Ralph Compton The Man From Nowhere

by West, Joseph A. ; Compton, Ralph

  The hot, drowsy day invited heavy-lidded slumber, but Oates forced himself to stay alert. To sleep now was to invite death.

  A sudden movement at the bottom of the ridge instantly attracted Oates’ attention. There! He saw him, about fifty yards away, an Apache crouched low, running for a clump of brush, a rifle in his hands. Oates shoved the Colt out the gun slot, sighted on the running warrior, and squeezed the trigger.

  The sharp bang of the .44 was loud in the cabin, but Oates was not aware of it. He looked through a drift of smoke but could see no sign of the Indian. The man had vanished.

  “Too far, boy,” Yearly said. “I seen him my ownself, but before I could draw a bead on him, he was gone.”

  “Maybe I winged him at least.”

  “You didn’t.” The old man’s tone of voice was such that it left no room for argument.

  A moment later Oates learned the hard way what it meant to fight Apaches.

  A bullet chipped wood from the top of the gun port, then ripped venomously across Oates’ neck before thumping into the far wall of the cabin.

  Stung, Oates reeled back and slapped a hand to his neck. It came away bloody.

  At the door, Yearly fired, sighted, fired again.

  “You all right, Eddie?”

  “I got shot in the neck. I’ve never been shot before.”

  “Stay there.”

  Yearly crossed the smoke-streaked room and glanced at Oates’ wound. “Yup, he burned you pretty good. You’ll live, though.”

  The old man retraced his steps to his post at the door. Oates said to his retreating back, “I never knew Apaches could shoot that good.”

  “Some can, some can’t, just like white men.” Yearly looked over at the younger man. “Fire a couple of shots. Let ’em know you’re still alive.”

  This time Oates approached the gun port more warily. He thumbed off a couple of shots in the general direction of the ridge, then ducked behind the cover of the cabin wall.

  There was no answering fire.

  “Nothing stirring out there,” Yearly said.

  Oates was feeding shells into the Colt with an unsteady hand. “Maybe they’ve gone.”

  He looked out the gun port. A wind strolled through the juniper on the ridge and above the Canyon Creek Mountains the white clouds were tinged with dark gray. Oates thought he heard a distant rumble of thunder.

  “They’re close, Eddie,” Yearly said suddenly.

  A whinny came from outside as the mustang reacted to a smell it did not like.

  “Damn it, boy, the Apaches are in the corral!” Without another word Yearly flung out the door, cursing a blue streak. Oates, his belly cartwheeling, went after him.

  There were three of them.

  One had a rope around the mustang’s neck. A second was leading the Morgan out of the corral. The third, a tall Indian wearing a soldier’s coat with sergeant’s stripes on the sleeves, stood by the corral gate, a Sharps .50 in his hands.

  Yearly and the tall Apache fired at the same time. The Sharps bellowed and kicked like a mule. The bullet split the air beside the old man’s head. Yearly’s shot took the Mescalero low in the belly. The Indian went to one knee, working his rifle.

  The Apache leading the Morgan wheeled and his rifle trained on Oates. He had no time to follow Yearly’s instruction to assume the duelist’s position. Oates held the Colt in both hands, shoved it out in front of him and fired. The Apache fell backward, his rifle spinning away from him.

  Yearly was firing. The tall Indian in the soldier’s coat was hit again. He rose to his feet and staggered, trying to bring his rifle to bear. Oates shot into him and the man took a couple of steps, then crashed onto his face.

  Both men swung their guns, looking for the remaining Apache, but the man had vanished like a puff of smoke.

  His ears ringing from the gunfire, Oates stepped through the smoke drift to Yearly’s side. “You hurt?” he asked.

  The old man shook his head. “You?”

  Oates didn’t answer. He looked at the dead Apaches. The tall man was the one he vaguely recalled seeing at the creek, the one who had laughed at Sammy Tatum’s drawings. The youngster by the Morgan had a scar on his cheek, and somewhere among the dim recesses of his alcoholic’s memory, Oates remembered him too.

  Then it slowly dawned on him—he had killed one of them and helped dispatch the other.

