Ralph Compton West of the Law

by West, Joseph A. ; Compton, Ralph

  ‘‘Shannon?’’ he called again, louder this time.

  A man emerged from the door of the stable, small, dapper, grinning. ‘‘She’s not here, McBride. But I am.’’

  McBride was stunned. ‘‘O’Hara! How did you—’’

  ‘‘Know you were coming here? Let’s just say a little bird told me, a pretty little female bird at that.’’

  Dolly! He’d said he was meeting Shannon here. This was how she’d gotten back at him for leaving High Hopes—by betraying him to Gypsy Jim.

  ‘‘You made a big mistake, McBride,’’ O’Hara said. The little assassin was poised, ready, a deadly scorpion about to strike. ‘‘A man can wear a disguise, but he can’t change the color of his eyes. That got me to wondering when I saw you in the saloon, and later when you came to pay your last respects to poor Mr. Trask. See, an old man has faded, milky eyes, but yours are bright blue. Young eyes in a graybeard’s face? It just didn’t ring true. The more I thought about it, the more I became convinced I was looking at Detective Sergeant McBride as ever was.’’ O’Hara shook his head. ‘‘A smart shadow like you should have known that.’’

  ‘‘Donovan send you here?’’ McBride asked.

  ‘‘No, I came on my own.’’ O’Hara threw a burlap sack at McBride’s feet. ‘‘But I’ll give him your head in that after I kill you.’’ The little man was reaching down to the right pocket of his coat. ‘‘I never liked you, McBride, the stiff-necked copper who couldn’t be bribed. It’s going to be a real pleasure to put a bullet into you.’’

  ‘‘Where’s Shannon?’’

  Was she in the barn, bound and gagged and unable to cry out?

  ‘‘Like I said, she’s not here, McBride. It’s only me . . . and you.’’

  O’Hara had made his intention to kill him clear. The time for talking was over.

  If McBride had learned anything in the West, it was not to underestimate the sudden effectiveness of the gunfighter’s fast draw.

  ‘‘Listen, O’Hara, let’s talk—’’

  He drew, very fast from the waistband. O’Hara, smirking, overconfident of his gun skills, was taken completely by surprise. He was still groping for the gun in his coat pocket when McBride’s first bullet hit him.

  The man spun halfway to his left. But now he had a gun in his hand. He was bringing it up for an aimed shot when McBride fired again. The bullet hit O’Hara’s collar stud and drove it through the back of his neck, smashing the spine. The man let out a scream and dropped to his knees. He looked at McBride for a few moments, his eyes unbelieving, then fell flat on his face.

  The rooster on the roof screeched its frustration with the wind as McBride stepped to O’Hara and turned him over with his foot. The man was dead.

  Without conscious thought, McBride punched the two empty shells from his Colt and reloaded from the rounds in his pocket. He stuck the gun back in his waistband. It was likely that others would come to investigate the shooting at this hour of the morning, but he took time to search the barn. Shannon was not there.

  McBride swung into the saddle and rode into the plain, where the light was shading from black to cobalt blue. A time to think, then he’d look for Shannon.

  He was sure she was in the hands of Sean Donovan, and he knew how badly the man treated women.

  He had to free her—even if it cost him his own life.

  Chapter 28

  John McBride rode due north into the brightening morning.

  Miles ahead of him lay the great rampart of the Kaibab Plateau, where deer and antelope fed among vast forests of fir and ponderosa pine. But McBride had no intention of riding that far. He was looking for a place where he could sleep through the day and then return to High Hopes under the cover of darkness.

  He found it just as the sun was lifting over the horizon to the east, a shallow valley between two low hills, shaded by a grove of wild oak, cottonwood and juniper. A stream cut through the trees and bubbled around the eroded bulk of a great sandstone boulder, thrown there during some ancient volcanic eruption.

  McBride unsaddled the mustang, then found a place among the juniper where he could stretch out. He was both hungry and tired, but could satisfy only one urge. He tipped his battered hat over his eyes and willed sleep to come to him.

  The sun rose higher and clothed McBride in dappled light. Jays quarreled in the tree branches, raining leaves and pieces of bark on him, but he slumbered on.

  By late afternoon deer came to drink at the stream and McBride woke. He rose and stretched, scattering the whitetails, then saddled the mustang again.

