Ralph Compton - West of the Law

Still, not a man present grieved for Theo Leggett or the young cowboy and as far as the miners were concerned John Smith was just another drifter in town and of no account. If it came to it, they would stand by Trask—and nobody knew that better than McBride.

He turned to Burns. ‘‘You’ve been real quiet. Maybe because it was you who hired the cowboy to kill Leggett.’’

Trask opened his mouth to speak, but Burns stopped him. ‘‘Let me handle this, boss,’’ he said. ‘‘It’s time I shut this man’s big mouth for keeps.’’ He moved his hands closer to the butts of his guns. ‘‘Smith, I gave you until noon to clear out of High Hopes. That don’t go no more. You’re leaving right now. Only difference is that four men will carry you out of here by the handles.’’

McBride brought up the muzzle of the Winchester. It was pointed right at Burns’ belly. ‘‘Try for those guns and I’ll blow your navel right through your backbone,’’ he said, his voice level.

‘‘And that will be the last thing you’ll ever do, mister.’’

The voice came from McBride’s right. The tall man in the black frock coat was within the limits of McBride’s vision. He had his coat thrown back and his hand was resting on the ivory butt of his Colt.

‘‘Your move, Smith,’’ Trask said, grinning. ‘‘I should warn you that my friend Stryker Allison is a man to be reckoned with.’’

The saloon was hushed, the only sound the wail of the wind as it bullied its way around the walls of the building. A rat rustled in a corner and a woman yelped and threw herself into the arms of a grinning, bearded miner.

McBride’s anger was pushing him into going for it. First Burns, then a fast turn, levering the rifle as he did so, and try to get a shot into the tall man. His chance of success was slim, he knew, but his fury and his policeman’s inborn hatred of men like Gamble Trask were raking him like spurs.

His finger tightened on the trigger.

‘‘Stop! Stop that right now!’’

Shannon Roark had swept through the crowd and now she stepped between McBride and Burns. She turned to Trask, a frown gathering on her forehead. ‘‘Gamble, three dead men is enough for one night. Call off your boys.’’

Trask thought about it for a few moments. Then he grinned and shrugged. ‘‘You’re right, Shannon. I believe there’s been enough gunplay already. Hack, Stryker, let it go.’’ His eyes went to McBride. ‘‘But if you ever come into my place with your wild accusations again, I will think very differently.’’

‘‘John,’’ Shannon said, ‘‘it’s over. There will be no more killing, not now or at noon tomorrow.’’ She had placed emphasis on the word ‘‘noon.’’ Now she shook her head. ‘‘Listen to me, John. Gamble didn’t hire that cowboy to kill you and Theo. That’s not his style. Maybe the boy just had robbery on his mind.’’

The woman flashed McBride her dazzling smile. ‘‘You look tired, John, and your face is covered with blood. Why don’t you go back to the hotel, clean up and get a good night’s rest?’’

The moment was gone and McBride knew it. If he tried to push it now, the miners would see him as the aggressor and line up against him. One way or another he’d be a dead man, either from a bullet or a rope.

He let the rifle drop to his side.

‘‘Wise choice, Mr. Smith,’’ Trask said. ‘‘Now, why don’t you toddle off to bed.’’ Before McBride could answer, Trask turned to Shannon. ‘‘I’ll say this just once, Shannon, and I hope I’ll never have cause to repeat myself—you are my employee and I don’t want you to meddle in my affairs ever again.’’

McBride expected a flare of anger and defiance from Shannon, but her face showed only contrition. ‘‘I’m sorry, Gamble,’’ she said meekly. ‘‘It’s . . . it’s just that I want no more killing in High Hopes.’’

‘‘Your concern for our fair town is very commendable, my dear, very commendable indeed,’’ Trask said. His eyes angled to McBride and he made no attempt to conceal the contempt in them. ‘‘Now, Mr. Smith, please leave my establishment. You’ve caused quite enough disruption already.’’ The man nudged the cowboy’s body with the toe of his polished shoe. ‘‘And take that with you.’’

McBride knew he’d been backed into a corner, but his anger was cold and hard as polished iron and it would not allow him to bend. ‘‘He’s yours, Trask,’’ he said. ‘‘You bury him.’’

A few, tense seconds spun out, fragile as a cobweb. Then high-heeled boots and the chime of spurs sounded loud in the hushed saloon. A young, black-haired puncher stepped up to the body and looked down at the dead man. ‘‘His name is Rusty Prescott an’ he’s a rider for the Rafter H over to Apishapa Creek way. I’ll take him home.’’ He turned to the watching miners. ‘‘A couple of you boys help me get him on my hoss.’’

The cowboy kneeled beside Prescott’s body, then lifted his eyes lifted to McBride. ‘‘Mister, something you should know. Rusty has a brother, feller by the name of Luke Prescott. You heard of him?’’

McBride shook his head, the killing of the young cowboy still weighing on him.

‘‘You should. Luke’s at the Rafter H an’ I reckon he’ll be lookin’ for you.’’

Trask grinned. ‘‘Well, Mr. Smith, it seems your troubles never end. Luke Prescott is a gunfighter out of Pueblo.’’ He turned to the man named Allison. ‘‘How good is he, Stryker?’’

‘‘He’s good,’’ Allison answered. ‘‘Real fast on the draw and shoot. Killed Banjo Charlie Whipple in a fair fight down Amarillo way a few months back—and Charlie was considered a mighty dangerous hombre.’’

McBride opened his mouth to speak, but Shannon stopped him. ‘‘John, you’d better go back to the hotel. This is over.’’

He looked at the faces of the men around him. Hack Burns had a faint smile on his lips, but his eyes were eager and he was ready to kill. Stryker Allison had the calm, studied air of the professional gunman about him. He would draw if pushed, but would see little sense in fighting if there was no money in it. Gamble Trask had a triumphant smile on his handsome face, a man confident of his ability to control this and any other situation. The black-haired puncher’s gaze was accusing, tangled up with something else. Pity, maybe.

McBride turned and walked out of the saloon, his stiff face burning as an outburst of loud, mocking laughter followed him, tearing at his soul like a flock of hungry ravens.

Chapter 10

John McBride lit the lamp beside his bed, filling the room with a dim, flickering yellow light. Shadows danced in the corners where the spiders lived and the boisterous wind beat at the windows, noisily demanding to be let inside.

McBride stretched out on the bed and stared at the play of the restless lamplight on the ceiling. He felt a mild surprise that New York, with its tall, stone buildings, horse trolleys, streetlamps and forty thousand teeming, crime-ridden tenements, was already fading from his mind’s eye.

Did the West change a man that fast?

He had seen the vast, endless land only from a railroad car or while, bored, he kicked around for hours on the platform of an out-of-the-way station. But away from the smells and dirt of the city, he had found room to breathe. A few steps beyond dusty, noisy High Hopes and he could fill his lungs with air scented by tall grass and distant pines. He had read that the Western lands were filling up fast and that the old ways were already fading into memory. The Indians had been cannoned and sabered into submission and only a few Apache, far to the south in the desert country, were making a doomed, last stand.

Should he leave High Hopes on the next train and see all of the West before it was gone forever? He could remember it and in later years tell others about how the land had been.