Ralph Compton West of the Law

by West, Joseph A. ; Compton, Ralph

  Trask stepped beside McBride. ‘‘Let me shake your hand, gunfighter. My name is Gamble Trask and I always figured that big Jim Nolan was one of my best men. Now I know differently.’’

  Reluctantly McBride took the man’s hand. ‘‘John Smith,’’ he said. ‘‘I’m not a gunfighter and I’m just a traveler passing through.’’

  He pocketed his gun as Nolan’s body was carried past, and heard Trask say, ‘‘You’d better get that eye seen to, Smith—it’s badly swollen. Believe it or not, we have an excellent doctor in town.’’ The man grinned. ‘‘Now let me buy you a drink.’’ He turned his head and yelled, ‘‘Hell, I’m buying everybody a drink! Piano player—music!’’

  The piano player, maybe with the killing of Jim Nolan in mind, started up a spirited rendition of ‘‘Bury Me Not on the Lone Prairie,’’ and men cheered and women laughed as they crowded up to the bar.

  Trask, smiling, leaned closer to McBride so he could be heard. ‘‘I think you’re feeling bad, but don’t be. Nolan wasn’t much, so his was a small, meaningless death. Look around you, Smith—he’s already gone and forgotten. Now, how about that drink?’’

  ‘‘I have a beer,’’ McBride said, his dislike for Trask growing, The cheap price the man had just put on Nolan’s life served only to twist the broken shards of glass already lacerating his conscience.

  ‘‘Then I’ll join you,’’ Trask said. He ordered a beer, then said, ‘‘I have a proposition for you, Smith.’’

  ‘‘What kind of proposition?’’

  ‘‘Why, man, I’m offering you a job.’’

  ‘‘Not interested.’’

  ‘‘The least you can do is listen, especially since you just gunned one of my men,’’ Trask said. He was wearing the sly smile of a hungry lobo wolf.

  McBride nodded. ‘‘All right, I’m listening.’’

  Chapter 5

  Gamble Trask led McBride to an unoccupied table in a corner, where there was a full view of the saloon. ‘‘Take a seat,’’ he said, waving. ‘‘This table stays reserved for me.’’

  McBride sat and Trask took a chair opposite him. Hack Burns appeared out of nowhere, handed McBride his plug hat, then took his place behind his boss’ chair. When the gunman’s pale eyes fell on McBride they revealed nothing, neither interest nor hostility, but his thumbs were hooked in his gun belts and he stood ready. The livid purple stain on Burns’ left cheek seemed to McBride a living thing that threatened to spread and consume him, a grotesque mask that concealed the man’s innermost thoughts and feelings. His legs straddled, hips thrust forward, his cobra eyes roamed the crowd, missing nothing.

  For the first time, McBride noticed that Burns wore a town marshal’s star on his black leather vest.

  ‘‘Now, John—’’ Trask smiled. ‘‘May I call you John?’’

  The man was as smooth as silk, polished to a brilliant sheen, poised, confident and seemingly willing to be friendly. But there was a thin-lipped hardness about his mouth, and scars covered the knuckles of his big hands. The sixth sense that every good detective possesses told McBride that here was a man who would kill without compunction and never lose a night of sleep over the doing of it.

  He made no answer to Trask’s question.

  ‘‘John?’’ A slight note of irritation.

  ‘‘Sure,’’ McBride said. ‘‘That’s fine by me.’’ Around him people were watching. He was now full in the glare of the spotlight, a place he never wanted to be. A place, he knew, that could well get him killed.

  Trask was talking again. ‘‘Do you want to hear about the job I’m offering?’’

  The safest course was to go along with it. At least for now. ‘‘Like I told you earlier, I’m listening,’’ McBride said.

  Trask clapped his hands. ‘‘Excellent! I like a man who listens.’’ He turned his head and glanced up at Burns. ‘‘John is true-blue, isn’t that the truth of it, Hack?’’

  Burns nodded, his face expressionless. ‘‘What-ever you say, boss, whatever you say.’’

  Trask turned to McBride again. ‘‘Now, John, here’s the deal. I liked how you handled yourself against Nolan. You’re good with your fists and a gun and I need men like you. I want you to serve as one of Marshal Burns’ deputies. A hundred and twenty a month, and that’s just for starters. And I’ll pay a substantial bonus every time I think you’ve done a good job for me.’’ The man smiled. ‘‘How does that set with you, Deputy Marshal Smith? Think of it, man—you can get rich in High Hopes. I can make you rich.’’

