OF THE SEVEN men Durant had encountered at the outset, only six had continued to dog his tracks after the first skirmish. So he assumed that the shot he had put in the shoulder of one of them had pelted the hellion against the sharp edge of the boulder with sufficient force to kill him, or at least lay him up and keep him out of action. Then he had killed three of them when going to the woman’s assistance. Three had fled. Three still survived and they had all seen him plainly. No doubt they would recognize him on sight.

  These were Blake Durant’s thoughts as he turned into the wide, dusty main street of Pitching County township just after dusk. Noise rolled down the street from two garishly-lighted establishments which faced each other on opposite boardwalks in midtown. A drunk staggered from one, went lurching across Durant’s path and reached the other boardwalk. The man floundered through the batwings and disappeared into a screen of yellow light and cigarette smoke. Somewhere close by, an Italian was singing an operatic aria until a gunshot stopped him on a high note. Four women, huddled close, hurried past the saloon the drunk had entered. The women eyed Blake speculatively and went on, talking in low voices. Blake watched them pass and looked around for someone who might help him.

  “You Jesse Borden?”

  The question came from Blake’s right as he drew Sundown to a halt. He turned in that direction and saw a lawman lounging against an overhang post. A cigarette dangled from the man’s fat lips.

  “That’s not my name,” Blake said. “What makes you think it might be, Sheriff?”

  “You got the Borden buckboard. I could tell it anywhere from them yellow-spoked wheels and that new drop-board.”

  “So her name is Borden,” Blake said calmly. “That helps some.”

  “If you ain’t Jesse Borden, what you doin’ in the wagon, mister? I don’t know as Cass Borden hired any hands on his place.”

  “I came through their spread, Sheriff. There’s been some trouble.”

  “Out there that don’t surprise me one bit. Cass and his wife, they don’t hardly do anythin’ but holler at each other. Ain’t ever been able to figure it, a woman as fine-lookin’ as her, and Cass, not such a bad ’un if you don’t look too deep ...”

  “The trouble is a lot stronger than a man-and-wife squabble, Sheriff. Take a look in the back.”

  Blake pulled the wheel brake. People in the process of passing, stopped to look when they saw the lawman climb to the back of the Borden wagon, frowning heavily. Blake joined him at the rear and pulled the canvas back from the woman’s body. The lawman let out a gasp.

  But Blake was quick to say, “She’ll be all right. Nothing more than a scalp wound. If you’ll direct me to a sawbones, Sheriff, I’d be more than glad to explain this sorry business and get onto minding my own.”

  The lawman straightened in the buckboard rear and fixed a curious, probing gaze on Durant. He took his time taking full measure of him before he pulled the cigarette from his lips, spat out some loose tobacco grains and muttered, “Yeah, sure, seems she needs Doc Wordy’s attention some. But let’s get better acquainted. I’m Jud Wicker.”

  “Blake Durant.”

  “How come you got mixed up in this business, Durant? Cass Borden, he ain’t ever been friendly to a stranger dropping by. The man’s got a real jealous streak in him about his wife. All she has to do is smile at a man and he goes wild. With him it’s natural, I guess. But now you’ve got his wife and his buckboard. Unless he’s hurt, too, I can’t see him lettin’ any man bring her into town on his own.”

  “He’s dead,” Blake said, and a gasp came from two women at the front of the growing crowd on the boardwalk. Jud Wicker stepped back a pace, his stare narrowing.

  “How’s that, Durant? Dead? Hell, you got to be wrong. Only yesterday he was talkin’ to me about his brother comin’. He was hollerin’ plenty and loud and he sure enough didn’t look like ...” Wicker’s voice trailed off. He studied Durant severely for a moment and shook his head again. “How come, Durant? How in hell, him and his wife? And how come you’re in it up to your damned ears, and I ain’t ever laid eyes on you before in my life?”

  “When we get Mrs. Borden looked after, Sheriff, I’ll be glad to tell you. But I reckon that getting her to a doctor is what matters at the moment.”

  Blake walked down the side of the wagon and pulled Sundown about. Wicker followed him. Seeing the sternness in Durant’s face, he pointed up the street. “There,” he muttered. “Third house on the left.”

