The Man From Nowhere

Chapter 19

Nellie screamed as Eddie Oates picked up his rifle and left the cave, fading into the night. He stood close to the wall of the ridge and his eyes tried to penetrate the darkness.

Another shot was followed by a wild, agonized shriek. Then came another flurry of firing that seemed to go on forever. Then silence. Oates heard the water falling from the top of the ridge, splashing into a hollowed-out rock tank at its base.

“Sammy,” he whispered, “where are you?”

“Over here, Mr. Oates.”

“Are you hit?”

“I’m not hit, Mr. Oates. Wasn’t nobody shooting at me.”

Oates shook his head. What the hell . . . ?

Sam Tatum emerged from the darkness a few moments later, a large, hulking figure, the coffeepot in his hand. “I got the water for Miss Nellie’s coffee,” he said.

“Get back into the cave, Sammy.”

“Should I put the water on to bile, Mr. Oates?”

“Yes, Sammy. You do that. Now go.”

After Tatum left, Oates followed the line of the outcrop, heading wide of the stand of pines in front of the cave. High-heeled riding boots are not built with stealthy walking in mind, and Oates was convinced that every rock he kicked and twig he snapped could be heard clear to Alma.

He stopped often, listening into the night. Once he was sure he heard the distant drum of a running horse, but he wasn’t sure. The moon had untangled itself from the pines and was riding high, its bladed silver light deepening the malevolent shadows. He smelled gun smoke and it drifted gray and silent as a ghost among the trees.

Stooping low, his rifle across his chest, Oates stepped into the stand of pines. He looked back at the cave and saw why the besiegers’ gunfire had been so ineffective. The cave lay at a slightly higher elevation than the trees, so the only part visible was the roof, now bathed in the flickering orange glow of the fire.

There was little undergrowth between the pines and the ground was carpeted in needles. His heart hammering, he stepped carefully, heading deeper into the trees. A few moments later he found his first dead man.

The body was lying on its back, the eyes wide-open, staring into nothingness. The man had been shot twice in the chest, the wounds so close, Oates could have covered them with a playing card. He was dressed like a puncher, but wore a gold and diamond ring on the little finger of his left hand and his Colt, gun belt and boots were of the highest quality. He may have been a drover once upon a time, but this man hadn’t nursed cows for a living in years.

Oates found five more bodies among the trees, all of them with the look of gunmen, their eyes open in the startled stare of the violent dead. The campfire was in a hollow twenty yards away, and a coffeepot still steamed on the coals. Two dead men lay by the fire. The man who had been gut-shot had been dispatched by a bullet between the eyes. The other had managed to draw, but his gun was still clenched in his hand. He’d tried, but he’d been too slow by a mile.

Oates’ eyes searched the uneasy night. Had this been the work of Apaches, a hit-and-run raid from out of the darkness?

He immediately dismissed that question. No guns or horses had been taken, prizes the Indians would not have passed up. Besides, Apaches seldom attacked at night. As many dead men could testify, they would, but they were not real keen on the idea.

He and Stella had accounted for one of the dead. Who had shot up the remaining McWilliams riders and killed six men, seven if the apparent mercy shooting of the gut-shot man was counted?

The only man Oates could think of who might have that kind of gun skill was the Tin Cup Kid. But the Kid owed him nothing. Why would he play guardian angel? It just wasn’t the man’s style.

Oates picked up the pot from the fire and poured himself coffee. He was grateful to whoever had intervened, but now it was time to move. Come daylight, Darlene McWilliams would be sure to check on the state of the siege and when she found her men dead and him and the women gone, she’d come after them.

Oates finished his coffee and returned to the cave. Replying to the question on Stella’s face, he said, “They’re all dead.”

“Apaches?”

“I don’t think so. I’d say a white man . . . or men.”

“But who—”

“I’ve got no idea.” He didn’t mention the Tin Cup Kid to Stella. The name would mean nothing to her. Instead he said, “We have to get out of here. We’ve got horses now, if Nellie can ride.”

“She’ll ride. She’ll have to.”

Oates smiled. “Then pick a direction, huh?”

Stella did not return his smile. Her face serious, she said, “There’s only one direction—east. We were headed for Heartbreak and that’s where we’re going. All that stands between us and a new life are the miles.”

Hesitating, weighing the consequences of what he was about to say, Oates finally suggested, “You could leave Darlene McWilliams’ money in the cave, Stella. Then she might let you be.”

The woman shook her head. “Not a chance. The five thousand will buy us a fresh start in Heartbreak. We can open our own house and Sam will help us run it. I’m telling you like I told Darlene, we earned that money and we’re not giving it back.”

Oates nodded. “Well, good luck to you, Stella. I reckon I’ll stay around here. I still have a score to settle with Miss McWilliams.”

“No, you won’t stay around. You’re coming with us.”

It was pin-drop quiet in the cave and Oates looked around him. Lorraine and Nellie were staring at him, accusation in their eyes. Even Sam Tatum seemed disturbed. Oates’ eyes lingered on the two women. Nellie was deathly pale, fragile as porcelain, and Lorraine had aged in the past three months. Her face was lined, tired, the stained, ragged nightgown she wore under her mackinaw covering her like a sack.

“You’re all we got, Eddie,” Lorraine said. “We can’t make it to Heartbreak without you.”

“Hell, I’m a drunk,” Oates said. He felt trapped, corralled. “I failed you once. I could do it again, anytime, anyplace. All it will take is a whiskey bottle.”

“Like I said,” Lorraine replied, smiling wanly, “you’re all we got. Once upon a time you may not have been much, Eddie Oates, but, Lord help us, we need you now.”

Stella laid a hand on Oates’ arm. “Darlene McWilliams will be coming after us. Don’t you think you’ll have plenty of chances to get even?”

Oates’ shoulders slumped in acceptance of defeat. Lorraine was right: maybe he still wasn’t much, but he owed these people a debt for sentencing them to three months of hell. He had not yet repaid them in full.

He looked at Tatum. “Sammy, bring in my horse and find four others over by the pines. Also, if you see any grub over there, bring that too. And make sure the horses are carrying rifles in the saddle scabbards and pick up any spare ammunition.”

The boy bent his head, his mouth moving as he repeated Oates’ instructions to himself. Finally he looked up, smiling. “I’ll do that, Mr. Oates.”

“Good man, then go get it done.”

After Tatum had gone, Nellie lay on her side, her chin in her hand, and looked at Oates. “I can’t ride,” she said. She sipped the coffee Sam had made for her. “There’s just no way I can sit in a saddle.”

“Yes, you can,” Lorraine said. “Let your wounded ass hang off the side.”

The girl looked annoyed. “You’re such a whore, Lorraine.”

“I know. But you’ll ride. You want us to leave you here for Clem Halleck and them?”

Nellie shuddered, her eyes shading from defiance to fear. “I guess I can ride,” she said.

“I guess you can at that,” Lorraine said.