  Yearly saw the conflict in the younger man. “The first time is always hard,” he said.

  “They were alive and now they’re dead,” Oates said. “It’s a lot to figure.”

  The old man smiled slightly. “Would you rather it was you, lying facedown in horseshit? The Apaches knew what could happen and they took their chances.”

  Oates lifted his eyes to Yearly’s face. “I don’t feel anything, good or bad.”

  “That’s how it should be. A man should never feel good about killing another human being. But if he kills in a fair fight, when it was either you or him, he shouldn’t feel bad about it either.” The old man stepped over, closed the corral gate and turned to Oates again. “You catching my drift, Eddie?”

  The younger man nodded, never taking his eyes off the dead Apaches, and Yearly said, “You’ve killed your first man, but I got a strange feeling in my gut that he won’t be your last.”

  “I guess we should bury them,” Oates said. He watched the wind pick up a strand of the tall Indian’s hair and blow it across his still face.

  “Take their guns and ammunition belts, but leave the bodies where they lay,” Yearly said. “The Apaches will come for their dead.”

  “Damn,” Oates said, “but I could sure use a drink.”

  Chapter 11

  At first light Eddie Oates hitched the Morgan to the wagon. The Apaches’ bodies were gone.

  He and Yearly ate a hurried breakfast, then headed for Black Mountain. Oates carried the Colt in his pocket and the old man kept his rifle close.

  They loaded the cinder block they’d cut from the side of the peak earlier, then returned to the cabin. They saw no sign of Apaches.

  After several trips that morning, the stack of lava rock was growing and Yearly looked at it with a critical eye. “Eddie, I reckon we’ve got enough for now. The Mormon man only brings two wagons and I reckon he’ll have enough for full loads.”

  Oates was relieved. Cutting and loading cinder block was hard, dirty work, and pulling down aggregate to get at the rock kicked up choking clouds of red and black dust that worked its way into every crack and fold of a man’s hide. Some of the lava rock was razor sharp, and even the thick leather gloves he and Yearly wore did not protect them from cuts and scrapes.

  During the next week Oates practiced constantly with the Colt and Winchester and shot up all the .50-70 ammunition for the Sharps.

  Finally Yearly put a halt to it, complaining that if Oates kept this up, there wouldn’t be a shell left and the guns would be plumb worn-out.

  A few days later the Mormon, a man named Parker, showed up with two wagons, the second driven by a taciturn Texan who wore a long-barreled Colt on his hip as if it were part of him.

  By way of introduction, Parker, a large-jowled, affable man, said, “My silent friend here is the Tin Cup Kid. Now, there’s a gunman down El Paso way who claims the same handle, but this here is the genuine article, and he’s a bad ’un.”

  Parker grinned. “The Kid don’t come cheap, but we’re a long ways from Silver City and in this godless country his gun is a great comfort to me.”

  The Texan showed no reaction to Parker’s speech. His thin mouth was unmoving under his mustache, but his eyes were everywhere. He considered Yearly, dismissed him, then looked at Oates, where his hard, blue gaze lingered.

  “My associate, Eddie Oates,” Yearly said, waving a hand in the younger man’s direction. “He’s staying with me for a spell.”

  Parker touched his hat brim. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Oates.”

  “Me too,” Oates said. He was unsettled b
y the Kid’s steady, searching gaze. Did the man know him from somewhere?

  Yearly invited Parker inside, but the man politely refused. “Best we get loaded,” he said. “I want to make a fast turnaround this trip, with the Apaches out and all.” He looked at Yearly. “Had any trouble with them?”

  The old man nodded. “Couple of weeks ago, they tried to steal my horses. Eddie and me killed two of them and the third one skedaddled.”

  For the first time, the Kid showed a reaction. The intensity of his gaze on Oates increased and he looked him up and down, from the shabby shoes on his feet, his ragged pants and the battered, shapeless hat he wore, another of Yearly’s castoffs.

  The gunman seemed puzzled for a moment, but then his face settled into its usual hard lines and he said nothing.

  “I guess you heard what happened at Alma?” Parker asked.

