Gamble Trask was sitting at his table with Hack Burns and a tall man McBride didn’t recognize, a whiskey bottle and glasses between them. Trask’s puzzled eyes moved from McBride to the dead man on his shoulder and back again. Burns’ face showed the sudden awareness of a hunting cougar and the tall man shifted slightly in his chair, clearing his holstered gun for the draw.
McBride walked toward Trask’s table and the man smiled and called out, ‘‘My, my, Mr. Smith, don’t we look a sight?’’
A few people laughed nervously, as McBride ignored the man and walked closer. He was conscious of Burns getting slowly to his feet, his hands close to his guns. The tall man, dressed in a black, low-crowned hat with a flat brim and a black broadcloth frock coat, stayed where he was. But he was confident and ready and the mean look in his eyes suggested he could handle himself.
McBride stepped to the table and Trask started to rise. McBride threw the dead cowboy from his shoulder and the body landed flat on its back on the tabletop. The kid had been small, but he was heavy enough to collapse the rickety table, which splintered under him with a crash. As the whiskey bottle and glasses shattered on the floor, Trask, now on his feet, stepped back.
‘‘Are you crazy?’’ he yelled, his eyes blazing.
There was no give in McBride. ‘‘Trask,’’ he said, ‘‘next time you try to kill me, send a man and not a boy.’’
Trask looked wildly around him, trying to gauge the mood of the crowd. Vigilante justice was a force to be reckoned with in a frontier town and not to be taken lightly, even by a man as influential as himself. So far, the miners were just interested bystanders, but their mood could change in an instant. ‘‘What the hell are you talking about, Smith?’’ Trask yelled. ‘‘I didn’t send this man to kill anybody.’’
‘‘He’s a boy, not a man, but tonight he was grown enough to kill Theo Leggett and then try to kill me.’’ McBride reached into the boy’s pocket, found the five double eagles and threw them into Trask’s face. ‘‘There, take back your blood money.’’
Trask’s voice rose. ‘‘I tell you, I didn’t send this man to kill anybody.’’ He looked down at the kid’s gray face. ‘‘I’ve seen this cowboy around, but I’ve never talked to him.’’
‘‘Trask, you wanted to silence Theo Leggett. You wanted him dead because he knew too much and talked too much. Why did you also want me dead? Huh? Was it because Theo had been seen talking to me and you were afraid he told me what he knew?’’
‘‘You’re insane, Smith,’’ Trask said. ‘‘I’m a respectable businessman. I’ve got nothing to hide.’’ He waved a hand around the room. ‘‘Ask any of these men.’’
A few miners muttered words of agreement, but not all. They knew that any man who got so rich so fast, as Gamble Trask had, had to be shady. Opium and liquor were legitimate businesses and they had no argument with that, but many believed the man’s tables were crooked and that his dealers knew their way around the bottom of a deck.
Still, not a man present grieved for Theo Leggett or the young cowboy and as far as the miners were concerned John Smith was just another drifter in town and of no account. If it came to it, they would stand by Trask—and nobody knew that better than McBride.
He turned to Burns. ‘‘You’ve been real quiet. Maybe because it was you who hired the cowboy to kill Leggett.’’
Trask opened his mouth to speak, but Burns stopped him. ‘‘Let me handle this, boss,’’ he said. ‘‘It’s time I shut this man’s big mouth for keeps.’’ He moved his hands closer to the butts of his guns. ‘‘Smith, I gave you until noon to clear out of High Hopes. That don’t go no more. You’re leaving right now. Only difference is that four men will carry you out of here by the handles.’’
McBride brought up the muzzle of the Winchester. It was pointed right at Burns’ belly. ‘‘Try for those guns and I’ll blow your navel right through your backbone,’’ he said, his voice level.
‘‘And that will be the last thing you’ll ever do, mister.’’
The voice came from McBride’s right. The tall man in the black frock coat was within the limits of McBride’s vision. He had his coat thrown back and his hand was resting on the ivory butt of his Colt.
‘‘Your move, Smith,’’ Trask said, grinning. ‘‘I should warn you that my friend Stryker Allison is a man to be reckoned with.’’
The saloon was hushed, the only sound the wail of the wind as it bullied its way around the walls of the building. A rat rustled in a corner and a woman yelped and threw herself into the arms of a grinning, bearded miner.
