Ralph Compton The Man From Nowhere

by West, Joseph A. ; Compton, Ralph

  On his rare visits to Alma, Carson had always bought Oates a drink or three. Although his punchers made him play the fetch game, Carson never had.

  Now, where was his ranch?

  Oates recalled being told that Carson’s Circle-T lay to the northeast of Alma and that his ranch house was built in the shadow of Bear Wallow Mountain.

  Was he even headed in that direction?

  Trusting to memories as flimsy as gossamer in a wind, Oates crossed a creek lined by huge cottonwoods, then rode into forested hill country cut through by shallow arroyos.

  Even a man born under a dark star can get lucky now and again, and Oates’ good fortune came in the shape of a lanky, loose-geared puncher who was sitting his pony in a stand of ponderosa, building a smoke.

  As Oates rode up on the man, the cowboy showed no surprise at meeting another human being in the middle of a wilderness at the top of the world. He lit his cigarette and said through a cloud of blue smoke, “Howdy.”

  “Howdy,” Oates said. He drew rein. “I’m looking for the Circle-T ranch. Ever heard of it?”

  “I should say.”

  “Can you point the way?”

  “Goin’ that way my ownself.”

  “I’d appreciate if I could tag along,” Oates said.

  “Suit yourself.”

  The puncher, a lantern-jawed man with sad, hound-dog eyes and a drooping mustache, fell in beside Oates and for the next half hour they rode in silence.

  Amused, Oates broke the silence. “You’re not a talking man, are you?”

  The cowboy shrugged. “I got nothing to say.”

  “You could ask me why I want to find the Circle-T.”

  “None of my bidness.”

  After another ten minutes of silence, the puncher spoke without turning. “One time down in the Panhandle, a foreman says to me, I’m a man of few words. When I say come, you come.’ I said, ‘I’m a man of few words my ownself. When I shake my head, I ain’t comin’.’ ”

  Now the cowboy looked at Oates. “Mister, that’s the longest speech I’ve made in a twelve-month, an’ I don’t plan on making another. So, no offense, but don’t ask me no more conundrums.”

  Oates smiled and nodded. “No offense taken.”

  An hour later, after riding the foothills between a pair of mountain peaks, Oates and the puncher came up on the Circle-T ranch.

  The ranch house was a sprawling timber building with a sod roof. Behind it lay a corral, barn, bunkhouse and other outbuildings. Unlike Darlene McWilliams’ shabby headquarters, everything Oates saw was built solid, to last.

  As far as he could remember, Tom Carson had been in the country for six years. Despite his place being an affront to the Apaches, the rancher still had his hair, which said much about the toughness of the man.

  Outside the cabin, the puncher swung out of the saddle. “Wait here,” he said.

  He stepped to the door and knocked. The door opened, but whoever stood behind it was lost in shadow.

  “Somebody to talk to you, boss,” the puncher said.

  As the cowboy led his horse to the corral, Carson stepped outside, wearing a gun. His eyes lifted to Oates. “You hunting a job or ridin’ the grub line?”

  “Neither, Mr. Carson, though I could sure use coffee and a meal.”

  “I can supply that. But if you ain’t hunting a job, why are you here?”

  “I need to talk with you, Mr. Carson. It’s all-fired important.”

  Carson’s eyes had been searching Oates’ face. “Don’t I know you from somewhere?”

  Oates nodded. “Name’s Eddie Oates, Mr. Carson.” When that didn’t seem to register, he added, “Most recently, from Alma.”

  The big rancher smiled. “Now I recollect, the town dru—” Carson let that go quickly. Taking in the gun on Oates’ hip and the rifle under his knee he said, “You’ve changed.”

  “Some.”

  “Go down to the cookhouse. Tell the cook I said to feed you and then come back and talk to me. I swear, if you were much skinnier you’d have to stand up twice to cast a shadow.”

  Oates badly wanted to say his piece there and then, but he knew better than to try to push it. Besides, Carson was already in the cabin and had closed the door behind him.

  He swung out of the saddle and led the paint toward the cookhouse. The puncher he’d met on the trail directed him to put up his horse in the corral, where there was a supply of hay.

