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

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?”