Boothill is Anywhere

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 Am

• Language: English
• Publisher: Echo Books
• Release date: May 10, 2024
• ISBN: 9781922603395

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Boothill Is Anywhere

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: Boothill Is Anywhere

ISBN: 978-1-922603-39-5 (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

Slash and Venom

As he stood under the big poplar with the rain pelting hard, Blake Durant watched the river rise. Inch by inch it came up the sodden bank, sucking at the mud and causing great sections of ground to landslide into its raging torrent. There was the howl of the wind, the lash of the rain, the icy coldness, and the misery in Sundown’s eyes. The big horse’s black sides gleamed wet and he quivered as he nuzzled against Durant’s shoulder.

Durant squinted into the curtain of rain. Everywhere it was gloom, wetness, vagueness, as it had been for days. At Pinto Creek and up through the Platte River country, everybody had been rejoicing. The two-year drought had broken. And how!

Blake allowed himself a smile. One man’s meat, another man’s poison. He had crossed four river branches in the last two days, each more swollen than the last. Now he was looking at the Night River, a swirling, impassable torrent that tore its way towards Moon, the town Blake had decided to visit. Why Moon? He had no definite reason; it was just a town on the way south. Why south? Why anywhere? A man with things to forget had to keep on the move, had to keep drifting.

Finally Blake patted Sundown’s head. Got to be better country ahead, he muttered and Sundown gave a light nicker. Blake swung into the saddle. The horse shifted under him, then moved from the shelter of the big tree. Blake caught the reins in short and let the horse push into the slanting fury of the storm.

They kept to a thin ridge backboned across the waterlogged terrain until Blake sighted the deep, over-sized hoofmarks of steers heading west-of-south. Knowing of the instinct of animals for survival, Blake followed the tracks. They led for two miles into gradually rising country and then he came on the cattle standing on high ground, backs to him, heads turned away from the drive of the icy rain. Blake went past the steers and topped a sloppy rise to find a faint blue-haloed light winking at him in the distance.

A house of some kind ...

It took him another twenty minutes or so to cross the open country, continually buffeted by the rain, the chill wind driving under his soaked hide coat and gnawing at his bones. His hands were cramped with cold even under his wool-lined leather gloves when he came to the muddied clearing of a trailside building.

He turned Sundown along the side of the building and came out of the saddle just short of a lean-to. Six horses stood inside, bunched close. Blake unsaddled his horse and Sundown shifted among the other animals, shouldering his way to warmth. Hay was scattered on the dry floor of the lean-to, so Blake left Sundown to make his own arrangements.

Reaching the corner of the building, Blake braced himself against the fierce stinging race of the storm, and, slithering and plodding, caught at the doorway jamb, drew in a ragged breath and lifted the latch. The door broke away from his grip as the wind caught it and he felt himself driven in after it. He lost his footing on the slippery boards, regained his balance and grabbed at the door as a voice growled:

Damn you, close it!

Blake ignored the sour cry, pulled the door shut and worked the catch into place. Then he turned slowly, rain dripping from his clothes, his face shining in the warm glow of the pot-bellied stove. Seated around the stove were two unshaven, sullen-featured men who glared at him.

Ain’t you ever been where doors got to be closed, mister? said one of them.

Blake’s look settled on the speaker, taking note of the twisted, surly mouth, the hooked nose, and drawn, lean cheeks. The man’s hat was perched on the back of his head and his untidy black hair spilled across his rutted brow. His companion, a little bigger, was no less contemptuous in his study of Blake. Blake ignored them and let his look sweep the room.

The barkeep, behind a counter of planks on two barrels, studied him, blue-gray eyes making an appraisal of Durant’s rigout. What he saw must have satisfied him because he nodded his head and said:

Don’t worry about them two sour-bellied jaspers, stranger. They ran outa chips a day ago and been bellyachin’ ever since. Come across and get some rotgut into you.

Blake accepted his invitation with a grin. Discarding his coat, he dropped it on one end of the counter and removed his hat. He ran wet fingers through loose yellow hair and removed his golden bandanna. As he wrung the bandanna then used it on his face and wrung it out again, his eyes took on a thoughtful look. Not until he replaced the bandanna around his neck did he turn his attention to the two men at the other end of the counter. One was short, with a deep-rutted old face, and a habit of sucking his toothless gums. A slight nod of his head was Blake’s welcome.

The other man was tall, wide-shouldered and trail-leaned, with cold black eyes deep-set in a face devoid of expression. He was dressed in black except for a white shirt to which hung a black string tie. He had his hands planted on the planking, spaced out so that each was level with the holsters on his hips. He gave no hint of welcome.

The barkeep brought a glass and a black bottle with no label. Pushing them at Blake, he said, Reckon you’ll be laid up like the rest of ’em, stranger, so best get to know each other. Name’s Tim Shay.

Blake poured his drink before he answered. Blake Durant.

From? Shay asked.

Down through the Platte River country.

Shay’s bushy eyebrows arched. Hell, wonder you ain’t drowned out, Durant. Last word we got was all the rivers were up, bridges down and the whole section stormin’ a treat.

Blake tossed down the raw whisky and whistled softly. Shay grinned.

It was about as comfortable a ride, Blake said, as that was a drink.

Shay chuckled. Warms you, I’ll bet. Got it from an old trader who knows his likker better’n any man in the mountains. Gave me a guarantee it’d clean brass, rot leather, and stand in for kerosene in me lanterns. Kinda useful, eh?

Blake filled his glass and brought money from his pocket. Till some other poison comes along, it’ll have to do, he said, and sipped his second drink.

Shay turned and dropped the money into an old bucket on a board shelf behind the counter. Against the bucket lay a hand pistol, and propped on the floor beneath the shelf was an old rifle. Shay looked at the two down the bar.

Gents, this here is Blake Durant. He come through the Platte River country, which I guess proves he ain’t no fancy dude and also proves he’s keen-blessed by the old Lady upstairs. Durant, thet old codger you can hardly see behind his whiskers is Josh McHarg—been in these parts near on a century they reckon. The other is ... er ...

The tall man in black eyed Shay coolly and offered no name. Blake nodded at McHarg who was eyeing the bottle hungrily and said, Join me if you like.

The cracks in the old face drew deeper. Don’t mind if I do, Durant. Kinda over-quiet down this end.

McHarg came down the bar with eager strides. Shay set a glass down for him and another for himself. Outside the rain was still belting down, making a background of noise which somehow made the room warmer for Blake Durant. McHarg lifted the glass in recognition of Durant’s generosity and emptied it with one fling. He licked his lips noisily and broke into talk:

Been holed up here two days now, them two at the stove for four, Shay says, and the other two, the old man and the woman, for five. Reckon we ain’t seen the last of being cooped either.

Blake felt the tall man’s eyes upon him. There was no criticism in the stranger’s look, nor bitterness, yet Blake felt somehow he was being laid bare. He held the man’s gaze, ready to respond any way the other played it.

Then a call came from the stove:

Hey, Durant, you buyin’ all round?

Tim Shay frowned. I don’t allow good customers to be crowded, Ludlow. You and Iverson done your share of drinkin’ and cussin’ and ain’t nobody’s fault you’re broke and I ain’t givin’ credit this time of year. Just set and clean your livers some.

Blake heard a curse and the scrape of a chair. He turned to see the bigger