‘‘Yes, you did. More or less.’’
‘‘Well, it’s true enough.’’
The woman left him then. McBride walked to Clark’s door, knocked once and stepped inside. A single lamp beside the marshal’s bed lit the room and he was propped up with pillows. His gray face, etched with shadow, was the face of a cadaver.
‘‘I warned you not to, but I figured you’d be back,’’ Clark said. ‘‘Dolly told me what’s been happening in town. Bucking a stacked deck, ain’t you? I mean taking on Trask and the Allison boys.’’
‘‘I killed Harland Allison earlier tonight,’’ McBride said. ‘‘He didn’t give me any choice.’’
‘‘That boy needed killing. So do the other two, Julius and Clint.’’ The cadaver head moved on the pillow. ‘‘They won’t be so easy.’’
McBride smiled grimly. ‘‘It wasn’t easy. It was damned hard. Harland came close.’’ He thought about telling Clark about the deaths of Ebenezer and the blacksmith, but decided to let it go. Besides, the marshal was talking again.
‘‘Why are you here, McBride? It’s hardly to ask the help of a dead man.’’
‘‘I need a place to hide out,’’ McBride said. ‘‘I need to be close to Shannon Roark.’’
‘‘Still planning on taking down Gamble Trask, huh?’’
‘‘No. Right now my only plan is to get the woman I love out of High Hopes.’’
‘‘That’s good thinking on your part. You can hurt a man like Trask, burn a cabin or free a few Celestials, but you can’t take him down. Not alone, you can’t.’’
‘‘But, how did—’’
‘‘Dolly told me. No big surprise, everybody in town is talking about your little foray into the bad-lands, you and Luke Prescott. A miner rode in on a lathered horse and told everybody that Stryker Allison had been killed.’’
‘‘Luke is dead too. Allison killed him. Did Dolly tell you that?’’
‘‘The word around town is that you shot Allison.’’
‘‘It’s wrong. If I’d taken on Stryker in a revolver fight, I’d be dead right now.’’
Clark absorbed that in silence. The flesh had melted from his face and his temples and cheeks were sunken. It looked to McBride that the man was starving himself to hasten his death.
Finally he waved McBride close and said, ‘‘Suppose I let you stay here. What do you hope to accomplish?’’
‘‘Watch, wait for my chance and when the time is right get Shannon out of town.’’
‘‘Watch?’’ Clark’s laugh was like ancient parchments being rubbed together. ‘‘Watch from where, McBride? My front porch? You have to be able to get around town, man.’’
‘‘I can hardly do that, Marshal. My face is too well-known.’’
‘‘You told me you were a detective, McBride. What the hell kind of shadow do they raise in the big cities?’’
McBride did not want to rankle the man, and his reply was mild. ‘‘Good ones, I’d hope.’’
Clark mimicked him. ‘‘Good ones, I’d hope.’’ He laughed again, a dry, unpleasant sound. ‘‘You claim to be a good detective yet you’ve never heard of a disguise?’’
It was McBride’s turn to laugh. ‘‘Disguise myself as what?’’
The marshal made no answer. He tilted his head back and bellowed, ‘‘Dolly!’’
Almost immediately, as though she’d been listening outside, the door opened and the woman stepped into the room. ‘‘Do you recollect them four Texas cowboys that tried to rob the Mercantile Bank a few years back?’’ Clark asked her.
‘‘I remember you killed two of them,’’ Dolly said. ‘‘I recollect that.’’
‘‘They’d been notified,’’ the marshal said. ‘‘Anyways, they were wearing false theatrical beards and wigs and—’’
‘‘You stashed that stuff in the closet in the spare room,’’ Dolly said.
‘‘Yeah, that’s right. I kept the disguises as trial evidence, except they never got a chance to go before the judge.’’
‘‘What happened to them?’’ McBride asked.
Dolly answered for the marshal.
‘‘Vigilantes did for them. A bank clerk was killed during the robbery, a man with a wife and three kids. Dr. Alan Cox, Theo Leggett, Ned Barlow, the blacksmith, and a bunch of others told Lute to go fishing for a couple of days. Then they dragged those two poor cowboys out of the jail and strung them up. I don’t think either one of them had seen his seventeenth birthday.’’
‘‘They were plenty old enough to hold up a bank,’’ Clark said. His eyes glittered as they moved in their shadowed sockets. ‘‘Dolly, bring them disguises here. Oh, and that old black hat I used to wear for gardening.’’
The woman did as she was told, leaving McBride with a sick, hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach. Cox . . . Leggett . . . Barlow . . . men he’d trusted were vigilantes, in their own way just as ruthless and cold-blooded as Gamble Trask.
Back at the train station when he’d first arrived in High Hopes, the ticket clerk told him nothing in the town was as it seemed. Now McBride was beginning to understand what he’d meant. The question now was, apart from Shannon, whom else could he trust in High Hopes? Even Ebenezer, who had seemed to be a harmless old man, had sold him down the river for thirty pieces of silver. Could he depend on Marshal Clark to keep silent? And what about Dolly? She’d need traveling money and Gamble Trask was a ready and eager source.
McBride had plenty of questions and no answers and he felt like the walls of Clark’s room were closing in on him.
Dolly returned with the disguises and handed them to McBride.
‘‘The gray beard and wig, try those,’’ Clark said.
Feeling foolish, McBride hooked the beard onto his ears. It fell away from him in a frizzy mat, covering most of his chest.
‘‘Now the wig,’’ the marshal said. ‘‘The beard is a big improvement, McBride. Makes you almost look handsome.’’
McBride was irritated, but said nothing. He placed the wig over his head and its ragged gray locks hung to his shoulders, covering the beard’s ear loops.
‘‘Now let’s see you walk,’’ Clark said.
McBride took a few steps up and down the room.
‘‘Hell, man, you’re not in New York! You stand like a copper and walk like one,’’ the marshal said. ‘‘Hunch those shoulders and shuffle. Remember, you’re supposed to be an old codger.’’ He watched McBride for a few moments and said, ‘‘That’s better, but drag your feet a bit more. Now, put on the hat.’’
McBride did as he was told, settling the battered, shapeless old Stetson on his head.
‘‘You look just fine,’’ Clark said. ‘‘Even your own mother wouldn’t recognize you.’’ His eyes moved to Dolly. ‘‘What do you think?’’
‘‘He’ll pass for an old, broken-down prospector at a distance.’’
‘‘What did you say you were, McBride? A detective sergeant?’’
‘‘Yes, that’s my rank.’’
‘‘Then I shouldn’t have had to give a big-city detective sergeant like you a lesson in police work.’’
McBride bit back a sharp reply and said merely, ‘‘I’m obliged to you, Marshal.’’
‘‘Dolly, he’s staying with us for a spell,’’ Clark said.
‘‘I thought as much.’’ She turned to McBride. ‘‘You can sleep in the barn. Nobody will trouble you there. I’ll bring a pillow and blankets, and there’s a stall for your horse. Lute sold his dun a while back.’’
‘‘No need for it now,’’ the marshal said. He looked up at McBride. ‘‘Have you any money?’’
‘‘No, I was robbed of my money belt. I ran into a band of thieves headed by a man called Portugee.’’
Clark was surprised and it showed. ‘‘Portugee Lamego? Where did you run into that damned pirate?’’
‘‘West of here, at Apishapa Creek. Do you know him?’’
‘‘I know of him. He’s pretty much a legend in the Barbary Co
ast district of San Francisco. Years ago he killed a man in New Orleans and got out of town just ahead of the law. Then he showed up in ’Frisco, calling himself a sea captain. He was hired on by a tea importer as first mate, led a mutiny and took over the company schooner. He hanged the captain from his own yardarm. Since then he’s been running slaves, opium, rum, whatever will turn a profit. But to my knowledge Portugee has never operated east of the Divide. What’s he doing in Colorado?’’
‘‘Busily robbing me,’’ McBride said. ‘‘That’s all I know.’’
‘‘Over on the dresser, McBride, a tin box. Bring it here.’’
McBride found the box and brought it to the bed. ‘‘Open it,’’ the marshal said.
‘‘There’s money in here,’’ McBride said.
‘‘How much?’’
McBride counted out silver coins onto the bed quilt. ‘‘Twenty-eight dollars and eighteen cents in change.’’
‘‘That’s what I had in my pocket the day Hack Burns shot me,’’ Clark said. ‘‘Take it. You can’t survive in High Hopes without money.’’
‘‘Marshal, I can’t—’’
‘‘Take it, McBride. This is no time for getting proud on me.’’
McBride saw the logic in what the man was saying and he dropped the coins into his pocket. ‘‘I’ll pay you back,’’ he said.
Clark’s head moved in a nod. ‘‘You surely will, McBride. You surely will.’’ His eyes moved to Dolly. ‘‘Get out of here, woman,’’ he said. ‘‘Men need to talk.’’
Clark waited until Dolly closed the door behind her, then said, ‘‘She’s leaving me, you know. She told me so this morning. She says she’s hired a widow woman to do for me, whatever that means.’’
‘‘I’m sorry, Marshal, I truly am.’’
‘‘No need to be sorry, McBride, I don’t plan on living much longer. I can’t get up out of this bed and Dolly took my guns away. That’s why I’m asking you to repay whatever favors you think I’ve done you.’’
‘‘Anything. Anything at all. Just name it.’’
‘‘If I’m still alive when you finally leave town, shoot me. Make it quick, right between the eyes.’’ The marshal’s voice took on a pleading tone. ‘‘You’ll do that for me, one lawman to another?’’
McBride could have argued, told the man any kind of life was better than death, but he didn’t. Clark wouldn’t have listened anyway.
‘‘Sure, Marshal,’’ he said. ‘‘When the times comes I’ll be glad to.’’
He didn’t mean a word of it.
There were two stalls in the barn and Dolly had set up a bed for him in the corner of one of them. McBride walked the mustang into the other and stripped the saddle and bridle. He forked hay to the little horse, then discovered a sack of oats standing in a corner. He scooped a generous amount for the mustang and affectionately slapped its rump as he was leaving. The horse continued to eat and paid him no mind.
The hour was late, but High Hopes was still wide-awake and roaring drunk. The saloons were blazing beacons of welcoming light, the Golden Garter brightest of all. Miners in mule-eared boots stomped along the boardwalks, laughing, talking, arguing about everything and anything. Here and there cowboys, wide sombreros tipped back on their heads, burst in and out of batwing doors, all jingle and shine, confident and belligerent youngsters who were worthy heirs to the traditional arrogance of the horseman.
As McBride took to the boardwalk, shuffling like an old, bent man, tin-panny pianos tumbled tangled notes into the street, where they floated like snow-flakes before melting into nothingness. A saloon girl in a vivid scarlet dress stepped out of the Golden Garter, took a few quick gulps of fresh air, then pinned on her smile again before going inside.
McBride’s disguise was tested a few moments later.
A sallow gambler in a black frock coat and frilled shirt emerged from the shadows, a long, thin cheroot extended in his right hand. ‘‘Got a light, old-timer?’’
McBride shook his head, then tightened his throat, attempting the peevish voice of an old man. ‘‘I don’t smoke and neither should you, sonny. Stunt your growth.’’
The gambler laughed briefly and faded back into the shadows. So far, McBride decided, so good.
But his biggest test was yet to come. He had to walk into the Golden Garter and find a way to talk to Shannon. He wanted her to leave with him that night. The train was out of the question, but if she had a horse, they could put distance between themselves and Trask by daybreak.
It was a dangerous plan, but McBride convinced himself he had no other choice. He had to get the woman he intended to marry out of High Hopes and time was not on their side.
For a few moments McBride stood at the door of the Golden Garter and looked inside. The saloon was crowded and couples were waltzing around the dance floor. It was unlikely a broken-down old graybeard would even be noticed.
McBride stepped inside, found a place at the bar and ordered a beer. He slid a nickel across the counter, and the harried bartender scooped it up without comment. Holding the glass up close to his face, he glanced around him.
Because of the packed patrons he could not see Shannon, but as though nobody cared to get too close, the way was clear to Gamble Trask’s table in the corner.
