The Loner 04: Brand of the Forgotten

By Sheldon B. Cole

Blake Durant wasn’t looking for trouble, but as usual, trouble found him anyway. It came in the shape of a crusty old miner called Pete Doubell, who was outnumbered and under attack by a bunch of gunmen when Blake ran across him. Ever the loner, Blake wanted no part of it, but somehow he got drawn into a complicated web of lies, death and double-dealing. Along the way he locked horns with gunfighter Vance Carter, and vengeance-hungry Reke Bodie and his gun-hung crew. But when he looked into the eyes of Doubell’s niece Christine, all the danger seemed a price worth paying ...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Piccadilly
• Release date: Apr 14, 2020
• ISBN: 9780463624173

Sheldon B. Cole

Robert Desmond Dunn was born in Mackay, Queensland, Australia but was known as Desmond Robert Dunn or Des Dunn.Dunn wrote fiction paperback novelettes published by Cleveland Publishing from the late 1950's onward. Each title was 30,000 to 40,000 words long. He wrote four crime titles as Des R. Dunn.Dunn is best known for western novelettes published under several pseudonyms. Dunn's pseudonyms included: Shad Denver, Gunn Halliday, Adam Brady, Brett Iverson, Matt Cregan, Sheldon B. Cole, Walt Renwick and Morgan Culp. He is known to have written over 400 titles using these pseudonyms.With Don Harding, Dunn is also believed to have written a number of the 290-300 titles in the Larry Kent detective series.Dunn married and divorced twice and had three children. Dunn died in Brisbane, Queensland aged 73.

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Blake Durant wasn’t looking for trouble, but as usual, trouble found him anyway. It came in the shape of a crusty old miner called Pete Doubell, who was outnumbered and under attack by a bunch of gunmen when Blake ran across him. Ever the loner, Blake wanted no part of it, but somehow he got drawn into a complicated web of lies, death and double-dealing. Along the way he locked horns with gunfighter Vance Carter, and vengeance-hungry Reke Bodie and his gun-hung crew. But when he looked into the eyes of Doubell’s niece Christine, all the danger seemed a price worth paying …

THE LONER 4: BRAND OF THE FORGOTTEN

By Sheldon B. Cole

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

© 2019 by Piccadilly Publishing

First Digital Edition: April 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 – Everywhere, Thunder

It was the seventh day of the wind. Blake Durant slumped into the hull of the saddle and squinted his eyes into the afternoon sun glare. He was bone-weary with all the miles behind him and more saddle-cramped than he had been since he quit his ranch a year ago.

A year. He sighed, the skin at the outside corners of his green eyes crinkling as though something amused him. Sitting on his black stallion, Sundown, he appeared to be a man withdrawn from the desolation about him. His skin was rough and brown from wind and sun. He was tall and wide, deep-chested, a man hardened by the seasons. There was no sign of softness in his rugged face; there was a hint of toughness, ingrained and deep, in the gaze he gave the country about him. He sat there, watching, listening, hearing things above the howl of the wind.

He was always careful. Long trails, strange pastures, confrontation with the unknown and the unexpected had made him that way. He neither trusted nor distrusted. He was reserved about almost everything. His opinions were his own, tainted by no other man’s pressures.

The afternoon air, heavy with the day’s heat, brought a curious mingling of wasteland smells and the stench of decay from a carcass recently torn apart by buzzards.

Suddenly the brush ahead parted and a man’s heavy footsteps sounded. Blake Durant dropped a restraining hand on Sundown’s shoulder and the horse stood there, stiff-legged. Durant drew his gun as he heard a horse shifting beyond the slight slope of ground before him. A man cursed. Blake Durant came out of the saddle noiselessly, then he tethered Sundown to a low branch and pulled his rifle from the saddle boot. He slowly made his way up the slope.

He was careful to pick his trail, keeping away from the loose gravel, easing his weight onto his feet noiselessly. A gray-haired head showed at the top of the slope. A rifle glinted. The man’s face was lined with age and worry.

Stay put!

The man’s hooded gaze measured Durant as the rifle rose, the knuckles of the man’s gnarled hands whitening under the pressure of his grip. He worked to his elbows. Durant stopped and lowered the angle of his rifle until it pointed at the ground. The old man’s gaze swung past him, searching the creek bank, then came back.

I’d just as soon gut-shoot you as anythin’ else, mister. So do exactly what I say.

I’ll string along with that, Durant said coolly.

Best you do. Come up here now, slow. When you get here, hand me that rifle, butt first. Then your handgun, same way.

