The Loner 13, page 10
Kneeling in the shade, Ed Ball began to sweat. He discovered that his respect for Durant had grown while his hate for the man had only started to build. He had delayed that morning only long enough to count his rake-off from Cannon Creek and Forge. He had four thousand dollars in his saddlebags, enough to set himself up for life.
But Durant had bought in and now he had to be killed. Ball moved to the edge of the brush and made a wide circle, coming up behind the spot where he had tethered his horse. All he had to do was catch Durant off guard for a moment, then he’d kill him and be on his way. After that nobody would come after him, seeking his hide.
It took Ball five minutes to get into a position from where he could see his horse. The fact that the animal was standing quietly made Ball certain that Durant wasn’t near the animal. Tying his bandanna about his wounded neck, Ball suddenly went forward. But his hand had only just caught the reins when the brush to his left broke and Blake Durant stood there, covering him with his gun. Ed’s rifle was across the saddle and he had no chance to lower it in time to get Durant first. But the horse was between them and he wondered how he could use this slight advantage.
Then Blake Durant said, “We’re going back, Ball. You’ll have to face charges from Crane and Harner. There’s also the matter of confronting your brother. If he didn’t trust you before and didn’t want anything to do with you, just imagine how he’ll feel now.”
Ball’s lips peeled back in a snarl, then he knocked the horse aside and went under its belly. He jerked up the rifle when he was clear of the horse. Durant was then in his sights and he let out a triumphant curse.
Blake Durant didn’t move. His gun bucked and the bullet tore into Ed Ball’s chest, knocking him back. Ball’s rifle barked but the shot went feet over Blake’s head.
“Damn you, Durant!” Ball muttered, then he began to cough. His rifle fell and he clutched at his chest, clawing as if trying to gouge out the terrible pain. Suddenly he pitched forward onto his face and lay still.
Blake Durant rode into Forge that same afternoon, the sun behind him. Leading Ball’s horse, he rode to the end of the main street. People gathered along the boardwalks, watching him. Going past the first of them Blake was aware of mutterings on each side of the street. Then Solly Crane, his head bandaged, came hurrying off the boardwalk. Blake pulled Ball’s heavy saddlebags free and tossed them to Crane.
“Some of it’s yours and some is Harner’s. The rest belongs to dead men. Do what you want with it.”
Crane caught the bags and pulled the flaps back. His face brightened when he saw the money inside. When he looked up, his eyes bright with gratitude, Blake Durant had gone on. It was only then that Crane and Jig Harner, who had joined him, saw the body hanging limply over the other horse. They moved slowly along the boardwalk, watching this tall stranger, wondering where he had come from and where he might go. Both realized that here was a man the town needed.
Blake Durant rode to the other side of the street and stopped outside Ross Ball’s place. Nola came hurrying down to the gate to greet him. She gasped when she saw that the dead man across the saddle was Ed Ball.
Blake said, “He fought it out and I had no alternative but to gun him down.” He paused before adding, “I doubt if your husband will want to be troubled with his body, but I brought it back in case I had his feelings wrong.”
Nola looked at the dead man. Once she had loved him. A chill went through her. It was over, and she owed her thanks to this man who was really a stranger. Suddenly tears welled in her eyes.
“Ross won’t want to see him like this,” she said.
“Then I’ll bury him, ma’am.”
Blake tipped his hat and began to turn his horse around.
She said, “What then, Mr. Durant? Will you stay in town? When my husband is well again, he’ll want to show his appreciation.”
Blake looked into the distance beyond the town. Somewhere close lay the Chisholm Trail, which led home. He wanted to get away from this town, to ride through different country. Now, as he looked down at Nola Ball, she reminded him of the woman he’d loved. He still loved her ... loved a ghost.
Blake said, “There’s no need for thanks. I only did what I had to do.”
Nola moved closer to him. “But I want to thank you, too. You look so tired. You’ve been through so much, for us and for the town. You just can’t ride away. You’ve earned the right to stay, and we—we’d like you to remain.”
“Right,” put in Solly Crane, who had crossed the street with Jig Harner. A crowd had formed behind them.
“What do you intend doing?” asked Jig Harner. “Hell, if it wasn’t for you ...”
Sundown, as if responding to an unspoken command from Blake Durant, nosed Harner out of the way. Blake let the big horse walk on as Crane, Harner and the others moved back to form a passage.
Blake looked straight ahead. There was loneliness ahead of him, but he was committed to riding into that loneliness, to become a part of it.
So he rode out of Forge, heading back across the country Hawke had driven his cattle over. Fifty miles to the south, a trail branched further west. Out there some place might be the peace he was looking for.
He kicked the horse into a run and then heat haze swallowed him up.
About the Author
Sheldon B. Cole was one of many pseudonyms used by prolific Australian writer Desmond Robert Dunn (6 November 1929-5 May 2003). In addition to four crime novels published under his own name, Des was a tireless western writer whose career spanned more than fifty years and well in excess of 400 oaters. These quick-moving, vivid and always compelling stories appeared under such pen-names as Shad Denver, Gunn Halliday, Adam Brady, Brett Iverson, Matt Cregan, Walt Renwick and Morgan Culp. He is also said to have written a number of the ever-popular Larry Kent P.I. novels, but at this late date author attribution is almost impossible. He married and divorced twice, and had three children. He died at the age of 73 in Brisbane, Queensland.
The Loner Series by Sheldon B. Cole
Where Guns Talk
Trail to Nowhere
Boothill is Anywhere
Brand of the Forgotten
Kill or Hang!
Outcast County
Somewhere – A Sundown
Die, Damn You, Die!
Losers Die Fast
Sundown Comes Suddenly
Carne’s Raiders
Draw Fast – Or Die!
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Sheldon B. Cole, The Loner 13
