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  The town of Red Bend waited in fear.

  Mace Orde and his three hell-raising sons were coming to in settle some old scores, and not a man there seemed likely to stand up to them … except Marshal Ben Karpel.

  Still, there wasn’t much the ageing marshal could do against such ruthless killers. His beautiful daughter, Dell, was willing to pick up a gun and fight alongside him, but it wasn’t until Blake Durant rode in that they really stood a chance of winning.

  When the marshal arrested Mace Orde, he knew they’d never hold him long enough for the circuit judge to get there and try him for murder. Orde’s sons would bust him out just as soon as they could.

  That left only one option – to transport him across the desert to the larger town of Creede, where they had deputies who could guard him until the trial-date was set.

  All they had to do now – Durant, an ageing lawman and his daughter – was get Orde there in one piece, before his sons could shred them to pieces.

  THE LONER 22: GUN FOR GUN

  By Sheldon B. Cole

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

  © 2019 by Piccadilly Publishing

  First Electronic Edition: April 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

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One – Placate the Devil

  Chapter Two – Any Town Is My Town

  Chapter Three – Set-Up!

  Chapter Four – To Creede!

  Chapter Five – Death Breeders

  Chapter Six – Thieves Fall Out

  Chapter Seven – Three Trails West

  Chapter Eight – When Blood Is Thin

  Chapter Nine – Friend Or Foe?

  Chapter Ten – Don’t Count the Dead

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  Placate the Devil

  SHERIFF BEN KARPEL stood in the main street of Red Bend. Henry Watts had just brought the stage to a screeching, bumping stop outside the jailhouse and hot red dust boiled in the air between them as Watts spoke.

  In Karpel’s opinion, Watts was prone to panic and exaggerate. Also, after so many lonely hours on long, dusty trails, Watts was often inclined to talk for talk’s sake alone.

  So Karpel listened without really hearing. Just about everybody was indoors and Karpel knew why; the people of Red Bend were wondering exactly what he was wondering: When would they come?

  They being Mace Orde and his three sons, Clem, Jeb and Russ, one as bad as the other, all four of them criminals of the lowest kind; killers, plunderers, thieves. Word on them had come in with Tim Shelton, a cowhand on the Bar 7. Shelton had crossed their trail and got himself shot up. Before Shelton died on Karpel’s doorstep he’d passed the word along. The Ordes were coming and didn’t care who knew.

  Now Tim Shelton was buried and the Bar 7 outfit preferred to believe that Shelton’s war with the Orde outfit was something private. Karpel knew better, just as he knew the Bar 7 outfit did. Shelton’s death had been cold-blooded murder.

  Ben Karpel’s wide shoulders slumped. His gray eyes squinted in the hot wind and his face seemed to grow new lines as he looked up and down the town’s main street. The Orde outfit wouldn’t just ride in. They’d be careful, knowing that Karpel would be waiting for them, just as every lawman west of the Platte River would be duty-bound to challenge them.

  But there was no sign of them.

  His attention suddenly turned to what Watts was saying. “The four of them, Ben, down by the creek five miles out. They shot one of the Ranger steers and were cooking it, calm as all get-out. Carl Bolger musta tracked them down but shouldn’ta. Carl’s dead, shot through the neck, and they’re just sittin’ there cookin’ their meat while the flies worry Carl’s body.”

  Ben Karpel closed his eyes and took in a ragged breath. Two dead. He said, “How’d you see all this, Henry, and make it to town without being hurt?”

  “Ain’t hurt?” Henry Watts roared, then he pulled up his trouser leg to show Karpel a bloodied bandage around his right ankle. “You reckon thet didn’t hurt, a blasted bullet that damn near went right through? I don’t know when I’ll be able to walk proper again.”

  Karpel looked at the bandage and then at Watts. No pain showed in the grizzled driver’s face.

  “You dig the bullet out, Henry?”

  Watts straightened in the coach seat, annoyed. “You didn’t think I’d leave it in, did you? Hell, I had to drive like a lunatic for seven miles off the trail before I could chance coming back onto it the other side of town. Or maybe you didn’t notice I came in a different way than usual.”

  “I noticed,” Ben said.

  “Yeah, well, you better keep watchin’ all trails in, ’cause they’re comin’ here just as soon as they feast themselves off that stolen steer.”

  Ben Karpel looked around again. Nothing moved but the dust under the drive of the hot wind. Cold sweat had formed on his neck but he made no attempt to wipe it off. Better, under Watts’ hard scrutiny, to appear unmoved by the situation.

  “I’m obliged for the information,” Ben said. “Now you best go see the doc and have that leg attended to. Then do your best not to scare too many people with your story.”

  Watts eyed Ben in an elaborate show of innocence. “You think I’m gonna rake up a nest of trouble here in town, Ben? What do you take me for?”

  Ben Karpel didn’t bother to answer. He knew that just as soon as Watts unharnessed his team in the depot yard he would hurry to the saloon and get the attention of everybody within listening range.

  “What I’m gonna do,” Watts said, “is shake off this damn trail dust, maybe have a couple of drinks, and then bed down. I don’t want no part of them Orde jaspers, no sir.”

