The Loner 8, page 1
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Blake Durant was on his way to an isolated wilderness owned by an old friend, Colonel Howie. But so was a wagon train led by a smooth-talking dude named Mike Stanton. Stanton intended to let his people settle on Howie’s land … land Howie himself guarded jealously. There was sure to be conflict, but somehow Stanton didn’t seem to care about that – and Blake Durant couldn’t help but wonder why …
The minute Blake rode in, Stanton sensed that he might be a threat to his plans, so he took steps to remove him by any means possible. What he didn’t count on was a one-time soiled dove and her protector, a silent giant of a man who took whatever punishment was meted out to him and still came back for more.
A woman, a man-monster … and Blake Durant.
Together they made a formidable team!
THE LONER 8: DIE, DAMN YOU, DIE!
By Sheldon B. Cole
First published by Cleveland Publishing Co. Pty Ltd, New South Wales, Australia
© 2020 by Piccadilly Publishing
First Digital Edition: December 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 – Not Wanted
From where he stood in the creek washing down Sundown’s blue-black coat, Blake Durant could barely see them coming because the evening light was bad, especially along the creek bank down which the five of them walked. He couldn’t make out their faces, but during the weeks since the wagon train started rolling he’d seen them many times, so the face of each was engraved in his mind. They were impatient men, hungry for the journey’s end and worn out from travelling, and he knew that in the heart of each was the longing to stop. But they couldn’t stop, for they were men of vision and in them was the golden promise of distant lands, a future that offered infinitely more than the pasts they had known
and suffered through.
Durant pulled Sundown from the water and quickly wiped him dry. He had him hitched under the trees when the five drew up. Art Schofield was in front, tall and taciturn, with the confident bearing of a wrangler who knew his business. Then came Jute Carney, skinny, slat-like, his features pinched, a sneer glued to the side of his thin, mean mouth; Jimmy Blunt, always smiling, always bidding a fair day or night to somebody, proving himself a friend as if to belie the menace in his double-holstered gunbelt and his face which was scarred from meetings with men who had been far from friendly; Roland Farner, big and burly, with farmer written all over him, a man who seemed to be on his own even when in a crowd; and Rick Trice, who tried futilely to hide the fact that Farner’s daughter, Ellen, had him going round in circles. What Trice was doing there, Blake Durant had no idea. But he knew what was on the minds of
the other four.
He said, “You had your meeting, Farner?”
Roland Farner nodded grimly. He seemed for a moment relieved that Durant had addressed him instead of Schofield and his friends.
“Yes, we had a meeting as we said we would, Durant ... as we had to have. After all that wrangling last night, something had to be decided upon. The business had to be brought to a head, so to speak.”
Blake Durant studied him calmly. What he knew of Farner, he liked. The man was the unchallenged leader of the farmer faction. What he said was listened to and accepted; Farner never had to resort to overbearing manners. It was almost as though what he thought came from the minds of the others.
“What’s your decision?” Blake asked.
“Boils down to you shiftin’ on, Durant,” said Art Schofield roughly. “Pronto!”
Blake saw a deep frown suddenly come to Farner’s face. The big farmer took a deep breath and planted his boots wider apart. “I said I’d handle this affair, Schofield,” he told the tall wrangler. “I don’t want to make this anymore unsavory than it has to be.”
“Ain’t nothin’ unsavory about tellin’ a nuisance to git,” put in Jute Carney, his lean, lantern-jawed face relieved of its blemishes in the dim light of dusk.
“And the sooner the better,” Jimmy Blunt added, rubbing a palm across the butt of his right-hand gun.
Blake Durant ignored their interruption. “What does your decision amount to?” he asked Roland Farner.
Farner worked his mouth, his brow rutted. He was clearly unhappy with the way things were going. Standing off from him, Rick Trice looked slightly nervous, out of his depth in this kind of talk.
“Well, Durant it ain’t that we’ve got anything personal against you. As we see it, you’ve done everything asked of you since you joined up with us. You’ve been the best hunter on the wagon train and the best trail scout. If it hadn’t been for you, we’d have missed Mintoka Springs and been short of water by now. But you and Stanton ... well, you just don’t hit it off and I’m damned if I know why. Stanton’s done everything asked of him, too. Everything he said about this trail has turned out to be right. Plenty of feed for the stock, enough water, no mountain passes to negotiate, no real trouble of any kind. It’s been pleasant travelling for men and women alike. We have no complaints about Stanton at all, and we intend to follow him right through to the end, to where he says we can stop the wagons and settle.”
Blake eyed Schofield, Carney and Blunt carefully before he replied. “My argument with Stanton is based almost completely on my knowledge of what lies ahead of us. I’ve told all of you many times what that is, a hellion outfit which has made this territory its own. I’ve seen their tracks and I tell you again there’s a dozen men out there, trailing us, watching us. Why they’ve delayed this long I’ve no idea, but I feel obliged to repeat my warning: They’re waiting for something, maybe for you to tire or get careless.”
“How come you’re the only one who’s seen the tracks of ’em, Durant?” Schofield asked. “Are you sayin’ you got the only eyes in these parts that can read trail sign?”
