Ralph Compton: West of the Law

by Ralph Compton

  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 loading 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.

  In the distance he heard the hoarse, smoky chuff-chuff-chuff of the approaching locomotive. The crowd was cheering and the band had stopped ‘‘Old Joe Clark’’ in midnote and was now robustly playing ‘‘The Dark-Haired Lass.’’

  The train was closer now. The locomotive’s bell was clanging and thick, greasy smoke belched from the chimney. Blond heads were sticking out of every carriage window, all of them giggling. The girls were obviously amazed and excited at the size and scope of their reception.

  McBride had to move. To remain where he was would put Dolly in even more danger. He picked up one of the empty crates and threw it at Burns. The gunman jumped to the side, cursing, and the box, splintering into pieces, bounded past his legs.

  McBride turned and ran. He jumped off the edge of the platform and sprinted behind the station. He heard the thud of feet as Burns and the Allisons took off after him.

  The train had come to a clanking, hissing halt and another cheer went up from the crowd. McBride ran directly for Portugee’s wagon. The man was standing up in the box, yelling to his men to leave the wagons, get up on the platform and ride herd on the girls.

  Portugee turned to say something to the Arab and saw McBride. His dark face twisted in shock and he reached down for the rifle leaning against the seat.

  McBride fired at a run. His bullet hit Portugee dead center in the chest and the man screamed and toppled backward into the wagon bed. Al-Karim stood, his right hand flashing for the dagger in an ornate sheath he wore at his side. No mercy in him, McBride fired into the man, fired again and saw the Arab topple from the wagon seat and hit the ground with a thud.

  A bullet grazed McBride’s upper right arm and another split the air near his head. He heard the screams of girls from the platform, and panicked people streamed back toward town, away from the flying lead.

  McBride ran past a wagon, then another. A bullet gouged the side of a wagon and threw splinters into his face. He got behind a huge, steel-rimmed wheel and snapped off a fast shot at Burns. A miss. But it had the effect of slowing the man down. More wary now, he and the Allisons came on at a walk.

  McBride fired again, then ran for the platform, reloading as he went. People were streaming past him and the terrified orphan girls were milling around, uncertain of what to do or where to go. As he jumped onto the platform a fusillade of shots came from McBride’s left and men were going down—Portugee’s men.

  A stray bullet hit a tall girl in a white dress and she collapsed to the ground, sudden blood staining her left shoulder. Some of the other girls clustered around her as McBride ran past.

  He was looking for Sean Donovan.

  He pushed his way through a shifting sea of shrieking young females—and was stunned at what he saw ahead of him.

  Detective Inspector Thomas Byrnes was standing on the platform, gun in hand, with a dozen of New York’s finest around him, a motley group of detectives in shabby suits and plug hats. Several of Portugee’s pirates lay sprawled on the ground. The rest had their hands in the air, looking seasick.

  Byrnes grinned, waved to McBride, then staggered as a bullet hit him. His detectives were firing at targets to McBride’s left. McBride turned and saw the Allison brothers, holding their ground, shooting steadily like the professional gunmen they were. But Hack Burns had turned and run, sprinting back toward town.

  There was no sign of Shannon or Donovan.

  Pushing his way through the girls a second time, McBride jumped off the platform and went after Burns. He pounded past the Allisons, fleetingly noted the startled expression on their faces and then was beyond them, running hard.

  No bullets probed after him. The brothers were fully engaged with Byrnes and his men and didn’t have time to spare for him.

  Ahead of him, Burns reached the outlying buildings of town. He looked over his shoulder, saw McBride and thumbed off a shot. The bullet kicked up dirt at McBride’s feet, but he did not slow, nor did he fire. He figured the range was too great for his dubious marksmanship.

  Burns disappeared into an alley and McBride ran after him. He emerged into the street at the other side and quickly looked around him. The street was deserted, the good people of High Hopes obviously deciding it was safer indoors when a shooting war raged.

  There was no sign of Hack Burns, but opposite McBride was the Golden Garter. It could be that Donovan had fled there with Shannon.

