West of the Law

Chapter 21

John McBride rode east along the creek. Making a grave for Prescott had taken him a long time and the sun was falling in the sky, gifting him with his shadow, the slowly moving shape of a tall man astride a small horse.

He had taken the pot and coffee and his eyes scanned the hilly country ahead of him for a suitable campsite. He needed water and fuel for a fire, and that dictated that he stay close to the creek. High Hopes was a day’s ride away, time enough to go over his plan.

If he had a plan.

Then it came to him, perfect in its simplicity.

He would ride into town, find Shannon and take her away from there, head east and ride through the sunrise, putting ground between them and Trask. He wanted to bring the man down, ruin him, but that could wait. Until? McBride had no answer for that.

And what about the Chinese girls? Could he coldly ride away with the woman he loved and leave them to their fate?

The questions had already undermined his new-found confidence. What had seemed simple had all of a sudden become complicated. McBride rode into the sullen twilight of the dying day, as many shadows angling dark through the corridors of his mind as there were on the trail ahead.

He had, he decided, come full circle, at as much of a loss as he’d been just a few minutes before.

Darkness pressed on McBride, soft as a spring rain but crowding him close. The water was no longer visible, the creek a black ribbon unwinding away from him into the night. Out on the prairie the coyotes had begun their lamentations and the first stars hung like lanterns in the sky, glittering with frosty light.

The mustang lifted its head and its ears pricked forward as it stared into the gloom. ‘‘Easy, boy, easy,’’ McBride whispered. He lifted the Winchester from the saddle horn, levered a round into the chamber and set the brass butt plate on his right thigh.

He drew rein on the horse and raised his nose, testing the wind. The smoke smell was a fleeting will-o’-the-wisp, but it was there.

More of Trask’s men? That was possible but unlikely. Then who? Maybe punchers riding through or freight wagons coming or going from the gold mines. The road into town was close and mule skinners could be camped for the night.

Where there was a fire there would be coffee and food and McBride’s stomach had been complaining for hours. In the end his hunger overcame his good judgment and he rode on, tense and ready in the saddle.

He saw a campfire winking orange in the violet darkness. He judged the fire to be on the other side of the creek and swung the sure-footed little mustang into the bank. The spring melt was long gone and the water was shallow. He splashed across and climbed the bank on the other side. The firelight was closer now, winking in the gloom like a fallen star.

McBride rode nearer. He made out the flickering shadows of men walking in front of the fire and beyond the circle of the firelight he made out the shapes of several parked wagons, pale red light reflecting on the sides of their canvas tops.

He drew rein and, remembering what Prescott had taught him, called out: ‘‘Hello the camp!’’

The reply was immediate, a heavily accented voice. ‘‘Come on in!’’

McBride kneed the mustang forward and rode into the camp. About a dozen men had stopped their various chores and stood watching him. They didn’t look like mule skinners or miners either. Rather, they had the jaunty, weather-beaten appearance of the seafaring men McBride had seen on the New York docks.

A man of medium size stepped toward McBride, a grin on his face and a welcome in his voice. ‘‘Step down, step down, good sir. You’re just in time for supper.’’

McBride climbed out of the saddle and the man stuck out his hand. ‘‘My name is Captain Guaspar Diaz de Lamego, a poor sailorman lately of San Francisco town. But my friends, and I hope you will soon allow me to number you among those, call me Portugee.’’

Wary, McBride shook hands and gave his name as John Smith. He took a few moments to study the man called Portugee. He was an inch above medium height, dressed in a crimson shirt and tight black pants stuffed into soft leather boots of the same color. He was hatless but had tied a red bandanna around his head, knotted at the back of his neck. He sported a thin mustache, waxed and curled at the ends, and a goatee. His eyes were black, glittering with good humor in the firelight, and when he smiled, which was often, his teeth were dazzling white. Gold hoops hung from both his ears and he wore a huge ruby ring on the middle finger of his left hand.

Portugee looked, McBride thought to himself, about as trustworthy as a wounded cougar, as did his scurvy crew of cutthroats. The insistent alarm bell ringing in his head told him he would have done well to avoid this camp.

‘‘Unsaddle your’’—Portugee smiled—‘‘horse, and join us at the fire. We have but simple mariners’ fare, but what we have you are welcome to share.’’

It was in McBride’s mind to refuse and say he must be moving on. But if Portugee was planning mischief, an abrupt departure would only precipitate the action and he was still not horseman enough to risk fighting from the back of the mustang.

Annoyed at himself for getting into this situation, he climbed down from the horse and led it to where other animals were picketed. He unsaddled and returned to the campfire, his rifle in his hands. He thought he saw Portugee glance at the Winchester, then give one of his men a knowing wink, but it could have been only a trick of the light or his own overactive imagination and McBride dismissed it.

He had just made a major mistake.

