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

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 visible 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.

Oates finished his coffee and returned to the cave. Replying to the question on Stella’s face, he said, “They’re all dead.”

“Apaches?”

“I don’t think so. I’d say a white man . . . or men.”

“But who—”

“I’ve got no idea.” He didn’t mention the Tin Cup Kid to Stella. The name would mean nothing to her. Instead he said, “We have to get out of here. We’ve got horses now, if Nellie can ride.”

“She’ll ride. She’ll have to.”

Oates smiled. “Then pick a direction, huh?”

Stella did not return his smile. Her face serious, she said, “There’s only one direction—east. We were headed for Heartbreak and that’s where we’re going. All that stands between us and a new life are the miles.”

Hesitating, weighing the consequences of what he was about to say, Oates finally suggested, “You could leave Darlene McWilliams’ money in the cave, Stella. Then she might let you be.”

The woman shook her head. “Not a chance. The five thousand will buy us a fresh start in Heartbreak. We can open our own house and Sam will help us run it. I’m telling you like I told Darlene, we earned that money and we’re not giving it back.”

Oates nodded. “Well, good luck to you, Stella. I reckon I’ll stay around here. I still have a score to settle with Miss McWilliams.”

“No, you won’t stay around. You’re coming with us.”

It was pin-drop quiet in the cave and Oates looked around him. Lorraine and Nellie were staring at him, accusation in their eyes. Even Sam Tatum seemed disturbed. Oates’ eyes lingered on the two women. Nellie was deathly pale, fragile as porcelain, and Lorraine had aged in the past three months. Her face was lined, tired, the stained, ragged nightgown she wore under her mackinaw covering her like a sack.

“You’re all we got, Eddie,” Lorraine said. “We can’t make it to Heartbreak without you.”

“Hell, I’m a drunk,” Oates said. He felt trapped, corralled. “I failed you once. I could do it again, anytime, anyplace. All it will take is a whiskey bottle.”

“Like I said,” Lorraine replied, smiling wanly, “you’re all we got. Once upon a time you may not have been much, Eddie Oates, but, Lord help us, we need you now.”

Stella laid a hand on Oates’ arm. “Darlene McWilliams will be coming after us. Don’t you think you’ll have plenty of chances to get even?”

Oates’ shoulders slumped in acceptance of defeat. Lorraine was right: maybe he still wasn’t much, but he owed these people a debt for sentencing them to three months of hell. He had not yet repaid them in full.

He looked at Tatum. “Sammy, bring in my horse and find four others over by the pines. Also, if you see any grub over there, bring that too. And make sure the horses are carrying rifles in the saddle scabbards and pick up any spare ammunition.”

The boy bent his head, his mouth moving as he repeated Oates’ instructions to himself. Finally he looked up, smiling. “I’ll do that, Mr. Oates.”

“Good man, then go get it done.”

After Tatum had gone, Nellie lay on her side, her chin in her hand, and looked at Oates. “I can’t ride,” she said. She sipped the coffee Sam had made for her. “There’s just no way I can sit in a saddle.”

“Yes, you can,” Lorraine said. “Let your wounded ass hang off the side.”

The girl looked annoyed. “You’re such a whore, Lorraine.”

“I know. But you’ll ride. You want us to leave you here for Clem Halleck and them?”

Nellie shuddered, her eyes shading from defiance to fear. “I guess I can ride,” she said.

“I guess you can at that,” Lorraine said.

Chapter 20

An hour later, riding through opalescent moonlight, Oates and his charges took to the trail.

He let the others ride ahead of him and he drifted to the rear, the direction of any possible attack.

Here, close to the peaks of the Gila, the night was cool and the wind in the trees made a soft music. There was no defined trail, but to lead the way, he trusted Stella, ahead of him, invisible in the darkness.

Come dawn, if not before, they would have to find a place where they could hole up during the daylight hours, then ride out again after nightfall. He had no doubt that there were competent trackers among Darlene McWilliams’ gunmen and they would surely follow close.

After an hour, Stella faded back and drew rein. “We stopped for a spell,” she said, her face lost in shadow. “Nellie needs a rest. She’s weak from loss of blood.”

“She’s done well so far,” Oates allowed, “but we have to move on soon.”

“And we have to find a place to hide out during the day.”

“I know that.” Oates shifted his weight and his saddle creaked. “While Nellie rests, I’ll ride ahead a ways and see what I can see.”

“Lorraine is taking care of Nellie. I’ll come with you.”

When Oates and Stella caught up with the others, Lorraine was cleaning Nellie’s wound with water from her canteen.

“How is she?” Oates asked.

“I don’t see any sign of infection,” Lorraine answered. “There’s one good thing to say about the high country—wounds heal faster than they do in towns.”

“No thanks to you, Eddie Oates,” Nellie snapped. “My butt is all cut to ribbons.”