Ralph Compton The Man From Nowhere

by West, Joseph A. ; Compton, Ralph

  “It’s thin, Warren, mighty thin.”

  “I’ll talk to some of the miners, ask them to keep an eye on Stella. They might not be good on a posse, but here in town they’ll be a handful for anybody.” He laid a hand on Oates’ shoulder. “Besides, worried father-to-be, we’ll be back by nightfall. I promise.”

  The day was bitter cold and Nantan insisted that Oates wear the new fringed, gaily decorated blanket coat she’d made for him and a fur hat with earflaps that she tied under his chin.

  She did not mention the dangers he might face, because that was not the way of Apache women, but she kissed him hard and long before he left to get his horse and meet up with Rivette.

  As it happened the gambler was at the livery and when Oates stepped inside, he smiled as he looked him up and down. “Well, well, don’t you look a sight? Are you going to a wedding or a preaching?”

  “It’s cold out. Nantan said I had to wear this stuff,” he said defensively. He looked over Rivette’s expensive sheepskin, fine leather gloves and carefully creased Stetson and couldn’t come up with anything damaging to say.

  “Just joshing you, Eddie,” Rivette said, seeing the fleeting irritation in the other man’s eyes. “You look just fine.”

  Oates saddled the paint and slid his rifle into the scabbard. Then, under a chill blue sky, he and Rivette rode out of Heartbreak and headed south.

  The mountains and high ridges were bright with mantles of snow, and patches that had been herded by the wind lay in white arcs among the trees.

  They crossed the Seco and Animas, the creek banks frosted with ice as delicate as Irish lace, and rode up on the scene of the attempted stage robbery.

  Around them the mountains rose majestically against the clear sky. The rising wind was blowing directly from the north, tossing a few snowflakes, and it was growing noticeably colder.

  Rivette was aware of the change in the weather, because he looked over at Animas Peak, his eyes searching, as if he expected to see something of interest. “If he doesn’t freeze to death, a gut-shot man can last longer in the cold and a north wind is rising,” he said. “If he’s still alive he might be close by. Darlene McWilliams isn’t the kind to slow herself down by taking along a dying puncher.”

  Wheel ruts and horse tracks marked the stage route past the Animas foothills. He and Rivette scouted the area but saw no blood trail.

  The gambler kneed his horse closer to the hills, his head lifted as he searched the mountain’s slope. Suddenly his mount started, then stood straight-legged as it scented something in the wind it did not like.

  A rifle shot followed, and Rivette tumbled headlong out of the saddle.

  Chapter 36

  Oates passed Rivette at a gallop, jerking his rifle from the scabbard. He’d seen a sudden puff of gray smoke from the top of an aspen-covered rise just ahead of him. He threw his rifle to his shoulder and fired as he rode, dusting shots along the top of the ridge.

  Still at a flat-out gallop, Oates hit the incline and urged the paint higher. Among the trees a man struggled to his feet, bringing up a Winchester. Oates fired, then fired again. The man staggered, dropped the rifle and crashed backward into the frosted underbrush.

  Oates swung out of the saddle, hit the incline at a run and reached the top of the rise. He dived into the aspens, where the man he’d shot sat up and lifted a hand in supplication.

  “Don’t shoot me no more, Mister,” he gasped. “I’m done.”

  Oates turned, lifting his Winchester as he heard footsteps behind him. When he saw it was Rivette, he relaxed. “I thought you’d been hit,” he said.

  “Bullet came damned close, that’s why I lit out of the saddle,” Rivette said. “I was looking for a hole to crawl in. Then I saw you ride past like a Comanche.” He looked down at the wounded man. “This the bush-whacker?”

  “Yeah, that’s him,” Oates answered.

  “Let me be,” the man whispered. “I’m all shot to pieces.”

  “You should have considered that possibility before you tried to rob the stage,” Rivette said.

  The puncher looked to be no more than eighteen years old, a redhead with freckles across the bridge of his pug nose. He had a fresh wound in his left shoulder and an earlier one just above his belt buckle. The front of his shirt was covered in black blood.

  “Where’s Darlene and them?” Oates asked.

