Ralph Compton West of the Law

by West, Joseph A. ; Compton, Ralph

  Prescott slid off the stud and stepped to the ashes of the fire. He gathered up some twigs and leaves and within a few minutes had a fire blazing. He set the coffeepot on the flames and built a smoke, smiling, but saying nothing.

  ‘‘In New York,’’ McBride said defensively, ‘‘when I want coffee, I say to a waiter, ‘Bring me coffee,’ and he brings it.’’

  ‘‘Good way,’’ Prescott said.

  ‘‘I never had to light a fire,’’ McBride said, even more irritated at having to justify his city ways.

  ‘‘Out here a man should know how to make a fire,’’ Prescott said. ‘‘He just never can tell when he’ll need one.’’

  The implied criticism stung and McBride opened his mouth to make a sharp reply, but the other man headed him off, his eyes suddenly serious. ‘‘Saw something that might interest you, John.’’

  ‘‘What was that?’’

  ‘‘I started out to track my horse just after the storm passed, while you were snoring.’’

  ‘‘I don’t—’’

  ‘‘Anyhoo, he headed west, into the storm, knowing it would follow him otherwise.’’

  ‘‘Real smart horse,’’ McBride said drily.

  ‘‘Well, thank you. I reckon he is.’’ Prescott checked the coffeepot. ‘‘We’ll let it bile for a spell longer.’’ He set the pot back on the fire. ‘‘There’s a wagon road a mile to the north of where we are. It’s well traveled because the gold miners use it to haul out ore to High Hopes and bring in supplies. But about a mile west of here, a trail cuts off the main road and swings to the northwest. La Veta Pass is in that direction, but I don’t believe that’s where the trail is headed.’’

  ‘‘I’m not catching your drift,’’ McBride said.

  Prescott grinned. ‘‘Good! You’re learning the lingo.’’ He was again busy with tobacco and papers. ‘‘What I’m saying is that the trail will eventually meet up with the Union Pacific road. If memory serves me right, there’s a watering stop for their engines around there. The rails come down from Denver, through Pueblo, then meet the Santa Fe road at Trinidad, just north of the New Mexico border. But that’s by the way. The main thing is that Gamble Trask’s Chinese girls and his opium could be loaded onto a Union Pacific freight in Denver, then off-loaded at the watering stop east of La Veta Pass.’’

  ‘‘But wouldn’t the train crew notice what was happening?’’

  Prescott smiled. ‘‘It’s been my experience that railroaders like money as much as anybody else. Trask can buy their silence.’’

  ‘‘Then the girls aren’t held at the mines?’’

  ‘‘I don’t think so. There are some decent men at the gold mines who wouldn’t hold with what Trask is doing. There would be talk, something he doesn’t want.’’

  ‘‘Then the girls and the opium must be taken to somewhere near the Union Pacific line. Either that or they’re driven straight from the watering stop to High Hopes.’’

  ‘‘That’s my thinking,’’ Prescott allowed. He picked up the pot, thumbed open the lid and glanced inside. ‘‘Coffee’s ready. Let’s have your cup.’’

  They drank coffee in silence, each man busy with his own thoughts. Then Prescott said, ‘‘I propose we go scout around that watering stop. That is, if my memory is correct and it’s really where I say it is.’’

  ‘‘I was thinking that myself,’’ McBride said. ‘‘Only we have a problem.’’

  ‘‘What problem?’’

  ‘‘How the hell do I get there?’’

  Chapter 16

  ‘‘Your charger is ready, Mr. McBride,’’ Prescott said, trying to hide the grin that flirted with his mouth. ‘‘I even fixed you up with a saddle on account of how the mustang has a backbone like the High Sierras.’’

  There was nothing about the ugly little horse that filled McBride with confidence.

  Prescott had cut back the reins to a manageable length and stripped off an undamaged portion of the trap’s seat cushion. He’d tied the scorched cushion to the mustang’s back with the remainder of the leathers.

  ‘‘Just be careful how you get up on her,’’ he said. ‘‘The saddle is a mighty uncertain thing. It could slip and slide.’’

  Prescott read the lack of enthusiasm in McBride’s eyes. ‘‘Beats walking, John.’’

