Ralph Compton West of the Law

by West, Joseph A. ; Compton, Ralph

  Knowles threw McBride one last, scared glance, then scampered along the platform to his office, looking over his shoulder all the way.

  It had been in McBride’s mind to fight Donovan and the Allisons at the station. Now he decided against it. He’d only be throwing his life away and that would hardly be of any help to Shannon, or the hundred young girls coming in on the next day’s train.

  McBride walked from the station and faded into the darkness. When he was hidden by the night he lay on his back in a clump of tall Indian grass and stared at the spangled stars. He needed time to think.

  Less than ten minutes later he heard the flat statement of two shots from the station.

  McBride smiled. Apparently Sean Donovan had been most displeased with the talkative Mr. Knowles.

  Chapter 29

  John McBride spent an hour listening to the night. Finally, when he heard no further sounds of pursuit he climbed to his feet. For a moment his wide-shouldered silhouette stood against the sky and blotted out a thousand stars, but the rest drew closer around him, outlining him in a blaze of icy fire.

  Tired of the smiling, silent moon, the prairie wind sought out McBride, eager to tell its tales, tugging at him to get his attention. Unheeding, he walked into the darkness toward the lights of town.

  It was time to take the fight to Sean Donovan. There was now no other way to free Shannon and leave behind High Hopes forever.

  Wary of the prowling Allisons, McBride kept to the alleys, lost in their secretive shadows. Nothing about him shone or glittered and he became one with the darkness, a tired, hungry, grim-faced man about to battle odds that would make lesser men shudder and choose a different path.

  McBride wondered at that. Had the West changed him so much? Only recently, as early as tonight, had he at last come to accept its values. He realized that there were some injustices a man could not turn his back on, no matter how much he told himself that they were no concern of his. To take Shannon and run away from what was happening in High Hopes would be to undo all that he’d once held sacred—honor, courage, integrity. Blinded by his love for a woman and bound to protect her, he’d lost his way. Now he had found it again.

  No matter what might happen in the next few hours, he would not run away and piss on his life.

  McBride crossed the crowded, jostling street, unnoticed among so many, and took to the alley alongside the Golden Garter. He had seen no sign of Donovan and the Allisons, and the young miner’s body had long since been removed from the boardwalk.

  Gamble Trask’s office had been at the back of the saloon, walled off from the rest of the building. On cat feet, McBride stepped through the alley to the rear of the Golden Garter. If Donovan was in the office, he’d find a way to get at the man. A curtained window spilled subdued light onto the ground and gleamed on the blackened, upright beams of the fortune-teller’s shack McBride had destroyed.

  He stepped closer to the window.

  The curtains were drawn, but one had snagged on a splinter of wood sticking up from the sill, leaving a small, triangular opening at the bottom. McBride got down on a knee at the window and peered inside.

  He watched for a couple of minutes, then rose to his feet. A retching pain clutching at his gut. He reeled away from the window and stumbled into the darkness.

  There was only one safe place he knew, a place where he could ride out the pain that racked him and bring order to his whirling brain. He would go to Marshal Clark’s barn.

  McBride staggered through the cartwheeling night, bent over, his fevered gaze on the ground ahead of him. Finally—he would never know how—he reached the barn and threw himself into a stall. The mustang turned its head, saw him and whinnied softly. Too sick to notice, McBride rolled on his back, his eyes open but staring into nothingness.

  The pain had faded, to be replaced by a green sickness that twisted and turned in his belly. He closed his eyes, trying to blot out what he’d seen in Donovan’s office, but the vision stayed with him, stark and painful as sunlight reflecting on ice.

  Try as he might, the scene replayed itself in his head, over and over again, a torment reserved for the worst of the damned.

  He again saw Shannon in Donovan’s arms, their hungry, open mouths together. He watched Donovan reach with thick, fumbling fingers for the hooks at the back of Shannon’s dress. He saw her throw back her head and laugh, then lightly slap Donovan’s hands away and, one by one, start to undo the hooks herself. Donovan, his eyes hot, nuzzled her neck and finally the top of the dress dropped around Shannon’s hips. Her naked breasts thrust against his chest. . . .

