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

Keeping to the pine and juniper forests as much as possible, Oates followed Seco Creek to the Salado foothills, then, as the morning grew brighter, swung north at a walk, constantly eyeing the arroyos and rock ridges.

He deeply felt the loss of his rifle. If Pickles opened up on him at a distance, he’d be in a world of hurt. By all accounts the man was an expert with the long gun, and the revolver riding high on Oates’ hip brought him little comfort.

As the sun rose higher, light streaming through the trees made a play of dappled shade and around him bees were already buzzing among the blossoms of the wildflowers. Once he spotted a buzzard quartering the sky above him and several antelope passed him at a distance, on their way to the creek to drink.

After thirty minutes Oates rode up the south fork of Palomas Creek, and beyond to the north, the high-shouldered bulk of Panther Peak was outlined against the mist blue sky.

There was no sound, no sign of life, and it seemed that even the animals had already sought shelter, prepared to drowse through the coming heat of the day.

Oates drew rein, suddenly beaten. Trying to find one man in this wilderness was an impossible task. He also had the uncomfortable feeling that Pickles could be playing with him, letting him come on while his rifle sights were squarely on his chest.

Oates made up his mind. He would cross the creek and head north as far as the craggy peak rising more than six thousand feet above the flat. If he saw no sign of Pickles he’d head back to Heartbreak.

But to turn tail would be a disappointment, to say the least. The man owed Oates for what he had done to Nantan. That was something he would never forget or forgive. If he didn’t track down the vicious little gunman, if the man killed and then rode free with no retribution coming down on him, Oates would regret it for the rest of his life. Already it seemed that Darlene McWilliams, now safe behind the guns and fences of the Circle-T, had licked him, and the death of Jacob Yearly would go unavenged.

After yet another defeat, inevitably he would seek solace, perhaps in Nantan, but more certainly in a bottle. It was a bitter pill, but Oates figured he might have no option but to swallow it.

But that morning Pete Pickles would reveal a weakness . . . one that was destined to ultimately seal his fate.

After years of success as a manhunter, Pickles had grown arrogant, and arrogance diminishes wisdom.

A less confident man, preparing to make a kill in hostile country, lies low and waits his chance. He does not build a large fire in the indigo light of early morning, sing at the top of his lungs and fry smoking bacon.

In his immense conceit, Pete Pickles did all these things.

And Oates smelled and heard him.

The creek ran through a narrow, treed canyon to the west and Oates rode cautiously. When he reached the mouth of the gulch, he stepped out of the leather and advanced on foot.

Swollen by rain, the creek babbled loudly over its pebble and sand bottom and the wind was softly sighing among the pines. Treading on cat feet, Oates entered the canyon, walking among cottonwoods and sage. Higher, along the rim, ran a wall of aspen.

Now, deeper into the canyon, there was little sound. The hushed morning held itself still, tense with the moment. Insects made a small whirring in the grass at Oates’ feet, stirring the flowers.

He stopped, wary now.

Pickles was very close, just twenty yards away in a grassy, hanging meadow that sloped gradually down to the creek.

The man stood at a fire close to the bank, his back to Oates, who was now close enough to hear the man sing.

“ ‘Bringing in the sheaves, bringing in the sheaves.’ ”

Pickles took a knee and lifted the lid of his teapot, checking the contents.

“ ‘We shall come rejoicing, bringing in the sheaves.’ ”

He rose to his feet and stared out at the creek.

“ ‘Bringing in the sheaves, bringing in the sheaves.’ ”

The man turned and looked directly into the tree shadows at Oates.

“ ‘We shall come rejoicing, bringing in the sheaves.’ ”

Pickles smiled. “Hello, Eddie. You’re just in time for tea.”

The man was wearing a Colt in a shoulder holster. The leather rifle case was closed and propped against a tree.

“I’m here to kill you, Pickles,” Oates said.

“Oh dear. And, silly me, here was I thinking you’d already brought me the money.”

Oates stepped out of the cottonwoods and onto the meadow. Pickles’ green, cat eyes were luminous, watching his every move.

“Did you like the hymn, Eddie?” the gunman asked. “It’s the very latest thing, written by a Mr. Shaw and a Mr. Minor, not papists I hasten to add. Dear Mrs. Pickles has become so exceedingly fond of that particular song of praise, she demands that it be sung in church every Sunday, especially on those rare occasions when I’m to home.”

Oates walked closer until ten yards separated him from Pickles. He was confident of hitting his target at that range. “Shuck the iron, Pickles, and get to your work,” he said. “I mean to kill you.”

The gunman shook his head. “I do dislike scenes, Eddie. They upset me. Now, why would I draw down on you? There’s no profit in that, is there?” Pickles kneeled by the fire and picked up the pot. “Please, come over here and have tea and we’ll talk about this. Fault finding is not for us, Eddie. Mrs. Pickles always says that only vulgar people take delight in pointing out the faults and follies of great men.”

“You’re not a great man, Pickles. You’re a yellow-bellied, bushwhacking skunk who shoots down unarmed women.”

Laying the pot carefully at the edge of the coals, Pickles got to his feet.

“Harsh words, Eddie, but I’m not going to fight you. I like you too much for that.”

“Fill your hand, Pickles, or I’ll gun you right where you stand,” Oates said.

“Then you’ll have to shoot me in the back, Eddie. And I know you’re too much of a gentleman to do that.”

Pickles turned away. But when he crouched and then suddenly swung around, he was already shooting.

Way too fast.

Pickles was a sure-thing killer, an expert with the rifle, but not really a practiced revolver fighter. Had he planned ahead for this battle, he would have picked Oates off at a distance at little risk to himself.

Now the expression on his shocked, unbelieving face revealed that he knew he was a dead man.

Oates heard Pickles’ bullet split the air beside his head. The man steadied, then raised his Colt to shoot again. But Oates was already firing. His first shot hit the gunman in the shoulder, his second missed, but his third, a solid chest hit, punched Pickles’ ticket to hell.

Pickles stepped back, his mouth twisted in a snarl. But his legs would not support him. They went out from under him, like a man skidding on an icy sidewalk.

Oates fired again, another miss, but Pickles crashed onto his back and lay still.

Before he approached the fallen man, Oates reloaded his Colt. He recalled Jacob Yearly telling him to never trust a dead wolf until it’s been skun.

Pickles was still alive, but the death shadows had gathered in the man’s cheeks and in the hollows of his eyes.

“Dear me, Eddie,” he said. “I guess God wasn’t listening to my hymn singing. He didn’t help me much.”

“Pickles, even God can’t help you if you try to run a bluff when your poke’s empty.”

“Who taught you to shoot like that, Eddie? If I’d known you were so good with a gun I’d have handled this scrape differently.”

“An old man by the name of Jacob Yearly taught me. He was worth a thousand o’ you.”

“And what happened to this paragon?”

“Your boss, Darlene McWilliams, ordered him killed.”