He kneed the paint into motion and again followed the trail.
Oates crossed several shallow creeks as he headed northeast, parallel to the canyon that seemed to go on forever. He was riding through a stand of mixed piñon and cedar when he stopped suddenly and faded into the shadows.
Coming directly toward him was the hammering sound of a running horse.
Oates had left the trail at this point, though he’d kept it in sight. The big wagon needed open ground and had kept away from the wooded areas as much as possible. But, uneasy as he was, Oates had no such luxury. He preferred to stay to whatever cover he could find.
The rider, a man bent over in the saddle astride a tall, black horse, galloped past Oates’ hiding place. The running horse was kicking up such a cloud of dust that Oates caught only a single, fleeting glimpse of the rider; then he was gone. A few tense seconds passed; then four other horsemen rode into the dust, trailed by their own billowing, yellow cloud.
Whoever he was, the man on the black horse was the same rider he’d seen from the mesa that morning and Darlene McWilliams’ men were pressing him close.
Oates heard shots. Then the sound of the running horses faded into the distance.
Riding out of the trees, Oates considered his options. But since the enemy of his enemy could only be a friend, he knew what he had to do. He swung the paint around and set his heels to its flanks.
Dust swirled over him as Oates followed on the heels of the McWilliams riders. Now he heard a steady volley of shots ahead of him and he slowed the mustang to a walk. After a few hundred yards, the shooting grew louder and he swung out of the saddle and led the paint into the trees. He slid his Winchester from the scabbard and went ahead on foot.
The McWilliams riders had the man treed somewhere and were closing in for the kill. Oates’ mouth was dry and he was as nervous as a whore in church. He gulped down his fear like a dry chicken bone and walked forward, his rifle slanted across his chest. Four against one was not good odds. But four against two wasn’t a whole sight better.
A massive granite boulder blocked Oates’ path, a stand of prickly pear growing at its base. He rounded the rock and took in the situation at a glance.
The mysterious rider was holed up at the top of a shallow saddleback ridge. Dust still drifted in the air, so he’d obviously ridden up there. Scattered cedars grew along the hollow of the saddleback, and among them Oates saw the outline of a man’s head. He had removed his hat, or had lost it, and now and then he picked a target and fired his rifle. As far as Oates could determine, he had made no hits.
Falling away from the ridge was a gradual slope, covered by the rocks of an ancient lava flow. Here and there pines grew and the McWilliams riders were scattered behind the rocks and trees, shooting steadily. Their concealed positions allowed for movement, and as Oates watched, they advanced slowly up the hill, taking advantage of any cover.
Time was running out for the lone rifleman.
Oates considered opening up from where he was, but that would immediately attract the attention of four guns and, out in the open as he was, he could end up being shot to pieces.
Ahead of Oates the trail curved around two massive boulders, a grotesquely twisted pine growing in the notch between them.
Making up his mind, he covered fifty yards of flat ground and dived behind the rocks. Beyond was what he had hoped to see—four horses standing head-down at the edge of the trail.
He rose to his feet and levered a round into his rifle. When he was a few yards from the horses he fired between them, kicking up dust at their feet. The animals stood, ground-tied, right where they were.
Cursing, his hands shaking, Oates fired again—with the same result.
Outlaw mounts were trained to stand, no matter what, and these four were no exceptions.
“There’s somebody at the horses!” came a cry from the slope.
Suddenly a man was running toward him, a rifle in his hands. Oates levered a round and he and the man shot at the same time. A bullet drove Oates’ hat from his head, but the gunman was hit hard. He staggered back a step, crashed to the ground and his Winchester rattled down the slope.
Oates heard a shot followed by a shriek from somewhere higher up the slope; then he was running for his life. He plunged headlong into the trees, turned and dropped to one knee.
Two men came down the slope opposite, one sliding all the way on his rump, and ran for the horses. They mounted quickly, threw a quick glance at Oates, then slapped spurs to their mounts and galloped away.
