West of the Law

Chapter 30

McBride couldn’t remember the last time he’d been in church, but he felt it right to pray a little. He had no illusions about what he’d be facing in less than three hours. He didn’t have any kind of plan. All he could think of doing was to confront Donovan with his gun drawn and then let the chips fall from there.

But it was thin, real thin, and the outcome would be a very uncertain thing. If he raised enough fuss, others might hear and ask questions and the girls might be freed.

He shook his head on his straw pillow. It was all ‘‘might.’’ Nothing was certain.

McBride did not sleep. Portugee had taken his watch and he judged the approach to noon by the sun. When he figured the hour was near, he rose to his feet, checked his gun and stepped out of the barn. Then he stopped. He’d forgotten about the mustang.

He walked back inside and threw the little horse more hay and a generous scoop of oats. He slapped the mustang on the shoulder and said, ‘‘If we don’t meet again, pard, thanks for putting up with me.’’

The horse continued to chomp hay, as though McBride had not spoken. He smiled and walked out of the barn, into the sunlight.

To his surprise there was a large crowd on the station platform and he heard a brass band tuning up their instruments. He mingled with others walking toward the station and lost himself in the crowd. He asked an older woman at his side, ‘‘What’s all the excitement about, ma’am?’’

‘‘Orphan train comin’ in,’’ the woman answered. ‘‘What larks! That nice Mr. Donovan, the new owner of the Golden Garter Saloon, says he’s going to find good homes for all of them.’’

‘‘That’s true-blue of him,’’ McBride said, keeping a straight face.

‘‘They say it’s all young girls,’’ the old lady said. ‘‘I wouldn’t mind getting one myself. At my age I need a servant.’’

It seemed to McBride that the whole town with the exception of miners who had left for the diggings was gathering to see the show. There had never been an orphan train in High Hopes and only a double hanging would have attracted a larger crowd.

He faded out of the throng and walked behind the station. Empty freight boxes were piled at the end of the platform, away from the crowd, and McBride stood beside them. From his place of concealment he had an excellent view of the entire station.

Sean Donovan was beaming, playing to the hilt his role of protector and benefactor of poor orphans to a crowd of admirers. He had his arm around Shannon’s slender waist, but gone were the vivid silk dresses she wore in the Golden Garter. In their place was a somber day gown of russet taffeta. A small hat of the same color was perched atop her piled-up hair and she carried a yellow parasol against the glare of the noon sun.

Beyond Shannon and Donovan, the Allison brothers and Hack Burns stood together. Burns was wearing a coat, unusual for him, probably to conceal his gun from the arriving girls, McBride guessed. Donovan had made sure that nothing would alarm or scare the orphans when they stepped off the train. Even the half-dozen saloon girls who were distanced along the platform wore demure dresses, the better to convince the orphans that all was well and they were in kindly hands.

As yet there was no distant plume of smoke to herald the coming of the train. The expectant rails glittered in the sunlight, an inverted V of polished iron that vanished into a shimmering haze at the horizon.

The six-piece band finished an enthusiastic if ragged rendition of ‘‘Haste to the Wedding,’’ then struck up ‘‘The Wisconsin Emigrant.’’

McBride watched Donovan turn his head, look behind him, then smile and nod to someone, but he couldn’t see who it was. He left the cover of the piled boxes and walked to the corner of the station.

Portugee had stopped near the platform. It looked like he’d rounded up every spare freight wagon in town. In addition to his own three, there were another seven, drawn by mules, each covered with a bowed canvas. He and Ali al-Karim were up on the box of the first, Portugee at the reins, and his crew of ruffians were scattered among the others.

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 wanted Sean Donovan. He wanted him real bad.