Ralph Compton The Man From Nowhere

by West, Joseph A. ; Compton, Ralph

  Beyond lay a few shacks in varying states of disrepair, then an endless vista of forested hills that invited the riders to share their somber loneliness.

  Oates pulled up and without looking at the others, said, “Welcome to Heartbreak, the end of the trail and the ass end of everything.”

  Nellie was snuffling back tears and even Nantan looked numb, as though she’d looked around her and decided to retreat to a distant place.

  “We’ll put the horses up in the barn, then head back to the hotel,” Oates said.

  “Anything to get out of this rain,” Lorraine said. “My new hat will be ruined.”

  There was still a supply of hay in the barn and a couple of sacks of oats that had been attacked by rats but still held enough to last their mounts a few days. The livery had a good, solid roof and was dry, and the horses seemed glad to be finally out of the weather.

  “It feels good to be in a dry place,” Nellie said as she stood in the middle of the hotel lobby, looking around her. “I wonder if there are still beds in the rooms?”

  “Let’s take a look,” Lorraine said.

  After the women went upstairs, Oates, Tatum and Rivette searched the rest of the hotel. There were no signs of hurried departure, half-eaten meals on the dining room tables, a newspaper dropped to the floor in the lobby or carbonized steaks on the grill that had continued to cook until the stove fire went out.

  It looked as if the people had just abandoned the town and gone somewhere else.

  “Apaches?” Oates asked Rivette.

  The gambler shook his head. “I don’t think so. Apaches would have burned the place.”

  “Mr. Rivette,” Sam Tatum said, “why would the people leave?”

  “Why does any town die? There could be a number of reasons. Most likely a prospector staked a silver claim, then others arrived hoping to strike it rich. When the claims didn’t pan out, there was nothing to keep the miners here any longer.”

  He smiled at Tatum. “I think the name of the town should give you a fair clue to what folks ended up thinking about their prospects here.”

  “Two saloons, a theater and dance hall, and a fair-sized hotel,” Oates said. “Somebody invested money.”

  Rivette nodded. “There are always people willing to take a chance, hoping for a boomtown. It just didn’t happen. When the cards fall that way, all a man can do is pick up his chips and try somewhere else.”

  “But where did the people go?” Tatum insisted.

  “I don’t know, Sam, but I’d guess south to Silver City or Lordsburg.” He looked around him, at the cobwebbed ceiling and dust lying thick everywhere. “It all happened a fair spell ago, maybe before the stage station at Cuchilla was built.”

  The kitchen had been stripped bare of supplies, which was bad news. Now finding grub would become a priority.

  Lorraine came downstairs and stood at the door to the dining room. “There are beds upstairs, but no mattresses. Nellie is distraught.”

  “No food either,” Oates said. “As soon as the rain clears, we’ll have to move out.”

  “Move out to where?” Stella asked, pushing past Lorraine. “We came to Heartbreak to start a new life, and that’s just what we’re going to do.”

  “Stella, it’s a ghost town, or haven’t you noticed?” Lorraine said.

  “I’ve noticed, but we’re going to bring Heartbreak back to life. We’ll open our own house as we planned, maybe hire some more girls, and hang out a Welcome sign at both ends of town. The men will come and bring money with them.”

  She looked at Rivette. “Warren, you can start a saloon. Lord knows, you’ve spent enough time in them to know the business.”

  The gambler smiled. “Stella, I greatly admire your spunk and determination, and I admit that opening my own saloon has its attractions, but Eddie is right, we don’t have any paying customers or food to sustain us until we get some. My dear, plenty stays right where it’s at, but hunger moves on.”

  But Stella would not be deterred. “There’s plenty of game in the hills and we can shoot our own chuck to keep us going. Unless I’m mistaken, Silver City is less than sixty miles to the south and we can go there for supplies. Say a week there and back with a packhorse.”

  She turned on Lorraine and Nellie. “In the meantime we’ll search every store, house and shack in town. I can’t believe that the good citizens of Heartbreak took every scrap of grub with them.”

  “There might be rats.” Nellie shuddered. “I’m awful afeerd of rats.”

  “I’ll go with you and hold your hand, Nellie,” Lorraine said, grinning. “I won’t let the big, bad rats git you.”

  “I declare, Lorraine, you’re such a whore.”

  “Then go by yourself.”

  “No, you can come with me.”

  Stella said with an air of finality, “Right, then it’s settled.” She looked at Rivette, then Oates. “Warren, Eddie, is it settled?”

  The gambler shrugged his acceptance and Oates said, “Hell, we’ll give it a try, why not?”

  “Pete Pickles is out there someplace and he’s a handful,” Rivette said. “Are we forgetting that?”

  “I’ll hunt and take Nantan with me,” Oates said. “She’ll be able to sense Pickles’ presence well before I see him.” He looked at the girl. “Does that set well with you?”

  Nantan nodded. “You are my husband. I will go where you wish me to go.”

  Rivette grinned at Oates. “Maybe I should have stayed away from the fancy ladies on the riverboats and married an Indian girl.”

  “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.”

  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.