The Man From Nowhere

Chapter 5

The Mescaleros came just as the light of the spring day was fading and the sun was a red pool shadowed by rain clouds.

Four men riding wiry mustangs rode up on the creek, then sat their ponies, watching Sam and the three women as they huddled around a small, smoking fire.

“Well, they’ve arrived,” Stella said. “Hell, and just when the trout is almost cooked.”

A tight, frightened gasp escaped between Nellie’s lips. She was used to men, but the Apaches looked more like lean, hungry wolves. What appetites they might possess, she did not want to guess.

Stella rose to her feet and levered a round into the chamber of the Henry.

The Indians noticed and their black eyes glittered. For now at least, they would be wary of the rifle.

The Mescaleros slid off the backs of their ponies and approached the fire. All wore black headbands and were painted for war. Three carried Winchesters, the stocks decorated with brass and iron tacks, and the tall man who seemed to be their leader cradled a Sharps .50 in his arms.

“What do you want from us?” Stella asked. She motioned to the fire. “We have fish but too little to share.”

The tall man said nothing. He walked to Oates, lifted his head by the hair and stared into his face. “What ails this one?” he asked.

“He’s a drunk,” Lorraine said. “El es un borracho.”

The Apache nodded. “In the white towns, does this sit with men?”

“No,” Stella said, “he does not.”

“It is just as well.” The Apache let Oates’ head fall. “Would there be any honor in killing such a one?”

“No,” Stella said. “He’s sick and will die soon.”

The Apache raised his foot and contemptuously kicked Oates onto his side. The little man groaned, raised his knees to his chest and lay where he’d fallen.

The hard, obsidian eyes moved to Sam Tatum, measured the boy, dismissed him. A fighting man, the Apache could recognize that quality in others. He saw nothing in Tatum to alarm him.

But Sam read it wrong. The big Indian meant him harm.

The boy reached into his coat and pulled out the sketches he’d made. He proffered them to the Apache. “Pretty pictures,” he said. “A gift.” He waved to the women. “Pictures of them.”

Scowling, the Mescalero pulled the papers from Sam’s hand. He glanced at the drawing on top and bent his head to study it more closely. Then he looked across the fire to Lorraine, grinning.

He said something to his companions, and they crowded around him. Soon they were passing the sketches back and forth, laughing and slapping one another on the back.

Indians are notional, none more so than Apaches. Their meeting with the women could have ended badly but for Sam’s clumsy attempt to make friends. The sketches of three naked women splashing in the creek amused and excited them. For now it was enough.

A young warrior with a terrible saber scar down one cheek laid his Winchester on the ground and bounced his cupped hands in front of his chest. He pointed to Lorraine and grinned. Another lifted his breechcloth and slapped his naked rump. Again Lorraine was the target.

“I told you, Lorraine,” Stella said. “You’ve got a big ass.”

The tall man motioned to the others, and the Apaches immediately swung onto their ponies. They rode away yipping and hollering, and waving Sam’s sketches over their heads.

It was over, for now. The pictures of the naked women had satisfied them, something to show around the ranchería fires that night.

But it was the Henry that had tipped the balance, the rifle and the confidence of the cold-eyed woman who held it.

Stella leaned back against a cottonwood and brushed a lock of hair off her forehead with an unsteady hand. “For a moment there, I thought we were all dead,” she said.

Lorraine looked from the woman’s pale face to the Henry. “Can you use that thing?”

“I don’t know,” Stella said. “I’ve never tried. Where I was raised, the price of this gun would have kept my folks in grub for a year.”

Nellie was sitting on the ground, her face in her hands. She raised tear-stained eyes to the other woman. “It takes a man to shoot a rifle gun like that,” she said.

“Well, we don’t have one o’ them handy,” Lorraine said. “Now, let’s eat the fish before it burns to a crisp.”

Sam and the women shared the trout around their feeble fire. The trees were alive with wind and the rain was falling heavier, ticking from the branches.

Nellie looked over at Oates, who was still lying on his side, moaning softly. “What about him?” she asked.

“What about him?” Lorraine said.

“Shouldn’t we feed him?”

Stella looked at the younger woman with the cool, bruised eyes of the professional whore. “Sure, Nellie, you can give him yours.”

“I just said—,” Nellie protested.

“You’d only be wasting food, honey,” Lorraine said. She sounded as detached as Stella. “Unless he finds whiskey soon, he’ll curl up and die.”

“Why does a man get to be like him?” Nellie asked.

Lorraine shrugged. “Life, I guess.”

“Or he just can’t handle whiskey,” Stella said absently.

“Nellie, Eddie Oates is a man who might once have looked at his life stretching away from him and saw nothing but ten thousand miles of empty road,” Lorraine said. “Maybe that’s why he stays drunk all the time.”

Nellie shivered as drops of cold water fell from the trees and trickled down the back of her neck. Oates already forgotten, she said, “Stella, what are we going to do?” She hugged herself and tried to get closer to the fire. “I’m scared, Stella.”

“We’re all scared.” Stella wiped her hands on the wet grass beside her. “There’s a town east of here called Heartbreak. Maybe we can make it.”

Lorraine smiled slightly. “Unless the Apaches get bored with the pictures and decide they want the real thing.”

“They’re men,” Stella said. “Of course they’ll want the real thing.”

“How far away is Heartbreak?” Nellie asked.

Stella shook her head. “I don’t know. Fifty miles, a hundred, I’ve no idea.”

“Do we even know it’s there?” Lorraine said.

“It’s there,” Stella answered. “I knew a girl who worked the line in Heartbreak. She said it was a fair-sized town, miners mostly, but there are some ranches around.”

Nellie brightened. “Miners are high rollers. We can set up in business, the three of us, run our own house.”

“Can I come, Miss Stella?” Sam asked.

“Sure you can. I think there’s money to be made from you, Sam. I just have to figure a way how.”

“What about Mr. Oates? Can he go to Heartbreak?” Tatum asked.

“If we can wake him.” Stella searched around in her carpetbag. She found a flat tin, opened it, took out a thin cheroot and held it up for the others to see. “Anybody else?” When no one answered, she lit the little cigar with a brand from the fire.

Another search produced a nickel-plated Smith & Wesson .38 with ivory grips. Stella handed it to Lorraine. “Shove that in a pocket of your mackinaw,” she said. “It’s handy for up-close work.”

“So, when do we take the Heartbreak Trail, Stella?” the older woman asked, dropping the revolver into her pocket.

“We’ll sleep for a few hours, then hit the road while it’s still dark.”

Lorraine stared into the guttering fire for a few moments, then said, “Stella, it seems you’ve become our leader, so tell me: how do you rate our chances of reaching that Heartbreak place alive?”

Stella didn’t hesitate. “Slim to none, Lorraine, and slim’s already saddling up to leave town.”