  Unable to watch anymore, McBride had turned away and fled blindly into the mocking night.

  He rolled on his side and pressed his face into the harsh straw under him. He felt dirty, a lousy, crawling kind of uncleanliness, both from watching what had happened and from the certain knowledge that he’d been used, played for a fool.

  Dolly had been right, McBride realized. Shannon Roark loved only herself, and it hadn’t taken her long to figure out that Sean Donovan could do more for her than he ever could.

  A big house, servants, expensive jewels, a carriage and four—all those things Donovan could provide and more. She had made her choice.

  Sick at heart, McBride pushed his face deeper into the straw, closed his burning eyes and waited, sleepless, for the dawn.

  Thin daylight slanted into the barn through the open door, and somewhere a rooster strutted on a dung heap and crowed that he was king of the world.

  McBride climbed to his feet and brushed wisps of straw from his clothes and hair. The pain was gone and only a vague anger was left. What Shannon had done to him was just another betrayal in a town where nothing ever was as it seemed.

  But he vowed, no matter what, he would not betray himself. Donovan was expecting to score big from the sale of the girls from the orphan train. But McBride would not let it happen. Somehow he would stop it.

  ‘‘Look at me,’’ he’d told Dolly. ‘‘I’m only one man.’’

  But if he’s got sand, sometimes one man is all it takes. McBride took some cold comfort in that thought.

  He walked to the door of the barn and looked around. Dolly was standing outside the front of the house, rubbing brass polish onto the door knocker. She turned and saw him. She didn’t smile. Bending, she put the can of polish and the rag at the bottom of the door and walked toward him. The hard morning light was unkind to her and did not allow a single line on her face to pass unnoticed.

  ‘‘I thought you’d be back for your horse,’’ the woman said. She glanced beyond him into the dark barn. ‘‘Where is Shannon?’’

  ‘‘She won’t be leaving with me. Today or any other day.’’

  It took a few moments for that to register. Then Dolly said, ‘‘You found out about her?’’

  ‘‘Yes. The hard way. She played me for a sap.’’ There was sadness in his face, but the anger was stronger.

  The woman nodded. ‘‘That’s Shannon’s style.’’ Her eyes softened a little. ‘‘I’m sorry, McBride.’’

  ‘‘So am I.’’

  He felt he owed it to Dolly to tell her something, and he told her now. ‘‘I plan on being at the railroad station at noon today when the orphan train gets here.’’

  ‘‘You’re going to stop it.’’

  ‘‘I’ll try.’’

  ‘‘I don’t give two bits for your chances, McBride. Donovan will have plenty of gunhands with him.’’

  McBride smiled. ‘‘Not so long ago you told me it was my duty to stop it. Have you used the woman’s prerogative to change her mind?’’

  Dolly shook her head. ‘‘No, but I can see in your eyes that you’ve already died a little death. I’d just hate to see you die another.’’

  ‘‘Trust me, the second will be a lot more permanent.’’

  ‘‘Will it, McBride? Will it really?’’

  He had no answer for that question, knowing that Dolly was right. If he lived through thi
s day, the hurt he felt right then would be with him for the rest of his life.

  Dolly read the answer in his face and did not push him. She said, ‘‘Are you hungry?’’

  McBride forced a smile. ‘‘Believe it or not, I am. I could eat a steak and maybe six fried eggs.’’

  ‘‘How about ham, potatoes and maybe three fried eggs?’’

  ‘‘Suits me just fine.’’

  As they walked back to the house, McBride asked, ‘‘Do you still intend to leave the marshal?’’

  The woman stopped and turned to him. ‘‘I’ll be at the station at noon, just like you. When the train pulls out again it will be empty and I’ll ask the conductor to take me wherever it goes.’’

  ‘‘I’m sorry it’s working out this way, Dolly.’’

  ‘‘Feel sorry for yourself, McBride. At least I’ll still be alive.’’

  He grinned. ‘‘You sure know how to boost a man’s confidence.’’

  ‘‘Uh-huh, learned that when I was working the line.’’

  Dolly’s kitchen was warm and steamy and smelled of cinnamon and stewed green apples. She waved McBride to a chair at the wooden table and took down a skillet from the pot rack.

