The Loner 15, page 1
The Home of Great Western Fiction!
Drifter Blake Durant was arrested and thrown into the Sunfish Creek jail on a simple case of mistaken identity. The town was expecting a visit from outlaw Tom Moran, who’d sworn to get revenge on its lawmen, and Deputy Billy Owen suspected that Blake was part of Moran’s gang, sent out ahead of the main gang to scout the lay of the land.
Then everything became even more complicated when some genuine owlhoots broke jail and committed a cold-blooded murder. A manhunt followed, as did the unexpected appearance of Moran’s beautiful young daughter, Lisa. And Blake found himself on the trail of the outlaws … because the only way to clear himself of the murder was to bring back the guilty parties, either in their saddles … or across them.
THE LONER 15: BEAT THE DRUM SLOWLY
By Sheldon B. Cole
First published by Cleveland Publishing Co. Pty Ltd, New South Wales, Australia
© 2019 by Piccadilly Publishing
This electronic edition published 2022
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.
You may not copy, store, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise make available this publication (or any part of it) in any form, or by means (electronic, digital, optical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book / Text © Piccadilly Publishing
Series Editor: Ben Bridges
Visit www.piccadillypublishing.org to read more about our books
Chapter One – Sunfish Creek
blake durant came to a halt at the base of a rust-colored butte. Its meager shade offered little relief from the heat, but merely to be out of the glare of the sun after many hours in the saddle seemed as refreshing as a swim in a clear spring. Durant’s mouth was parched and his skin was tight, his cheeks temporarily pock-marked by the day’s wind-whipped grit.
Unsaddling Sundown, his powerful black stallion, Blake Durant let the horse pick at the poor grass on the rocky slope. He made a fire and boiled coffee, then sat on a ledge of rock, leaning forward, elbows on his knees, and studied the harsh country before him. The coffee helped to take some of the heat out of his sun-scorched body, but he knew he was in for an uncomfortable night under the blanket of heat which lay around him. It had been the same for five days and nights of riding aimlessly, on no definite trail, trying to forget what he’d left behind and disinterested in what lay ahead. To Blake Durant, little had mattered for several years spent riding from one end of the country to the other, searching for he knew not what, continuing on only because the past had to be buried, had to be forgotten.
He finished the coffee and hobbled Sundown so the big black wouldn’t stray, then he stretched out on his blanket. He laid his hide coat on a shoulder of rock and put his gunbelt on top of it. His boots he placed at the bottom of the rock. Ready for the night now, he lay there, the heat pressing down on him. He closed his eyes, blanked out his mind, and fell off to sleep.
He was in the saddle pressing on before the first gray light of another summer day pushed back the night. With the sun behind him an hour later, he topped a rise and saw a small town ahead, a huddle of buildings on the banks of a creek. At that early hour there was no activity that he could see. He rode towards the town without enthusiasm, expecting nothing from it and unwilling to give anything of himself in return. The one gratifying thing about the place being there at all was the fact that for a short time he’d be able to get some comfort for himself and some rest and feed for Sundown.
Riding into the one street, he slowed the big black. Deep shadows filled the street, making the store section on his right a vague blur of shapes. All doors were closed and there was no sound. Blake stopped, suddenly aware that the silence was too complete. Even at that early hour, somebody should be moving about—a cleaner, a cowhand making an early start for home after a night’s recklessness, a townsman wanting to get a jump on competing businessmen, even a crying child. But the street was completely empty and there was no sound but the low moan of the wind.
Somewhere behind him a door hinge creaked. Blake felt his shoulders tighten, but he didn’t bother to turn in the gray to check. Sundown stomped impatiently when Blake reined up in the middle of the street. Blake spoke quietly until the big black calmed. Then a voice sounded:
“First thing you do, stranger, is unhook that gunbelt and let it drop. Don’t make no fast moves now ... be real slow and easy like and maybe there won’t be trouble.”
Blake was tempted to turn then but he didn’t. He hooked the reins about the pommel of the saddle and asked, “Why?”
