Al-Karim, dressed in flowing black and white Arab robes, bowed his head and made a graceful gesture to McBride, touching his forehead and lips with the crooked index finger of his right hand.
‘‘The sheik doesn’t say much, Mr. Smith,’’ Portugee said, ‘‘but he’s known from Tangier to Baghdad as a rich and powerful man. He agreed to place himself under our protection, since he is seeking to buy a stable of fine Thoroughbred racehorses to take back to his native land. He carries much gold and was warned that brigands lurk everywhere in the West.’’ Portugee smiled. ‘‘I have taken this timid son of the desert under my wing.’’
Al-Karim had a lined, dark face and there was a hint of cruelty about his thin lips. Like a hungry hawk, he watched McBride in the firelight, his black eyes glittering, missing nothing.
A sailor with a surly expression and a cutlass scar on one cheek brought McBride a bowl of green soup and a hunk of bread.
‘‘Parched-pea soup, Mr. Smith,’’ Portugee said. ‘‘I learned to enjoy it while I served ten years before the mast in old Queen Vic’s navy. That’s why you hear the accent of Bow Bells more than that of my native Seville in my speech. Now, by all means try the soup. As I told you, it’s but humble sailormen’s fare, though I trust you’ll like it as much as I do.’’
McBride tried the soup. It was surprisingly good and he said so. Portugee seemed pleased.
‘‘A compliment on one’s cooking is always appreciated. Now, where are you bound, Mr. Smith?’’
‘‘Passing through,’’ McBride said. His eyes lifted to the circle of armed men who were standing behind their captain. He did not see a friendly face and a few were mighty unfriendly.
The soup was hot, but McBride spooned it down quickly, anxious to be gone from the camp. ‘‘And you, Captain—’’
‘‘Portugee, please,’’ he said with a dazzling smile.
‘‘Well then, Portugee, where are you headed?’’
‘‘Wherever the trade winds blow us,’’ the man answered. ‘‘In the wagons we carry ivory, sandalwood and all the spices of the Orient and seek to sell them for good, hard coin. But, alas, we are but honest sailors far from the sea and there are those who would seek to cheat us, I fear.’’
McBride thought Portugee and his hard-bitten bunch looked more like pirates than honest sailors, but he kept his own counsel and said, ‘‘I’d head north if I were you. Follow the Union Pacific road and you’ll come on Pueblo, then Denver. You’ll find a market for your goods in both places.’’
Portugee laughed and clapped his hands. He turned his head to the men behind him and yelled, ‘‘Hear that, you scurvy knaves? Never were truer words spoke. You are gold dust, Mr. Smith, pure gold dust, and damn me for a lubber if I don’t take your advice.’’ The man slapped his thigh. ‘‘Ain’t Mr. Smith gold dust, boys, and no mistake?’’
‘‘Yeah, true-blue,’’ somebody said, his voice flat, and another man put a hand to his mouth and snickered.
Portugee’s face showed sudden concern. ‘‘The soup is not to your liking?’’
‘‘It was good,’’ McBride said. ‘‘See—’’ He upturned his bowl. ‘‘I finished every drop.’’
‘‘You, Jake Carter, bring more soup for Mr. Smith,’’ Portugee yelled.
McBride shook his head. ‘‘No, thank you. I’ve had enough.’’ He made to rise to his feet. ‘‘I think I’d best be moving on.’’
Portugee raised his arms in an attitude of surrender. ‘‘This soon, and me with so much to tell you. Why, lad, I was thinking to regale you with tales of the sea, of monsters and mermaids and tempests and other yarns that would curdle your young blood. Aye, and of blackhearted pirate rogues as well, damn their eyes.’’
Several men giggled and one called out, ‘‘And slave traders, Portugee. Don’t forget the slave traders.’’
The sailors laughed derisively and Portugee hollered, ‘‘I swear, Tom Spooner, one day I’ll cut out your wagging tongue. I’ll be damned if I don’t.’’
He turned his attention back to McBride. ‘‘If you must go, you must go, and there’s an end to it.’’ He stuck out his hand. ‘‘Well, here’s to our budding friendship and for telling me in which direction the trade winds blow fairest.’’
