The Loner 7, page 2
Blake looked past him towards the house. He saw the frightened face of the young woman behind the side window. It seemed to him that she was looking straight at him, but sunlight against the window made it impossible for him to be sure.
“I’ve got a horse to see to,” Blake told Hardy Graham.
“Then do that and then ride out, mister. No good will come of staying and lockin’ horns with this crazy killer. One way or another he’ll try to get even with you. He’s a sneak, but he’s cunnin’ and, like I said, he’s bad, clear through. For what you did, I’m obliged, real obliged. You remind me of myself, as I was, before a couple too many years got piled on my head.”
Blake gave Semole another brief look before he turned and went on his way. Halfway down the street he stopped to duck his head into a water trough. He came up spluttering, then splashed water over his face and neck. He felt only a slight sting of pain in his neck and when he worked his shoulders he found his muscles to be free enough. Crossing the street, he noticed that a big crowd had gathered outside the saloon and more people were lined along the boardwalk down from them. But nobody approached him.
Reaching the old-timer Semole had first mauled, Blake took Sundown’s reins from him. The old-timer studied him heavily for a moment before he said:
“Leg’s bruised, no more.”
“That’s how I figured it,” Blake said.
“Be a day or two before he can stride out, though.” Blake read the concern behind the words and led Sundown off. But the old-timer followed along the boardwalk and said, “You want a horse to ride out on? I can give you one and I’ll look after this feller for you till you come back.”
Blake turned into the livery stable laneway. “I’ll leave when I’m good and ready,” he said and went on his way.
The old-timer drew his bony body to full height and nodded. His colorless old eyes were thoughtful as he muttered: “Yeah, boy, you’d do that. You’d do that and tell them all to kiss the seat of your pants. Pity. Good men don’t deserve to die.”
Blake Durant didn’t hear him. He continued on his way and found that the stable attendant was another old man, whose hands when they shifted over Sundown’s injured leg, brought no complaint from the horse.
“Good ’un, this feller,” he said. “By hell, I ain’t seen many better. Be proud to have him in my place, stranger, for as long as you feel he should stay.”
“Two days should see him fit again,” Blake said. “That’s your opinion.”
“About.”
Blake went off, feeling the old man’s curious eyes taking him in. He strode along the boardwalk, working his shoulders and neck against the lingering pain. His fists were swollen and bruised and his ribs hurt when he dragged in a deep breath.
Lincoln, a town where work was plentiful. He smiled to himself. Lincoln was just another name in a long list of towns that meant trouble for Blake Durant. He turned into the saloon watched by half the townspeople.
A short distance away, Nico Semole, under the leveled gun of Hardy Graham, dragged himself into a back street to lick his wounds.
And to plot ...
Two – “Durant!”
The barkeep was a grizzly of a man with big, iron-knuckled hands and skin that looked like stretched rawhide. He seemed so out of place behind his counter, an apron on his waist, that Blake Durant had to look around to make sure he was in the right place.
The big man’s face split into a wide, friendly grin. “Guess you want a drink, eh, stranger? Two maybe, or a full damn bottle. For you, the best—private stock and at the right price and to hell with the hangover that might come after.”
The barkeep placed a bottle of unlabelled whisky on the counter and took his money from Blake’s scattered change. Nobody in the saloon had tried to approach Durant. Lincoln people were obviously wary of him. Or maybe they didn’t want to be linked with him.
“What about this feller, Semole?” he said to the barkeep. “Top gun?”
The barkeep’s warmth dissolved and his eyes narrowed thoughtfully. After a moment he nodded his head. “He’s good, real damn good. And he’ll come after you, no mistake about that. You got your bottle, so why not go outside and drink in the quiet? Better still, get on your horse and drink as you ride.”
Blake filled his glass again. “Seems to me to be a quiet enough place here.”
The barkeep grinned crookedly. “I’m not worryin’ about me or my place, mister. But you beat up Nico Semole real good. Around here that puts a man on the Boothill trail.”
