Ralph Compton West of the Law
Page 14
McBride turned his head, peering into the darkness at Prescott. ‘‘Luke, I’ve got something to tell you. I’m a police officer, a detective sergeant. I was ordered to get out of New York after I killed the son of a man who is just like Gamble Trask, only worse.’’
Prescott laughed softly. ‘‘Hell, John, I knew you was some kind of law the first time I ever saw you. Wearing a star changes a man, the way he walks and talks and thinks . . . and there’s something else, something in his eyes, watchful, like a hawk.’’
‘‘Like a gunslinger’s eyes.’’
‘‘Yeah, the same, only different.’’
Prescott ground his cigarette butt into the dirt. ‘‘Well, as far as I know, I’m not wanted in New York, so once again, Detective Sergeant McBride, where do we go from here?’’
‘‘High Hopes,’’ McBride said. ‘‘Only don’t call me that when we’re around company, polite or otherwise.’’
They rose at first light and fried some of the bacon and flat Indian bread Adoette had packed for them. After McBride threw the last of the coffee onto the fire he saddled the mustang and climbed on board.
‘‘You’re getting better,’’ Prescott said, watching. ‘‘At least you don’t fall headfirst over the other side any longer.’’
They reached Apishapa Creek by noon, then swung east toward High Hopes.
The day was hot, the hilly land standing still and silent to the sun. To the west the mountains showed as a purple haze against the denim sky and in all directions the distances shimmered, hazy curtains discreetly drawn across the wilderness that lay beyond.
Ahead of them a stand of tall cottonwoods promised shade and a chance to water the horses, and McBride, already saddlesore, was wishful of coffee and a chance to stretch his legs.
He was sitting with his back to a tree, drinking his second cup, when Prescott whispered to him urgently, ‘‘Riders.’’
McBride followed his eyes to the plain where three men were walking lathered horses, two of them in miners’ garb, the third wearing the black, flat-brimmed hat and knee-length frock coat of the frontier gambler.
Prescott’s words came out like the hiss of a hunting snake. ‘‘Well, as I live and breathe, it’s Stryker Allison.’’
‘‘Allison, here?’’
‘‘The wagon was overdue and I reckon Stryker and the other two were sent out to look for it. Judging by the condition of their horses, they’ve come far, maybe all the way from the railroad siding and the burned cabin.’’
McBride rose to his feet. ‘‘Have they seen us?’’
‘‘Not yet, but Stryker has caught our smoke. He’s not a man to miss something like that.’’
Allison was squatting on his haunches, studying the creek. Then, his mind made up, he rose to his feet and swung into the saddle. The two men with him did the same and Stryker led them directly toward the spot where McBride and Prescott were standing.
‘‘Get ready, John,’’ Prescott whispered. ‘‘I’ve got a feeling this isn’t going to end well, not well at all.’’
They watched Allison and the other two men splash across the creek, the horses throwing up brief fountains of water around their legs that caught the sunlight.
Allison led his men to within twenty feet of where McBride stood, and drew rein. The gunman touched his hat and under his sweeping mustache his mouth stretched in a grin. ‘‘Nice to see you again, Mr. Smith. It’s been a spell. Have you been riding out?’’
‘‘Just that, riding out.’’
‘‘Toward the Union Pacific road maybe?’’
‘‘Not particularly. Just here and there.’’
Allison’s cold eyes moved to Prescott. ‘‘And your friend here. I don’t think we’re acquainted.’’
Prescott was standing easy, his thumbs tucked into his gun belt. But the stiffness in his shoulders and his wide-legged stance betrayed his tension. ‘‘Name’s Luke Prescott. No need to give me yours, I know it already.’’
‘‘Then you have me at a disadvantage. Let me see. . . . Prescott . . . Prescott . . . where have I heard that name before? Ah, now I remember. I recall some white trash who went by that handle. Brothers, I think.’’
It was a challenge—that sudden, that raw.
McBride stepped into it head-on. ‘‘When you ride into a man’s camp uninvited, Allison, I’ll remind you to keep a civil tongue in your head.’’
