Leggett laughed. ‘‘You just killed a known gunman and you face another at noon tomorrow. John, my boy, you have a strange way of lying low.’’
‘‘That thought has occurred to me,’’ McBride said, irritated at the man for telling him something he already knew.
‘‘Let’s walk,’’ Leggett said.
‘‘I don’t think—’’
‘‘It’s not far.’’
They walked to the edge of town, past a scattered collection of tar-paper shacks and tents, to the spot where the town lights faded and the darkness began. Here the stars were visible and the air smelled cleaner. The moonlight touched the crests of low, rolling hills with a silver sheen, pooling the hollows with purple shadow. There was no wind and nothing moved or made a sound.
‘‘Not much farther,’’ Leggett said. ‘‘In fact I do believe we’ll soon see the lights of the place.’’
McBride, a man of the city, found the darkness disturbing. ‘‘Where are we going?’’ he asked.
‘‘Hell,’’ Leggett said.
Chapter 7
After a quarter of a mile, Leggett led McBride along the bank of a narrow creek that curved to the west and then opened up to a width of about ten feet, a few scrawny cottonwoods growing along its bank. Beyond the bend McBride saw the lights of a large cabin glowing dimly in the gloom.
‘‘This place used to be a stage way station before the railroad got here,’’ Leggett said. ‘‘Now it’s owned by Gamble Trask.’’
They walked to the door and Leggett asked, ‘‘Shall we enter?’’
The man looked suddenly older than his years and a strange, yellowish tinge clouded his face. There was a dark air of despondency about Leggett that took McBride by surprise. For a talkative man he had been oddly silent since they’d left the outskirts of town and now he seemed strained, like a man shuffling through yesterday’s memories.
‘‘I used to know this place well,’’ Leggett said. ‘‘There are times when I still wish I did.’’
The old man opened the door and McBride followed. Immediately his nostrils were assailed by a sweet, corrupt odor, like the stench of rotting flowers. He recognized it for what it was—the smell of opium smoke.
Had Leggett brought him all the way out here just to show him an opium den? New York was full of such places, though the authorities were cracking down on them because of the social costs. It was mostly the poor who smoked, seeking to escape lives of degradation and misery, but the toll among families was terrible. Many men spent all their wages on opium, preferring the drug to alcohol, and often the result was that their wives and children died of starvation. Workingmen addicted to opium did not eat and their bodies wasted away until they were living skeletons. Men like that could no longer perform hard manual labor and again it was their families that suffered.
McBride had always hated opium dens and the men who profited by them. Leggett had said that Gamble Trask owned the cabin. In addition to his saloon, was he also in the opium business? McBride could give the man the benefit of the doubt— maybe Trask just rented out the cabin. But he did not believe that, even as the thought had come to him.
The door opened on a long, hastily constructed corridor, and there was a window just beyond the door where addicts could buy the drug. A cheerful young Chinese man wearing a round black cap on his head grinned knowingly at Theo and said, ‘‘Good evening, Mr. Leggett.’’
Leggett waved, his face gray in the light of the single oil lamp that hung from the ceiling. ‘‘Good evening, Chang.’’
‘‘You dream some dreams tonight?’’
‘‘No.’’ Leggett shook his head. ‘‘No more of that for me, Chang.’’
The man called Chang scowled. ‘‘Then why the hell you here? This place busy. Very busy.’’
‘‘My friend may be interested in a pipe or two,’’ Leggett lied smoothly. ‘‘He wishes first to inspect the . . . ah . . . premises.’’
‘‘Clean place,’’ Chang said to McBride. ‘‘Very clean place, you see.’’ He waved toward a closed door at the end of the corridor where shadows gathered. ‘‘Take look, then come back and talk to me.’’
Leggett made a bow and extended his hand. ‘‘Shall we, Mr. Smith?’’
The door opened onto a large room, the darkness kept at bay by a few lamps that cast a troubled amber light. A sweet-smelling vapor hung in the air and the only sound was the soft gurgle of water pipes. Two Chinese men, both incredibly wrinkled, yellow and old, moved around silently on padded feet, now and then bending to check on the dozens of men sprawled on the floor like stone statues, pipes to their lips. As McBride and Leggett passed between them, the opium smokers neither moved nor looked up, their eyes either closed or frozen wide open as they drifted like phantoms through their demented dreams. Others smiled, the vague, empty smile of the living dead.
Leggett pointed to a couple of young girls who lay side by side on the floor. They were almost skeletal, skin drawn so tight against the bones of their faces that their cheeks were sunken, mouths open wide in a permanent, painful grimace.
‘‘Look at their arms, John,’’ Leggett whispered, like a man in some dreadful church. ‘‘See the track marks? Heroin addicts.’’ His smile was without humor. ‘‘There are quite a few of those in High Hopes.’’
‘‘Who are they?’’ McBride asked. He’d seen what heroin could do to addicts, but the sight never failed to affect him.