  “I dunno,” the kid said. “They told me they’d be back with a doctor. Then as they walked away, I heard Clem laugh and I knew they wasn’t planning on coming back ever.”

  “What happened at the Circle-T?” asked Oates. “Where is Tom Carson?”

  “Speak truthfully boy, your time is short,” Rivette said. “You’ll meet your Maker soon and this isn’t the time to lie, no.”

  “You two lawmen?”

  “Yes, we are,” Rivette answered without hesitation. “And we don’t take kindly to lying.”

  “My name is Randy Collins and my ma lives in El Paso, Texas. Her—her name is Agnes.” The boy lifted pleading eyes to Oates. “Tell her . . . tell her I’m sorry I was buried in foreign soil.”

  “I’ll tell her,” Oates said. “Now, what happened at the Circle-T?”

  A flurry of snowflakes landed on Collins’ face. Oates gently wiped them away.

  “Tom Carson is dead,” the kid said. “Charlie killed him. He tried to make it look like an accident, but nobody believed him. He said that Mr. Carson fell off his hoss and hit his head on a rock, but everybody knowed that Tom Carson didn’t fall off hosses.”

  “Darlene wanted it all in a hurry, huh?” Rivette asked.

  “Yeah, an’—an’ I made the mistake of throwin’ in with her. Charlie said once the ranch belonged to Miss McWilliams, I’d be made top hand.” A frown gathered between Collins’ eyes. “Well, now look at me.”

  “Why did Darlene and her brother leave in such an all-fired hurry?” Oates asked. “Carson was dead and the ranch was hers.”

  The boy shook his head. “I’m hurtin’ real bad. My belly’s on fire. I—I need a drink of water.”

  “I’ll get the canteen,” Rivette said.

  “Warren, is that wise? I mean giving a gut-shot man water?”

  “Do you really think it matters a hill of beans, Eddie?”

  “No. No, I guess it doesn’t.”

  Rivette returned with the canteen, lifted the boy’s head and let him drink. Collins coughed, then said, “It was the hands that done for Darlene. The only law at the Circle-T is cowboy law. That’s how Mr. Carson set it up, and that’s how it was with him.

  “The boys knowed that Charlie had done for their boss and that Darlene had give the order. About thirty Circle-T hands gathered at the bunkhouse and they’re a hard, unforgiving bunch. It didn’t take them long to pass sentence on Darlene and her brother They were all for hanging them right there and then.”

  The light was fading from Randy Collins’ blue eyes and as he stepped to the threshold of eternity, he was scared. “You boys will stay with me until . . . until . . .”

  “We’ll stay,” Oates said.

  “The pain is getting worse all the time and I don’t want to die out here alone.”

  “We’ll be here,” Oates assured him. “And we’ll see you off in fine style, I promise.”

  “How did Darlene and Charlie escape?” Rivette asked.

  “One of the hands who was agin lynching warned her in time. Darlene and Charlie lit a shuck in a big hurry and me, Mash Halleck and his son Clem covered our back trail. We had a running fight with the Circle-T that lasted most of the day. Then we lost them at night in the Gila. Far as I know, most of them boys are still hunting us. They’re fired up.”

  “Why did you try to rob the stage, boy?” Rivette asked. “Speak plain now.”

  “A road stake. That was all, just a road stake. We didn’t count on the crazy old coot of a guard and his scattergun.”

  “The crazy old coot was Ethan Savage,” Rivette said. “He’d already killed his sh
are before you were born.”

  “Did you hear Darlene say anything about a town called Heartbreak?” Oates asked.

  Collins shook his head. “I don’t know nothing about that.” He groaned deep in his throat. “I’m hurting real bad,” he said. “I can’t stand this much longer.”

  “Take your medicine, boy,” Rivette said, his face grimmer than Oates had ever seen it.

  “I can’t,” Collins whispered. His white lips were peeled back from his teeth in a silent scream. “My gut is being torn apart by claws.” He looked up at Oates. “Mister, I’ve told you what I know, so I’m dying clean. He . . . the Man upstairs will take that into account, huh?”

  “He’ll study on it for sure.”

