West of the Law

Chapter 9

The wind was blowing much stronger, driving hard and fast off the vast plain between the Arkansas and the Platte, and a cloud of rising dust veiled the moon. Men stepped along the boardwalk, hats pulled low over their faces, now and then stepping in place as they bent against sudden gusts that filled their mouths and eyes with grit. The wind was talking, answered by the creak and bang of the chained signs that hung outside the stores. Scraps of paper spiraled into the air like fluttering white doves, only to disappear from sight as they were borne away over the rooftops.

John McBride trudged along the middle of the street with his burden, the Winchester hanging loose in his right hand. A skinny, yellow dog walked out of an alley, trotted a few steps toward him, then thought better of it and ran away, tail between its legs. The wind teased McBride unmercifully, slapping at his pants, threatening to lift the hat off his head. Yellow dust covered him from the top of his hat to the toes of his boots as he reached the Golden Garter and stepped onto the boardwalk.

The panels of the saloon’s batwing doors rattled noisily against each other and the windows vibrated in their frames. From somewhere close a screen door slammed, opening and shutting on the whim of the wind.

McBride stepped inside.

For a moment he stood there, tall and terrible, looking around him. His left eye was now completely swollen shut and blood from the thorn that had caught him had dried into black fingers on his cheek. The wind and dust had taken their toll on him, and his teeth were bared as he fought for breath.

A saloon girl shrieked at the sight of him and men shrank back as though he was a dreadful apparition that had appeared from the darkness.

Gamble Trask was sitting at his table with Hack Burns and a tall man McBride didn’t recognize, a whiskey bottle and glasses between them. Trask’s puzzled eyes moved from McBride to the dead man on his shoulder and back again. Burns’ face showed the sudden awareness of a hunting cougar and the tall man shifted slightly in his chair, clearing his holstered gun for the draw.

McBride walked toward Trask’s table and the man smiled and called out, ‘‘My, my, Mr. Smith, don’t we look a sight?’’

A few people laughed nervously, as McBride ignored the man and walked closer. He was conscious of Burns getting slowly to his feet, his hands close to his guns. The tall man, dressed in a black, low-crowned hat with a flat brim and a black broadcloth frock coat, stayed where he was. But he was confident and ready and the mean look in his eyes suggested he could handle himself.

McBride stepped to the table and Trask started to rise. McBride threw the dead cowboy from his shoulder and the body landed flat on its back on the tabletop. The kid had been small, but he was heavy enough to collapse the rickety table, which splintered under him with a crash. As the whiskey bottle and glasses shattered on the floor, Trask, now on his feet, stepped back.

‘‘Are you crazy?’’ he yelled, his eyes blazing.

There was no give in McBride. ‘‘Trask,’’ he said, ‘‘next time you try to kill me, send a man and not a boy.’’

Trask looked wildly around him, trying to gauge the mood of the crowd. Vigilante justice was a force to be reckoned with in a frontier town and not to be taken lightly, even by a man as influential as himself. So far, the miners were just interested bystanders, but their mood could change in an instant. ‘‘What the hell are you talking about, Smith?’’ Trask yelled. ‘‘I didn’t send this man to kill anybody.’’

‘‘He’s a boy, not a man, but tonight he was grown enough to kill Theo Leggett and then try to kill me.’’ McBride reached into the boy’s pocket, found the five double eagles and threw them into Trask’s face. ‘‘There, take back your blood money.’’

Trask’s voice rose. ‘‘I tell you, I didn’t send this man to kill anybody.’’ He looked down at the kid’s gray face. ‘‘I’ve seen this cowboy around, but I’ve never talked to him.’’

‘‘Trask, you wanted to silence Theo Leggett. You wanted him dead because he knew too much and talked too much. Why did you also want me dead? Huh? Was it because Theo had been seen talking to me and you were afraid he told me what he knew?’’

‘‘You’re insane, Smith,’’ Trask said. ‘‘I’m a respectable businessman. I’ve got nothing to hide.’’ He waved a hand around the room. ‘‘Ask any of these men.’’

A few miners muttered words of agreement, but not all. They knew that any man who got so rich so fast, as Gamble Trask had, had to be shady. Opium and liquor were legitimate businesses and they had no argument with that, but many believed the man’s tables were crooked and that his dealers knew their way around the bottom of a deck.

Still, not a man present grieved for Theo Leggett or the young cowboy and as far as the miners were concerned John Smith was just another drifter in town and of no account. If it came to it, they would stand by Trask—and nobody knew that better than McBride.

He turned to Burns. ‘‘You’ve been real quiet. Maybe because it was you who hired the cowboy to kill Leggett.’’

Trask opened his mouth to speak, but Burns stopped him. ‘‘Let me handle this, boss,’’ he said. ‘‘It’s time I shut this man’s big mouth for keeps.’’ He moved his hands closer to the butts of his guns. ‘‘Smith, I gave you until noon to clear out of High Hopes. That don’t go no more. You’re leaving right now. Only difference is that four men will carry you out of here by the handles.’’

McBride brought up the muzzle of the Winchester. It was pointed right at Burns’ belly. ‘‘Try for those guns and I’ll blow your navel right through your backbone,’’ he said, his voice level.

