For a fleeting moment McBride thought about revealing his true identity to Prescott. But he decided against it. Byrnes had told him to trust no one, and so far he hadn’t been making a real good job of it.
‘‘I’m here because a friend of mine is in danger,’’ he said.
‘‘A woman?’’
‘‘Yes, a woman.’’
‘‘I thought so. Only a woman can hog-tie a man and keep him in one place. Have I heard of the lady in question?’’
‘‘Her name’s Shannon Roark. She works for Gamble Trask at the Golden Garter.’’
Prescott whistled between his teeth. ‘‘You sure set your sights high, Smith. Everybody’s heard of the beautiful Shannon Roark. They say she’s never taken up with a man, though plenty have tried.’’
McBride shrugged. ‘‘She seems to like me well enough.’’
Prescott was grinning. ‘‘Could be you found the secret, have her feel sorry for a man.’’ He circled an eye with his forefinger. ‘‘I mean, did she take one look at that swollen peeper and swoon into your arms?’’
‘‘The man who gave me that is dead,’’ McBride said, stung. Then, by way of turning aside any more of Prescott’s comments: ‘‘I believe Shannon loves me as I love her and I intend to make her my wife.’’
‘‘Then good luck to you, Smith, and I hope I didn’t speak out of turn.’’
‘‘No harm done,’’ McBride said. ‘‘Now, what about my plan to bring down Trask? Are you willing to draw the line?’’
‘‘I’ll go along with it, at least for now. Like any other feller, I don’t want to die on the sawdust after trying to outshoot half a dozen men.’’ Prescott stepped to the door. ‘‘Meet me at the livery stable at first light with your horse saddled. We’ll ride out to the Peaks and take a look-see.’’
After Prescott left, McBride lay on the bed trying to work through a major problem—he’d never sat on a horse in his life.
Chapter 14
The T. J. Williams Livery and Feed Stable was the only adobe building in High Hopes. Just before sunup McBride stopped and read a notice painted on the wall beside the door.
CITY TRANSFER AND HACK LINE ~
EXPRESSING AND HAULING
Fine saddle horses let
by the day, week or month
That, McBride told himself, was what he needed, a fine saddle horse. If it was nice and quiet.
He opened the livery door and stepped inside. The stable was in darkness, but from somewhere in the gloom he heard a horse stamp a foot and blow through its nose. The noise did nothing to reassure him, but he had little time to think about it as a door opened to his left and an old man stepped out of the office. He was wearing red long johns and slippers, and a battered black hat sat on his head.
‘‘What can I do fer ye, mister? Kinda early, ain’t ye?’’
‘‘I guess. I need a horse.’’
‘‘Purchase or let?’’
‘‘Let.’’
The old man scratched his belly, spit and wiped his bearded mouth with the back of his hand. ‘‘I got a real good buckskin back there will suit ye fine. Cost ye fifty cents a day and two bits extry fer saddle an’ bridle.’’
‘‘Sounds reasonable,’’ McBride allowed.
‘‘Then I’ll saddle him up for ye.’’ The old man hesitated and stuck out his hand. ‘‘That will be seventy-five cents in advance, plus a ten-dollar deposit on the hoss.’’
‘‘Not a trusting man, are you?’’ McBride said.
The old man shrugged. ‘‘You mought be honest, but then again you mought be a hoss thief. Well, young feller, does the ten-dollar deposit go?’’
‘‘It goes.’’ He paid the old man.
‘‘Name’s Ebenezer Keble, fer them as likes to know. There’s coffee on the stove, if’n you’ve a mind to drink some.’’
McBride laid his carpetbag and the Winchester on the floor, then stepped into the office. He found a tin cup and poured himself coffee. He was draining the last of it as Ebenezer led a tall, rawboned horse to the door. McBride’s heart leaped into his throat. ‘‘Kind of big, isn’t he?’’ he said.
‘‘Yup, he’s a big un all right. Some folks say ‘Admire a big hoss, but ride a small one,’ but I don’t hold with that. This big feller will take you to where you’re goin’ and back again without breaking a sweat.’’
A tense minute ticked past, then another. ‘‘Ye gonna climb into the saddle or no?’’ the old man asked, growing puzzlement in his eyes.
