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

“Any law around here yet?” Savage asked.

To Oates’ surprise, Rivette answered, “You’re looking at it.”

“The puncher shouldn’t be hard to find,” Savage said. “A man doesn’t ride far with two barrels o’ lead shot in his belly.”

After the guard had gone into the hotel, Oates looked at Rivette and smiled. “So we’re the law in Heartbreak, huh?”

“Seems like. We don’t want a posse of miners riding burros, no, and everybody else is either too old or too fat.” Rivette grinned. “Can you visualize Hermann the German on a horse?”

“No, I guess I can’t,” Oates said. He held up his packages. “I’ll take these home and meet you back here in ten minutes.” He looked at Rivette closely. “If it was Charlie McWilliams riding the Palouse, then something has happened at the Circle-T.”

Rivette nodded. “Yes, something bad for Darlene. I’m willing to bet the farm that she’s on the run again and looking for a stake.”

“But she has a war chest of twenty-five thousand dollars. Why would she need a road stake?”

“Tom Carson liked his poker and whiskey, but he was careful with a dollar. I guess he insisted Darlene put her money in a safe place, like Cornelius Baxter’s bank in Alma. With a Circle-T hanging posse on her trail, Darlene wouldn’t have time to make a withdrawal, and she’d know that Baxter would have questioned her and maybe smelled a rat or three.”

“You reckon she might come here?”

“Why not? Heartbreak is where her money is and we haven’t exactly made a secret about being here. Pete Pickles failed her, but Darlene has three fast guns backing her that won’t, or so she thinks.”

“Then we should stay right here in town.”

Rivette shook his head. “I know we’re not going to find Darlene, not with Mash Halleck riding scout for her. But if the cowboy old Ethan shot is still alive, I’d like to talk with him. Maybe we can get enough out of the man to keep Darlene in custody until we can get a United States marshal here.”

“It’s thin, Warren, mighty thin.”

“I’ll talk to some of the miners, ask them to keep an eye on Stella. They might not be good on a posse, but here in town they’ll be a handful for anybody.” He laid a hand on Oates’ shoulder. “Besides, worried father-to-be, we’ll be back by nightfall. I promise.”

The day was bitter cold and Nantan insisted that Oates wear the new fringed, gaily decorated blanket coat she’d made for him and a fur hat with earflaps that she tied under his chin.

She did not mention the dangers he might face, because that was not the way of Apache women, but she kissed him hard and long before he left to get his horse and meet up with Rivette.

As it happened the gambler was at the livery and when Oates stepped inside, he smiled as he looked him up and down. “Well, well, don’t you look a sight? Are you going to a wedding or a preaching?”

“It’s cold out. Nantan said I had to wear this stuff,” he said defensively. He looked over Rivette’s expensive sheepskin, fine leather gloves and carefully creased Stetson and couldn’t come up with anything damaging to say.

“Just joshing you, Eddie,” Rivette said, seeing the fleeting irritation in the other man’s eyes. “You look just fine.”

Oates saddled the paint and slid his rifle into the scabbard. Then, under a chill blue sky, he and Rivette rode out of Heartbreak and headed south.

The mountains and high ridges were bright with mantles of snow, and patches that had been herded by the wind lay in white arcs among the trees.

They crossed the Seco and Animas, the creek banks frosted with ice as delicate as Irish lace, and rode up on the scene of the attempted stage robbery.

Around them the mountains rose majestically against the clear sky. The rising wind was blowing directly from the north, tossing a few snowflakes, and it was growing noticeably colder.

Rivette was aware of the change in the weather, because he looked over at Animas Peak, his eyes searching, as if he expected to see something of interest. “If he doesn’t freeze to death, a gut-shot man can last longer in the cold and a north wind is rising,” he said. “If he’s still alive he might be close by. Darlene McWilliams isn’t the kind to slow herself down by taking along a dying puncher.”

Wheel ruts and horse tracks marked the stage route past the Animas foothills. He and Rivette scouted the area but saw no blood trail.

The gambler kneed his horse closer to the hills, his head lifted as he searched the mountain’s slope. Suddenly his mount started, then stood straight-legged as it scented something in the wind it did not like.

A rifle shot followed, and Rivette tumbled headlong out of the saddle.

Chapter 36

Oates passed Rivette at a gallop, jerking his rifle from the scabbard. He’d seen a sudden puff of gray smoke from the top of an aspen-covered rise just ahead of him. He threw his rifle to his shoulder and fired as he rode, dusting shots along the top of the ridge.

Still at a flat-out gallop, Oates hit the incline and urged the paint higher. Among the trees a man struggled to his feet, bringing up a Winchester. Oates fired, then fired again. The man staggered, dropped the rifle and crashed backward into the frosted underbrush.

Oates swung out of the saddle, hit the incline at a run and reached the top of the rise. He dived into the aspens, where the man he’d shot sat up and lifted a hand in supplication.

“Don’t shoot me no more, Mister,” he gasped. “I’m done.”

Oates turned, lifting his Winchester as he heard footsteps behind him. When he saw it was Rivette, he relaxed. “I thought you’d been hit,” he said.

“Bullet came damned close, that’s why I lit out of the saddle,” Rivette said. “I was looking for a hole to crawl in. Then I saw you ride past like a Comanche.” He looked down at the wounded man. “This the bush-whacker?”

“Yeah, that’s him,” Oates answered.

“Let me be,” the man whispered. “I’m all shot to pieces.”

“You should have considered that possibility before you tried to rob the stage,” Rivette said.

The puncher looked to be no more than eighteen years old, a redhead with freckles across the bridge of his pug nose. He had a fresh wound in his left shoulder and an earlier one just above his belt buckle. The front of his shirt was covered in black blood.

“Where’s Darlene and them?” Oates asked.

“I dunno,” the kid said. “They told me they’d be back with a doctor. Then as they walked away, I heard Clem laugh and I knew they wasn’t planning on coming back ever.”

“What happened at the Circle-T?” asked Oates. “Where is Tom Carson?”

“Speak truthfully boy, your time is short,” Rivette said. “You’ll meet your Maker soon and this isn’t the time to lie, no.”

“You two lawmen?”

“Yes, we are,” Rivette answered without hesitation. “And we don’t take kindly to lying.”

“My name is Randy Collins and my ma lives in El Paso, Texas. Her—her name is Agnes.” The boy lifted pleading eyes to Oates. “Tell her . . . tell her I’m sorry I was buried in foreign soil.”

“I’ll tell her,” Oates said. “Now, what happened at the Circle-T?”

A flurry of snowflakes landed on Collins’ face. Oates gently wiped them away.

“Tom Carson is dead,” the kid said. “Charlie killed him. He tried to make it look like an accident, but nobody believed him. He said that Mr. Carson fell off his hoss and hit his head on a rock, but everybody knowed that Tom Carson didn’t fall off hosses.”

“Darlene wanted it all in a hurry, huh?” Rivette asked.

“Yeah, an’—an’ I made the mistake of throwin’ in with her. Charlie said once the ranch belonged to Miss McWilliams, I’d be made top hand.” A frown gathered between Collins’ eyes. “Well, now look at me.”