The Loner 5 Read online

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  The town was called Gentle Creek ... but by the time Blake Durant was finished with it, its waters ran red with blood.

  A land-hungry cattle baron called Jay Lucien ruled the town with a fist of iron. Anyone who didn’t bow to his will was dealt with by gunfighter Rudy Dillen and his army of hardcases.

  Blake was just passing through when he witnessed the cold-blooded beating of a kid who had the nerve to ask Lucien to settle a debt. When he took the boy—or what was left of him—back home, he figured he’d done all he could. But there was no way he could ride on. His sense of justice just wouldn’t allow it. Someone had to bring Jay Lucien down. The men of Gentle Creek didn’t stand a chance against him. But Blake was tough, he was determined, and he was lightning-fast with a gun.

  So he declared war on the bad men.

  All-out war.

  THE LONER 5: KILL OR HANG!

  By Sheldon B. Cole

  First published by Cleveland Publishing Co. Pty Ltd, New South Wales, Australia

  © 2020 by Piccadilly Publishing

  First Digital Edition: June 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 – Gentle Creek

  Blake Durant came across the trampled grass of the trail herds in the heat of the late afternoon. Beneath him, Sundown, his blue-black stallion, walked wearily, head bowed against the incessant drive of the wind. Apart from the wind there was no sound in the wide expanse of country but the occasional grunting call of a prairie dog. Earlier a buzzard had circled overhead, but it had gone, leaving nothing in the emptiness but the man and the horse.

  Durant’s face showed no expression. He was a tall man, wide in the shoulders. His rough-hewn face had high-boned cheeks, sharp features. His hide range coat hung loose on his trail-trim frame, and the yellow bandanna about his neck gleamed in the late sunlight. He sat his horse easily, despite the long miles behind him, and this in a way was a reflection of his character. He was a man on the move, always riding away from the past.

  He removed his bandanna and wiped his neck, then went on for several miles over rolling country, at the end of which he found the terrain flattening out again; then, in the distance appeared the heat-screened outline of a town. Gentle Creek. He had been told to expect a cattle town, bigger than Lusc, not as big as Cheyenne. There was work for a trail herder in Gentle Creek, and for months now Blake Durant had been a trail herder.

  Sundown lifted his head and pricked his ears. New smells came across the country to him, smells which belonged to shaded yards, hay bins, street troughs, boardwalks and mud walls. For the horse town meant food and rest, for the man Gentle Creek was nothing more than another town, different faces, saloons in which to forget. The horse went on with new purpose and within half an hour the town was immediately before them.

  Durant looked calmly about him, his eyes veiled with memories of other places, his mind haunted by the ghosts of a past which was his alone, a past he could share with no one alive.

  Durant drew rein. Across the dust-covered head of the big black he studied the beginning of the town with a sort of curious indifference. He had never known any town so rundown, so foul-smelling, so beset with decay. The men sitting on the porches of the old cottages seemed to merge into the mean background, unmoving, disheveled, despairing. Sunlight was still filtering through the side lanes but it seemed reluctant to reach out to these men. Durant felt alien to them as he noted the misery in their faces, their old tattered clothes flapping in the drive of the hot wind, and the background of hopelessness which was their world.

  He moved on. Not a man stirred. Nobody made a comment. But all eyes followed him, taking in his size, his lean body, the sheen of the black’s coat, the war bag on the back of the saddle, the rifle in the boot and the gun in the holster.

  Blake looked ahead. In the distance the early lights of a saloon shafted their glow invitingly onto the main street’s dust. A line of six houses, bright in the dying light, stood west of the saloon; east of it, closest to Blake Durant, was another building, bigger than the rest, with a smaller structure at its side showing barred windows and a narrow porch. In front of the saloon the street was chopped and wheel-rutted; only there and past the saloon were there signs of heavy travel. It was, he thought, as if somebody had drawn a line through the middle of the town to keep the lower portion’s misery from encroaching on the higher section’s affluence.

