running over Sundown covetously. He seemed about to speak to Blake when something caught his attention across the street and behind Durant.
The tall man was grinning and his eyes were agleam with excitement. Then he looked about him before breaking into a run up the boardwalk. Blake turned Sundown around and saw the tall man sprint past the jailhouse wall and then along the boardwalk to the street corner where a buckboard stood. An old man was trying to climb to the buckboard seat. The tall man grabbed the old-timer by the shirt-front and yanked him down so hard that he fell to the street on the seat of his pants. Then the half-breed leaped into the driving seat and grabbed up the reins.
Blake moved Sundown slightly out from the boardwalk. This was none of his business, but he couldn’t let himself stand by and see the old man so roughly handled. Then the buckboard was coming fast, straight for Blake. He jerked the big horse’s head up and had a quick look around before he kicked Sundown into a run. The buckboard came on, with the dark-skinned youth slashing a whip across the backs of the two terrified horses.
For a moment Blake thought he might avoid the collision but then Sundown faltered and the swinging rear of the buckboard clipped him on his left foreleg. Sundown let out a nicker of pain and fear and buckled over, sending Durant out of the saddle. He landed in the street and rolled. Looking up, he saw the youth turn on the seat and leer at him.
Then the buckboard went on. Sundown had hit the ground on his side but had fought his way upright immediately. Now he stood there, his sides quivering. Blake pulled him close and quietened him, then he examined the horse’s foreleg. A streak of blood ran down the black glossy hide.
“It’s all right, boy,” Blake said soothingly.
The buckboard had turned around up the street and was coming back, the youth still belting the horse furiously. Blake led Sundown towards the jailhouse boardwalk where the dazed old-timer was slowly dragging himself to his feet. Blake thrust the reins into his gnarled hands and said, “Watch him for me. His leg’s hurt, so he’ll give you no trouble.”
He went up the street before the dazed old man could answer him. Long strides took him quickly to the other side of the street where a young woman stood on the boardwalk, her face white with fear. As the buckboard closed in on her she gave a sharp cry and began to run. The dark-skinned young man reined the buckboard to a halt, leaped to the ground and made after her.
Durant sprinted after the two of them. Soon the woman turned into a cottage yard before the dark-skinned youth reached the gate. He made a move to go up the pathway when a voice barked:
“Far enough, Semole! Come one more step and I’ll blow your stinkin’ guts out!”
Blake slowed, watching the youth’s hand slide towards his gun. The glitter of excitement had left the dark man’s eyes and was replaced by a dull, flat angry look. His lips curled back in a sneer.
“Don’t push your luck, boy!” the voice went on.
Blake, moving past the last storefront, saw a stoop shouldered old man standing on the cottage porch. He held an old rifle that was leveled at the youth.
“You callin’ me, Graham?” the youth demanded to know. “You buttin’ into my business?”
“My granddaughter is my business, boy,” the white-haired old man said.
Not a hint of fear showed in his weathered old face and his hands were as steady as rock. Tall and slight, he looked anything but a match for this powerfully proportioned youth, but Blake knew he would see this business through.
Blake was only ten yards from Semole now. The young woman had gone up the steps and was looking fearfully at the scene from the front doorway. There was no sound in the street. Semole still had his hand clapped on his gun butt.
Then Blake saw the curl of the young half-breed’s fingers, saw the forearm muscles go taut. He hurried his last steps to Semole, grasped his gun arm and pulled him about.
Semole, whose full attention had been given to the old man, grunted in surprise. Then he said:
“Don’t buy in, stranger.”
Blake shook his head. “You ran down my horse and might have hurt him badly, mister. I don’t let anybody get away with that.”
Semole’s eyes flashed angrily. He broke from Blake’s grip and took a step back. Then his lips curled viciously again.
“You don’t let anybody!” he snapped. “Now who the hell do you think you are? By hell—”
Semole lunged, driving out a left for Blake’s face. Blake ducked the punch and ripped a right into Semole’s stomach. Then he swung a backhand which sent Semole crashing into the fence, shaking it along its full length.
Hurt and surprised, Semole pushed himself from the fence, wiped a hand across his mouth and looked at the blood on it. Then he glared at Durant and swung up his gun. Blake moved into him and drove his wrist down and onto a fence paling. A sharp cry came from Semole as the gun spun from his grip and fell into the yard. Blake grabbed the man’s shoulder and hurled him away. When Semole went sprawling to the ground, he said:
“I don’t let a gun brat take on a young woman and an old man either, Semole. Now get to hell out of here before I remember you might have crippled my horse for good.”
Semole sat on the seat of his pants, wild fury contorting his face. “You’re in, mister, and I’m not letting you out.”
Blake stood spraddle-legged and waited for Semole to get to his feet. The half-breed wiped a hand across his mouth again and then he looked about for his gun. Unable to find it, he straightened, deep hatred in his dark face. He moved a little to the right, then swayed back to the left, his shrewd eyes sizing up this stranger. What he saw must have made him decide to be cautious because he stayed back, drawing in deep gulps of air. He glanced at the old man and then his gaze sought out the young woman. A grin split his mouth and he nodded twice before giving a grunt of satisfaction.
