The Man From Nowhere

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.

After thirty minutes of steady work with his knife, Oates had found enough branches to thickly roof the overhang. He tested the interior of the hollow and it seemed snug and dry enough.

Oates got Nantan and helped her inside. He removed the slicker from her shoulders, then unbuttoned her shirt.

“It’s not so bad, Eddie,” the girl said, attempting to smile. “I don’t have too much pain.”

Oates studied the wound and decided that Nantan’s statement was just Apache bravado. Pickles’ bullet had hit high, as he’d said, but it looked as though Nantan’s collarbone was broken at the point where it met her shoulder. The round had gone all the way through and had nicked her shoulder blade as it exited.

It was a painful but not a killing wound, though it was serious enough and infection could be a problem. Oates recalled that Nellie’s injury had been worse and had healed well, though she walked with a slight limp that Lorraine had told him was probably permanent.

He made a crude sling from Pickles’ rope to immobilize Nantan’s right arm and take stress off the collarbone, padding it where necessary with strips cut from his own shirt.

After he finished, Oates asked, “How do you feel, Nantan?”

“It’s good to be out of the rain, Eddie.”

Oates smiled as he buttoned his shirt. “I mean, do you hurt?”

“Not much.” The girl had seen the bloody gouge on his shoulder. “You’re wounded,” she said.

“I got burned by Pickles,” he said. “It’s not deep and it will heal.”

Tears glistened in Nantan’s eyes. “Oh, Eddie, we’re all shot to pieces.”

Despite his aching head, the pain in his shoulder and the discomfort of being soaking wet, Oates managed a laugh. “I thought Apaches never exaggerated stuff like that.”

The girl blinked back the tears and smiled. “The Catholic Apaches do.”

Oates squatted on his heels. “I have to see to the horses. Sit still and keep as warm as possible, huh?” He spread the slicker over Nantan. “I’ll be right back.”

The paint had stayed close to the creek where the grass was sweeter. Oates stripped the saddle and led the horse deeper into the trees. He did the same for the black, then spent the next few minutes venting curses on Pickles.

The man had pulled the hide-wrapped bundle of deer meat off the mustang’s back, took what he wanted and scattered the rest. Oates repacked the venison and left it by the creek bank. Later he’d take the meat into the hollow, where the coyotes would not get at it.

He found his hat, now with a second bullet hole in the brim, and then the Winchester. Pickles’ bullet had damaged the receiver so badly, only the attentions of a skilled gunsmith could save it. Since there was none of those around, Oates tossed away the useless rifle.

He found his gun belt and buckled it around his waist. His eyes searched the distance to the west. The blue mountains looked like a still-wet watercolor behind the shifting screen of the rain. Pickles had gone that way, and Oates planned to go after him and kill him.

If—and it was a big if—Nantan could make it back to Heartbreak on her own.

Oates searched among the cottonwoods and found enough wood to build a fire. The fallen branches were wet, but not all the way through. His fire would smoke, but with luck it would burn well enough.

He filled his pockets with twigs and tree bark, picked up the deer hide and returned to the hollow in the bank. Nantan was sleeping, probably from the lingering aftereffects of the sedative Pickles had given her, and Oates was careful not to disturb her.

He chose a corner of the hollow for his fire, feeding it carefully with shredded bark and twigs. After the flames caught, he gingerly added tree branches. As he expected, there was smoke, but the fire began to blaze and after a few minutes showed glowing red coals.

Selecting a thinner branch, Oates skewered pieces of venison and propped the stick above the fire to broil. He would have preferred fattier meat that would have dripped and sizzled and kept the blaze strong, but deer was what he had and recently he’d learned to make do.

After a while Oates shook Nantan awake. “Eat,” he said. “It will help you regain your strength.”

He and the girl shared the broiled venison and then sat close to the fire as the long day darkened into night.

Nantan slept again, but Oates stayed awake, listening to the night sounds, the rustle of the wind in the trees, the whisper of rain and the cries of the coyotes.

Finally Oates drifted into sleep and dreamed wild dreams of Pete Pickles.

Come the morning light, the rain was gone and his fire was out.

Oates crawled out of the hollow and stretched the knots out of his back.

Today he would kill Pickles or the gunman would kill him. He had no other choice because there was no other way.