Ralph Compton - West of the Law

‘‘Bill and his friend Colorado Charlie Utter introduced me to opium when I was running a paper in Deadwood,’’ Leggett said. ‘‘Ah, those were good days, smoking opium with Bill and Charlie for two, three days at a time, dreaming the dreams.’’

‘‘He’s dead now, isn’t he?’’

‘‘Hickok? Yes, shot in Deadwood. That was a few years back.’’

‘‘Theo, you were going to tell me about Shannon Roark.’’

‘‘No, I wasn’t, because there’s really not much to tell. She arrived in High Hopes with Gamble Trask and Hack Burns two years ago. After he built the Golden Garter, the biggest and best saloon in town, Trask put her in the place as a dealer. That’s all I know about her.’’

‘‘She’s beautiful,’’ McBride said. ‘‘The most beautiful woman I ever saw. I can’t believe she’s mixed up with Trask.’’

Leggett shrugged. ‘‘From all I hear, the lovely Miss Roark is fond of money herself, as she’s not averse to a bottom deal when it means relieving a drunk miner of his poke. She keeps a suite at the Killeen and dresses in the latest Paris fashions. That takes money.’’

‘‘It doesn’t mean she’s a part of Trask’s crooked dealings.’’

‘‘No, it doesn’t, my boy. But she has Trask’s ear and I’d step wary of her if I were you. Especially if you agree to my proposition.’’

‘‘What is your proposition, Theo? I know it’s got to be part of the reason you brought me here.’’

Leggett leaned his back against a cottonwood trunk. ‘‘John, Gamble Trask must be stopped. He’s getting rich on opium and slave girls and he couldn’t care less about the human suffering he causes.’’

McBride opened his mouth to speak, but Leggett raised a hand to silence him. ‘‘Hear me out. It’s no accident that Trask chose High Hopes for his base of operations. The town is at the junction of two railroads, the Union Pacific and the Santa Fe. Raw opium and the Chinese girls are smuggled into San Francisco, then shipped to him on the Union Pacific. He then sends opium and girls east via the Santa Fe to New York, among other cities. I believe Trask has someone back East who pays him well.’’ The old man searched inside his coat, found a cigar and thumbed a match into flame. ‘‘John, you were a policeman in New York. You know what this kind of trade in drugs and girls can do to a town.’’

McBride watched as Leggett lit his cigar, then said, ‘‘What’s your interest in this, Theo? Do you really care about the Chinese girls or do you want to make a name for yourself as a crusading newspaperman?’’

‘‘I care about High Hopes. This was a nice place to live before Gamble Trask got here and I want it to go back to how it was. Now I see corruption everywhere. Trask gives the miners what they want and directly or indirectly, a lot of people— merchants, bankers, even the railroads—are profiting from his enterprises. If he’s not stopped and stopped soon, High Hopes is doomed. Trask will suck it dry, then toss away what’s left of it to rot in the sun. We’ll end up a ghost town and only the pack rats will live here.’’

‘‘You’ve still got the miners. Even if Trask goes, they’ll always need a place to spend their money.’’

‘‘The Spanish Peaks mines are all but played out. Another year, maybe two, the miners will be moving on. There’s been talk of another big strike in the Montana Territory and some have already left.’’ Leggett studied the glowing end of his cigar. ‘‘John, as I see it, the future of this town lies in cattle. The local ranchers could ship their herds from here instead of trailing west through the mountains to Cimarron and running off tons of beef. High Hopes could become the major shipping center for the Colorado cattle industry and the town would prosper without the slime tracks of Gamble Trask’s dirty fingers all over it.

‘‘There are some others who think the same way as I do and so did Marshal Lute Clark. After my press was destroyed, he moved to shut down the Golden Garter and Hack Burns shot him. There were maybe a hundred men in the saloon that night, and every man jack of them swore Burns drew in self-defense. When Trask made Burns the new city marshal few made any objection. They were too busy counting their money.’’

McBride stifled a yawn, the late hour getting to him. ‘‘And now you want me to shut down Trask?’’

Leggett nodded. ‘‘That’s about the size of it, I reckon. You’re good with your fists and a gun. We saw that tonight. We need a man like you to lead us. The men who think as I do—Dr. Cox, Grant Wilson, who owns the hardware store, Ned Barlow, the blacksmith, and a few others—they’re all good men, but they’re not gunfighters. I plan on taking my case against Trask all the way to the state capital, but you have to buy me some time.’’

‘‘I may not be around tomorrow,’’ McBride said. ‘‘Have you considered that? I’m not a gunfighter and I don’t even want the name of one. And I’m no match for Hack Burns, or at least that’s what he told me. Chances are, I’ll be on the first train out of here in the morning.’’

Around them translucent moonlight was silvering the smoke-colored leaves of the cottonwoods and the creek babbled nonsense to itself as it ran over a bed of sand and pebbles. Out on the plains the coyotes were again yipping their hunger, lacing the darkness with ribbons of sound.

Leggett stuffed his cigar back in his mouth and puffed furiously. ‘‘John, I—’’

The racketing roar of a rifle shattered the night and suddenly McBride’s face was spattered with blood and brains. He saw Leggett fall . . . and then he was running.

Chapter 8

A bullet cut the air next to McBride’s ear and a second kicked up a startled exclamation point of dirt at his feet. He dived into thick brush along the creek bank and pulled his gun from his pocket.

How many unfired cartridges were left after his fight with Jim Nolan? He couldn’t remember and now was not the time to think about it. Out there somebody wanted to kill him real bad and now his whole attention must be on surviving.

From over by the cottonwoods, McBride heard Leggett groan. The man was still alive. Had the hidden rifleman heard it too? A couple of searching shots rattled through the branches of the trees, answering his question.

McBride noted the flare of the rifle. It was off to his right, but he couldn’t tell how far. Whoever the rifleman was, he’d shot at the glow of Leggett’s cigar and hit his target. He’d have to be wary of a man with that kind of gun skill.

It was in McBride’s mind to back out of the brush, then work his way to his left and come up on the bushwhacker from behind. A good plan, but as soon as he rose up to walk or even crawl, he’d be out in the open and a dead man. There had to be another way. The man out there was patient, waiting for a killing shot. And he was good at his job. Real good.

Four bullets, fast and evenly spaced, thudded into trees and crackled through brush along the creek bank. McBride knew the man was trying to flush him, like he would a flock of quail. He could try firing at the rifle flash, but hitting his target with a .38 at distance and in the dark was an uncertain thing.

He’d have to get closer. A lot closer.

Then McBride had an idea, or at least the germ of one.

He inched forward, trying to be as quiet as possible. Where was the edge of the creek bank? A few more inches and he stopped, listening. There was only the wind, rising now as the night grew a little cooler. It whispered to the night as it explored among the cottonwoods.

McBride moved forward again, expecting to draw a bullet at any second. The land around him was flat, he recalled, here and there some shallow, rolling hills. This was rifle country and about then he decided that the Smith & Wesson was mighty poor company for a hunted man.