  “Saw Apaches carrying their dead,” Yearly said, “so I guess the town still stands.”

  Parker nodded. “A posse of local ranchers lifted the siege, but not before thirty-one whites were killed, including an army sergeant.”

  “The mayor, a man called Cornelius Baxter,” Oates began, “is he still alive?”

  “Why, yes, now you ask, he is. Friend of yours?”

  “No. We’re not friends.”

  This exchange again attracted the Kid’s interest. Oates didn’t notice it, but Yearly did.

  Parker clapped his hands. “Well, what do you say, Mr. Yearly, shall we get started?”

  The Tin Cup Kid took no part in loading the wagons. He stood off to one side, his restless eyes never still. Now and then he took time to build and light a cigarette, a habit to which Texans were much addicted.

  Parker saw Yearly give the gunman an irritated glance now and then, and he grinned and said, “Don’t mind him, Mr. Yearly. He won’t soil his hands with manual labor. Calloused hands are not good for a draw fighter.”

  After the wagons were loaded, Parker and Yearly settled accounts. The Mormon had brought the old man supplies, and those he deducted from the price of the lava rock.

  When their business was concluded to both men’s satisfaction, Parker climbed into the seat of his freight wagon.

  “See you again in a couple of months, Mr. Yearly,” he said. “I trust you’ll have another load for me then.”

  “Count on it,” the old man said.

  Parker slapped the reins and his mule team started forward. The Kid followed. The gunman gave Oates one last look and to everyone’s surprise touched his hat. “See you around, Oates,” he said.

  Oates and the old man sat in chairs in front of the cabin to catch the flaming glory of the sunset. The lilac evening was cool and a fretful wind searched everywhere for something it had lost. Quail called from among the sage, listened into the silence, then called out again.

  “Nice feller, that Mr. Parker,” Oates said. He had become much taken by the pipe, though he had not yet mastered the art of keeping the thing alight and was looking into the bowl as though trying to discover the secret there.

  “He’ll do,” Yearly said. He looked over at Oates.

  “What do you think of the Tin Cup Kid?”

  “A gunfighter. He’s got the look. I knew one of those in Alma, a gambler by the name of Warren Rivette. He had the look as well.”

  “The Kid thinks you have it.”

  Oates laughed. “Jacob, I’m not a gunfighter.”

  “You’re as good with the Colt and rifle as any man I’ve seen, and I’ve seen plenty.”

  “I can’t shuck the iron from a holster fast, and I’ve never even tried.”

  “A man doesn’t need to be fast. He has to be able to hit what he’s aiming at, and you do.”

  Oates sat with the cold pipe in his hand, silent and thinking. The burning sky touched the angles of his face with fire and shadowed the hollows of his eyes and cheeks.

  Finally he said, “What is the look, Jacob?”

  “I don’t know, boy, but whatever it is, you’ve got it. The Kid knew that, and a man in his line of work can’t afford to be mistaken.” Yearly shrugged. “Hell, could be it’s something inside a man that others sense, danger maybe, a look in his eyes that says back off.”

  Oates laughed. “Jacob, the only thing inside this man is the town drunk.”

  “You looking for sympathy, Eddie?”

  “Hell, no. I’m stating fact is all.”

  “Nobody forced you into the whiskey bottle.”

  “Seems to me that I didn’t have much of a choice. What chance does a poor, orphaned boy have to make his mark in life?”

  “I knew it. You are looking for sympathy.”

  Oates’ smile was forced. “But I’ll get none from you, huh?”

  Yearly did not answer that question, but asked one of his own. “That day you stole the jug of whiskey, did somebody come along the creek bank and force it down your throat?”

  “You already know the answer to that.”

  “Tell me again.”

  “Damn it, nobody forced me.”

  “And when you stole money and kept on stealing to buy more whiskey and took menial jobs no other white man would take, somebody forced you then?”

  Oates did not answer. His jaw set and stubborn, he looked up at the sky where the scarlet was fading to bands of jade and dark blue.

  “You crawled into the whiskey jug of your own free will, Eddie, because it was the easiest way. And of your own free will you’ll have to crawl back out again.”