McBride got up on one knee and took Portugee’s hand. But with surprising strength, the man suddenly yanked McBride toward him. Off-balance, McBride fell flat on his face as he heard Portugee yell, ‘‘Now, boys!’’
Something hard slammed into the back of McBride’s head. He caught a glimpse of al-Karim’s sadistic grin. Then the ground yawned open under him and he fell into a bottomless pit where there was only pain and echoing darkness. . . .
Chapter 22
He was swimming for his life. The cold water filled his mouth and he could not breathe as he battled through crashing surf. Ahead of him he saw a pirate island, the great smoking cone of its volcano surrounded by a lush jungle where snakes slithered and monkeys chattered. He heard the laugh of Portugee, mocking him as he struck out for shore. But he was tiring fast and suddenly the azure sea closed over his head and he was sinking . . . down . . . down to a sandy bottom where skeletons of men with coral eyes beckoned to him, welcoming him to a watery grave. . . .
No, he was in the creek!
McBride stopped struggling and his hands found the pebbled bottom. He pushed himself up and lifted his head out of the water. But more water, stinging, lashed at him. It was rain.
McBride clambered to his feet, the creek rushing past the middle of his thighs. His head ached and the hard morning light spiked at his eyes. He waded out of the water and collapsed on the bank.
Darkness took him again.
He woke to rain battering on his face and heard the sound of distant thunder. His head aching, he struggled to a sitting position and looked around him. Judging by the light, the day was far along. The sky above him looked like a vast sheet of curled lead from horizon to horizon. There was no sign of Portugee and his wagons, only the empty, far-flung distances of the plains and the kettledrum rattle of the raking rain.
McBride looked at his feet. He wiggled his toes, puzzled. Then it dawned on him through the red haze of his headache—they had taken his shoes. He made a quick inventory. His shoulder holster was gone and with it his gun. His watch was missing and his hat. So too was the money belt he’d worn under his shirt. It had held more than seven hundred dollars, the remainder of the money he’d gotten from Inspector Byrnes. All he had left was the soaked clothes he stood up in.
Piece by piece, McBride tried to put it together. He remembered talking to the man named Portugee . . . shaking his hand . . . and then . . .
Somebody had hit him over the head with some kind of club. Then they’d taken everything he’d owned and thrown him in the creek. He must have washed downstream with the current and then fetched up to a sandbank. He’d later rolled into the water again and had experienced the terrible dream about a pirate island and drowning. And he had been drowning, facedown in the creek, but had woken up in time.
Wearily, McBride climbed to his feet. He staggered, looking around him, trying to take his bearings. He had no idea where he was, except that the creek was close. He could follow it east until he reached High Hopes. And then? He had no idea.
Staggering, falling time after time, getting up again dizzy and sore, McBride lurched along the creek bank. The rain was his enemy, hammering at him, giving him no peace. The downpour pockmarked the surface of the creek with startled Vs of water and hissed at him, mocking his puny efforts to cover the wet, slippery ground. Lightning forked from the black sky, bony white fingers pointing at him, threatening to strike.
McBride stumbled and fell, this time landing heavily on his face. On the creek bank thick underbrush surrounded the slender trunks of a pair of willows. On his hands and knees he crawled between them and worked his way into the brush. He sat up and wrapped his arms around him, shivering uncontrollably, thorns snagging sharp and wicked at his shirt and pants. Rain f
iltered cold through the brush and above him the thunder roared, the sky flickering between blackness and flashing, searing light. Despite it all, McBride closed his eyes and slept. He was still asleep when the storm clouds parted and the tranquil night lay soft on the land.
Through most of the long day McBride alternated between sleep and blurry wakefulness. Once he crawled out of the brush and drank at the creek, then crept back into his thorny haven and slept again.
The sun had just kept its appointment with the peaks of the Sangre de Cristo when McBride woke to twilight. He backed out of the brush and stood, testing his battered body. For a few minutes the land around him rocked and spun, but gradually the world righted itself and he found he could take a few steps without staggering. But his skull clanged in pain, like a hammer beating on an anvil, and he felt sick to his stomach. His fingers went to the back of his head and touched dry, crusted blood. It was a bad wound and he was sore in need of medical attention. But there was little chance of finding a doctor in all that wilderness.
