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

After a breakfast of elk steak and eggs provided by Daley, Oates and the others saddled up in the thin, predawn light. The rain had stopped for now, but the black sky showed no promise of a brighter afternoon.

Daley stood beside Rivette’s horse and looked up at the gambler. “I wish I could send Shamus with you, Warren,” he said. “He’s a good man in a fight, but I need him here when the stages arrive.” His eyes pleaded for understanding. “You see how it is with me.”

“You’ve already done enough, Bill, and I’m beholden to you,” Rivette said. “We’ll meet again soon.”

“ Buena suerte, mi amigo, ” Daley said. “And ride careful.”

Rivette was still weak from his wound and Oates took the point as they rode into a glowering morning that offered nothing but a keening wind and the prospect of rain to come.

They rode directly south, across rolling land forested with ponderosa pine and juniper, here and there passing ridges of bare, granite rock. Nantan caught up with Oates and told him it was here that she’d met Pete Pickles.

Oates looked around him and nodded. “It’s bushwhacking country, no doubt of that,” he said. “Stay with me, Nantan, and keep your eyes skinned.”

After an hour they left Mud Spring Mountains behind them, then swung to the southwest and headed for Palomas Creek. Farther to the west lay the deeply gouged breaks of the Salado Mountains, a bastard child of the vast Black Range.

The rain started as Oates and Nantan rode up on the creek. They sheltered under the cottonwoods and waited for the others.

“You know the first thing I’m going to do when we reach Heartbreak?” Lorraine said as she huddled against the trunk of a tree.

“No, what?” Stella asked.

“Have a hot bath, then head down to the nearest ladies’ shop and buy me a new dress and shoes. Oh, and a hat with flowers on it.”

“I hope you do, Lorraine,” Nellie sniffed. “You’ve been traipsing around the country long enough in a shift that’s all in rags and a coat not even a tramp would wear.” She looked around at the others, huge raindrops falling over them from the cottonwood branches. “You know what I’m going to do?”

“Do tell,” Lorraine said. “You’re such a dear.”

“Check into the hotel, have a bath, then roll into a soft bed with feather pillows. I plan to stay there for a week at least.”

“How will you eat?” Stella asked.

“Lorraine will bring me food, won’t you, Lorraine? You can wear your nice, new dress so you don’t lower the tone of the place.”

Stella smiled. “We’re all looking pretty shabby. If we’re to open our own house, each one of us needs new clothes.”

“I’m gonna get more paper and pencils,” Tatum said. “Then a peppermint candy stick.” He looked around at the people watching him and added defensively, “Well, I like candy sticks.”

“How about you, Eddie?” Lorraine asked.

Oates shrugged. “I don’t rightly know,” he said.

“Buy a dress for Nantan, to match her new bloomers,” Nellie suggested.

“That’s a thought,” Oates said. He looked at Rivette. “How about you?”

“Belly up to a poker game. Who knows? Maybe I’ve finally outrun my losing streak.”

Nantan said nothing, looking a little lost, prompting Lorraine to ask, “What about you, honey? What do you want to do in Heartbreak?”

“Just be with my husband,” Nantan said, “as a good Catholic girl should.”

Oates was surprised. This time Nantan’s words didn’t trouble him a bit.

Stella looked up through the tree branches at the leaden sky. “Well, since we all have urgent reasons to be in Heartbreak, I suggest we hit the trail.”

“Right! Rain or no rain,” Tatum said. “We’re not made of sugar and we won’t melt.”

Stella smiled. “Sam, you’re as smart as a whip.”

Oates mounted before anyone else. “I’ll scout the country beyond the creek,” he said. “We think Heartbreak is right ahead of us, huh?”

Rivette said, “Yes, it is. Bill Daley said he rode past it one time, but never stopped there. He says once we clear the creek and head due south, we’ll ride right into Main Street, and Bill isn’t a man to lie, no.”

“I’ll take Nantan with me,” Oates said. “She’s a better scout than me.”

Helped by wide sandbars, Oates and the girl splashed across the creek and rode south under a roof of thunder, their heads bent into a slogging rain.

Nantan’s eyes were everywhere, on the way ahead and their back trail. She seemed uneasy, on edge, and Oates caught her mood.

He guessed that she had the same thought he did: when would Pete Pickles make his move?

The rugged hill country around Oates and Nantan was hemmed in on both sides by forested mountain peaks and rugged crags. The Rio Grande lay just five miles to the east, its often-turbulent waters making their way toward Texas and the Gulf of Mexico, and beyond the river lay the desert badlands.

Oates figured the elevation was about four thousand feet above the flat, but the land was rising sharply and forests of mixed juniper and aspen were becoming more common.

Nantan lay back, her head turning constantly as she searched the gray, rain-lashed land.

Oates knew the girl sensed danger, but was it here, now, or stalking their future? If he asked her, she wouldn’t be able to tell him. He knew that. Apaches had an instinct that warned them of hostile country, but they were seldom able to pinpoint a cause. They felt the threat deep in their being, like a man who turns and stares into the darkness, hearing soundless footsteps behind him.

Despite the rumble of thunder and the rattle of the downpour, Nantan was hearing something that deeply disturbed her . . . and Oates felt a coldness in his belly he recognized as fear.

Ahead of him the rocky crest of a hogback made a break between stands of aspen and he rode in that direction, hoping for a better view of the terrain.

Oates reached the top of the hill and his face split into a delighted grin. “Nantan,” he yelled, waving the girl close. “Look!”

A town lay at the bottom of the rise, a single street with a row of buildings on either side. To the west of town ran a fair stream, bordered by spreading cottonwoods, spanned by a well-constructed timber bridge. A cluster of outlying shacks lay to the west and north, several grander houses among them.

Even from a distance, the place looked worn and weather-beaten, the still, shabby buildings silver gray behind the shifting veil of the rain.

But to Oates this was a great city, every bit as fabulous as glittering Dodge City, a welcome, warming sight for the weary traveler.

“Heartbreak,” he said, taking Nantan’s hand. “Girl, we made it.”

Nantan’s black eyes searched into the distance. “The women of this town do not cook, or light fires against the chill of the morning?”

Oates looked at her. “I’m not catching your drift.”

“Where is the smoke?”

His gaze shifting to the town again, Oates studied the rooftops. He saw plenty of chimneys, but no rising smoke. Uneasily, he checked each window that was visible. All were in darkness. Surely, in a dreary, gray day, the town merchants would have lit lamps to banish the gloom, and so would the saloons.

There was no one on the street or boardwalks, not so unusual in itself as the townspeople would try to avoid the rain, but the very absence of human activity added to the desolate, forsaken atmosphere of the place.

Oates did not want to face the stark truth, but the proof was down there, forcing him to accept it.

Heartbreak, their goal for so long, was a ghost town.

Chapter 30

“Maybe,” Stella said, “everybody’s still asleep.”