  Oates rose to his feet and turned to Rivette. “What do we do with him, Warren? He’s hurting more than any man should.”

  Rivette nodded. He drew his gun and fired once. And the kid’s hurting was over forever.

  “I didn’t mean that!” Oates said, horrified.

  “It’s all we could do for him. I hope if I’d been lying there, you would have done the same for me.”

  Oates looked down at his feet and shook his head. “Lordy, but we’re living in hard times.”

  “And there’s worse coming down,” Rivette said. “We better head back to Heartbreak.”

  “Darlene?”

  “Count on it.”

  “What are we going to do about the dead kid?”

  “Nothing.”

  Oates nodded. “Well, I guess that answered my question.”

  “Eddie, it was the only answer to your question.”

  Chapter 37

  Oates and Rivette rode north into the teeth of the keening winter wind. A few flakes of snow cartwheeled around them and the leaden sky promised more to come.

  They smelled the chimneys of Heartbreak before they crossed a rise, then rode across the bridge onto Main Street.

  Despite the snow flurries, there were people on the street. There was no sign of Darlene McWilliams.

  Rivette looked around him at the glittering lamps in his saloon, lit against the darkness of the afternoon. “A day like this makes a man feel glad to be home, huh, Eddie?” he said, smiling.

  “My home is where Nantan is,” Oates said. “I’m sure of that.”

  “Well, Nantan is here, so that makes Heartbreak your home, right?”

  “Nantan and me are passing through, Warren. Just passing through.”

  Rivette waited until they were in the livery and had stripped the rigging off their mounts before he brought up the subject again.

  “You didn’t mean that, about just passing through?”

  “There’s nothing for me here,” Oates answered, scooping oats to the horses. “Come spring, I think Nantan and me will head west a ways. I always believed that if I fell on hard times, I might prosper in the lava rock business.”

  Rivette took off his hat and ran his fingers through his thick black hair before he once again settled the Stetson on his head. “Eddie, you and Nantan can’t leave this town. You were here from the beginning and you’re as much a part of it as any of us. Hell, Stella is already driving me crazy, planning on all the clothes she’s going to buy your little girl.”

  “It could be a boy,” Oates said, smiling.

  “Nah, Stella and Lorraine say by the way Nantan is carrying, it will be a girl. Nellie says it’s a boy, but I think that’s only to cross Lorraine.” Rivette grinned. “Nellie has become real uppity since she started walking out with Luke McCloud”—he made a face—“my esteemed competitor in the saloon business.”

  “She could do worse. McCloud looks like he’s thriving.”

  Rivette shrugged. “I guess a man who struts around with a diamond stickpin and carries an extra ace in his sock is thriving. I don’t like him much.”

  The gambler looked into Oates’ eyes. “Eddie, don’t even think about leaving Heartbreak. Me, Stella, everybody else in town need you here. You get a long Yankee face on you sometimes, but you’re a rock, and this town needs a rock to prop up its shaky foundations.”

  Rivette smiled. “Tell me you’ll think this thing through before you do anything rash.”

  “I’ll think about it, Warren, but I can’t make promises, not right now.”

  “Well, that’s good enough for me. Now get home to the increasingly generous bosom of your family.”

  “You look so cold, Eddie, frozen stiff,” Nantan said. She helped him off with his coat and hat and sat him by the fire. “I have good hot soup ready. That will warm you.”

  As he ate the soup, Oates told Nantan about the dead puncher and what he had said about Darlene McWilliams.

  “She’s got nothing against you, Nantan, but be on your guard just the same,” he said. “Don’t go out anywhere unless I’m with you.” He looked at his wife. “Promise me.”

  “Of course, Eddie, I promise.”

  Oates ate in silence for a while, then looked around at what Nantan, who had learned it from the nuns, called the parlor. The shabby room had little furniture and what there was had been bought secondhand or scavenged from abandoned houses and showed more than its share of scratches, dents and wear. But the wood floor was scrubbed to a honey color and chairs, settee and table gleamed from constant polishing.

  It was a warm, homey and welcoming place and Oates found it easy to understand why Stella and Rivette spent so much time here, away from the plush, red velvet and brass splendor of the Golden Garter.