  Blake had another long look at the weary faces peering at him from the gloom. Then Durant gave Sundown his head and ran the gauntlet of stares. He reined in at the hitch rack outside the saloon and immediately became aware of the cleaner smelling air at this end of town. The wind seemed less hot, too. The neat gardens, newly painted fences and general air of opulence here made him wonder. He had known a lot of Mexican settlements where the citizens had suffered from the oppression of overlords or from droughts, bringing a general decline in living standards until the people there had given up hope. He had known mountain families who for reasons of their own shunned outside contact and struggled to grow crops in poor, rocky soil, looking for neither assistance nor pity from anyone. In every town he had passed through in the last year he had come into contact with poverty-stricken people who fought to better themselves but had neither the talents nor the backing needed to climb above their stations.

  But here there didn’t seem to be any reason for the division of the town. He patted dust from Sundown’s shoulders and let him drink from the trough near the saloon’s porch. Then, walking up the steps, he crossed new boards and pushed open the swing doors. The first person he saw was a fat man in an apron, a cigar between his thick lips, his face agleam with sweat. Piggish eyes took Blake in shrewdly as the man swabbed at the counter.

  Blake went across to him, his casual-appearing gaze moving over the saloon customers. In a quick series of glances he noted that all were well clothed and seemingly in high spirits. They studied him blandly and offered no greeting. Taking a shot of whisky from the obese barkeep, Blake lodged an elbow on the counter and continued his study of the big room. The card tables lining the wall were well polished, the chairs newly varnished. The floor was clean.

  “Name’s Colly Merriwether,” the fat barkeep said. “By the look of you, stranger, you’ve come a long way. Is there a special reason maybe for you visiting us?”

  Blake shook his head. “Nothing special.”

  The dark little eyes went over Blake again. “Well, you didn’t need no directin’ to where to stable down, eh? Any man with pride would just naturally come up here and get himself some comfort. Did you see the other section?”

  “I saw it.”

  “Damn disgrace. I been at Mr. Lucien—he’s the top man in these parts—to do somethin’ about them hovels and them who live in ’em. But he don’t seem to give a damn. Hell, maybe it’s all right for him, comin’ and goin’ and mostly out of town. But he don’t have to smell that stink or look at them scabbed, fly-brown jaspers who don’t hardly come up for air.”

  Blake Durant held the fat man’s look, making no comment. The rest of the customers seemed content, laughing, talking and drinking. Durant straightened at the counter and refilled his glass from the bottle Merriwether had left at his elbow. He pushed forward some money and then, as he turned his back on Merriwether, the fat barkeep shifted his position along the bar so he could get a profile view of his customer.

  “By the cut of you, stranger, you’ve seen some hard work lately. You’re as fit as can be and as brown as a berry. Lookin’ for a job?”

  Blake sipped his drink slowly. He had already formed the opinion that Merriwether would be a good source of information, if he decided he wanted to know more about Gentle Creek. But he hadn’t made up his mind to stay here. There were other towns, other trails, and so far what he had seen of this place didn’t impress him much.

  “If I was looking for work, would I have to go through this Mr. Lucien?” Durant asked.

  “Damn right. Mr. Lucien owns just about every blade of grass in this territory. He’s got the best grazin’ ground, the fattest beeves, the deepest waterholes, you name it. Hell, take my word for it, you couldn’t link up with a finer man, or get work on a better place. Mr. Lucien, he’s a real nice gent, you ask anybody about that.”

  “What if I asked those at the bottom end of town?” Blake said.

  Merriwether’s eyebrows arched and his smile waned, then he shook his head and a chuckle worked at his big belly.

  “Ask them, stranger? You joshin’? Hell, nobody asks them nothin’. Wouldn’t do any damn good anyhow. Them jaspers are just plain lazy sour-bellies, who spend their days feelin’ sorry for themselves. Them that gets work don’t sweat much at it and then they complain all the time. They just sit about and stay miserable. Mr. Lucien, he’s done plenty for ’em at times, but they just throw his charity right back in his face.”

