West of the Law

Chapter 23

Shannon, more beautiful than he remembered, gracefully walked toward him, a welcoming smile on her lips, her arms outstretched for the embrace of love. Her silk gown slipped from her shoulders, and then from her milk-white breasts, tipped with pink coral. As he reached for her he heard her gown swish to the floor. . . .

He woke, the swishing sound still in his ears. The swish repeated, repeated again, coming closer.

McBride opened his eyes as the beautiful image of Shannon faded like a fairy gift from his memory. The swish, swish, swish was even closer now.

He turned his head and saw the little mustang nosing through the long grass, pushing aside the tough blades as it searched for more succulent shoots.

It seemed that even Portugee and his scoundrels had no use for the bony little hammerhead.

Glad as he was to see the horse, McBride stayed where he was, looking up at a blue sky with not a cloud in sight. Piece by piece, like a man waking after a three-day bender, he put together the events of the night. He had been struck by lightning— that, he recalled—but for some reason it had not killed him. He struggled to a sitting position and looked around him. Nearby a cottonwood was down. The tree’s blackened trunk had snapped about halfway up its height and fragments of scorched branches lay scattered everywhere.

Now McBride knew why he was still breathing. Lightning had struck the cottonwood, not him, but he’d been close enough to suffer the effects of some of the blast. He’d been lucky—if you could call it that. Still, the mustang had sought him out, so maybe the shadow of the dark star that had been dogging him had moved on. He sure hoped so.

McBride struggled to his feet. He’d already been groggy from the whack to his head and the lightning strike had made it worse. He felt punch-drunk, like he’d gone ten rounds with John L. Sullivan and had come out on the losing end.

The mustang lifted its head and eyed McBride suspiciously as he lurched close. When the man got within three feet, the little horse sidestepped away from him, leaving McBride to curse a blue streak.

But then, its contrary point made, the animal stood, making no fuss when McBride clambered onto its back. He turned the mustang until its nose pointed east, then lay across its neck and let the threatening darkness take him again.

The mustang plodded east through the heat of the afternoon, keeping to the low ground between the hills. Once, toward late afternoon, he stopped in a glade shaded by piñon and juniper and grazed for an hour. The unconscious man on his back groaned softly a few times but did not wake.

As the day shaded into night, the call of the barn grew strong in the ungainly little horse, and it was for that scant haven he headed as the moon rose and the coyotes talked around him. The mustang was five years old and had run free on the plains until he was three. Gelded, then broken as a cow pony with whip and spur, for almost two years he’d known little of kindness but much of abuse. He’d later been sold for fifteen dollars to the City Transfer and Hack Line as a carriage horse, but his wretched lot had improved little since then. Eventually he’d be butchered to supply meat for one of the Indian reservations.

But for now the barn in High Hopes was home, a place where there was hay and protection from predators. The mustang journeyed on, walking through the dusky night as the moon, cool, aloof and disinterested, looked down on him.

‘‘He’s comin’ round, Doc. Ain’t dead like I figgered.’’

McBride opened his eyes and looked up at the hairy face of Ebenezer Keble.

‘‘Hoss brung you back, young feller,’’ the old man said. ‘‘You was lucky you wasn’t seen, on account of how the whole town is gunning for you.’’ He smiled. ‘‘You sure have a way o’ gettin’ on the wrong side of folks.’’

‘‘Where am I?’’ McBride asked. His voice sounded like a rusty gate hinge.

‘‘At the T. J. barn, of course, and in the hayloft to be exac’. Doc Cox tol’ me to hide you up here from Gamble Trask an’ them Allison boys. Ol’ Gamble, now, he’s so mad at you he’s spittin’ nails, and the Allisons, well, don’t count on them to make any friendly noises in your direction.’’

Ebenezer’s face was replaced by one younger, the concerned features of a handsome, clean-shaven man who looked to be in his early thirties. ‘‘How are you feeling?’’ he asked. ‘‘I’m Dr. Alan Cox.’’

McBride had been struggling to rise. Now he lay back on the straw and his fingers went to the fat bandage around his head. ‘‘Headache, Doc, as you might expect.’’

Cox nodded. ‘‘You took quite a blow. A rifle butt, I suspect. I had to stitch you up to stop the wound opening again.’’ The physician rooted around in his medical bag and found a small mirror. He held it so McBride could look into it. ‘‘See anything strange?’’ he asked.

