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

The Apache girl was returning to the cabin. When she heard what the big man said, the eyes she lifted to Oates were bright with alarm . . . and warning.

Oates remembered the horses in the corral. Was there a third man?

His skin crawling, he looked around him. There he saw it! A quick flicker of shadow behind the shack’s open window. It was there; then it was gone.

Playing his hand close to his chest, Oates smiled and said, “Thank you for the offer, but I got to be moving on. But if you could direct me to the town of Heartbreak, I’d be right obliged.”

Every nerve in his body tingling, Oates’ perceptions were sharpened, as if he were looking at the scene before him through the wrong end of a telescope.

He noticed a slight turn of the big man’s head toward the window, a subtle movement Oates might have missed a few moments before.

He drew and fired in the same instant, then fired again.

There was the sound of shattering glass. Then a man screamed, followed by a high-pitched, bubbling shriek that ended in a drawn-out wail.

“Damn you!” the towhead yelled. His hand was dropping for his gun, but he froze when he saw Oates’ Colt already covering him. The man’s fingers opened and his revolver dropped back into the leather.

“Hell, I never took ye for a draw fighter,” he said, his face incredulous. “You don’t hardly look the type.”

“Unbuckle the belt, let it fall, then step away from it,” said Oates.

The towhead did as he was told, studiously taking three sliding steps to his right. He looked up at Oates. “Inside,” he said, “I think ye done fer ol’ Meacham.”

“He had his chance,” Oates said.

The big bearded man was rooted to the spot. A Colt dangled from his right hand but he’d made no attempt to use it.

Oates looked at him. “Drop it.”

As the towhead had done earlier, he opened his fingers and let the gun drop as if it were suddenly red hot.

“Mister,” he said, “we was only funnin’ you. We took ye fer a pilgrim, like.” He turned to the man called Dallas. “Ain’t that the truth?”

“Truth, lie, I don’t think he’s gonna believe us anyhow, Jake,” Dallas said.

“Now we’re all acquainted,” Oates said, “I’d still like to know—”

He stopped as the Apache girl suddenly dived beside Jake and picked up the gun he’d dropped. She took a step back, looked into the man’s eyes, then fired into his crotch.

Jake screeched and fell to the ground. His knees drew up and he clutched at his bloody groin. After a while he sat up, and, as his kicking heels gouged runnels in the dust, he slipped his suspenders off his shoulders and dropped his pants.

He looked down and what he saw horrified him. It horrified Oates as well.

“Dallas,” Jake hollered, “the Apache bitch has done fer me. She’s blown it all away.”

The towhead seemed less than sympathetic. “Jake, you was always goin’ at her with that thing, mornin’, noon an’ night. What did you ’spect?”

Oates’ couldn’t muster much sympathy either. Stella had told him that a man can rape a whore. He can also rape an Indian girl.

“Dallas, you better get something to bandage what he’s got left. He’s bleeding like a stuck pig.”

The man shook his head. “Mister, he ain’t got nothing left.”

“Bandage him anyway.”

Dallas turned to go into the cabin, but Oates stopped him. “Use his shirt.”

Oates swung out of the saddle. The man inside the cabin was still unaccounted for.

The Apache girl stood next to him, her black eyes on Jake, who was rolling around, wailing, resisting Dallas’ attempts to staunch the flow of blood.

She turned to Oates. “Serves him right.” She spat in Jake’s direction. “Dirty, rutting pig!”

Oates smiled. “I guess you’re the one to know about that.”

He stepped toward the shack, but the girl stopped him. “I go. The one inside is just as bad as this one.”

Before he could object, the girl swept past him and walked into the cabin. Oates heard two shots, then a scream. A few moments later she appeared at the door, the smoking Colt at her side.

“He was still alive,” she said. “Now he’s dead.”

Dallas had heard enough. His face wild, he sprang to his feet and ran for the ridge.

The Apache girl sent a couple of bullets after him, but Dallas quickly disappeared over the rise. She shook her head. “He is not a warrior. There would have been no honor in killing him.”

Jake looked up at Oates, his face twisted in agony, his eyes pleading. “You ain’t just gonna ride away an’ leave me here.”

Oates shrugged. “Not much else I can do. You sure as hell can’t fork a bronc.”

“Take me inside.” Jake cast a fearful glance at the girl. “An’ don’t let that Apache bitch near me.”

“She sure don’t like you much, Jake. Look at her, seems like she cottons to cutting you up some.”

“She’s done enough already. I ain’t gonna be much use to the whores no more.”

Oates nodded. “I was going to say times are hard all over, but with you in your present condition I won’t.”

The big man groaned and fell on his back, clutching at himself.

Remembering old Jacob’s instructions, “Always reload after a desperate action. An empty gun ain’t nothing but a chunk of iron,” Oates punched out the empty shells from his Colt and slid fresh rounds into the chambers.

He holstered his gun and stepped into the shack. The dead man could have been Jake’s twin, only dirtier. It looked to Oates that the bullet he’d fired had grazed the man’s head. But he had two other, deadlier wounds to the groin and chest.

Oates shook his head. Apache women were not ones to forgive and forget.

Chapter 27

Oates dragged the dead man outside, then helped Jake into his bed, a filthy cot that stank even worse than the rest of the shack.

He lit a lamp against the growing darkness and said, “After we’re gone, Dallas will come back and take care of you.”

“I paid twenty dollars in silver for that squaw,” Jake groaned. “Worst investment I ever made. Damned Mexi cans didn’t tell me she was plumb crazy.”

“Apaches are notional,” Oates said.

He turned to leave, but Jake’s voice stopped him. “You got to stay close. I’m bleedin’ to death here.”

“You should’ve thought about that before you planned on robbing and killing me,” Oates said. “And before you treated the girl so badly. What is she? Fifteen maybe?”

“You go to hell,” Jake said. He was fixated on his bloody, ruined groin and didn’t look up.

Oates smiled. “I’ll save you a place by the fire, Jake.”

Ignoring the curses Jake hurled in his direction, he searched around the shack and took what supplies he could find, a side of bacon, cans of beans, coffee and a small pot.

Studiously, Oates stepped around a corked, earthenware jug. He knew only too well what it contained and he heard its siren song. After a battle with himself, he gave in enough to lift the jug. He shook it and let the whiskey talk to him, promising him the world. After a while he set the jug down again and walked away from it, turning his back on the only friend he ever had. It was a betrayal . . . and it hurt him bad.

Oates sacked what he’d found and when he stepped outside again, the Apache girl was already sitting a rangy black with a white blaze and four white socks.

“This is Jake’s pony,” she said, then added proudly, “He doesn’t need it anymore.” Her black eyes dropped to Oates. “You are a great warrior. I will go with you.”

Oates shook his head. “Girl, I’m riding a dangerous trail with an enemy behind every bush. I have to ride alone.” He smiled, trying to reassure her. “You can go back to your own people now.”