The Loner 15, page 6
“Damn you, Ivers!” Blake snapped, then Ed Coolidge sent three bullets up at him. One of the slugs tugged at his sleeve as Blake went forward.
Then Leke Coolidge came charging out of the brush, dragging a young woman with him. Her blouse was torn, revealing her breasts, and there were scratch marks on her neck and arms. Leke Coolidge shoved her forward and dropped beside his brother. The young woman fell to the ground and struggled to her feet. She looked anxiously at the Coolidge boys before she glanced fearfully at the slope above and broke into a limping run. Ed Coolidge let out a shout and fired a shot after her, but the woman paid no heed. She reached the shack and disappeared from sight around the corner.
Blake Durant had in the meantime made his way several feet down the slope and crouched, Ivers just behind him. The Coolidge boys fanned their guns, but the shots were wild. Ivers slithered down beside Blake and said hoarsely:
“Hell, Durant, we got ’em! Only thing they can do is head back into that brush. We don’t have to move an inch from here.”
As Ivers finished speaking, Leke Coolidge jumped to his feet and began to sprint across the clearing. Ivers let out another sharp cry and punched off shots. Leke Coolidge went down on one knee and then pawed at the air as though trying to keep his balance. With a triumphant cry, Ivers put another bullet into Leke. The hellion’s forehead was ripped open. He fell back and his legs gave a dying kick.
Ed Coolidge was running now. He hurdled his brother’s body and went on. Blake triggered four shots at the ground in front of Ed and called for him to stop. When he didn’t, Blake directed his fifth shot at his leg. The bullet struck home and sent Ed Coolidge sprawling. He hit the ground, rolled to his feet and limped out of sight.
Blake heard Ed hammering on the door of the shack as he scrambled down the slope. He lost his balance at the bottom and fell. Slugs tore at the ground near him and he was forced to back off and take cover behind a rocky ledge. There was no sign of Ivers. Blake waited. The hammering continued and then stopped. Hearing a sound behind him, Blake turned to see Gus Ivers sliding down the slope on the seat of his pants. When it seemed he had to crash into Blake, his boot heels dug in and the momentum of his slide brought him to an upright position. Off-balance, he windmilled his arms frantically in an attempt to stop himself from falling into the clearing and had just about succeeded when Ed Coolidge put a bullet through Ivers’ neck.
Gus Ivers’ old body collapsed without a sound. When Blake knelt beside him, the old man gave a last fluttering gesture with his hand and lay still.
Leke Coolidge was dead. Gus Ivers was dead. A young woman was trapped yards away in an old shack.
Blake left Gus Ivers and made his way along the fringe of the clearing. There was no sign of Ed Coolidge.
Then bullets slammed into the door of the shack and a moment later Ed Coolidge rode past Blake, his gun bucking. Blake was again forced to dive for cover. When he returned his gaze to Coolidge, he saw only his back before he disappeared down the slope.
Chapter Seven – A Woman Alone
BLAKE KNELT IN dry brush not far from the shack. It was close to noon and the heat was intolerable. Flies swarmed about Blake’s face. “Ma’am?” he called. There was no answer. “I’m not one of the Coolidge boys,” he said. “Leke is dead and the other is on the run.”
“Who are you?” came the young woman’s voice from inside the shack.
“The name’s Blake Durant. Open the door and I’ll explain everything.”
Blake rose and took a step forward. But a rifle blast from the shack window forced him to heel about. From the brush he called, “Now listen, ma’am, quit that! I mean you no harm. I’ve trailed the Coolidge boys to here and I don’t intend to quit chasing until I’ve got Ed.”
She cried, “If you come a step closer to me, I’ll shoot you down. I want no part of you or them.”
“Wanting no part of them, ma’am, I can understand,” Blake said as he crept closer. He could see the flimsy door now. One good shove would break it down. He said, “You seemed to have been in a lot of trouble with them, and I can understand your concern for your safety now. But listen to me—I’m on your side.”
There was no answer this time. Blake braced himself, drew in a deep breath, then charged at the door. It took him four long strides to reach it. He put all his weight behind his right shoulder and drove himself at the timber. The door buckled and came off one of its hinges.
