The Man From Nowhere

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.”

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.”

“I thought it was strange, seeing all those tracks in that empty country.”

“Not strange if it was Apaches. But strange enough if it was white men.”

“Maybe it’s none of our business.”

“Everything that happens in this country that’s out of the ordinary is our business, Eddie. We live here, remember?”

“Want to take a ride out there tomorrow?” Oates asked. “I’d like to try the paint again.”

Yearly nodded. “Yeah, sure, we’ll take a look.” The old man shook his head. “Something about all this troubles me, but I’m damned if I know why.”

At daybreak Oates and Yearly rode east. The mustang, perhaps tired from its exertions of the day before, decided to cooperate and threw Oates only once before it settled down under saddle.

They rode through heavily forested country and the wind stirred trees not yet drowsy from the heat of the day. Victorio’s raids had left no scars on the land and the savage beauty of the high country was enough to take a man’s breath away.

Yearly had buckled on the Colt, the first time Oates had ever seen him wear a gun belt, and his Winchester was in the scabbard under his left leg. The old man rode warily, his eyes searching around him, and only after an hour of riding did he speak.

“Getting close, you think?” he asked into the quiet.

Nothing seemed familiar to Oates, but he nodded. “Must be, I reckon.”

Yearly drew rein, leaned from the saddle and studied the ground. “No tracks yet.” He smiled and pointed to a print in the sand just ahead of them. “Unless you count that.”

Oates looked. “Bear?”

“Cougar. There’s a few of them in these parts. They need space because a big male like the one that left that track takes in a lot of range, as much as three hundred square miles.”

“A heap of country,” Oates agreed, “for one cat.”

The old man smiled. “The cougar is no ordinary cat.”

A few minutes later they rode up on the creek. Yearly swung out of the saddle and Oates followed him. The older man was already down on one knee, studying the ground.

After a while he rose stiffly and said, “Shod horses all right. I’d say two hundred head of cattle, a wagon and easy thirty riders.” He looked at Oates. “Now, why would you need that many men to drive a small herd?”

Oates shook his head. “I don’t know, Jacob.”

“Heading into the Gila, no doubt about that. As far as I know, there are no ranches in there.”

“Rustlers?” It was a word Oates had heard often in Alma.

“Could be. But rustlers work in smaller numbers and they lift only a few head at a time. Why thirty men?”

Oates smiled. The old man had asked that question before and obviously didn’t expect an answer.

Yearly looked around him. “Something here doesn’t set right with me, Eddie. Too few cattle for so many men. It doesn’t make sense. Who would bring an army into the Gila and why?”

“To protect the cattle from Apaches, maybe?” Oates suggested. “Victorio was beat at Alma, but he’s still out.”

“I hope that’s the case,” the old man said. He looked at Oates with wintry eyes. “The ranches around this part of the country are all well established and I figured the time of the range wars was gone for good. I’d sure hate to see it come back again. Those were hard times for everybody.”

“You think that’s why there are thirty men with those cattle? They want to claim some other rancher’s grass?”

Yearly swung his horse around. “I don’t know,” he said. His lined face, the color and texture of old saddle leather, was like stone.