‘‘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 Donovan 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.
McBride left the saloon and no one at Trask’s uproarious table saw him go. Girls had arrived shortly after the champagne and Trask and the others were distracted, carousing in a haze of blue cigar smoke and cheap perfume.
That was all to the good and McBride hoped they all got blind drunk. It would give him and Shannon more time to put trail between themselves and Trask.
The moon, as carefree as ever, was sliding lower in the sky as McBride stepped into the alley beside the saloon. There, in slanted, sulking shadow, he waited for Shannon to appear.
McBride’s fingers moved to the grip of the Colt in his waistband. He took comfort in its cool steel for a moment, then moved his hand again, this time to scratch under his chin where the false beard itched.
Marshal Clark’s tiny calico cat, on the prowl, emerged from the darkness and rubbed against his ankles in a friendly greeting. McBride leaned over, stroked the cat’s soft fur and whispered, ‘‘You go on home now.’’
The calico arched its back, made a faint mewing noise and faded again into the night. McBride straightened, his eyes slanting to the door of the Golden Garter.
Slow minutes dragged past, men came and went, the moon dropped lower and the shadows around him darkened. A halfhearted wind wheezed through the alley, teased McBride for a moment, then gave up the effort and died into stillness.
The moon glided lower in the sky. Time moved on—thirty minutes went past, then ten more.
McBride grew worried.
Then Shannon stepped through the door. Against the ashy gray of the saloon’s planking and the dull orange circles cast by the oil lamps, the woman stood as a slender, vivid column of light. Diamonds sparkled in her ears and she wore a satin dress of lustrous yellow, ribbons of the same color in her hair. Her naked shoulders were beautiful, shapely as those of a Greek goddess, and a thin band of black silk encircled her throat.
McBride could only look at her in stunned wonder from the shadows, the breath catching in his chest, his heart pounding.
Shannon stepped to the edge of the boardwalk and looked around her. She pushed a stray lock of hair from her forehead, then turned to her right, walking away from McBride.
‘‘Psst . . . over here.’’
Shannon’s back stiffened and she stood still. She glanced over her shoulder, then slowly walked back in McBride’s direction.
When she was close, McBride whispered again: ‘‘Stay there, don’t look at me.’’
The woman nodded and looked straight ahead into the darkness.
‘‘We’re leaving tonight,’’ McBride said. ‘‘When can you get away without being noticed?’’
He thought he saw a fleeting expression on Shannon’s face that could have been fear or apprehension. But the woman nodded a second time.
‘‘Do you have a horse?’’ McBride asked.
Another nod. Then, without turning her head: ‘‘John, be at the City Transfer livery in an hour. My horse is there.’’
‘‘I’ll be there.’’
‘‘I have to go,’’ Shannon whispered. ‘‘I’ll be missed.’’
Before McBride could say anything further, Shannon turned on her heel and walked into the saloon. The night closed around the place where she’d stood and suddenly all the light was gone.
McBride stepped out of the alley and took to the boardwalk. He had little time. He would saddle the mustang and be ready. One short hour. The thought of leaving with Shannon made his heart beat faster.
Just sixty fleeting minutes from now she’d be his . . . at the beginning of forever.
Chapter 26
McBride was tightening the cinch on the mustang’s saddle when a shuffle of feet made him turn fast, drawing from his waistband.
‘‘Take it easy, gunfighter. It’s only me.’’
Dolly’s voice. She stepped out of the shadows and stopped a few feet from McBride. ‘‘You’re pulling your freight?’’
He shoved the gun back in place. ‘‘Looks like.’’ The woman was silent and he was forced to add, ‘‘I’ve had enough of High Hopes to last me a lifetime.’’
‘‘Did Shannon Roark say she’ll leave with you?’’
‘‘You know about Shannon and I?’’
‘‘Lute told me.’’
‘‘Yes, she’s leaving with me. I’ll meet her at the livery an hour from now, a bit less.’’
McBride saw Dolly’s smile flash in the gloom of the barn. ‘‘Don’t count on it, McBride.’’
He was startled. ‘‘What do you mean, don’t count on it?’’
Dolly took a step toward him. ‘‘Miss Roark has become accustomed to the good life. I haven’t seen her tonight, but I bet the dress she’s wearing cost more than a city policeman makes in three months.’’
‘‘We’ll get by,’’ McBride said defensively, but all at once a strange twinge of unease began tugging at his belly.
‘‘What was she wearing in her ears tonight?’’
‘‘I don’t know.’’
‘‘Yes, you do, McBride. What were her earrings like?’’
He hesitated, like a man standing at the edge of a precipice, afraid to take a step into the unknown. ‘‘Diamonds,’’ he said finally. ‘‘She wore diamond earrings.’’
Dolly’s laugh was scornful, without humor. ‘‘And when you get to New York or Boston or wherever you’re going, you’ll buy her diamonds?’’
McBride slapped the mustang’s neck. ‘‘Like I said, we’ll get by.’’
‘‘Not without jewels, fine clothes, a big house and a carriage and four horses, you won’t.’’
‘‘Dolly, you’re forgetting one thing—Shannon loves me.’’
‘‘Does she, now?’’
‘‘Yes, she does.’’
‘‘McBride, Shannon Roark loves only herself. That’s something you’ll learn, maybe sooner, maybe later.’’
McBride smiled, thin and bitter. ‘‘Dolly, what do you know about love? You’re running out on a man who needs you.’’
Ralph Compton: West of the Law Page 20