‘‘Does it matter? They’ll be dead soon, or so Dr. Cox says.’’ Leggett sighed. ‘‘They’re twin sisters, Hannah and Margaret Collins. At one time they worked for Gamble Trask at the Golden Garter, but not anymore. They sell themselves to any horny rooster who will give them enough money to come here.’’ The old man shook his head. ‘‘It’s sad really. They’re fourteen and they should be married and keeping their own houses by now. Instead . . . well, you can see the instead for yourself.’’
‘‘Leggett—’’
‘‘Theo, my boy, please.’’
‘‘Theo, why did you bring me here?’’
The old man was silent for a few moments, as though collecting his thoughts. ‘‘John,’’ he said finally, ‘‘all this, this hell, is owned and operated by Gamble Trask. It’s a steady moneymaker and he needs money, lots of it, to finance his ambitions. Trask doesn’t intend to remain in High Hopes and see his dreams confined by the wooden walls of a hick town. He has his sights set on Washington, the honorable senator from Colorado, and maybe higher. Trask is a man who desires power every bit as much as he does wealth, and believe me, that he craves like the poor creatures you see around you crave opium.’’
Leggett led the way to the door, then stopped, his eyes shadowed. ‘‘Trask has other ways of making money’’—he waved a hand around the room— ‘‘just as dirty as this. He traffics in young Chinese girls out of San Francisco, then ships them to the big cities back East. Out here the services of Chinese whores don’t bring a premium price, but they do in New York and Boston and other places. They’re marketed in big-city brothels as ‘exotics,’ and are always in demand. Trask’s Chinese girls, or slaves or whatever you want to call them, are anywhere from twelve to fourteen years old and when they reach the brothels their life expectancy is about two to four years. They die quickly from grief, disease or opium, and usually from a combination of all three.’’
McBride remembered the Chinese girls being herded into the alley behind the Golden Garter. Shannon had told him they were visiting a fortune-teller. Was she a part of Trask’s schemes? He refused to believe she could be party to anything so vile, and he said as much to Leggett.
‘‘Not here,’’ the man said. ‘‘Outside. If I stay here much longer, I’ll start to get my old urges again.’’
The Chinese man was not at the payment window when McBride and Leggett passed. Just as well, McBride decided. After seeing what was inside, he wasn’t feeling inclined to be sociable. He followed Leggett through the door into the clean, dark air of the night and the two me
n walked to the cottonwoods beside the creek.
McBride gulped fresh air and Leggett, watching him, smiled. ‘‘There was a time I loved such places,’’ he said. His eyes sought McBride’s in the darkness. ‘‘John, have you ever heard of Wild Bill Hickok?’’
‘‘Yes, even in New York. He’d make the newspapers every now and then, usually after he killed a man, and he was in all the dime novels.’’
‘‘Bill and his friend Colorado Charlie Utter introduced me to opium when I was running a paper in Deadwood,’’ Leggett said. ‘‘Ah, those were good days, smoking opium with Bill and Charlie for two, three days at a time, dreaming the dreams.’’
‘‘He’s dead now, isn’t he?’’
‘‘Hickok? Yes, shot in Deadwood. That was a few years back.’’
‘‘Theo, you were going to tell me about Shannon Roark.’’
‘‘No, I wasn’t, because there’s really not much to tell. She arrived in High Hopes with Gamble Trask and Hack Burns two years ago. After he built the Golden Garter, the biggest and best saloon in town, Trask put her in the place as a dealer. That’s all I know about her.’’
‘‘She’s beautiful,’’ McBride said. ‘‘The most beautiful woman I ever saw. I can’t believe she’s mixed up with Trask.’’
Leggett shrugged. ‘‘From all I hear, the lovely Miss Roark is fond of money herself, as she’s not averse to a bottom deal when it means relieving a drunk miner of his poke. She keeps a suite at the Killeen and dresses in the latest Paris fashions. That takes money.’’
‘‘It doesn’t mean she’s a part of Trask’s crooked dealings.’’
‘‘No, it doesn’t, my boy. But she has Trask’s ear and I’d step wary of her if I were you. Especially if you agree to my proposition.’’
‘‘What is your proposition, Theo? I know it’s got to be part of the reason you brought me here.’’
Leggett leaned his back against a cottonwood trunk. ‘‘John, Gamble Trask must be stopped. He’s getting rich on opium and slave girls and he couldn’t care less about the human suffering he causes.’’
McBride opened his mouth to speak, but Leggett raised a hand to silence him. ‘‘Hear me out. It’s no accident that Trask chose High Hopes for his base of operations. The town is at the junction of two railroads, the Union Pacific and the Santa Fe. Raw opium and the Chinese girls are smuggled into San Francisco, then shipped to him on the Union Pacific. He then sends opium and girls east via the Santa Fe to New York, among other cities. I believe Trask has someone back East who pays him well.’’ The old man searched inside his coat, found a cigar and thumbed a match into flame. ‘‘John, you were a policeman in New York. You know what this kind of trade in drugs and girls can do to a town.’’