Portugee cursed and cuffed one of his men away from the fire and with a polite bow bade McBride sit. When the captain saw McBride settled, he waved to a man on his right. ‘‘This is another honored guest, the great Sheik Ali al-Karim, master of a dozen fine ships that sail the wine-dark waters of the Mediterranean Sea.’’

Al-Karim, dressed in flowing black and white Arab robes, bowed his head and made a graceful gesture to McBride, touching his forehead and lips with the crooked index finger of his right hand.

‘‘The sheik doesn’t say much, Mr. Smith,’’ Portugee said, ‘‘but he’s known from Tangier to Baghdad as a rich and powerful man. He agreed to place himself under our protection, since he is seeking to buy a stable of fine Thoroughbred racehorses to take back to his native land. He carries much gold and was warned that brigands lurk everywhere in the West.’’ Portugee smiled. ‘‘I have taken this timid son of the desert under my wing.’’

Al-Karim had a lined, dark face and there was a hint of cruelty about his thin lips. Like a hungry hawk, he watched McBride in the firelight, his black eyes glittering, missing nothing.

A sailor with a surly expression and a cutlass scar on one cheek brought McBride a bowl of green soup and a hunk of bread.

‘‘Parched-pea soup, Mr. Smith,’’ Portugee said. ‘‘I learned to enjoy it while I served ten years before the mast in old Queen Vic’s navy. That’s why you hear the accent of Bow Bells more than that of my native Seville in my speech. Now, by all means try the soup. As I told you, it’s but humble sailormen’s fare, though I trust you’ll like it as much as I do.’’

McBride tried the soup. It was surprisingly good and he said so. Portugee seemed pleased.

‘‘A compliment on one’s cooking is always appreciated. Now, where are you bound, Mr. Smith?’’

‘‘Passing through,’’ McBride said. His eyes lifted to the circle of armed men who were standing behind their captain. He did not see a friendly face and a few were mighty unfriendly.

The soup was hot, but McBride spooned it down quickly, anxious to be gone from the camp. ‘‘And you, Captain—’’

‘‘Portugee, please,’’ he said with a dazzling smile.

‘‘Well then, Portugee, where are you headed?’’

‘‘Wherever the trade winds blow us,’’ the man answered. ‘‘In the wagons we carry ivory, sandalwood and all the spices of the Orient and seek to sell them for good, hard coin. But, alas, we are but honest sailors far from the sea and there are those who would seek to cheat us, I fear.’’

McBride thought Portugee and his hard-bitten bunch looked more like pirates than honest sailors, but he kept his own counsel and said, ‘‘I’d head north if I were you. Follow the Union Pacific road and you’ll come on Pueblo, then Denver. You’ll find a market for your goods in both places.’’

Portugee laughed and clapped his hands. He turned his head to the men behind him and yelled, ‘‘Hear that, you scurvy knaves? Never were truer words spoke. You are gold dust, Mr. Smith, pure gold dust, and damn me for a lubber if I don’t take your advice.’’ The man slapped his thigh. ‘‘Ain’t Mr. Smith gold dust, boys, and no mistake?’’

‘‘Yeah, true-blue,’’ somebody said, his voice flat, and another man put a hand to his mouth and snickered.

Portugee’s face showed sudden concern. ‘‘The soup is not to your liking?’’

‘‘It was good,’’ McBride said. ‘‘See—’’ He upturned his bowl. ‘‘I finished every drop.’’

‘‘You, Jake Carter, bring more soup for Mr. Smith,’’ Portugee yelled.

McBride shook his head. ‘‘No, thank you. I’ve had enough.’’ He made to rise to his feet. ‘‘I think I’d best be moving on.’’

Portugee raised his arms in an attitude of surrender. ‘‘This soon, and me with so much to tell you. Why, lad, I was thinking to regale you with tales of the sea, of monsters and mermaids and tempests and other yarns that would curdle your young blood. Aye, and of blackhearted pirate rogues as well, damn their eyes.’’

Several men giggled and one called out, ‘‘And slave traders, Portugee. Don’t forget the slave traders.’’

The sailors laughed derisively and Portugee hollered, ‘‘I swear, Tom Spooner, one day I’ll cut out your wagging tongue. I’ll be damned if I don’t.’’

He turned his attention back to McBride. ‘‘If you must go, you must go, and there’s an end to it.’’ He stuck out his hand. ‘‘Well, here’s to our budding friendship and for telling me in which direction the trade winds blow fairest.’’

McBride got up on one knee and took Portugee’s hand. But with surprising strength, the man suddenly yanked McBride toward him. Off-balance, McBride fell flat on his face as he heard Portugee yell, ‘‘Now, boys!’’

Something hard slammed into the back of McBride’s head. He caught a glimpse of al-Karim’s sadistic grin. Then the ground yawned open under him and he fell into a bottomless pit where there was only pain and echoing darkness. . . .