  The cook was a small, rotund man who apparently did not share the short-tempered, sour demeanor of the breed. After Oates told him that Carson had sent him, he smiled and waved him to a table that was big enough to seat a dozen punchers.

  “Set,” he said, “an’ I’ll bring you coffee.”

  The man returned a few moments later with a pot and a tin cup and set them on the table. “Scrawny little feller, ain’t you,” he said.

  Oates nodded, pouring himself coffee. “That’s already been noted.”

  “Well, son, I’ll fatten you up on a thick beefsteak and maybe half a dozen eggs. You like eggs?”

  The food was good and after he’d eaten, Oates pushed himself away from the table. He rose and found the cook at the stove.

  “I appreciate the food,” he said. “That was mighty good eatin’.”

  The fat man looked pleased. “Not too many say that around here.”

  Oates smiled. “Well, they should.”

  He walked back to the cabin, feeling on edge. A lot was riding on what he was about to tell Carson and how the man took it.

  Would he even believe him?

  Despite its rough exterior, the cabin was luxuriously furnished with heavy leather chairs and tasteful works of art on the walls, including a framed portrait of George Armstrong Custer, draped in black crepe. The polished wood floor was covered in Navajo rugs and the huge, fieldstone fireplace boasted ornaments of burnished brass.

  It was a masculine place with bedrooms leading off the main cabin and showed little female influence. But it was comfortable and built tight and snug against the harsh winters of the New Mexico high country.

  Carson ushered Oates into a chair, then asked if he’d eaten well. Oates allowed that he had, and the rancher said, “Now, tell me why you’re here, Eddie.”

  Using as few words as possible, trying to get his point across clearly, Oates told Carson about Darlene McWilliams’ ambitions to be the biggest rancher in the state by fair means or foul. He described the killing of Jacob Yearly and then told how Stella Spinner had taken five thousand dollars and how Darlene had tried to get it back.

  “Darlene still has a war chest of twenty-five thousand from the bank robbery in Arizona, Mr. Carson,” Oates said. “And she’s hired gunmen, including Clem Halleck. And her own brother, Charles, is a well-known killer.”

  Oates realized things were going badly when Carson sat forward in his chair and said, his face stiff, “Stella Spinner. I remember her. She was a two-dollar saloon whore in Alma, was she not?”

  Without waiting for an answer, Carson rose to his feet, opened the cabin door and roared, “Somebody!”

  A puncher must have answered, because the rancher yelled, “Bring me Garcia!”

  Carson regained his seat, his face like thunder.

  Oates, feeling uncomfortable, said, “Every word I’ve told you is the truth, Mr. Carson. Darlene Williams means to take over the whole range, yours included.”

  A few minutes passed, the only sound the ticking of a tall grandfather clock in the corner and the distant squeak of a waterwheel.

  Then someone scratched at the door, and Carson yelled, “Come in!”

  A slim, handsome Mexican stepped inside. He wore two Colts low on his thighs and a wide sombrero dangled in his hands.

  Carson turned to the vaquero. “Garcia, if it came down to it, could you shade Clem Halleck with the iron?”

  “Sí, Patrón.”

  “How about Charles McWilliams?”

  Garcia hesitated a heartbeat, then said, “Sí, Patrón.”<
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  “That will be all,” Carson said, “but stay close.”

  A look of relief flashed across the vaquero’s face. Then he turned and fled.

  Carson smiled without humor. “It would seem that I have little to fear from gunmen.”

  “Mr. Carson, you have everything to fear from Darlene McWilliams,” Oates said.

  The rancher smiled. “Harsh words, Mr. Oates, about the woman I intend to marry.”

  The door to Oates’ bedroom had been left opened, and Darlene McWilliams, wearing a pink, embroidered nightdress, stepped beside Carson and laid her hand protectively on his shoulder.

  She looked breathtakingly beautiful . . . and she was smiling.

  Chapter 24

  Tom Carson reached up and placed his hand on Darlene’s.

  “Mr. Oates, you’ve been lied to by a whore,” he said. “You see, shortly after she arrived, I met Darlene in Alma. She told me she’d sold her ranch and was looking to buy a new property. Of course, what she and I did not count on was that we’d fall in love at first sight. That very night in Alma, I asked her to marry me and she consented.”

