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

Oates looked at Nantan. In the manner of Apache women, she’d known her man was contemplating something and would not interrupt his thoughts.

With a sudden pang of guilt, he saw that the girl was soaked through, getting wetter and shivering. He shrugged out of his slicker and held it up. “Come down,” he said, smiling.

Nantan slid off the horse’s back and Oates helped her into the coat. “Keep you a little drier and warmer.”

The grateful, adoring glance the girl gave him made Oates feel even more guilty. “Let’s hit the trail,” he said gruffly.

With a cupped hand he helped the girl mount again. Then he swung into the saddle of the paint. “We’ll find a nice, dry hotel in Heartbreak,” he said. “And some decent grub.”

Then Oates thought of P. J. Pickles out there on the trail somewhere, heading back to tell Darlene McWilliams with a smile that the job she’d paid him for was done.

If Stella, Nellie, Lorraine and Sammy were dead, he would not let Pickles live.

He’d go after the man and kill him.

Chapter 28

Oates and Nantan rode through driving rain. The day was as dark as night, black clouds hanging low over the treetops. Thunder roared and blustered, content to let the savage, lancing lightning do its dirty work.

A searing white bolt struck a ponderosa not fifty yards from Nantan, who was taking up the rear. The tree split with a loud crack and burst into a column of fire. The blaze lasted for a couple of minutes until the rain pounded the inferno into submission. Soon only a few flames fluttered like scarlet moths on the charred trunk.

Oates turned in the saddle and said, “That was way too close.”

Nantan heard, but did not answer. By the shocked look on her face, she also thought it was close.

By noon Oates and the girl were riding parallel to the south bank of Cuchillo Creek, past lofty cottonwoods and a few hardwoods. There had been no letup in the rain and thunder still growled in the distance.

Nantan kneed her horse beside Oates, water running down her face. “If we follow the creek, we’ll come to a stage station,” she said. “Maybe we can get out of the rain for a while.”

“How far?” Oates asked.

“An hour’s ride, less. That is, if Victorio didn’t burn it.”

Oates nodded. “I could sure use some coffee.”

“Jake took me there one time,” she said. “He was meeting Dallas at the stage.” She rode closer. “Jake killed a man that day.”

“Why did he do that?”

“They played poker and Jake lost, so he killed the man.”

Oates smiled. “Nantan, I hope they don’t remember you.”

“I was not inside. Jake tied me by my wrists to a tree. He said they didn’t let Apache squaws into the station.”

Oates waited until a peal of thunder passed, then said, “If you’d told me this back at the shack, I’d have put a bullet into ol’ Jake my ownself.”

Nantan smiled. “Now Jake must squat like a woman. It is enough.”

The Cuchillo stage station was a low, squat, timber building with spacious corrals and a large barn. There were several other outbuildings, but as the two riders approached, these were lost and invisible in the rain.

A man stood in the shelter of the portico running the length of the cabin, smoking a cigar. His eyes were on Oates and Nantan and, as they rode closer, the expression on his lean, leathery face was not particularly friendly.

Oates drew rein and said, “Howdy.”

The man nodded. He wore a Colt on one hip and a huge bowie knife on the other.

“We were looking for coffee and a dry hour to drink it.”

“Then you came to the right place.” The man motioned with his head. “You can put your horses up in the barn. The hay is free, two bits for oats.”

“You go inside, Eddie,” Nantan said. “I’ll take the horses.”

“No need, I’ll go with you.”

The girl shook her head. “It is a wife’s duty. You go inside.”

The man on the porch was looking at Nantan curiously, and rather than create a scene, Oates stepped out of the saddle.

“Come inside,” the man said. “Name’s Bill Daley. I’m in charge of the station.” He smiled. “And, Mister, you look like a drowned rat.”

“Feel like one too,” Oates allowed. “And the name’s Eddie Oates.”

The inside of the station was cramped but warm and dry. A couple of tables and benches took up much of the floor space, and a large, cast-iron cooking stove stood against one wall.

To Oates’ left a couple of barrels and a pine board served as a bar and there was another, smaller table, where five people sat.

Oates’ jaw dropped and he took a step back, bumping into someone standing behind him. He turned, then his eyes lifted . . . lifted again. He’d stepped on the toes of a man who stood at least nine inches over six feet from his miner’s boots to the top of his battered plug hat. The look in the man’s ice blue eyes was not encouraging.

“It’s all right, Shamus,” Stella Spinner said, rising from the table. “He’s a friend.”

The woman ran to Oates and hugged him close. “Eddie, I’m so glad you’re here.”

For the first time in Oates’ life someone was happy at his coming, and it affected him deeply. He had trouble finding the words and later would not be able to recall what he said, but he did remember Stella leading him to the table.

And the shock that followed.

Lorraine, Nellie and Sam Tatum, grinning like a delighted possum, were there, and another man, his chest heavily bandaged.

Handsome as ever, though looking drawn and pale, was the riverboat gambler Warren Rivette.

The man took in Oates’ gun, his soaked but good clothes and his fashionable dragoon mustache. “Pleased to see you again, Eddie,” he said. “I’d say you’ve changed since the last time I saw you.”

“Some.”

Rivette waved a hand. “Take a seat.”

Confused, Oates sat beside Stella. He looked at the gambler closely as he tried to grapple with the fact of his being there.

Rivette read Oates’ eyes and smiled. “I don’t quite know either, Eddie. The truth is that a man doesn’t have a conscience. The conscience has the man. I thought you and Sam and the ladies had been roughly handled in Alma, so after the Apaches left, I went looking for you.”

“As simple as that, huh?” Oates said.

Rivette shook his head. “No, nowhere near as simple as that. Why does a man do what he does? Sometimes he can’t explain it.” All eyes were on him and the gambler decided to lighten up. “Besides,” he said, “I was getting mighty bored in Alma. All the interesting folks had been hung, shot by Apaches or banished.”

Rivette pushed a bottle toward Oates. “Daley calls this whiskey. I call it something else. But you’re welcome to make a trial of it.”

Oates shook his head. “I’ll pass, but thanks anyhow.”

By the nature of his profession, a gambler needs to be a perceptive man and Rivette read the signs. “Shamus,” he said to the big man who was hovering close by, “take this vile swill away. I’m deeply ashamed to offer it to my guests.”

“Sure, Mr. Rivette,” Shamus said, suspiciously eyeing Oates. He picked up the bottle and glasses and returned them to the bar.

Oates eased into conversation again. “I have someone with me,” he said, “an Apache girl.” He heard the door open and turned. “And here she is. Her name is Nantan.”

Rain dripping from her slicker, her hair plastered over her face, Nantan stepped to the table. Rivette, raised to be a gentleman, got to his feet and a blushing, grinning Sam Tatum did likewise.

Oates made the necessary introductions. Then Lorraine rose and rushed around the table. “You poor thing,” she said to Nantan as she began to unbutton her slicker, “you’re soaked through.”