  Darkness was falling as McBride swung wide of town and rode up to Marshal Clark’s barn. Dolly had betrayed him, but in a town filled with betrayal, this was as safe a place as any other.

  He forked hay to the mustang, then, pulling his hat over his eyes, made his way into the street, walking toward the Golden Garter. Hack Burns and Sean Donovan were men to be avoided. And so was Portugee. The two Allison brothers had never seen him and might not recognize him in his different clothes and hat.

  No matter, that was a chance he’d have to take.

  The saloon was already crowded, but Shannon was not at her usual table. There was no sign of Donovan and the others. Afraid of being seen, McBride left immediately and walked along the boardwalk to the Killeen Hotel.

  A bored clerk sat behind the desk, his feet up, contemplating his twiddling thumbs. McBride waited, looking down at the man, then palmed the bell on the desk, loudly, several times.

  A surly look on his face, the man rose to his feet. ‘‘No need for that. I knew you were there.’’

  ‘‘Then look up the next time,’’ McBride said. He nodded toward the stairs. ‘‘Is Miss Roark in her room?’’

  ‘‘Who wants to know?’’ the clerk said, his thin mouth twisting into an insolent grin.

  McBride was in no mood to put up with an uppity hotel clerk. His gun was suddenly in his hand, the muzzle shoved hard against the man’s forehead.

  ‘‘I think I’m going to have trouble with you, but I’ll ask you just once again—is Miss Roark in her room?’’

  Terror showed in the clerk’s eyes and his throat bobbed a time or two. ‘‘No . . . no, she’s not. She left a couple of hours ago.’’

  ‘‘Was anybody with her?’’

  ‘‘Yeah . . . yeah . . . a big man, near as big as you.’’

  So Donovan did have Shannon in his clutches. But why? Did he believe she knew about Trask’s business dealings and thought he could profit by that knowledge? Would he torture Shannon to get at the truth?

  ‘‘Did Shannon—did Miss Roark—say where she was going?’’

  The clerk’s throat bobbed again. ‘‘No, she said nothing. She just walked out with the big feller.’’

  McBride thumbed down the hammer of the Colt and shoved the gun back into his waistband. He ignored the frightened clerk and stood at the desk deep in thought. Where had Donovan taken her? He didn’t know this country and would be reluctant to stray far from town. Shannon must still be in High Hopes. All McBride had to do was find her.

  He walked out of the hotel and stood on the boardwalk, his eyes searching up and down the street. He was at a loss at what to do next.

  Men were stomping back and forth, heading into one saloon or another, but the Golden Garter was busiest of all. It seemed that the death of its proprietor had not put a dent in business. Had Sean Donovan already taken over, bought drinks for the house and made it clear he was the new big man in town?

  Once he forced Shannon to tell him about Trask’s other operations, he would also take over the drug trade and the trafficking of Chinese girls. Donovan was not a man to pass on making easy money, and he likely planned to spend some time in High Hopes to clean up before returning to New York.

  McBride had no illusions. Sean Donovan was a ruthless man, a conscienceless killer when he had to be, and Shannon was in deadly danger.

  Damn it, where was she?

  The question again cla
nged through McBride’s mind like a fire alarm. He was standing uselessly in the street while his future wife faced Donovan alone. By now she must be terrified, confronted by the man’s devouring ambition and raw power. Donovan was not gentle with women, and those he couldn’t have he took by brute force. For Shannon, that would be a fate worse than death itself.

  There was only one way. McBride knew he had to find Sean Donovan and kill him. And he was prepared to walk over the bodies of Hack Burns and the Allison brothers to do it.

  Back at the barn, Dolly had casually referred to him as ‘‘gunfighter,’’ and maybe that’s what he’d become. If he had, now was the time to live up to the name.

  Sooner or later Donovan would return to the saloon. And McBride would be there . . . waiting for him.

  He stepped to the edge of the boards, then stopped. Two men had walked out of the saloon and stood together, lighting cigars. Both wore black frock coats and low-crowned, flat-brimmed hats, and the buckles of their gun belts gleamed in the lamplight.

  They could only be Julius and Clint Allison.

  One of the brothers glanced across the street and started to look away. Then his head swung sharply back. McBride felt the man’s eyes, shadowed by his hat brim, crawl over him.

  McBride’s height and massive chest and shoulders were enough to draw any fighting man’s interest, and whatever Allison brother that was, the man was interested now.

  There were enough men in town, including Donovan, who could have given the Allisons a description of McBride that his shabby clothes could not hide. The man across the way was suspicious, and it showed. He whispered to his brother and the second man looked across at McBride, his eyes lingering long. Then he abruptly turned and walked quickly into the saloon.

  The other brother strolled to the edge of the boardwalk and brushed his coat away from his gun. His cigar glowed red in his teeth and his lips were shaped into a grin.

  He knew! And he was ready.

  McBride had it to do. He stepped down into the street but stopped when the doors of the Golden Garter swung open—and Sean Donovan walked onto the boardwalk, Hack Burns and the Allison brother at his side.

  It took only a moment for Donovan to recognize McBride.

  ‘‘You!’’ he screamed. His hand flew for the gun under his coat. The Allisons were also drawing, very fast and smooth.

  A crowd of miners saved McBride’s life. Drunk and unaware, they stumbled, singing, their arms around one another’s shoulders, in front of Donovan and the two gunmen.

  McBride heard Donovan curse, saw him roughly push a young, redheaded miner aside. Too drunk to realize what was happening, the man angrily yelled something and pushed back. Donovan cursed again, rammed his gun into the man’s belly and fired. The miner staggered a few steps, looking down with shocked, unbelieving eyes at the blossoming scarlet flower that would soon kill him.

  Suddenly McBride was running.

  A bullet kicked up dust at his feet and a second split the air above his head. He dived into an alley and ran into the darkness. Behind him he heard Donovan’s angry yell. Then feet were pounding after him.

  McBride cleared the far end of the alley at a jolting, flat-footed sprint. He did not try to hide because there was nowhere to hide. Ahead of him lay the inky wall of the prairie, deep shadows streaked by moonlight, and he ran on and let the night embrace him.

  He knew the Allisons and Donovan were close behind him, but they would not charge blindly into darkness and his waiting gun. The gloom would slow them, make them careful, and that’s exactly what he wanted.

  At a walk, McBride headed for the train station. The soft rustle of grass under his feet was lost in the whisper of the wind and the talk of the coyotes out on the plain. If he could lure Donovan and the others to the station, he could make a fight of it there. The station would provide cover and the fast draws of the Allison brothers would not be a factor.

  McBride climbed the freight ramp to the platform, keeping to the shadows. A light burned in the ticket office and he opened the door and stepped inside. Silas Knowles, wearing a green eye-shade, was sitting at a desk, a sputtering pen in his hand. The man set the pen down when McBride entered, and looked up, a sour look on his face.

  ‘‘Hell, are you still alive?’’ he asked. ‘‘I hear you and that gunfighter Luke Prescott played hob.’’

  ‘‘I may not be alive much longer,’’ McBride said pleasantly. A shrewder man than Knowles would have noticed that his eyes did not match his tone. ‘‘There are men after me.’’

  ‘‘Then get the hell out of my office. You ain’t dying in here.’’

  ‘‘Sure, Silas, sure.’’

  McBride moved as though to turn away, but he swung back fast and his big right hand grabbed the front of Knowles’ shirt. He dragged the man across the desk. The toes of Knowles’ shoes scraped across the desktop, scattering papers, and the ink-well tipped, spreading like a pool of black blood.

  Knowles tried to wrench himself free. McBride held him at arm’s length and backhanded him hard across the face. Knowles yelped in pain, then took refuge in a whimper, his mouth dripping scarlet saliva.

  McBride hauled the clerk to the door. He stuck his head outside and looked into the darkness, but there was no movement or sound. He dragged Knowles along the platform to a shadowed recess where a bench stood, and slammed the man’s back against the wall. He smiled. ‘‘So, Silas, how are you?’’

  ‘‘Damn you, what do you want from me?’’

  ‘‘Information. And I don’t have much time, so I want it real fast.’’

  ‘‘I can give you train times. That’s the only information I have.’’

  McBride slapped the man again. Knowles shrieked and his head rolled on his shoulders. McBride lifted the man’s chin with a crooked forefinger. ‘‘Silas,’’ he said, ‘‘I’m not very happy with you. That scream could have been heard clear to town. I also don’t like grown men who want to prey on little girls. Now, you either tell me what I want to know or I’ll make sure you’re never able to molest a child again. You know where my bullet will go, don’t you, Silas?’’

  McBride drew his gun and pushed the muzzle into the man’s groin. He thumbed back the hammer.

  ‘‘No, oh please don’t,’’ Knowles wailed. ‘‘What do you want to know? I’ll tell ya, swear to God, I will.’’

  McBride nodded. ‘‘That’s better. Now, it’s amazing how clearly a man thinks when he’s running through the dark being shot at. I had this moment of wonderful clarity when I realized that the only way I can safely leave High Hopes with my future bride is to bring your whole rotten town to its knees. I thought, What good is it to have a beautiful wife at your side, John, if you can never again raise your head in the company of men? It took some time, but I also remembered that I’m a police officer, sworn to uphold the law. A woman told me to remember that, but at the time I didn’t heed her. Thinking back now, I should have.’’

  McBride smiled. ‘‘Do you understand all that, Silas, or am I talking too fast for you? If I am, I’m sorry, but my time is short.’’

  ‘‘I understand, I understand,’’ Knowles stammered. There were tears in his eyes. ‘‘What do you want from me, lawman?’’

  ‘‘Tell me about the orphan train that’s due here tomorrow.’’

  ‘‘I don’t know anything about that.’’

  McBride pushed the gun harder into the man’s groin.

  ‘‘It will be here at noon. Big train. Maybe three, four passenger coaches. It’s a cannonball, straight through from New York City.’’

  ‘‘How many girls?’’

  ‘‘A hundred, maybe more. I don’t know.’’

  ‘‘Who is Sean Donovan paying?’’

  ‘‘The engineer, fireman, conductor, a few more.’’

  ‘‘You, Silas, is he paying you?’’

  ‘‘Yes . . . to keep my trap shut if any Santa Fe big shots ever get curious.’’

  ‘‘But you’re talking to me.’’
r />   ‘‘I know and if Donovan finds out, he’ll kill me.’’

  ‘‘How did you meet Mr. Donovan?’’

  ‘‘I didn’t. The money was all paid through Gamble Trask. I got two hundred dollars.’’

  ‘‘And you wanted to use it to buy a little girl, right?’’

  Knowles’ eyes grew sly and guarded and he made no answer.

  McBride asked, ‘‘Trask planned on selling the girls to Portugee Lamego?’’

  ‘‘Yes, him and another man, a foreigner.’’

  ‘‘An Arab trader? Goes by the name Ali al-Karim?’’

  ‘‘I don’t know.’’

  ‘‘How much was Portugee paying Trask?’’

  ‘‘I don’t know. A thousand a girl, less Donovan’s cut. I heard that, but I don’t know.’’

  ‘‘Steep price. I heard in some parts you can buy a young girl for the cost of a Missouri mule.’’

  ‘‘Them Arabs you’re talking about, they’ll pay ten times what Trask was getting at the slave markets in Tangier. They like blue-eyed girls with yeller hair for their harems, and the prettier, the better.’’

  ‘‘How do you know about slave markets and harems, Silas? You’re a railroad ticket clerk at the nub end of nowhere.’’

  ‘‘Hack Burns told me. He’d spoken to Gamble Trask a heap of times and from what Trask had let drop, Hack had it all figured out.’’

  McBride thought for a few moments.

  Even after paying off Donovan, Trask would have had enough money from Portugee and his trade in opium and Chinese girls to head for his new political life in Washington. A hundred thousand dollars and more could buy a lot of friends with influence. Portugee was the middleman, but it would be up to al-Karim to use his dozen ships to get the girls to slave markets at Tangier. The girls could be taken from a train, herded onto some remote beach on the California coast and picked up from there with no one the wiser.

  It was a neat setup where everybody involved, even minnows like Silas Knowles, came out ahead. Only now Trask was dead, and it was Sean Donovan who stood to profit.

  McBride dropped the hammer of the Colt and shoved the gun into his waistband. He took a step back and said, ‘‘Get the hell away from me, Silas.’’