The Loner 7, page 10
“No time,” Durant said and pushed his horse past. He had only gone on a few yards when Scanlon called:
“If you don’t know the country out there, Durant, you might miss him. River comes down through the gorge. In flood time a man could easily get blocked by the rapids. You got to push right on to the end of the hills before coming into it. Only that way—”
Blake Durant was listening and not showing it as he went on. When he heard a grunt from Scanlon he kicked Sundown into a run. The big black, eager to be on the trail, bounded forward powerfully. Before the three cowmen could make up their minds to follow, Durant was off the clearing and heading into the bottom country.
He rode all that day, occasionally picking up the tracks of a single horse heading west. He made only one camp during that time, at a small branch creek. The heat of the day was fierce and the humidity was high in this closed-in country. Sundown showed no signs of slowing down, pushing on in obedience to the demands of the man in the saddle. At dusk they reached rising country near a chain of hills. Blake thought he could hear an undercurrent of sound, of water flowing free and full somewhere close.
He pressed on until darkness came and he struck camp. He rested completely, his mind blotted out to all thoughts but the man ahead, a man he sensed was watching his back-trail and sweating heavily about pursuit. Martin had a night’s start on him. If he reached the river first and crossed, Blake knew it would be a devil of a job to track him down in the desert country beyond the mountains. Perhaps there were settlements there and the inhabitants might give him some information. But they might be like the communities dotted along most borders, carrying people who minded their own business and said nothing to strangers.
It was an hour before sunup when Durant continued on his way. He swung wide past a tall hill. Now he could hear the rumble of water clearly. He remembered Scanlon’s advice and struck away from the mountain. The country lay flat before him, treeless, rocky, empty.
Then he saw a shack in the distance. He drew rein and looked around him. He could see only one way to approach the shack without being observed. This was across a butte that sheltered a low-lying river bank. The roar of water going over rapids told him that he was close to the flooded river. A crossing there would probably be dangerous, even for a strong horse.
Blake rode down to the butte, moved through a cluster of boulders and stopped Sundown a hundred feet or so short of the shack. There was no sound from the place and no sign of a horse outside. He came out of the saddle and went forward on foot, leaving Sundown standing with the reins trailing. Reaching the rear of the shack, Blake walked carefully down its side. The door in the front was closed, and a single window flashed in the sunlight.
Blake walked to the door, braced himself, then sent the door crashing in with a well-placed kick.
The shack was deserted.
Blake gave it a brief inspection and saw where Martin had cooked a meal and used the old bunk. The smell of burning wood still hung in the room, but it meant little. Smoke scent would stay in a closed room for weeks. So he still had no idea how far in front of him Dobie Martin was.
Going back to Sundown, Blake swung into the saddle. He came back to the shack and went past it, heading for the river. The water was running fast, in one section boiling furiously over huge rocks in midstream. He went along the bank, picking up the tracks of a single horse. The tracks, he decided, were only a few hours old.
Blake pushed Sundown on at a faster gait and for the rest of the morning he rode the timbered slopes running parallel to the river. At noon he stopped at the remains of a campfire. The ashes were still warm.
He rode slower now, his eyes searching. After another hour he came to a place where the high river banks leveled out, dropping away to a flat grassy section. The tracks he followed went straight across the open stretch towards a low river bank, out from which the river narrowed and flowed peacefully.
Dobie Martin had crossed here! Blake Durant was positive of it. He was close to the killer—and getting closer because Martin’s tired horse had obviously shortened stride. Then Blake heard a far-off gunshot. Blake hit Sundown into a run and paid no heed to the blasting heat of the afternoon. He rode along the low river bank and then he drove his horse into the water. He made the crossing without any difficulty, but as he was coming up the other bank, he saw a thin trail of smoke rising from under a canopy of branches. Blake swung out of the saddle, hitched Sundown to a bush and proceeded on foot. When he stopped again, he could see the huddled shape of a man sitting before a fire. A horse lay on the ground on its side yards away, unmoving. There was a bullet hole in its head. Which explained the gunshot Blake had heard.