“I seem to have the only pair of eyes looking in the right places, Schofield,” Durant returned calmly.
Schofield’s lips curled back in a sneer. Carney shifted a little away from Blake, dropping his right shoulder and easing his left hand towards his gun butt. Blake Durant ignored the menace of Carney. His business was with Farner and although he didn’t care much which way this discussion went, he felt obligated to put Farner right as best he could. He knew he wasn’t a man who made friends easily, but gradually the ice was melting with Farner and his farmer friends. The clannishness had slowly begun to break down and he’d almost reached the point of being accepted unconditionally. He realized it wasn’t easy for them to accept him. In their eyes he was a man on the drift, a loner going their way for reasons of his own. They were simple men and they expected others to be the same.
“Listen to me, Farner,” Blake went on, looking straight at Farner and no one else. “Even if everything Stanton has promised has come true with respect to the trail, there’s nothing for you at the end of it. Colonel Howie owns all the land past the big desert. He has a cattle empire that he’s proud of and is determined to keep. I know you’ve heard the stories, and I know you’ve also been informed that the good land farther north is there for the taking and there’ll be no trouble in getting it. But Stanton insists on taking you along a route where trouble will inevitably come. When the wagons stop rolling, you won’t be allowed to settle.”
Farner’s face grew lines and his lips thinned. He said, “Mike Stanton is of a different belief, Durant, and I’m still inclined to put my trust in him. He says that all the land we’re headin’ for hasn’t been legally claimed. Anyway, what would one man want with all that country? Surely there’s space for all, and especially for honest people who ask nothing of anybody and want only to be left alone so they can work for their families and make a new life for themselves.”
Blake Durant could offer no further argument. So he shrugged his shoulders and looked west, where the dark hills had the promise of peace and solitude.
Then Rick Trice joined in. “Durant, Mr. Stanton says there’s land for all of us out there—good land, with plenty of water. He says that folks like us, keen to work for the future, would have a town built in next to no time. We’d have something for ourselves.”
“And what Mike Stanton says is true,” Schofield put in sourly. “Anybody who says different is a liar, Durant.”
Blake’s gaze moved to the tall man. Inwardly he was seething. The wagon train meant nothing to him. Yet he found himself still anxious to argue his case against these men. He didn’t understand why. He had his own plans and had a lot of country to travel before he could begin putting them into operation. He needed none of these people. He didn’t even know them, and he doubted if any of them liked him. There had been too much evidence of men in the train suspecting him of joining the trek west for reasons that wouldn’t be to their advantage.
To Farner he said coolly, “What is it? Do you want me to ride out?”
Farner bit his lip, then nodded gravely. “Yes, Durant. We feel there will be less friction and argument with you gone. I don’t think we’re doing you an injustice. You don’t strike me as being the kind of man who needs the company of others, and you don’t appear to be in any way frightened of what might be ahead of you. You came into our midst suddenly and offered no explanation. Now I feel obliged to stand by those I know.”
Blake nodded and stepped away. He picked up his saddle and threw it on Sundown. “It’s your wagon train,” he muttered. “I’ll be gone inside of an hour.”
“Thank you,” said Farner. Then, giving Rick Trice a nod, he turned and walked away. But, when he’d gone a short distance and the others hadn’t followed, Farner wheeled, frowning.
“Mr. Schofield, our business here is finished,” he said, and Art Schofield’s head came up sharply and his eyes leveled on Farner. Carney and Jimmy Blunt straightened. They wanted Art Schofield to put Farner in his place, Blake thought. But Schofield’s tense look faded almost as quickly as it had formed and he said:
“Surely, Mr. Farner, surely. Just stayin’ to make sure Durant doesn’t pull any tricks.”
“I’m positive he won’t,” Farner said tightly. “Whatever else he has shown himself to be, he certainly hasn’t indicated that he isn’t a man of his word. I’ve taken his word, and so will all of us. Now leave him be. Mike Stanton will probably be anxious to know the outcome of our visit; I leave it to you to inform him of it.”
Farner stood there in a waiting attitude. Schofield, after throwing a crooked grin Durant’s way, gestured for his friends to go on. Passing Blake, he muttered, “Make sure you keep goin’, Durant. Go far and wide and forget all about her.”
Blake’s gaze hardened. Her. He knew Schofield could only be referring to Ellen Farner. His association with Ellen had been brief and meaningless. Once, weeks back, he’d accepted Farner’s invitation to dinner. The girl had been shy, even embarrassed in his company. He couldn’t remember her saying more than a few polite words to him. Yet he had to admit that he was very much aware of her presence in the days that followed, and often she’d walked to his end of the train after the wagons stopped in the evening. He’d presumed that his talk with her father at dinner had interested her. Farner had asked about the West and Durant had told him what he knew, which was a great deal. Farner had seemed impressed. Perhaps Ellen had been, too.