‘‘Sure,’’ McBride said. He could hear the hammer of his heart. He stepped to the horse.
‘‘If’n I was you, I’d mount from t’other side,’’ Ebenezer said. ‘‘At least that’s how it’s done around these parts.’’
McBride nodded and walked to the left side of the horse. The buckskin whinnied, rolled its eyes and sidestepped away from him.
‘‘Jes’ grab on to the horn with your lef’ hand and put your foot in the stirrup,’’ the old man advised. He watched the proceedings for a few moments as McBride hopped around on one leg, then said, ‘‘If’n I was you, I’d put my lef’ foot in the stirrup. You’ll find it’s a sight easier that way.’’
The prancing horse led McBride around in circles. He was now hopping on his right leg, his other foot in the stirrup. Thick clouds of choking dust swirled, making him cough.
‘‘Hoist yerself up now,’’ Ebenezer hollered. ‘‘That’s it. There you go.’’
McBride was belly down across the saddle, the bouncing, snorting buckskin giving him no help. ‘‘What do I do now?’’ he yelled.
‘‘Th’ow yer leg over the saddle nice an’ easy an’ sit up. There’s a good gent.’’
McBride could hear from the tone of the old man’s voice that he very much doubted his equestrian abilities. The irritating thing was that he was right.
Finally McBride got to a sitting position and he slid his right foot into the stirrup. Suddenly the buckskin went quiet, and pleased, he relaxed.
‘‘Git ready now,’’ the old man said.
‘‘For what?’’
‘‘Oh, nothin’ much, he’ll just buck a few times to let ye know he’s awake an’ ready to go. He don’t mean anything bad by it. All ye have to do is show him who’s boss.’’
Those dire tidings did not have time to sink into McBride’s consciousness because the horse suddenly uncoiled like a spring, arched its back and started to crow-hop around in fast, tight circles.
‘‘Hold on, feller!’’ Ebenezer yelled. ‘‘Ye got him’’—the end of the sentence faded away into a whisper, directed at McBride lying facedown in the dust—‘‘on . . . the . . . run.’’
Stunned, McBride lay where he was for a few minutes, then rose painfully to his feet. He took off his hat and slapped dust from his pants as the old man asked, ‘‘Here, are you one o’ them city fellers?’’
McBride nodded, grimacing as his lower back punished him.
Ebenezer scratched his whiskered cheek. ‘‘Well, sir, it seems to me we have a problem here.’’
‘‘A smaller horse might help.’’ McBride was irritated at himself, the old man and above all the buckskin, now standing head down, its eyes shut, as it dozed.
Ebenezer slammed a fist into his open palm. ‘‘An’ by jiminy I’ve got the very thing. You stay where you are—I’ll be right back.’’
‘‘I’m not going anywhere,’’ McBride said.
The dawn was shading into the tarnished silver light of morning. Ribbons of scarlet and jade streaked the sky, melting into rose pink at the horizon. Jays were quarreling among the branches of a scrub oak at the rear of the barn and the air smelled of the clean, newborn day.
McBride turned and saw Luke Prescott walking toward him. The gunfighter carried a rifle in one hand, a bulging burlap sack in the other. He glanced at the buckskin. ‘‘I see you’re all ready to go, Smith. I’ll saddle up.’’ He raised the sack. ‘‘I got us some grub, hardtack, salt pork and coffee. Got a pot and fry pan
as well. We could be out for a few days.’’
A few minutes later Prescott walked out of the barn, leading a magnificent black. ‘‘Well, let’s go,’’ he said. He tied the sack onto the horn, then swung into the saddle with effortless grace. He looked down at McBride. ‘‘Mount up.’’
‘‘I can’t,’’ McBride said miserably. ‘‘I don’t know how to ride.’’ He felt like he was confessing to a crime.
And Prescott took it as such. His face shocked, he asked, ‘‘You can’t ride?’’
‘‘Damn it, isn’t that what I just said?’’
‘‘How do you get around?’’
‘‘Usually, I take a streetcar.’’
Prescott threw back his head and laughed. ‘‘Hell, I was right. I had you pegged as a city boy.’’ The laughter glow was still in his eyes as he crossed his hands on the saddle horn and leaned forward. ‘‘And I figure your name isn’t John Smith either.’’
‘‘It’s McBride. The John part stays.’’
