The Man From Nowhere

Chapter 13

That night after supper Eddie Oates was quiet, lost in thought. He sat at the fireplace, where Yearly had a log burning against the chill of the night. The old man’s head was bent to a book as he smoked his pipe.

Outside in the darkness the silence had come and even the ceaseless wind seemed hushed, spreading its gossip in a thin whisper.

Yearly lifted his head and peered over the top of his book. “Eddie, you’re as quiet as a woman’s heartbeat tonight. You got the croup, maybe?”

The younger man smiled and shook his head. “I just remembered the names of the three women and I can see their faces clear. Funny that, how my brain’s started to work again.”

“You mean the three whores?”

“Yeah, Miss Stella, Miss Lorraine and Miss Nellie. As far as they were able, they were good to me.”

“Whores with hearts of gold,” Yearly said.

Oates laughed. “I wouldn’t go that far, but if they were in the chips, they’d always buy me a drink.”

The log cracked and a shower of bright red sparks rose into the chimney.

“So, what’s your drift?”

“I got to be moving on, Jacob. I have to find them.”

“Humph,” the old man muttered. Dismissing Oates, he went back to his book.

Slow minutes passed, the only sound the snap of the burning log and puff of Yearly’s pipe.

Finally the old-timer looked up again. “When would you leave?”

“Tomorrow, Jacob. It’s been almost three months. You’ve taken care of me long enough.”

“I figured we’d start cutting lava rock again tomorrow.”

“Jacob, I have to find them.”

Yearly nodded. “Well, if your heart’s set on it, I won’t try to change your mind. You can take the paint.”

“Thanks, Jacob. I appreciate this.”

“Hell, I can’t ride him anyhow. Getting too old for ornery horses.”

The old man again went back to his book, but, though minutes passed, he did not turn a page.

He looked up again and studied Oates. Then he cocked his head to one side, thinking, and sighed deeply. “It’s time, Eddie,” he said. “I’ve studied on it and I think it’s what Pete would have wanted.”

“Pete?”

“My son. He died a while back. That was his room and why I keep it locked.”

Oates trod carefully, easing into what he had to say. “You never talked about him until now.”

“No, no I guess I didn’t.” Yearly sat quiet for a few moments, then said, “Pete was an ambitious kid, and he wanted no part of his future to be mining cinder block. He was always talking about leaving this wilderness and heading for Denver or New Orleans. Figured he could make his mark in a big city.” The old man relit his pipe. “But travel takes money and Pete spent every penny he ever earned.”

The smoky fragrance of the log mingled with the musk-scent tobacco odor of the old man’s pipe, a down-homey smell that made Oates feel completely at ease. Pete had probably sat in this very chair, smelling that same smell as he looked across at his pa reading Dickens or Scott. But his heart had not been here. In his mind’s eye he was seeing Denver with its fine brick buildings, elegant hotels and restaurants and its beautiful, expensive women all got up in the latest Paris fashions.

Denver was a far cry from Black Mountain and this wild, rimfire country that a man either loved on sight or hated with an abiding passion.

Yearly was talking again. “What’s it been . . . five years? Good Lord, has it been that long? Pete tried to make a fast score. He held up a stage outside of Alma and the shotgun guard killed him.”

The old man was silent for a moment, then said, “Mash Halleck was the guard, back then being more inclined to honest labor. I thought about going after him and killing him, but I couldn’t justify it, not in God’s eyes or my own. Halleck had been hired to do a job and he did it. You can’t fault a man for that.”

Yearly let out a long, shuddering sigh, then rose to his feet. He reached into his pocket and produced a key. “Bring the lamp, Eddie,” he said.

After the old man unlocked the bedroom door, Oates followed him inside. He placed the lamp on the dresser and looked around. The wooden bed had been made up with loving care and was covered with a bright, patchwork quilt. Pete’s hair brushes, pomade and shaving gear were still on the dresser.

A pair of shotgun chaps hung from a nail on a wall and a Winchester stood in a rack along with a black cartridge belt and empty holster.

It looked like Pete had just left and would be back soon, though the room smelled of a place left unused and uninhabited for too long and dust lay thick everywhere.

“Pete was a small man like you, Eddie,” Yearly said. “And slender like you.”

He crossed to a pine armoire and opened it wide. Without a word he removed a high-button, gray suit and laid it on the bed. A collarless shirt, still folded from the general store, followed, then a wool felt derby hat with a stingy brim.

Yearly reached into the bottom of the armoire and came up with suspenders and a pair of Texas boots with two-inch heels.

“This was Pete’s dress-up-go-to-Denver outfit,” he said. “He never got to wear it. I want you to have it, Eddie.” The old man smiled weakly. “I’m getting mighty tired of seeing you in them rags you wear.”

Oates shook his head, confused. “Jacob, I can’t—”

“Yes, you can. It’s what I want and what Pete would’ve wanted. Call it an old man’s whim, if you like.” He picked up the suit coat from the bed and held it up by the shoulders. “See if this fits.”

Oates hesitated and Yearly said, “Try it, Eddie. This once, do as I ask and please me.”

Reluctantly, Oates crossed the floor and shrugged into the coat.

Yearly stepped back to admire him. He smiled. “Perfect. A perfect fit.”

“I can’t take this, Jacob.” Oates felt like he’d been backed into a corner. “It doesn’t feel right.”

“It does to me. Listen, Eddie, when I’m gone, somebody else would wear these clothes. I’d rather it was you. You look . . . like a gentleman and mighty handsome.”

Crossing to the gun rack, Yearly took down the Winchester and the gun belt. “In the bottom drawer of the dresser, Eddie. Bring it to me.”

Oates did as he was told and found what hefted like a gun, wrapped in an oiled rag. He passed it to Yearly.

“This was Pete’s Colt,” the old man said, unwrapping the blue, short-barreled revolver. “The Alma vigilantes buried him, then couldn’t remember the spot where they’d dug his grave. I searched, but haven’t found it to this day. But they did return his guns.” He slid the Colt into the holster, then held the gun belt out to Oates. “When you go after the Halleck boys, you’ll need this, and the rifle.”

Oates took off the coat and laid it on the bed. He did not touch the proffered gun belt. “I can’t take all this, Jacob. They’re your memories and you should keep them.” He managed a smile. “Besides, I’ve been to Denver and I’ll never go back.”

Yearly was silent for a long time and all at once he looked grayer and older than Oates remembered.

“Eddie,” he said, his voice tired, “at my age a man starts to feel death creep up on him, real close. Sometimes he sees his shadow on the ground and then suddenly there’s another one, right beside his. He doesn’t have to turn around, because he knows what’s there, tapping at his shoulder.”

Yearly’s eyes sought Oates’ in a quiet plea for understanding. “I’ve been seeing that shadow more often recently, feeling its weight, and I think my time is short. What I got, I want you to have, Pete’s stuff, this cabin, my horses and the little money I’ve set aside. You’re the only human being I’ve cared about since my boy died. It’s a hard thing for a man to say, sounds like I’m only talking pretties, but I’ve come to love you like a son and I never want to see you crawl into the whiskey bottle again.”

The less men think, they more they talk, and Oates knew this was a time for thinking. A hollow silence stretched between him and Yearly that neither man seemed inclined to bridge. But finally Oates accepted what fate had thrown at him.

“Thank you, Jacob,” he said. “I appreciate it.”

The old man smiled. “Damn right, you should. I’m a giving man.”

“One thing though, I don’t think you’re going to turn up your toes anytime soon.”

But in that prophecy—portent, augury, call it what you will—Oates was to be proven tragically wrong.