His horse saddled, Blake put thoughts of the girl from his mind. As far as he knew it was good country ahead with plenty of fresh meat to be had and water in good supply. The idea of having only Sundown for company didn’t worry him. Loneliness had been part of his life these past two years. He had learned to live with it, to accept it, and even at times to enjoy it. It helped a little to blot out the past he wanted to forget ... the woman who’d loved him. If Louise Yerby had lived, he wondered how different things would be now—without men like Schofield, Blunt and Carney, without the smooth-talking, well-groomed Mike Stanton, without the troubles of others crowding in on him. Blake realized that the loss of Louise had accentuated his own failings. He didn’t possess the warm and pleasant manner of men like Mike Stanton, so he found it difficult to break down the reserve of people towards him. It was always a chore to try to get along with others. There was a definite barrier between him and others.
He stepped into the saddle, gave Sundown a pat down the shoulder, and the eager-stepping big black stallion moved off. Since the trail west led straight up the track through the loose circle of the wagons, Blake Durant prepared himself for curious stares. He had no doubt that word had quickly spread of his confrontation with Roland Farner and the Stanton hands. The fact that he was moving on would prove to everyone in the train that he had lost out. He didn’t much care, he told himself, but there was a galling sensation in defeat of any kind. But, to keep the peace ...
“Mr. Durant.”
The call came from one of the wagons. Blake reined up and saw her standing there in the fire’s glow, her long hair gleaming, her eyes wide with questions. She was young and beautiful and desired by many men in the wagon train.
“Yes, Miss Farner?” he said.
She came towards him, walking lightly, looking shy yet determined. Her gaze was steady, and her eyes probed his when she drew up against the side of his horse.
“You’re going on?” she asked quietly.
“I think it’s best,” he said.
“They ordered you out, forced you to go?”
Blake smiled. “I didn’t belong here anyway. I’m better off on my own.”
He thought he saw a lift of disappointment in her eyes. She clasped her hands and looked down at them. The fire’s glow heightened the beauty in her face, a beauty he had seen completely bewitch Rick Trice and most of the others. How many had a secret longing for her he didn’t know, but he sensed that many of the men, even the older ones, had their private dreams of her when they were alone.
“Do you prefer to be on your own then, Mr. Durant, instead of with friends?”
Blake shrugged. “Friends are hard to come by, Miss Farner, and here in this place they’re sure hard to recognize. Maybe you’ll know what I mean when you’re older.”
“I’m old enough now,” Ellen said, her chin lifting. “I’m nineteen.”
“It’s a good age for learning,” Blake said and gave her a wave. He looked back a few hundred yards farther on and saw her still standing beside the fire, tall and slender. He rode on.
Two – “You Been Told, Ain’t You, Drifter?”
Blake Durant spent a rewarding two days in the hills. Soon after leaving the wagon train he had come upon a long green valley that wasn’t rutted by wheels. The grass was tall and water was plentiful. The information he had been given about this valley before striking out from Lusc had proved to be correct in every detail. He killed deer and rabbit and he caught fat brown trout in deep pools in a fast-moving stream. He didn’t miss the wagon train at all, in fact he reveled in being alone in such a beautiful place.
On the second evening since taking leave of Farner’s outfit Blake struck camp beside a small creek. The big black stallion was grazing and Durant was stretched out listening to the familiar night sounds when the drumming of hoof beats alerted him to the approach of visitors. He was immediately on his feet and heading for the cover of a circle of rocks to the right of Sundown when loud laughter brought him to a halt. In the gray light he saw Art Schofield leaning against a tree, gun in hand. Five yards away stood Jute Carney, holding his gun at the ready, amusement streaked in his lean-featured face. Then Jimmy Blunt appeared riding casually up the trail Blake himself had blazed earlier in the day. Behind Blunt’s mount were two horses Blake recognized as belonging to Carney and Schofield.
“See him run, Jute?” Schofield said. “Damn me, I ain’t seen no jasper move as fast since you sent a barkeep skitterin’ back in Lusc.”
Jute Carney chuckled and pushed himself off a boulder. He took two steps towards Blake Durant before Blunt halted his horse behind Blake. Blake Durant turned just enough to give him a sight of all three.
“What the hell is it now?” he rasped.
“It’s a showdown, drifter, between us and you,” Schofield said. “You’ve been snoopin’ on us.” Art Schofield pushed back his battered hat. He had plenty of width to match his height, and his chest was deep.
“Nobody’s been snooping, Schofield,” Blake told him. “What else is on your mind?”
“Ain’t no more’n that, Durant,” Blunt said, propping from the saddle and rubbing his big hands down his shirt front. “We seen you these past two days, comin’ and goin’ and all the time pryin’, seein’ what we was up to, like maybe you didn’t want to lose track of us for some reason. Got to the stage where Mike Stanton said he was sick of the sight of you. Them farmers were gettin’ unsettled, expectin’ trouble, so Mike asked us to pay you a call, give you some advice and see you on your way—crawlin’ if there weren’t no other way you’d listen.”
Blake eyed him without replying. He knew with certainty that these three had jumped at the chance to come after him. But why were they so keen on keeping their enmity for him going? From the beginning there had been friction between them.
“What’s Stanton really after?” he asked. “And why is he so damned worried about me? I’m a threat to what?”
