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

“Or maybe you should have married one of those fancy ladies,” Lorraine said archly, “and made an honest woman of her.”

The gambler smiled and gave an elegant little bow. “Touché, dear lady.”

“All right, let’s start a search,” Stella said. “Eddie, bring us back an elk.”

“A real big, fat one,” Rivette said. “And see Nantan keeps you well clear of Pete Pickles.”

Chapter 31

Helped by Nantan’s skill as a tracker, Oates shot a deer eight miles south of Heartbreak, on the near bank of Seco Creek. In a teeming rain they skinned out the buck, wrapped the meat in the hide and loaded it behind Oates’ saddle.

“You see any sign of Pickles?” he asked the girl.

She shook her head. “He does not like the rain, I think. But he’s close.”

Uneasily, Oates looked around him, at the far bank of the creek where there were wide, grassy areas, and at the forested foothills to the west. All he saw was the wind moving among the pines, the only sound the rush of the creek and the hiss of the deluge.

“We’ll take the meat back,” Oates said, swinging into the saddle. “We can hunt again tomorrow.”

Nantan’s disturbed black eyes were fixed on his. “There is evil . . . here.”

Oates felt a wild spasm of fear. His head turned this way and that, searching into the gunmetal day. “I don’t see anything!” It was almost a shout. “Nantan, I don’t see a damned thing!”

“It comes . . . this way,” the girl said, shivering inside a slicker that was several sizes too large for her.

Pete Pickles came down out of the Salado Mountains riding his one-eared mule, a black umbrella spread like bat wings over his head.

Oates watched him come, then slid the Winchester out from under his knee.

Pickles rode on, and when he was close enough he smiled. “Eddie Oates, as ever was,” he yelled. “How are you my dear, dear friend?”

Oates said nothing.

Pickles rode closer and when he was a few yards away he reined up the mule. “Ah, the young native girl I met on the trail,” he said. “How unfortunate that we must always meet in the midst of a torrent.” He looked at Oates. “How are you, my friend?”

“Pickles,” Oates said evenly, “I’m not your friend.”

“Ah, but I am yours, Eddie. As dear Mrs. Pickles always says, a friend is one who knows you as you are, understands where you’ve been and accepts what you’ve become. By those criteria, I am your friend indeed.”

Pickles had a drip at the end of his large nose and looked like an inoffensive drummer who traveled in ladies’ intimate undergarments.

“Tell me what you want, Pickles, then give us the road,” Oates said. His knuckles were white on the stock of his rifle.

“Ah, as I tell Mrs. Pickles, the art of conversation is dead. It’s, ‘How are you, Mr. Pickles? How’s the missus? Now let’s get down to business.’ ” The little man shook his head, a movement that made his pendulous lower lip shake. “I believe people today lack contentment and that’s why the simple pleasantries of life are so often ignored.” He looked at Nantan, the rain drumming on his umbrella. “What is your opinion on that, my dear?”

Nantan straightened. “Leave us,” she said, her eyes frightened. “You are evil.”

Pickles nodded. “Oh well, I see there is no conversation to be had here, and just as I was about to invite you young people to share tea with me, had we been able to find a dry spot for our little tête-à-tête.”

He leaned back in the saddle. “First a little demonstration of my sincerity, then we’ll talk more.”

The man was fast, faster than Oates ever expected.

His hand went inside the yellow, oilskin slicker he wore, and then a short-barreled Colt was in his fist, belching fire.

The bullet hit the receiver of Oates’ rifle, stinging his hands, then ranged upward. The mangled .45 gouged a furrow along the front muscle of Oates’ shoulder, then hit the brim of his hat, jolting it off his head.

When the bullet hit the rifle, Oates’ numb hands let it fall. Now he grabbed for his belt gun.

“I wouldn’t,” Pickles said. His eyes were very green, slanted, like a wolf’s.

The muzzle of the man’s Colt pointed unwaveringly at Oates’ chest. His own gun had not even cleared leather and he let it slip back into the holster.

The sudden gunfire had spooked Nantan’s black pony, and she battled the horse, her bared thighs clamped to its sides.

“Unbuckle the rig and let it fall, Eddie,” Pickles said. He smiled. “Left hand, if you please.”

Oates knew he couldn’t buck the drop, and did as the man said.

Nantan had the black under control and Pickles smiled at her. “Are you all right now, dear? My, my, but you did give me a start.”

He was still smiling when he pulled the trigger and his bullet smashed Nantan from the back of the horse.

Oates screamed his rage and kicked the paint toward Pickles, reaching for the skinning knife on his belt. The gunman’s mule sidestepped like a prize cutting horse and as Oates swept past, Pickles smashed his gun down on his head.

Later, Oates would remember the world suddenly going dark. But he would not remember the sickening impact of his unconscious body hitting the ground.

Eddie Oates felt uncomfortable, cramped. He tried to move his arms, but they were held stiffly down at his sides. His legs wouldn’t work either.

Had he been buried alive? Panicked, he opened his eyes—and saw Pete Pickles’ face close to his own.

“Ah, the dreamer awakes.” The gunman smiled. “Tut, tut and tut, Eddie, that was a very foolish thing you did, viciously attacking me like that. Now look at yourself. All you’ve got to show for your impetuous behavior is a very sore head.”

“You son of a bitch,” Oates gritted, “you killed Nantan.”

He tried to move, to grab the little man around his scrawny neck, but the ropes that bound him to the trunk of a cottonwood held fast.

“The native girl is not dead, Eddie. A high shoulder wound is seldom fatal.” He turned and waved a hand. “Look.”

Nantan lay on her back, her head resting on Oates’ saddle. She was covered by the slicker and her eyes were closed . . . but she was breathing.

Pickles stared into Oates’ face again. “I abhor violence, Eddie, I really do. But this little demonstration was necessary. I very much need to conclude my business here and get back to my dear wife. I long to return to the bosom of my family, as you surely understand.”

“You’re dirty, low-life scum, Pickles. A woman shooter and a yellow-bellied coward. Untie me and give me an even break and we’ll have at it.”

The gunman shook his head. “And where is the profit in that, Eddie? No, here’s what we’re going to do. You and Nantan will go back to Heartbreak and tell that vile Stella person to hand over Miss McWilliams’ five thousand dollars. Say to her that Peter Jasper Pickles does not want to kill her, but that you and the native girl are proof of my determination to get back the money . . . ah yes, by hook or by crook.”

Pickles smiled. “Do you understand so far?”

“Go to hell,” Oates snapped.

“Good. Then we do understand. Two days from now—see, I’m allowing you plenty of time—you will return here and hand over the money to me. Then I’ll leave this country forever and you’ll be rid of me.”

The little gunman glanced at Nantan. “Now, Eddie, we can do this the hard way, if that pleases you. Simply put, I can take the native girl with me to guarantee your compliance in this affair. Of course, I won’t feed her or tend to her wound, so two days from now she’ll probably be dead.”

Pickles shook his head. “Must it come to that? Please tell me now, Eddie.”