One of the women, a hard-faced blonde Oates knew as Stella, spat in Baxter’s direction. “You should know, Horny Corny!” she snapped. “You’ve been working your spurs on this here sinner for months.”
Laughter rose from the men in the crowd, but the few women present looked as if someone were holding a dead fish under their noses. For his part, Baxter shuffled his feet and looked sheepish, like a small boy caught with his hand in the candy jar.
A mean-eyed man with a belted Colt around his waist stepped closer. “You shut your trap, Stella,” he growled.
The woman was defiant, her hands on her hips. “An’ if I don’t, Pike?”
“Then I’ll shut it for you.”
“Miss Stella, better do as he says,” Sam Tatum said. The boy was trembling. “I don’t think Mr. Pike is a very nice person.”
The man nodded. “You got that right, kid.”
Her eyes blazing, Stella opened her mouth to speak again, but a voice from the crowd stopped her. A huge silver miner wearing a plug hat and plaid shirt yelled, “Hey, Baxter, you aiming to hang these folks?”
The people crowded around the gallows fell silent, waiting for Baxter’s answer.
Oates looked on with dead eyes, beyond caring. He wanted, craved, hungered for whiskey—raw, red whiskey beading in the bottle. Lots of it. He had no other thoughts. No fears. No hopes. No interest.
Baxter was speaking again. “In reply to the gentleman’s question, the low persons who have been brought before us here will not be hung.” He paused for effect, then said, “Let all present bear witness to the decisions of the Honorable Company of Concerned Citizens of Alma. For the more respectable element here gathered who may not know these people, each of the accused will be brought before you as his or her name is read.”
Baxter consulted his paper.
“Edward Oates, laborer—”
“Drunk, you mean!” a man yelled.
The banker waited until the laughter had stilled, then continued. “Edward Oates, laborer, vagrant and dance hall lounger. Sentence: banishment.”
Oates was pushed back to the gallows platform. Then Sam and the women were dragged out one by one.
“Samuel Tatum, orphan and simple boy—banishment.
“Stella Spinner, known as High Timber, fancy woman—banishment.
“Lorraine Sullivan, fancy woman—banishment.
“Nellie Carney, known as Cottontail, fancy woman—banishment.”
Baxter stepped to the edge of the gallows platform. Behind him the bodies of the three Hart brothers stirred in a rising wind. To the northeast, above the cone-shaped peak of Round Mountain, dark clouds were gathering, threatening rain.
“Sentence to be carried out immediately,” he said.
Chapter 3
“Mr. Baxter, if you will, just a moment.”
The banker hesitated on the steps, then recognized the man who had just spoken. “Oh, it’s you, Reverend Claghorn,” he said with a noticeable lack of enthusiasm.
“If I could just say a word?”
Baxter hesitated, then nodded. “All right, say what you have to say.”
Claghorn was a thin, bent man with a gray beard that fell in sparse strands to the waistband of his pants. He mounted the steps and spread his arms to the crowd.
“My dear friends, the poor souls you see before you, a drunk, three scarlet women and a simple boy, will soon be gone from our midst. They have neither reaped nor sown, and thus we who have done so can no longer give them bread.”
“You tell ’em, preacher,” a man yelled. He turned to the others around him. “We’re gonna miss them scarlet women though—eh, boys?”
“Then why don’t you take them home an’ feed ’em, Lou?” a miner asked loudly.
“Because my old lady won’t let me,” Lou answered, a response that brought ribald laughter from men and disapproving looks from the women present.
“Please, please, good people,” Claghorn called out, “before we cast them out, even as Adam and Eve were cast from the Garden of Eden, let us bow our heads in prayer and ask that these unfortunates may travel their lonely road in peace.”
Perhaps fearing that his invitation might be turned down, Claghorn immediately clutched his Bible to his chest and stared up at the threatening sky.
“Oh Lord, protect your five wayward children from the perils of the trail, outlaws, savage Apaches and wild animals. And may they not starve but find grub in the wilderness, even as you fed manna to the Israelites as they wandered in the desert.