  Blake nodded and went on drinking. Finally Merriwether, getting no further response from him, moved off, cleaning hi
s counter as he went. The stamp of his boots was suddenly drowned in a rise of sound from the street as a group of horses came to a halt. Blake leaned against the bar and settled his weight on his elbows. With just about everyone in the saloon, his gaze was on the batwings. There was the heavy pound of boots on the boardwalk and then the doors swung open. A big man, his face flushed with heat, filled the doorway. His brow was broad and high, and ragged ends of red hair had escaped from under his flop-brimmed hat to fall over his ears. His full-lipped mouth opened in a wide grin.

  “Set ’em up, Merriwether, soon’s you like.”

  “Sure thing, Mr. Crabbe, sure thing. Right away. Just come on in and put your boots up.”

  “Ain’t about to put ’em up, Merriwether,” Crabbe called as he strode into the saloon. He pulled his dusty range coat from his big shoulders and pitched it across the back of a chair at the first card table. Then he moved about, working the cramp from his shoulders and driving big hands through his red hair, all the time grinning with the enthusiasm of a man come to town after long weeks on the range. Seven other cowhands had already come in behind Crabbe. He beckoned to them and with their help dragged a battered old piano away from the wall. He grabbed one of his companions, plomped the man down on the piano stool and slapped him on the back.

  “Harp, get some noise outa that contraption. Loud and wild, mister. Let’s get things jumping here.”

  Blake Durant looked at the slim piano player. The fellow wore a rumpled gray suit. His derby hat was dented and had a badly scuffed brim. He was middle-aged with a thin moustache and clean-shaven cheeks. All in all he seemed a breed apart from the rough-clad cowhands who were carrying drinks from the bar. Crabbe grabbed a bottle, lifted it to his mouth and drained off a sizeable portion before he wiped a dusty sleeve across his thick-lipped mouth. Then he brushed a couple of drinking cowhands out of his way and walked to the center of the room. He cupped a hand over his mouth and called, “Ella!”

  Merriwether was totting up the drinks he had served on a slate near his till when Blake Durant slid his glass along the bar and nodded for a refill. Merriwether hesitated a moment, as if surprised to find Durant still there, then he shuffled along the bar and filled the glass.

  Durant was lifting the glass to his lips when a young woman appeared in the doorway of a side room. She tossed her dark hair back, smoothed her dress over well-rounded hips and called out:

  “Fes Crabbe! I declare! You said you wouldn’t be in for a month.”

  “Couldn’t stay away, Ella, damned if I could. You got your hooks into me, woman, down deep.”

  Crabbe walked to her and swung her about so that her skirt flew, showing Blake legs that were long and slim. Her eyes flashed with excitement when Crabbe lowered her to the floor. Then Crabbe tilted her chin up, kissed her, and led her to the piano. The man in the derby turned and Crabbe said:

  “Let’s have somethin’ to set Ella’s feet dancin’, Harp.”

  Harp nodded, thought a moment, then ran his fingers down the piano keys before he broke into a rollicking melody. Ella smoothed her hands down over her high, full breasts and after a couple of taps on the floor with her toes, whirled into a dance. The cowhands, with Crabbe’s encouragement, began to clap and stomp until the whole room jumped.

  Blake Durant watched idly, noting that the girl had a natural flair for entertaining men, and not all of it was confined to dancing. She spun about, giggled and flirted with all the hands in turn until, her hair tossing wildly about, she finally came close to Blake Durant. For an instant her gaze locked with his, then she faltered in the middle of a dance step. A moment later she studied him harder and cocked her head appreciatively. Blake saw Fes Crabbe stiffen and come two steps towards them. But Ella noticed this, too, and swung away, but only after giving Blake Durant a wink which the keen-eyed Merriwether also caught.

  Crabbe grabbed her, flung her towards the piano and, with jealousy twisting at his red face, snapped, “The tinhorn ain’t got nothin’ I can’t give you, woman. Mind it now.”