The miners had spread out, watching, eager, Allison’s gun skill giving them the courage they usually borrowed from whiskey. Both wore cross-draw Colts, high up, where the draw would be shorter and faster. McBride realized there would be no backup in them unless Allison was down and then they’d fold quickly.
‘‘No offense intended, I assure you,’’ Allison said. The smile under his mustache was thin and sharp as a razor. ‘‘Now, will you mind your own manners, Mr. Smith, and invite a man to step down for coffee?’’
McBride nodded and took a step back. His eyes moved to Prescott. The gunfighter was giving Allison all his concentration. Suddenly he looked on edge, like a man about to go into a fight he was not sure he could win.
Allison swung out of the saddle, keeping his horse between him and Prescott. He had obviously summed up the situation and judged the little man more dangerous than McBride.
He said as much. ‘‘I recollect you now, Prescott. You have a reputation.’’ He grinned and moved away from the horse, his body turned to the perceived danger. ‘‘You’re a named man.’’
Prescott said, ‘‘Here. And in other places.’’
Allison nodded. ‘‘The day is hot.’’ He took off his frock coat and threw it over his saddle. His gun rode high, the butt between wrist and elbow. Against the lined, mahogany skin of his face his eyes were very blue. He was a tall, elegant man who looked tough and capable.
‘‘I am,’’ Allison said, ‘‘a named man myself.’’
Prescott made no answer, using his left hand to build a smoke.
McBride handed Allison a cup of coffee. Like Prescott, he took it in his left, leaving his gun hand free.
The miners sat their saddles with the patient watchfulness of vultures. Like McBride, they knew they were witnessing a ritual as old as the West itself, two belted men of reputation choosing partners for a dance of death.
‘‘Good coffee,’’ Allison said, his eyes above the rim of the cup steady on Prescott.
John McBride knew it would come sooner rather than later. He made up his mind. He would let Prescott handle Allison, and he would take the miners. It would, he decided, be no easy thing. The two men looked like they’d handled the iron before.
Now Allison pushed it.
‘‘Some low-down bushwhackers burned private property over to the Union Pacific road and murdered four good men,’’ he said. ‘‘Shot them in the back. I saw that myself. They also stole goods belonging to my employer. I want those goods back.’’
He turned his head slightly toward McBride. ‘‘Tell me where you’ve hidden the girls, Smith, and I’ll let you live.’’
McBride felt like he’d been pushed and prodded enough. Now anger flared in him. ‘‘Allison, you go to hell.’’
Stryker Allison’s only reaction was a slight smile. He said to Prescott, ‘‘Same thing goes for you. Take me to the Celestials and maybe I’ll let you go on breathing.’’
‘‘And I’m giving you the same answer—go to hell!’’
It seemed to McBride that the air had thinned, allowing him to see everything with crystal clarity. Once again, time had stopped and the world was no longer turning.
‘‘So be it,’’ Allison said. He dropped his cup and it rolled, clanging away from him. ‘‘Now let’s see how fast you are.’’
Allison drew.
Two shots, so close they sounded like one. McBride saw Prescott stagger, take a step back. He drew the Smith & Wesson. Slow! Too slow! But the miners hadn’t moved. They sat their horses, watching Allison with transfixed fascination, hands away from their guns.
Prescott shot quickly. The bullet slammed into Allison’s gun and ranged upward, exploding into the gunman’s chin, tearing away bone and teeth. His face a horrifying mask of blood, Allison screamed his rage. He tried to trigger his Colt, but the cylinder was jammed. He lurched toward Prescott, yelling strangled words without meaning. The little gunfighter steadied his gun in both hands, took careful aim and put a bullet between Allison’s eyes. The gunman’s head snapped back and he recoiled a few steps before crashing onto his back. His legs jerked like a stricken insect’s. Then he lay still.
Turning fast from the waist, Prescott triggered his Colt. One of the miners stood in the stirrups and toppled off his horse. Prescott tried to fire at the other man, but the hammer clicked on an empty chamber.