  “The best and easiest decision I ever made in my life,” Darlene said.

  Oates was stunned. “How did she explain her long absences, the time she spent chasing after Stella?”

  “She wanted her money—”

  “Our money,” Darlene corrected.

  Carson smiled. “Yes, our money. She wanted it back from the woman who stole it from her. I can’t blame Darlene for that.”

  “But the gunmen . . . Clem Halleck and his pa. The others . . .”

  “Mr. Oates,” Darlene said sweetly, “I hire drovers, not gunmen.”

  The woman had spoken softly, smiling, but her suppressed rage was almost like a malevolent physical presence in the room.

  His voice choking in his throat, he knew he was losing. “Mr. Carson, this woman hid out in a canyon in the Gila, maybe fearing the hemp posse that was after her would not stop at the border. Was that the act of an innocent person?”

  Carson opened his mouth to speak, but Darlene beat him to it. “I was a stranger in a strange land and the Apaches were burning and killing everywhere. I was very afraid and I had to protect my men and my herd.” She raised an eyebrow. “Under those circumstances, wouldn’t you have hid out in the Gila, Mr. Oates?”

  “Damn it, you killed my friend, old Jacob Yearly, a man who wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

  “I did try to buy his cabin, yes. But that was before I met Tom. You and that insane old man threw down on my cowboys and killed three of them.” She hesitated. “That was murder, Mr. Oates.”

  “Darlene,” Oates said with great finality, “Stella Spinner might be a whore, but I’d take her word over yours for anything. You’re a damned liar.”

  Carson jumped to his feet. “I’ve heard enough. Oates. I said you’d changed, but you’re still a damned drunk. By rights I should gun you right where you stand for the insults you have leveled at my future bride. But I won’t kill a man I invited under my roof and who ate my food.”

  He strode to the door and opened it wide. “Garcia, see this man to his horse and escort him off my land.”

  Oates rose and walked out the cabin door. Garcia was waiting for him.

  “Mr. Carson,” Oates said, “be careful. She will try to kill you.”

  The door slammed in his face and Garcia said, “Please, this way, senor.”

  The vaquero rode with Oates back to the hill country between the mountains. Before he turned and rode away, he said, “Best you don’t come back here, senor. It is for your own good I’m telling you this.”

  “Everything I said to your boss was the truth,” Oates said. He couldn’t understand why he was doing that, trying to justify himself to this man.

  Garcia shrugged. “The patrón doesn’t take me into his confidence, so I don’t know about these things.”

  Without another word, the vaquero swung his horse and headed back the way he had come.

  Oates watched the man leave, then headed east, a sense of utter defeat weighing on him. Love at first sight . . . marriage . . . she’d done it all so quickly.

  Darlene McWilliams had won.

  The day was waning and darkness would soon find him as Oates saw Black Mountain rise against a rose-colored sky tinted with gold and scarlet.

  Acting on a sudden hunch, he rode toward old Jacob’s cabin, and as he’d expected, the herd was gone. Darlene McWilliams must have given orders to move her cattle onto Circle-T range that very day. She was losing no time in her bid to take over Tom Carson’s ranch.

  Oates approached the cabin warily, fearful that a few of Darlene’s riders might have stayed behind. But there was no sign of life and every staring window was a rectangle of blackness.

  He stepped out of the leather, let the mustang’s reins trail and opened the door, his gun in hand. His mouth was dry and his heart thudded in his chest.

  But inside he saw only gloom, the last of the afternoon light seeping through the cabin window, forming a tracery of misty gray where shadows lurked.

  Everything pointed to a hasty exit. An empty whiskey bottle was tipped over on the table, dirty dishes lay everywhere and the blanket that had covered the door to the bedroom was torn down and trampled underfoot. Jacob’s old leather chair was gone, and in its place was a rickety bench that had been hurriedly cobbled together.

  But the fire he had set had not done the damage to the bedroom Oates had expected.