  ‘‘How do you like your eggs?’’

  ‘‘Over easy.’’

  ‘‘Comin’ right up.’’

  The food was good and when McBride had finished eating he pushed his plate away and said, ‘‘That was an elegant meal, Dolly.’’

  ‘‘Hardly elegant, but I hope it filled a hole.’’

  ‘‘It did all of that.’’ He nodded in the direction of Clark’s bedroom. ‘‘How is he?’’

  ‘‘He knows I’m leaving today. He hasn’t said anything.’’

  ‘‘Want me to talk to him?’’

  ‘‘Lute won’t talk to you. He’s all through with talking. Now he waits for death to take him.’’

  ‘‘A man doesn’t have much of a choice on when that might be.’’

  ‘‘I hope it’s soon, McBride. For Lute’s sake I do.’’

  ‘‘Has he eaten anything this morning?’’

  ‘‘I took a breakfast in to him. He wouldn’t touch it.’’

  ‘‘Maybe I should talk to him.’’

  Dolly shook her head as she brought her cup of tea to the table. ‘‘No. Lute has turned his face to the wall. He’ll die very soon, I think.’’

  McBride cast around in his head for something to say. He found only a useless scrap: ‘‘Silas Knowles is dead. Sean Donovan killed him.’’

  Dolly’s face was expressionless. ‘‘Silas wasn’t much.’’

  A tense silence stretched between them. Finally McBride said, ‘‘You may not see me at the station, at least not right away. I’ll have to figure out how to go at it.’’

  ‘‘Be careful, McBride. That’s all.’’

  ‘‘If I’m lucky, I’ll kill Hack Burns for the marshal.’’

  ‘‘No, McBride, you won’t kill Hack Burns. He’s too fast, too good with a gun.’’

  ‘‘I’ll just have to figure out a way to go at it, that’s all.’’

  Dolly’s eyes angled to the clock on the wall. ‘‘In another hour I’ll say good-bye to Lute. Then I’ll come to the barn and say good-bye to you.’’ Her smile was fragile. ‘‘I’ll be saying good-bye to dead men.’’

  ‘‘Don’t count me out, Dolly,’’ McBride said. He tapped the handle of the Colt in his waistband. ‘‘I’ve gotten pretty good with this thing.’’

  ‘‘You’ll fire six shots. Then they’ll kill you.’’ The woman sighed deep and rose to her feet. ‘‘Better rest up now, McBride. You look tired.’’

  As he was leaving, Dolly stopped him. ‘‘McBride.’’

  He turned. ‘‘Yeah?’’

  ‘‘Good luck.’’

  Chapter 30

  McBride couldn’t remember the last time he’d been in church, but he felt it right to pray a little. He had no illusions about what he’d be facing in less than three hours. He didn’t have any kind of plan. All he could think of doing was to confront Donovan with his gun drawn and then let the chips fall from there.

  But it was thin, real thin, and the outcome would be a very uncertain thing. If he raised enough fuss, others might hear and ask questions and the girls might be freed.

  He shook his head on his straw pillow. It was all ‘‘might.’’ Nothing was certain.

  McBride did not sleep. Portugee had taken his watch and he judged the approach to noon by the sun. When he figured the hour was near, he rose to his feet, checked his gun and stepped out of the barn. Then he stopped. He’d forgotten about the mustang.

  He walked back inside and threw the little horse more hay and a generous scoop of oats. He slapped the mustang on the shoulder and said, ‘‘If we don’t meet again, pard, thanks for putting up with me.’’

  The horse continued to chomp hay, as though McBride had not spoken. He smiled and walked out of the barn, into the sunlight.

  To his surprise there was a large crowd on the station platform and he heard a brass band tuning up their instruments. He mingled with others walking toward the station and lost himself in the crowd. He asked an older woman at his side, ‘‘What’s all the excitement about, ma’am?’’

  ‘‘Orphan train comin’ in,’’ the woman answered. ‘‘What larks! That nice Mr. Donovan, the new owner of the Golden Garter Saloon, says he’s going to find good homes for all of them.’’

  ‘‘That’s true-blue of him,’’ McBride said, keeping a straight face.