McBride’s anger was pushing him into going for it. First Burns, then a fast turn, levering the rifle as he did so, and try to get a shot into the tall man. His chance of success was slim, he knew, but his fury and his policeman’s inborn hatred of men like Gamble Trask were raking him like spurs.
His finger tightened on the trigger.
‘‘Stop! Stop that right now!’’
Shannon Roark had swept through the crowd and now she stepped between McBride and Burns. She turned to Trask, a frown gathering on her forehead. ‘‘Gamble, three dead men is enough for one night. Call off your boys.’’
Trask thought about it for a few moments. Then he grinned and shrugged. ‘‘You’re right, Shannon. I believe there’s been enough gunplay already. Hack, Stryker, let it go.’’ His eyes went to McBride. ‘‘But if you ever come into my place with your wild accusations again, I will think very differently.’’
‘‘John,’’ Shannon said, ‘‘it’s over. There will be no more killing, not now or at noon tomorrow.’’ She had placed emphasis on the word ‘‘noon.’’ Now she shook her head. ‘‘Listen to me, John. Gamble didn’t hire that cowboy to kill you and Theo. That’s not his style. Maybe the boy just had robbery on his mind.’’
The woman flashed McBride her dazzling smile. ‘‘You look tired, John, and your face is covered with blood. Why don’t you go back to the hotel, clean up and get a good night’s rest?’’
The moment was gone and McBride knew it. If he tried to push it now, the miners would see him as the aggressor and line up against him. One way or another he’d be a dead man, either from a bullet or a rope.
He let the rifle drop to his side.
‘‘Wise choice, Mr. Smith,’’ Trask said. ‘‘Now, why don’t you toddle off to bed.’’ Before McBride could answer, Trask turned to Shannon. ‘‘I’ll say this just once, Shannon, and I hope I’ll never have cause to repeat myself—you are my employee and I don’t want you to meddle in my affairs ever again.’’
McBride expected a flare of anger and defiance from Shannon, but her face showed only contrition. ‘‘I’m sorry, Gamble,’’ she said meekly. ‘‘It’s . . . it’s just that I want no more killing in High Hopes.’’
‘‘Your concern for our fair town is very commendable, my dear, very commendable indeed,’’ Trask said. His eyes angled to McBride and he made no attempt to conceal the contempt in them. ‘‘Now, Mr. Smith, please leave my establishment. You’ve caused quite enough disruption already.’’ The man nudged the cowboy’s body with the toe of his polished shoe. ‘‘And take that with you.’’
McBride knew he’d been backed into a corner, but his anger was cold and hard as polished iron and it would not allow him to bend. ‘‘He’s yours, Trask,’’ he said. ‘‘You bury him.’’
A few, tense seconds spun out, fragile as a cobweb. Then high-heeled boots and the chime of spurs sounded loud in the hushed saloon. A young, black-haired puncher stepped up to the body and looked down at the dead man. ‘‘His name is Rusty Prescott an’ he’s a rider for the Rafter H over to Apishapa Creek way. I’ll take him home.’’ He turned to the watching miners. ‘‘A couple of you boys help me get him on my hoss.’’
The cowboy kneeled beside Prescott’s body, then lifted his eyes lifted to McBride. ‘‘Mister, something you should know. Rusty has a brother, feller by the name of Luke Prescott. You heard of him?’’
McBride shook his h
ead, the killing of the young cowboy still weighing on him.
‘‘You should. Luke’s at the Rafter H an’ I reckon he’ll be lookin’ for you.’’
Trask grinned. ‘‘Well, Mr. Smith, it seems your troubles never end. Luke Prescott is a gunfighter out of Pueblo.’’ He turned to the man named Allison. ‘‘How good is he, Stryker?’’
‘‘He’s good,’’ Allison answered. ‘‘Real fast on the draw and shoot. Killed Banjo Charlie Whipple in a fair fight down Amarillo way a few months back—and Charlie was considered a mighty dangerous hombre.’’
McBride opened his mouth to speak, but Shannon stopped him. ‘‘John, you’d better go back to the hotel. This is over.’’
