Ralph Compton - West of the Law

Shannon, more beautiful than he remembered, gracefully walked toward him, a welcoming smile on her lips, her arms outstretched for the embrace of love. Her silk gown slipped from her shoulders, and then from her milk-white breasts, tipped with pink coral. As he reached for her he heard her gown swish to the floor. . . .

He woke, the swishing sound still in his ears. The swish repeated, repeated again, coming closer.

McBride opened his eyes as the beautiful image of Shannon faded like a fairy gift from his memory. The swish, swish, swish was even closer now.

He turned his head and saw the little mustang nosing through the long grass, pushing aside the tough blades as it searched for more succulent shoots.

It seemed that even Portugee and his scoundrels had no use for the bony little hammerhead.

Glad as he was to see the horse, McBride stayed where he was, looking up at a blue sky with not a cloud in sight. Piece by piece, like a man waking after a three-day bender, he put together the events of the night. He had been struck by lightning— that, he recalled—but for some reason it had not killed him. He struggled to a sitting position and looked around him. Nearby a cottonwood was down. The tree’s blackened trunk had snapped about halfway up its height and fragments of scorched branches lay scattered everywhere.

Now McBride knew why he was still breathing. Lightning had struck the cottonwood, not him, but he’d been close enough to suffer the effects of some of the blast. He’d been lucky—if you could call it that. Still, the mustang had sought him out, so maybe the shadow of the dark star that had been dogging him had moved on. He sure hoped so.

McBride struggled to his feet. He’d already been groggy from the whack to his head and the lightning strike had made it worse. He felt punch-drunk, like he’d gone ten rounds with John L. Sullivan and had come out on the losing end.

The mustang lifted its head and eyed McBride suspiciously as he lurched close. When the man got within three feet, the little horse sidestepped away from him, leaving McBride to curse a blue streak.

But then, its contrary point made, the animal stood, making no fuss when McBride clambered onto its back. He turned the mustang until its nose pointed east, then lay across its neck and let the threatening darkness take him again.

The mustang plodded east through the heat of the afternoon, keeping to the low ground between the hills. Once, toward late afternoon, he stopped in a glade shaded by piñon and juniper and grazed for an hour. The unconscious man on his back groaned softly a few times but did not wake.

As the day shaded into night, the call of the barn grew strong in the ungainly little horse, and it was for that scant haven he headed as the moon rose and the coyotes talked around him. The mustang was five years old and had run free on the plains until he was three. Gelded, then broken as a cow pony with whip and spur, for almost two years he’d known little of kindness but much of abuse. He’d later been sold for fifteen dollars to the City Transfer and Hack Line as a carriage horse, but his wretched lot had improved little since then. Eventually he’d be butchered to supply meat for one of the Indian reservations.

But for now the barn in High Hopes was home, a place where there was hay and protection from predators. The mustang journeyed on, walking through the dusky night as the moon, cool, aloof and disinterested, looked down on him.

‘‘He’s comin’ round, Doc. Ain’t dead like I figgered.’’

McBride opened his eyes and looked up at the hairy face of Ebenezer Keble.

‘‘Hoss brung you back, young feller,’’ the old man said. ‘‘You was lucky you wasn’t seen, on account of how the whole town is gunning for you.’’ He smiled. ‘‘You sure have a way o’ gettin’ on the wrong side of folks.’’

‘‘Where am I?’’ McBride asked. His voice sounded like a rusty gate hinge.

‘‘At the T. J. barn, of course, and in the hayloft to be exac’. Doc Cox tol’ me to hide you up here from Gamble Trask an’ them Allison boys. Ol’ Gamble, now, he’s so mad at you he’s spittin’ nails, and the Allisons, well, don’t count on them to make any friendly noises in your direction.’’

Ebenezer’s face was replaced by one younger, the concerned features of a handsome, clean-shaven man who looked to be in his early thirties. ‘‘How are you feeling?’’ he asked. ‘‘I’m Dr. Alan Cox.’’

McBride had been struggling to rise. Now he lay back on the straw and his fingers went to the fat bandage around his head. ‘‘Headache, Doc, as you might expect.’’

Cox nodded. ‘‘You took quite a blow. A rifle butt, I suspect. I had to stitch you up to stop the wound opening again.’’ The physician rooted around in his medical bag and found a small mirror. He held it so McBride could look into it. ‘‘See anything strange?’’ he asked.

McBride glanced at the mirror and was appalled. He hadn’t shaved in days and his face was scraped and torn by thorns. His eye was no longer as swollen, but it was surrounded by yellow and purple bruises. But what really caught his attention was his color—his skin was bright red, peeling in places, as though from a bad sunburn.

‘‘The backs of your hands and the tops of your feet are the same color,’’ Cox said, reading McBride’s expression. ‘‘Have you been exposed to anything?’’

‘‘Lightning. It damned near killed me.’’

Understanding dawned on Cox and he smiled. ‘‘Ah, that would explain it. You must have been close to the strike to get scorched like that.’’

‘‘Sure I was. It was almost right on top of me.’’

‘‘You’re lucky to be alive.’’

McBride’s smile was grudging. ‘‘If what Ebenezer told me is correct, I may not be alive much longer.’’

Cox’s face showed his concern. ‘‘It’s true, every word of it. Gamble Trask wants you dead, and that means Hack Burns does too. As for the Allisons, you killed their brother and they’re not ones to let a thing like that go unavenged.’’

‘‘I didn’t kill Stryker—a man called Prescott did.’’

‘‘Luke Prescott, the gunfighter?’’

McBride nodded. ‘‘Was. Stryker killed him.’’

‘‘They killed each other?’’

‘‘Both were real good with a gun.’’

‘‘I’m told that gunmen of reputation usually try to avoid confrontations like that. When named men meet in a fight, the margin for error is small.’’

‘‘Maybe so, but Stryker was on the prod and he was confident,’’ McBride said. ‘‘He pushed it.’’ He hesitated a heartbeat. ‘‘He died hard.’’

‘‘Here, sonny, is that ol’ Stryker’s fancy pistol in your pants?’’ Ebenezer’s face swam into view.

‘‘You mean, I didn’t lose it on the way here?’’

‘‘Hell no, boy, it’s layin’ right beside you there. I figgered you mought need it in a hurry.’’ He shook his head. ‘‘Well, well, well, ol’ Stryker dead an’ another ranny carryin’ his iron. Who woulda thunk it?’’

‘‘He sure didn’t,’’ McBride said. He struggled to a sitting position—and his eyes met Shannon’s.

Reading the signs, Cox grinned. ‘‘She insisted on coming, even though I told her it could be dangerous.’’

A tangle of emotion showed on McBride’s face. ‘‘But how, I mean—’’

Shannon crossed the floor and threw herself into McBride’s arms. They kissed with a passion born of separation. When their lips finally parted, Shannon said, ‘‘Dr. Cox and I confide in each other, John. We share common enemies in Gamble Trask and the Allison brothers.’’

‘‘I freely confess all.’’ Cox smiled. ‘‘After Ebenezer told me you were back in town, I went to Shannon right away with the good news.’’