Oates sprinted from the piñon and fired a couple of parting shots to keep the fleeing gunmen honest. Then his eyes lifted to the ridge. He saw no one and nothing stirred up there but the wind.
He climbed the slope and checked on the man he’d shot, a lean, hawk-faced youngster whom Oates recognized immediately. He was Mash Halleck’s son Reuben.
His face grim, Oates understood the implications. He had no doubt that the McWilliams riders had recognized him. By all accounts Mash was a vengeful man and there was no backup in him. He’d avenge the death of his son and keep on a-coming until he did.
Mash had been an enemy before; now he’d be a nemesis from hell.
Oates didn’t recognize the other dead man sprawled on the slope. He climbed up to the crest of the ridge and looked around. The mystery man was gone, his passage marked by a cloud of dust that was now sifting to the ground.
Whoever he was, he’d been wounded. He’d been hit during his fight on the ridge or sometime before. Blood spattered the rocks where he’d lain and a trail of scarlet spots in the sand led to where he’d mounted his horse.
How badly was the man hurt? There was little blood, but that didn’t mean much. He might only have been winged. But then, a gut-shot man doesn’t bleed out either.
Oates made his way back down the slope. He picked up his hat and wiggled a finger through the bullet hole in the crown. That had been too close. He set the hat on his head and mounted the paint, sitting the saddle for a few moments, undecided on his next move.
Finally he swung east again. He’d left the mesa to discover Darlene McWilliams’ whereabouts and that’s what he would do.
The sun was directly overhead and the land slumbered in the heat. Flies buzzed around Oates and tormented the mustang so that it constantly shook its head, making the bit chime. Among the trees the clear light changed constantly, shading from burnished gold to pale blue where the shadows pooled.
For a while Oates rode in the wagon tracks near the canyon rim, but then he swung wider, the heavily forested peaks of the Black Range just ten miles ahead.
There was always a chance that grim old Mash Halleck would search for his son’s body, and Oates had no desire to meet him and Clem on open ground with iron in their hands.
After thirty minutes Oates turned toward the canyon again, riding through aspen, ponderosa pine and then woods of cedar, piñon and sycamore as the high country fell away rapidly.
The air was crystal clear, spangled by shafts of sunlight, and after a mile the wide scar of the canyon came into sight. And something else became apparent—the smell of wood smoke. But this was not the scent of burning pine or creosote bush, but the harsh, acrid tang of old wood, probably oak and hickory.
Oates drew rein, looking into the quiet day. Ahead of him lay a gently sloping meadow of about ten acres, bright with the white and purple flowers of fleabane, verbena and Apache plume.
Where the meadow ended, a wooded area began and Oates was sure he saw a wisp of smoke rise above the trees.
He was not a man born to carefulness, but in this hard, dangerous land it was a trait Oates was rapidly acquiring. He scanned the meadow and the trees beyond, rested his eyes, then searched again.
Grass rippled in the breeze, tree branches stirred, but he saw no sign of humans. Sliding his rifle from the scabbard, he levered a round and kneed the paint into the meadow.
Wary now, his head moving constantly, Oates rode through the pasture and
with a sense of relief reached the tree line. He swung out of the saddle and advanced on foot, leading the horse through the underbrush.
The trees thinned and to his left he saw the canopies of several cottonwoods. He turned in that direction, then stopped dead in his tracks.
What he saw horrified him.
Chapter 22
Eddie Oates took in the scene with a single appalled glance.
Near a narrow creek stood the burned-out remains of Darlene McWilliams’ wagon. But what drew Oates’ attention were the two men hanging from a cottonwood branch, their bodies gently swaying in the breeze.
He led the paint out of the trees and walked to the creek.
As he drew closer he recognized the hanged men. They were the two gunmen who had fled the fight at the ridge. Both had been badly beaten before they were strung up as their swollen, bruised faces testified.