“And Lord, most of all, we ask that the nigger cavalry from Fort Bayard will arrive soon and free our fair city from the Apache yoke.”
There was a scattering of “Amens” and, emboldened, Claghorn began to sing in a weak, quavering tenor.
There is a land that is fairer than day,
And by faith we can see it afar;
For the Father waits over the way
To prepare us a dwelling place there.
In the sweet by and by,
We shall meet on that beautiful shore;
In the sweet by and by,
We shall meet on that beautiful shore.
Baxter cut the hymn short. “Yes, thank you, Reverend,” he said, clapping his hands. “Now, you Company members, get them damned parasites out of our town.”
Eddie Oates had watched all this with eyes of glass, a disinterested man attending a boring play. He made no protest when he was pushed away from the gallows with the others, as limp and unresisting as a rag doll.
The three women had stuffed what few possessions they could find into carpetbags and had obviously dressed hurriedly before they were bundled out of their tiny cribs in the Silver Nugget.
Lorraine Sullivan, a dark-haired woman, the wear and tear of eleven years of frontier prostitution showing on her, wore only her shift and a ragged plaid mackinaw.
Like Oates, Sam Tatum carried nothing.
As they were prodded at rifle point in the direction of the town limits, Stella Spinner lashed out with her bag at the bearded man who was pushing her roughly between the shoulder blades. Her face, free of paint, was pale and tired, but her mouth twisted in fury as she rounded on the people crowded close to her.
“You sons of bitches,” she screamed, “you’re killing us. You know we’ll die out there.”
“Shut up, Stella,” the bearded man said. “Take your medicine quiet, like the rest.”
“We have as much right to live as any of you, and maybe more,” Stella yelled. “We won’t last a day with the Apaches surrounding the town.”
A respectable young matron dressed in rustling, rust-colored silk pushed forward. “We won’t waste food on whores,” she snapped, her mouth as hard and mean as the clasp of a steel purse. “Now . . . just . . . leave.”
Stella’s eyes flared. “Bitch!” She jumped on the woman and they tumbled to the ground in a flurry of white petticoats and popping buttons.
“Get her off me!” the woman cried as she tried to fight off Stella’s raking nails.
A couple of grinning men dragged Stella to her feet and one, a miner, pushed her bag into her hands. “You go quiet now, girl,” he said. “There ain’t nothing left for you in Alma.”
“John Turley,” Lorraine yelled, “how do you expect us to go quiet? We could all be dead within hours.”
“Yeah, you could,” the miner named Turley said, grinning. “Maybe you should have thought about that afore you took up the whorin’ business, Lorraine.”
“Turley,” Lorraine said, “the other girls always told me you were a dickless son of a bitch. Now I know it for sure.”
As scornful laughter rained down on him, Turley’s face turned ugly. “Lorraine, I hope fifty Apache bucks take turns on you afore they gut you like a sow.” He motioned with the muzzle of his rifle. “Now git goin’.”
The young matron had been helped to her feet, and the women around her, angry now, yelled, “Whores!” and threw rocks and clumps of horse dung. Lorraine and Stell
a were hit several times. A cut opened up on Lorraine’s forehead, trickling blood, and dung matted on the hair of all three women.
After a while Cornelius Baxter put a stop to it.
“That’s enough!” he yelled, pushing through the eager crowd. “Damn it to hell, how many of you does it take to get three whores out of town?”
“Hey, Baxter!”
The banker turned toward the soft but commanding sound of the voice, as did most of the others.
Dark, handsome, Warren Rivette, the Mississippi steamboat gambler, lounged on the porch of the Silver Nugget, a Henry rifle in the crook of his left arm. The word in town was that the Cajun was trying to outrun a losing streak, but he had prospered in Alma, thanks to silver miners and the free-spending cowboys from the surrounding ranches.
Since Rivette was rumored to be good with a gun, no one had ever questioned the honesty of his poker. Nobody had tested his speed with the Colt either.
“What can I do for you, Rivette?” Baxter asked, walking toward the saloon. He was wary of the Henry. The gambler was not a man to be trifled with.
Rivette smiled. “I want to talk to Eddie Oates, if that meets your convenience.”