  McBride nodded. ‘‘It’s a tempting offer, but I believe I’ll pass.’’

  Throwing up his hands in mock exasperation, Trask said, ‘‘Well, what more can I do? John, I can tell by your accent that you’re new to the Western lands and unfamiliar with our ways. Trust me, you’ll never get such an offer again, not from me or anyone else. Remember, I’m the big man in town and I plan on getting a sight bigger. You can grow with me.’’

  ‘‘I appreciate it, Trask,’’ McBride said, knowing the use of the man’s name without the ‘‘Mr.’’ would sting. ‘‘But I’m not for sale.’’

  Ice formed in Trask’s eyes. He was a powerful man, a man well used to getting his way and now this . . . this nonentity had the impertinence to thwart him. ‘‘All right,’’ he said, ‘‘I planned on giving you a fair shake and you turned me down. No harm done.’’ He rose to his feet. ‘‘Marshal Burns, see that . . . ah . . . Mr. Smith is out of town by noon tomorrow.’’

  Now Burns showed his first sign of interest. The mark on his cheek stood out in stark relief as he smiled at McBride with all the warmth of a hungry panther. ‘‘I’ll see that it’s done, boss,’’ he said.

  ‘‘You’re making a mistake, Trask,’’ McBride said, his voice level. He did not look up, studiously turning his beer glass on the table. ‘‘I plan on staying around for a while.’’

  Trask had been about to walk away. Now he stopped. ‘‘Smith, get out of High Hopes by noon tomorrow or you’ll die,’’ he said. ‘‘The choice is yours.’’

  After Trask left, Hack Burns lingered. ‘‘You made the boss look small in front of everybody, Smith,’’ he said. ‘‘I’ll kill you for that if I see you around town after noon tomorrow.’’

  McBride’s gaze lifted to the gunman. ‘‘He is small, Burns. I didn’t make him that way.’’ He felt his battered face stiffen. ‘‘And I don’t plan on going anywhere.’’

  ‘‘Just remember what I told you,’’ Burns said. ‘‘I saw you gunfight Nolan, and mister, you ain’t near good enough. If you’re on the street’’—he pointed directly upward—‘‘after the sun is that high, you’re a dead man.’’

  John McBride smiled inwardly as Burns walked away. Back in New York what the gunman had just told him would be considered a sure conversation stopper. But it was true that Burns’ talking was all done. Tomorrow he’d act, and he’d be almighty sudden and deadly.

  Common sense told McBride that now was the time to cut and run, just like he’d done in New York. Inspector Byrnes had ordered him to lie low and not attract attention to himself. Bitterly, he realized he’d disobeyed that order. By morning the whole damn town would be aware that Gamble Trask had told him to get out of High Hopes and that Hack Burns had promised to shoot him on sight if he did not.

  He was now a marked man, and as such, he’d be the focus of much talk and speculation. His cover was blown. It was high time to pick up and leave.

  Yet McBride was tired of running. The way he’d been forced to flee Sean Donovan and his hired assassins still rankled, eating at him like a cancer. The bottom line was he could swallow his pride and get out of High Hopes or stay and face Hack Burns. Neither option had much appeal for him. And even if he killed Burns in a gunfight, and that outcome was in doubt, what then? He would attract even more attention, becoming a named man, a gunfighter, and his fame would spread.

  Notoriety like that might even reach New York by way of the newspapers and dime novels and the eager ears of Se
an Donovan. Of course, his name would be told as John Smith, but his description would be written in detail. Donovan was not a stupid man. He might put two and two together and start asking questions. And had not Byrnes told him that the man’s tentacles reached far . . . maybe as far as the town of High Hopes, west of forever?

  Like a man groping his way along a dark tunnel, McBride could see no way out and there was no light. Suddenly he felt trapped with nowhere to turn. . . .

  Then Shannon Roark walked into his life.

  He saw her step toward him, moving through the crowd of drab miners like crimson fire.

  McBride rose to his feet, his heart pounding, as the woman reached his table. Her smile was dazzling, her lustrous beauty breathtaking. ‘‘May I sit?’’

  ‘‘Yes,’’ McBride stammered. ‘‘Yes, of course.’’

  ‘‘My name is Shannon Roark,’’ the woman said as he helped her into a chair.

