The Man From Nowhere

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 by 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.”