“I’m throwing him out of town,” Baxter said, a note of challenge in his voice.
“So I’ve heard. But I’d still like to talk to him.”
Rivette saw Baxter hesitate and said, “A few moments of your time. Surely you can spare the poor wretch that much?”
The banker made up his mind. “One of you men bring Oates over here.”
None too gently, a rifle butt prodded Oates forward. Rivette looked down at him. The gambler’s black eyes showed little emotion, the result of years spent with the cards, but there was a hint of something—pity, maybe.
“Eddie, do you understand what I’m saying to you?” Rivette asked.
Oates nodded, then shook his head. The gambler’s words had been a blur of sound.
“Suffering this morning, aren’t you?”
That much Oates understood. He rubbed his stubbly mouth. “I could use a drink.” He studied Rivette’s lean face. “You want me to play the fetch game?”
Then he remembered that the gambler had often spun him a silver dollar and had never ordered him to play the game. Funny, him recollecting that when he couldn’t even think.
“Stay there.”
Rivette turned and walked into the saloon. When he stepped outside again, he had a brimming glass of whiskey in his hand. He held it out to Oates. “Drink this.”
“We’re running out of whiskey too, Rivette,” Baxter said sourly.
“I know. But we can spare this much.”
Oates reached out and took the glass in trembling hands. Without spilling a drop, he lifted the glass to his mouth and drained it dry. The raw whiskey hit his stomach and exploded into fire. Every jangling nerve in Oates’ body, every deprived, tormented brain cell welcomed the alcohol like a long-lost friend. It was both wife and child to him, his hope and his salvation. Before him the image of Rivette shimmered for an instant, then regained its solid form. The whiskey had worked its demon magic.
Eddie Oates had begun to feel whole again. But he knew it would not last. He held out the glass in a steadier hand. “More, Mr. Rivette?”
“No, Eddie, that’s all you can have.” The gambler’s eyes searched Oates’ face. “Now do you understand what I’m saying to you?”
“You said no whiskey.”
“That’s right, I said no whiskey.”
Rivette took the rifle from under his arm and held it out to Oates. “This is a Henry .44. It holds sixteen rounds of ammunition and it’s loaded. I want you to take it with you.”
Oates looked puzzled and the gambler said, “Have you ever shot a rifle before?”
“No.” Oates shook his head. “And if I’d ever owned a fancy rifle like that, I’d have sold it for whiskey.”
Rivette looked over Oates’ shoulder at the three whores standing dung spattered and forlorn in the middle of the street. “Stella Spinner will show you how to use it. She shot a corsets drummer over to Denver a few years back, so she’s not bashful around guns.”
His face mirroring his growing concern, Baxter said, “Here, Rivette, this won’t do. When the Apaches hit us, you’ll need that Henry.”
“I won’t send any man into harm’s way without a weapon, Baxter.” The gambler motioned toward the door of the saloon. “When the Apaches charge through there, I’ll start shooting and I won’t need a rifle for that.” He smiled without a trace of humor. “I’ve always been better at close work.”
Baxter thought about it, then let it go. He promised himself that one day he’d find out just how good the damned New Orleans half-breed was with a gun. But now wasn’t the time.
He shrugged. “The rifle won’t make a difference anyhow. Oates is already a dead man. You know it, I know it, and if he ever sobers up enough, he’ll know it.”
“Call it idle curiosity, Baxter, but why do you hate them so much?”
The banker waved an arm toward the whores. “Them?”
“Yes, them. And a harmless drunk and an orphan boy who can’t read or write or put two words together that make sense.”
Baxter smiled with all the warmth of a grinning cobra. “Everybody lives, Rivette. Not everybody deserves to.”
The gambler, a tall, elegant man with still hands, nodded. “I guess it’s only right that a man who owns a bank and a fine house, who dresses in broadcloth and has a wife with three chins, should be the one to decide who lives and who dies.”
“Yes, Rivette, the strong decide. That’s always been the way of it.”
The eyes Baxter raised to the gambler were not those of the jovial banker he pretended to be. Gray and cold, they were the eyes of a predator, a lobo wolf.
“Rivette,” he said, “a word of advice—don’t push me too hard.” He let that warning hang in the air for a few moments, then said, “I wasn’t always a banker.”
“I know,” Rivette said. “I have a fair notion of what you were and still are.”
Baxter nodded. “Then keep it in mind.” He grabbed Oates by his skinny upper arm. “Let’s go, Eddie. You’ve already been in Alma way too long.”
“Wait.” Rivette shoved the Henry into Oates’ hands. “If you have to make a fight with Apaches, see you save the last five rounds.” The gambler’s eyes searched Oates’ face. “Do you understand what I’m saying to you?”
Oates needed another drink. He could think of nothing else. He carried the rifle gingerly, like a maiden aunt holding a snake.
“Do you understand me?” Rivette said.
The little man nodded. “Five . . . yes, five. Five rounds.”
Baxter grinned. “When he sees his first Apache, he’ll understand right quick.”
“Good luck, Eddie,” Rivette said.
Oates made no answer as Baxter pushed him toward the others.
Under a hammering rain, Oates, Sam Tatum and the three women left Alma and walked into a dark blue morning that offered them nothing.
Warren Rivette watched them go and smiled to himself. “You’re holding a full house, Eddie,” he said aloud. “Three queens and two knaves.”
Chapter 4
Stella Spinner, who was the strongest of them, led the way across the high desert country.
At her suggestion, they headed east and followed the bend of Silver Creek. Around them rose the big-shouldered peaks of the Mogollon Mountains standing eleven thousand feet above the flat. Ahead lay a wide, buffalo grass valley studded with sagebrush and cedar. Thick forests of ponderosa pine, aspen and sycamore grew on the mountain slopes and the thin wind talked constantly, whispering secrets no one could understand.
The sky was heavy with rain and a few random drops scattered over Oates as he trudged after the others, trailing the Henry behind him.
He was in the grip of demons and around him the hissing land was full of snakes. The whiskey hunger lashed at him, giving him no rest. He neith
er saw nor heard and young Sam Tatum had to physically stop and redirect him when the women turned into the cottonwoods and alders along the creek bank.
“We’ve got to rest for a spell, Mr. Oates,” Sam said. “Maybe we can find something to eat.” The boy smiled and rubbed his hands. “Corn bread an’ buttermilk. Now that would be good.”
Oates looked at Sam with dull, uncomprehending eyes, his mouth slack. He said nothing.
“I’ll take you into the trees, Mr. Oates. It’s fixin’ to rain again.”
Stella was sitting with her back against a cottonwood, her elbows on her knees. A strand of yellow hair had fallen over her forehead. “Sam, take that rifle off’n him before he shoots himself,” she said. “Bring it over here.”
Oates let go of the Henry without protest, then found himself a place among the alders. He sat and drew his knees into his chest and shivered, looking around but seeing nothing.
“Stella, what are we going to do?” Nellie Carney asked. She had white-blond hair and huge, frightened blue eyes.
“First thing we’re going to do is strip and wash off the stink of Alma.”
“But it’s raining,” Nellie protested. “Lorraine, tell her.”
“Honey, the creek is already wet,” Lorraine said, “or haven’t you noticed?”
Lorraine looked tired, beaten. At forty-three she’d been too old for the whore’s profession. She knew she was too old by far for what lay ahead of her.
“Strip off . . . but there’s men present,” Nellie said. “I don’t want to bathe in front of men.”
Stella’s laugh was harsh and unpleasant. “Nellie, neither of them two exactly qualify as men. I wouldn’t worry about it.”
A rainbow trout jumped in the creek, then another. Exclamation points of rain covered the water’s surface and wind set the tree branches to rustling.
Rising to her feet, Stella began to strip. “You coming, Lorraine?”
The older woman nodded. Then she too rose. “What about Apaches?” she asked.
“What about them?”
“Suppose they come on us when we’re nekkid?”
“Nekkid, clothed, what difference does it make? We’re all dead, Lorraine. It’s just a matter of when.”
Ralph Compton The Man From Nowhere Page 2