  ‘‘Maybe.’’ McBride stepped to the horse. It looked taller now that he was close. ‘‘How do I get up there?’’

  ‘‘Easy.’’ Prescott bent from the waist and laced the fingers of his hands together. ‘‘Put your foot in there and I’ll boost you up. Then ease down real slow into the saddle.’’ McBride lifted a foot. ‘‘Probably better to use the left one, John.’’

  Angry at himself for making the same mistake twice, McBride changed feet and Prescott, revealing surprising strength for such a small man, hoisted him effortlessly onto the mustang’s back.

  The gunfighter stepped back, rubbing his chin like an artist admiring his work. ‘‘Well, so far, so good, and you sure don’t have far to fall, John. Your feet are only about six inches off the ground.’’ He swung into the saddle of his prancing black. ‘‘Now, what say you, should we hit the trail and see if we can do some damage to Gamble Trask?’’

  McBride nodded and gathered up the reins. ‘‘Giddyup,’’ he said. The mustang stood where it was, its blunt hammerhead hanging.

  ‘‘Two things,’’ Prescott said. ‘‘First, squeeze the horse with your knees when you want it to go. Second, lay the reins against the right side of its neck when you want to turn left, left side when you want to go right. Got that?’’

  ‘‘I would have figured that out for myself,’’ McBride said, annoyed at being spoken to like a child. He kneed the horse and it walked forward, making him lurch ungracefully on the seat cushion.

  ‘‘Crackerjack!’’ Prescott said. ‘‘We’ll make a rider out of you yet.’’ Irritated as he was, McBride was oddly pleased. Compliments of any kind from Luke Prescott were rare.

  The man handed him his rifle. ‘‘Here,’’ he said. ‘‘I have a feeling you might need that . . . sooner than later.’’

  They reached the wagon road and headed west, riding through hilly, broken country, much of it forested with piñon and juniper. Here and there iron-wood and catclaw grew on the slopes of the rises, surrounded by streaks of pink daisies and bright scarlet paintbrush.

  After a mile Prescott found the cutoff and they swung northwest, the elevation climbing, piñon and spruce gradually giving way to aspen, fir and ponderosa pine on the slopes of the higher hills.

  McBride had finally relaxed, moving easily with the mustang’s choppy gait. The little horse was teacher and he student, and he accepted their relationship as such.

  By noon, after they crossed the reedy shallows of Apishapa Creek, the day grew hot, the sun a burning gold coin in a sky free of cloud. The two riders followed the wagon trail through a series of narrow arroyos, where the air hung still, the only sounds the creak of saddle leather and the soft footfalls of the horses.

  When they topped a shallow rise, Prescott drew rein. ‘‘If you look westward, you can just see the Spanish Peaks, John,’’ he said. ‘‘It’s beautiful country around there.’’

  McBride stared into the vast distance of the lonely land, stunned at its beauty, by the far blue mountains and the play of light and shadow among the hills. City born, city bred, he had grown accustomed to vistas reduced to the crowded clamor of dirty streets and tall brick buildings that rose so high they blocked the sun.

  This was so different, all that surrounded him. For a few moments he took delight in what he was seeing, breathing clean air, scented by pines.

  With a start, McBride realized he was swallowing hard. He had fallen in love with Shannon—was he now falling in love with the land that nurtured her?

  Luke Prescott was a perceptive man, his instincts honed to razor sharpness by the years he’d lived by the gun. Now he smiled at McBride. ‘‘Gets to a man, doesn’t it?’’

  M
cBride nodded. ‘‘I’ve never seen its like.’’

  ‘‘When this is all over and Gamble Trask is dead, you should spend some time in the mountains with your lady. Then you’ll really see something.’’

  McBride smiled. ‘‘Trask dead? Right now, that seems almost impossible.’’

  Prescott was not smiling and his eyes were cold. ‘‘It’s not impossible. If this little jaunt of ours fails, I’ll still get to him and kill him.’’

  ‘‘Then we’d better not fail. To save Shannon, I want him to lose all he has. I want him isolated and alone so he looks around and realizes he’s come out on the far end of what he’d once been.’’

  The little gunfighter nodded, his hard face grim. ‘‘So be it. Then let’s get it done.’’

  McBride’s eyes fell on a hawk riding the air currents in the far distance ahead of him. They rode in that direction.

  But McBride had no way of knowing that at the exact moment he’d seen the hawk, the bird’s sharp eyes were looking down on a scene that had transformed a very small part of the enchanted land into a place of unbelievable horror.

  For the most part the wagon trail skirted the aspen groves. Only once had trees been hacked down to clear a path over a humpbacked ridge that led down to a broad and pleasant meadow strewn with wildflowers. A stream bordered by cottonwoods and willows angled across the flat, bubbling clear over a bed of pebbles.

  McBride and Prescott sat their horses at the top of the ridge and looked down at the valley. ‘‘Good a place as any to stop and boil up coffee and eat,’’ Prescott said. ‘‘There’s some salt pork left, but after that, we’ll have to shoot our own grub.’’

  They rode down the slope and reached the creek.

  That was when the smell hit them. ‘‘Something dead,’’ Prescott said, his nose lifted to the tainted air. ‘‘Maybe an antelope. Now and then coyotes can pull one down that’s old or sick.’’

  ‘‘Where the hell is it coming from?’’ McBride asked, talking through pursed lips, the cloying sweetness of death in his nostrils.

  ‘‘Further ahead of us. I only hope wherever the critter is, it’s not in the water.’’

  McBride’s mustang, which up until now had taken little interest in its surroundings, lifted its head, ragged ears pricked forward. Prescott’s big black was up on its toes, tossing its head as it fought the bit.

  Prescott’s blue eyes scanned the tree line along the creek, his face showing concern. With a wild animal’s instinct for danger he slid his Winchester out of the scabbard and racked a round into the chamber.

  ‘‘I think we’ve got a dead man ahead of us,’’ he said, turning to McBride. ‘‘And where’s there a dead man his killer might still be close by.’’

  ‘‘Indians?’’ McBride asked.

  ‘‘Only the Apache are still hostile and I doubt they’d come this far north.’’ Prescott fought his nervous horse, then said, ‘‘Keep your rifle ready, but if the work is close, toss it aside and shuck your revolver. Fast.’’

  ‘‘Could it be Apaches?’’ McBride asked, the words coming dry as sticks from his parched mouth.

  ‘‘Could be. Sometimes they torture a man so long, his body starts to rot.’’

  McBride wiped suddenly sweaty palms on his pants, then levered his rifle. The mustang’s head was still up, but it was standing pat.

  ‘‘Probably just an animal,’’ McBride said hopefully.

  ‘‘Probably. But don’t count on it.’’ Prescott smiled. ‘‘You ever fit Injuns before, John?’’

  ‘‘Never.’’

  ‘‘Well, I reckon there’s a first time for everything.’’

  McBride sighed. ‘‘And this could be the time.’’

  ‘‘Seems like.’’

  Prescott kneed his mount forward and McBride followed. He knew his seat on the mustang was a precarious thing, and he resolved to dismount and fight on foot if he found himself surrounded by hordes of feathered savages. Back in New York he’d once read a dime novel about Apache who massacred a regiment of U.S. Cavalry. Nothing he recalled about the book provided him with the slightest reassurance.

  The two riders splashed across the stream to the far bank, then followed its meandering course, keeping close to the sun-dappled cover of the cottonwoods. The afternoon was very still, without a breeze. Crickets made their small sound in the grass and once a marsh rabbit bounded away from them, bouncing across the meadow like a rubber ball.

  The stench of death grew stronger.

  McBride saw Prescott ease his Colt in the holster, his eyes roaming far, searching for whatever lay ahead. The black reared, attempting to turn away from the nearness of a thing it feared. A skilled horseman, Prescott fought the stud and pushed it forward.

  McBride followed. The heat of the day crowded uncomfortably close to him, like the naked body of an unwanted lover, and sweat trickled from under his hat brim. He was surprised that he wasn’t afraid, a city boy about to take on the dreaded Apache, sitting a horse he couldn’t ride, holding a rifle he couldn’t shoot.

  The thought, unsettling though it was, made McBride smile . . . until he heard Prescott’s wild curse.

  Chapter 17

  Luke Prescott swung out of the saddle and started to run, yelling at McBride to come after him.

  McBride swung his leg over the mustang, got his foot caught up in the seat-cushion saddle and fell flat on his back. The black cantered past him as he climbed to his feet and pounded after Prescott.

  Ahead of him the stream bank formed a sharp arc around a sandbar, a tall cottonwood standing at its center. Close by, a willow trailed its branches into the water, but McBride’s eyes were fixed on the ruined cabin that lay beyond the trees—and the body that hung in the doorway.

  Prescott was standing a ways off from the crumbling soddy, the gray bandanna he wore around his neck pulled up over his nose and mouth. When McBride stepped next to him the stench hit him like a fist. Swarms of fat black flies buzzed busily around him, the usual slaughterhouse welcoming committee telling their tale.

  ‘‘She’s been dead for at least two days, maybe longer,’’ Prescott said, his voice muffled by the bandanna. ‘‘Little gal died hard.’’

  A sod brick had eroded above the heavy pine frame of the doorway, leaving just enough space for a rope. The height of the entrance was only about six feet, but the young Chinese girl who hung there had been small and her down-turned toes dangled inches above the ground.

  The rope around the girl’s neck had cut deep and it was hard to make out the details of her bloated features. But McBride was detective enough to determine that her neck wasn’t broken— she’d been strangled to death. She was dressed in the traditional knee-length tunic and loose, black pants of the Chinese woman.

  Coyotes had tried to pull her down. That was obvious from her ragged pants and the blood on her legs and lower body. They had taken what they could.

  The watch in McBride’s pocket was ticking, the world around them turning, but for he and Prescott time stood still as they tried to come to terms with what they were seeing.

  A girl, a child really, had been brutally hanged. Why?

  McBride laid his rifle on the grass at his feet. ‘‘Stay here, Luke,’’ he told Prescott.

  The man nodded. He said, ‘‘Sure thing. I ain’t much inclined to get closer.’’

  Last night’s rain had washed away any prints that might have been left by the girl’s killers, but above the doorway a section of the timber and sod roof was still in place.

  McBride walked around to the back of the cabin and stepped inside. Half the roof had caved in and he was forced to pick his way through fallen beams and chunks of dry sod toward the door. A pack rat had made a nest in one corner and a scatter of black pellets on the dirt floor revealed where an owl had roosted.

  He was behind the dead girl now, close to her body, and the smell of rotting flesh was almost unbearable. McBride put a hand over his mouth and nose and studied the soft, dry dirt behind the doorway.
There was a single set of prints, the wide, low-heeled outlines of a miner’s boots. The square toes were facing the girl’s back.

  McBride lurched away from the body and put it together when he reached the cleaner air outside.

  The girl had been small and light, too light to strangle easily in the noose. A man, probably a miner, had stood behind the girl and pulled down on her body, hastening her death. It had not been an act of mercy. He, and presumably others with him, had wanted to make certain she died.

  And Prescott had been right. The little Chinese girl had died hard, slowly and with much pain and fear.

  But the question remained: Why?

  ‘‘We can’t leave her hanging there,’’ Prescott said when McBride rejoined him. ‘‘It isn’t decent.’’

  ‘‘No, it’s not,’’ McBride said.

  ‘‘Maybe we can bury her.’’

  ‘‘But not near deep enough.’’

  ‘‘Then what, John?’’

  ‘‘There are dry timbers in the cabin. We’ll burn her body.’’ He turned and looked at Prescott. ‘‘Go into the cabin and get the fire started.’’

  ‘‘Me?’’

  ‘‘Yes, you. Out here a man should know how to make a fire. He just never can tell when he’ll need one.’’

  Prescott’s eyes revealed that he’d caught the irony, but he let it pass. ‘‘The smoke will be seen for miles and the men who did this could still be close.’’

  ‘‘So? We’re just a couple of travelers riding through pass-on-by country who happened to stop to give a dead girl a decent funeral. They won’t fault us for that, at least not much.’’

  Prescott thought that through, then nodded and slipped the bandanna from his face. ‘‘I sure hope you know what you’re doing, John. And after it’s over, what then?’’

  ‘‘Like you say, the men who murdered the girl could be close. We will go find them.’’

  ‘‘And then?’’

  McBride’s eyes were wintry. ‘‘We’ll kill them all, Luke. Everybody lives, but not everybody deserves to.’’