  Darlene had slept on Pete Yearly’s bed and the dresser in the room was scorched but had still been usable, as some spilled face powder attested. Apart from that, she had taken everything she owned with her, and only the powder suggested that the woman had ever been there.

  Oates left the cabin and walked down to the cookhouse. Greasy pots and dishes were scattered all over the rough pine table and rats scurried at his approach. But to his joy he found an unopened sack of coffee, a coffeepot and cans of beef, peaches and vegetables.

  Throwing his finds into an empty flour sack, Oates returned to the cabin.

  It was now fully dark and he lit a lamp against the gloom, then stepped outside again to take care of his horse.

  Oates was not hungry, but he was tired from the long riding of the day and the reception he’d received at the Carson ranch. Yawning, he stretched, then carried the lamp into the bedroom. He removed his boots and hat and hung his gun belt on the bed, close to hand.

  That done, he blew out the lamp and stretched luxuriously on the protesting cot and was asleep almost instantly.

  The horned moon rose, nudging at the stars that filled the sky, and the night crowded close around the cabin. Out in the corral, the paint lifted its head, listening to the yips of hunting coyotes. It whinnied softly and stomped a foot, made restless by the wind that explored among the trees and set the open cookhouse door to creaking. Somewhere an owl asked its question of the witching hour, then looked around with luminous eyes, seeking an answer.

  Eddie Oates slept on, wandering in darkness.

  The moon dropped lower in the sky and the brilliance of the stars grew in intensity. A big dog coyote, old as sin, trotted toward the corral. But the mustang threw up its head and reared, and the coyote turned and slunk away like a shadow.

  Oates stirred and his eyes flew open, staring into a black wall. Then he turned and saw firelight cast a scarlet, flickering rectangle on the floor.

  He rose and padded on sock feet into the cabin.

  The room had changed. Everything was back to what it was, and Jacob Yearly sat in his chair, smoking his pipe, an open book on his lap. Without turning, the old man smiled and said, “Howdy, Eddie. It’s been a spell.”

  Oates stepped closer. Jacob’s eyes shone like rubies as they caught and held the firelight.

  “I’ve come to warn you about something, Eddie. Something wicked this way comes.”

  “It’s Darlene McWilliams,” Oates said. His voice sounded hollow, as though he was talk
ing in a tunnel.

  “It’s a man, Eddie. But you’re right, she’ll still be the worst of them.”

  “Who is this man?”

  “You’ll know him when you see him.”

  “Jacob, I’m having a dream. Isn’t this a dream?”

  The old man nodded. “Yes, this is a dream. But the man I’m telling you about will be a nightmare.”

  “How will I know . . .”

  Eddie Oates woke, lying on his back on the bed. He stared up at the rafters where the spiders live. Daylight streamed through the door to the cabin and outside he heard the song of morning birds.

  He swung off the bed and stepped through the door. The room was as he’d found it the day before and the ashes in the fireplace had many days ago gone cold.

  Oates slumped onto the bench, his face in his hands. He’d had a bad dream, was all. Drunks like him had them all the time. They saw and spoke to things that breathed and hissed and moved but weren’t there.

  He rose and stepped to the table and picked up the whiskey bottle. On the label it said KENTUCKY STRAIGHT BOURBON, but inside the bottle was as dry as mummy dust. Oates held the neck to his nose. The odor was still there, the vibrantly complex, buttery aroma of oak, sherry wine, leather, creamy vanilla and dried fruit. Saliva jetted from back corners of his jaws and his head swam.

  He held the bottle at arm’s length, his eyes again caressing the label. Then he threw the bottle against the far wall, where it exploded into a thousand fragments.

  Oates turned and he saw the open book on the bench. It had not been there before. He couldn’t have missed it. He picked up the volume and looked at the title, William Shakespeare’s Macbeth.

  The book had been opened to act 4, scene 1. His eyes quickly skimmed over the lines but stopped abruptly when he read the words of the Second Witch: “By the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes.”

  A vague, unfocused fear spiked at Oates. Despite the warmth of the morning sunlight streaming through the cabin window, he shivered. He carried the book back to the bedroom, where he threw it on the cot.

  Old Jacob had warned him. But about whom . . . or what?