Durant found himself a yard inside the doorway. The young woman had backed off to the far wall and was lifting the rifle to her shoulder. Blake lunged at her and knocked the rifle from her grip. The rifle discharged and the slug burned past his arm.
“I said to cut it out,” he roared at her, but she came at him, her hands raised, her fingers curled like talons. Blake grabbed her hands and held them at her side, but she continued to struggle until he lifted her and carried her across the room. He dumped her on a bunk against the side wall and stood back, a scratch mark on his right cheek.
Lisa Moran glared up at him, plenty of fight still in her. She seemed unaware that her full breasts were partly exposed. Blake picked up a towel from the end of the bunk and flung it at her, then he crossed the room, picked up the rifle and pumped the remaining shells from it. He hurled the rifle against the wall and walked to the doorway.
“We’ll talk after you’ve changed that blouse,” he said.
He heard the bunk springs squeak and then light footsteps on the bare boards. He turned. She had her back to him as she pulled another blouse over her head. He turned away, wondering how far Ed Coolidge would run. Blake frowned. If he took this young woman along, would she slow him down too much? No matter. He couldn’t leave her out here in the wilderness.
She looked at him. “You say your name is Durant?”
“Blake Durant, ma’am.”
“If you have anything that resembles decency in you, Mr. Durant, you’ll leave now. I want no part of you or anybody else.”
Blake touched the scratch on his cheek and then studied her closely. “I’ll leave in good time, ma’am. But first, who are you and what were you doing here with the Coolidge boys?”
She thrust out her chin. “I do not feel obliged to answer any of your questions, Mr. Durant, nor do I care what you are after or why. I ask only that you leave me alone.”
“That won’t do,” Blake said. “This is wild country, and it’s no place for a woman on her own. Were you here when the Coolidge boys arrived?”
“I was here, yes, and for reasons of my own. Now I want to stay here—alone.”
“What if I leave and Ed Coolidge doubles back? Do you figure you can handle him?”
“I’ll barricade the door,” she said firmly.
Blake smiled wryly. “From what I know of Ed Coolidge, little things like a barricade won’t stop him getting what he wants. Did you have an earlier connection with him that I should know about?”
Lisa glared furiously at him. “I had no connection whatever with him or his brother or anybody like them, thank you. And I don’t want any connection with you. I merely want to wait here until my—”
Lisa stopped suddenly and a flush rose in her cheeks. Then she sucked in her breath and looked angry at herself. She glanced at the rifle on the floor but made no move towards it.
“Two men are dead, ma’am,” Blake said sharply. “I’ll have to bury them. While I’m at that chore, you might think things over because, whether you like it or not, I’m not going to leave you out here alone for Ed Coolidge to find again. I should think you’ve had enough of him to come along quietly.”
Not waiting for her answer, Blake stepped into the harsh sunlight. He was only halfway to the body of Gus Ivers when Ed Coolidge suddenly rode out of the brush, his gun barking. Blake spun about, his Colt coming quickly into his hand. Ed Coolidge rode on, his face flushed, his bullets whining close to Blake—too close for him to stand his ground. Blake fired back and reached cover in the brush. Then Lisa Moran appeared in the doorway. She put a cartridge into the rifle and pressed the stock to her shoulder. The Winchester bucked. Coolidge turned his horse and charge at her. He jumped out of the saddle to land within a foot of her. He grabbed her and, using his horse as a shield, roughly hurled her across the saddle. When Lisa struggled, he rapped his gun butt against her head and she went limp. Back in the saddle, he emptied his gun at Blake Durant and then drove his horse back to the brush at the far end of the clearing. Blake held his fire, frightened that he might hit the girl. Helpless, he watched Ed Coolidge ride off. Then he was scrambling up the slope and heading for Sundown. When he freed the big black, he led it to the top of the rise and stared down into the vast expanse of wild country between him and the prairie. There was no sign of Ed Coolidge or the girl. He waited for Coolidge to negotiate the slope and come out on the prairie. He had to be sure in which direction Coolidge was going, but although he waited for a full five minutes, the hellion didn’t appear.