McBride watched as Leggett lit his cigar, then said, ‘‘What’s your interest in this, Theo? Do you really care about the Chinese girls or do you want to make a name for yourself as a crusading newspaperman?’’
‘‘I care about High Hopes. This was a nice place to live before Gamble Trask got here and I want it to go back to how it was. Now I see corruption everywhere. Trask gives the miners what they want and directly or indirectly, a lot of people— merchants, bankers, even the railroads—are profiting from his enterprises. If he’s not stopped and stopped soon, High Hopes is doomed. Trask will suck it dry, then toss away what’s left of it to rot in the sun. We’ll end up a ghost town and only the pack rats will live here.’’
‘‘You’ve still got the miners. Even if Trask goes, they’ll always need a place to spend their money.’’
‘‘The Spanish Peaks mines are all but played out. Another year, maybe two, the miners will be moving on. There’s been talk of another big strike in the Montana Territory and some have already left.’’ Leggett studied the glowing end of his cigar. ‘‘John, as I see it, the future of this town lies in cattle. The local ranchers could ship their herds from here instead of trailing west through the mountains to Cimarron and running off tons of beef. High Hopes could become the major shipping center for the Colorado cattle industry and the town would prosper without the slime tracks of Gamble Trask’s dirty fingers all over it.
‘‘There are some others who think the same way as I do and so did Marshal Lute Clark. After my press was destroyed, he moved to shut down the Golden Garter and Hack Burns shot him. There were maybe a hundred men in the saloon that night, and every man jack of them swore Burns drew in self-defense. When Trask made Burns the new city marshal few made any objection. They were too busy counting their money.’’
McBride stifled a yawn, the late hour getting to him. ‘‘And now you want me to shut down Trask?’’
Leggett nodded. ‘‘That’s about the size of it, I reckon. You’re good with your fists and a gun. We saw that tonight. We need a man like you to lead us. The men who think as I do—Dr. Cox, Grant Wilson, who owns the hardware store, Ned Barlow, the blacksmith, and a few others—they’re all good men, but they’re not gunfighters. I plan on taking my case against Trask all the way to the state capital, but you have to buy me some time.’’
‘‘I may not be around tomorrow,’’ McBride said. ‘‘Have you considered that? I’m not a gunfighter and I don’t even want the name of one. And I’m no match for Hack Burns, or at least that’s what he told me. Chances are, I’ll be on the first train out of here in the morning.’’
Around them translucent moonlight was silvering the smoke-colored leaves of the cottonwoods and the creek babbled nonsense to itself as it ran over a bed of sand and pebbles. Out on the plains the coyotes were again yipping their hunger, lacing the darkness with ribbons of sound.
Leggett stuffed his cigar back in his mouth and puffed furiously. ‘‘John, I—’’
The racketing roar of a rifle shattered the night and suddenly McBride’s face was spattered with blood and brains. He saw Leggett fall . . . and then he was running.
Chapter 8
A bullet cut the air next to McBride’s ear and a second kicked up a startled exclamation point of dirt at his feet. He dived into thick brush along the creek bank and pulled his gun from his pocket.
How many unfired cartridges were left after his fight with Jim Nolan? He couldn’t remember and now was not the time to think about it. Out there somebody wanted to kill him real bad and now his whole attention must be on surviving.
From over by the cottonwoods, McBride heard Leggett groan. The man was still alive. Had the hidden rifleman heard it too? A couple of searching shots rattled through the branches of the trees, answering his question.
McBride noted the flare of the rifle. It was off to his right, but he couldn’t tell how far. Whoever the rifleman was, he’d shot at the glow of Leggett’s cigar and hit his target. He’d have to be wary of a man with that kind of gun skill.
It was in McBride’s mind to back out of the brush, then work his way to his left and come up on the bushwhacker from behind. A good plan, but as soon as he rose up to walk or even crawl, he’d be out in the open and a dead man. There had to be another way. The man out there was patient, waiting for a killing shot. And he was good at his job. Real good.
Four bullets, fast and evenly spaced, thudded into trees and crackled through brush along the creek bank. McBride knew the man was trying to flush him, like he would a flock of quail. He could try firing at the rifle flash, but hitting his target with a .38 at distance and in the dark was an uncertain thing.
He’d have to get closer. A lot closer.
Then McBride had an idea, or at least the germ of one.
He inched forward, trying to be as quiet as possible. Where was the edge of the creek bank? A few more inches and he stopped, listening. There was only the wind, rising now as the night grew a little cooler. It whispered to the night as it explored among the cottonwoods.
McBride moved forward again, expecting to draw a bullet at any second. The land around him was flat, he recalled, here and there some shallow, rolling hills. This was rifle country and about then he decided that the Smith & W
esson was mighty poor company for a hunted man.
Ralph Compton: West of the Law Page 6