  ‘‘They say it’s all young girls,’’ the old lady said. ‘‘I wouldn’t mind getting one myself. At my age I need a servant.’’

  It seemed to McBride that the whole town with the exception of miners who had left for the diggings was gathering to see the show. There had never been an orphan train in High Hopes and only a double hanging would have attracted a larger crowd.

  He faded out of the throng and walked behind the station. Empty freight boxes were piled at the end of the platform, away from the crowd, and McBride stood beside them. From his place of concealment he had an excellent view of the entire station.

  Sean Donovan was beaming, playing to the hilt his role of protector and benefactor of poor orphans to a crowd of admirers. He had his arm around Shannon’s slender waist, but gone were the vivid silk dresses she wore in the Golden Garter. In their place was a somber day gown of russet taffeta. A small hat of the same color was perched atop her piled-up hair and she carried a yellow parasol against the glare of the noon sun.

  Beyond Shannon and Donovan, the Allison brothers and Hack Burns stood together. Burns was wearing a coat, unusual for him, probably to conceal his gun from the arriving girls, McBride guessed. Donovan had made sure that nothing would alarm or scare the orphans when they stepped off the train. Even the half-dozen saloon girls who were distanced along the platform wore demure dresses, the better to convince the orphans that all was well and they were in kindly hands.

  As yet there was no distant plume of smoke to herald the coming of the train. The expectant rails glittered in the sunlight, an inverted V of polished iron that vanished into a shimmering haze at the horizon.

  The six-piece band finished an enthusiastic if ragged rendition of ‘‘Haste to the Wedding,’’ then struck up ‘‘The Wisconsin Emigrant.’’

  McBride watched Donovan turn his head, look behind him, then smile and nod to someone, but he couldn’t see who it was. He left the cover of the piled boxes and walked to the corner of the station.

  Portugee had stopped near the platform. It looked like he’d rounded up every spare freight wagon in town. In addition to his own three, there were another seven, drawn by mules, each covered with a bowed canvas. He and Ali al-Karim were up on the box of the first, Portugee at the reins, and his crew of ruffians were scattered among the others.

  McBride drew back his head, then returned to the shelter of the boxes. Portugee must plan on driving the girls west to a station on the Union Pacific and then lo
ading them on a train to carry them across the Divide. Thinking of his hat and money belt, McBride knew a man who would rob an honest traveler of his few possessions would also make sure he disposed of the wagons at a handsome profit.

  It seemed that everything Portugee touched turned to gold. McBride hoped to soon change all that.

  The band was playing ‘‘Old Joe Clark’’ when a cheer went up from the crowd. McBride stepped away from his hiding place and his eyes searched the distance. He saw what had excited the crowd, a ribbon of black smoke emerging from the haze.

  McBride drew back and checked his gun. But as he shoved the Colt back into his waistband, his elbow caught the edge of one of the empty boxes and it clattered, rolling onto the platform.

  Donovan’s head turned toward the sound and his face went black with anger when he saw McBride. Shannon was watching him too, but her eyes revealed a tangle of emotion, compassion knotted up with apprehension and a measure of fear.

  Donovan urgently whispered to Burns and the Allisons. Burns smirked, the birthmark on his face like a bloodstain. Then he and the brothers walked slowly but purposefully in McBride’s direction.

  It had come. The fight was on. McBride pulled his gun and held it at his side, thumb on the hammer, waiting, ready.

  Burns got closer. He’d pulled back his coat, clearing his gun. The sun caught the star on his shirt and winked silver light.

  At that moment, Dolly walked out of the waiting room, a carpetbag in her hand. She sized up what was happening, smiled at McBride and stepped quickly between him and the three gunmen.

  It was a shrewd move and McBride appreciated it. If Burns and the Allisons cut loose, the chances were that a stray bullet would hit Dolly. At that time in the West, the Victorian ideal that a male should never abuse a respectable member of the fairer sex set a standard that was rigidly enforced. Killing a woman was a hanging offense, a fact that would not be lost on Burns and the Allisons.

  McBride saw hesitation in Burns’ face. He and the Allisons stopped where they were, but the confrontation was not over. All Dolly had given McBride was a few extra moments of time.