Stunned by the killing of his friend, the miner shot his hands into the air. His eyes were frightened and he babbled wildly that he didn’t want to fight.
McBride ignored the man and crossed quickly to Prescott. The little gunfighter was lying on his back, his eyes wide open, turned to the sun. He was dead.
McBride was vaguely aware that the surviving miner had turned his horse and was splashing across the creek. The man reached the far bank and kicked his mount into a run, riding for High Hopes with the bad news.
A sense of grief and loss in him, McBride looked down at Luke Prescott, trying to make sense of his death. In the end, he’d proved himself worthy of the rank of named man . . . by being better than the worst of them. It was the terrible suddenness and finality of Luke’s dying that McBride found hard to accept.
Stryker Allison was dead, his face a thing of horror. The downed miner gasped for a few minutes, tried to speak; then he too was gone.
There was no way of getting around the fact that Prescott had shot the tin pan in cold blood, while he had no weapon in his hand. But Luke shared the one quality that all men who live by the gun possess—he was a killer. That had made him the man he was.
McBride looked up at the sky, blue, cloudless, uncaring. The sun burned bright still, the deaths of three men a small matter in an infinite universe. A rising wind rippled the water in the creek and ruffled the brown prairie grass like a hand moving through the hair of a towheaded boy. In the distance a small herd of antelope walked into the shimmering heat haze, their legs strangely elongating before they slowly melted from sight.
McBride walked to the creek bank, glanced into the clear water and saw what he’d hoped to see. He slipped his suspenders off his shoulders and stripped to the waist. Then he carried Prescott’s body away from the creek and laid him out on the crest of a shallow hill where pink and blue wildflowers grew. He laid his rifle and Colt beside him, the call of his ancient Celtic ancestors strong in him, reminding him that a warrior must be buried with his weapons.
It took him most of the day to carry enough rocks from the bed of the creek to the hill to cover Prescott’s body completely. But when it was done, and the stones were mounded high, he considered the cairn to be a fine monument.
Luke would lie where he could be one with the land he loved.
Allison’s body and that of the miner, he left where they fell. The coyotes had a right to eat.
The long day was darkening into evening when McBride unsaddled the dead men’s horses, removed their bridles and sent them running into the prairie with a slap on the rump. Allison’s horse and the miner’s would find their way back to High Hopes. As for Luke’s big American stud, he would probably find a wild-horse herd and add his blood to future generations.
Tomorrow McBride knew he would have to make decisions about his next moves. But he’d already made one decision—he had to save Shannon from Gamble Trask, and that meant riding into High Hopes and accepting its dangers.
Once the miner told his tale in town, McBride knew, he would be a marked man. The Allison brothers would not let the death of their oldest go unavenged nor would Trask ignore the destruction of his property and the killing of his men.
Now that Luke was dead, he was one man against many, yet he had to do it.
Shannon Roark needed him.
Chapter 21
John McBride rode east along the creek. Making a grave for Prescott had taken him a long time and the sun was falling in the sky, gifting him with his shadow, the slowly moving shape of a tall man astride a small horse.
He had taken the pot and coffee and his eyes scanned the hilly country ahead of him for a suitable campsite. He needed water and fuel for a fire, and that dictated that he stay close to the creek. High Hopes was a day’s ride away, time enough to go over his plan.
If he had a plan.
Then it came to him, perfect in its simplicity.
He would ride into town, find Shannon and take her away from there, head east and ride through the sunrise, putting ground between them and Trask. He wanted to bring the man down, ruin him, but that could wait. Until? McBride had no answer for that.
And what about the Chinese girls? Could he coldly ride away with the woman he loved and leave them to their fate?
The questions had already undermined his new-found confidence. What had seemed simple had all of a sudden become complicated. McBride rode into the sullen twilight of the dying day, as many shadows angling dark through the corridors of his mind as there were on the trail ahead.
He had, he decided, come full circle, at as much of a loss as he’d been just a few minutes before.
Darkness pressed on McBride, soft as a spring rain but crowding him close. The water was no longer visible, the creek a black ribbon unwinding away from him into the night. Out on the prairie the coyotes had begun their lamentations and the first stars hung like lanterns in the sky, glittering with frosty light.
The mustang lifted its head and its ears pricked forward as it stared into the gloom. ‘‘Easy, boy, easy,’’ McBride whispered. He lifted the Winchester from the saddle horn, levered a round into the chamber and set the brass butt plate on his right thigh.
He drew rein on the horse and raised his nose, testing the wind. The smoke smell was a fleeting will-o’-the-wisp, but it was there.
More of Trask’s men? That was possible but unlikely. Then who? Maybe punchers riding through or freight wagons coming or going from the gold mines. The road into town was close and mule skinners could be camped for the night.
Where there was a fire there would be coffee and food and McBride’s stomach had been complaining for hours. In the end his hunger overcame his good judgment and he rode on, tense and ready in the saddle.
He saw a campfire winking orange in the violet darkness. He judged the fire to be on the other side of the creek and swung the sure-footed little mustang into the bank. The spring melt was long gone and the water was shallow. He splashed across and climbed the bank on the other side. The firelight was closer now, winking in the gloom like a fallen star.
McBride rode nearer. He made out the flickering shadows of men walking in front of the fire and beyond the circle of the firelight he made out the shapes of several parked wagons, pale red light reflecting on the sides of their canvas tops.
He drew rein and, remembering what Prescott had taught him, called out: ‘‘Hello the camp!’’
The reply was immediate, a heavily accented voice. ‘‘Come on in!’’
McBride kneed the mustang forward and rode into the camp. About a dozen men had stopped their various chores and stood watching him. They didn’t look like mule skinners or miners either. Rather, they had the jaunty, weather-beaten appearance of the seafaring men McBride had seen on the New York docks.
A man of medium size stepped toward McBride, a grin on his face and a welcome in his voice. ‘‘Step down, step down, good sir. You’re just in time for supper.’’
McBride climbed out of the s
addle and the man stuck out his hand. ‘‘My name is Captain Guaspar Diaz de Lamego, a poor sailorman lately of San Francisco town. But my friends, and I hope you will soon allow me to number you among those, call me Portugee.’’
Wary, McBride shook hands and gave his name as John Smith. He took a few moments to study the man called Portugee. He was an inch above medium height, dressed in a crimson shirt and tight black pants stuffed into soft leather boots of the same color. He was hatless but had tied a red bandanna around his head, knotted at the back of his neck. He sported a thin mustache, waxed and curled at the ends, and a goatee. His eyes were black, glittering with good humor in the firelight, and when he smiled, which was often, his teeth were dazzling white. Gold hoops hung from both his ears and he wore a huge ruby ring on the middle finger of his left hand.
Portugee looked, McBride thought to himself, about as trustworthy as a wounded cougar, as did his scurvy crew of cutthroats. The insistent alarm bell ringing in his head told him he would have done well to avoid this camp.
‘‘Unsaddle your’’—Portugee smiled—‘‘horse, and join us at the fire. We have but simple mariners’ fare, but what we have you are welcome to share.’’
It was in McBride’s mind to refuse and say he must be moving on. But if Portugee was planning mischief, an abrupt departure would only precipitate the action and he was still not horseman enough to risk fighting from the back of the mustang.
Annoyed at himself for getting into this situation, he climbed down from the horse and led it to where other animals were picketed. He unsaddled and returned to the campfire, his rifle in his hands. He thought he saw Portugee glance at the Winchester, then give one of his men a knowing wink, but it could have been only a trick of the light or his own overactive imagination and McBride dismissed it.
He had just made a major mistake.
Portugee cursed and cuffed one of his men away from the fire and with a polite bow bade McBride sit. When the captain saw McBride settled, he waved to a man on his right. ‘‘This is another honored guest, the great Sheik Ali al-Karim, master of a dozen fine ships that sail the wine-dark waters of the Mediterranean Sea.’’