  ‘‘Yes, yes, I know that.’’ McBride knew he must look a sight with one eye swollen shut in his battered face, blood staining the sleeve of his shirt where Nolan’s bullet had burned him. And now he was sounding like a shy, awkward teenage boy at his first cotillion. ‘‘My name is’’—he hesitated a moment, then finished—‘‘John Smith.’’

  The brilliant smile flashed again. ‘‘And I also know that. Gamble . . . Mr. Trask . . . told me.’’ Shannon leaned across the table, her fingertips resting lightly on the back of McBride’s hand. ‘‘I heard about the unpleasantness between you and Gamble. I’m so sorry. He’s terribly upset.’’

  ‘‘Is that why he ordered me out of town?’’

  ‘‘Oh, that . . . it’s just Gamble’s way. He didn’t mean a word of it.’’

  ‘‘He sounded pretty convincing to me.’’

  The woman’s perfume filled McBride’s head and his eyes lingered on the slim, ivory column of her neck, her naked shoulders and the swell of her breasts barely confined by the crimson silk of her dress.

  He was falling in love, moment by moment, devastated by a longing that was almost a hunger. He had no idea where it would end . . . but he fervently hoped this was the beginning.

  ‘‘John,’’ Shannon said. She smiled. ‘‘I like that name, John. It has a rare solidity to it. John, Gamble won’t tell you this himself, but he needs a man like you. He needs a strong right arm he can depend upon. He confides in me and he has told me that many times.’’

  With a tremendous effort of will, McBride fought back to sanity. He was glad his voice held steady as he said, ‘‘He has Hack Burns for that.’’

  The woman shook her head, a glossy tendril of auburn hair bouncing at the back of her neck. ‘‘Burns can’t fulfill that role, nor can the rest of Gamble’s men. Hack Burns is a killer and I believe he might be insane. As for the others . . . well, they’re big on brawn but light on brains.’’ Her brilliant hazel eyes found McBride’s. ‘‘Gamble needs you, John. One day he’ll be the biggest man in the state of Colorado and he won’t forget those who helped him. I can make everything all right again, let bygones be bygones. You only have to say the word.’’

  ‘‘Shannon, I told Trask that I’m not for sale. That answer still stands.’’ McBride shook his head. ‘‘I just don’t like the man.’’

  ‘‘Then I can’t convince you to change your mind?’’

  ‘‘No, Shannon, I won’t change my mind.’’

  The woman stood, her back stiff, and McBride knew he was losing her. She was slipping through his fingers like mist.

  ‘‘Then I can do no more for you,’’ she said, turning to leave.

  Desperately McBride tried to keep her there, close to him. ‘‘Shannon!’’

  She stared at him, her face a beautiful, porcelain mask. ‘‘Yes?’’

  The raucous racket of the crowded revelers was closing in on him so he could hardly hear his own voice above the clamor. ‘‘Earlier tonight I saw Jim Nolan and another man walk into the alley alongside the saloon with four young Chinese girls.’’

  That was bad. He knew that much as soon as he said it. It was a policeman’s flat statement, not the soft, winning words of a suitor.

  For a single moment of time Shannon Roark’s mask slipped and McBride caught a flicker of surprise in her eyes. ‘‘What is so strange about that?’’

  ‘‘There was a steel cage on the wagon that brought them here and Nolan had his bullwhip.’’

  ‘‘They were probably visiting the Chinese fortune-teller’s shack behind the saloon,’’ Shannon said. ‘‘The Celestials do that maybe once or twice a year.’’ Her smile was not as bright as before. ‘‘I suppose they want to know when they’ll meet their future husbands.’’

  ‘‘Why Nolan and the whip?’’ Keep her talking. Keep her here.

  ‘‘Those Chinese miners out at the Spanish Peaks are very jealous of their womenfolk,’’ Shannon said easily. ‘‘They often hire men like Nolan to guard . . . ah . . . their virtue. The steel cage is another precaution. It keeps passing cowboys at arm’s length.’’ The woman shook her lovely head. ‘‘I would imagine the other man you spoke of has taken the girls home already.’’

  She waited. But when McBride did not speak she said, ‘‘Any other questions, Mr. Smith?’’

  He smiled in turn. ‘‘Sorry, Shannon, I’m a questioning man, I guess.’’

  ‘‘Then ask yourself this—do you still want to be alive at this time tomorrow?’’