McBride glanced at the mirror and was appalled. He hadn’t shaved in days and his face was scraped and torn by thorns. His eye was no longer as swollen, but it was surrounded by yellow and purple bruises. But what really caught his attention was his color—his skin was bright red, peeling in places, as though from a bad sunburn.

‘‘The backs of your hands and the tops of your feet are the same color,’’ Cox said, reading McBride’s expression. ‘‘Have you been exposed to anything?’’

‘‘Lightning. It damned near killed me.’’

Understanding dawned on Cox and he smiled. ‘‘Ah, that would explain it. You must have been close to the strike to get scorched like that.’’

‘‘Sure I was. It was almost right on top of me.’’

‘‘You’re lucky to be alive.’’

McBride’s smile was grudging. ‘‘If what Ebenezer told me is correct, I may not be alive much longer.’’

Cox’s face showed his concern. ‘‘It’s true, every word of it. Gamble Trask wants you dead, and that means Hack Burns does too. As for the Allisons, you killed their brother and they’re not ones to let a thing like that go unavenged.’’

‘‘I didn’t kill Stryker—a man called Prescott did.’’

‘‘Luke Prescott, the gunfighter?’’

McBride nodded. ‘‘Was. Stryker killed him.’’

‘‘They killed each other?’’

‘‘Both were real good with a gun.’’

‘‘I’m told that gunmen of reputation usually try to avoid confrontations like that. When named men meet in a fight, the margin for error is small.’’

‘‘Maybe so, but Stryker was on the prod and he was confident,’’ McBride said. ‘‘He pushed it.’’ He hesitated a heartbeat. ‘‘He died hard.’’

‘‘Here, sonny, is that ol’ Stryker’s fancy pistol in your pants?’’ Ebenezer’s face swam into view.

‘‘You mean, I didn’t lose it on the way here?’’

‘‘Hell no, boy, it’s layin’ right beside you there. I figgered you mought need it in a hurry.’’ He shook his head. ‘‘Well, well, well, ol’ Stryker dead an’ another ranny carryin’ his iron. Who woulda thunk it?’’

‘‘He sure didn’t,’’ McBride said. He struggled to a sitting position—and his eyes met Shannon’s.

Reading the signs, Cox grinned. ‘‘She insisted on coming, even though I told her it could be dangerous.’’

A tangle of emotion showed on McBride’s face. ‘‘But how, I mean—’’

Shannon crossed the floor and threw herself into McBride’s arms. They kissed with a passion born of separation. When their lips finally parted, Shannon said, ‘‘Dr. Cox and I confide in each other, John. We share common enemies in Gamble Trask and the Allison brothers.’’

‘‘I freely confess all.’’ Cox smiled. ‘‘After Ebenezer told me you were back in town, I went to Shannon right away with the good news.’’

‘‘And it is good news,’’ Shannon said. She kissed McBride again, this time with more affection than passion. ‘‘I’m so glad you’re back in High Hopes.’’ She hesitated, fear a fleeting wraith in her eyes. ‘‘I’m scared, John, really scared. Since you burned his cabin and freed the Chinese girls he’s out of his mind with rage. He says he’s going to kill you and tack your hide to a wall of the saloon. I think—no, I don’t think—I know he suspects me of helping you. He told me once we’re married he’ll teach me about faithfulness with a dog whip.’’

‘‘He won’t hurt you while I’m around,’’ McBride said, a boast that rang hollow as a bronze gong even to his own ears. He was one man, a good man, he believed, but just one against many.

‘‘I have an armed guard posted near the door to the stable,’’ Cox said. ‘‘In four hours he will be relieved by another. I don’t think Trask knows you’re in town, but it pays to be careful.’’ The doctor moved away, then returned with a bundle of clothing. ‘‘Ebenezer told me you were in rags.’’ He smiled. ‘‘He was right.’’ Cox dropped the items one by one next to McBride. ‘‘Pants, shirt, shoes, socks, that’s it. By the way, you owe Andrew McAllen’s General Store ten dollars for this stuff.’’

McBride grinned. ‘‘He’ll have to wait for his money. After I was hit over the head I was robbed.’’

‘‘I’ll take care of it, John,’’ Shannon said.

‘‘Shannon, I don’t want you—’’

‘‘Let her pay for it,’’ Cox said. ‘‘When you two are married you’ll have a joint bank account anyway.’’

