The Man From Nowhere

Chapter 37

Oates and Rivette rode north into the teeth of the keening winter wind. A few flakes of snow cartwheeled around them and the leaden sky promised more to come.

They smelled the chimneys of Heartbreak before they crossed a rise, then rode across the bridge onto Main Street.

Despite the snow flurries, there were people on the street. There was no sign of Darlene McWilliams.

Rivette looked around him at the glittering lamps in his saloon, lit against the darkness of the afternoon. “A day like this makes a man feel glad to be home, huh, Eddie?” he said, smiling.

“My home is where Nantan is,” Oates said. “I’m sure of that.”

“Well, Nantan is here, so that makes Heartbreak your home, right?”

“Nantan and me are passing through, Warren. Just passing through.”

Rivette waited until they were in the livery and had stripped the rigging off their mounts before he brought up the subject again.

“You didn’t mean that, about just passing through?”

“There’s nothing for me here,” Oates answered, scooping oats to the horses. “Come spring, I think Nantan and me will head west a ways. I always believed that if I fell on hard times, I might prosper in the lava rock business.”

Rivette took off his hat and ran his fingers through his thick black hair before he once again settled the Stetson on his head. “Eddie, you and Nantan can’t leave this town. You were here from the beginning and you’re as much a part of it as any of us. Hell, Stella is already driving me crazy, planning on all the clothes she’s going to buy your little girl.”

“It could be a boy,” Oates said, smiling.

“Nah, Stella and Lorraine say by the way Nantan is carrying, it will be a girl. Nellie says it’s a boy, but I think that’s only to cross Lorraine.” Rivette grinned. “Nellie has become real uppity since she started walking out with Luke McCloud”—he made a face—“my esteemed competitor in the saloon business.”

“She could do worse. McCloud looks like he’s thriving.”

Rivette shrugged. “I guess a man who struts around with a diamond stickpin and carries an extra ace in his sock is thriving. I don’t like him much.”

The gambler looked into Oates’ eyes. “Eddie, don’t even think about leaving Heartbreak. Me, Stella, everybody else in town need you here. You get a long Yankee face on you sometimes, but you’re a rock, and this town needs a rock to prop up its shaky foundations.”

Rivette smiled. “Tell me you’ll think this thing through before you do anything rash.”

“I’ll think about it, Warren, but I can’t make promises, not right now.”

“Well, that’s good enough for me. Now get home to the increasingly generous bosom of your family.”

“You look so cold, Eddie, frozen stiff,” Nantan said. She helped him off with his coat and hat and sat him by the fire. “I have good hot soup ready. That will warm you.”

As he ate the soup, Oates told Nantan about the dead puncher and what he had said about Darlene McWilliams.

“She’s got nothing against you, Nantan, but be on your guard just the same,” he said. “Don’t go out anywhere unless I’m with you.” He looked at his wife. “Promise me.”

“Of course, Eddie, I promise.”

Oates ate in silence for a while, then looked around at what Nantan, who had learned it from the nuns, called the parlor. The shabby room had little furniture and what there was had been bought secondhand or scavenged from abandoned houses and showed more than its share of scratches, dents and wear. But the wood floor was scrubbed to a honey color and chairs, settee and table gleamed from constant polishing.

It was a warm, homey and welcoming place and Oates found it easy to understand why Stella and Rivette spent so much time here, away from the plush, red velvet and brass splendor of the Golden Garter.

The hot soup and warm fire had relaxed him, and as he wiggled his toes to the flames, he realized just how lucky he was to have Nantan. She was already showing, but not hugely, and the cheap, gingham dress she wore accented the curves of her slim figure. Her hair was drawn back in a loose bun that complemented her broad, high cheekbones and gave full play to her vivid black eyes.

Oates allowed to himself that his wife looked what she was, a Lipan Apache girl disguised as a respectable Victorian matron. But he wouldn’t have her any other way or, no matter how she might change in the future, love her more.

Night fell and the snow fell heavier. The north wind prowled around the house and set the doors to rattling on their hinges. Red and orange flames guttered in the fireplace, sizzling now and then as melted snow dropped down the chimney.

Someone knocked on the front door, waited a few moments, then knocked again.

“Who would be out on a night like this?” Oates asked, surprised, as he rose to his feet.

“Probably Stella.” Nantan smiled. “She thinks she has to bring food to the pregnant woman at all hours of the day and night.”

Oates padded to the door on his sock feet, then opened it a crack.

The door slammed into him with tremendous force, slamming Oates against the wall to his right. Mash Halleck, looking tall and terrifying in a bearskin coat and hat, went after Oates as he tried to rise. Halleck brought down the butt of his rifle on Oates’ head and before he passed out, he heard a woman’s voice yell, “Don’t kill him, you idiot! We need him.”

It was Darlene McWilliams’ voice.

A cold wind rushing through the door helped Oates come to his senses. He rose groggily to his feet and staggered into the parlor. He had not been unconscious for long, because the fire still burned as before and the lamps were as bright.

The only difference was that Nantan was gone.

Oates called his wife’s name several times, but there was no answer. Then he saw the knife that pinned a note to the table. He worked the knife free, took the note closer to a lamp and read.

If you want to see your wife again, do as you are told. We will be in touch. If you try to trick us, Clem Halleck will cut the baby from the squaw’s belly.

YOU KNOW DAMNED WELL HE WILL.

There was no signature, but Oates knew what had happened. Darlene McWilliams had Nantan.

Oates pulled on his boots, then buckled his gun belt. He quickly shrugged into his blanket coat and knotted the ties of the fur hat under his chin. He grabbed his rifle, and, with one last look at the parlor where the woman he loved had been only a few minutes before, he rushed out of the house and ran through the snow to the livery stable.

Oates rode across the bridge, following tracks that were being rapidly obliterated by the snow. He had not considered for one moment asking Rivette for help.

Nantan was his wife. The responsibility was his and his alone.