  McBride opened his mouth to speak, but the woman stopped him. ‘‘You still have time to change your mind about Gamble. If you do, come talk to me. I’ll be here until daybreak.’’

  She left then, and only the whispering memory of her perfume remained.

  Chapter 6

  John McBride stepped out of the Golden Garter and onto the boardwalk. He stood in the shimmering glow of an oil lamp that touched his shoulders and the top of his hat with orange light.

  Now, more than ever, Shannon Roark seemed an unattainable prize and her beauty haunted him, causing him more pain than pleasure. Did he have any chance with her? He knew he did not. It would be easier for him to reach up and try to grab a handful of stars.

  McBride cupped his swollen eye with a scarred hand, feeling its heat. Well, he’d been punched in the eye a few times before and the swelling would eventually go down of its own accord. He had no need to see a doctor. His back and ribs were aching, but nothing seemed broken. He would live.

  At least for a while.

  The humor of that thought made him smile and suddenly, to his surprise, he was hungry. He turned to his left and stepped along the crowded boardwalk, past the alley where he’d seen the Chinese girls.

  The night was oppressively muggy, damp heat lying over the town like a shroud. The air was thick, hard to breathe, smelling rank from rotten vegetation and the dead dog that lay in the street, its back broken by the wheels of a freight wagon. Fat black flies buzzed everywhere and each oil lamp had its attendant swarm of scorched, tattered moths.

  McBride stopped a staggering miner who was sucking on a whiskey bottle, and asked about a restaurant.

  ‘‘The Bon-Ton,’’ the man slurred. He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. ‘‘Thataway.’’

  The restaurant was crowded when McBride stepped inside, and he turned some heads. He didn’t know if word of his gunfight with Nolan had gotten around or if it was his battered face, bloody shirt and swollen eye that had drawn their attention.

  A little of both, he decided as he found an empty place at one of the four benches in the room. The Bon-Ton was anything but elegant, but McBride guessed that few frontier eateries were. A pretty and clean enough waitress took his order—steak, potatoes and a couple of fried eggs—then returned and poured him coffee.

  The clientele was mostly miners, rough, bearded men in woolen shirts, their canvas pants stuffed into scuffed mule-eared boots. All carried knives and a few wore holstered revolvers on their belts. No one looked at McBride directly, but he knew by the excited, whispered talk that he was the focus of
much conversation. He had killed a named gunman in a fair fight, and that made him a subject for discussion and speculation wherever Western men gathered. If gunfighters of reputation, the likes of John Wesley Hardin or Ben Thompson, had walked into the Bon-Ton, they would hardly have elicited more interest.

  And no doubt all present were aware that Hack Burns had threatened to kill the big man who was now bent to his food if he was still in town after noon tomorrow. That was an event to be eagerly anticipated.

  McBride was using a piece of bread to sop up the last of the gravy on his plate when a small, stocky man in a shabby suit of black broadcloth, a soft felt hat on his gray head, walked inside. The newcomer, who looked to be in his early seventies, glanced around the restaurant for a few moments. Then his eyes lit on McBride.

  ‘‘Mr. Smith, I presume,’’ he said.

  McBride nodded. The man tapped a miner who was sitting opposite McBride and said, ‘‘Do you mind?’’

  The miner looked up, opened his mouth to speak, then thought the better of it. He shrugged and slid farther up the bench. The gray-haired man took the vacated place and smiled benignly at McBride. ‘‘My name is Theodosius T. Leggett, owner and editor of the High Hopes Tribune.’’ He stuck out his hand. ‘‘Honored to make your acquaintance, sir.’’

  McBride took the proffered hand, then said, ‘‘I don’t talk to the newspapers, Mr. Leggett.’’

  ‘‘Ah, but that is no longer a problem,’’ Leggett said. ‘‘You see, I don’t have a newspaper anymore, not since’’—he looked around and raised his voice so everybody in the restaurant could hear—‘‘not since Mr. Gamble Trask destroyed my press and shut me down for suggesting that he was behind the shooting of Marshal Lute Clark.’’

  A buzz of comment ran around the Bon-Ton, but McBride detected very few voices sympathetic to Leggett.

  ‘‘What can I do for you, Mr. Leggett?’’ he asked, only half-interested in whatever the man might have to say.

  ‘‘Perhaps nothing. Perhaps everything. And, please, call me Theo. Everyone else does, when they call me anything.’’ Leggett waved to the young waitress. ‘‘Mattie, coffee here, if you please.’’