“Okay, big man, now we’ll see. You might not know it, but you just bought yourself more trouble than you’ve ever stepped on in your life. I’m gonna tear you apart.”
“I’m waiting,” Durant said. But then came the voice of the old man:
“Best leave it as it stands, stranger. I got a bead on him. If he don’t shift off and leave us alone, I’ll send a blast into him that’ll put him where he belongs.”
Blake’s stare didn’t leave Semole’s dark eyes. Across the street people were gathering, but no one came forward to interfere. That, and Semole’s utter confidence in himself, told Blake a great deal.
Then Semole came at him, fast, furious, a big man throwing punches packed with terrific power. Blake went back under the heavy onslaught and Semole followed him, grinning widely, clearly enjoying the taste of success.
For half a minute Semole’s attack was aimed at Blake’s head, but then, swiftly and cunningly, he sent his punches to the body. Blake felt the full power of two rips into his stomach before he could dodge aside. Realizing now that he had a king-sized fight on his hands, he waded in. His fists belted out a vicious tattoo on Semole’s head and face, sending him back and making him raise his hands in defense. One of Blake’s punches opened his right eyebrow and another smashed his nose. Blood spurted and Semole’s legs began to wobble. But somehow he stayed up.
Blake kept at him. Systematically he cut down the big man’s strength until he had him gasping for breath and whistling through his teeth. But Semole would not give in. The speed was gone from his legs and his punches weren’t nearly as powerful, but he managed to jump back from a heavy blow that would have ended the fight. He bounced off the fence and clutched at Blake. Getting a hold, he hung on. Blake drove his hands up between their chests and heaved him away, then he hit him with a blow that split his right cheek open and sent him tottering to the side.
“Go all the way, stranger,” called the old man on the porch. The old warrior’s eyes were gleaming with excitement. He had lowered the gun and was resting on it, using it as a prop. “You let his kind up, boy, and you got all hell to deal with. Finish him good—cut him right down to snake-belly size.”
Blake had no wish to do this. In his opinion Semole had fought bravely and he admired him for it, even if he was in the wrong and likely always had been. He was a bully, an overbearing, high-stepping, rough-riding bully, but he was certainly no coward.
Now Semole glared up at him, black eyes staring from his bloody face. He was breathing heavily, air wheezing through his tortured lungs and smashed nose.
Blake said, “I’m willing to call it quits, Semole.”
Semole straightened and hate blasted from his black eyes. He wiped his face with his sleeve, leaving it as blood-smeared as his features. Blood poured unchecked from the cheek gash.
“Give yourself a name,” Semole grated out.
“Blake Durant,” Blake said, hoping Semole would see the sense in quitting.
“Durant.” Semole said the name as if putting it in his memory for later reference. Then he said, “Durant, you’re a dead man.”
“I don’t think so, Semole. You asked for all you got. Why not leave it at that?”
Semole’s lips twisted and he steadied himself against the fence. A paling came loose in his hand and suddenly his eyes brightened. He stepped away and pulled the paling free. Going into a crouch, he began to circle Durant. Blake moved away from him until he found himself pinned against the fence. A nail in the heavy paling glittered.
The old man cried out, “You’re a low-bellied scum, Semole. Take your beating like a man.”
Semole said, “I’m takin’ him and then you, Graham. Then the girl. She’s done her last bit of struttin’ in the street and spittin’ in my face. Ain’t nobody, and especially not this driftin’ cowpoke, gonna stop me from takin’ her.”
Semole was leering again, his strength returning with the feel of the paling in his hands. He held it near his knee, horizontal to the ground, and then he lunged, swinging. Blake went under the timber, but Semole stopped the swing suddenly and brought the paling back viciously. The nail came within an inch of Blake’s face.
Blake waited, feet loosely planted, his body braced to go in any direction. Semole came in again, swinging wildly, annoyed by his first failure. Blake backed off, dodged, weaved under the timber until he’d maneuvered Semole against the fence. Then he hurled himself onto the man. The paling came up and smashed across the side of his head. He felt a drive of pain go down the back of his head and into his neck. But he had the ’breed in a headlock with his left arm. His right fist went back and he pistoned it into Semole’s face. A cry of pain came from Semole. Blake held the headlock and smashed all the fight out of the ’breed with his right hand before hurling him to the ground. Semole struggled to a kneeling position, gave a groan and then fell onto his side.
Blake brought a hand to his neck. He felt the stickiness of blood. Pain lanced through his head and down his back.
The old man was coming down the steps now. His face was awash with admiration and excitement. “Hell, boy, you did him in real good. Too damn good maybe.” He stopped and inspected Semole, then nudged him in the ribs with the barrel of his gun. He chuckled when Semole didn’t respond to the prod. Then the old man’s face went grave again.
“You’d best head out though, stranger. Semole’s bad clean through. He won’t take a beating like this and let it go at that, no sir. He’ll get his strength back and then he’ll come for you again. Next time it’ll be guns and there ain’t nobody can match him in that kind of fight, at least nobody I ever saw.”
The old-timer put out his hand. “Hardy Graham. The young woman is my granddaughter, Joy. Semole’s been givin’ her a lot of trouble of late but until now we didn’t figure even he would go this far. My son’s the sheriff, so I’ll see him and get this scum thrown out of town. You go on your way though mister. Be better for you.”