  His gun up and ready, McBride crossed the street. He was halfway to his destination when the saloon’s batwing doors swung open. A man stood there, his legs spread, looking at McBride with a cruel, mocking grin.

  ‘‘You chased me, McBride,’’ Burns said. ‘‘Well, now you’ve caught me.’’

  The gunman was in no hurry. He had McBride flat-footed in the middle of the street, out in the open with no cover.

  Burns’ left hand slowly moved to his shirt pocket and he started to take out the makings. But then his right dropped to his gun and it came up spouting flame.

  McBride raised his Colt and fired. He was fast, smooth and above all accurate.

  He saw Burns take the hit. Then he stepped to his left and fired again. The gunman’s expression changed from arrogance to shock. He stared in disbelief at McBride for several long moments before his knees crumpled and he fell facedown onto the boardwalk.

  The gunman was still alive when McBride stepped onto the boards. He raised his head, looked up and whispered hoarsely through the blood that clogged his mouth: ‘‘You’ve learned.’’

  McBride nodded. ‘‘Seems like.’’

  ‘‘Gunfighter . . .’’ The last word Hack Burns ever spoke.

  McBride walked around the dead gunman and stepped into the saloon.

  He wa
nted Sean Donovan. He wanted him real bad.

  Chapter 31

  The only person in the saloon was the bartender. The man looked frightened, uncertainty bright in his eyes.

  ‘‘Donovan?’’ McBride asked.

  The bartender silently jerked a thumb in the direction of the office. The door was slightly ajar and McBride kicked it open and rushed inside, his Colt ready in his hand.

  He saw only Shannon, who had changed into a shirt and a canvas riding skirt. She was kneeling at a small J. Watson & Son safe, a bundle of money in her hand. She looked up in alarm at McBride, then rose to her feet.

  ‘‘Where is he?’’ McBride asked.

  ‘‘If you’re talking about Sean Donovan, I don’t know,’’ Shannon answered.

  McBride looked at the woman he loved. ‘‘Shannon, it’s over, but I didn’t want it to end this way. I thought it would be so different. You and me married, having a family.’’ He shook his head. ‘‘That’s how I thought it would be.’’

  The woman’s beautiful mouth twisted into a sneer. She opened a drawer in the desk and dropped the money into it. ‘‘McBride, you’re a fool. Did you really think I’d go with you back to New York and live on a policeman’s salary? What did you think, that I’d be a dutiful little wife content to stand barefoot and pregnant in the kitchen of whatever hovel you could afford?’’

  ‘‘Yes, I thought that.’’

  ‘‘Then you’re an even bigger fool than I imagined. Once I had it in mind to make you my partner, that together we’d take everything Gamble Trask owned. But you’re weak, McBride. I soon realized you didn’t have the stomach for it.’’

  ‘‘For what, Shannon? Murder?’’

  ‘‘Yes, if that’s what was needed. Now all you’ve done is spoil everything. I won’t have the hundred thousand from the sale of the orphans that I arranged with Sean Donovan, but there was enough in Gamble’s safe to see me through. Besides, when I live with Sean in New York, I won’t need money. I’ll eventually take his.’’

  ‘‘You arranged the orphan train?’’

  ‘‘Of course I did. Sean was doing business with Gamble, but I wrote to him myself and set up the whole deal. I figured the girls would be my ticket out of here. And I was the one who contacted Portugee, an old friend of mine from my San Francisco days, and I had him get in touch with the Arab slaver. Then I made Gamble think it was all his idea. He was another fool.’’

  ‘‘And the opium and the Chinese girls?’’

  ‘‘My ideas, my plans. I just got Gamble to carry them out, knowing that I’d eventually kill him and take it all. That’s why I convinced him to hire the Allison brothers for his own protection.’’

  ‘‘And in the end you did kill him.’’

  Shannon smiled. ‘‘No, I had one of the Allisons kill him for me.’’ She shrugged. ‘‘I offered to pay them more than Gamble was paying them.’’

  ‘‘And it was you who had Leggett murdered.’’

