Ralph Compton - West of the Law

McBride rose to his feet, a hot anger building in him. Bushwhacker or no, the killer of Theo Leggett, this boy was still some mother’s son, and she would soon be grieving for him.

Someone had paid the young puncher a hundred dollars to silence Theo Leggett and kill McBride for listening to him. The old man talked too much and was threatening a state investigation. The only one who had an interest in seeing him dead was Gamble Trask. He had paid the blood money, hiring a boy to do his dirty work.

McBride checked on the paint horse. It was dead. He walked back to the creek, splashed across and went to where the young Chinese man was bending over Theo’s body.

‘‘Very bad,’’ the man said, looking up as McBride stepped beside him. ‘‘Half his skull blown away. He’s been asking for you.’’

McBride kneeled beside Theo. Despite his terrible wound the old man was desperately clinging to life, trying to eke out a few more seconds. ‘‘Theo,’’ McBride said, ‘‘I’m here.’’

Leggett’s eyes opened, already glazing in death as he struggled to raise his head. ‘‘John,’’ he whispered, ‘‘listen to me . . . trains . . . don’t let Trask . . . trains . . .’’

‘‘Theo, I’m not understanding you,’’ McBride said hopelessly.

‘‘Trains . . . orphan trains . . . don’t let Trask—’’

The old man’s eyes were still staring into McBride’s, but the life was gone from them forever.

McBride turned to the Chinese man. ‘‘Chang, isn’t it?’’

‘‘Yes, my name is Chang.’’

‘‘I’ll send an undertaker for Theo.’’

‘‘No, no undertaker. Bad for business have death vulture here. I will bury him, say the Christian words. Real nice ceremony, you’ll see.’’

‘‘Lay Theo away decent, Chang. Bury him in his clothes. I don’t want him to meet his Maker naked.’’

‘‘Decent, very decent. You no worry about that. He was good customer one time, Mr. Leggett. I see to him, bury him in his suit. Say the words.’’

McBride nodded, his anger scalding him, like he’d swallowed boiling-hot lead.

He turned his back on Chang, crossed the creek again and walked through the darkness to the young cowboy’s body. He had never used a Winchester, but he was familiar with the rifle, since every police precinct in New York had at least a few of them. McBride stripped .44-.40 cartridges from the dead boy’s belt and fed them into the Winchester. The kid’s gun was still in the holster, but that, McBride left alone. His Smith & Wesson was less powerful than the Colt, but he had trained with the self-cocking revolver and knew it to be the faster and more accurate shooter.

McBride laid the Winchester on the grass, then picked up the dead cowboy and threw him over his shoulder. He was a big man, strong in the back and shoulders, and the kid weighed little. He bent at the knees, picked up the rifle and started walking back toward town.

It was time to call on Gamble Trask.

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.