Blake hesitated a moment, drawing in a deep breath. The man rose to his knees, his body tensed, neck muscles sticking out like frayed string on skin with a hundred ruts in it. His toothless mouth gaped as the old man drew in a deep breath. Blake Durant went towards him and handed across his rifle and then his handgun. The old man nodded as he put the rifle in his saddle scabbard and the handgun into his belt. He moved his rifle from Blake’s middle to indicate the little clearing beyond him.

Down there—and move slow, mister.

What’s it all about? Blake asked, keeping his voice low, suspecting that whatever ailed this old-timer could push him toward violence in a blink.

You know, damn you. No tricks now.

Blake fingered sweat off his brow and walked to the top of the slope, then down into the shade. Suddenly the thunder of hoof beats sounded on the rimline a hundred yards away, on higher ground. The old-timer let out a grunt and stepped to Durant, driving his rifle up under his chin as his eyes went cold with threat.

One damn noise, a signal of any kind, and I’ll blow your teeth through the top of your head, mister.

Blake held his gaze. You’ve got a few things wrong, he muttered. I don’t know you and you don’t know me. If you’re in any kind of trouble, it could be that we can talk it out, then maybe ...

Shut down, damn you! The rifle butt slammed against Blake’s chin and his teeth clacked together. He let out a curse. The old-timer pushed him towards a tree and roughly prodded him against it. He then stepped back, putting the rifle muzzle against Blake’s neck. From where he stood, Blake could see a group of riders reining up on the rimline. There were ten of them, dust-covered, grim-featured, all with guns drawn. One of them worked his horse away from the others and signaled for the men to spread out. He was a big man with a checked shirt and a black bandanna about his neck. His features were grooved with weariness, bitterness. He sat astride a high-backed range pony which was already heavily sweat-flecked.

Wouldn’t hurt to tell me why they’re after you, old man, Durant said.

The rifle end was pushed harder against his neck, forcing his mouth into the bark of the tree. He swallowed hard. The old-timer’s horse shifted suddenly as the wind came down the slope. Its head lifted and it turned suddenly, giving out a loud nicker. The old-timer jumped back, swearing savagely. Blake Durant saw the lead rider coming down the rutted slope slowly. He stopped at the sight of the horse and his rifle swung up to his chest. His gaze hardened and Blake noticed the sudden widening of his eyes.

Then he pointed, calling, Down there. We got him. Spread out.

His companions immediately broke company. Dust rose from the slope as they came thundering down in a strung-out line. Rifles barked and bullets ripped into the small clearing. The old-timer’s horse reared and tried to break its tie-rein. The old man swung on Durant, smashing his rifle stock down hard on his shoulders. Blake twisted around and the old-timer growled:

Get down now and stay put. By hell, don’t buck me, mister.

Blake eyed him coolly. The odds are stacked against you, old-timer. Maybe, if I had my gun ...

You heard me, damn you! Get down!

The old-timer waited until Blake hit the ground. He then hurried to the edge of the clearing and dropped flat, pushing his rifle out. Gunfire blasted through the clearing over the horse’s back, scattering the brush, stripping bark from the trees. Blake Durant worked himself closer to the horse as the old-timer began to return the fire. The riders came on with a determination that the old man’s gunfire could not break. Because they were now closer and off the high ground, the shots from the attacking riders began to gouge the ground around Durant and the old man.

Durant snapped, Damn you, mister, I’m not going to get it cold.

The old man’s head swung around and his rifle leveled on Durant. Don’t move or you’ll get it from me. I got your measure, mister, and I’m tellin’ you that none of you scum are gonna take from me what I got.

I don’t want anything you’ve got, Blake returned fiercely. Another minute and they’ll be swarming all over us. You’ve got no chance without my help.

The old-timer gave an angry grunt and started to blast away again. Blake saw one of the riders pitch out of the saddle, grabbing at his shoulder. The others slowed at the sight of this, three of them coming to a final halt only fifty yards short of the clearing. Blake saw now that the old-timer had picked his site shrewdly, the hollow giving him ample protection while opening up the slope perfectly. He also saw a glint of satisfaction in the faded eyes as the rifle bucked and the old man’s bullet ripped into an arm of one of the attackers.

Blake knew it was only a matter of time. He had to get to his handgun or rifle. The handgun was out of the question. He wormed back on his stomach as the old-timer kept up a constant barrage of shots at the riders. Six riders had cut to the bottom of the slope and were circling to make another charge. When the assault was finished he knew he’d be dead alongside the old-timer. He rose onto his elbows and began to work his way back faster. He was within ten feet of the horse and his rifle, when he sighted a lone rider on