“No matter why. Just do like you’re told.”
There was a definite ring of authority in the deep voice. Blake calculated that the man was no more than twenty feet behind him. That would put him in the doorway of the slab-fronted building he had just passed. He unbuckled his gunbelt and let it slide from his lean waist. It fell to the street near Sundown’s hind legs.
Behind Blake, gravel crunched and then a shadowy movement caught his attention. He turned his head and looked into the upraised face of a man who’d stooped to pick up the gunbelt. When the man’s hand closed around the leather, a spark of satisfaction came into wide-set blue eyes. Then the man stepped away, tossing the gunbelt across his shoulder and making a gesture with his gun for Blake to climb down. Blake slipped off Sundown and pulled the big black close to him. The black nuzzled at his shoulder. Blake raised a hand and ran it across the horse’s head.
The man with the gun had retreated to the boardwalk. He held the gun on Blake, his face tight and wary. “Billy, come and take this.” He held Blake’s gunbelt behind him, the butt of the big Colt resting on the warped boards.
A younger man, tow-haired, came through the doorway of the building. He took the gunbelt and studied Blake Durant carefully.
Blake said, “What the hell is this all about?”
“Billy, take his horse and tether it out back. You, mister, come inside and answer some questions. If you’ve got the right answers, you’ll get an apology and your horse and gun back, no harm done. If you ain’t got the right answers, it’ll be too bad—for you.”
Blake held the man’s gaze easily. A mistake had been made by these men, and this fact would soon be realized. In the meantime there was no sense trying to buck them. He let the younger man lead Sundown down a side alley and then he crossed to the boardwalk. The man with the gun shifted quickly aside; then, as Blake entered the room beyond the door, he came up fast behind him. Passing Blake, but still keeping his big gun trained on him, the heavily built man crossed to a desk littered with papers held down by two coffee cups and a black coffee pot. The man slid behind the desk, opened a drawer and pulled out a tin star that he pinned to his shirt.
“The name’s Blake Durant, Sheriff,” Blake said. “Whoever it is you’re looking for it’s not me.”
“Who I’m lookin’ for, mister, I don’t rightly know,” the sheriff answered tightly. “Sit down.”
Blake pulled a chair from the wall, turned it around and straddled it. The back door behind the big man opened and the younger man, Billy, entered. He looked puzzled about something.
The sheriff said, “Well?”
Billy shook his head. “Nothing in his saddlebags to say who he is. Provisions, eating utensils, some tobacco, a silk scarf. Saddleroll didn’t help none either.”
The sheriff held out his hand for Blake’s gunbelt and then Billy went on, “Far as I can make out, the gun ain’t been fired for some time. Been looked after though; it’s as clean as a whistle. And the holster has been oiled. It’s real gun-handler gear.”
Blake held the younger man’s stare evenly. It was becoming clear to him that trouble in these parts had made these two suspicious of every stranger who rode through. In that case he had no worries if he got a chance to explain himself. The sheriff hooked the gunbelt on a wall peg and sat back in his chair while Billy positioned himself to Blake’s right where he could intercept any move towards the back or front doors. Billy’s stare stayed on Blake ... expressionless eyes in a dead-sober face.
The sheriff said, “Okay, Durant, your saddlebags are clean. Fact is, we don’t know a spit more about you now than we did minutes ago when you rode in from the south. So start off tellin’ us why you came that way into town, all the way across that hard country at this time of the year, tiring out yourself and your horse. Also tell us what you’ve been doing with yourself the last month or so.”
Blake studied the lawman intently, seeing the signs of a heavy drinker in the pitted nose. The man was about forty years of age. Although he was heavily built, Blake could see that a lot of the weight had come from easy living. He wasn’t a neat man. His clothes were soiled and one side of his shirt collar was askew, caused by a missing button. The tin star had not been pinned on straight. His thick, unruly brown hair was turning gray, and his grayish skin indicated that he seldom went into the harsh sunlight of this area.
