The Man From Nowhere

Chapter 24

Tom Carson reached up and placed his hand on Darlene’s.

“Mr. Oates, you’ve been lied to by a whore,” he said. “You see, shortly after she arrived, I met Darlene in Alma. She told me she’d sold her ranch and was looking to buy a new property. Of course, what she and I did not count on was that we’d fall in love at first sight. That very night in Alma, I asked her to marry me and she consented.”

“The best and easiest decision I ever made in my life,” Darlene said.

Oates was stunned. “How did she explain her long absences, the time she spent chasing after Stella?”

“She wanted her money—”

“Our money,” Darlene corrected.

Carson smiled. “Yes, our money. She wanted it back from the woman who stole it from her. I can’t blame Darlene for that.”

“But the gunmen . . . Clem Halleck and his pa. The others . . .”

“Mr. Oates,” Darlene said sweetly, “I hire drovers, not gunmen.”

The woman had spoken softly, smiling, but her suppressed rage was almost like a malevolent physical presence in the room.

His voice choking in his throat, he knew he was losing. “Mr. Carson, this woman hid out in a canyon in the Gila, maybe fearing the hemp posse that was after her would not stop at the border. Was that the act of an innocent person?”

Carson opened his mouth to speak, but Darlene beat him to it. “I was a stranger in a strange land and the Apaches were burning and killing everywhere. I was very afraid and I had to protect my men and my herd.” She raised an eyebrow. “Under those circumstances, wouldn’t you have hid out in the Gila, Mr. Oates?”

“Damn it, you killed my friend, old Jacob Yearly, a man who wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

“I did try to buy his cabin, yes. But that was before I met Tom. You and that insane old man threw down on my cowboys and killed three of them.” She hesitated. “That was murder, Mr. Oates.”

“Darlene,” Oates said with great finality, “Stella Spinner might be a whore, but I’d take her word over yours for anything. You’re a damned liar.”

Carson jumped to his feet. “I’ve heard enough. Oates. I said you’d changed, but you’re still a damned drunk. By rights I should gun you right where you stand for the insults you have leveled at my future bride. But I won’t kill a man I invited under my roof and who ate my food.”

He strode to the door and opened it wide. “Garcia, see this man to his horse and escort him off my land.”

Oates rose and walked out the cabin door. Garcia was waiting for him.

“Mr. Carson,” Oates said, “be careful. She will try to kill you.”

The door slammed in his face and Garcia said, “Please, this way, senor.”

The vaquero rode with Oates back to the hill country between the mountains. Before he turned and rode away, he said, “Best you don’t come back here, senor. It is for your own good I’m telling you this.”

“Everything I said to your boss was the truth,” Oates said. He couldn’t understand why he was doing that, trying to justify himself to this man.

Garcia shrugged. “The patrón doesn’t take me into his confidence, so I don’t know about these things.”

Without another word, the vaquero swung his horse and headed back the way he had come.

Oates watched the man leave, then headed east, a sense of utter defeat weighing on him. Love at first sight . . . marriage . . . she’d done it all so quickly.

Darlene McWilliams had won.

The day was waning and darkness would soon find him as Oates saw Black Mountain rise against a rose-colored sky tinted with gold and scarlet.

Acting on a sudden hunch, he rode toward old Jacob’s cabin, and as he’d expected, the herd was gone. Darlene McWilliams must have given orders to move her cattle onto Circle-T range that very day. She was losing no time in her bid to take over Tom Carson’s ranch.

Oates approached the cabin warily, fearful that a few of Darlene’s riders might have stayed behind. But there was no sign of life and every staring window was a rectangle of blackness.

He stepped out of the leather, let the mustang’s reins trail and opened the door, his gun in hand. His mouth was dry and his heart thudded in his chest.

But inside he saw only gloom, the last of the afternoon light seeping through the cabin window, forming a tracery of misty gray where shadows lurked.

Everything pointed to a hasty exit. An empty whiskey bottle was tipped over on the table, dirty dishes lay everywhere and the blanket that had covered the door to the bedroom was torn down and trampled underfoot. Jacob’s old leather chair was gone, and in its place was a rickety bench that had been hurriedly cobbled together.