‘‘And let’s hope that’s soon,’’ Shannon said.

McBride was pleasantly surprised. ‘‘Do you mean that, Shannon? Will you marry me?’’

‘‘Of course I will, but we won’t talk about it now. After all this is over, we’ll have a lifetime to talk.’’

McBride was like a runner who’d just gotten his second wind. His eyes lifted to Cox. ‘‘How many men can I count on, Doc?’’

‘‘I’d say maybe a dozen don’t like what Trask is doing to the town. As to how many you can count on, the answer is, I don’t know. When lead starts flying, men have a way of suddenly remembering that they’re married.’’

‘‘And you, can I count on you?’’

Cox nodded. ‘‘Yes, you can. But then, I don’t know one end of a rifle from another.’’

‘‘Count me out too, young feller,’’ Ebenezer said. ‘‘I’m too old and slow to be getting myself into shooting scrapes.’’

Then the only man he could count on was himself. McBride accepted that. He didn’t like it, but he accepted it. The question was, where to go from here? Inspector Byrnes had told him one time that heaven never helps a man who will not act. He had it to do.

Shannon rose to her feet and brushed straw from her dress. ‘‘John, I have to get back to the hotel. I may be missed.’’

‘‘Will I see you later?’’

‘‘I’ll try. I don’t want anybody following me here.’’

‘‘I have to be going too,’’ Cox said. He moved to help Shannon to the ladder, then stopped. ‘‘I almost forgot. There was a letter for you at the post office and I picked it up for you yesterday. The clerk is a man I trust and he has no love for Gamble Trask. He gave it to me because he figured you’d be unable to get it yourself.’’

‘‘Without getting shot, he meant,’’ McBride said.

‘‘Exactly.’’ Cox handed over the envelope and smiled. ‘‘It pays to have friends in both high and low places.’’

After Shannon and Cox left and Ebenezer went about his business, McBride dressed hurriedly in his new clothes, then opened the letter. It was short and to the point and McBride smiled at its opening formality, but the smile faded as he read on:

To Detective Sergeant McBride, NYPD:

Bad news. A clerk with this department intercepted your letter to me. The envelope was steamed open, the contents read and communicated to those who would do you harm. The miscreant has since been severely dealt with.

John, your cover is blown and you are in the greatest danger. Now that there is mischief afoot, I wish you to remain in High Hopes and lie low. I am on my way.

I am, your obedient servant,

Thos. Byrnes, Inspector

P.S. I have reason to believe Sean Donovan has criminal contacts in Colorado. Be on your guard.

Byrnes was on his way to High Hopes. McBride shook his head and stuck the letter and envelope in his pocket. The inspector was a good police officer, and an excellent detective with amazing deductive powers, but he was not a gunfighter.

The task that lay ahead of McBride required men who were good with guns. In a revolver fight, Byrnes would be as much a liability as Alan Cox and the rest of them.

The man’s letter had not brought McBride any comfort. It had only added to his problems.

McBride crossed to the opening of the hayloft and looked down into the stable. A tall, round-shouldered man with hangdog eyes stuck the stock of a shotgun under his left arm and waved with his right.

‘‘All quiet,’’ he said, his prominent Adam’s apple bobbing.

McBride nodded. ‘‘Thanks for the help.’’

‘‘No problem. Glad I can be of assistance.’’

McBride sat back on the straw and calculated that his guard would last about two seconds against Hack Burns or the Allison brothers. And he looked like a married man.

A couple of hours later, McBride heard muted conversation as his guard changed. This man was smaller, stockier, with muscular shoulders and arms—probably Ned Barlow, the blacksmith. The man was apparently not much given to conversation, giving McBride only a perfunctory nod when he appeared at the hayloft trapdoor.

Night fell and High Hopes started to come alive. A piano was playing in one of the saloons and McBride was aware of a stealthy shuffle of feet as his guard faded into the darkness while a man stabled his horse, talking to himself or the animal, he could not decide which.

Quiet again filled the barn to its shadowed corners. A horse stamped and blew through its nose, and McBride heard Barlow hawk and spit soot from his lungs.

He’d had enough. He could no longer allow himself to remain in the barn like a trapped rat in the darkness, waiting for Trask and his toughs to come at him. There was a tight feeling in his throat and a green serpent writhed in his belly. It had a name, that reptile—it was called Fear.