Blake got his thoughts in order and was about to detail his recent movements when the sheriff suddenly jerked upright and said:
“Billy, search him. Empty his pockets.”
Billy moved to obey and Blake made no attempt to stop his search. Moments later Billy placed Blake’s money and tobacco pouch before the sheriff. The lawman palmed the tobacco pouch aside and fingered the banknotes. While he counted it, his brow rutted.
“Two hundred and seventy-two dollars, Durant. That’s a big stake for a man to be carryin’ about.”
“No more than most men would have after working four months on a cattle drive, Sheriff. I was away from towns and I’m not one to be wasting my time gambling.”
The sheriff’s mouth twisted and he sat back, pushing the money away. “We’ll see about that, Durant. Get on with it.”
“There’s little to get on with, Sheriff,” Blake told him, his voice belying the anger beginning to rise within him. “I worked for Abraham Curlewis down Sorento way for three months, until a few weeks ago. When the drive ended, I decided to look north and see what the prospects were.”
The sheriff gave a grunt which suggested a certain amount of disbelief. “Never heard of no cattleman named Curlewis, Durant. You, Billy?”
Billy shook his head.
Blake said irritably, “Check with Sorento then. Curlewis is known for a couple of hundred miles around.”
“No time for checking things like that, Durant. We’ve got to decide on you within a day or so.” The sheriff leaned forward, his heavy brows crowding his eyes. “But say we believe you. Why come north from Sorento?”
“Why not?”
“It’s damn hard country, mister, the way you came. A smart man would’ve taken a train and freighted his horse on it, wouldn’t he?”
“I didn’t know the country was so hard,” Blake said. “As for my horse, he’s bred to take it and he never feels better than when he’s on the move, no matter how hard the travelling might be.”
“He’d be about the best horse I’ve laid eyes on in years, Durant,” said Billy with a sly grin. “Your rig’s real classy, too, like them clothes you’re wearin’ and that gun of yours. When you put two hundred and seventy-odd dollars alongside all that, it ain’t so easy to believe your story about bein’ an ordinary cattle hand.”
Blake’s look swung to Billy and there was a hint of venom in his dark eyes. But he allowed no anger to show in his face.
“What do you want to believe?” Blake asked.
“That maybe you’re an advance man for Tom Moran, Durant. It could be that you use that fancy gun of yours real good and you’re here to meet Moran when he comes back today or tomorrow.”
Blake straightened. “Who the hell’s Tom Moran? I’ve never even heard of the man.”
“Everybody else in these parts has heard of him,” Billy went on, knowing from the sheriff’s approving smile that he could have the floor for the moment. “Tom Moran’s a name that puts fear in the heart of every law-abiding citizen in our territory. Tom Moran’s a killer, a thief and an animal who we aim to push right to hell out of our territory. We sure don’t aim to let him link up with any of his scum friends.”
Blake gave a smile. “And you think I’m one of his guns, eh?”
“Could be. Most of what I see of you points to you being a liar, Durant, and I reckon that a man who can lie will do just about anything that suits him.” Billy pushed himself away from the wall and looked at the sheriff. “Lew, I don’t reckon we should take any chances with this one. I got a bad feeling in my bones about him. I reckon we should just tumble him into a cell with them others and keep him there. Then, when Moran comes and goes, we can figure what to do with him later.”
Blake got slowly to his feet, his face hard as his gaze moved angrily from the sheriff to the deputy. “You can both go to hell,” he grated. “I rode in here minding my own business. I’ve got no truck with Tom Moran or any of his kind. Just leave me be.”