‘‘Well, John McBride, in this country a man without a horse has two choices—stay home or walk.’’
‘‘How far to the Spanish Peaks?’’
‘‘Sixty miles, give or take. Your feet would be mighty sore by the time you got there.’’
Defensively, McBride said that the man called Ebenezer was bringing him a smaller and tamer horse. ‘‘I think I can manage that,’’ he said.
‘‘Let’s hope so.’’ Prescott grinned. ‘‘Where we’re going is rough country and a man on foot isn’t going to put a scare into Gamble Trask and his boys.’’
Later, Ebenezer did lead out a small, mouse-colored mustang—but it was between the shafts of a two-wheeled trap.
‘‘Got what you need right here,’’ the old man said. ‘‘Cost you the same as the buckskin.’’
Prescott’s laughter was a joyous thing. ‘‘Hell, John, even you can’t fall off that!’’
His face burning, McBride asked the old man, ‘‘What do I need to know?’’
‘‘Not much. Jes’ slap his back with the reins to go, and pull back on them to whoa.’’ Ebenezer nodded toward Prescott. ‘‘This little pony will still be going when that big American stud of his is lying dead beat on the trail.’’
‘‘Could be,’’ Prescott allowed, fighting back a grin. ‘‘Nothing like a pony and trap to take a man where he wants to go in comfort.’’
McBride ignored the man, got his carpetbag and rifle and tossed them on the seat. He climbed on-board, took up the reins and slapped the mustang’s back. The trap lurched forward and Prescott swung beside him.
‘‘This,’’ McBride said, pleased, ‘‘is much better.’’
Prescott smiled. ‘‘Yeah, until we hit the mountains.’’
Chapter 15
McBride and Prescott headed north across broken, hilly country, then swung west along the bank of Apishapa Creek.
‘‘Lead us right to the Peaks,’’ Prescott said. He turned in the saddle and looked at McBride. ‘‘You ever been in this country before?’’
McBride was bouncing on the trap’s seat springs and his voice jolted as he answered, ‘‘First time.’’
‘‘The Comanche, Ute and Apache figured the Peaks were sacred and named them Wahatoya. That means ‘Breasts of the Earth’ in plain American. Before that, the Aztecs came up this far, hunting for gold and slaves.’’
McBride looked around him. Deer were feeding among the cottonwoods lining the banks of the creek, their sleek coats dappled by the sunlight filtering through the leaves. Trout leaped in the sun-spangled water and far off a small herd of antelope merged into the shimmering horizon and disappeared from sight.
Ahead, a rocky plateau rose above the plain, as yet just a ribbon of blue in the distance. Prescott told him the Spanish Peaks rose to the north of the plateau in high, big-pine country. To the south lay the bend of the Picketwire and, thirty miles south of that, the New Mexico border.
‘‘Kit Carson, Wild Bill Hickok and a bunch of mountain men traveled this country,’’ Prescott said. ‘‘And a lot of outlaws still do.’’ He smiled. ‘‘Myself included.’’
‘‘You on the run from the law?’’ McBride asked.
Prescott nodded. ‘‘Yeah. Sometimes after you kill a man all you can do is run. It’s either that or face a vigilante necktie party.’’ He hesitated a heartbeat, then said, ‘‘And you, John, what are you running from?’’
McBride was taken aback. ‘‘Is it that obvious?’’
Prescott shrugged. ‘‘You claim you’re not the law, so you got to be running. You didn’t come to High Hopes to save a woman. You came because you figured you’d run far enough.’’
‘‘I killed a man,’’ McBride said.
‘‘Back in the city?’’
‘‘New York.’’
‘‘I’d say you’ve skedaddled a fair piece off your home range.’’
‘‘Could be I haven’t run far enough,’’ McBride said, remembering Gypsy Jim O’Hara. ‘‘The father of the man I killed has a far reach.’’
‘‘Then watch your back trail, John. Them’s words of wisdom.’’
They camped that night in a grove of mixed juniper and piñon, beside a stream that bubbled clear from between a cleft in a sandstone parapet that stood taller than a man. The wall, shaped like the prow of a ship, jutted from the side of a hill and it had been undercut by centuries of floodwater, forming a deep hollow.