McBride rose to his feet, then stepped back in alarm as something swooped past his face. It was a bat! It fluttered away from him on silent wings, leaving a faint odor of guano behind it. His heart hammering, McBride listened into the night. He heard nothing. Slowly, measuring each step, every creak of the floorboards sticking a knife into his gut, he made his way toward the trapdoor.

What was that?

He heard it again, a frantic shuffling of feet, like a hanged man kicking at the end of a rope. Then a long, drawn-out sigh that bubbled liquid and thick.

McBride took a step back and then another. He drew the Colt from his waistband and thumbed back the hammer. In the breathless hush the triple click was as loud as iron bolts hitting the bottom of a tin pail.

A man’s voice whispered low, fragmented sound reaching McBride’s ears. ‘‘Where . . . hell . . . he . . . there . . .’’

A second of silence dragged past, then another. McBride was sure someone was pointing up to where he was hidden. He switched the Colt to his left hand, wiped the sweaty palm of his right on his pants, then switched back. All he could do now was wait for what was to happen. He swallowed hard, swallowed again. It was like trying to gulp down a rock.

The ladder to the trapdoor thudded softly against the pine frame. Thudded again. And again. Somebody was slowly climbing toward him. A blue darkness filled the barn, slanted with deeper shadow. McBride heard the saloon piano, a cheerful chiming made tinny and thin by distance.

The thud of the ladder became no louder but more rapid. The dome of a hat rose through the opening, then the pale blur of a face. The man’s head swiveled as he looked around. He made out the faint image of McBride’s body and recoiled, his back slamming against the trapdoor frame, cursing as his gun came up.

McBride fired. Too quick. A miss. Straw and wood splinters erupted near the man’s head.

The man’s gun flared, flashing orange in the gloom. But McBride had moved. He was already diving for the floor and the bullet cut through the air inches above him. He landed with a crash, flat on his belly, the air bursting from his lungs. He was much closer to the unknown gunman, separated by only a few feet. He stuck the Colt out in front of him and fired.

A shattering scream and the man disappeared from sight. McBride heard the body crash heavily to the floor below. His breath coming in labored shudders that racked his chest, he scrambled down the ladder and his feet hit bottom. A scattergun roared and the ladder jerked under the impact. McBride threw himself onto his left side and immediately a second blast kicked up dirt and manure near his face, stinging into his eyes. A click as the shotgun was hastily opened. He fired in the direction of the sound and heard an agonized gasp as a man was hit hard. A body slumped to the floor and McBride rose to his feet, his gun up and ready.

‘‘Don’t shoot no more. I’m done.’’

It was Ebenezer’s voice.

Warily, McBride stepped to the old man and looked down at him. His voice tight, he asked, ‘‘Why?’’

‘‘Every man has his price, young feller. Gamble Trask paid me mine.’’

‘‘Fool’s gold,’’ McBride said. Anger and compassion were fighting a battle inside him.

‘‘Best you saddle up the mustang and get out of here,’’ Ebenezer said, his voice unraveling into thin threads as his dying hastened closer. ‘‘They will be coming for you soon.’’

McBride’s head moved, nodding to the dead man at the foot of the ladder. ‘‘Him?’’

‘‘His name is Harland. He’s the youngest of the Allison brothers. He told them he could take you by hisself, wanted to prove something, I guess.’’ The old man coughed blood into his beard and cackled. ‘‘He . . . he was wrong. . . .’’

Then he groaned deep in his chest as death took him by the ear.

McBride had not been long in the West, but he had come to know much of gunfighter arrogance. Trask and the Allison brothers would have heard the shots and think him dead. They would not come for a while, but he had no time to lose.

He saddled and bridled the mustang in the dark, fumbling with straps and buckles in his haste, then spared a few moments to look for Ned Barlow.

The man was lying on his back in an empty stall and his throat had been expertly cut. Whether Harland Allison or Ebenezer had killed him, McBride did not know, nor did he care. The end result was the same. He climbed awkwardly into the saddle and swung the mustang out of the stable.

For the most part McBride had walked the little animal, uncertain of his horsemanship, but he ran him now. The mustang hammered at a fast, choppy gallop into the night and McBride, hanging on grimly to the saddle horn, was nonetheless glad to let the darkness of the plain swallow him.