Blake emptied his glass. The barkeep filled it for him this time, then mopped up a small pool of rye a short way down the counter. When the huge man began to serve other customers, Blake leaned over the counter and stared moodily into his drink. Why move on? he asked himself. Why run just because a gun brat had stepped out of line and had been put in his place? Yet a lingering worry stayed in his mind, held there by the fact that everybody here was concerned about Semole’s next move. Despite the fight, Blake carried no great dislike for the wild-tempered Nico Semole. The half-breed had shown great courage. Blake just hoped that Semole had some friends who would talk him out of taking the matter further.
Blake was halfway through his third drink and beginning to unwind when a man bumped his left shoulder. Blake turned and moved just enough to give his right hand room for free movement. He looked into a long, tight-skinned face. The man had a trim moustache over his pinched mouth and his hands were spread loosely on the counter. He was making it clear that he wanted no trouble. Blake held the newcomer’s stare evenly. The man had a tin star on his checked shirt and he wore a single gun.
The small mouth opened. “I’m Sheriff Alec Graham.”
“I’ve already met your father,” Blake said.
“Yeah. Pa told me, Durant. He also told me the rest of it—how Semole near killed your horse after manhandling my jailer, and how he chased my daughter up the boardwalk. Pa said you bought in and took over from him, saved him from having to kill Semole.”
“It might not have come to that,” Blake said easily and sipped his drink, still studying Alec Graham over the rim of his glass. The men in the room had ceased to chatter and the barkeep, mopping his counter, had his head cocked in a listening attitude some ten feet away.
“Might not have come to shooting, and then again it might have, Durant,” said Alec Graham. He removed his Stetson and ran a hand through his thinning hair. Blake put him down at over forty years of age, maybe closing on fifty. By the look of him, he either worked too hard or worried a lot. Probably the latter, he decided.
“As far as I’m concerned it’s finished now,” Blake put in after a moment.
Graham licked his lips and shook his head. A knot of worry appeared in his thin, high forehead.
“It’s far from finished, I’m afraid, Durant. Nico Semole is rotten clear through. He won’t take a beating and just leave it at that, not him.”
“So everybody tells me,” Blake said casually and spent some time filling his glass. “Free to drink now, Sheriff?”
Graham looked at the whisky bottle and shook his head. “Never drink before sundown and only a little then, Durant. Thanks all the same. After pa told me what happened, I figured I’d seek you out and help you all I can. The best advice I can give you is this—saddle up and ride. Ole, my jailer, said your horse isn’t hurt bad and could be nursed along the trail.”
“I just got here,” Blake Durant said quietly.
Graham frowned deeply and straightened, slipping his hands off the counter and wiping them down his shirt front. “You don’t seem to understand. I’m not telling you to run and hide. I’m just asking you to be sensible, for both our sakes.”
“Does Semole worry you, Sheriff?” Blake pushed at him and saw the frown go deeper in the lined brow.
“Maybe, Durant,” Graham admitted. “That doesn’t make me no coward, if that’s what you mean to imply. The way I see the position, it makes me damned sensible. Nico Semole is the fastest gun in these parts. He’s already killed half a dozen men to my knowledge and maybe another half dozen he’s not been made to answer for. Add to that the fact that he’s mean enough to tear anybody down—any way he can—and you should get some idea of what you’re up against if you stay.”
Blake wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. His gaze swung past Alec Graham to take in the customers. He noticed that some looked worried, some were just plain curious, and others had an air of expectancy about them.
Blake said, “When I rode in, Graham, I figured this was a nice, homely little town that just might have something for me in it. Nothing that’s happened since has given me any cause to change that opinion. As for Semole ... well, most towns have a hard case or two like him. So I’ll stay and give my horse plenty of time to get fit. Meantime I’ll have some drinks. When I’m ready to go I’ll push on, not before.”
