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  The town had a problem.

  Years earlier, a cuckolded rancher named Duke Sabien had killed his wife and her lover on Main Street, then lit out. No one in town went after him. Instead, they tore down his fences and divided up his land and livestock between them … and hoped never to see Sabien again.

  But Duke Sabien had other ideas.

  Every year thereafter he came back to town to settle things with the men who’d stolen his land. One by one, they died … and the town began to live in dread of his next visit.

  Mostly recently Sabien robbed the bank and killed the three posse men who went after him. The local lawman asked Blake Durant to take them back to town while he continued his manhunt, and Blake was happy enough to help out. But instead, he bought into a mess of greed and murder that, in the end, only he could sort out.

  And he found a woman who might just take the place of Louise Yerby, the love he’d lost so many years earlier …

  THE LONER 26: FIREBRAND COUNTY

  By Sheldon B. Cole

  First published by Cleveland Publishing Co. Pty Ltd, New South Wales, Australia

  © 2023 by Piccadilly Publishing

  First Electronic Edition: December 2023

  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

  Chapter One – Loneliness Is A Scar

  ‘SCUM!’

  Blake Durant’s moody gaze swept over the vast expanse of desert as sweat lined the grime of his face.

  Another trail to nowhere.

  He removed his yellow bandanna and wiped his face as his blue-black stallion, Sundown, stood with his head down, not wanting to go on.

  Against the glare from the inhospitable sand dunes, Durant’s vision became blurred. He could see very little of the country about him and didn’t much care to, because he had another picture in his mind—that of a mob outside the Corrigo Saloon, a gaunt-faced man at the head with a gun in his hand and a strong desire to shoot him.

  ‘Scum!’ the man had repeated. ‘Nothin’ but!’

  None of them understood, apart from the lawman who’d told him to get and be quick about it. And not come back.

  Durant replaced his bandanna and patted the neck of the horse.

  The man he’d killed had forced the issue. There’d been no way out for him ... it was kill or be killed. Durant had seen the man coldly cut down two other men and later, when he’d come face to face with the killer, the man had panicked. No words had passed between them. The man had drawn first. There were witnesses ... the lawman for one.

  ‘Get and keep going. You ain’t wanted here,’ he’d said.

  Suddenly, Durant shivered in spite the heat of the late afternoon. There were many lonely trails behind him and the promise of more ahead. What other destiny had there ever been since the day Louise had given him a last, lingering look—and died in her father’s arms? He’d ridden on, trying to forget, but doubting he ever would.

  He ran his hand over Sundown’s neck again and the horse walked on, obedient to the rider’s wishes.

  The dry desert heat enveloped them and a buzzard, high overhead, winged its unhurried way against a bright blue sky.

  Man and horse were alone again—the only sound the dull thump of Sundown’s hooves and the incessant creak of saddle leather.

  Afternoon gave way to evening and the heat lifted. Durant came out of the saddle, spread out his bedroll and slept. He tried not to think of Louise, or her young killer, now also dead. But their faces haunted him throughout his troubled sleep. He awoke bathed in sweat.

  He got back into the saddle and let Sundown pick his own way through the heat of morning. He drank sparingly, preferring to keep what little he had for the horse.

  Close on noon Sundown stopped and turned his head. When he moved on again he worked to Durant’s right, away from the trail. Durant allowed him to point the way. An hour later, a faint outline of hills appeared in the distance, broken by a depression Durant assumed was a passage. Two more hours and he made out timbered slopes. The horse was walking briskly now and in twenty minutes they reached the creek ...

  His clothes and body washed, Durant felt better. He filled two canteens and chewed on jerky while Sundown grazed along the bank.

  Suddenly the stillness of the day was shattered by the roar of a gun. Two more shots followed, then a pause, then another shot.

  Durant swung into the saddle as the echo of the shots faded on the air. He estimated they’d come from no more than a half mile ahead—around the bend of the creek.

  He hit Sundown into a run and rode the creekbank. At the bend, he found himself staring at flat, treeless country. He slowed and made the crossing cautiously, gun in hand. He was within twenty yards of a scattering of boulders when he brought Sundown to a halt and slipped from the saddle, certain he hadn’t been seen. On the other side of the boulders he could hear heavy footsteps and then a groan.

  He stepped around the edge of a boulder and saw a man with a gun, bending over a body on the ground.

  “Step back, slow and easy, mister,” Durant said.

  The man straightened then turned; sunlight glinting from the badge on his shirt. He kept his gun at waist level, ready to use it.

  Durant lowered his gun and the man relaxed.

  “I figured you for the other one,” the lawman said. “I was ready to kill you, too.”

  Durant swung his gaze left of the lawman. Two more men lay in the dust, one with a hole in his jaw, the other covered with blood from the neck down. The third man was bleeding from a shattered shoulder.

  The lawman ran a hand wearily across his unshaven face and walked to where four horses were hitched in the shade of a huge boulder. He took down a canteen and drank greedily as Durant led Sundown into the clearing.

  The lawman went down on his haunches and stared dismally at the ground, shaking his head.