‘‘I reckon we’ll be glad to sleep in the cave tonight,’’ Prescott said. He lifted his head and tested the wind. ‘‘I smell lightning.’’
‘‘All I can I smell is the salt pork frying,’’ McBride said sourly, hurting from the jolting misery of the poorly sprung trap.
‘‘Maybe so—but listen.’’
Prescott, possessing the instincts of a hunted animal, had heard the thunder long before McBride. But now, as he stepped away from the sizzling fry pan and crackling fire, McBride heard it too.
The storm was blowing in from off the rocky backbone of the Sangre de Cristo range, and by the time McBride squatted by the fire to eat, the sky to the west was flashing silver.
‘‘Be here in an hour or less,’’ Prescott said. ‘‘And it sounds like a big one. Summer lightning storms in Colorado can put a scare into a man. After we eat we’ll bring the horses into the cave.’’
Thirty minutes later the wind began to blow strong. It tossed the branches of the juniper, tattered the flames of the fire and threw up crimson sparks that rose bright into the darkness, then winked out like dying stars.
As McBride and Prescott moved into the meager shelter of the cave, thunder bellowed like a monstrous bull as lightning branded the sky. Rain hammered down, hissing like a snake, and around them the fragile, crystal air shattered into a million shards, catching the lightning flare, shimmering with fire.
The night was being torn apart to a mad symphony of thunder and lightning and the demented counterpoint of the howling wind.
And John McBride did not like it one bit.
‘‘Not like the big city, huh?’’ Prescott said, raising his voice over the din. He was grinning, building a cigarette, a man completely at ease with his environment.
‘‘I’ve never seen it real close like this,’’ McBride answered. ‘‘In New York the thunder was always above the rooftops, up where the pigeons live.’’
Prescott thumbed a match into flame and lit his cigarette, the blue smoke he exhaled immediately snatched away by the wind. ‘‘We’ll be safe enough so long as we stay right where we are.’’
McBride smiled. ‘‘Luke, at this moment wild horses couldn’t drag me out of this cave.’’
The storm was directly above them now, a colossal, scarlet-scaled dragon that roared and breathed blue fire.
McBride was blinded by the searing intensity of the lightning strike, deafened by the accompanying bang of thunder. Beside him he was aware of Prescott jumping to his feet, a curse on his lips as he ran to the horses. His stud recoiled from him,
reared and backed out of the cave. The big horse then swung around and ran into the night.
The trap was upended, the wheels blasted away. A few feeble flames fluttered on the woodwork like yellow moths, then died in the rain.
Prescott cursed long and loud. He turned and looked at McBride, his eyes blazing. ‘‘It will take me all day to round up that damned stud. He’ll keep on going until he outruns the storm.’’
‘‘The trap’s done for,’’ McBride said, realizing he was piling misery on misery.
‘‘See that,’’ Prescott said without interest.
The little mustang was standing head down, seemingly oblivious to the thunder and the loss of its companion. ‘‘We still have a horse,’’ McBride said.
Prescott nodded. ‘‘You could call it that.’’
McBride could see that the other man was seething mad, and he let it go. He sat down, wrapped in a cocoon of gloomy silence as the storm raged around him. At some point in the night he fell asleep. He dreamed of Shannon and horses.
When McBride woke, Prescott was gone. He stepped to the trap and saw to his chagrin that it was wrecked beyond repair. Ebenezer would charge him dearly for the lost wagon, he knew, and it would put a big hole in his dwindling supply of money.
The sky was clear, the color of washed-out denim, tinged with red. The air smelled fresh of rain and piñon, and water hung on the leaves of the junipers, a point of morning light captured in each drop.
But McBride took little joy in the dawn, the loss of the trap and the prospect of being forced to walk weighing on him.
The ugly little mustang had left the cave and was grazing on bunchgrass as McBride filled the coffeepot at the stream and added a handful of Arbuckle.
He had forgotten about the fire.
Two hours later, when Prescott rode into camp astride his stud, McBride had used up his matches and all he had to show for his efforts was a few charred twigs.
The little gunfighter sat his horse and grinned. ‘‘Coffee smells good.’’
‘‘The wood is wet,’’ McBride said defensively, irritated that the other man sounded so cheerful. ‘‘Damn it, everything is wet.’’
Ralph Compton West of the Law Page 10
