Ralph Compton The Man From Nowhere

by West, Joseph A. ; Compton, Ralph

  “I thought it was strange, seeing all those tracks in that empty country.”

  “Not strange if it was Apaches. But strange enough if it was white men.”

  “Maybe it’s none of our business.”

  “Everything that happens in this country that’s out of the ordinary is our business, Eddie. We live here, remember?”

  “Want to take a ride out there tomorrow?” Oates asked. “I’d like to try the paint again.”

  Yearly nodded. “Yeah, sure, we’ll take a look.” The old man shook his head. “Something about all this troubles me, but I’m damned if I know why.”

  At daybreak Oates and Yearly rode east. The mustang, perhaps tired from its exertions of the day before, decided to cooperate and threw Oates only once before it settled down under saddle.

  They rode through heavily forested country and the wind stirred trees not yet drowsy from the heat of the day. Victorio’s raids had left no scars on the land and the savage beauty of the high country was enough to take a man’s breath away.

  Yearly had buckled on the Colt, the first time Oates had ever seen him wear a gun belt, and his Winchester was in the scabbard under his left leg. The old man rode warily, his eyes searching around him, and only after an hour of riding did he speak.

  “Getting close, you think?” he asked into the quiet.

  Nothing seemed familiar to Oates, but he nodded. “Must be, I reckon.”

  Yearly drew rein, leaned from the saddle and studied the ground. “No tracks yet.” He smiled and pointed to a print in the sand just ahead of them. “Unless you count that.”

  Oates looked. “Bear?”

  “Cougar. There’s a few of them in these parts. They need space because a big male like the one that left that track takes in a lot of range, as much as three hundred square miles.”

  “A heap of country,” Oates agreed, “for one cat.”

  The old man smiled. “The cougar is no ordinary cat.”

  A few minutes later they rode up on the creek. Yearly swung out of the saddle and Oates followed him. The older man was already down on one knee, studying the ground.

  After a while he rose stiffly and said, “Shod horses all right. I’d say two hundred head of cattle, a wagon and easy thirty riders.” He looked at Oates. “Now, why would you need that many men to drive a small herd?”

  Oates shook his head. “I don’t know, Jacob.”

  “Heading into the Gila, no doubt about that. As far as I know, there are no ranches in there.”

  “Rustlers?” It was a word Oates had heard often in Alma.

  “Could be. But rustlers work in smaller numbers and they lift only a few head at a time. Why thirty men?”

  Oates smiled. The old man had asked that question before and obviously didn’t expect an answer.

  Yearly looked around him. “Something here doesn’t set right with me, Eddie. Too few cattle for so many men. It doesn’t make sense. Who would bring an army into the Gila and why?”

  “To protect the cattle from Apaches, maybe?” Oates suggested. “Victorio was beat at Alma, but he’s still out.”

  “I hope that’s the case,” the old man said. He looked at Oates with wintry eyes. “The ranches around this part of the country are all well established and I figured the time of the range wars was gone for good. I’d sure hate to see it come back again. Those were hard times for everybody.”

  “You think that’s why there are thirty men with those cattle? They want to claim some other rancher’s grass?”

  Yearly swung his horse around. “I don’t know,” he said. His lined face, the color and texture of old saddle leather, was like stone.

  Chapter 13

  That night after supper Eddie Oates was quiet, lost in thought. He sat at the fireplace, where Yearly had a log burning against the chill of the night. The old man’s head was bent to a book as he smoked his pipe.

  Outside in the darkness the silence had come and even the ceaseless wind seemed hushed, spreading its gossip in a thin whisper.

  Yearly lifted his head and peered over the top of his book. “Eddie, you’re as quiet as a woman’s heartbeat tonight. You got the croup, maybe?”

  The younger man smiled and shook his head. “I just remembered the names of the three women and I can see their faces clear. Funny that, how my brain’s started to work again.”

  “You mean the three whores?”

  “Yeah, Miss Stella, Miss Lorraine and Miss Nellie. As far as they were able, they were good to me.”

  “Whores with hearts of gold,” Yearly said.

  Oates laughed. “I wouldn’t go that far, but if they were in the chips, they’d always buy me a drink.”

  The log cracked and a shower of bright red sparks rose into the chimney.

  “So, what’s your drift?”

  “I got to be moving on, Jacob. I have to find them.”

  “Humph,” the old man muttered. Dismissing Oates, he went back to his book.

  Slow minutes passed, the only sound the snap of the burning log and puff of Yearly’s pipe.

  Finally the old-timer looked up again. “When would you leave?”

  “Tomorrow, Jacob. It’s been almost three months. You’ve taken care of me long enough.”

  “I figured we’d start cutting lava rock again tomorrow.”

  “Jacob, I have to find them.”

  Yearly nodded. “Well, if your heart’s set on it, I won’t try to change your mind. You can take the paint.”

  “Thanks, Jacob. I appreciate this.”

  “Hell, I can’t ride him anyhow. Getting too old for ornery horses.”

  The old man again went back to his book, but, though minutes passed, he did not turn a page.

  He looked up again and studied Oates. Then he cocked his head to one side, thinking, and sighed deeply. “It’s time, Eddie,” he said. “I’ve studied on it and I think it’s what Pete would have wanted.”

  “Pete?”

  “My son. He died a while back. That was his room and why I keep it locked.”

  Oates trod carefully, easing into what he had to say. “You never talked about him until now.”

  “No, no I guess I didn’t.” Yearly sat quiet for a few moments, then said, “Pete was an ambitious kid, and he wanted no part of his future to be mining cinder block. He was always talking about leaving this wilderness and heading for Denver or New Orleans. Figured he could make his mark in a big city.” The old man relit his pipe. “But travel takes money and Pete spent every penny he ever earned.”

  The smoky fragrance of the log mingled with the musk-scent tobacco odor of the old man’s pipe, a down-homey smell that made Oates feel completely at ease. Pete had probably sat in this very chair, smelling that same smell as he looked across at his pa reading Dickens or Scott. But his heart had not been here. In his mind’s eye he was seeing Denver with its fine brick buildings, elegant hotels and restaurants and its beautiful, expensive women all got up in the latest Paris fashions.

  Denver was a far cry from Black Mountain and this wild, rimfire country that a man either loved on sight or hated with an abiding passion.

  Yearly was talking again. “What’s it been . . . five years? Good Lord, has it been that long? Pete tried to make a fast score. He held up a stage outside of Alma and the shotgun guard killed him.”

  The old man was silent for a moment, then said, “Mash Halleck was the guard, back then being more inclined to honest labor. I thought about going after him and killing him, but I couldn’t justify it, not in God’s eyes or my own. Halleck had been hired to do a job and he did it. You can’t fault a man for that.”

  Yearly let out a long, shuddering sigh, then rose to his feet. He reached into his pocket and produced a key. “Bring the lamp, Eddie,” he said.

  After the old man unlocked the bedroom door, Oates followed him inside. He placed the lamp on the dresser and looked around. The wooden bed had been made up with loving care and was covered with a bright, patchwork quilt. Pete’s hair brushes, p
omade and shaving gear were still on the dresser.

  A pair of shotgun chaps hung from a nail on a wall and a Winchester stood in a rack along with a black cartridge belt and empty holster.

  It looked like Pete had just left and would be back soon, though the room smelled of a place left unused and uninhabited for too long and dust lay thick everywhere.

  “Pete was a small man like you, Eddie,” Yearly said. “And slender like you.”

  He crossed to a pine armoire and opened it wide. Without a word he removed a high-button, gray suit and laid it on the bed. A collarless shirt, still folded from the general store, followed, then a wool felt derby hat with a stingy brim.

  Yearly reached into the bottom of the armoire and came up with suspenders and a pair of Texas boots with two-inch heels.

  “This was Pete’s dress-up-go-to-Denver outfit,” he said. “He never got to wear it. I want you to have it, Eddie.” The old man smiled weakly. “I’m getting mighty tired of seeing you in them rags you wear.”

  Oates shook his head, confused. “Jacob, I can’t—”

  “Yes, you can. It’s what I want and what Pete would’ve wanted. Call it an old man’s whim, if you like.” He picked up the suit coat from the bed and held it up by the shoulders. “See if this fits.”

  Oates hesitated and Yearly said, “Try it, Eddie. This once, do as I ask and please me.”

  Reluctantly, Oates crossed the floor and shrugged into the coat.

  Yearly stepped back to admire him. He smiled. “Perfect. A perfect fit.”

  “I can’t take this, Jacob.” Oates felt like he’d been backed into a corner. “It doesn’t feel right.”

  “It does to me. Listen, Eddie, when I’m gone, somebody else would wear these clothes. I’d rather it was you. You look . . . like a gentleman and mighty handsome.”

  Crossing to the gun rack, Yearly took down the Winchester and the gun belt. “In the bottom drawer of the dresser, Eddie. Bring it to me.”

  Oates did as he was told and found what hefted like a gun, wrapped in an oiled rag. He passed it to Yearly.

  “This was Pete’s Colt,” the old man said, unwrapping the blue, short-barreled revolver. “The Alma vigilantes buried him, then couldn’t remember the spot where they’d dug his grave. I searched, but haven’t found it to this day. But they did return his guns.” He slid the Colt into the holster, then held the gun belt out to Oates. “When you go after the Halleck boys, you’ll need this, and the rifle.”

  Oates took off the coat and laid it on the bed. He did not touch the proffered gun belt. “I can’t take all this, Jacob. They’re your memories and you should keep them.” He managed a smile. “Besides, I’ve been to Denver and I’ll never go back.”

  Yearly was silent for a long time and all at once he looked grayer and older than Oates remembered.

  “Eddie,” he said, his voice tired, “at my age a man starts to feel death creep up on him, real close. Sometimes he sees his shadow on the ground and then suddenly there’s another one, right beside his. He doesn’t have to turn around, because he knows what’s there, tapping at his shoulder.”

  Yearly’s eyes sought Oates’ in a quiet plea for understanding. “I’ve been seeing that shadow more often recently, feeling its weight, and I think my time is short. What I got, I want you to have, Pete’s stuff, this cabin, my horses and the little money I’ve set aside. You’re the only human being I’ve cared about since my boy died. It’s a hard thing for a man to say, sounds like I’m only talking pretties, but I’ve come to love you like a son and I never want to see you crawl into the whiskey bottle again.”

  The less men think, they more they talk, and Oates knew this was a time for thinking. A hollow silence stretched between him and Yearly that neither man seemed inclined to bridge. But finally Oates accepted what fate had thrown at him.

  “Thank you, Jacob,” he said. “I appreciate it.”

  The old man smiled. “Damn right, you should. I’m a giving man.”

  “One thing though, I don’t think you’re going to turn up your toes anytime soon.”

  But in that prophecy—portent, augury, call it what you will—Oates was to be proven tragically wrong.

  Chapter 14

  The sky was on fire as Eddie Oates tightened the cinch on the paint’s saddle and the morning air held an edge. Drinking coffee that steamed in the cup, Yearly stood watching him.

  “Wish I could go with you, son,” he said, “but I’d only slow you down.”

  “I’ll be back soon enough, Jacob. I promise.”

  The old man nodded. “You’ve set a task for yourself, Eddie. Mash Halleck and his boys are no bargain.”

  “I know that going in,” Oates said. “But I got it to do.”

  “Are three whores and a simple boy worth dying for?” Yearly made an apologetic motion with his cup. “Just askin’, like.”

  Oates turned to face him. “I betrayed all of them, Jacob. I reckon that answers your question.”

  “Like I said, just askin’.” A silence, then Yearly said, “You look mighty fine this morning.”

  Oates was wearing the high-button suit and derby hat. Pete’s stiff new boots were on his feet and fit him well. He wore the store-bought shirt but had forgone the celluloid collar and tie, settling for a faded blue bandanna tied loosely around his neck. The Winchester was in the saddle scabbard and Pete’s gun belt was strapped around his lean hips.

  “You look the part,” Yearly said, as though he’d decided that more praise was needed.

  Oates opened his mouth to speak, but the words died on his lips. Following the younger man’s gaze, Yearly turned and saw what Oates was seeing.

  Three riders were heading toward the cabin at a trot, a purposeful gait that suggested men who knew where they were going and why.

  Yearly laid his cup on a corral post and slid the Winchester out of the scabbard on the paint’s saddle. His glance at Oates was brief, as were his words. “I sense that mischief’s afoot,” he said.

  He stepped out of the corral to the front of the cabin and Oates followed.

  The three riders drew rein and even a less perceptive man than Oates would have realized they added up to trouble. They were young, lean from a lifetime in the saddle, and the faces of all three wore a taunting, arrogant expression, the look of men who knew well how to use the Colts they wore on their hips and were accustomed to lesser men walking wide of them.

  They were dressed like punchers, but no cowboy could have afforded the blooded horses they rode or the quality of their firearms.

  “Howdy, boys,” Yearly said, his eyes wary. “I got hot coffee in the pot.”

  The oldest of the three men spoke. “You own this cabin, old-timer?”

  Yearly allowed that he did.

  “Good. Then you got until noon to gather your stuff together and get out.”

  The old man’s smile was not a pleasant thing to see. “To tell you the truth, boys, I ain’t much inclined to leave.”

  That statement hung in the air like smoke on a windless day. The direct gazes of the three men were suddenly cold, hard and calculating, weighing odds. But finally a towheaded youngster with reckless eyes grinned and said, “Mister, you wouldn’t want to make our lady boss sleep out in the cold another night, would you? See, she needs a roof over her head and yours is the only cabin around for miles.” His smile widened and he lifted his shoulders and spread his hands. “So you see how it is with us.”

  Oates spoke, drawing the attention of all three men. “Tell your lady boss she’s welcome to spend the night here. I’m sure we can make a place for her.”

  “Ah, but you see, she’s coy, modest you might say,” the towhead said. “She won’t go for that arrangement.” He grinned insolently. “Nice hat, by the way.”

  The rider who’d first spoken, a little older and a lot meaner than the others, leaned forward in his saddle and said, “Maybe you don’t hear so good, old man. I said be out of the cabin by noon.”

  Yearly shrugg
ed. “I hear just fine, but my talking is done. There’s nothing we can do for you boys, so ride on afore I forget my manners and start shootin’.”

  Then the old man made a mistake, the last he’d ever make.

  He levered a round into the Winchester. A challenge. A war sound.

  All three riders drew, very fast. The three shots sounded as one and Yearly took two of them, one high in his left shoulder, the other, more serious, square in the belly.

  The old man slammed back against the cabin wall, trying to bring his rifle to bear.

  For an instant Oates had stood rooted to the spot, stunned by the suddenness of unexpected violence. Then he moved.

  “You sons of bitches!” he screamed.

  He couldn’t remember drawing his gun, but all at once it was there, bucking in his hand. The older man shrieked as Oates’ bullet smashed away most of his lower jaw. The man went sideways out of the saddle, upsetting the aim of the man on his right who was trying to draw a bead on Oates.

  The towhead swung his gun on Oates, fired, missed. Then he was blown out of the saddle as Yearly’s Winchester roared.

  The third man was fighting his bucking horse, his Colt held high above his head, when Oates shot him. Reeling in the saddle as a bullet slammed into his chest, the man fired at Yearly, thinking he was the danger. Oates’ second shot blasted into the man’s head. The rider’s hat flew off in a scarlet fan of blood and brain and he crashed to the ground. His horse galloped away, the reins trailing, its eyes rolling white.

  When Oates kneeled beside Jacob Yearly, the old man was already dead. There was no repose in his features. His face was frozen into a mask of anger, outrage and wonder at the manner and time of his dying.

  His heart heavy, Oates rose to his feet. He walked over to the fallen men. Only the oldest man whose lower jaw had been shot away was still alive. He knew the extent and nature of his wound and his eyes were full of terror. Oates shot him, shot him again, then holstered his gun. It was not an act of mercy; it was revenge.

  He buried Yearly near the creek, his blackened old pipe in his hands and a volume of Dickens on his chest. Oates had no words, but his whispered, “Thank you, Jacob, for everything,” summed up better than prayers how he felt.