The Man From Nowhere

Chapter 21

As the women and Sam Tatum stretched out in the meager shade of a twisted cedar and slept, Oates maintained his lonely vigil at the mesa rim.

Less than twenty minutes after he’d sighted the mysterious rider, Darlene McWilliams and her brother had led a dozen men through the trees, following in the man’s tracks. The Halleck boys, father and sons, were among them.

She’d brought her wagon with her. The big freight with its huge, iron-rimmed wheels was slowing her down, but she seemed unwilling to be separated from her ill-gotten fortune by leaving it behind with the herd.

Oates shook his head in frustration. Now Darlene and her gunmen were ahead of him, cutting off the route to Heartbreak.

Maybe, once he and the others cleared the Gila, they could swing north and go around their pursuers. But there was a problem: Where exactly was Heartbreak?

Stella had only a vague idea, and it was possible they could wander in the wilderness forever, or at least until they starved to death or were overtaken by winter. They might end up hoping the Apaches would arrive and put them out of their misery.

Oates rose to his feet. Tired as he was, he no longer wanted to watch helplessly from the mesa while events unfolded below him. He made up his mind. It was time to find out where Darlene was headed and see if there was any way of avoiding her.

Quietly, Oates saddled the paint and filled his canteen, then kneeled and gently shook Stella awake.

He quickly told her what he’d seen from the rim. Then, fearful of waking the others, he whispered, “I’m going after Darlene and her boys. I need to know where they’re headed.” He smiled. “Once I find out, we can take a different route.”

Alarm showed on Stella’s face. “You’ll come back?”

“Of course I’ll be back. I’ll return before dark.”

Stella laid her fingertips on the back of Oates’ hand. “Be careful, Eddie. The Hallecks are a handful just by themselves. You might be riding from one kind of trouble into something a lot worse.”

Oates’ smile grew. “Don’t worry, Stella. I’m not that brave, you know.”

Oates headed east along a confused trail of horse and wagon tracks left from the morning. The land began a steep ascent and he rode through forests of fir, spruce and aspen. Once a huge black bear watched him from the dappled shade of the trees, then shrugged, deciding that he was nobody of importance.

After a mile the wagon tracks turned northeast, along the rim of a canyon that Oates guessed carried the unquiet waters of the Gila River. Riding closer, he saw that the walls of the bluffs were at least two hundred and fifty feet high, and, as Darlene McWilliams and her men had done, he gave the canyon a wide berth.

Now the terrain abruptly sloped downward and Oates rode through a high desert woodland of cedar and piñon, with sycamore growing closer to the creeks near the canyon.

The day was very hot, the burning sun well up in a sky the color of washed-out denim. The wind felt like a dragon’s breath, and under his high-button coat Oates’ shirt was sticking to him with sweat. He drew rein, shrugged out of the coat and draped it over the back of his saddle. Then he wiped the damp brim of his fancy plug hat and settled it back on his head.

He was jumpy, on edge, not liking the situation. By rights he should go back, get the others together and convince them to return to Alma. Now that the Apache menace was over, Cornelius Baxter and his vigilantes might welcome them with open arms. He could forget Heartbreak, forget avenging the death of old Jacob Yearly and resume his career as . . . what? Town drunk?

Back at the mesa, he’d more or less told Stella that he was a coward, and maybe he was. That thought was always at the back of his mind, keeping company with the whiskey bottle.

Oates’ shoulders slumped in the saddle. Returning to Alma was a way, and once he would have accepted its path. But it was his way no longer. He must keep telling himself that. . . .

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.