  “It had to come to this?” Durant asked him.

  “Didn’t have to ... but they wouldn’t listen. I didn’t want them dead, only taken to Garrison.”

  “Garrison?”

  “Small town five miles from here, where I could get help. They robbed the bank in Dryden, shot three people. I’ve had a posse out for a week now, trying to run them down. When the posse called it a day, I rode on alone.”

  Durant made up a smoke and lit it as he studied the campsite, reading from the ground-sign that several men had camped there for some time. There was a beaten track to the water and a pile of dried timber lay beside an unlit fire. There was also sign that several men had used the shaded side of the clearing while one man had spent time on the exposed side.

  Durant was curious.

  “What happened when you came upon them, Sheriff?” he asked.

  The lawman pointed to the rocks behind the clearing.

  “I came down that way with the sun at my back. Figured I had the drop on them. Somehow I must have slipped up.”

  He wiped sweat from his brow then stared off into the distance.

  “They got the drop on me, damn them, but I had a knife concealed in my boot. I surprised one of them—Tom Morrison. I managed to get hold of his gun. The others didn’t seem to care what happened to Morrison even though I had a gun at his head. They started shooting.”

  He paused, sucking in a deep breath and lifting his eyes to the sky.

  “I got Gene Brand first,” he said pointing to the body. “Then Morrison when he tried to escape. Sabien was the last to die. The other one got away down the creek. You must have seen him.”

  Durant shook his head. All he had seen were three dead men.

  “I don’t know his damn name, but I’ll get him, by hell. I’ll get him if it takes me a lifetime.”

  Durant rose, lit the fire, made some coffee and handed a mugful to the lawman. Then they sat staring moodily into the flames, each man with his own private thoughts. Finally the badge-toter broke the silence.

  “The people in Dryden will be waitin’ for news, but if I waste time takin’ these three back I might never pick up the trail of the other one.”

  He looked intently at Durant.

  “You on the drift, mister?”

  Durant nodded.

  The lawman lifted a hand and pointed behind the rocks. “Dryden’s that way, about three hours’ ride. You could make it by late afternoon.”

  Durant looked but showed no enthusiasm for continuing his journey in this heat. Certainly not leading three horses carrying dead men.

  The sheriff leaned closer toward him.

  “Mister, I ain’t got the right to ask you to do this, but hell, I need help. Dryden folk have to know I’ve settled the score for them this far and they’ve got to know I’m on the trail of the fourth killer. There’s three dead in that town and plenty to mourn them. You’ll be received well, I promise you. Tell ’em Les Gale’s doin’ his job.”

  Durant got slowly to his feet. He had nowhere to go and had time on his hands. So why not Dryden?

  “Why not bury them and I’ll ride along with you?” he said. Gale shook his head. “I got three on my own. And I’ll get the fourth. It means a lot to me. Will you do it—or do I have to tote them back and waste mebbe a whole day? I’ve got to show the town the dead to lift their spirits.”

  Durant scrubbed a hand across the back of his neck. “Why not?” he said.

  Gale beamed.

  “I won’t forget this, mister ...?”

  “Durant... Blake Durant.”

  “Where you from?”

  “Down south.”

  “You run into trouble there?”

  “Seem to run into it most places I go.”

  “Well, if your face ain’t on any dodgers, that won’t bother me none when I get back to Dryden,” he said with a knowing wink.

  They shook hands, then together they piled the bodies of the dead men on their horses and as Durant mounted Sundown, Gale worked his horse to the far side of the clearing and stared ahead to where the creek meandered into the wild country. It was hellish hot and still there was no wind.

  “Just tell them where I’ve gone and what I’ve got in mind. Then wait for me, Durant. I’m obliged—and not the forgetful type.”

  With that, he kicked his horse into a run as Durant turned Sundown up the slope between the boulders, dragging the other horses behind him.

  He rode for three hours before he sighted the town. It looked like any other small town on the cattle routes, a collection of cottages with a few taller buildings. Two broad streets ran west to east and were cut by four more running south to north. That was about it.

  He went in by a northern track, cut the back street and headed for the center of town.

  He thought it strange when no one came out to meet him.

  Someone must have seen him heading in across the open plain.

  He slowed Sundown to a walk, instinctively sensing that something was wrong here. Somebody should have shown himself by now.

  He stopped just short of the main street and started to come out of the saddle. Suddenly, a tall, lean man in overalls appeared in the doorway of a store—a rifle cradled in his arms, the barrel pointing straight at Durant.

  “Hold it right there, mister,” he snarled.

  Durant froze.

  The man came out onto the boardwalk and made a signal. Men appeared from various hiding places along the street—more on the boardwalk opposite. Durant lifted a hand to ease the knot of his bandanna and the man in overalls barked;

  “Stay still, damn you.”

  “What the hell you on about, mister?” Durant demanded.

  “About you bringin’ in three dead men.”

  Despite the threat of the gun and the man’s obvious nervousness, Durant flicked the reins across Sundown’s head and slipped from the saddle. He saw the big man move back a pace and heard the snag of the gun’s hammer as he drew Sundown in to the hitchrack.

