The Man From Nowhere

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.”

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.