Ralph Compton - West of the Law

Clark groaned and his head moved on the pillow. ‘‘Bottle . . . on the table.’’

McBride found the laudanum, raised the marshal’s head and held it to his lips. Clark swallowed a few times, then turned away. ‘‘Enough. For a spell.’’

Now that McBride had become accustomed to the darkness he could make out the pale outlines of the marshal’s face. His cheeks and temples were sunken and his eyes lay deep and in shadow. A dragoon mustache, showing gray and obviously kept trimmed by Dolly, failed to hide a wide, hard mouth that showed arcs of humor at the corners. At one time Clark’s face had been good, strong, the forehead high and intelligent, his thick eyebrows a sign of strength and determination. But now his face was shrunken, wrinkled, like a withered winter apple.

Clark’s head turned until he could lift his eyes to his visitor. ‘‘I know your name ain’t Smith and you’re not pinned onto a tin star but you’ve got lawman sign all over you.’’

McBride smiled. ‘‘Theo Leggett told me that very thing.’’

‘‘How is Theo?’’

‘‘Dead.’’

‘‘How did it happen? Opium or the drink?’’

‘‘Neither. He was shot.’’

Briefly, McBride told the marshal about the murder of Leggett, leaving out his own part in the affair. ‘‘I believe Gamble Trask ordered Theo killed,’’ he said. He waited, wondering how Clark would respond.

It was a long time before the marshal spoke and for a while McBride thought the laudanum had put him to sleep.

But the man’s voice was firm, wide-awake. ‘‘Theo and a few others, including me, didn’t like what Trask was doing to this town. When he built the Golden Garter he filled it with whores, opium and busthead whiskey. He brought Hack Burns with him too. A combination like that is bad news and pretty soon most mornings we were getting a dead man with breakfast.’’

Clark paused, then said, ‘‘Like its name signifies, me, Theo and the others had high hopes for High Hopes. There was talk of a church and a town hall, even a fire station. We were foolish enough to figure the town would be a good place for families to live, but Trask put an end to all that. His saloon attracts the miners and they spend money in the stores and businesses. Suddenly it seemed that everybody was getting rich and there was no more talk about churches.’’

‘‘And you tried to shut Trask down?’’

‘‘Yeah, that’s it, I tried. I walked into the Golden Garter and told Trask to close the place and get out of town on the next train. Then Hack Burns threw down on me and his bullet cut my backbone in two. He’s fast, mighty fast on the draw.’’

‘‘And now he’s the new marshal.’’

‘‘Yeah, he’s the new marshal all right, and High Hopes is going to hell in a handbasket even faster.’’

‘‘Marshal Clark, my real name is John McBride. I was . . . I guess I still am . . . a detective sergeant with the New York Police Department.’’

‘‘Figured you for a shadow of some kind, a Pink maybe.’’

‘‘Gamble Trask is a threat to the life of . . . a friend of mine and I aim to take him down. I plan on asking the others who think the same way as you do about High Hopes to help me.’’ McBride thought for a moment. ‘‘Doc Cox, Grant Wilson, the blacksmith . . . I can’t remember his name.’’

‘‘Ned Barlow.’’

‘‘Yes, him and as many others as I can find.’’

‘‘There are no others, McBride. And none of those men are gunfighters. Ask them to go up against Hack Burns and you’ll kill them, just as surely as if you’d put a gun to their heads.’’

‘‘There’s more, Marshal. Trask has hired the Allison brothers.’’

Clark’s voice had sounded tired. now it became alive again. ‘‘You mean Stryker an’ them?’’

‘‘Yes. He’s in town now.’’

Clark let out a long sigh. ‘‘Then it’s all over. You ever read the Good Book? The Allison brothers are the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse—they spread death and destruction wherever they go. McBride, I don’t know why you’re here, but take my advice and get out of High Hopes before it’s too late. Go back to New York, where you belong.’’ He held for a few moments, then added, ‘‘And don’t call me marshal again. I’m not the marshal. Hell, I’m not even a man anymore.’’

McBride understood how Clark felt and he could not find the words. He could imagine himself lying in that bed, paralyzed, helpless, waiting only for death.

‘‘Marshal Clark, I—’’

‘‘Spare me your pity, McBride. Just . . . just leave me be. It’s over, I tell you. Now, go home to the big city.’’

McBride rose to his feet. He looked down at Clark. The man’s cheeks were glistening with tears. ‘‘I have to ask you a couple of things more, that’s all. Did you know that Trask is dealing in young Chinese girls?’’

‘‘Yeah, I knew. He buys them cheap in San Francisco and then sends them East at a big profit. At first he used the Chinese girls in his saloon, in the cribs, but miners don’t much care for Celestials, even the women. Pretty soon Trask realized there was more money to be made by shipping the girls to New York and other places.’’

‘‘Trask has been talking about making one big score, then leaving High Hopes for good. You any idea what that might be?’’

Clark shook his head. ‘‘No, I don’t.’’

‘‘How about orphan trains? Theo told me Trask was somehow mixed up with orphan trains.’’

‘‘I don’t know anything about that either.’’ Clark’s voice was weakening. ‘‘McBride, you told me a friend of yours was in danger. Listen and listen good—you have no friends in High Hopes. And anybody who tells you different is a liar.’’

Another sigh escaped Clark’s lips. ‘‘Now, let me be and don’t come back here again. I want to lie here in the dark and get through with my dying in peace.’’

McBride walked quietly to the door. Clark’s voice stopped him.

‘‘Send Dolly in here. I need her.’’

Chapter 12

Noon came and went but McBride saw no sign of Hack Burns in the street. It seemed that Shannon had prevailed on Trask to rein in his gunman. At least for now.

Shannon had asked for his protection, but McBride was at a loss where to start. When she was in her suite at the hotel, he was close by and could look out for her. But when she was at the Golden Garter he couldn’t camp out there night after night, watching over her.

There had to be a better way. And that better way was for Shannon to leave High Hopes with him. They could head back East, to a big city where no one would know them, get married and start a new life together.

But even as he considered that, the dark, ominous shadow of Gamble Trask cast itself over his plans.

Trask wanted Shannon for himself and he wouldn’t stand idly by and let another man take her away from him. If McBride tried to leave High Hopes with Shannon, it would have to be over Trask’s dead body. Then so be it. He’d told Marshal Clark that he planned to bring the man down. Now he’d have to make good on his boast.

He was one man against five of the best guns in the West. But no matter, the time for bragging was over. If he wanted Shannon Roark to be his wife, he had it to do.

The light slowly changed in McBride’s room. The yellow glow of day shaded into the blue of dusk and then the darkness of night. Out on the street the miners were coming in from the hills, shabby, bearded men with gnarled hands seeking whiskey and female companionship after days of backbreaking labor when injury and death came easy but gold came hard.

The reflector lamps had been lit along the boardwalk, casting long shadows of men as they passed, black, undulating shapes moving across a backdrop of orange light. There was a stillness about the night, a strange quiet that made men talk in whispers and wonder why they did. It was as though the town were holding its breath, waiting for something to happen.