  By now a circle of grim-faced men had formed in the street.

  Durant hitched Sundown to the rail and leaned against the crossbeam. He then pulled the makings from his shirt pocket and calmly made up a smoke as the crowd closed in on him.

  The man in overalls moved past him and inspected the nearest of the dead men. He gasped.

  “It’s Gene ... Gene Brand,” he shouted to the crowd.

  A tall rangy individual in a hide jacket eyed Durant cautiously.

  “Check the others,” he breathed.

  Men immediately hurried to inspect the bodies, and a burly towner with a bushy red beard said;

  “Tom Morrison and Sheriff Gale, Mr. Hoovey. Dead as a can of corned beef.”

  Hoovey pulled his hide jacket tightly across his lean body.

  “Well?” he asked Durant.

  “Well what?” Durant returned.

  “I sure hope you don’t aim to tell us you found these men laying out on the trail and bein’ a decent sort of feller, you brought ’em in.”

  “You’re right... I won’t tell you that.”

  “Then what will you tell me?”

  Durant told him exactly what had happened. When he’d finished, Hoovey grunted.

  “You mean to tell me you believed a man like Duke Sabien?”

  “He told me his name was Gale and that these men were Morrison, Brand and Sabien. He wore a sheriff’s badge and the dead men couldn’t tell me he was lying.”

  Hoovey’s eyes narrowed to slits. “Why, you damn fool. Don’t you see what you’ve done?”

  Durant flicked his cigarette into the dust at Hoovey’s boots.

  “What I did was take the word of a man wearing a badge on his shirt. What would you have done?”

  “Shot the bastard on sight,” Hoovey snarled. “Damn you, these dead men have been on Sabien’s trail since day before yesterday, hunting him for murder and robbery. Sabien tried to rob the bank then went berserk and killed three men. Then he ran like the scum he is—and you let him get away.”

  “Can’t blame me for that,” Durant said, calmly. “So what now?”

  “Now, damn you, you answer to us for it,” Hoovey snarled.

  Durant shook his head. “That’s one thing I won’t do. And what you should do is step out of my way and go bury your dead. After that, you should get a posse together and go out and try to pick up Sabien’s trail at the creek. He headed north.”

  “And let you laugh in our faces?” Hoovey snapped.

  “Toting three dead men into a town doesn’t strike me as a laughing matter. Being made to look a fool by an outlaw doesn’t tickle me much either.”

  Durant reached for Sundown’s reins but Hoovey threw out a hand and pushed him back on his heels. The red-bearded man stepped up beside Hoovey, his huge shoulders hunched and his eyes blazing.

  “Don’t make more of this than it already is,” Durant warned.

  “To hell with you,” said the red-bearded man—and swung a huge fist at Durant’s head.

  Durant sidestepped the blow, noticing that none of the others showed any inclination to buy in. He moved to one side and as the big man stumbled past him, off-balance, he helped him on his way with a shove in the back.

  The big man hit his shins on the boardwalk and crashed onto his belly.

  When Durant swung to check on Hoovey, he found the lean man holding a gun on him.

  “Ain’t you made enough mistakes for one day, mister?” Hoovey asked.

  “I’ve already told you what happened,” Durant said.

  “Tom Morrison was my kin,” Hoovey snapped.

  “So go hunt down his killer and leave me be. And call off your clown.”

  “Clown?”

  The roar came from behind Durant.

  “Take him, Klein. Knock the sass outta him good and proper,” Hoovey called.

  Klein hurled himself forward.

  Durant snapped an elbow into Klein’s face and split his lip. As Klein’s head jerked back, Durant hit him on the point of the jaw—the sound of the punch bringing a frown to Hoovey’s long face—and sent Klein to his knees.

  “You’re being pushed into something that you can’t win, Klein. Stay out of it,” Durant warned.

  In response, Klein threw himself forward and grabbed Durant around the thighs. The strength in his grip gave Durant some idea of the trouble he’d get into if Klein ever got the upper hand.

  “Damn you, then,” Durant said, and chopped down on Klein’s neck then brought his knee up into Klein’s face when the man let go of his legs. As the big man buckled sideways, Durant hit him on the side of the jaw for good measure.

  Klein grunted then crashed to the boardwalk, made a token attempt to rise, then sprawled on his back, arms outflung.

  Then Durant whirled on Hoovey.

  “My story stands, mister,” he panted.

  Hoovey’s gun lifted.

  “I think you just proved what kind of hellion you are, mister. You and Duke Sabien are two of a kind.”

  Durant wondered if Hoovey would squeeze the trigger. Should he go for his gun and maybe be dead before he could clear leather ...?

  Suddenly a voice called from the back of the crowd;

  “Hold on, Hoovey. Maybe there’s some truth to this feller’s story.”

  Hoovey glared at the man.

  “What would you know about it, Weaver? Was you there?”

  “You know damn well I wasn’t. But it’s sure clear this man was. Else, where’d he get the bodies from?”

  “From Sabien, damn you,” Hoovey snarled. “Ain’t we figured that out?”

 

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