Ralph Compton West of the Law

by West, Joseph A. ; Compton, Ralph

  ‘‘Lightning. It damned near killed me.’’

  Understanding dawned on Cox and he smiled. ‘‘Ah, that would explain it. You must have been close to the strike to get scorched like that.’’

  ‘‘Sure I was. It was almost right on top of me.’’

  ‘‘You’re lucky to be alive.’’

  McBride’s smile was grudging. ‘‘If what Ebenezer told me is correct, I may not be alive much longer.’’

  Cox’s face showed his concern. ‘‘It’s true, every word of it. Gamble Trask wants you dead, and that means Hack Burns does too. As for the Allisons, you killed their brother and they’re not ones to let a thing like that go unavenged.’’

  ‘‘I didn’t kill Stryker—a man called Prescott did.’’

  ‘‘Luke Prescott, the gunfighter?’’

  McBride nodded. ‘‘Was. Stryker killed him.’’

  ‘‘They killed each other?’’

  ‘‘Both were real good with a gun.’’

  ‘‘I’m told that gunmen of reputation usually try to avoid confrontations like that. When named men meet in a fight, the margin for error is small.’’

  ‘‘Maybe so, but Stryker was on the prod and he was confident,’’ McBride said. ‘‘He pushed it.’’ He hesitated a heartbeat. ‘‘He died hard.’’

  ‘‘Here, sonny, is that ol’ Stryker’s fancy pistol in your pants?’’ Ebenezer’s face swam into view.

  ‘‘You mean, I didn’t lose it on the way here?’’

  ‘‘Hell no, boy, it’s layin’ right beside you there. I figgered you mought need it in a hurry.’’ He shook his head. ‘‘Well, well, well, ol’ Stryker dead an’ another ranny carryin’ his iron. Who woulda thunk it?’’

  ‘‘He sure didn’t,’’ McBride said. He struggled to a sitting position—and his eyes met Shannon’s.

  Reading the signs, Cox grinned. ‘‘She insisted on coming, even though I told her it could be dangerous.’’

  A tangle of emotion showed on McBride’s face. ‘‘But how, I mean—’’

  Shannon crossed the floor and threw herself into McBride’s arms. They kissed with a passion born of separation. When their lips finally parted, Shannon said, ‘‘Dr. Cox and I confide in each other, John. We share common enemies in Gamble Trask and the Allison brothers.’’

  ‘‘I freely confess all.’’ Cox smiled. ‘‘After Ebenezer told me you were back in town, I went to Shannon right away with the good news.’’

  ‘‘And it is good news,’’ Shannon said. She kissed McBride again, this time with more affection than passion. ‘‘I’m so glad you’re back in High Hopes.’’ She hesitated, fear a fleeting wraith in her eyes. ‘‘I’m scared, John, really scared. Since you burned his cabin and freed the Chinese girls he’s out of his mind with rage. He says he’s going to kill you and tack your hide to a wall of the saloon. I think—no, I don’t think—I know he suspects me of helping you. He told me once we’re married he’ll teach me about faithfulness with a dog whip.’’

  ‘‘He won’t hurt you while I’m around,’’ McBride said, a boast that rang hollow as a bronze gong even to his own ears. He was one man, a good man, he believed, but just one against many.

  ‘‘I have an armed guard posted near the door to the stable,’’ Cox said. ‘‘In four hours he will be relieved by another. I don’t think Trask knows you’re in town, but it pays to be careful.’’ The doctor moved away, then returned with a bundle of clothing. ‘‘Ebenezer told me you were in rags.’’ He smiled. ‘‘He was right.’’ Cox dropped the items one by one next to McBride. ‘‘Pants, shirt, shoes, socks, that’s it. By the way, you owe Andrew McAllen’s General Store ten dollars for this stuff.’’

  McBride grinned. ‘‘He’ll have to wait for his money. After I was hit over the head I was robbed.’’

  ‘‘I’ll take care of it, John,’’ Shannon said.

  ‘‘Shannon, I don’t want you—’’

  ‘‘Let her pay for it,’’ Cox said. ‘‘When you two are married you’ll have a joint bank account anyway.’’

  ‘‘And let’s hope that’s soon,’’ Shannon said.

  McBride was pleasantly surprised. ‘‘Do you mean that, Shannon? Will you marry me?’’

