Beat The Drum Slowly

By Des Dunn

Des Dunn authored over 500 short Western novels over four decades of creative work.

Each story captures the essence of the Wild West - a tumultuous and romanticised era in American history when untamed lands and fearless individuals defined the spirit of the nation.

These novels were published in Australia under the pseudonyms of Sha

• Language: English
• Publisher: Echo Books
• Release date: Mar 15, 2024
• ISBN: 9781922603302

Book preview

Beat The Drum Slowly

by

Sheldon B. Cole

A black and red logo Description automatically generated

Originally Published by Cleveland Publishing.

Republished in 2024 by Echo Books.

Echo Books is an imprint of Superscript Publishing Pty Ltd.

ABN 76 644 812 395.

Registered Office: PO Box 669, Woodend, Victoria, 3442.

www.echobooks.com.au

Copyright © The Estate of Desmond Robert Dunn.

National Library of Australia Cataloguing-in-Publication entry.

Creator: Desmond Robert Dunn, author.

Title: Beat The Drum Slowly

ISBN: 978-1-922603-30-2 (ePub)

Book design by Jason McGregor.

Any resemblance between any character appearing in this novel and any person living or dead is entirely coincidental and unintentional.

CHAPTER ONE

Sunfish Creek

BLAKE DURANT came to a halt at the base of a rust-coloured butte. Its meagre shade offered little relief from the heat, but merely to be out of the glare of the sun after many hours in the saddle seemed as refreshing as a swim in a clear spring. Durant’s mouth was parched and his skin was tight, his cheeks temporarily pock-marked by the day’s wind-whipped grit.

Unsaddling Sundown, his powerful black stallion, Blake Durant let the horse pick at the poor grass on the rocky slope. He made a fire and boiled coffee, then sat on a ledge of rock, leaning forward, elbows on his knees, and studied the harsh country before him. The coffee helped to take some of the heat out of his sun-scorched body, but he knew he was in for an uncomfortable night under the blanket of heat which lay around him. It had been the same for five days and nights of riding aimlessly, on no definite trail, trying to forget what he’d left behind and disinterested in what lay ahead. To Blake Durant, little had mattered for several years spent riding from one end of the country to the other, searching for he knew not what, continuing on only because the past had to be buried, had to be forgotten.

He finished the coffee and hobbled Sundown so the big black wouldn't stray, then he stretched out on his blanket. He laid his hide coat on a shoulder of rock and put his gunbelt on top of it. His boots he placed at the bottom of the rock. Ready for the night now, he lay there, the heat pressing down on him. He closed his eyes, blanked out his mind, and fell off to sleep.

He was in the saddle pressing on before the first grey light of another summer day pushed back the night. With the sun behind him an hour later, he topped a rise and saw a small town ahead, a huddle of buildings on the banks of a creek. At that early hour there was no activity that he could see. He rode towards the town without enthusiasm, expecting nothing from it and unwilling to give anything of himself in return. The one gratifying thing about the place being there at all was the fact that for a short time he’d be able to get some comfort for himself and some rest and feed for Sundown.

Riding into the one street, he slowed the big black. Deep shadows filled the street, making the store section on his right a vague blur of shapes. All doors were closed and there was no sound. Blake stopped, suddenly aware that the silence was too complete. Even at that early hour, somebody should be moving about - a cleaner, a cowhand making an early start for home after a night’s recklessness, a townsman wanting to get a jump on competing businessmen, even a crying child. But the street was completely empty and there was no sound but the low moan of the wind.

Somewhere behind him a door hinge creaked. Blake felt his shoulders tighten, but he didn’t bother to turn in the saddle to check. Sundown stomped impatiently when Blake reined up in the middle of the street. Blake spoke quietly until the big black calmed. Then a voice sounded:

First thing you do, stranger, is unhook that gunbelt and let it drop. Don’t make no fast moves now. . . be real slow and easy like and maybe there won't be trouble.

