The Man From Nowhere

Chapter 41

Despite his protests, Nantan insisted that Eddie Oates spend the next two weeks in bed while the wound in his side healed.

By the third week he was up and around, and even in that short time Heartbreak had grown. The permanent population was now almost a hundred, swollen to several times that number by wintering miners and roistering punchers.

The stage now stopped on a regular basis, and Bill Daley was moved to lodge a formal protest with Wells Fargo, complaining that he was losing the passenger food trade.

During his confinement, Rivette and Stella visited often, but, busy with their own businesses, did not linger long.

Unable to find odd jobs, Oates grew restless. He had twenty thousand dollars, enough for him and Nantan to live in some style, but he needed something useful to do, a task that would make him feel he was truly part of the community.

The parasite label the city fathers in Alma had stuck on him still rankled. He never wanted to be branded with that mark of shame again.

Sitting by the fire one night as a gnawing wind prowled around the house like a hungry wolf, Oates brought up the matter to Nantan.

“I thought we could move on,” he said, “to a place nobody knows me, Arizona maybe, or Texas. We can get a fresh start, the three of us.” Nantan was sitting at his feet and he stroked her hair. “I reckon I could prosper in the hardware business.”

Nantan turned her head and looked at him. “I will go where you go, Eddie.”

“You don’t mind leaving here?”

She did not answer that question. “It is a wife’s duty,” she said. She turned away and watched the flames dance in the fire.

“I’ll make you happy, Nantan.”

“I’m already happy.”

“Happier.”

“I don’t know how that could be, like trying to add more water to a full jug.” She smiled at him. “It can’t be done.”

“I’ll try, trust me.”

In the silence that followed, the logs in the fireplace cracked and crimson sparks rose into the chimney.

“I hear that there are no hard times in the Arizona Territory,” Oates said finally. “Silver is being mined in the Dragoon Mountains and a nearby town called Tombstone is booming.” He nodded to himself, but said aloud, “Yes, indeed, no hard times coming down in Tombstone.”

Oates turned his head as someone pounded on the door. Then it opened and a voice called out, “Is the Oates family to home?”

“Come in, Warren,” Oates yelled.

Rivette stepped inside, a few flakes of snow on the shoulders of his sheepskin. After the usual pleasantries, he said, “We need both of you down to Hermann the German’s place. Town meeting and you should be there.” He smiled. “There’s coffee and Lorraine baked a cake, if you can believe that.”

Oates shook his head. “Warren, Nantan and me have been talking. We plan on moving on as soon as the weather breaks. Maybe the Arizona Territory.”

The gambler seemed to take it in stride. “Well, at least come down for the cake. You two have been cooped up in this house for weeks. How is the side, by the way?”

“Healed up mostly. Warren, I—”

“I like cake, Eddie,” Nantan said. “Can’t we go?”

Unwilling to refuse his wife anything, Oates made a gesture of surrender. “All right, we’ll go. But I’ve got nothing to contribute to a town meeting.”

“You’d be surprised, Eddie,” Rivette said slyly.

The restaurant was crowded with people when Oates and Nantan walked inside with Rivette. Judging by the grins on most of the male faces, they’d earlier decided to fortify themselves with something stronger than the proffered coffee and cake.

Stella was there with Sam Tatum and Lorraine. Nellie, dressed in jewels and fine silk, was clinging to the finely tailored arm of Luke McCloud. He and Rivette exchanged cool nods, no love lost between them.

Willing volunteers found a seat for Nantan, brought her cake, and generally fussed over her, much to the dazzling Nellie’s obvious chagrin.

After Nantan was settled, Rivette called for order. “We all know why we are here tonight,” he said, “to honor a man who has done more to bring about the revival of Heartbreak than any of us.”

As hearty shouts of “Hear, hear!” rang out, Oates looked around, trying to figure who was being honored. Hermann the German, fat and jolly, was beaming, nodding to everyone. Well, he deserved it. His restaurant had been a much-needed addition to Heartbreak.

“I should also add . . .” Rivette waited until all the whispers had died way. “I should also add that the man we have invited here is the bravest and coolest hand in a shooting scrape I have ever known.”

A man yelled, “Huzzah!” and Oates realized, to his surprise, that many of them were looking in his direction.

“Mr. Eddie Oates, will you please rise,” Rivette said.

To loud applause Oates rose to his feet, his cheeks burning.

The gambler stood in front of him. “Before you arrived here, Eddie, by unanimous vote, all present agreed to appoint you as town marshal, at a salary of”—Rivette waited until the noise faded—“eighty dollars a month!”

Amid more cheering, he leaned forward, winked, then whispered in Oates’ ear, “You’ll be the richest town marshal in the history of the West.”

Rivette turned away and faced the crowd again. “Now all that remains is to present Marshal Oates with this silver badge of office”—he produced a five-pointed star from his pocket and held it up for all to see—“made, at great expense, I might add, by an Italian craftsman in Silver City.”

There was more cheering and Rivette held out the star to Oates. “Look, see right here? It says ‘Marshal.’ ” He looked into Oates’ eyes. “Will you accept the appointment, Eddie? This town is your home. We, all of us, respect you and we need your cool head.” He grinned. “Especially when I become mayor.”

To Oates, it seemed that Alma was already a distant memory and the move to Tombstone forgotten. He pinned the badge on his coat. “Everybody . . . I . . . well, thank you, and of course I accept.”

“Three cheers for our new marshal!” Hermann Schmidt yelled.

Nantan rose to her feet and smiled at her husband. “Is this our home now, Marshal Oates?”

“Of course it is.” Oates grinned. “Where else would we go?”

After the huzzahs were done and the handshaking was over, the restaurant began to clear out until only a few people were left.

Sam Tatum approached Oates shyly, a framed picture in his hand. “Marshal, I made one of these for Mr. Rivette and one for you.” He smiled. “I sure hope you like it.”

Oates took the drawing and grinned. It showed him and Rivette. To minimize the height difference, the gambler sat in a chair, Oates standing beside him. Tatum had caught them perfectly, two Western men sporting big, dragoon mustaches, looking grim and determined against a winter backdrop.

“It’s great, Sammy,” Oates said, warmly taking the boy’s hand. “I plan to hang this on my wall.”

“In the marshal’s office, huh?” Tatum said.

“Sure thing, in the marshal’s office.” He smiled. “On the wall opposite the door where everybody is bound to see it.”

Nellie and McCloud were next to give their congratulations, followed by Stella and Lorraine.

“Now, you two,” Lorraine said sternly, “what this town needs, in addition to a doctor and a bank, is children. After this one is born, you get busy making more babies.”

Nellie, conscious of her elevated status as a kept woman, sniffed. “Get busy making more babies. How very crude. You’re such a whore, Darlene.”

“Takes one to know one, Nellie,” Lorraine said.

Eddie Oates looked around him as people left, the smile on his lips fading. He touched his tongue to his dry top lip.

God, he needed a drink.