  ‘‘Of course I will, but we won’t talk about it now. After all this is over, we’ll have a lifetime to talk.’’

  McBride was like a runner who’d just gotten his second wind. His eyes lifted to Cox. ‘‘How many men can I count on, Doc?’’

  ‘‘I’d say maybe a dozen don’t like what Trask is doing to the town. As to how many you can count on, the answer is, I don’t know. When lead starts flying, men have a way of suddenly remembering that they’re married.’’

  ‘‘And you, can I count on you?’’

  Cox nodded. ‘‘Yes, you can. But then, I don’t know one end of a rifle from another.’’

  ‘‘Count me out too, young feller,’’ Ebenezer said. ‘‘I’m too old and slow to be getting myself into shooting scrapes.’’

  Then the only man he could count on was himself. McBride accepted that. He didn’t like it, but he accepted it. The question was, where to go from here? Inspector Byrnes had told him one time that heaven never helps a man who will not act. He had it to do.

  Shannon rose to her feet and brushed straw from her dress. ‘‘John, I have to get back to the hotel. I may be missed.’’

  ‘‘Will I see you later?’’

  ‘‘I’ll try. I don’t want anybody following me here.’’

  ‘‘I have to be going too,’’ Cox said. He moved to help Shannon to the ladder, then stopped. ‘‘I almost forgot. There was a letter for you at the post office and I picked it up for you yesterday. The clerk is a man I trust and he has no love for Gamble Trask. He gave it to me because he figured you’d be unable to get it yourself.’’

  ‘‘Without getting shot, he meant,’’ McBride said.

  ‘‘Exactly.’’ Cox handed over the envelope and smiled. ‘‘It pays to have friends in both high and low places.’’

  After Shannon and Cox left and Ebenezer went about his business, McBride dressed hurriedly in his new clothes, then opened the letter. It was short and to the point and McBride smiled at its opening formality, but the smile faded as he read on:

  To Detective Sergeant McBride, NYPD:

  Bad news. A clerk with this department intercepted your letter to me. The envelope was steamed open, the contents read and communicated to those who would do you harm. The miscreant has since been severely dealt with.

  John, your cover is blown and you are in the greatest danger. Now that there is mischief afoot, I wish you to remain in High Hopes and lie low. I am on my way.

  I am, your obedient servant,

  Thos. Byrnes, Inspector

  P.S. I have reason to believe Sean Donovan has criminal contacts in Colorado. Be on your guard.

  Byrnes was on his way to High Hopes. McBride shook his head and stuck the letter and envelope in his pocket. The inspector was a good police officer, and an excellent detective with amazing deductive powers, but he was not a gunfighter.

  The task that lay ahead of McBride required men who were good with guns. In a revolver fight, Byrnes would be as much a liability as Alan Cox and the rest of them.

  The man’s letter had not brought McBride any comfort. It had only added to his problems.

  McBride crossed to the opening of the hayloft and looked down into the stable. A tall, round-shouldered man with hangdog eyes stuck the stock of a shotgun under his left arm and waved with his right.

  ‘‘All quiet,’’ he said, his prominent Adam’s apple bobbing.

  McBride nodded. ‘‘Thanks for the help.’’

  ‘‘No problem. Glad I can be of assistance.’’

  McBride sat back on the straw and calculated that his guard would last about two seconds against Hack Burns or the Allison brothers. And he looked like a married man.

  A couple of hours later, McBride heard muted conversation as his guard cha
nged. This man was smaller, stockier, with muscular shoulders and arms—probably Ned Barlow, the blacksmith. The man was apparently not much given to conversation, giving McBride only a perfunctory nod when he appeared at the hayloft trapdoor.

  Night fell and High Hopes started to come alive. A piano was playing in one of the saloons and McBride was aware of a stealthy shuffle of feet as his guard faded into the darkness while a man stabled his horse, talking to himself or the animal, he could not decide which.

  Quiet again filled the barn to its shadowed corners. A horse stamped and blew through its nose, and McBride heard Barlow hawk and spit soot from his lungs.

  He’d had enough. He could no longer allow himself to remain in the barn like a trapped rat in the darkness, waiting for Trask and his toughs to come at him. There was a tight feeling in his throat and a green serpent writhed in his belly. It had a name, that reptile—it was called Fear.

  McBride rose to his feet, then stepped back in alarm as something swooped past his face. It was a bat! It fluttered away from him on silent wings, leaving a faint odor of guano behind it. His heart hammering, McBride listened into the night. He heard nothing. Slowly, measuring each step, every creak of the floorboards sticking a knife into his gut, he made his way toward the trapdoor.

  What was that?

  He heard it again, a frantic shuffling of feet, like a hanged man kicking at the end of a rope. Then a long, drawn-out sigh that bubbled liquid and thick.

  McBride took a step back and then another. He drew the Colt from his waistband and thumbed back the hammer. In the breathless hush the triple click was as loud as iron bolts hitting the bottom of a tin pail.

  A man’s voice whispered low, fragmented sound reaching McBride’s ears. ‘‘Where . . . hell . . . he . . . there . . .’’

  A second of silence dragged past, then another. McBride was sure someone was pointing up to where he was hidden. He switched the Colt to his left hand, wiped the sweaty palm of his right on his pants, then switched back. All he could do now was wait for what was to happen. He swallowed hard, swallowed again. It was like trying to gulp down a rock.

  The ladder to the trapdoor thudded softly against the pine frame. Thudded again. And again. Somebody was slowly climbing toward him. A blue darkness filled the barn, slanted with deeper shadow. McBride heard the saloon piano, a cheerful chiming made tinny and thin by distance.

  The thud of the ladder became no louder but more rapid. The dome of a hat rose through the opening, then the pale blur of a face. The man’s head swiveled as he looked around. He made out the faint image of McBride’s body and recoiled, his back slamming against the trapdoor frame, cursing as his gun came up.

  McBride fired. Too quick. A miss. Straw and wood splinters erupted near the man’s head.

  The man’s gun flared, flashing orange in the gloom. But McBride had moved. He was already diving for the floor and the bullet cut through the air inches above him. He landed with a crash, flat on his belly, the air bursting from his lungs. He was much closer to the unknown gunman, separated by only a few feet. He stuck the Colt out in front of him and fired.

  A shattering scream and the man disappeared from sight. McBride heard the body crash heavily to the floor below. His breath coming in labored shudders that racked his chest, he scrambled down the ladder and his feet hit bottom. A scattergun roared and the ladder jerked under the impact. McBride threw himself onto his left side and immediately a second blast kicked up dirt and manure near his face, stinging into his eyes. A click as the shotgun was hastily opened. He fired in the direction of the sound and heard an agonized gasp as a man was hit hard. A body slumped to the floor and McBride rose to his feet, his gun up and ready.

  ‘‘Don’t shoot no more. I’m done.’’

  It was Ebenezer’s voice.

  Warily, McBride stepped to the old man and looked down at him. His voice tight, he asked, ‘‘Why?’’

  ‘‘Every man has his price, young feller. Gamble Trask paid me mine.’’

  ‘‘Fool’s gold,’’ McBride said. Anger and compassion were fighting a battle inside him.

  ‘‘Best you saddle up the mustang and get out of here,’’ Ebenezer said, his voice unraveling into thin threads as his dying hastened closer. ‘‘They will be coming for you soon.’’

  McBride’s head moved, nodding to the dead man at the foot of the ladder. ‘‘Him?’’

  ‘‘His name is Harland. He’s the youngest of the Allison brothers. He told them he could take you by hisself, wanted to prove something, I guess.’’ The old man coughed blood into his beard and cackled. ‘‘He . . . he was wrong. . . .’’

  Then he groaned deep in his chest as death took him by the ear.

  McBride had not been long in the West, but he had come to know much of gunfighter arrogance. Trask and the Allison brothers would have heard the shots and think him dead. They would not come for a while, but he had no time to lose.

  He saddled and bridled the mustang in the dark, fumbling with straps and buckles in his haste, then spared a few moments to look for Ned Barlow.

  The man was lying on his back in an empty stall and his throat had been expertly cut. Whether Harland Allison or Ebenezer had killed him, McBride did not know, nor did he care. The end result was the same. He climbed awkwardly into the saddle and swung the mustang out of the stable.

  For the most part McBride had walked the little animal, uncertain of his horsemanship, but he ran him now. The mustang hammered at a fast, choppy gallop into the night and McBride, hanging on grimly to the saddle horn, was nonetheless glad to let the darkness of the plain swallow him.

  Chapter 24

  After fifteen wild minutes, the mustang slowed to walk, blowing hard, and McBride drew rein. He turned and looked behind him into the night but neither saw nor heard anything.

  He swung to the west, then looped to the south until he met the Santa Fe tracks. He followed the tracks back toward High Hopes, riding under stars and a still, dreaming moon. The wind tugged at him, eager to tell its tale, and out on the flat grass the coyotes were silent, listening.

  McBride followed the tracks for miles until the station came in sight. The platform was in shadow, but a lamp still glowed in the ticket office. Beyond the station High Hopes was a random scatter of lights, the buildings lost in the gloom. McBride listened and thought he heard men shouting his name, but the wind shredded their words so he was not sure.

  He drew rein on the mustang and sat the saddle, deep in brooding thought. He had to be near Shannon, and that meant he needed a place to hole up that was close to her. He thought of trying to reach Doc Cox’s house, but dismissed the idea. Why put the man in danger? Besides, he didn’t even know where he lived.

  He could try to find an empty shack or some other building, but that was an uncertain undertaking. He could be seen as he bumbled around in the dark like a fool, trying doors.

  It came to him then. . . .

  There was one man in town who might welcome him and hide him out, a fellow lawman—Marshal Lute Clark. The more he thought about, the more McBride decided it was his only option.

  He remembered that there was a small barn behind Clark’s house. He could stable the mustang there, where it would be seen by no one. A dying tin-star marshal of a two-bit town has few visitors.

  Still, it was with some reluctance that McBride swung away from the station and made his way to the edge of town. He knew danger rode with him and he was bringing that unwelcome guest right to Clark’s doorstep. But he was desperate. Shannon was depending on him and he had to be close.

  McBride ground tied his horse behind the Clark home, then walked around to the front and tapped on the door. It opened a few moments later.

  ‘‘Oh, it’s you,’’ Dolly said without evident surprise. She looked tired, worn. ‘‘Come to see Lute again?’’

  ‘‘How is he?’’ McBride asked.

  ‘‘He’s dying a little quicker today. That pleases him.’’

  ‘‘I need to talk with
him.’’

  ‘‘I’ll tell him. He’ll say yes or no.’’ She looked McBride up and down. ‘‘You look like hell. Come in.’’

  Dolly opened the door wider and McBride stepped into the dark hallway. She closed the door behind him. ‘‘I’ll tell him you’re here.’’ The woman hesitated a moment, then said, ‘‘Talking about looking like hell, I was pretty once myself, can you believe that?’’

  ‘‘I can believe it. You’re still pretty.’’

  ‘‘No, I’m not. One time I was so pretty that Lute killed two men over me. How many women can say that?’’

  ‘‘Very few, Dolly. Maybe none at all.’’

  ‘‘I just wanted to tell you that, about the two men, I mean, not that it matters a hill of beans anymore.’’

  ‘‘I’m glad you did, because Lute told me the same thing.’’

  ‘‘I was a good woman to him, to Lute,’’ Dolly said.

  ‘‘You still are.’’

  ‘‘Not any longer. I’m leaving him, tomorrow, the day after, the day after that. I won’t stay around and watch him die.’’

  McBride shook his head. ‘‘Dolly, I don’t know what to say. I don’t have the words.’’

  ‘‘It’s not about words, McBride. It’s about feelings.’’

  ‘‘He told you my real name.’’

  ‘‘Lute tells me only what he wants to tell me.’’ She turned away. ‘‘I’ll speak to him.’’

  Dolly returned a few minutes later.

  ‘‘Lute will talk to you.’’ Her tired eyes lifted to McBride’s in the gloom. ‘‘You may be bringing death to this house, John McBride. I know it and so does Lute. That’s why he will welcome you. Just don’t expect me to do the same.’’

  ‘‘I’ll do my best to see that neither of you gets hurt.’’

  Dolly’s mouth stretched in a wan smile. ‘‘Then you’ll disappoint Lute and please me.’’ She waved a hand to the door at the end of the hallway, a small, lost gesture. ‘‘Go, have your talk. Afterward I’ll have hot coffee waiting. You look all used up, or did I already tell you that?’’