  Blake looked and saw a cottage standing in a big yard fenced with white palings. The cottage was small, no more than four rooms, he thought. He led Sundown off. Jud Wicker trailed along after telling the crowd to disperse and mind their own business. Reaching the cottage, Wicker moved beside Sundown and said:

  “Don’t look like a buckboard horse, Durant. Yours?”

  “That’s right. Mrs. Borden’s was killed after she was wounded. Going to help me inside with her?”

  Wicker nodded grimly but waited until Blake had lifted Mrs. Borden from the wagon and made his way to the cottage gate. Wicker stood at the gate as Blake studied him heavily, then he opened the gate and went ahead up the pathway. On the porch he knocked and then called out:

  “Rob, you home?”

  Blake held the young woman in his arms, amazed at the lightness of her body. She was hardly more than skin and bone. With the color drained from her features, she looked more dead than alive. Yet a pulse beat strongly inside her, making him feel that no matter what hardships she had been subjected to, she had never lost her spirit.

  Finally the door of the cottage opened and a tall, shabbily dressed stringbean of a man looked out. Wicker nodded to indicate the Borden woman.

  “Been hit, Rob. See what you can do for her.”

  Rob Wordy stepped out and peered down at the unconscious woman. A frown deepened in his brow. “Millie Borden,” he muttered, then he pursed his lips thoughtfully and began to shake his head. “Hell, I don’t know, Jud, seein’ as how I ain’t been paid by the Bordens for the last doctorin’ I done on Cass. Strikes me that folks about here figure a man don’t have to eat.”

  Blake, seeing indecision in Wicker’s face, shoved the doctor back roughly with his shoulder. When he went through the doorway, the doctor howled, “Hey, hold it, young feller! What in blazes do you think—?”

  “You’ll be paid,” Blake told him, then he carried Mrs. Borden into a small living room that had a flat couch against the wall. Putting Millie Borden down and seeing Wicker and Wordy standing together, frowning at him from the doorway, he dug some banknotes from his pocket and tossed them onto a table.

  “If it’s not enough, come see me later, Wordy,” he said to the doctor. “I’ll be in the saloon or the eatery.”

  Blake moved across the room and Wordy skipped forward and grabbed up the money. Blake went outside but before he could clear the porch Wicker ran behind him and grasped his shoulder. “Hold on now, Durant. I ain’t one half finished with you yet! Don’t think you can ride into this town and just—”

  Blake wheeled to face Wicker, forcing him to step back in alarm.

  Blake said, “I was riding through what turned out to be the Borden property when I ran into a marauding outfit I understand was led by a man named Lamont. I backtracked after being trailed all night and finally I came on to the Borden place. Mrs. Borden mistook me for Jesse Borden, just as you did, and told me to shift on after I buried her husband. Well, I did leave, but then I heard shots and a little later I found the woman fighting for her life. I bought in when she was hit with a bullet and by buying in I was forced to kill three men.”

  Wicker gaped at him.

  “Then I came into town and you know the rest. Sheriff, I’m dead beat and I’m hungry and I want some peace and quiet. All right?”

  Blake was reaching for the porch rail when Wicker came to life and snapped, “No, it ain’t all right, Durant. You killed three men you said. Who are they?”

  “We didn’t exchange calling cards, Sheriff. It was me or them. When the Borden woman comes to, you can check with her on that. As for the rest of it, I gathered from her that she had no wish to have her husband’s brother on her place. Also, she was coming to town to ask you for help against an outfit led by the man called Lamont; That’s it. I can’t tell you anything more.”

  Heavy sweat lined Wicker’s brow. “Harvey Lamont,” he muttered. “Hell, what do you want to lock horns with him for? Harvey doesn’t do any real harm, not if folks leave him alone.”

  “If you call cutting down a woman no real harm, Sheriff, then that’s your business. But I think you’d better get off the seat of your pants and question Millie Borden. Anything else you want to know later, come and see me.”

  Blake went down the path. Wicker, after hesitating a moment, ran after him again. “You sure it was Harvey Lamont?” he asked anxiously.

  “I’m not sure of anything except the fact that your sawbones doesn’t strike me as being charitable in any degree. And I’ve got a bit of advice for you, Sheriff—find some guts to back that badge you’re toting. Goodnight.”