Troubled, Blake led Sundown and Gus Ivers’ horse back to the shack. There he hitched them to the rack and spent some thirty minutes burying Gus Ivers and Leke Coolidge. That done, he turned Ivers’ horse loose, unsaddled, and then he started after Ed Coolidge. He knew this wasn’t going to be a simple matter of finding Coolidge, besting him with his gun or fists, and returning with him to Sunfish Creek. Ed Coolidge had the girl. This meant Blake Durant would have to ride a quiet trail and place his shots carefully—if he got a chance to shoot. And all the time Deputy Billy Owen was getting closer.
Following the clear trail left by Ed Coolidge. Blake rode into the afternoon heat.
Billy Owen was surly as he stopped in the shade of the two rocks on the rocky slope that led to the mountaintop. With his posse packed about him, he watched Walsh, the saloonkeeper, inspect the ground between the two huge boulders. Walsh turned and informed him that two horses had been there.
“The only other thing I can work out,” Walsh told the deputy, “is that they were here maybe an hour or so ago.” He walked from the shade and checked near the ledge of rock. Grinning, he pointed out other marks in the ground, saying, “Seems two men waited here, one of ’em lying flat. Then the sign shows that they went down the other side.”
“We’ll follow them, Walsh,” Billy Owen said as he put his horse into a brisk walk.
His surliness persisted when he saw the steep slope on the other side, a section that he couldn’t possibly ride down. Sliding from his trail-weary horse he walked forward until it became necessary to crouch and sidle through a narrow gap between a ring of rocks. His horse dragged on the reins, clearly afraid of the descent, but Billy Owen had his eyes fixed on the slide marks of boots in front of him and he pulled the horse along. A moment later the horse pulled free and in sudden panic leaped across a deadfall log and went down on its side. Owen ran to the animal and grasped the reins. The horse kicked out and whinnied in fear until Owen, sweating and cursing, worked the animal to its feet.
“If a horse gets that way, it’s best to blindfold him,” Walsh said from close behind Owen, but all he got for his suggestion was a grunt.
Owen went on, his horse stumbling. By the time he reached the bottom, he was exhausted. Hitting the horse hard on the rump, he let it run and stood there with his drawn gun, glaring about him.
The posse came to him in a straggly line. The men were trail-dusty, raw-eyed and clearly worn out. Jimmy Henmore was the first to walk past Owen. When the lawman snapped at him wanting to know where he was going, Henmore, a huge cowhand with a sharp temper, merely glanced at him and walked on. Owen strode after him but pulled up short when Henmore drew an unsaddled horse from a clump of brush and turned it around, inspecting it.
“One of mine,” he said, and Owen, scowling, left it at that. Henmore brought the horse to the front of the shack and told Walsh, “Seems like old Gus got at least this far. Must’ve near killed him.”
Hearing this, Billy Owen growled, “You sound sorry for that damn old horse thief, Henmore. How come?”
Henmore, giving a twisted smile and shrugging, answered quietly, “I’ve always been sorry for old Gus. He’s the kind that can’t help himself at times. When a man’s got as little as Gus Ivers has, I guess he’s just got to take what he sees to improve his lot. I bear no grudge against him, Deputy.”
Owen’s brow knotted deeply and the youth went out of his face. He looked suddenly wearier than any of them, as if worn out by something hacking away inside him. “Well, I’ve got a thing or two against him, Henmore. Ivers broke out of jail and was one of four men who killed Sheriff Cavill. Maybe you figure that’s not enough reason for you to hunt him down and bring him back to trial?”
Henmore shrugged again and settled against the hitch rail. “Owen, you’re pushing yourself too hard. The way I see it, you’re getting your wires crossed. Gus Ivers couldn’t kill a steer let alone a man. He’d pass out at the sight of blood.”
“Well, he didn’t pass out when he saw Cavill killed, damn you, Henmore,” Owen growled. “He ran and he ran fast, and he got away with your horses.”
“Only with this one,” Henmore corrected. “The other’s back in town, so I reckon I got what I came for. As soon as I rest up, I’m heading back.”
Owen glared at him, and his shoulders squared. “You’re backing out, Henmore?”
“Yep, Deputy, that’s exactly what I’m about to do. I guess in the beginning I was willing to go all the way, but two days of you is plenty for me. You’re making this more than just a manhunt, mister.”