“Don’t be so damned stubborn!” snapped Graham—louder than he meant to, Blake figured, because the lawman looked anxiously about him after speaking. Then Graham wiped sweat from his brow and lowered his voice. “Look, Durant, this isn’t your town. If it comes right down to the point, Nico Semole has more right here than you do. You’re the stranger, you’re the intruder.”
A rise of annoyance lifted in Durant. “Do you give a man like Semole special rights in your town, Sheriff? Maybe there are a couple of things you should think about. He chased a young woman with the intention of mauling her. He would have drawn against your father if the old man hadn’t beaten him to it with his rifle. And from what I’ve been told by you and your townsmen, Semole has been riding roughshod over everybody, doing as he damn well pleases. What the hell kind of reasoning are you using, Sheriff?”
The color drained from Alec Graham’s face and he licked at his lips. He was quiet for a long moment before he said, in a strained voice that Blake could barely hear, “I’m telling you, Durant, you don’t know the man. You beat him in a fist brawl, but when it comes to a gun he’s another man entirely. I tell you, he can’t be beat.”
Blake freshened his drink. “Sheriff, I think you’ve told me enough for now. Whatever else you have to say won’t interest me.”
Blake turned to leave and Alec Graham grasped his arm. “What is it?” Blake asked coldly. “Maybe you’ve got ideas about riding me out of town on a rail?”
“Don’t be a damned fool, Durant. I’m obliged for what you did for pa and I can tell you that you’ve got the respect of more than just me in this town. It’s a good town and maybe someday it’ll be the kind of place that’s got what you’re looking for. But not now. Ride out and do us both a favor, you and me. I swear to you that it’s for the best.”
Blake shrugged out of the sheriff’s grip and walked away without a word. He heard Alec Graham curse under his breath, then he heard the sheriff’s boots pound along the boards towards the front of the saloon. He pulled a chair up to a table where two cowhands were sitting. The two men exchanged a quick look and rose together.
“Time we were pulling out, Jude,” one muttered. Then giving Durant a nod, both made their way back to the bar counter.
Blake poured himself another drink and swirled it about in the glass. There was a rumble of talk in the room now, but he could make nothing of importance out of it.
Everyone thought Nico Semole would come after him in time. Well, if that happened, so be it. But he didn’t intend to make a shooting match out of his argument with Semole. He’d talk, put Semole right on a couple of matters, and let it go at that. If further trouble came it would be Semole’s doing.
Half an hour went by before the talk, which had grown louder in the saloon, suddenly stopped. In the silence that followed, Blake heard the back door close. Then footsteps came towards him. He didn’t bother to turn.
“Durant!”
The voice had venom in it. Blake turned slowly in his chair, pulling his glass across the table with the movement. His stare lifted and took in the bruised face of Nico Semole.
“Do you want something?” Blake asked casually.
“Yeah, Durant—I want you. Up, mister, and no talk. I’m here to kill you.”
Blake shook his head slowly. “Nobody’s going to kill me, Semole.”
“Up, damn you, or take it cold where you sit!”
Semole’s hand was clamped on his gun butt. Blake slowly came to his feet, then coolly finished his drink. He put the glass down and held Semole’s fierce, hate-filled gaze.
“Our trouble is finished with, Semole. You stepped out of line and I hammered you for it. Let’s leave it at that.”
“Show me how you can use that big gun of yours, Durant,” Semole said tightly. “See if you can shoot before I put a slug in you and blast your interferin’ guts all over this room.”
The crowd backed off, giving Semole and Blake the middle of the room. Behind Semole a lantern burned on a high shelf. The back door was open and the gloom of evening filled the yard. There was no sound at all.
Blake spread his feet wide and said, “Semole, you’ll be making a bad mistake.”
“Draw, damn you!”
Semole’s hand jerked down suddenly and Blake realized he’d let the ’breed get the jump on him. His own hand flashed down, took hold and lifted the gun clear of leather. His action was fast and smooth. He pumped off one shot that slammed into Nico Semole’s left shoulder and sent him spinning away. A runt of a man in cowhand garb let out a shout as Semole’s body crashed against him. With the smell of cordite in his nostrils, Blake stood ready for Semole’s next move.
The half-breed regained his balance, hurled the small cowboy aside and wheeled about, hate flashing in his eyes.
Durant said, “I warned you.”
But Semole paid the advice no heed. His gun lifted and Blake punched off his second shot and the bullet slammed with a dull thud into the ’breed’s chest. Semole went back on his heels, his face drained of color. Horror flooded into his face, then surprise washed away terror and his legs gave way.
“No!” he breathed as he hit the floor on his face. His gun slithered across the floor to disappear under a table. Blake’s smoking gun stayed on target, but Nico Semole didn’t move. Nor did another sound come from him.
“By hell and tarnation, you done it, Durant!”
Hardy Graham came pounding into the room as the echo of the last shot died. He brushed three townsmen aside and stood grinning down at the body of Nico Semole. “Took him fair and square with about the fastest damn draw I ever seen in my life. And I seen plenty in my day. Seen the best of them. The Kromer boys, Luke Short, Pete Madder. Weren’t nobody to hold a candle to them when it came to a shootout. But, by hell, Durant, what you just done and how you done it, hardly even blinkin’ an eye—well, I reckon it deserves mention with the best of all the gunfights. For the second time today, mister, I’m gonna shake your hand.”
Before Blake could move his hand was being pumped vigorously. He pulled his hand away finally and moved back from the grinning, excited old man. Hardy Graham left him and pushed his way through a knot of men to the bar counter. He thumped his hands on the counter and called out:
“Hap, set ’em up all around—and you’re payin’, by hell!”
Hap Tonkin straightened behind his counter, surprise lifting his heavy brows.
“Do it for Durant, Hap, for him getting rid of your biggest trouble maker, Nico Semole,” Hardy Graham insisted. “Durant just gave this town the biggest boost it’s had in ten years. With Semole out of the way it means the rest of us can breathe more freely. Now the sheriff don’t have to worry about waitin’ for Semole to make a big mistake. And everybody here—yeah, every single one of you men who’ve been made shift ground when Nico Semole came stompin’ in—all of you can relax. So how about it, Hap?”
Hap Tonkin frowned heavily and spent time counting off the number of men present. Most of the customers had already hurried across to the counter to take up their positions.
“Yeah, Hap, what about it? Semole’s been givin’ you hell and you owe Durant plenty for what he’s done.”
A tall townsman moved alongside Hardy Graham, grinning. Then others began to shout, giving further backing to the suggestion. Finally, Hap Tonkin, sucking in a loud breath, held his hands up for quiet and announced:
“Okay, okay, everybody quiet down. I had it in mind to set drinks up for all anyway. But first let’s get Blake Durant up here. And don’t nobody touch Semole. Leave him be till Alec gets here and is told how it happened. Quiet now and no pushin’. There’s plenty of booze to go around.”
A loud chorus of cheering broke out and the rush forward was enough to rock the counter. Tonkin lifted full bottles from under his counter and handed them out.
Blake holstered his gun and watched the melee of shuffling, excited men. He was soon left on his own, standing against the table looking down at the bloodied body of Nico Semole, a man he hardly knew, a man like so many other fools he’d met.
“Okay, okay, quiet now.”
Sheriff Alec Graham pushed himself through the crowd of drinkers and pulled his father away from the counter, all the while studying Blake Durant curiously. The lawman seemed in no way worried. In fact, Blake thought he looked relieved about the night’s business.
While Blake waited for the lawman to come across and question him, Hardy Graham and Hap Tonkin gave their accounts of the shooting. Alec Graham heard them out, then left his father and came slowly across the room. He bit on his bottom lip and seemed to be trying to look serious, but there was a gleam of excitement in his eyes while a smile struggled to break out on his thin lips.
“Guess you don’t have to answer to anybody for the killing, Durant,” he said, drawing up to Blake. “Everybody knows it was a fair fight and Semole did the calling. In a way I’m obliged, which I guess you can understand.”
