Ralph Compton - West of the Law

Prescott laughed softly. ‘‘Hell, John, I knew you was some kind of law the first time I ever saw you. Wearing a star changes a man, the way he walks and talks and thinks . . . and there’s something else, something in his eyes, watchful, like a hawk.’’

‘‘Like a gunslinger’s eyes.’’

‘‘Yeah, the same, only different.’’

Prescott ground his cigarette butt into the dirt. ‘‘Well, as far as I know, I’m not wanted in New York, so once again, Detective Sergeant McBride, where do we go from here?’’

‘‘High Hopes,’’ McBride said. ‘‘Only don’t call me that when we’re around company, polite or otherwise.’’

They rose at first light and fried some of the bacon and flat Indian bread Adoette had packed for them. After McBride threw the last of the coffee onto the fire he saddled the mustang and climbed on board.

‘‘You’re getting better,’’ Prescott said, watching. ‘‘At least you don’t fall headfirst over the other side any longer.’’

They reached Apishapa Creek by noon, then swung east toward High Hopes.

The day was hot, the hilly land standing still and silent to the sun. To the west the mountains showed as a purple haze against the denim sky and in all directions the distances shimmered, hazy curtains discreetly drawn across the wilderness that lay beyond.

Ahead of them a stand of tall cottonwoods promised shade and a chance to water the horses, and McBride, already saddlesore, was wishful of coffee and a chance to stretch his legs.

He was sitting with his back to a tree, drinking his second cup, when Prescott whispered to him urgently, ‘‘Riders.’’

McBride followed his eyes to the plain where three men were walking lathered horses, two of them in miners’ garb, the third wearing the black, flat-brimmed hat and knee-length frock coat of the frontier gambler.

Prescott’s words came out like the hiss of a hunting snake. ‘‘Well, as I live and breathe, it’s Stryker Allison.’’

‘‘Allison, here?’’

‘‘The wagon was overdue and I reckon Stryker and the other two were sent out to look for it. Judging by the condition of their horses, they’ve come far, maybe all the way from the railroad siding and the burned cabin.’’

McBride rose to his feet. ‘‘Have they seen us?’’

‘‘Not yet, but Stryker has caught our smoke. He’s not a man to miss something like that.’’

Allison was squatting on his haunches, studying the creek. Then, his mind made up, he rose to his feet and swung into the saddle. The two men with him did the same and Stryker led them directly toward the spot where McBride and Prescott were standing.

‘‘Get ready, John,’’ Prescott whispered. ‘‘I’ve got a feeling this isn’t going to end well, not well at all.’’

They watched Allison and the other two men splash across the creek, the horses throwing up brief fountains of water around their legs that caught the sunlight.

Allison led his men to within twenty feet of where McBride stood, and drew rein. The gunman touched his hat and under his sweeping mustache his mouth stretched in a grin. ‘‘Nice to see you again, Mr. Smith. It’s been a spell. Have you been riding out?’’

‘‘Just that, riding out.’’

‘‘Toward the Union Pacific road maybe?’’

‘‘Not particularly. Just here and there.’’

Allison’s cold eyes moved to Prescott. ‘‘And your friend here. I don’t think we’re acquainted.’’

Prescott was standing easy, his thumbs tucked into his gun belt. But the stiffness in his shoulders and his wide-legged stance betrayed his tension. ‘‘Name’s Luke Prescott. No need to give me yours, I know it already.’’

‘‘Then you have me at a disadvantage. Let me see. . . . Prescott . . . Prescott . . . where have I heard that name before? Ah, now I remember. I recall some white trash who went by that handle. Brothers, I think.’’

It was a challenge—that sudden, that raw.

McBride stepped into it head-on. ‘‘When you ride into a man’s camp uninvited, Allison, I’ll remind you to keep a civil tongue in your head.’’

The miners had spread out, watching, eager, Allison’s gun skill giving them the courage they usually borrowed from whiskey. Both wore cross-draw Colts, high up, where the draw would be shorter and faster. McBride realized there would be no backup in them unless Allison was down and then they’d fold quickly.

‘‘No offense intended, I assure you,’’ Allison said. The smile under his mustache was thin and sharp as a razor. ‘‘Now, will you mind your own manners, Mr. Smith, and invite a man to step down for coffee?’’

McBride nodded and took a step back. His eyes moved to Prescott. The gunfighter was giving Allison all his concentration. Suddenly he looked on edge, like a man about to go into a fight he was not sure he could win.

Allison swung out of the saddle, keeping his horse between him and Prescott. He had obviously summed up the situation and judged the little man more dangerous than McBride.

He said as much. ‘‘I recollect you now, Prescott. You have a reputation.’’ He grinned and moved away from the horse, his body turned to the perceived danger. ‘‘You’re a named man.’’

Prescott said, ‘‘Here. And in other places.’’

Allison nodded. ‘‘The day is hot.’’ He took off his frock coat and threw it over his saddle. His gun rode high, the butt between wrist and elbow. Against the lined, mahogany skin of his face his eyes were very blue. He was a tall, elegant man who looked tough and capable.

‘‘I am,’’ Allison said, ‘‘a named man myself.’’

Prescott made no answer, using his left hand to build a smoke.

McBride handed Allison a cup of coffee. Like Prescott, he took it in his left, leaving his gun hand free.

The miners sat their saddles with the patient watchfulness of vultures. Like McBride, they knew they were witnessing a ritual as old as the West itself, two belted men of reputation choosing partners for a dance of death.

‘‘Good coffee,’’ Allison said, his eyes above the rim of the cup steady on Prescott.

John McBride knew it would come sooner rather than later. He made up his mind. He would let Prescott handle Allison, and he would take the miners. It would, he decided, be no easy thing. The two men looked like they’d handled the iron before.

Now Allison pushed it.

‘‘Some low-down bushwhackers burned private property over to the Union Pacific road and murdered four good men,’’ he said. ‘‘Shot them in the back. I saw that myself. They also stole goods belonging to my employer. I want those goods back.’’

He turned his head slightly toward McBride. ‘‘Tell me where you’ve hidden the girls, Smith, and I’ll let you live.’’

McBride felt like he’d been pushed and prodded enough. Now anger flared in him. ‘‘Allison, you go to hell.’’

Stryker Allison’s only reaction was a slight smile. He said to Prescott, ‘‘Same thing goes for you. Take me to the Celestials and maybe I’ll let you go on breathing.’’

‘‘And I’m giving you the same answer—go to hell!’’

It seemed to McBride that the air had thinned, allowing him to see everything with crystal clarity. Once again, time had stopped and the world was no longer turning.

‘‘So be it,’’ Allison said. He dropped his cup and it rolled, clanging away from him. ‘‘Now let’s see how fast you are.’’

Allison drew.

Two shots, so close they sounded like one. McBride saw Prescott stagger, take a step back. He drew the Smith & Wesson. Slow! Too slow! But the miners hadn’t moved. They sat their horses, watching Allison with transfixed fascination, hands away from their guns.