But the fire he had set had not done the damage to the bedroom Oates had expected.

Darlene had slept on Pete Yearly’s bed and the dresser in the room was scorched but had still been usable, as some spilled face powder attested. Apart from that, she had taken everything she owned with her, and only the powder suggested that the woman had ever been there.

Oates left the cabin and walked down to the cookhouse. Greasy pots and dishes were scattered all over the rough pine table and rats scurried at his approach. But to his joy he found an unopened sack of coffee, a coffeepot and cans of beef, peaches and vegetables.

Throwing his finds into an empty flour sack, Oates returned to the cabin.

It was now fully dark and he lit a lamp against the gloom, then stepped outside again to take care of his horse.

Oates was not hungry, but he was tired from the long riding of the day and the reception he’d received at the Carson ranch. Yawning, he stretched, then carried the lamp into the bedroom. He removed his boots and hat and hung his gun belt on the bed, close to hand.

That done, he blew out the lamp and stretched luxuriously on the protesting cot and was asleep almost instantly.

The horned moon rose, nudging at the stars that filled the sky, and the night crowded close around the cabin. Out in the corral, the paint lifted its head, listening to the yips of hunting coyotes. It whinnied softly and stomped a foot, made restless by the wind that explored among the trees and set the open cookhouse door to creaking. Somewhere an owl asked its question of the witching hour, then looked around with luminous eyes, seeking an answer.

Eddie Oates slept on, wandering in darkness.

The moon dropped lower in the sky and the brilliance of the stars grew in intensity. A big dog coyote, old as sin, trotted toward the corral. But the mustang threw up its head and reared, and the coyote turned and slunk away like a shadow.

Oates stirred and his eyes flew open, staring into a black wall. Then he turned and saw firelight cast a scarlet, flickering rectangle on the floor.

He rose and padded on sock feet into the cabin.

The room had changed. Everything was back to what it was, and Jacob Yearly sat in his chair, smoking his pipe, an open book on his lap. Without turning, the old man smiled and said, “Howdy, Eddie. It’s been a spell.”

Oates stepped closer. Jacob’s eyes shone like rubies as they caught and held the firelight.

“I’ve come to warn you about something, Eddie. Something wicked this way comes.”

“It’s Darlene McWilliams,” Oates said. His voice sounded hollow, as though he was talking in a tunnel.

“It’s a man, Eddie. But you’re right, she’ll still be the worst of them.”

“Who is this man?”

“You’ll know him when you see him.”

“Jacob, I’m having a dream. Isn’t this a dream?”

The old man nodded. “Yes, this is a dream. But the man I’m telling you about will be a nightmare.”

“How will I know . . .”

Eddie Oates woke, lying on his back on the bed. He stared up at the rafters where the spiders live. Daylight streamed through the door to the cabin and outside he heard the song of morning birds.

He swung off the bed and stepped through the door. The room was as he’d found it the day before and the ashes in the fireplace had many days ago gone cold.

Oates slumped onto the bench, his face in his hands. He’d had a bad dream, was all. Drunks like him had them all the time. They saw and spoke to things that breathed and hissed and moved but weren’t there.

He rose and stepped to the table and picked up the whiskey bottle. On the label it said KENTUCKY STRAIGHT BOURBON, but inside the bottle was as dry as mummy dust. Oates held the neck to his nose. The odor was still there, the vibrantly complex, buttery aroma of oak, sherry wine, leather, creamy vanilla and dried fruit. Saliva jetted from back corners of his jaws and his head swam.

He held the bottle at arm’s length, his eyes again caressing the label. Then he threw the bottle against the far wall, where it exploded into a thousand fragments.

Oates turned and he saw the open book on the bench. It had not been there before. He couldn’t have missed it. He picked up the volume and looked at the title, William Shakespeare’s Macbeth.

The book had been opened to act 4, scene 1. His eyes quickly skimmed over the lines but stopped abruptly when he read the words of the Second Witch: “By the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes.”

A vague, unfocused fear spiked at Oates. Despite the warmth of the morning sunlight streaming through the cabin window, he shivered. He carried the book back to the bedroom, where he threw it on the cot.

Old Jacob had warned him. But about whom . . . or what?