The Loner 25: Name the Stakes (The Loner Western)

By Sheldon B. Cole

When Blake Durant rode into the town of Covey, he also rode straight into a hornet’s nest of trouble—the worst storm in living memory, that left great swathes of land underwater ... ill-feeling between two ranchers that resulted in one being arrested for the murder of the other ... a lynch-mob that wouldn’t be satisfied until they had a body dangling from the end of a rope ... and a bank robbery that ended in death.
The town was a powder keg waiting to explode, and it seemed that Blake’s arrival was just the spark needed to set it off. With no real choice in the matter, the man they called The Loner had to see it through, right to the final showdown in a deserted saloon at night, when the man he had hunted for so long turned the tables and came hunting for him ...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Piccadilly
• Release date: Oct 1, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215641484

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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When Blake Durant rode into the town of Covey, he also rode straight into a hornet’s nest of trouble—the worst storm in living memory, that left great swathes of land underwater … ill-feeling between two ranchers that resulted in one being arrested for the murder of the other … a lynch-mob that wouldn’t be satisfied until they had a body dangling from the end of a rope … and a bank robbery that ended in death.

The town was a powder keg waiting to explode, and it seemed that Blake’s arrival was just the spark needed to set it off. With no real choice in the matter, the man they called The Loner had to see it through, right to the final showdown in a deserted saloon at night, when the man he had hunted for so long turned the tables and came hunting for him …

THE LONER 25: NAME THE STAKES

By Sheldon B. Cole

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

© 2023 by Piccadilly Publishing

First Electronic Edition: October 2023

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

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Chapter One – Quit Prayin’

THE STORMS HAD given Blake Durant plenty of warning but he hadn’t heeded it. Yesterday’s thunder and lightning had gone, but now the rain was coming down so heavily, visibility was limited to fifty yards. Even so, to see where he was going, he had to ride side-on to the slash and venom of the rain and peer up from under the brim of his soaked range hat. His slicker was almost useless as the wind cut under it, allowing the rain to chill and saturate him.

Still he plodded on, the distant hills, standing forlorn and blurred, his only guide. The wind was blowing the rain in great sheets across the flats and all around him, water was rising. Being a stranger to these parts, he had no way of knowing if a river or creek was nearby. But if there was one, this incessant downpour would soon raise its level and break its banks, flooding the whole area. That would mean that he and his black stallion would be trapped and they might have to swim for their lives.

There was nothing for it but to keep his eyes peeled and plod on—and hope.

Durant rode head down, peering from under his hat brim in the hope of picking up a recognizable landmark.

He had little idea of time. He knew only that daylight had found him under the dripping cover of a solitary cottonwood with flat land behind him, flat land in front. He had kept moving on for four or five hours now, because going back had never appealed to him. He wasn’t sure, but the shortening strides of his stallion, Sundown, stressed that the trail had been long and hard.

Durant rubbed the black’s shoulder as the water was now up to the stallion’s fetlocks. Durant drew in a ragged breath and pushed on—for another hour, two or was it three ...?

Durant scarcely cared.

Suddenly a sound cut through the slash of the rain causing him to jerk his head up. He listened for a moment, staring ahead.

Then he urged Sundown on again toward the elevated ground and the stand of trees which had suddenly appeared through a break in the driving rain. He was twenty yards into the timber when he saw the torrent of muddy water.

Durant drew rein and watched logs and brush weaving and bobbing in the swirling current. Looking upstream, he saw a wall of foaming water coming toward them, carrying everything before it. He knew instinctively the creek would burst its banks, and what had been a slowly rising flood would soon become an inland sea.

Then through the mist he saw a shape appear—a man trying desperately to stay in the saddle of a rearing horse mere yards in front of the thundering wall of water.

Durant watched the man lose his fight, and as the horse unseated the rider and slipped into the creek, the man let out an agonized cry.

Durant quickly stepped down and made his way toward the man as the wall of water hit the swimming horse and flung it high into the air in a maelstrom of froth and swirling debris. The horse came down on its back, legs lashing at the torrent and disappeared beneath the surging water.

Durant sped along the bank to the man to find him scrambling groggily to his feet. Thick mud caked his face and beard and he turned his fear-filled eyes to Durant as he pulled the oldster back from the edge of the bank and said;

Let’s get to hell out of here!

Wh-where, damn you? was the old man’s sharp reply as he knocked Durant’s hands aside and tried to back away, the rain sending streaks of mud down his haggard cheeks.

There, Durant said, pointing.

The old man looked anxiously around him.

We’ve got a minute, maybe less, Durant shouted over the roar of the water. If you want to stay here, you can.

The oldster watched the wave tear huge chunks of earth, rocks, and roots from the bank as it made its way toward them.

The old man moved quickly past Durant but suddenly clamped his gnarled hands to his stomach as his eyes filled with pain.

Damn ribs, he growled. Must be busted.

Durant picked the old man up and carried him over to Sundown, helped him onto Sundown’s back then swung up behind him. Then he heeled Sundown into a run.

The old man began to groan but Durant ignored him and kept Sundown going. Behind them, they heard the thunderous noise of trees being uprooted and flung aside like match sticks. Durant knew that if they could stay in front of the wall of water they would have a chance.

Ain’t goin’ to make it, you damn fool! the old man wheezed as he fought to kick himself free of Durant’s grip.

We’re goin’ to try, you old buzzard. Now quit struggling or my horse will lose its footing.

"What about my horse, damn you? the old man snarled. Where’s it at?"

Shut your mouth or I’ll have to shut it for you.

The old man’s eyes bored belligerently into Durant’s but then he suddenly became quiet.

Sundown carried them across the waterlogged country for half an hour before Durant eased him to a walk and looked back. The creek was over three hundred yards wide now, but moving more slowly than when it had broken its banks. The old man also turned and looked and with a snort, said;

Might be we beat it.

No thanks to you.

Their stares met and locked and the old man jerked his head up defiantly.

I woulda made it without you, he grumbled.

You would have drowned, Durant corrected him and got Sundown moving again.

They rode into the full force of the rain for another hour before Durant slipped from the saddle and gave Sundown a pat on the shoulder, walked ahead, leading him. There were only isolated humps of ground showing above the sea of flooded country, and in some places, the water came up almost to Durant’s knees. But he trudged on, while behind him the old man kept up a string of whining complaints.

Head north aways, the oldster finally said.

Durant stopped and looked back at him.

Which way’s north and why in hell should we head in that direction?

The old man scowled and pointed off to Durant’s right. That way, where else, and what’s there is my place, just past the Redford ranch.

Why the hell didn’t you stay home then? Durant asked him.

Rain ain’t goin’ to let up for days, and you best believe me. Figured I could get across the river before it rose too high.

Is your place on high ground? Durant asked.

I seen out many a flood on it, the old man growled. Ain’t sure about this one though.

Durant looked to the north then swung his gaze to the line of hills to the south. The old man was checking out the hills to the south too, and he seemed deeply troubled about something. You sure north’s the way? Durant asked him.

Damn sure and we’ll make it if we don’t stand here gabbin’. What about it, you goin’ or stayin’?

The old-timer still had his hands clamped