  This time the lawman let Blake go off. Blake released Sundown from the traces and led the big black down the street. He left him in the care of a livery stable attendant and entered the saloon the back way. Inside, he found a long room without character, without women, but so brightly lit that the glare of the overheads hurt his eyes and made him blink. It was several moments before he became accustomed to the glare sufficiently to comfortably make out the line of men against the rough bar counter. He went towards them, and one group of three, after studying him from boot heel to hat crown, shifted to make way for him. Blake thanked them with a nod and ordered a whisky. He threw the shot down before the bald-headed barkeep could replace the cork in the bottle.

  “Another, please.”

  The barkeep filled the glass and said, “You a friend of Cass Borden’s, stranger?”

  Blake held the man’s gaze evenly and felt the stares of a lot of the customers settle on him.

  “Nope,” he answered and finished his drink with a toss of his head.

  The barkeep filled his glass again and, frowning, said, “Funny. Thought I saw you drive the Borden buckboard into town.”

  “You did see me.”

  Silence fell about Blake Durant. His mind tacked back to everything that had happened since he had come into this territory. It seemed that Cass Borden had spelt trouble. Maybe, he thought, there had been so much trouble that Cass hadn’t been able to work his place properly.

  The barkeep went off to serve other customers, then a wide-shouldered cowboy approached the bar slowly and took a place alongside Blake. He slouched across the counter, his look and manner demanding Blake’s attention. When he got it in the form of a hard, direct stare, some of the leering disdain left his oval, fat-jowled face.

  “Couldn’t help but overhear you, stranger. I mean about bringin’ Cass Borden’s buckboard into town. Cass give it to you?”

  “Nope.”

  The burly cowhand straightened a little, then asked tersely, “You stole it maybe?”

  Blake shook his head and sipped at his drink. Quite a few customers had moved away from them and what talk there was at the other end of the saloon was low-keyed.

  Blake Durant turned his back to the counter and looked around. A card game was going at the other end of the room, but the players to a man seemed more interested in him and his companion than in their cards. He had not moved when the big man reached out and grasped the golden bandanna that Blake had retrieved from Millie Borden. Blake looked at the hand that gripped the silk, then he raised his cold-eyed gaze.

  “Let go, mister,” he said mildly, and he saw the barkeep come closer, looking deeply worried.

  “I asked you a question,” the big man said, turning his wrist and tightening the bandanna around Blake’s neck. “When I ask a question, I expect an answer.”

  Blake Durant merely said, very calmly, “Drop your hand, mister.”

  “Not until—”

  Blake Durant didn’t seem to move. One moment his hands were at his sides, and the next his right fist slammed against the big man’s jaw. The man’s head went back and he staggered a few steps, then shook his head to clear it. Cursing, he threw a roundarm right at Blake’s head. Blake forearmed the punch away and brought a left uppercut flush onto his chin. Chips of teeth spurted from the man’s mouth and blood trickled down his chin. He fell to the sawdust. Blake looked down at him and then at the barkeep.

  The barkeep shook his head, indicating that he wanted no argument. Blake finished his drink and remembered there was another saloon opposite. Wanting only to be left alone, Blake began to walk for the batwings. But he had gone only a few steps when the barkeep called out:

  “Not in the back, Colbert!”

  Blake heeled about. The big man, on his knees, had drawn his gun. Blake took a few quick steps and then lashed out with his boot and kicked the hand that held the lifting gun. The gun flew across the room and then Blake stepped into Colbert and smashed his face with his knee. With a howl of pain Colbert went back, his arms out wide, and fell onto his side. He tried to lift himself, then collapsed and didn’t move.

  Blake Durant eyed the men around him, but not one could meet his gaze.

  Blake said to all in general, “When he comes to, give him some advice about calling a man a liar. Next time he could get hurt.”

  With that Blake Durant walked out. Nobody tried to stop him. He went along the boardwalk instead of crossing to the other saloon. He was hungry and needed some time to think.

  At the far end of town he found a cafe, a small, smoke-filled place with no customers. He went inside and ordered a steak, rare, from the fat waitress. Sitting at a gravy-stained table, he palmed his chin and stared into the street.