  “Just keep it quiet,” Karpel said. “I don’t want any panic.”

  Watts looked nervously behind him, then squinted hard so he could make out the other end of the dusty main street. He picked up the reins, booted the brake free and let the stage go on. Ben Karpel wiped the sweat off the back of his neck with a bandanna and sighed.

  The Orde clan was his problem. It was what he was sworn to look into. Law-abiding citizens had pinned a badge on his shirt and paid him to protect them. And for five long years he had done just that. But in all that time there had been no real test. This was the first, and he knew he would have to prove himself or move off with his tail between his legs.

  He turned back into the jailhouse, finding it difficult to swallow. His main concern was for his daughter’s safety. Dell Karpel too often pried into his affairs. Yet she had been a help, keeping house for him and doing his books. But in a matter of this kind, he just didn’t want her involved.

  He sat behind his desk and tried to convince himself that his concern for his daughter was what was bringing on fresh worries. But deep down he knew he was scared. He was pushing fifty years. His bones ached and he was constantly tired. He was just living out his days, hoping he could get to retirement age without too much fuss. And now the town expected him to stand up against four of the worst killers the frontier had ever known.

  Karpel brought his hands to his head and closed his eyes. There must be something he could do besides hope the Orde outfit would bypass his town and take their trouble elsewhere.

  Organize, he told himself. Yes, that was the answer. Go and talk to Hank Clinton at the saloon and get him to call some of the townsmen together. Perhaps Abe Carpenter would leave his smith’s anvil long enough to take up a gun and protect his own interests. Or perhaps Jake Lamont, who spent a good deal of every day remembering how good he’d been with a gun as a youth, would put his Colt at Karpel’s disposal. Ben Karpel smiled ruefully. From the moment Tim Shelton had croaked out his story and died, not one of the men had shown his face in the street. Even Clinton, who was obliged to stay in the public eye and keep his saloon open, seemed to prefer his bed to sitting up with good-paying customers far into the night. Carpenter’s ringing anvil no longer belted its sound into the evenings past seven o’clock, and Jake Lamont had suddenly lost all interest in recalling the heroics of his youth.

  Who else was available? Karpel asked himself. General Store owner Don Meikle was more interested in the price catalogues which came from Cheyenne than anything else. Len Meares was interested in nothing but lumber and those who wanted to buy it. Hal Wishart spent day and night making harnesses, reins and saddles, and he never wore a gun.

  The rest of the menfolk minded their own business and the ranchers and their crew seemed to find little of interest in Red Bend, preferring to kick up their feet in Hassel Creek or farther west in Newport.

  Yet, Karpel told himself, Red Bend was a good town with good people in it. It did not deserve to be treed by an outfit of scum.

  He got to his feet, uncertain about what to do next. He closed the door of the jailhouse and locked it, putting the key into his vest pocket. As he walked down the boardwalk he saw Henry Watts heading towards the saloon. The street, although it was not yet five in the afternoon, was as quiet as Boothill. Karpel saw several faces in the windows of the cottages he passed, and other men and women stood in doorways. There was nobody on the boardwalks, not even children.

  Pushing open the batwings of Hank Clinton’s saloon, Ben Karpel studied his customers. Watts had a drink in his hand and was looking around for company. There were three cowhands from the Bar 7 spread, and a group of townsmen stood at the far end of the bar being served by Hank Clinton.

  Karpel moved down the long room, stood near Watts and looked at the three cowboys. When they looked his way, worried, he scrubbed a hand across his thin-lipped mouth. Then: “You boys know what the Bar 7 people intend doing about Tim Shelton’s murder?”

  The cowboys exchanged nervous glances. John Mariner, who had been working for the Bar 7 for as long as Karpel had been sheriff of Red Bend, put his empty glass on the counter and nudged his two friends towards the batwings.

  “For forty and found, Sheriff, we don’t ask questions of those who hire us.”

  Mariner went to go past Ben Karpel, but the sheriff put his hand against his chest, stopping him.

  “Tim was murdered,” Karpel said.

  Mariner licked at his lips and looked uncomfortable. “Ain’t how we heard it, Sheriff.”

  “Then you heard wrong, John. Tim managed to make it to town. He told his story before he died in my arms.”

  Mariner drew in a quick breath and pulled himself to his full height. A hint of defiance showed in his dark eyes. “I’m not his keeper, Ben.”

  “He’s not alive to be looked after, John. He was just a young fellow who minded his own business but had the rotten luck to run into a bunch of rotten scum who killed him cold.”

  “It had nothing to do with us,” Mariner said, moving off.

  The other two had stopped just short of the batwings. Karpel looked directly at them and they turned away as color rose in their cheeks.

  Karpel asked loud enough for everybody in the saloon to hear, “What if it happens to another of your crowd, John? Will you bury your head in the sand again?”

  Anger flared in Mariner’s eyes. His lips tightened and his hands clenched and unclenched as he fought to control his fury. “Damn it, Ben, if you’ve got something to say, say it straight.”