Blake could have killed the crushed and trail-weary Dobie Martin where he sat, but instead he picked up a stout stick and hurled it away. When it crashed through brush on the other side, Dobie Martin jumped to his feet, gun in hand, his back to Blake.
Martin called, “That you, Lee? Tom? Stan?” He waited. “Damn you, who’s out there?”
Dobie Martin began to back away from the fire, moving towards Blake.
“Lee, if it’s you, what I said still stands. I got it all worked out. No sense in working for other folks. Better to take your own cut and to hell with the rest of ’em.”
Martin kept backing away, then he tripped on a stone and swung about, his face white with fear as his gaze flicked to the left and right.
Blake knelt behind the brush and said, “Your friends wanted no part of you, Martin.”
Martin swallowed hard. He held his gun so tightly that every muscle in his forearm bulged. He waved the Colt about, desperate for a sight of the man who spoke.
When he saw no one, he backed off in another direction and then suddenly he turned and broke into a run. Blake Durant took careful aim and fired. Martin’s left leg whipped out from under him with the impact of the slug and he went down on his side. Only then, as Martin writhed about and tried to rise, did Blake Durant show himself.
Abject fear showed in Dobie Martin’s face. Before him stood a man who had beaten him with bare fists, humbled him, and caused him to be cast out by his employer. His gun jerked up and hatred replaced the fear in his eyes.
“Damn you, Durant! Damn you to hell!”
His gun barked. A wild shot that missed badly. Blake Durant stood his ground, despising Martin, wanting him to suffer. He could visualize this animal mauling the slender Therese Semole. He could see him raining punches on her face and chest; and later ...
Blake punched off four shots. The first crashed into Martin’s chest, sending him rolling onto his back. The second tore the throat out of the man, and the third and fourth joined the first in his chest. Dobie Martin gave one gurgling scream and his body stiffened. The gun slipped from his hand and his head hit the ground with a dull thud.
Blake Durant didn’t bother to examine the body. He brought Sundown there and heaved Dobie Martin’s blood-soaked body behind the saddle. Mounting, he rode back across the river and past the mountains, then he headed for the ranch where Dobie Martin had worked.
“He raped and murdered a girl who belonged to this town,” Sheriff Alec Graham told his daughter as he tightened the cinch strap on his horse in the jailhouse yard. “It’s my duty to hunt him down.”
“But you’re not fit to ride, Pa,” Joy said. “The doctor said—”
“Too many people for too long have been telling me what to do and not to do, Joy. Leave well enough alone, will you?”
Joy stepped back, shocked by the severity of his tone. But a deeper respect for her father showed in her face a moment later.
“Then I’ll come along, Pa,” she said.
“No! Martin’s a killer!”
“Just to look after you, Pa, in case the bleeding starts again. You can’t expect me to stay here in town and worry myself sick, wondering if you’re bleeding to death out there.”
Alec Graham grunted something under his breath. Then Ole Manuel, who’d been packing provisions into Graham’s saddlebags, put in, “Can’t see it would do any harm, Sheriff. That shoulder will need new dressings from time to time and it’ll be a long ride now that the others have such a big start on you.”
Graham looked angrily at the jailer, then he gave a grin. His shoulder did hurt like blazes.
“Okay, then, but by hell you keep out of my hair, Joy. If I say to stay put, you stay there.”
“Certainly, Pa,” Joy said eagerly, then she hurried off to saddle her mare.
When she and her father were riding out some fifteen minutes later, he eyed her knowingly for a while and said:
“It’s more than just Dobie Martin, isn’t it, girl?”
Joy felt blood flash to her face. She lowered her eyes. “What else could it be, Pa?”
“Durant.”
Joy’s mouth opened but no sound came from her.
“You’re worried about him,” Graham said.
She nodded.
“Figured it might be him, Joy. You were alone with him all last night, in the house. Somethin’ coulda happened.”
“Pa!”
Graham ignored her indignation. “Don’t know rightly what to think of that jasper. He’s so damn quiet and he keeps to himself most of the time. He can handle a gun and use his fists, and I guess he’s made a big name for himself in my town. That kind can easily turn the heads of young women. Like with Therese Semole, for instance.”