“I’m making it what? Say it straight!”
“Sure.” Jimmy Henmore had been building a cigarette while he was talking. Now he put the cylinder in his mouth, thumbed a match alight and lit the cigarette. Swallowing smoke, he looked straight at Owen.
“I don’t know, Deputy, but I’ve got a feeling you don’t really care too much about Sheriff Cavill getting killed. I reckon you’re a lot more interested in running down Tom Moran and his crowd. And, from what I’ve been told by some of the other men here, you’re barking up the wrong tree with Durant. He isn’t involved in this the way you make out.”
Owen, livid with rage, held his gun tightly, and his breathing quickened. “Durant broke out of jail, Henmore. Before he got away, he belted me down. Then Durant rode off with the Coolidge boys, and I’m saying it loud and clear that Durant came to our town to be on hand when Tom Moran rode in to get even with Lew Cavill and myself.”
“I hear Durant claimed he never even heard of Tom Moran, Deputy,” Jimmy Henmore put in.
“He claimed that all right, but Sheriff Cavill and I didn’t believe a word of it. But that’s no concern of yours any more, Henmore. You’ve pulled out, so go on your way.”
Jimmy Henmore straightened and squashed his cigarette between his stubby fingers. For a moment, Walsh and Bull Marner thought Henmore was going to take the business further. Then, giving Owen a faint smile, Henmore turned away. One of the posse members who’d been inspecting the shack suddenly appeared in the doorway, holding a saddle in one hand and a torn blouse in the other.
Holding the saddle up for Henmore’s inspection, the man said, “It’s got your brand on it, Jimmy.”
As Henmore reached for the saddle, Owen brushed past him and snatched the blouse from the townsman.
“What the hell is this?”
“Found it inside, Deputy,” the man answered. “There’s some other lady’s clothes too, and a comb, a hair brush and them kind of things. Also, there’s a store of guns and grub enough to keep half a dozen people fed for weeks.”
Owen frowned heavily for a time, then he shouldered past the man and stormed into the shack. He found two other posse men searching about and ordered them outside. Then he made his own search of the cabin, looking confused.
Walsh pointed out the smashed door and the bullet-riddled walls. “What with all that and the torn blouse, seems some woman’s got herself into trouble. Which pair do you figure we’ve been trailing, Deputy?”
“Who the hell can say?” Owen answered curtly. “We’ve got nothing to go on, have we?”
There was a shout from down the clearing where another of the posse members was standing just short of the edge of the brush. His face reflected concern as he signaled. Owen and the others made their way down. The man, a store man, lean and drawn, pointed into the brush.
“Two graves,” he said.
Owen pushed forward, knelt and felt at the earth mounds. “Fresh,” he said. “Get a shovel, somebody.”
“What ... what do you aim to do?” asked Walsh.
“Dig ’em up, what else? We’ve got to know who they are—the Coolidge boys, Durant, Ivers or maybe a woman. If it’s a woman, I reckon we’re on the trail of some real bad ones.”
Walsh drew back, shaking his head. “Not me, Owen. I’m not diggin’ up no graves, not on your life.”
Owen glared at him as he straightened up. “Damn you, Walsh, are you out to mess up this whole business? I said somebody fetch me a shovel. I’ll do the digging if you lily-livered towners can’t.”
Two men went off and returned moments later with a rusted spade. Dirt on the blade indicated that it had been used to dig the graves. Owen quickly scooped up dirt and soon he exposed the gray face of Gus Ivers. Jimmy Henmore worked his way to the grave and breathed a curse. Then he knelt, smoothed the gray hair back from the old-timer’s face and said something that nobody heard. He then came upright, glared at Billy Owen and walked towards the horse Gus Ivers had stolen.
To the horse he said, “I wish you’d carried him a lot farther than this.” Then he stepped up and into the saddle and rode to the horse that had brought him here. In his eyes was the mist of memory, and in his mind were thoughts of good times gone by ... good times that were fast being buried under the heels of men like Billy Owen. He decided that he didn’t like Billy Owen. So he rode off, leading his horse.
At the site of the two graves, Billy Owen uncovered the face of Leke Coolidge. He brought back his boot as if to kick the corpse, but his foot went down as Walsh said:
