Ralph Compton: West of the Law

by Ralph Compton

  Nolan rushed in, swinging both fists at McBride’s face. Solid blows smashed into McBride’s chin and he staggered for real this time, his hat flying away as his head snapped back. His legs were threatening to buckle under him, and in that instant McBride knew he was fighting for his life. If he dropped to the floor, Nolan would use his boots to kick him to a bloody pulp.

  ‘‘Now you got him, Jim!’’ somebody in the crowd yelled. ‘‘Put him away.’’

  McBride hung on, wrestling now as Jim Nolan tried to throw him to the floor. He felt steel in the man, the roping muscles along his spine as big as a ship’s cables. For the first time since the fight began, McBride realized this was a knuckle, boot and skull battle he could easily lose.

  He arched as Nolan’s enormous arms circled his waist, trying to break his back. The pain made McBride gasp and he felt the bones of his lower spine grind. Nolan’s shattered face was very close to his own. He smelled blood on the man’s breath as his grip tightened. ‘‘I’m going to snap you like a twig,’’ Nolan taunted. ‘‘You’ll scream like a woman.’’

  McBride’s strength was fading fast. Nolan’s arms were an irresistible force, like steel hawsers crushing the life out of him. He knew his backbone could soon shatter, leaving him paralyzed and helpless on the floor.

  Desperately McBride chopped a short right to Nolan’s chin and then another. The man shook off the blows and laughed. ‘‘You won’t hurt me with those punches!’’

  The crowd was cheering wildly now, their blood-lust surging. Judging by the sound and the cries for Nolan to end it, McBride figured that a stranger had mighty few friends in the Golden Garter.

  McBride suddenly went limp and hung his head. He heard Nolan’s triumphant yell and for a moment the terrible pressure on his spine eased a little as it dawned on the big man that the battle was won.

  It was all the time McBride needed.

  Straightening, he stabbed his thumbs into Nolan’s eyes, thrusting hard. The man screamed and jerked his head away, but he again immediately applied pressure to McBride’s weakening back.

  Fear spiking at him, McBride again went for Nolan’s eyes. His powerful thumbs dug deep. He roared like a wounded animal, every last shred of civilized behavior fleeing from him. McBride rammed his thumbs even deeper, trying to blind Nolan.

  Finally the man had enough. He broke his hold and stepped unsteadily back, dashing away blood from his eyes with the heel of his hand. Maddened by the pain in his spine, McBride went after Nolan, no mercy in him.

  A killing rage welled in him and exploded in his skull like a million pieces of shattered glass reflected in fire. He slammed a wicked right hook to Nolan’s chin and followed up with a fist to the belly. His face gray under a grotesque mask of blood, Nolan backed up, his mouth hanging open and his knees like rubber. McBride kept after him, hooking short, punishing blows to the man’s head. Nolan started to go down, but McBride, his blood up, would not let him off the hook. He dug his fingers into Nolan’s hair and held him up as he hammered a smashing right into the man’s chin, then another.

  McBride opened his fingers and Nolan dropped to the floor, his busted jaw hanging loose.

  Used up, McBride stood where he was, his chest heaving. His left eye was swollen shut and he tasted the raw iron tang of blood in his mouth. It hurt to breathe, his ribs and lower back pounding spasms of pain at him. Finally he turned and walked back to the bar, the crowd of stunned miners and saloon girls opening a path for him. McBride was aware of the tangled combination of wonder, fear and apprehension in their eyes, like children watching a caged tiger at a traveling circus.

  Even the bartender, who had seen much of violence, was wary when McBride leaned on the bar and ordered a beer. Palmer, his eyes as guarded as the others’, stepped beside McBride and opened his mouth to speak. He didn’t get the chance to utter a word.

  ‘‘Look out!’’

  A woman’s voice.

  McBride spun and saw Nolan on his feet, staggering a little as he drew his Colt. The man had made a reputation in the town as a bully and a hard case, good with his fists or a gun. If he lost that reputation now, he knew he was finished in High Hopes.

  Nolan fired as McBride yanked his Smith & Wesson from his pocket. The bullet burned across the heavy meat of his left shoulder as he assumed the duelist’s stance as his firearms instructors had taught him. He held the revolver at eye level, his arm straight, the instep of his left foot behind the heel of his right. He and Nolan fired at the same time.

  The big .45 slug from Nolan’s gun plowed across the top of the bar, inches from McBride’s waist, showering splinters. McBride’s bullet parted Nolan’s beard, thudding into him square in the middle of his chest. Hit hard, the man stumbled back, but he was still trying to bring his gun into line. McBride fired his self-cocker again, and once again, scoring both times.

  Nolan went to his knees, pumping bullets into the floor. Then his eyes rolled up white in his head and he fell flat on his face as all that was alive in him fled.

  A sickness curling in his belly, McBride let his revolver drop to his side. In the echoing silence that followed, gray gun smoke drifted through the saloon and he was aware of a young girl in a yellow dress at his side, her shuddering breasts rising and falling as, shocked by what she had just witnessed, she fought for breath.

  ‘‘Well done, that, man!’’

  McBride turned to see a man striding toward him, a beaming smile on his handsome face. He paused momentarily when he drew abreast of Nolan’s body, then motioned to a couple of men. ‘‘Wilson, Reid, get that out of here. It’s staining my floor.’’

  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 Sean 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.