  The town was quiet again. His mind began to tick off names. Millie Borden. Cass Borden. Jesse Borden. Lamont. And now Colbert. What was it all about? It seemed that Lamont was anxious to drive the Bordens off their land, and Millie Borden wanted no help from her brother-in-law. Was Colbert part of that business?

  His steak came and he ate it slowly, still watching the quiet street. After paying for the meal he stood outside on the boardwalk for a moment. It seemed to him that Colbert had to be more than a belligerent cowhand who picked fights in barrooms. Maybe the sheriff could tell him a few things about Colbert.

  In the law office he found a young man with a tin star on his shirt, sitting at a desk, riffling through reward posters. When the lawman saw Blake Durant standing in the doorway, he jerked his chair back and sent his hand to his gun. But the hand froze on the butt and uncertainty entered his lean, boyish face.

  Blake moved across the room to him, gave the posters a glance and said, “You won’t find my face in that lot, Deputy.”

  The deputy licked his lips and placed his hand on the desk. But his fingers remained curled. “I was only looking through them.”

  “Where’s the sheriff?”

  “Out back. Why? What you want with him?”

  “I’d like to have a talk with him, that’s all. We had one talk earlier which you seem to know about. I think he has some loco ideas about me that need straightening out. And I’d like some information.”

  The deputy got to his feet, still looking uncomfortable but more in control of his nervousness now. He wiped his hand down the side of his Levi’s.

  “What kind of information do you want, Durant? Exactly who are you anyway? I ain’t goin’ along with you bein’ just a drifter, not after what you did to Ty Colbert. Hell, Ty Colbert ain’t been bested in this town for years.”

  “It’s Colbert I’m interested in, Deputy. I want to know why he crowded me in the saloon. I’d never seen him before in my life—and I don’t particularly want to see him again. But for this town’s sake, and his, you or the sheriff better start explaining a few things to me. If it was just that Colbert had had a little too much to drink, well and good, I’ll let the matter rest right there. But if it was because I’m supposed to be a friend of Cass Borden’s, then it’s a little too deep to be shrugged off. Do you agree?”

  The deputy cocked his head slightly and studied Blake Durant intently. Then leaning back and half-turning, he called out, “Pa!”

  Blake Durant pursed his lips and waited. The back door of the jailhouse opened a moment later and a shirtless, wet-haired Jud Wicker stood in the doorway wiping his hands on a soiled towel, staring at Blake through hostile eyes.

  “What is it?” Wicker asked.

  “Pa, Durant wants to talk to you.”

  Jud Wicker’s lips tightened and annoyance made his face go sullen. “About what, Durant? I thought you’d already said your piece.”

  “To a point, Wicker. But somebody has tried to push me around. What’s with this Colbert fellow? Why would he want to attack me?”

  “I’ve got no idea,” Wicker said tightly.

  “Did you tell him about me, Wicker?”

  Jud Wicker’s face carried a scowl. His son studied him curiously but he said nothing. However, it was plain to Blake Durant that Deputy Wicker was in the dark about his father’s actions.

  “I told a lot of people about you, Durant. Folks naturally ask questions when one of the range people is brought in bleeding to death. What the hell is wrong with that?”

  “I’ll go along with it, Wicker. But it still doesn’t answer my question. Why would Colbert want to crowd me?”

  “He likely figured you were a friend of Cass Borden’s. That’d be good enough reason for Colbert to crowd you, Durant, things being as they are between him and Borden.”

  “Just how were things, Wicker?”

  Jud Wicker shrugged and moved towards the desk. He picked up some of the reward papers and glanced at his son. Deputy Wicker shook his head—answer enough to bring a sigh from Wicker, who then discarded the posters and faced Blake squarely.

  “Way I heard it, Durant, Cass Borden owed Colbert a heap of money. Borden gambled plenty and was always in town wastin’ his time. Seems one night Colbert had a lucky run and cleaned Borden out. Colbert gave him credit and then Colbert’s run kept going. Maybe it’s just that Colbert figures Borden was too slow in paying. Could be that he saw you as a friend of Borden’s and decided to take the debt out of your hide.”

 

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