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

“I’m throwing him out of town,” Baxter said, a note of challenge in his voice.

“So I’ve heard. But I’d still like to talk to him.”

Rivette saw Baxter hesitate and said, “A few moments of your time. Surely you can spare the poor wretch that much?”

The banker made up his mind. “One of you men bring Oates over here.”

None too gently, a rifle butt prodded Oates forward. Rivette looked down at him. The gambler’s black eyes showed little emotion, the result of years spent with the cards, but there was a hint of something—pity, maybe.

“Eddie, do you understand what I’m saying to you?” Rivette asked.

Oates nodded, then shook his head. The gambler’s words had been a blur of sound.

“Suffering this morning, aren’t you?”

That much Oates understood. He rubbed his stubbly mouth. “I could use a drink.” He studied Rivette’s lean face. “You want me to play the fetch game?”

Then he remembered that the gambler had often spun him a silver dollar and had never ordered him to play the game. Funny, him recollecting that when he couldn’t even think.

“Stay there.”

Rivette turned and walked into the saloon. When he stepped outside again, he had a brimming glass of whiskey in his hand. He held it out to Oates. “Drink this.”

“We’re running out of whiskey too, Rivette,” Baxter said sourly.

“I know. But we can spare this much.”

Oates reached out and took the glass in trembling hands. Without spilling a drop, he lifted the glass to his mouth and drained it dry. The raw whiskey hit his stomach and exploded into fire. Every jangling nerve in Oates’ body, every deprived, tormented brain cell welcomed the alcohol like a long-lost friend. It was both wife and child to him, his hope and his salvation. Before him the image of Rivette shimmered for an instant, then regained its solid form. The whiskey had worked its demon magic.

Eddie Oates had begun to feel whole again. But he knew it would not last. He held out the glass in a steadier hand. “More, Mr. Rivette?”

“No, Eddie, that’s all you can have.” The gambler’s eyes searched Oates’ face. “Now do you understand what I’m saying to you?”

“You said no whiskey.”

“That’s right, I said no whiskey.”

Rivette took the rifle from under his arm and held it out to Oates. “This is a Henry .44. It holds sixteen rounds of ammunition and it’s loaded. I want you to take it with you.”

Oates looked puzzled and the gambler said, “Have you ever shot a rifle before?”

“No.” Oates shook his head. “And if I’d ever owned a fancy rifle like that, I’d have sold it for whiskey.”

Rivette looked over Oates’ shoulder at the three whores standing dung spattered and forlorn in the middle of the street. “Stella Spinner will show you how to use it. She shot a corsets drummer over to Denver a few years back, so she’s not bashful around guns.”

His face mirroring his growing concern, Baxter said, “Here, Rivette, this won’t do. When the Apaches hit us, you’ll need that Henry.”

“I won’t send any man into harm’s way without a weapon, Baxter.” The gambler motioned toward the door of the saloon. “When the Apaches charge through there, I’ll start shooting and I won’t need a rifle for that.” He smiled without a trace of humor. “I’ve always been better at close work.”

Baxter thought about it, then let it go. He promised himself that one day he’d find out just how good the damned New Orleans half-breed was with a gun. But now wasn’t the time.

He shrugged. “The rifle won’t make a difference anyhow. Oates is already a dead man. You know it, I know it, and if he ever sobers up enough, he’ll know it.”

“Call it idle curiosity, Baxter, but why do you hate them so much?”

The banker waved an arm toward the whores. “Them?”

“Yes, them. And a harmless drunk and an orphan boy who can’t read or write or put two words together that make sense.”

Baxter smiled with all the warmth of a grinning cobra. “Everybody lives, Rivette. Not everybody deserves to.”

The gambler, a tall, elegant man with still hands, nodded. “I guess it’s only right that a man who owns a bank and a fine house, who dresses in broadcloth and has a wife with three chins, should be the one to decide who lives and who dies.”

“Yes, Rivette, the strong decide. That’s always been the way of it.”

The eyes Baxter raised to the gambler were not those of the jovial banker he pretended to be. Gray and cold, they were the eyes of a predator, a lobo wolf.

“Rivette,” he said, “a word of advice—don’t push me too hard.” He let that warning hang in the air for a few moments, then said, “I wasn’t always a banker.”

“I know,” Rivette said. “I have a fair notion of what you were and still are.”

Baxter nodded. “Then keep it in mind.” He grabbed Oates by his skinny upper arm. “Let’s go, Eddie. You’ve already been in Alma way too long.”

“Wait.” Rivette shoved the Henry into Oates’ hands. “If you have to make a fight with Apaches, see you save the last five rounds.” The gambler’s eyes searched Oates’ face. “Do you understand what I’m saying to you?”

Oates needed another drink. He could think of nothing else. He carried the rifle gingerly, like a maiden aunt holding a snake.

“Do you understand me?” Rivette said.

The little man nodded. “Five . . . yes, five. Five rounds.”

Baxter grinned. “When he sees his first Apache, he’ll understand right quick.”

“Good luck, Eddie,” Rivette said.

Oates made no answer as Baxter pushed him toward the others.

Under a hammering rain, Oates, Sam Tatum and the three women left Alma and walked into a dark blue morning that offered them nothing.

Warren Rivette watched them go and smiled to himself. “You’re holding a full house, Eddie,” he said aloud. “Three queens and two knaves.”

Chapter 4

Stella Spinner, who was the strongest of them, led the way across the high desert country.

At her suggestion, they headed east and followed the bend of Silver Creek. Around them rose the big-shouldered peaks of the Mogollon Mountains standing eleven thousand feet above the flat. Ahead lay a wide, buffalo grass valley studded with sagebrush and cedar. Thick forests of ponderosa pine, aspen and sycamore grew on the mountain slopes and the thin wind talked constantly, whispering secrets no one could understand.

The sky was heavy with rain and a few random drops scattered over Oates as he trudged after the others, trailing the Henry behind him.

He was in the grip of demons and around him the hissing land was full of snakes. The whiskey hunger lashed at him, giving him no rest. He neither saw nor heard and young Sam Tatum had to physically stop and redirect him when the women turned into the cottonwoods and alders along the creek bank.

“We’ve got to rest for a spell, Mr. Oates,” Sam said. “Maybe we can find something to eat.” The boy smiled and rubbed his hands. “Corn bread an’ buttermilk. Now that would be good.”

Oates looked at Sam with dull, uncomprehending eyes, his mouth slack. He said nothing.

“I’ll take you into the trees, Mr. Oates. It’s fixin’ to rain again.”

Stella was sitting with her back against a cottonwood, her elbows on her knees. A strand of yellow hair had fallen over her forehead. “Sam, take that rifle off’n him before he shoots himself,” she said. “Bring it over here.”

Oates let go of the Henry without protest, then found himself a place among the alders. He sat and drew his knees into his chest and shivered, looking around but seeing nothing.

“Stella, what are we going to do?” Nellie Carney asked. She had white-blond hair and huge, frightened blue eyes.