Day of the Damned

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: Jun 30, 2024
• ISBN: 9781922603647

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Day of the Damned

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: Day of the Damned

ISBN: 978-1-922603-64-7 (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

West of Everything

It was mid-afternoon when the rain stopped and Blake Durant drew rein on Sundown, his blue-black stallion, on the crest of a lonely, wind-swept hill. The rain-washed air was so clear that he had no difficulty making out the town a mile or so in the distance. It was a welcome sight after the past week’s trail-blazing across desolate distances, and Durant felt a new lease of life surging through him.

From where he had drawn up on the sagebrush-studded crest, the town of Maple looked smaller than he had been led to expect it to be. Despite the wide streets and some double-storied buildings, it was mostly just a cluster of rundown houses and stores thrown together haphazardly on the prairie, with cattle yards at the end of one street towards the west, and two adobe huts standing opposite each other at the eastern end to form a kind of gateway.

There was little activity in the streets, but Blake put this down to the fact that the town had probably been as badly buffeted by the day’s storms as he had. He pulled his range coat tighter about his wide-shouldered body and, giving Sundown his head, let the horse pick its own way down the hillside and across the prairie where rain still lay in puddles.

Sundown was into a canter by the time they reached the edge of town and as Durant rode into the main street he pulled the horse down to a walk and let his gaze sweep the place. A bunch of cowhands brushing rain off their shoulders were dismounting from tired-looking range ponies outside a batwinged doorway. Most of them looked Durant over, then disregarded him, apparently accepting him as one of their kind who had come out of the range and was in need of a drink and a feed and some rest.

Blake rode the stallion to the rack and dropped to the ground. He hitched the horse and stood a moment letting the sensation of weight shift down his legs. The cramp in his limbs slowly dissolved as he opened his coat, gave Sundown a pat on the head and moved towards the batwings.

The bunch of cowboys had already gone on into the saloon and when Blake drew up at the counter, he saw them grouped at the end of the room, talking with the barkeeper. Blake waited for the barkeeper to serve the cowhands before he indicated with a gesture that he wanted a drink. The barkeeper, a barrel-chested, sullen looking man, eyed him coolly, picked up a bottle and a glass in one hand. After giving the counter between Blake and himself a wipe with his sleeve, he put the glass down and filled it. He mumbled the price and moved away after Blake paid him.

Blake leaned his tall, rangy body against the counter and stared somberly into his drink, letting his thoughts drift to other times and other places. Maple was in the mid-west on the direct trail to his own home and he wondered if it was time he headed that way, to see how things were going, and how his brother was coping with the ranch. There were a few people he would like to see again, but only a few.

Maybe, he told himself, as he often did, that if he saw again the country he and Louise had ridden over, it would erase his painful sense of loss and wipe away the memories he had drifted to forget. Perhaps time had done its work, and he could once again pick up the threads of a life he had forsaken for the loneliness of strange places and stranger people.

Perhaps ... he could never be sure.

A hoarse voice broke into his distant thoughts.

Something wrong with the whisky, stranger?

Blake looked up from the drink and saw the barkeeper holding a bottle tipped towards the rim of his glass.

Blake shook his head. No.

You havin’ a refill then? the man muttered. I ain’t got the time to keep comin’ up this way, mister. You fill up now or wait till I’m ready next time.

Blake shrugged, then tossed the drink down and slid some more money forward. The barkeeper smiled in a self-satisfied manner as he poured the drink, then, looking pleased with himself, went off.

Blake heard talk rising about him, but none of it interested him. His mind went back a month to when he had left the Damiani ranch and the picture of Len Damiani was as clear now as it was then, the old man crippled with arthritis, standing at the head of his wife’s grave, the winter closing in fast.

He remembered, too, a pretty schoolteacher who had paid frequent visits to the ranch during his stay there. He had wanted to say goodbye to her, but had not. He knew he had in a way taken the coward’s way out, preferring to ride off rather than test his own feelings towards her. They had enjoyed each other’s company and perhaps, if he had given their friendship a chance, it might have turned out to be something deeper and more rewarding. Perhaps ...

The barkeeper was back again with the bottle poised. Blake finished his second drink and pushed more change forward. The man muttered something under his breath and was on the point of moving away when Blake asked him, You know a man named Danny Damiani?

The barkeeper stopped on the spot and swung back, brow creased into a frown. Yeah, I know Damiani.

He about?

The man looked uneasily down the counter. Blake noticed that the cowhands had stopped talking.

Ain’t in yet, the barkeeper said. But he will be. You ... you a friend of his?

Nope.

The barkeeper’s self-assurance seemed to have deserted him. He licked his lips and wiped a grubby hand down his shirt front, leaving a wide sweat stain on it.

Then he nodded towards the cowhands. They ride with Danny. Maybe they can help you more’n I can.

Blake looked disinterestedly at the bunch. No, it’s private business.

The barkeeper studied Blake more intently and his sudden increase in nervousness seemed to indicate that in Blake Durant he saw a man he would do better not knowing. Blake ignored his probing look and went back to his drinking. But he had only got halfway through his third drink when heavy footsteps sounded on his left. He did not look up even when the smell of stale whisky and tobacco reached across to him.

Looks like you come a ways in a hurry, stranger, a voice said a moment later.

Blake looked sideways to find a big, heavily built cowhand standing there. The man wore no hat and thick red hair fell in heavy curls down his creased brow. His eyes were clear blue and cold in their appraisal of Durant.

I came a ways, yes, Blake told him. But not in a hurry.

The redhead straightened, brow tightening into a deeper frown. Then he brushed past Blake and walked to the batwings. He took a moment studying Sundown before he came back nodding his head as if he had suddenly decided something for himself.

The black’s not been pushed, he said.

I told you that.

The redhead’s lips drew back over his teeth. He could have been smiling, except that his eyes stayed as cold as the winter wind. He was a massively built man, yet when he had walked to the door he had shown himself light on his feet. His face was marked a little but not much, which Blake took as a sign that he could possibly look after himself, and liked to test himself out from time to time.

Yeah, you told me that, stranger, he said finally. Now tell me your name and what you want with Danny.

Blake straightened, put down his glass. He noticed a closer bunching of the other cowhands. The only other men in the bar were a knot of businessmen right down the far end. They seemed to want no part of this discussion, and in fact seemed to be showing a deep interest in their drinks.

You know Damiani? Blake asked.

The redhead’s face darkened under a rise of anger. Yeah, Danny’s a friend of mine, mister. Now out with your name and where’d you come from and why.

Blake allowed a smile to touch the corners of his mouth. Len Damiani had told him that his son, Danny, was a wild one. So Blake knew that this was a wild bunch. But he remained unworried, mainly because he didn’t expect to have to tangle with them to any real degree.

For what it’s worth, mister, he said, the name is Blake Durant. Where I come from is none of your business and what I want with Damiani is none of your business, either. Your friends are waiting for you.

The redhead straightened fully upright now and his fists came together at his gun belt buckle. His face was a mottled patchwork of angry red and livid white and there were lines of tension at the corners of his mouth.

Durant, eh, he growled. Maybe you’re on the hunt, eh?

Nope.

"Damn you, you ain’t the first and you likely won’t be the last! But, by hell, if you got a mind to come hunting a man, you say it straight and we’ll get to