He looked at the faces of the men around him. Hack Burns had a faint smile on his lips, but his eyes were eager and he was ready to kill. Stryker Allison had the calm, studied air of the professional gunman about him. He would draw if pushed, but would see little sense in fighting if there was no money in it. Gamble Trask had a triumphant smile on his handsome face, a man confident of his ability to control this and any other situation. The black-haired puncher’s gaze was accusing, tangled up with something else. Pity, maybe.
McBride turned and walked out of the saloon, his stiff face burning as an outburst of loud, mocking laughter followed him, tearing at his soul like a flock of hungry ravens.
Chapter 10
John McBride lit the lamp beside his bed, filling the room with a dim, flickering yellow light. Shadows danced in the corners where the spiders lived and the boisterous wind beat at the windows, noisily demanding to be let inside.
McBride stretched out on the bed and stared at the play of the restless lamplight on the ceiling. He felt a mild surprise that New York, with its tall, stone buildings, horse trolleys, streetlamps and forty thousand teeming, crime-ridden tenements, was already fading from his mind’s eye.
Did the West change a man that fast?
He had seen the vast, endless land only from a railroad car or while, bored, he kicked around for hours on the platform of an out-of-the-way station. But away from the smells and dirt of the city, he had found room to breathe. A few steps beyond dusty, noisy High Hopes and he could fill his lungs with air scented by tall grass and distant pines. He had read that the Western lands were filling up fast and that the old ways were already fading into memory. The Indians had been cannoned and sabered into submission and only a few Apache, far to the south in the desert country, were making a doomed, last stand.
Should he leave High Hopes on the next train and see all of the West before it was gone forever? He could remember it and in later years tell others about how the land had been.
It would be easy, just pack his bag and go and he would leave his increasing list of troubles behind. Inspector Byrnes had told him to lie low, vanish from sight. All he’d be doing was following orders. He was still on the payroll as a serving New York police officer, a detective sergeant, and it was not in his interest to get involved in the affairs of High Hopes. Theo Leggett had lived here and the town’s concerns were his own. But he had no ties to this place. . . .
Then McBride thought of Shannon Roark and one by one all his hollow arguments for leaving popped in his head like bubbles.
He would leave here one day, that was certain, but when he did, Shannon would be at his side as his wife.
His mind made up, McBride rose, cleaned and reloaded his gun and placed it back beside his bed. He glanced at his watch. It was four in the morning. Outside the street had cleared and there was less noise from the Golden Garter—even the ceaseless piano had stilled. Veils of dust as high as a man on a horse lifted from the street and the wind had blown out the oil lamps. The alleys were tunnels of darkness and shadows slanted everywhere. The wind had transformed the night, making it restless with movement as it pushed, shoved, bullied and wailed.
A rap at the door. Soft, almost timid.
McBride picked up his gun and stepped to the door. ‘‘Who is it? And remember, I can drill you.’’
‘‘John, it’s me. Shannon.’’
McBride opened the door and Shannon Roark slipped inside. She wore a hooded, dark green cloak over her dress, dusty from the street.
‘‘What a wind,’’ she said, smiling, showing her wonderful teeth. ‘‘I declare, I thought I would be blown over.’’ She undid the cloak and passed it to McBride. ‘‘There, that’s better.’’
He laid the cloak over the back of the chair and said, ‘‘You know, it’s not proper for a young lady to visit a gentleman’s hotel room.’’
Shannon laughed. ‘‘John, in High Hopes? I wish I had a dollar for every young lady that’s spent the night with a man in this room.’’ She sat on the edge of the bed and patted a spot beside her. ‘‘Here, sit right here. We have to talk.’’
McBride did as he was told. Then Shannon studied his face, a frown gathering between her eyebrows. ‘‘Lordy, John, you are a sight. Your poor eye!’’ She leaned forward. ‘‘Let me kiss it better for you.’’
The woman lightly brushed the swelling under McBride’s eye with her lips, then sat back and smiled. ‘‘There, that will make it all better.’’
McBride felt a hot surge of desire, but battled to control himself. ‘‘Shannon,’’ he said unsteadily, swallowing hard, ‘‘why are you here?’’
‘‘Can’t a lady visit with a handsome gentleman?’’
‘‘Right now, I imagine I look anything but handsome. Are you here to get me to work for Trask?’’