Oates looked up at the bodies, remembering the hanging of the Hart brothers back in Alma. But the brothers hadn’t been beaten like this. The older of the hanged McWilliams men had been battered so severely, one of his eyes hung on his cheekbone
Mash Halleck had begun to take his revenge, starting with the men who had abandoned his son.
At that moment, Oates knew he could expect no mercy from the Hallecks and could expect even worse torture. Both dead men had recognized him at the ridge and no doubt had spilled the beans to Mash, perhaps trying to bargain for their lives.
Leaving the mustang, Oates stepped over to the wagon. The treasure box was gone. The money sacks were probably now in the saddlebags of Darlene and her brother.
Had she tried to stop the hanging? Oates doubted that. Darlene was a cold, ambitious woman and the deaths of two of her hired hands would mean nothing to her.
Carefully, Oates scouted the area. There were no horse tracks beyond the creek and it was plain that Darlene and her riders had turned back at this point. Heading where? Oates hoped it was all the way back to the rustled herd, but somehow he doubted that.
Suddenly he was fearful for Stella and the others. If they’d left the mesa, even for a minute . . .
Oates ran to the paint and swung into the saddle, filled with a sense of panicked urgency.
Something was wrong, very wrong. He could sense it.
The day was dying as Oates headed back toward the mesa.
Only when he left the trees and rode across open ground was he aware of the enormous breadth of the sky. Shooting stars were falling to earth in a constant trail of sparks, and Oates thought that if he held his breath and was quiet enough, he’d hear them thump onto the grass and lie there, smoking like cinders.
Around him as he urged the paint forward at a trot, coyotes were talking in the darkness and once an owl swooped over his head and vanished among the moon-struck pines like a gray ghost.
There was an eerie, ethereal cast to the night and Oates felt he was being watched by eyes hidden in the trees that, full of moonlight, gleamed like opals.
He wiped damp palms on his pants, thinking of ha’ants and boogermen. Oates forced himself to smile. Fear has a way of making the wolf bigger than he is and it quickly changes the man back to the boy.
He had no reason to fear the night . . . only the all-too-mortal humans who stalked its caves of darkness.
The mesa revealed itself as a massive, hulking shape that blacked out a galaxy of stars. The moon bathed the land in silver light, but created shadows everywhere.
It took Oates ten frustrating minutes to find the faint thread of the switchback game trail, but once he did, the sure-footed mustang climbed willingly enough.
He reached the summit, let his stunned eyes read the scene before him, then swung out of the saddle and tried to piece together the disaster that had befallen his companions.
A blackened, burned-out cedar was his first clue. The tree had been set ablaze, accidentally it seemed, because the ashes of the small fire that could have caused it lay close to the trunk.
The blazing tree would have been a fiery beacon that would have been seen for miles. Had it attracted the attention of Darlene McWilliams and her riders?
Oates looked around and the flutter of something white caught his attention.
A sheet of paper had been pinned down by a rock. Next to it, wrapped in a scrap of cloth, were meat and bread. Oates made a sandwich and as he chewed, he held the paper up to the bright moonlight. Only one word had been scrawled on the paper: HEARTBREAK.
But under that, Sammy Tatum had made a quick sketch that showed five riders on a pine-edged trail.
Five riders!
Oates looked more closely. The three women were obvious, sitting their saddles with their skirts tucked up over the knees. But there were two men. One was Sammy, riding like a sack of grain, the other a tall man on a horse that the boy had shaded black.
The mystery man had seen the blazing tree and had persuaded the others to leave the mesa, probably pointing out that if he’d seen the fire, so might Darlene McWilliams.
They were now headed for Heartbreak, wherever that might be.
Oates finished the sandwich, then realized he was dog tired. He told himself that any decision he might make could wait until he had some sleep.
He led the paint to the patch of bunchgrass, loosened the girth, then stretched out on the bare rock and slept. The night closed around him and the smiling moon blanketed him in white light.
The dawning daylight woke Eddie Oates.