“Pa, how could you think—?” Joy began again but Graham waved her to silence and went on:
“I can think any way I like, Joy. I’m your father so that gives me the right to check on what you’re up to. I guess you are worried about me, but you’d come all this way even if I wasn’t hurt. And I know you ain’t got nothin’ special against Dobie Martin so you’d want to be on hand to see him arrested or killed. So, it’s got to be Durant. Now, I want to know what the hell went on between you.”
Joy was silent for a long time before she said, “Pa, nothing happened. You have my word on that. Why, Mr. Durant hardly knows I’m alive.”
Graham grunted and kicked his horse on. They cut down into the bottom country, not speaking to each other, and then they approached Karl Parry’s ranch house. As they did so they saw a lone rider bearing down from the high country beyond the barn. Joy stopped the mare, grabbing at her father’s arm. Alec Graham reined up his horse, put field-glasses to his eyes and squinted ahead.
After a moment he muttered, “It’s Durant all right.”
“Is he ... is he all right, Pa? Can you see clearly enough?”
Alec Graham said tonelessly, “He don’t look hurt to me. Seems to be totin’ somethin’ back of his saddle.”
“Dobie Martin,” Joy said, her face brightening. “He found him, Pa. I knew he would.”
Alec Graham gave a grunt. After a few minutes he saw some of Karl Parry’s hands running towards the stables. Blake Durant stopped his horse short of them and pushed Dobie Martin’s body to the ground. Then he backed Sundown off, wheeled him away and rode back the way he had come.
Joy cried out, “Pa, he’s leaving.”
“He did what he had to,” Alec Graham said.
“But, Pa, why?”
“A man like him, girl, is kinda hard to understand. Durant drifted into our town, minding his own business. Nico Semole made trouble for him and he killed him. Then Kane Semole made trouble and Kane ain’t gonna bother nobody no more. Then Dobie Martin ...”
Graham’s voice trailed off. He looked at his daughter and saw tears welling in her eyes. He kicked his horse into a run and Joy followed. When he reached the Parry bunch he found them standing around the dead man on the ground. The four bullet holes in Dobie Martin told their own story. Graham, seeing his daughter go pale, rode to her.
He said, “He never gave anything of himself to our town, girl. Or to you, as you said. So now, he’s gone on his way. A loner. No other name for him. Blake Durant, a man alone, the odd man out. Ain’t nobody ever gonna change that.”
Tears coursed down Joy’s cheeks and a stifled sob came from her. “Won’t he ever come back, Pa?”
“Hard to tell with his kind.”
Joy turned her horse and kicked it forward. Her father gave her a quick look but stayed where he was. Joy raced her horse past the barn and up into the beginning of the foothills.
Blake Durant had stopped Sundown half a mile ahead. He looked at her, saw her hair flowing in the breeze. Joy Graham saw him lift a hand and wave.
She let her horse walk on a pace or two and pulled on the reins. Blake Durant had not come back to her. She sat there with the sun full in her face, a chill riding her body. She did not know this man. Nobody actually knew him. He had come out of the emptiness and done what he had to do. People had crowded him and he had killed them.
Perhaps, she thought, it would always be like that. Durant, as her father had said, was a loner and wanted to be no more than that. But she whispered:
“Come back, Mr. Durant. One day, come back. You’ll find me waiting for you.”
Blake Durant was out of sight when she finally lowered her gaze. Joy Graham didn’t know it and never would, but only minutes ago Blake Durant had fought a struggle within himself and had been on the verge of riding back. But there had been another woman, a long time ago, a woman who’d come between Joy and Blake.
So Blake Durant rode into the emptiness, feeling the familiar loneliness closing in on him. He rode slowly, thoughtful, not thinking about what might he ahead. But one day, somewhere, something would happen and he’d no longer drift. He knew it.
He rode on, a loner on a strange trail, heading nowhere.
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
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Sheldon B. Cole, The Loner 7