  ‘‘He was sniffing around, getting too close. I paid that fool cowboy to kill him.’’

  ‘‘And me?’’

  ‘‘You were in the way. That was all.’’

  ‘‘Recently I told someone that you played me for a sap, and you did, all along the line.’’

  Shannon laughed. ‘‘McBride, you may not have noticed, but you are a sap. Did you really think I needed your protection? That was when I thought you might take care of Trask for me. I don’t need you or any other man’s protection. I was fourteen years old when I first worked the ’Frisco waterfront as a whore and I’ve been taking care of myself ever since. Hell, McBride, I’d killed two men by the time I was eighteen. I never let clients get rough with me, but now and again one of them would cross the line. It’s amazing how a forty-four in the belly cools a man’s desire to beat up on a woman.’’

  Shannon took bundles of money from the drawer and stacked them on top of the desk. ‘‘It’s been nice talking to you again, McBride. But now I have to be going.’’

  McBride shook his head. ‘‘Shannon, you’re not going anywhere except to the nearest law.’’

  ‘‘I’m sorry you feel that way,’’ Shannon said.

  The gun had been in the drawer and it came up very fast. Shannon pulled the trigger and McBride felt like a club had crashed into his head. He was already unconscious, tumbling headlong into darkness, when he hit the floor.

  McBride woke, aware that someone was lifting him into a sitting position.

  ‘‘John, are you all right?’’

  It was Inspector Byrnes’ voice.

  ‘‘I’ve been shot,’’ McBride said.

  He saw the inspector nod. ‘‘I know, but the bullet only grazed you. Still, you’re lucky you’ve got a thick skull.’’

  McBride looked around, an effort that brought him pain. ‘‘Where is she?’’

  ‘‘Who?’’

  ‘‘Shannon Roark.’’

  ‘‘Is she the one who shot you?’’

  ‘‘Yes. She pulled a forty-four on me.’’

  ‘‘I don’t know who Shannon Roark is, but I’d make an educated guess that she skedaddled with Sean Donovan.’’

  ‘‘Where?’’

  Byrnes shook his head. ‘‘I don’t know. I was kind of busy at the station.’’

  ‘‘The Allisons?’’

  ‘‘Both dead.’’ A shadow crossed Byrnes’ face. ‘‘I lost a man too, Detective Sergeant Stanton.’’

  McBride was shocked. ‘‘Bill Stanton?’’

  ‘‘Yes, Bill. But like the others from the detective department, he volunteered to come here. He knew the odds he was facing.’’ Byrnes groped for something to say that would ease the fact of a good man’s dying. ‘‘He went quickly, a shot to the heart. There could have been little pain.’’

  Stanton was married and had three young children. McBride felt his loss keenly.

  ‘‘One of the Allisons kill him?’’

  ‘‘No, John. Sean Donovan did. He fired a couple of shots and then disappeared into the crowd. One of his bullets wounded an orphan girl. The other killed Sergeant Stanton.’’

  McBride struggled to his feet, the room spinning around him. When he touched the side of his head his fingers came away bloody.

  ‘‘How did you know about the orphan train?’’ he asked.

  Byrnes smiled. ‘‘Good police work, John. Remember that? I got a tip about the orphan train from a railroader, a good company man, I guess. I arrested the train crew that had been paid by Donovan and replaced it with another. Then I asked for volunteers to come save your stubborn hide . . . and, well, you know the rest.’’

  McBride looked at Byrnes. The left side of the man’s coat was black with blood and he was obviously in considerable pain. ‘‘Better let the doctor take a look at that wound, inspector,’’ he said.

  Byrnes nodded, a wan smile touching his pale lips. ‘‘I’ll be all right. When this is over I’ll see a real doc back in New York.’’

  McBride picked up his gun from the floor and stuck it into his waistband.

  ‘‘Where do you think you’re going?’’ Byrnes asked.

  ‘‘After Shannon and Donovan.’’

  ‘‘No, you’re not,’’ the inspector said. ‘‘John, you’re in no shape to go anywhere. I’ll take care of Donovan.’’