  Oates looked at the old man. He wanted to say, “I have crawled out of the jug and I’ll never touch the stuff again.” But he knew that was a promise written in the wind. Instead, he smiled and said, “You’re a hard and uncompromising man, Jacob Yearly.”

  “Maybe. But I reckon I’m just a man who tells things as I see them.”

  Yearly rose to his feet and picked up his chair. “The sky’s shading into black, Eddie. Time to have us a bite o’ supper.”

  The old man had rebuilt the bridge between them, and Oates willingly stepped on it. “We cutting cinder block tomorrow?”

  “No. Tomorrow I’m going to teach you to ride. A man can’t get anywhere in this country without a horse.”

  “Jacob, you think I’m ready to go after Mash Halleck and free those women?”

  “I think soon, Eddie. I think very soon.”

  “Am I good enough?”

  “You asked if you were ready and I told you. Nobody said anything about being good enough.”

  Chapter 12

  By Jacob Yearly’s count the paint mustang threw Oates eight times, adding a kick to the shins on the last go-around to reveal his irritation.

  After Oates rose painfully to his feet and began to dust himself off, the old man said, “Brace him again, Eddie. He hasn’t been rode for a spell and he’s feeling his oats.” Yearly smiled. “It sure ain’t like riding the buckskin, is it?”

  Oates had started out on the buckskin. It was an easygoing horse who seemed to know he had a pilgrim on his back and constantly shifted its weight to keep Oates in the saddle.

  “Nothing like,” the younger man agreed. “He’s a demon.”

  “He’s a good hoss, though. He’ll keep going all day and be content to eat bunchgrass or cactus come sup pertime.”

  “Sure you didn’t slip some o’ that cactus under his saddle, Jacob?”

  “Nah, I wouldn’t do that, Eddie. Hurt the hoss’ back. Now climb aboard and show him who’s boss.”

  Again by Jacob Yearly’s count, the mustang threw Oates another six times. On the seventh try, the paint settled down and allowed Oates to ride him out of the corral. But as soon as the little horse saw open ground ahead of him, he got the bit in his teeth and took off hell-for-leather.

  The old man watched horse and rider disappear into the distance and shook his head. “I guess I should’ve warned you about that, Eddie,” he said, talking only to a cloud of dust. “He will do it, especially after he’s been penned up for a spell.”

&nb
sp; After thirty minutes, Yearly began to worry. An hour passed and he worried even more.

  He’d decided to saddle the buckskin and go searching, when Oates and the mustang rode back to the cabin.

  The old man looked up at the rider and said, “What in tarnation happened?”

  Oates grinned. “He ran me for a spell. Then I got his head turned and we rode in circles. Well, after a while he got tired of that and decided to be true-blue.” He patted the paint’s neck. “He’s a good horse, Jacob, once you get used to his ornery little ways.”

  Yearly smiled. “This here was a cutting pony and he can turn on a dime. Riding him around in circles like that, he was in danger of disappearing up his own ass.”

  “I never thought of that,” Oates said.

  “Well, climb off’n him and walk him around for a spell. Once he’d cooled down you can put him back in the corral.”

  Oates swung out of the saddle. “Walk with me, Jacob,” he said.

  Yearly knew the younger man had something to tell him, but he let Oates do it in his own time. Finally Oates pointed in the direction he’d just come from. “What’s back there, Jacob?”

  “Well, for one thing, more of the Gila. Then there’s canyon country and farther east than that, the Sierra Cuchillo.” Yearly gave Oates a sidelong glance. “Somewhere in all that wilderness is Heartbreak, the place where your women and the simple boy were headed.”

  Oates thought about that, then said, “I don’t know exactly. Maybe after three miles, I rode up on a creek. I saw a lot of tracks, cattle and horses it looked like, and they seemed to be heading into the Gila.”

  “Were the horses shod?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “A man would know if he looked close enough.” After that mild rebuke, Yearly thought for a few moments, then said, “Could be Apaches driving stolen cattle. There are ranches to the north and west of us could be missing cows.”