Billy whipped out his gun and suddenly his face looked older. His eyes were pinched down and Blake saw a streak of meanness in his glare. “Durant, Tom Moran rode wild through these parts for a long time before we caught up with him and had him jailed. He should’ve been hanged but somehow he got to the judge and the jury. Our claim that he was the killer of seven men was thrown out of court. But he was convicted on a robbery charge and for the last two years he’s been penned up. He got out two days ago, and we have good reason to believe that he’ll come storming back here lookin’ to get even with Sheriff Cavill. But Tom Moran ain’t no fool. No, sir, he ain’t the kind to come here alone after two years in prison. He’ll get some of his scum crowd to ride along and help him. To do that, to make his contacts, he’d have to go to Willoughby first, which is south of here and right where you came from. He’ll contact your kind, send you ahead to prepare things, and then he’ll ride in and play hell with the town. We ain’t about to let that happen.”
“Look,” Blake said. “The fact that I rode in from the south and I’m comfortably off for a cattle hand, doesn’t mean I’m a gun handler. Do what you like about Moran and his cronies, but leave me out of it. If you don’t want me in town, I’ll shift on. This town means nothing to me, and what little I’ve seen of it I don’t expect it ever will.”
Billy shook his head. “No good, Durant. We ain’t fools. If you ride off and tell Moran that we’re all geared up to cut him down when he comes in, it’ll mean we’ve worked for a week now for nothing.” He shook his head more emphatically and crossed to the desk. He dismissed Blake with a snort and turned to Sheriff Cavill. “Lew, that’s how I see it.”
Cavill rose, nodding grimly. He collected Durant’s money and put it in the top drawer of the desk. After he slammed the drawer closed, he let out a deep sigh. “No trouble now, Durant, and we’ll see that you’re well fed. This way.”
“Go to hell!” Blake snapped, then Billy’s gun dug into his back. Glancing at Billy, Blake saw bitter determination in his eyes. He cursed under his breath and said to Cavill, “Damn you, mister, when this comes out in my favor, which it will finally, don’t expect me to be quiet about it. You’re a damned fool.”
“Could be, Durant,” Cavill answered coolly. “But bein’ a fool is a lot better than bein’ dead, ain’t it? Come on now.”
Cavill walked down a narrow passageway and Blake, prodded by Billy all the way, finally found himself before a cell from which three men looked speculatively at him. Cavill unlocked the cell door, let Blake go in and then he slammed the door shut and locked it.
“Sorry about the crowdin’, gents,” Cavill said with a sly grin. “But this here town ain’t used to havin’ so many ornery jaspers passin’ through.”
The sheriff turned away and Billy followed him out. Blake settled back against the bars, looking at each of his cellmates in turn. One was an old-timer, and the other two were rough-looking types who stared back at him with interest. When one of them, a blocky fellow carrying at least a month’s stubble on his jaw, asked Blake his name, Blake didn’t bother to answer him.
The man didn’t pursue the business and Blake sat on one of the two bunks as the three of them looked him over.
Chapter Two – A Deputy’s Notches
“NAME’S GUS IVERS.”
Blake Durant brought his mind back from the memories of the past and looked bleakly at the old man who had just sidled up to him. For five minutes, ever since Cavill and the deputy had left him in the cell, Durant had been moodily regarding the dirty floor, wondering how he could get released. The last six days had taken their toll of his strength and patience. He wanted only to be left alone.
“What they got on you, Durant?” the old man asked. “You caught up in this Moran business, too?”
Blake let his gaze shift past the old man to where the other two were sitting opposite each other playing poker with a grubby old deck of cards. Neither of the pair responded to his look, but Blake had the feeling that their minds were not fully on the card game. He sensed they were listening.
“I’m just passing through,” Blake told the old man.
“Sure, sure, Durant. Don’t mind me, son. I’m just looking for some conversation to fill in the time. Them other two ain’t said but a couple of words to me all the time we’ve been penned up together, and what they said was for me to shut up and stay that way.”
Blake studied the old man for a short moment, time enough for him to evaluate the man’s age as being something over sixty. He decided that he had lived hard. His clothes were grimy and shapeless on his skinny frame, and his face was deeply lined, weather-pitted and sun-blackened. All his upper teeth were missing, making his cheeks sink against a mouth that was pinched so tight his talk was little more than a grumble of sound as he said:
