“What do you want?” Stella yelled.
“Miss McWilliams wants the money you bitches stole from her.”
“Go to hell!” Stella hollered. “We earned that money for three months of slavery.”
“That was none of Miss McWilliams’ doing,” the voice yelled back.
“She did her share!”
Bullets whined into the cave again and Lorraine cried out as splinters of rock tore across her cheek. From outside Nellie’s voice rose in a terrified shout.
“Help me, somebody! They’re shooting at me!”
“Here, take this.” Oates passed his rifle to Lorraine.
“Where are you going?”
“To get Nellie.”
“You’ll get killed if you go out there.”
“And Nellie will get killed if I don’t.”
Lorraine opened her mouth to object, but Oates, Colt in his hand, was already up and running.
Nellie was lying at the base of the ridge, her back pressed against the rock. He kneeled by her side just as a man wearing a black-and-white cowhide vest jumped up from the pines, aiming his rifle.
Oates took a snap shot, fired again, and the man staggered backward, then fell.
“Get up on my shoulder, Miss Nellie,” Oates said, his old way of addressing the woman coming to him naturally.
The girl was petite and slim, but she was still a considerable weight. As Oates got to his feet, Nellie over his shoulder, he was grateful for his three months of hard labor at Black Mountain.
He turned and stumbled back to the cave, thumbing off a couple of shots into the pines along the way. Lorraine and Stella opened fire, laying down a covering barrage.
Oates carried the girl to the back of the cave and set her gently on the ground. He turned to Lorraine. “Better see to her,” he said.
The woman nodded. “You’ve come a long way, Eddie. Thank you.”
Oates smiled. “I’ve still got a long road to travel.”
He took the rifle from Lorraine and bellied beside Stella. His eyes searched the pines for movement, but he saw nothing but the falling rain.
Minutes passed before Oates turned his eyes to the woman. “Tell me about the money,” he said.
“Sure. I took it, all I could grab.”
“How much?”
“I don’t know. Could be five thousand in gold. We never counted it.”
“Why?”
“Wages, if you can put a dollar amount on rape and slavery.” Stella read something in Oates’ eyes. “Go on, tell me you can’t rape a two-dollar whore.”
“I wasn’t going to say that. I didn’t even think it.”
As though she hadn’t heard, Stella said, “When a man takes pleasure in a woman’s pain, it’s rape, whether she be a fine lady in a mansion or a whore working the line.”
“Now I think that maybe five thousand wasn’t enough,” Oates said.
“You got that right, Mister.”
Oates looked back into the cave. “How is she?” he asked.
“The bullet is in deep,” Lorraine said. “We’ll have to dig it out of there.”
“You’re jealous, Lorraine,” Nellie said. “Because you got a big ass, you want to cut up mine. You’re such a whore.”
In a surprisingly gentle voice, Lorraine said, “You hush and lie quiet, child. You’ve lost a lot of blood and I don’t want you losing more.”
“I could sure use some of that coffee,” Nellie said.
“We’ll get you some. Real soon.”
“You in the cave!”
“What do you want?” Stella yelled.
“Is that you, Stella?”
“It’s me.”
“This is Clem, Stella. You know what I can do to you. I can hurt you real bad, honey. Now, throw out the money and we’ll ride away from here, and what’s done will be done and forgotten and there’s an end to it.”
Stella threw the Winchester to her shoulder and fired into the trees. “There’s your answer!” she yelled.
“I’m coming for you, Stella. And I’ll hurt you bad, bitch.”
Angrily the woman levered another round, but Oates stretched out a hand and stopped her. “Save ammunition,” he said. “If you can’t see him, you can’t shoot him.”
As the morning gave way to afternoon, the rain stopped and the clouds parted. The motionless sun hung in the sky, cobwebbed with rays of blazing yellow, and the day grew hot, the drying rain turning to steam. Only now and then did a stealthy wind blow a cooling breeze into the cave.
Leaving his rifle with Stella, Oates crawled back to check on Nellie. The girl was very pale and an hour ago had ceased to complain about her wound, her words fading into a silence. Now her blond head lay on Lorraine’s lap and she looked like a child in sleep.
“The bullet has got to come out and soon,” Lorraine said. “If blood poisoning sets in, we’ll lose her.”
The wound looked bad, red and inflamed against the white of Nellie’s hip, a single azure vein showing under the skin.
“Let’s get it done,” Oates said. “Stella can keep watch.”
Oates had carried a Green River knife since his first day at the lava rock workings. He slid the blade from the sheath on his belt and looked at his hands.
“They’re steady enough,” Lorraine said. “If you’re steady enough.”
“I’ve never done anything like this before,” Oates said.
“So now you’ve got it to do, Mr. Oates.”
Throwing a couple of pieces of wood on the fire, Oates waited until they were burning well, then shoved the knife blade into the flames.
“I saw a doctor do this one time before a cutting,” he said. “I don’t remember when or where or why.”
“Whiskey is better,” Lorraine said. “You pour it over the blade. But we got none o’ that.”
“No, we got none o’ that,” Oates said.
The blade was glowing hot. He removed it from the flames and let it cool in his hand. His mouth was dry and his belly was lurching. He met Lorraine’s faded brown eyes. “Hold her,” he said.
He bent his head to his task.
The knife had to cut deep and Nellie woke, screaming. Oates was aware of the single, horrified glance Stella threw in his direction. He wiped sweat from his eyes with his sleeve and dug deeper.
He felt the tip of the blade scrape bone and Nellie began to thrash, shrieking louder. To add to Oates’ problems, bullets slammed into the cave, ricocheting off the walls with a venomous spaaang!
Stella was firing steadily and levered the rifle dry. She immediately reached out and took up the other Winchester. With his left hand, Oates unbuckled his cartridge belt and holster and tossed it to the woman. “Load the rifles from the loops,” he said.
He did not wait to see the woman’s reaction. He worked his knife again, and, as Lorraine held Nellie down, finally dug out the bullet, bringing gory flesh and skin with it.
It looked to Oates that the wound he’d made was enormous, a huge, gaping hole in the woman’s hip that immediately filled with blood.
“I’ll see to her now,” Lorraine whispered, her voice husky. “You’d better help Stella.”
Oates nodded. Then his eyes met the woman’s. “I butchered her,” he said.
“You did your best.”
“It wasn’t near good enough,” Oates said. He felt sick and exhausted and under his coat his shirt was sodden with sweat. He bellied down beside Stella and took up his rifle.
“It’s loaded,” the woman said. She did not ask about Nellie. The pain in Oates’ eyes told her all she needed to know.
“Did you hit anybody?” Oates asked.
“No, but I came close, close enough that they turned tail and scampered into the trees again, Clem Halleck leading the way.
“They’ll be back.”
“Count on it,” Stella said.
Chapter 18
The long afternoon wore on, but there were no more attempts to rush the cave.
Nellie w
as awake, but in considerable pain, and Lorraine looked worried. Stella went back to check on the girl and when she returned she too was grim and silent.
“She needs a doctor,” Oates said.
Stella nodded. “You got one handy?”
“Hello the cave!”
“We hear you!” Oates yelled.
“Miss McWilliams and her brother want to talk to you. Hold your fire.”
“Let her come. We won’t shoot.”
The woman rode into the clearing in front of the cave, cool and self-possessed, like a fine New York or Boston lady out for an afternoon canter. Beside her, astride a tall, spectacular Palouse, was a handsome young man, an arrogant set to his head and shoulders.
He had the same dazzling good looks as his sister, but in him her considerable beauty was transformed into effeminacy and petulance.
However, he had taken off his coat against the heat and there was nothing effeminate about the two ivory-handled Remingtons he wore in shoulder holsters over his expensive, brocaded vest.
Stella rose to her feet and Oates did the same.
“As you are by now no doubt aware, Stella, I don’t make a habit of talking to whores,” Miss McWilliams said, her eyes on fire. “But this once I’m making the exception.”
“It takes one to know one, Darlene,” Stella said. “Now, say your piece and then be on your way.”
Darlene’s brother was studying Oates, his eyes lingering on the holstered Colt, making his calculations. Finally, a look of disdain on his face, he looked away.
“This has gone on long enough,” Darlene McWilliams said. “One of my men is dead and another is gut-shot and coughing up black blood. He can’t live.”
Oates was surprised. The term “gut-shot” was the language of cow-town saloons and dance halls, not that of a seemingly well-bred young lady.
“I’m offering you terms,” Darlene said. Her bay Thoroughbred was up on its toes, dancing, but she controlled the horse effortlessly.
“I’m listening,” Stella said.
The wind walked among the trees and the shadows were stretching longer. The dying sun threw flaming red lances across the sky and the clouds were edged in burnished gold.
“Give me back the money you stole from me and I’ll withdraw my men,” Darlene said.
“And if I don’t?”
“Then we’ll starve you out of there, no matter how long it takes.”
Oates saw anger flare in Stella. “Darlene, I reckon we earned that money after the months of abuse we took from you and that Halleck trash. The money isn’t even yours. You robbed it from a bank in Arizona, remember?”
Darlene looked as if she’d been slapped. “How do you—”
“How do I know? I overheard your brother boasting to Clem Halleck how he’d robbed a bank in Tucson and killed a deputy sheriff while making his getaway. He said you planned and organized that robbery and that after you’d paid off a couple of accomplices, you cleared more than thirty thousand.”
Darlene rounded on her brother. “You fool! I told you to never speak of the robbery to anybody.”
“Clem had a right to know why what he was guarding in the wagon was so important,” the man said.
Spitting venom, Darlene snapped, “I’ll deal with you later, Charles.” She turned to Stella. “As for you, you little whore, you’ve just signed your own death warrant.”
Stella smiled. “No, Darlene, you’ve signed yours.” She raised her Winchester. “You’re not leaving here alive.”
“No!” Oates grabbed the rifle barrel. “Not like this, Stella. You’ll only bring yourself down to her level.”
For her part, Darlene McWilliams displayed considerable courage. She hadn’t flinched in the face of Stella’s threat. “Wise advice, Mr. Whatever-your-name-is. If she’d shot me, you’d all be dead within seconds.”
Charles McWilliams grinned. “I guarantee it.”
Darlene swung her horse away and rode out of the clearing and her brother followed.
Stella’s cheeks were wet with tears as she rounded on Oates. “What’s better,” she asked, her frustration apparent in her tone, “to be shot or slowly starve to death?”
Oates had no answer.
The day shaded into night and the coyotes were calling into the darkness. The rising moon had gotten itself tangled in the branches of the pines where the wind teased it unmercifully and tried to shake it loose. Around the cave, the land was lost in gloom, except for the distant glimmer of a campfire.
Occasionally a bullet caromed around the cave, fired by one of Darlene McWilliams’ bored besiegers.
Oates was checking on Nellie when Sam Tatum sidled into the cave. He stood in the dim firelight, looking around him, his face puzzled as he tried to assess what had happened.
The boy seemed so disoriented and confused that Oates looked up at him and smiled. “Speak, thou bewildered apparition.”
Like someone waking from a dream, Sam swallowed and said, “Your horse is safe, Mr. Oates. After the shooting started, I found a place for him deep in the woods.”
“Sam, are you hurt?” This came from Lorraine.
“No, Miss Lorraine. I hid out and only moved after it got dark.” His eyes moved to Nellie. “Is Miss Nellie hurt?”
“She got shot, Sammy,” Oates said. He saw the boy’s stricken expression and added quickly, “But I think she’s going to be all right.”
He was not trying to spare Sam’s feelings. Nellie’s wound was still inflamed, but the bleeding had stopped and she was not running a fever. Earlier both Lorraine and Stella agreed that these were good signs.
Nellie was conscious and now she raised her head from Lorraine’s lap and smiled. “I’ll be fine, Sam. I could use some coffee, though.”
“I’ll get water, Miss Nellie,” the boy said enthusiastically.
“You be careful out there, Sammy,” Oates warned. “Those damned bushwhackers are shooting at shadows.”
Tatum picked up the pot. “I’ll be careful, Mr. Oates.”
The boy slipped out of the cave. A few seconds later a racketing fusillade of shots shattered the night into a million shards of sound.
Chapter 19
Nellie screamed as Eddie Oates picked up his rifle and left the cave, fading into the night. He stood close to the wall of the ridge and his eyes tried to penetrate the darkness.
Another shot was followed by a wild, agonized shriek. Then came another flurry of firing that seemed to go on forever. Then silence. Oates heard the water falling from the top of the ridge, splashing into a hollowed-out rock tank at its base.
“Sammy,” he whispered, “where are you?”
“Over here, Mr. Oates.”
“Are you hit?”
“I’m not hit, Mr. Oates. Wasn’t nobody shooting at me.”
Oates shook his head. What the hell . . . ?
Sam Tatum emerged from the darkness a few moments later, a large, hulking figure, the coffeepot in his hand. “I got the water for Miss Nellie’s coffee,” he said.
“Get back into the cave, Sammy.”
“Should I put the water on to bile, Mr. Oates?”
“Yes, Sammy. You do that. Now go.”
After Tatum left, Oates followed the line of the outcrop, heading wide of the stand of pines in front of the cave. High-heeled riding boots are not built with stealthy walking in mind, and Oates was convinced that every rock he kicked and twig he snapped could be heard clear to Alma.
He stopped often, listening into the night. Once he was sure he heard the distant drum of a running horse, but he wasn’t sure. The moon had untangled itself from the pines and was riding high, its bladed silver light deepening the malevolent shadows. He smelled gun smoke and it drifted gray and silent as a ghost among the trees.
Stooping low, his rifle across his chest, Oates stepped into the stand of pines. He looked back at the cave and saw why the besiegers’ gunfire had been so ineffective. The cave lay at a slightly higher elevation than the trees, so the only part vi
sible was the roof, now bathed in the flickering orange glow of the fire.
There was little undergrowth between the pines and the ground was carpeted in needles. His heart hammering, he stepped carefully, heading deeper into the trees. A few moments later he found his first dead man.
The body was lying on its back, the eyes wide-open, staring into nothingness. The man had been shot twice in the chest, the wounds so close, Oates could have covered them with a playing card. He was dressed like a puncher, but wore a gold and diamond ring on the little finger of his left hand and his Colt, gun belt and boots were of the highest quality. He may have been a drover once upon a time, but this man hadn’t nursed cows for a living in years.
Oates found five more bodies among the trees, all of them with the look of gunmen, their eyes open in the startled stare of the violent dead. The campfire was in a hollow twenty yards away, and a coffeepot still steamed on the coals. Two dead men lay by the fire. The man who had been gut-shot had been dispatched by a bullet between the eyes. The other had managed to draw, but his gun was still clenched in his hand. He’d tried, but he’d been too slow by a mile.
Oates’ eyes searched the uneasy night. Had this been the work of Apaches, a hit-and-run raid from out of the darkness?
He immediately dismissed that question. No guns or horses had been taken, prizes the Indians would not have passed up. Besides, Apaches seldom attacked at night. As many dead men could testify, they would, but they were not real keen on the idea.
He and Stella had accounted for one of the dead. Who had shot up the remaining McWilliams riders and killed six men, seven if the apparent mercy shooting of the gut-shot man was counted?
The only man Oates could think of who might have that kind of gun skill was the Tin Cup Kid. But the Kid owed him nothing. Why would he play guardian angel? It just wasn’t the man’s style.
Oates picked up the pot from the fire and poured himself coffee. He was grateful to whoever had intervened, but now it was time to move. Come daylight, Darlene McWilliams would be sure to check on the state of the siege and when she found her men dead and him and the women gone, she’d come after them.
Ralph Compton The Man From Nowhere Page 9