The man sat with his back to the wall. On his right was the cold-eyed gunman Hack Burns, beside him the two surviving Allison brothers. Then McBride got a double jolt of surprise. The man sitting with his back to him turned to say something to Trask. The expensive clothes, flashing diamonds and handsome, brutal features were unmistakable— it was Sean Donovan, late of Hell’s Kitchen, New York City. Next to Donovan, McBride saw his battered plug hat, and the man sitting under it was Portugee Lamego.
For some reason all the rogues had gathered in one place, and for John McBride that could only mean more trouble was about to be added to the mess of trouble he already had.
Chapter 25
Wary of being recognized, McBride stood at the bar, the untasted beer in his hand. Now and then he sneaked a glance at Trask and the rest of them. The men were deep in conversation, ignoring him and everyone else. Portugee was very animated, grinning widely, waving his hands around. Then he turned and slapped Trask on the back as though something the man had said had greatly pleased him.
At that moment McBride wanted his hat back. And he wanted to kill Portugee Lamego for wearing it.
After a few minutes Trask’s business with the others seemed to have concluded amicably and champagne made its appearance. A small, dapper man stepped into the saloon, bent over and whispered something into Donovan’s ear. The gang leader nodded, smiled and said something in return that made the others laugh. The small man straightened and took his place beside Donovan’s chair. Hack Burns looked up at the man, his gunman’s eyes wary and calculating. And so he should be wary, McBride thought.
The little man was Gypsy Jim O’Hara, an icy killer without a shred of conscience or human decency.
McBride had seen enough. Now his need to talk to Shannon was more urgent than ever. But how to get close to her without arousing suspicion?
His eyes slanted to Trask’s table. O’Hara’s cold gaze swept the room, lingered on him for a moment, then dismissed him. O’Hara was paying no mind to a useless old man.
Reassured, McBride moved closer to a black-haired girl standing at the bar, her foot tapping to the piano music. He set his beer on the bar, grabbed the woman around the waist and yelled, ‘‘Let’s cut a rug, girlie!’’
McBride dragged the protesting girl onto the dance floor and spun her around in what he hoped was a reasonable imitation of a waltz. But his partner was having none of it.
‘‘Hey, watch your big feet, Gramps,’’ she hollered. She twisted out of his arms and stepped away from him, her eyes blazing. ‘‘Go on home to Grandma, you crazy old coot!’’
Around him people laughed and jeered and out of the corner of his eye McBride saw several heads at Trask’s table turned to him. But Dono
van grinned and said something that made the others laugh and they went back to their champagne and cigars.
The saloon girl had called him a crazy old coot and now McBride played that role to the hilt. He staggered toward where Shannon usually sat, elbowing men out of his way. One miner, a big man with a broken nose and the spiderwebbed eye scars of a skull and knuckle fighter, took exception to being bumped and stepped close to McBride. The man’s face just inches away from his own, McBride could smell the rank stink of whiskey on his breath.
‘‘Hey, you, scat!’’ the miner said, tight and hard. ‘‘If you don’t, old man or no, I’ll break your damned jaw.’’
People were crowded close around the two of them and McBride brought up his right knee, very fast, into the man’s crotch. The miner gasped and his face instantly changed color from angry red to ashy gray. He bent over and went down slowly, groaning, his hands clutching at his tormented nether regions. McBride took a step back and let the man fall. Beside him a girl and her dance partner looked down with mild curiosity at the writhing miner.
‘‘Heh, heh,’’ McBride cackled. ‘‘I’d say that young feller’s had too much to drink.’’
He stepped over the miner’s recumbent form and made his way to Shannon’s table. He stood behind one of the poker players, looking down at her, willing her to look at him. She did. Shannon’s beautiful eyes lifted to his face, but as O’Hara had done, she dismissed him without interest.
But then she looked back with a spike of startled recognition.
McBride smiled under his false beard and slowly pointed over his shoulder with his thumb. Shannon caught his drift immediately and nodded. She bowed her head to her cards and McBride again faded into the crowd.
The stricken miner was being dragged backward, his booted feet trailing, toward a chair by a couple of his friends. The man’s head was lolling on his shoulders and a thin line of drool ran from the corner of his mouth. As McBride walked past, somebody called out for ice and he grinned. The miner was obviously in a world of hurt.
Served him right for picking on a poor old man.
Ralph Compton West of the Law Page 17
