Joseph West - The Man From Nowhere - A Ralph Compton Novel

Oates’ brown eyes lifted to the dead robbers; he vaguely remembered them.

He was not allowed to drink among men, but now and again he’d been welcomed into the saloons to perform tricks for whiskey—usually Good Doggy, when he got down on all fours to bark and play fetch.

He’d been retrieving a whore’s garter in the Silver Nugget when he’d overheard that the Hart brothers had been caught after a stage robbery in the course of which the guard was wounded and a traveling preacher killed.

All agreed that the shooting of the Holy Joe had been accidental, but the guard promptly died of gangrene poisoning and the Honorable Company of Concerned Citizens sentenced the brothers to death by hanging.

That sentence had been set for a week hence to allow the Hart womenfolk time to get in from the family ranch to attend the hanging and collect their dead.

But then Victorio, aided by ancient old Nana and Geronimo, had led a mixed band of Chiricahuas and Mescaleros out of the Mogollon Mountains and everything had changed.

With the town now under Apache siege, the brothers had been hanged ahead of time. Everyone agreed the three men were no great loss.

The guard, a feisty old former buffalo hunter by the name of Gray, had blown off most of Bobby’s lower jaw with his Big .50, and had shattered Billy’s right arm, and young Jimmy had taken a ball in the brisket.

Even John L. Battles, normally a softhearted man, had opined that the Hart boys were done as fighting men, so there was no point in keeping them alive any longer.

As he watched the bodies sway and heard the hemp creak, Oates had a sudden moment of clarity. He’d been puzzled before, but now he knew why he was being hanged. He was not a fighting man either.

“Get over there, you.”

A hand pushed Oates in the small of the back, and he crashed heavily into the gallows. Around him men laughed as he bounced off the pine boards and staggered, but a helping hand reached out from somewhere and steadied him.

“What are they going to do with us, Mr. Oates?”

Oates blinked at the owner of the hand, then slowly recognized the frightened, freckled face of young Sam Tatum. He remembered that he liked Sam. He was the only person in Alma, or any other town, who had ever called him Mister.

“I don’t know, Sammy.” Oates’ voice sounded like the hinges of a rusty gate. “I don’t know anything.”

“Will we get hung, Mr. Oates?”

Oates turned away. He didn’t want to think or look at Sam anymore. God, he needed a drink.

His mind screamed as the whiskey hunger raked him, giving him no peace.

He wanted to cry out, “Hang me, you bastards. Get it over with, but let me have a drink first,” but he could not form the words. Besides, who would listen?

Later, the citizens of Alma who’d crowded around the gallows that morning would recall that Eddie Oates had been in truth a pathetic sight.

“Standing there, dripping water, rubbing his mouth all the time. Poor thing.”

“Like a little drowned rat, wasn’t he?”

“He smelled bad too. How does a man get to smell like that?”

“Well, who cares? He’s probably dead by this time anyhow.”

But that was then; this was now.

Cornelius Baxter stepped among the crowd and threw up his hands, demanding silence. Deciding that his portly five foot seven was less than impressive at ground level, the banker stepped up onto the gallows platform and stood in front of the purple-faced bodies.

Again he raised his arms and slowly the hubbub died away to a ragged silence.

“Fellow citizens of the fair city of Alma,” Baxter began. Up went a cheer, which the banker acknowledged with a smile and a slight inclination of his head. Then he continued. “As you are all aware, I am talking to you at the time of our greatest peril.”

Baxter waved a hand, encompassing the whole town. “As you can see, we have alert sentinels posted at each end of our city, and stalwart riflemen on our roofs. I have tasked them with one duty—keep keen watch for Victorio and his bloodthirsty fiends.”

The banker stopped, as though expecting another cheer. But there was none. People looked uneasily over their shoulders and then at one another, the very name Victorio enough to cause a ripple of fear to go through the crowd.

“The trails in and out of town were cut by the Apaches days ago,” Baxter said. He paused and then added ominously, “There will be no more supply wagons for some time to come, and already our food supplies are running perilously low.”

Against a background of worried murmurs, the banker said, “But who better to tell us where we stand than our very own Will Jackson.”

All eyes turned to a small, round-bellied man who, even at this early hour, was wearing a spotless white apron. Jackson owned the only general store in town and was a founding member of the citizens’ committee.

Without any preamble, the little man began to tick points off on his fingers. “Flour, one week’s supply; bacon, five days’; salt pork, ditto; coffee, one week; sugar, ditto.” He paused, thinking, then continued. “Cheese, eggs, butter, red meat and beans . . . as long as they last, which won’t be long. Ditto salt, pepper and other spices. I’ve already run out of canned milk, canned meat, peaches and most other canned goods.

“Now, as to prices, I’m afraid that from today I’ll have to increase—”

“Yes, yes, Will, we understand,” Baxter interrupted quickly. He addressed the crowd again. “Given the Apache menace and our shortages of food, last night the Honorable Company of Concerned Citizens, myself presiding, decided that we can no longer tolerate parasites within our community. In short, there will be no more useless mouths in Alma.”

Baxter indicated the hanged men. “This was a start, but there are others.” He took a slip of paper from the pocket of his frock coat, then said, “Pike, Sanderson, you others, bring them forward.” Then, to the expectant crowd he said, “The loafers, shirkers and slackers who would take the very bread from our children’s mouths.”

To yells of approval, three women and Sam Tatum were pushed beside Oates.

“There they are,” Baxter said. “All wear the Mark of Cain and flaunt that vile brand as bold as brass. Look into their faces, citizens. I assure you, you will find not the slightest trace of remorse for the wasted, sinful, lustful lives they have led.”

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.