‘‘Nothing like that.’’ Shannon shook her head. She hesitated a few heartbeats, then said, ‘‘John, I’m frightened.’’
McBride could see enough in her face to know that she was telling the truth. ‘‘Frightened of what?’’
‘‘Gamble. I saw another side of him tonight, the way he acted after you brought in the dead cowboy’s body.’’ She laid her small hand on the back of McBride’s huge, scarred paw. ‘‘I think he did hire that boy to kill you and Theo Leggett. In fact I’m sure of it.’’
‘‘Why the change of heart all of a sudden? You told me yourself that the kid could have been trying to rob us.’’
‘‘Even as I told you that, I didn’t believe it myself. I think Gamble was afraid Theo would tell you something that could harm him, so he wanted to silence the old man, and you.’’ Shannon’s fingers touched her slender throat and her dark eyes were haunted. ‘‘John, what did Theo tell you?’’
‘‘Only that Trask is trading in opium and Chinese girls and that when he leaves, High Hopes will die because there will be nothing to take his place. The gold mines are playing out and the miners will soon be moving on. Theo said the only way the town has a future is to get rid of Trask and attract the local cattlemen.’’
‘‘That was it? That was all?’’
‘‘As he was dying he said something about Trask and orphan trains. Have you any idea what he meant by that?’’
‘‘No,’’ Shannon answered. ‘‘Maybe Theo was delirious by the time you spoke to him.’’
‘‘It could be. But he repeated it twice. He held on to life long enough to tell me about the orphan trains.’’
‘‘Yes, I suppose it is strange,’’ Shannon said without interest. She moved closer to McBride and placed her hand on his thigh. ‘‘John, I told you I was frightened and I am. Gamble told me tonight he plans on pulling out of High Hopes soon and he wants me to go with him. He said we can get married back East, maybe in New York or Boston. Then he said a couple of things that scared me. He said he was planning to make one big score before he left that would bring him enough money to ensure our entry into high society. Then he said he would cover his tracks, that he’d leave no loose ends behind him in High Hopes. If I don’t leave with him, I know I’ll be one of those loose ends.’’
‘‘He’s in a dirty business, Shannon,’’ McBride said. ‘‘Opium, heroin and slave girls. I can see that he’d want to cover his tracks. A past like that won’t help his political ambitions.’’<
br />
Shannon nodded. ‘‘Tonight, for the first time, Gamble admitted to me he was shipping young Celestials to Eastern brothels. He said when we’re in Washington all that will be forgotten by both of us.’’
Shannon’s eyes showed sudden fear. ‘‘John, I don’t want to marry Gamble Trask.’’
‘‘Did you tell him that?’’
‘‘No. I was too afraid. I told him I’d think about it, and then his whole attitude changed. He said, ‘Don’t think about it for too long, Shannon. I’m not a patient man.’ He scared me, John. The look in his eyes . . . it was . . . murderous.’’
‘‘Those loose ends you were talking about—I expect that includes me.’’
‘‘Yes, John, you, and the men Theo Leggett confided in, Dr. Cox, Grant Wilson and a few others. I believe that’s why Gamble has hired the Allison brothers. They’re professionals who will do Gamble’s killing, including Hack Burns at the end. He’s someone else who knows too much, another loose end.’’
‘‘I’d say Stryker Allison would find Burns a handful.’’
‘‘Maybe, but Stryker isn’t the worst of the brothers. The miners say the youngest, Harland, has killed seven men. He has a vile temper, especially when he’s drinking, and he shoots first and talks later. Like Stryker, the other two, Julius and Clint, will kill only if the price is right. Last year, up in Wyoming, the Allisons hired their guns to a rancher who wanted to clean out nesters in the Shoshone Basin country. When the brothers left and the bodies were counted, seventeen men and half-grown boys and two women were dead on the ground.’’
‘‘The big score Trask was talking about, any idea what it is? The Allison brothers might also be involved in that,’’ McBride said.
‘‘I don’t know. He didn’t confide in me that much.’’
McBride thoughtfully rubbed the harsh stubble on his jaw, his trained detective’s brain working. ‘‘Could be it’s about what Theo said, something to do with orphan trains.’’
Ralph Compton West of the Law Page 7