  Karpel studied Mariner for a long moment before he turned to the bar and dug change out of his vest pocket. The jailhouse key came out with an assortment of coins. He fingered the key thoughtfully before he muttered, “No, John, I’ve got nothing more to say.”

  Mariner’s eyes glared. “Damn if I like the sound of your voice.”

  “Go home to your cows,” Karpel said with disgust. Mariner’s face tightened. He stared furiously at Ben Karpel for some time before he smothered a curse and then shouldered his way past the batwings and stepped onto the boardwalk.

  Karpel heard him growl, “Let’s get to hell outa this sick town.”

  Karpel waited until the drumming of hoofbeats died in the street, then he looked at Hank Clinton. Clinton flushed and shook his head.

  “None of my business, Ben.”

  “It’s your town,” Karpel said.

  Clinton gave a wave of his hand. “This saloon is my part of town, Ben. This part I’ll defend.”

  Karpel smiled ruefully. “I hope you can, Hank. I certainly hope you’re up to doing that because I have a feeling my hands will be full in other parts of town.”

  Karpel looked in the direction of the townsmen but they seemed interested only in their drinks. Watts, as if suspecting he would soon be drawn into the web of what he considered to be Karpel’s business alone, moved away. Karpel opened his mouth to call to him but thought better of it. He picked up his money from the bar top and returned it to his vest pocket. Hank Clinton, holding a glass to fill it for him, put the glass down.

  Karpel and Clinton looked at each other until Clinton breathed out heavily and moved away. Karpel looked at the few men remaining in the saloon and smiled, then he walked out.

  The dust from the Bar 7 horses was beginning to settle and the boardwalks remained empty. Ben Karpel, his shoulders bowed, walked slowly down the street he had come to know so well. Suddenly, he felt like a stranger in town who might as well move on. But he couldn’t do that because quitting would put a brand on him that he would never be able to live with.

  Blake Durant heard coarse laughter rising from the creek bed and drew his black stallion, Sundown, to a halt. He sat saddle, the hot wind driving against his range coat, his yellow bandanna flapping. The laughter died and there came the creak of saddle leather. Sundown stood quietly, obedient to the wishes of the man who rode him.

  Durant surveyed the terrain. It was just a section of wild country in a meaningless world. Louise Yerby was dead, and with her had gone the meaning of life.

  The sound of hoofbeats and then more laughter rose from the creek. Blake Durant waited a few minutes then he rode down a twisting trail through tall timber until he found the campsite. The smell of cooked meat rose from the cinders of a fire. Beef bones were scattered along the creek bank. The boot marks in the ground told Durant that four men had stayed here for some time. Riding past the fire, Durant had to put a hand over Sundown’s nose as the horse reared its head, nostrils dilating. The horse quietened under the reassuring touch of the man.

  Durant came out of the saddle, tense as he saw what had disturbed the horse. The boots of a man protruded from a dead bush beside which was a crudely butchered steer over which flies swarmed. Durant grasped a horn of the steer and dragged it clear of the brush. The flies went with the carcass and Durant booted the brush apart until he could see the face of a man ugly in death. His neck had a bullet hole in it.

  Durant pulled the dead man clear of the bush. He had a gunbelt around his bulky middle but the gun had been taken from the holster. Durant left the campsite and followed the horse tracks into deep brush. He saw where five horses had been tethered and later led away. He returned to the creek bank and pulled Sundown around so he could lift the dead man onto the back of the saddle. He surveyed the campsite one last time, then swung onto the horse.

  He went along the creek until he found where five horses had gone into rocky country towards high ground. He stopped on the rise and saw four men and five horses in the distance, departing at great haste. Burdened down, Durant knew he could never hope to catch up with them. In a way he didn’t want to. This was not his business. This was not his territory. He would do only what any man should do and take the dead man in for burial. Then he would move on.

  Chapter Two

  Any Town Is My Town

  MACE ORDE LED the way out of the narrow defile and stopped on high ground from where he could study the town. A huge man, he seemed much too heavy for the horse under him, although it stood on quivering legs at almost seventeen hands. Orde’s large ears poked out from under the brim of his battered range hat, and his ferret face was ugly beneath caked dust. His sons drew up behind him.

  Mace Orde didn’t bother to check the boys out, though they were lined up as if for inspection. Russ, the youngest, had a long, narrow face and little meat on his bones; he seemed the more nervous of the three and kept glancing at his brothers. Clem, the eldest, and Jeb paid him no heed. The town was there before them, and if the information they’d received was correct Bull Arkon was somewhere in it. Their father wanted Arkon, so that was it.

  “Clem.” Mace Orde’s voice broke the silence.

  Clem worked his horse beside his father’s. His small eyes, cold and expressionless, were like polished stones. Of the three boys, he was the deadliest and the most brutal. He had killed more men in the seven years he had ridden with his father than any other man in the West. He was, and he basked in the glory of it, the apple of his father’s eye.

  “Yeah, Pa?”

  “The funnin’s over, Clem. See that the other two remember that. We got to find Arkon and get thet map. It’ll be the makin’s of us.”

  “Town looks small, Pa,” Clem offered.

 

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