  Ella laughed in his face and danced away. She lifted the piano player’s derby and ruffled his thinning hair, then she kissed two of the cowhands on the cheek. As one of the latter reached for her, she spun out of range. Her antics quickly dispelled Fes Crabbe’s suspicion and he grabbed a bottle and drank heartily. The music became louder and Ella spun about faster and faster until, out of breath, she staggered to the piano player and collapsed against his back. Loud cheering, hand clapping and boisterous cries of “More!” rose to shake the rafters.

  “They all work for Jay Lucien,” Merriwether said as he filled Blake’s glass again and sorted out his money. “Good bunch of boys. Noisy, maybe, but they don’t do no harm when left alone.”

  Blake didn’t miss the last part of the information. He picked up his drink as Crabbe pulled Ella away from the piano player. Then the batwings swung open and a young man limped into the room. Something about the fellow caught Durant’s interest. The youth’s right shoulder drooped a little and Durant saw that his right arm was twisted out of shape. His right leg was shorter than the left, which caused the limp. His face was pale and his lips were pressed firmly together.

  “Crabbe,” the youth called, “if you’re finished partyin’, I want to talk to you.”

  Fes Crabbe stopped just short of the card tables and peered across the room. For a moment he stood there as though undecided, then he eased Ella towards a table and went striding away from her.

  The youth drew himself up straight. His chin trembled but defiance gleamed in his dark eyes.

  “What the hell do you want, Prentiss?” Crabbe demanded.

  “You know what,” the youngster said. “I’ve come for the money that belongs to pa and me and I ain’t leavin’ without it. We finished that fence a week, ago, Crabbe, and we ain’t been paid.”

  “You ain’t?” Crabbe said with mock surprise. He looked at his companions and shook his head in feigned disbelief. The cowhands grinned and the piano player fingered out a trill of notes. A man laughed.

  “No, we ain’t been paid, Crabbe, and we mean to be,” the boy said. “I ain’t listenin’ to no lies. I got a bellyful of ’em from you for too long now. Just hand over our hundred dollars and I’ll go home.”

  Crabbe planted his feet wide, his grin clearly telling of his disdain for the youth. He said, “Prentiss, if you want money for some crooked fence you put up, then I guess you know where to go for it. Mr. Lucien, he handles all the business matters. You go see him.”

  “I’ve been out there and I can’t get in. I got a bullet fired at me for askin’ once too often to see him. If he wants to play that way, I’m gonna do things my way.”

  Blake tensed as the youth lifted a gun from under his belt. The boy stood stiffly, his gun leveled on Crabbe, his eyes hot with rage. Blake’s look travelled to Crabbe. It was plain that Crabbe was in no way cowed by the gun pointed at him. If anything, he seemed to enjoy the situation. He began to rub his hands together and his grin widened.

  “The way I see it, Crabbe,” the boy said, “you got credit here in this place. I’ll take what’s due pa and me from Merriwether and when Lucien comes in here he can fix things up.”

  Blake watched Merriwether gape in surprise. Prentiss moved quickly towards Crabbe and waved the gun.

  “It’s gone far enough,” Prentiss said sharply. “Nothin’ you can say will stop me, Crabbe. And none of the scum you ride with can stop me either. Stay back now. Merriwether, you go fetch the hundred dollars and I’ll be on my way.”

  Blake straightened at the counter. Crabbe was only a couple of strides from him now. Prentiss worked to the end of the counter and turned the gun on Merriwether, who after a nervous glance at the old Colt, cast a frightened look Crabbe’s way. But Crabbe was intent on watching Prentiss.

  “Get the money,” the boy ordered.

  Merriwether punched open his till and Prentiss beckoned for Blake Durant to move away. The boy’s look then went to the other men, to the table where Ella sat, finally he glanced towards the batwings.

  Durant moved slightly away from the counter. He’d moved only one step when Crabbe leaped forward, got behind Blake and then hurled himself at the youth. Prentiss jerked the gun around as Merriwether, scowling, slammed his till drawer closed. Crabbe seized the boy’s scrawny wrist and brought it down on the counter twice, jolting the gun from his grasp. Then Crabbe backhanded Prentiss in the face and sent him reeling along the bar.