  The hot soup and warm fire had relaxed him, and as he wiggled his toes to the flames, he realized just how lucky he was to have Nantan. She was already showing, but not hugely, and the cheap, gingham dress she wore accented the curves of her slim figure. Her hair was drawn back in a loose bun that complemented her broad, high cheekbones and gave full play to her vivid black eyes.

  Oates allowed to himself that his wife looked what she was, a Lipan Apache girl disguised as a respectable Victorian matron. But he wouldn’t have her any other way or, no matter how she might change in the future, love her more.

  Night fell and the snow fell heavier. The north wind prowled around the house and set the doors to rattling on their hinges. Red and orange flames guttered in the fireplace, sizzling now and then as melted snow dropped down the chimney.

  Someone knocked on the front door, waited a few moments, then knocked again.

  “Who would be out on a night like this?” Oates asked, surprised, as he rose to his feet.

  “Probably Stella.” Nantan smiled. “She thinks she has to bring food to the pregnant woman at all hours of the day and night.”

  Oates padded to the door on his sock feet, then opened it a crack.

  The door slammed into him with tremendous force, slamming Oates against the wall to his right. Mash Halleck, looking tall and terrifying in a bearskin coat and hat, went after Oates as he tried to rise. Halleck brought down the butt of his rifle on Oates’ head and before he passed out, he heard a woman’s voice yell, “Don’t kill him, you idiot! We need him.”

  It was Darlene McWilliams’ voice.

  A cold wind rushing through the door helped Oates come to his senses. He rose groggily to his feet and staggered into the parlor. He had not been unconscious for long, because the fire still burned as before and the lamps were as bright.

  The only difference was that Nantan was gone.

  Oates called his wife’s name several times, but there was no answer. Then he saw the knife that pinned a note to the table. He worked the knife free, took the note closer to a lamp and read.

  If you want to see your wife again, do as you are told. We will be in touch. If you try to trick us, Clem Halleck will cut the baby from the squaw’s belly.

  YOU KNOW DAMNED WELL HE WILL.

  There was no signature, but Oates knew what had happened. Darlene McWilliams had Nantan.

  Oates pulled on his boots, then buckled his gun belt. He quickly shrugged into his blanket coat and knotted the ties of the fur hat under his chin. He gr
abbed his rifle, and, with one last look at the parlor where the woman he loved had been only a few minutes before, he rushed out of the house and ran through the snow to the livery stable.

  Oates rode across the bridge, following tracks that were being rapidly obliterated by the snow. He had not considered for one moment asking Rivette for help.

  Nantan was his wife. The responsibility was his and his alone.

  Chapter 38

  Oates was not a tracker, but as near as he could judge, Darlene and her party had crossed the bridge, then headed north. But they would stay close, and probably swing west for the cover of the Gila.

  After an hour of fruitless search, the snow stopped, the clouds cleared and the moon dappled the silent, shadowed land with a hard glitter.

  Any tracks Darlene had left were buried under the snow. Maybe an Apache or an experienced army scout could have found the way, but Oates did not possess those skills.

  His breath smoking in the cold air, he rode as far north as Cuchillo Negro Creek, then turned and headed south again, his eyes constantly searching the mountain foothills.

  He neither saw nor heard anything.

  After another half hour, Oates gave up. The bladed moonlight cast too many shadows among the arroyos and high ridges of the Gila where an army could hide and never be seen.

  He rode into a shallow gulch thick with juniper and sage and swung out of the saddle. He loosened the cinch on the paint’s saddle and let the little horse graze, then found himself a hiding place among the trees.

  Oates sat on something hard, reached under himself and threw it aside. It was a round, white rock. He looked closer and saw dark eye sockets and under those, long, yellow teeth grinned at him. A skull!

  He sprang to his feet, spooked. All around him, scattered by coyotes, lay the bleached bones of a man. Two steps away was another, the bones of this one more intact. Scraps of cloth and leather still clung to the skeleton and in the stark moonlight Oates could make out the rusted remains of a revolver still clutched in the man’s bony hand.