He rose to his feet and worked out the kinks in his back, grimacing. The mustang was grazing, though there was little grass left. But the little horse was used to making do and doing without and seemed none the worse for wear.
“Wish I could say the same thing about myself,” Oates groaned, rubbing at a persistent knot in the small of his back.
To the east, the sun had not yet risen above the mountains, but it was already doing its best to banish the night. The lemon sky was tied up with red ribbons and the topmost peaks and ridges of the shadowed Gila glowed with a halo of gold.
Stretching, Oates stepped to the edge of the mesa and his brown eyes studied the country below. There was no movement, no sound.
His immediate concern was not with Stella Spinner and the others. Whoever the mysterious rider was, he was good with a gun as he’d proven at the siege of the cave and later on the ridge. They were safer with the tall man on the black horse than they’d be with him.
As for Darlene McWilliams, she’d been hurt. She’d lost men and was still missing five thousand dollars of her money. But, thinking of old Jacob Yearly, Oates decided she had not been hurt enough.
Suddenly a plan came to him.
It was time to take the fight to Darlene, by a roundabout means certainly, but it might just work.
Of course, the plan hinged on his living long enough. And that was a mighty uncertain thing.
Oates tightened the cinch on the paint and mounted. He was wishful for coffee, a gallon maybe, hot and strong and sweet as sin, but he had none of that and dismissed the thought from his mind.
Where he was going there was plenty of coffee—if a man survived long enough to drink it.
Chapter 23
Eddie Oates rode west for five miles through wooded, hilly country, then swung due north. When he was directly opposite the eastern slopes of the Canyon Creek Mountains, he turned directly toward them. Several miles later he was among the foothills and calculated that Black Mountain and the scorched ruins of old Jacob’s cabin were now directly south of him.
Was Darlene McWilliams still holding her herd there?
Oates’ plan depended on her staying put. He doubted that she’d yet had time to move against other ranches where she could find better grass, more water and a supply of winter feed.
She might also want to hire men to replace the ones she’d lost, and that would take time, even in the high country where there was no shortage of footloose outlaws and gunmen looking for work.
Oates rode south until the conical bulk of Black Mount
ain loomed large in front of him. Remembering the ridge opposite Jacob’s cabin where a man could observe the country concealed, he swung out of the saddle and ground-tied the paint on a patch of tufted grass among the pines.
Taking his rifle, Oates headed for the ridge. The sun had begun its slow climb into the pale sky and the morning was already hot. Sweat trickled down Oates’ cheek, down his neck, and he wished he’d left his high-button coat with the horse.
A gradual slope, covered with prickly pear, sage and a few piñons, led to the ridge. Bent over, he made his way to the top, then looked out into the land spread before him.
Darlene’s herd was still there, strung out for a mile or so along the flat in front of the cabin. A few cows were grazing among the cottonwoods lining the creek where Jacob had made him take a bath, and Oates smiled at the memory.
To his surprise, the cabin had been repaired, the string and baling wire, make-do mending of gunmen, not carpenters, but it had a roof and new pine door. The corral had been extended to hold more horses, and a ramshackle bunkhouse and an equally rickety cooking shack had been built.
It was obviously the abode of transients. Darlene had her heart set on grander quarters and she’d no intention of living there for long.
A man left the cabin and walked to the bunkhouse where he stepped inside and left the door wide against the heat. After that, there was no other movement of man or animal.
Oates had seen all he needed. He backed away from the ridge and walked to his horse. He removed his fancy coat, folded it carefully and draped it over the saddle, then mounted.
He swung the paint west again, keeping close to the cliffs and mountain slopes of the Gila. By noon, riding through a forest of ponderosa pine, he reached Iron Creek Mesa, then headed northwest.
As he rode, Oates admitted to himself that he had very little idea where he was going. He desperately reached back through the alcoholic mists of his memory, remembering laughing, easygoing Tom Carson, one of the biggest ranchers in the state.
Ralph Compton The Man From Nowhere Page 11