McBride tried to think. What were his wants? A horse, but he had no horse. Food? That could wait. Water? There was plenty in the creek. A gun? Where to get a gun? He forced himself to work it out, his aching brain protesting. Then he remembered. Stryker Allison and the dead miner probably still lay where they’d dropped and both had been armed. The bodies were back along the creek to the west, where blood was staining the sky red as the sun died.
He would retrace his steps and recover Allison’s guns.
The night drew tight and dark around McBride as he walked. Above him stars were dusted like diamonds across black velvet. A rising prairie wind tugged at him and far away to the northwest, over the Wet Mountains, distant thunder grumbled and arcs of blue fire shimmered above the horizon.
After two hours the rock cairn McBride had built over Luke Prescott’s body came into sight, the white rocks gleaming like a ghost in the darkness. McBride was exhausted, his body battered and bruised from the constant falls he’d taken during the walk to get there.
He found the miner’s body first. The man was sprawled on the grass like a rag doll, his clothes ripped where the coyotes had pulled at him. McBride cast about, searching around the body, but could not find the miner’s gun.
A few steps away, Stryker Allison lay on his back, one white, clawed hand raised to the night, a talon attempting to tear the living stars from the sky. McBride found the man’s Colt close to his body. Although he had never shot such a weapon, he was familiar with its operation, Inspector Byrnes and other detectives often carrying a short-barreled model. He swung open the loading gate and let the spent shells drop from the cylinder. Then he took a knee beside Allison and unbuckled his gun belt. The gunman’s filmy eyes were open, accusing, as McBride dragged the belt out from under him. Allison’s body jerked and the smell of death was already on him. Soon the coyotes would come for him.
McBride buckled the gun belt around his waist and slipped the Colt into the holster. But he was uncomfortable with the heavy, lopsided hang of it, and immediately took the belt off again. He filled his pocket with shells from the cartridge loops, tossed the gun belt away and loaded the big revolver. He stuck the gun in the waistband of his pants and its cold bulk returned a measure of confidence to him.
He started walking again, east in the direction of High Hopes, under a sky where the stars were going out one by one. Thunder banged close and the blue fire was all around him. Head down against wind and slanting rain, he trudged on, the flat echo of thunderclaps crashing over him like the waves of a turbulent sea.
McBride had wandered from the creek and the sheltering cottonwoods. His thinking muddled as it was, he did not realize that he was now the tallest thing on the prairie. He would very soon pay for his mistake.
The storm had brought an inky blackness to the land around him, now and then lightning flashes bathing the flat in brief, blinding light. During those moments McBride saw that he’d strayed far from the creek and he changed direction, heading north again. He was just yards from the cottonwoods when thunder bellowed right overhead. McBride felt the hair lift on his head and the air around him crackled with electricity. Thunder roared again. Immediately McBride found himself in the middle of a searing silver shaft of light that rent apart the fabric of the darkness. He was hurled backward, stunned, as the world exploded around him. He felt no pain, only a numbing shock that paralyzed his entire body.
He heard the thunder hammer again. Then he became one with the shattered night, fragmenting into a million crystalline pieces that fell scarlet and hissing hot to the wet earth that returned them to blackness.
Chapter 23
Shannon, more beautiful than he remembered, gracefully walked toward him, a welcoming smile on her lips, her arms outstretched for the embrace of love. Her silk gown slipped from her shoulders, and then from her milk-white breasts, tipped with pink coral. As he reached for her he heard her gown swish to the floor. . . .
He woke, the swishing sound still in his ears. The swish repeated, repeated again, coming closer.
McBride opened his eyes as the beautiful image of Shannon faded like a fairy gift from his memory. The swish, swish, swish was even closer now.
He turned his head and saw the little mustang nosing through the long grass, pushing aside the tough blades as it searched for more succulent shoots.
It seemed that even Portugee and his scoundrels had no use for the bony little hammerhead.
Glad as he was to see the horse, McBride stayed where he was, looking up at a blue sky with not a cloud in sight. Piece by piece, like a man waking after a three-day bender, he put together the events of the night. He had been struck by lightning— that, he recalled—but for some reason it had not killed him. He struggled to a sitting position and looked around him. Nearby a cottonwood was down. The tree’s blackened trunk had snapped about halfway up its height and fragments of scorched branches lay scattered everywhere.
Now McBride knew why he was still breathing. Lightning had struck the cottonwood, not him, but he’d been close enough to suffer the effects of some of the blast. He’d been lucky—if you could call it that. Still, the mustang had sought him out, so maybe the shadow of the dark star that had been dogging him had moved on. He sure hoped so.
McBride struggled to his feet. He’d already been groggy from the whack to his head and the lightning strike had made it worse. He felt punch-drunk, like he’d gone ten rounds with John L. Sullivan and had come out on the losing end.
The mustang lifted its head and eyed McBride suspiciously as he lurched close. When the man got within three feet, the little horse sidestepped away from him, leaving McBride to curse a blue streak.
But then, its contrary point made, the animal stood, making no fuss when McBride clambered onto its back. He turned the mustang until its nose pointed east, then lay across its neck and let the threatening darkness take him again.
The mustang plodded east through the heat of the afternoon, keeping to the low ground between the hills. Once, toward late afternoon, he stopped in a glade shaded by piñon and juniper and grazed for an hour. The unconscious man on his back groaned softly a few times but did not wake.
As the day shaded into night, the call of the barn grew strong in the ungainly little horse, and it was for that scant haven he headed as the moon rose and the coyotes talked around him. The mustang was five years old and had run free on the plains until he was three. Gelded, then broken as a cow pony with whip and spur, for almost two years he’d known little of kindness but much of abuse. He’d later been sold for fifteen dollars to the City Transfer and Hack Line as a carriage horse, but his wretched lot had improved little since then. Eventually he’d be butchered to supply meat for one of the Indian reservations.
But for now the barn in High Hopes was home, a place where there was hay and protection from predators. The mustang journeyed on, walking through the dusky night as the moon, cool, aloof and disinterested, looked down on him.
‘‘He’s c
omin’ round, Doc. Ain’t dead like I figgered.’’
McBride opened his eyes and looked up at the hairy face of Ebenezer Keble.
‘‘Hoss brung you back, young feller,’’ the old man said. ‘‘You was lucky you wasn’t seen, on account of how the whole town is gunning for you.’’ He smiled. ‘‘You sure have a way o’ gettin’ on the wrong side of folks.’’
‘‘Where am I?’’ McBride asked. His voice sounded like a rusty gate hinge.
‘‘At the T. J. barn, of course, and in the hayloft to be exac’. Doc Cox tol’ me to hide you up here from Gamble Trask an’ them Allison boys. Ol’ Gamble, now, he’s so mad at you he’s spittin’ nails, and the Allisons, well, don’t count on them to make any friendly noises in your direction.’’
Ebenezer’s face was replaced by one younger, the concerned features of a handsome, clean-shaven man who looked to be in his early thirties. ‘‘How are you feeling?’’ he asked. ‘‘I’m Dr. Alan Cox.’’
McBride had been struggling to rise. Now he lay back on the straw and his fingers went to the fat bandage around his head. ‘‘Headache, Doc, as you might expect.’’
Cox nodded. ‘‘You took quite a blow. A rifle butt, I suspect. I had to stitch you up to stop the wound opening again.’’ The physician rooted around in his medical bag and found a small mirror. He held it so McBride could look into it. ‘‘See anything strange?’’ he asked.
McBride glanced at the mirror and was appalled. He hadn’t shaved in days and his face was scraped and torn by thorns. His eye was no longer as swollen, but it was surrounded by yellow and purple bruises. But what really caught his attention was his color—his skin was bright red, peeling in places, as though from a bad sunburn.
‘‘The backs of your hands and the tops of your feet are the same color,’’ Cox said, reading McBride’s expression. ‘‘Have you been exposed to anything?’’
Ralph Compton West of the Law Page 15