Joseph West - The Man From Nowhere - A Ralph Compton Novel

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?

Chapter 25

Jacob Yearly’s cabin had afforded Oates, for the first time in his life, a measure of, if not happiness, then contentment. And he was reluctant to leave.

The old wagon was still there, and after a struggle during which he was kicked three times and bitten once, he hitched up the mustang to the traces and spent the rest of that day at Black Mountain cutting and loading lava rock.

He had no idea if the Mormon trader would be back, but if he did return, he’d expect to see a supply of cinder block.

That evening he bathed in the creek, then mended gear and worked around the place. After a supper of chili made with canned beef, beans and spices he’d found, he went to bed just after dark and slept soundly.

Next morning, still groggy from sleep, Oates sat on the stoop of the cabin door and drank coffee in the cool dawn air.

He saw the rider from far off.

Oates laid his cup on the stoop, went inside and buckled on his gun belt. He returned, sat once again and took up his cup.

As the rider came closer, Oates studied him, and was unimpressed.

He was a small, frail-looking man sitting a worn saddle on a moth-eaten, one-eared mule. The rider wore a high-button suit, a plug hat and looked uncomfortably hot in a celluloid collar and red-and-black striped tie. Chinless, he had a top lip that overhung a small, prissy mouth. Perched on a prominent, thin nose, very red at the tip, were a pair of pince-nez spectacles. As he rode up to the cabin, Oates saw that the little man’s eyes were pale green, the whites shot with a tracery of scarlet veins.

Hung from his saddle were a carpetbag and a rectangular leather case, carved with the initials PJP.

The man drew rein on the mule and smiled, revealing widely separated teeth the size and color of pinto beans. “Good day to you, sir,” he said. “A fine morning, is it not?”

Oates allowed that it was, then said, “Passing through?”

“Oh, deary me, yes. Passing through.”

“The Apaches are out. A thing you should have been told.”

“Not any longer. I was assured by an army officer in Alma that the cavalry have driven the savages out of the Gila and back into Arizona.”

“He should know.”

The little man sat back in the saddle. “My name is Peter Jasper Pickles, by the way. I travel in ladies’ undergarments of an intimate nature.” He patted the leather case. “My products tend to be of a practical rather than ornate nature. As Mrs. Pickles once told me, speaking of bloomers, ‘Peter Jasper, the costume of women should be suited to their wants and necessities. Bloomers should conduce in a trice to their health, comfort and usefulness. And while bloomers should also not fail to conduce to their personal adornment, they should make that end of secondary importance.’ ” Pickles bobbed his head. “A very wise woman, my wife, and quite the expert on ladies’ undergarments. Oh, deary me, yes.”

Oates saw no evidence on Pickles of a hideout gun and the man looked exactly what he claimed to be, a small, timid, henpecked drummer who traveled in practical, cotton bloomers.

“Something wicked this way comes . . .” but surely it couldn’t be Peter Jasper Pickles.

“Name’s Eddie Oates and I’ve got coffee on the stove,” Oates said.

“Thank you, Mr. Oates, but I don’t indulge.” He tapped his stomach. “Dyspepsia, you understand. Mrs. Pickles always says that the sovereign remedy for dyspepsia is three tablespoons of warm cow’s milk taken night and morning. As in all things, she is correct, for the milk sweetens my stomach and keeps the dreadful ailment at bay.”

“Where you headed, Pickles?” Oates asked.

“A town named Heartbreak. It’s to the east of here.”

“I’ve heard of the place, but I’ve never been there.”

Oates wondered if he should be heeding the alarm bell ringing in his head. “It’s a fair piece.”

Pickles smiled. “Everyone says exactly what you do, Mr. Oates, that they’ve heard of the town but never been there.” He tapped a forefinger to the side of his beaky nose. “But I’ve heard on good authority that the place is full of women, attracted by the lure of rich silver miners. Where there are females, there is a market for bloomers, Mr. Oates. And I go where the customers are.”

He leaned forward in the saddle, as if he were about to impart a great secret. “I’ve heard that many of the marriage-minded young ladies who flock to Heartbreak go partway by barge up the Gila River. If you’ll forgive a little salesman humor, the miners call the barges ‘the Fishing Fleet.’ ”

Pickles slapped his thigh and laughed, a thin, high-pitched wail. “I told that to Mrs. Pickles as a good joke, but somehow she failed to appreciate its drollery.”

Oates nodded and managed a smile. “Yeah, it’s funny.”

The little man lifted his hat, revealing a bald head thinly covered by strands of combed-over hair from just above his left ear. “Well, I have a long journey ahead of me and I must be on my way. It’s been wonderful talking to you, Mr. Oates.”

Pickles looked over Oates’ shoulder to the open cabin door. “That is, unless you have any ladies to home?”

“Nary a one,” Oates said, shaking his head. “I’m all by myself.”

“Ah, too bad.” Pickles swung his mule away. “Well, good day to you, sir.”