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

He leaned over Nantan, looked at her closely, then straightened and addressed Oates again. “She’s sleeping peacefully, and that is a good sign.”

“What did you do to her, you—”

“I gave her a mild opiate, Eddie, that’s all. She will sleep for a while and feel no pain.” Pickles laid a hand on Oates’ wounded shoulder and squeezed hard, the wolf gleam in his eyes. He grinned when Oates winced.

“Now, dear Eddie, I could also complete this task by killing everyone in Heartbreak and simply taking the money. But all that blood and death becomes tedious and above all, time-consuming. And time is not really on my side. To tell you the truth, Eddie, Mrs. Pickles says I’m getting too old for this profession and really should retire soon.” He looked wistful. “She’s such a caring woman, my lady wife.”

Oates’ mouth was dry, but he made an attempt to spit in Pickles’ face. The effort was a failure. But the revulsion and contempt that drove it were clear.

“That was ill-mannered and crude, Eddie,” Pickles said. “And I’m so very disappointed in you.”

Pickles took a step back, measured the distance between him and Oates and lashed out with the back of his hand. The man had unexpected strength, and the power of the blow snapped Oates’ head to the left, then to the right as another slap smashed into his cheek.

Growling deep in his chest, Pickles continued to punish Oates, almost slapping him into unconsciousness. When it was finally over, Pickles was smiling again. Oates tasted blood in his mouth and a veil of scarlet shrouded his left eye.

“Eddie, that is how I discipline a recalcitrant child. I beat the defiance out of him . . . or her.”

Pickles shook his head. “I’m sorry it had to come to that, but you were so naughty, Eddie, you forced me to it.” He studied the other man’s face. “Now, tell me what you have to do when you get back to Heartbreak.”

Oates stared at the man, uncomprehending.

“Eddie, concentrate. You know, I can wake the native girl and I can hurt her really bad while you watch. Oh dear, don’t tell me that will be the way of things.” The man’s tone suddenly became harsh, grating, a voice from the lowest reaches of hell. “Tell me, you pathetic little wretch.”

“Get the money,” Oates whispered.

“Louder!”

“Get the money! Bring it here.”

“When, Eddie?”

“Two days from now.”

“At what time?”

“Now. This time. Morning, I mean.”

“And if you don’t?”

“You—you’ll kill everybody.”

Pickles smiled. “Oh, well done, Eddie. Mrs. Pickles would be so proud of you, a chastised child who has at last seen the light.”

He turned and looked at Nantan. “She will wake soon and you two can be on your merry way,” he said, turning to Oates again. “I’ll keep you bound to the tree, Eddie, but I’m sure you’ll soon work yourself loose. Oh, by the way, I helped myself to the choicest cuts of your venison. I knew you wouldn’t mind.”

Pickles reached under his slicker and produced a candy stick. “Now, sweets for the sweet, a treat to enjoy while you’re freeing yourself from your bonds.” The gunman broke off a large chunk of the candy, stepped closer to Oates and rammed it forcefully into his bloody mouth.

Oates gagged as the stick stuck fast in his teeth and throat. He tried to spit it out, but the candy was jammed tight and he felt blood and saliva trickle down his chin.

Pickles laughed. Suddenly the gunman’s face was transformed, no longer the weak-chinned features of a harmless drummer but something else . . . something demonic, frightening, without compassion or a shred of human empathy.

“Your little Indian whore called me evil, Eddie,” Pickles said, grinning as he watched Oates choke, writhing against the rope that held him to the cottonwood. “And you know, she’s right. I am evil, and I do so enjoy it.”

He stepped away. “Until two days hence, then. And Eddie, don’t try to eat the candy so fast. I declare, you’ll make yourself sick.”

Pickles was laughing as he swung onto his mule. And he was still laughing as he opened the umbrella over his head and rode into the tumbling rain.

Chapter 32

Eddie Oates knew he was in danger of choking to death.

The jagged chunk of stick candy had been driven so hard and deep into his mouth that he could only take thin breaths through his blood-filled nose.

His chest heaving, he twisted against the rope, trying to free himself, but it had been looped around his chest and waist several times and then tied tight.

Oates bent his head, trying to spit out the candy, but it was stuck fast.

Again and again he felt himself drift into unconsciousness, but each time he forced himself to stay awake. If he passed out, he’d suffocate.

Blood filled his mouth, now sticky with melted sugar, and trickled thickly down his throat. His chest on fire, he coughed and gagged, struggling to breathe. But Oates knew he was fighting a losing battle. The day crowded in on him like a black fog and he surrendered to darkness. . . .

Oates felt his head being jerked upward, someone’s fingers yanking roughly on his hair.

He opened his bulging, bloodshot eyes and Nantan’s face swam into view, hazy and indistinct. The girl thrust two fingers into his mouth and hooked the candy stick. She jerked it out, looked at the candy in disgust as it trailed saliva, then angrily threw it away.

Oates frantically gulped air into his lungs, like a drowning man who is suddenly shot to the surface of the sea. “Thank you,” he gasped. “You saved my life.”

Nantan made no answer. She had stepped behind the tree and untied the knotted rope.

Oates fell forward onto his hands and knees where he dragged at the air, his wet hair falling over his face. He stayed there for a long while, spitting blood from his mangled mouth, then rose unsteadily to his feet.

Nantan leaned wearily against the cottonwood, the right shoulder of her shirt crimson with blood. Oates picked up the slicker and draped it around her. He held the girl close, whispering meaningless words, telling her she was going to be fine . . . going to be all right . . . even though he didn’t know the extent of her injury.

Around them, clouds hung low in the sky and shrouded the mountains and trees in somber gray, as though they were wearing mourning garments, grieving for the dead sun.

Gently, Oates sat Nantan at the base of the cottonwood. The canopy provided little shelter from the rain, but he didn’t want the girl walking around until he found a dry place to check on her wound and if need be, spend the night.

As far as Oates could tell, there was no shelter anywhere and, despite the cottonwoods, the creek seemed to offer nothing.

“Stay there and don’t move,” he told Nantan. After the girl nodded in reply, her wounded eyes lifted gratefully to his, he walked to the water’s edge. And what he saw pleased him.

At a shallow bend in the bank the floodwaters of the spring snowmelt had gouged deeply, creating a space about four feet high and half that deep, roofed by a tufted overhang. At that point the tumbling creek was separated from the hollow by a sandbank that was at least ten feet wide.

It would do, but Oates knew he was going to have a devil of a time transforming the crumbling gouge in the bank into a rainproof shelter.

He checked on Nantan again, then searched the ground where he’d lost his knife during his wild charge at Pickles. After a few minutes he found the knife and stuck it in the sheath on his belt.

Fortunately there were plenty of fallen branches scattered along the creek and Oates roughly sharpened their butt ends and carried them to the hollow. He drove the pointed branches deep into the sandy edge of the overhang, and when he decided he had enough, he went in search of leafier specimens.