Blake was tempted to turn then but he didn’t. He hooked the reins about the pommel of the saddle and asked, Why?

No matter why. Just do like you're told.

There was a definite ring of authority in the deep voice. Blake calculated that the man was no more than twenty feet behind him. That would put him in the doorway of the slab-fronted building he had just passed. He unbuckled his gunbelt and let it slide from his lean waist. It fell to the street near Sundown’s hind legs.

Behind Blake, gravel crunched and then a shadowy movement caught his attention. He turned his head and looked into the upraised face of a man who'd stooped to pick up the gunbelt. When the man’s hand closed around the leather, a spark of satisfaction came into wide-set blue eyes. Then the man stepped away, tossing the gunbelt across his shoulder and making a gesture with his gun for Blake to climb down. Blake slipped off Sundown and pulled the big black close to him. The black nuzzled at his shoulder. Blake raised a hand and ran it across the horse’s head.

The man with the gun had retreated to the boardwalk. He held the gun on Blake, his face tight and wary. Billy, come and take this. He held Blake’s gunbelt behind him, the butt of the big Colt resting on the warped boards.

A younger man, tow-haired, came through the doorway of the building. He took the gunbelt and studied Blake Durant carefully.

Blake said, What the hell is this all about?

Billy, take his horse and tether it out back. You, mister, come inside and answer some questions. If you've got the right answers, you'll get an apology and your horse and gun back, no harm done. If you ain't got the right answers, it'll be too bad - for you.

Blake held the man’s gaze easily. A mistake had been made by these men, and this fact would soon be realised. In the meantime there was no sense trying to buck them. He let the younger man lead Sundown down a side alley and then he crossed to the boardwalk. The man with the gun shifted quickly aside; then, as Blake entered the room beyond the door, he came up fast behind him. Passing Blake, but still keeping his big gun trained on him, the heavily built man crossed to a desk littered with papers held down by two coffee cups and a black coffee pot. The man slid behind the desk, opened a drawer and pulled out a tin star that he pinned to his shirt.

The name’s Blake Durant, Sheriff, Blake said. ‘Who-ever it is you're looking for it’s not me.

Who I’m lookin’ for, mister, I don’t rightly know, the sheriff answered tightly. Sit down.

Blake pulled a chair from the wall, turned it around and straddled it. The back door behind the big man opened and the younger man, Billy, entered. He looked puzzled about something.

The sheriff said, Well?

Billy shook his head. Nothing in his saddlebags to say who he is. Provisions, eating utensils, some tobacco, a silk scarf. Saddleroll didn’t help none either.

The sheriff held out his hand for Blake’s gunbelt and then Billy went on, Far as I can make out, the gun ain't been fired for some time. Been looked after though; it’s as clean as a whistle. And the holster has been oiled. It’s real gun-handler gear.

Blake held the younger man’s stare evenly. It was becoming clear to him that trouble in these parts had made these two suspicious of every stranger who rode through. In that case he had no worries if he got a chance to explain himself. The sheriff hooked the gunbelt on a wall peg and sat back in his chair while Billy positioned himself to Blake’s right where he could intercept any move towards the back or front doors. Billy’s stare stayed on Blake ... expressionless eyes in a dead-sober face.

The sheriff said, "Okay, Durant, your saddlebags are clean. Fact is, we don’t know a spit more about you now than we did minutes ago when you rode in from the south. So start off tellin’ us why you came that way into town, all the way across that hard country at this time of the year, tiring out yourself and your horse. Also tell us what you've been doing with yourself the last month or so.

Blake studied the ‘lawman intently, seeing the signs of a heavy drinker in the pitted nose. The man was about forty years of age. Although he was heavily built, Blake could see that a lot of the weight had come from easy living. He wasn't a neat man. His clothes were soiled and one side of his shirt collar was askew, caused by a missing button. The tin star had not