‘‘And that will be the last thing you’ll ever do, mister.’’

The voice came from McBride’s right. The tall man in the black frock coat was within the limits of McBride’s vision. He had his coat thrown back and his hand was resting on the ivory butt of his Colt.

‘‘Your move, Smith,’’ Trask said, grinning. ‘‘I should warn you that my friend Stryker Allison is a man to be reckoned with.’’

The saloon was hushed, the only sound the wail of the wind as it bullied its way around the walls of the building. A rat rustled in a corner and a woman yelped and threw herself into the arms of a grinning, bearded miner.

McBride’s anger was pushing him into going for it. First Burns, then a fast turn, levering the rifle as he did so, and try to get a shot into the tall man. His chance of success was slim, he knew, but his fury and his policeman’s inborn hatred of men like Gamble Trask were raking him like spurs.

His finger tightened on the trigger.

‘‘Stop! Stop that right now!’’

Shannon Roark had swept through the crowd and now she stepped between McBride and Burns. She turned to Trask, a frown gathering on her forehead. ‘‘Gamble, three dead men is enough for one night. Call off your boys.’’

Trask thought about it for a few moments. Then he grinned and shrugged. ‘‘You’re right, Shannon. I believe there’s been enough gunplay already. Hack, Stryker, let it go.’’ His eyes went to McBride. ‘‘But if you ever come into my place with your wild accusations again, I will think very differently.’’

‘‘John,’’ Shannon said, ‘‘it’s over. There will be no more killing, not now or at noon tomorrow.’’ She had placed emphasis on the word ‘‘noon.’’ Now she shook her head. ‘‘Listen to me, John. Gamble didn’t hire that cowboy to kill you and Theo. That’s not his style. Maybe the boy just had robbery on his mind.’’

The woman flashed McBride her dazzling smile. ‘‘You look tired, John, and your face is covered with blood. Why don’t you go back to the hotel, clean up and get a good night’s rest?’’

The moment was gone and McBride knew it. If he tried to push it now, the miners would see him as the aggressor and line up against him. One way or another he’d be a dead man, either from a bullet or a rope.

He let the rifle drop to his side.

‘‘Wise choice, Mr. Smith,’’ Trask said. ‘‘Now, why don’t you toddle off to bed.’’ Before McBride could answer, Trask turned to Shannon. ‘‘I’ll say this just once, Shannon, and I hope I’ll never have cause to repeat myself—you are my employee and I don’t want you to meddle in my affairs ever again.’’

McBride expected a flare of anger and defiance from Shannon, but her face showed only contrition. ‘‘I’m sorry, Gamble,’’ she said meekly. ‘‘It’s . . . it’s just that I want no more killing in High Hopes.’’

‘‘Your concern for our fair town is very commendable, my dear, very commendable indeed,’’ Trask said. His eyes angled to McBride and he made no attempt to conceal the contempt in them. ‘‘Now, Mr. Smith, please leave my establishment. You’ve caused quite enough disruption already.’’ The man nudged the cowboy’s body with the toe of his polished shoe. ‘‘And take that with you.’’

McBride knew he’d been backed into a corner, but his anger was cold and hard as polished iron and it would not allow him to bend. ‘‘He’s yours, Trask,’’ he said. ‘‘You bury him.’’

A few, tense seconds spun out, fragile as a cobweb. Then high-heeled boots and the chime of spurs sounded loud in the hushed saloon. A young, black-haired puncher stepped up to the body and looked down at the dead man. ‘‘His name is Rusty Prescott an’ he’s a rider for the Rafter H over to Apishapa Creek way. I’ll take him home.’’ He turned to the watching miners. ‘‘A couple of you boys help me get him on my hoss.’’

The cowboy kneeled beside Prescott’s body, then lifted his eyes lifted to McBride. ‘‘Mister, something you should know. Rusty has a brother, feller by the name of Luke Prescott. You heard of him?’’

McBride shook his head, the killing of the young cowboy still weighing on him.

‘‘You should. Luke’s at the Rafter H an’ I reckon he’ll be lookin’ for you.’’

Trask grinned. ‘‘Well, Mr. Smith, it seems your troubles never end. Luke Prescott is a gunfighter out of Pueblo.’’ He turned to the man named Allison. ‘‘How good is he, Stryker?’’

‘‘He’s good,’’ Allison answered. ‘‘Real fast on the draw and shoot. Killed Banjo Charlie Whipple in a fair fight down Amarillo way a few months back—and Charlie was considered a mighty dangerous hombre.’’

McBride opened his mouth to speak, but Shannon stopped him. ‘‘John, you’d better go back to the hotel. This is over.’’

He looked at the faces of the men around him. Hack Burns had a faint smile on his lips, but his eyes were eager and he was ready to kill. Stryker Allison had the calm, studied air of the professional gunman about him. He would draw if pushed, but would see little sense in fighting if there was no money in it. Gamble Trask had a triumphant smile on his handsome face, a man confident of his ability to control this and any other situation. The black-haired puncher’s gaze was accusing, tangled up with something else. Pity, maybe.

McBride turned and walked out of the saloon, his stiff face burning as an outburst of loud, mocking laughter followed him, tearing at his soul like a flock of hungry ravens.