Ralph Compton - West of the Law

‘‘Good way,’’ Prescott said.

‘‘I never had to light a fire,’’ McBride said, even more irritated at having to justify his city ways.

‘‘Out here a man should know how to make a fire,’’ Prescott said. ‘‘He just never can tell when he’ll need one.’’

The implied criticism stung and McBride opened his mouth to make a sharp reply, but the other man headed him off, his eyes suddenly serious. ‘‘Saw something that might interest you, John.’’

‘‘What was that?’’

‘‘I started out to track my horse just after the storm passed, while you were snoring.’’

‘‘I don’t—’’

‘‘Anyhoo, he headed west, into the storm, knowing it would follow him otherwise.’’

‘‘Real smart horse,’’ McBride said drily.

‘‘Well, thank you. I reckon he is.’’ Prescott checked the coffeepot. ‘‘We’ll let it bile for a spell longer.’’ He set the pot back on the fire. ‘‘There’s a wagon road a mile to the north of where we are. It’s well traveled because the gold miners use it to haul out ore to High Hopes and bring in supplies. But about a mile west of here, a trail cuts off the main road and swings to the northwest. La Veta Pass is in that direction, but I don’t believe that’s where the trail is headed.’’

‘‘I’m not catching your drift,’’ McBride said.

Prescott grinned. ‘‘Good! You’re learning the lingo.’’ He was again busy with tobacco and papers. ‘‘What I’m saying is that the trail will eventually meet up with the Union Pacific road. If memory serves me right, there’s a watering stop for their engines around there. The rails come down from Denver, through Pueblo, then meet the Santa Fe road at Trinidad, just north of the New Mexico border. But that’s by the way. The main thing is that Gamble Trask’s Chinese girls and his opium could be loaded onto a Union Pacific freight in Denver, then off-loaded at the watering stop east of La Veta Pass.’’

‘‘But wouldn’t the train crew notice what was happening?’’

Prescott smiled. ‘‘It’s been my experience that railroaders like money as much as anybody else. Trask can buy their silence.’’

‘‘Then the girls aren’t held at the mines?’’

‘‘I don’t think so. There are some decent men at the gold mines who wouldn’t hold with what Trask is doing. There would be talk, something he doesn’t want.’’

‘‘Then the girls and the opium must be taken to somewhere near the Union Pacific line. Either that or they’re driven straight from the watering stop to High Hopes.’’

‘‘That’s my thinking,’’ Prescott allowed. He picked up the pot, thumbed open the lid and glanced inside. ‘‘Coffee’s ready. Let’s have your cup.’’

They drank coffee in silence, each man busy with his own thoughts. Then Prescott said, ‘‘I propose we go scout around that watering stop. That is, if my memory is correct and it’s really where I say it is.’’

‘‘I was thinking that myself,’’ McBride said. ‘‘Only we have a problem.’’

‘‘What problem?’’

‘‘How the hell do I get there?’’

Chapter 16

‘‘Your charger is ready, Mr. McBride,’’ Prescott said, trying to hide the grin that flirted with his mouth. ‘‘I even fixed you up with a saddle on account of how the mustang has a backbone like the High Sierras.’’

There was nothing about the ugly little horse that filled McBride with confidence.

Prescott had cut back the reins to a manageable length and stripped off an undamaged portion of the trap’s seat cushion. He’d tied the scorched cushion to the mustang’s back with the remainder of the leathers.

‘‘Just be careful how you get up on her,’’ he said. ‘‘The saddle is a mighty uncertain thing. It could slip and slide.’’

Prescott read the lack of enthusiasm in McBride’s eyes. ‘‘Beats walking, John.’’

‘‘Maybe.’’ McBride stepped to the horse. It looked taller now that he was close. ‘‘How do I get up there?’’

‘‘Easy.’’ Prescott bent from the waist and laced the fingers of his hands together. ‘‘Put your foot in there and I’ll boost you up. Then ease down real slow into the saddle.’’ McBride lifted a foot. ‘‘Probably better to use the left one, John.’’

Angry at himself for making the same mistake twice, McBride changed feet and Prescott, revealing surprising strength for such a small man, hoisted him effortlessly onto the mustang’s back.

The gunfighter stepped back, rubbing his chin like an artist admiring his work. ‘‘Well, so far, so good, and you sure don’t have far to fall, John. Your feet are only about six inches off the ground.’’ He swung into the saddle of his prancing black. ‘‘Now, what say you, should we hit the trail and see if we can do some damage to Gamble Trask?’’

McBride nodded and gathered up the reins. ‘‘Giddyup,’’ he said. The mustang stood where it was, its blunt hammerhead hanging.

‘‘Two things,’’ Prescott said. ‘‘First, squeeze the horse with your knees when you want it to go. Second, lay the reins against the right side of its neck when you want to turn left, left side when you want to go right. Got that?’’

‘‘I would have figured that out for myself,’’ McBride said, annoyed at being spoken to like a child. He kneed the horse and it walked forward, making him lurch ungracefully on the seat cushion.

‘‘Crackerjack!’’ Prescott said. ‘‘We’ll make a rider out of you yet.’’ Irritated as he was, McBride was oddly pleased. Compliments of any kind from Luke Prescott were rare.

The man handed him his rifle. ‘‘Here,’’ he said. ‘‘I have a feeling you might need that . . . sooner than later.’’

They reached the wagon road and headed west, riding through hilly, broken country, much of it forested with piñon and juniper. Here and there iron-wood and catclaw grew on the slopes of the rises, surrounded by streaks of pink daisies and bright scarlet paintbrush.

After a mile Prescott found the cutoff and they swung northwest, the elevation climbing, piñon and spruce gradually giving way to aspen, fir and ponderosa pine on the slopes of the higher hills.

McBride had finally relaxed, moving easily with the mustang’s choppy gait. The little horse was teacher and he student, and he accepted their relationship as such.

By noon, after they crossed the reedy shallows of Apishapa Creek, the day grew hot, the sun a burning gold coin in a sky free of cloud. The two riders followed the wagon trail through a series of narrow arroyos, where the air hung still, the only sounds the creak of saddle leather and the soft footfalls of the horses.

When they topped a shallow rise, Prescott drew rein. ‘‘If you look westward, you can just see the Spanish Peaks, John,’’ he said. ‘‘It’s beautiful country around there.’’

McBride stared into the vast distance of the lonely land, stunned at its beauty, by the far blue mountains and the play of light and shadow among the hills. City born, city bred, he had grown accustomed to vistas reduced to the crowded clamor of dirty streets and tall brick buildings that rose so high they blocked the sun.

This was so different, all that surrounded him. For a few moments he took delight in what he was seeing, breathing clean air, scented by pines.

With a start, McBride realized he was swallowing hard. He had fallen in love with Shannon—was he now falling in love with the land that nurtured her?

Luke Prescott was a perceptive man, his instincts honed to razor sharpness by the years he’d lived by the gun. Now he smiled at McBride. ‘‘Gets to a man, doesn’t it?’’

McBride nodded. ‘‘I’ve never seen its like.’’