Ralph Compton - West of the Law

‘‘And it is good news,’’ Shannon said. She kissed McBride again, this time with more affection than passion. ‘‘I’m so glad you’re back in High Hopes.’’ She hesitated, fear a fleeting wraith in her eyes. ‘‘I’m scared, John, really scared. Since you burned his cabin and freed the Chinese girls he’s out of his mind with rage. He says he’s going to kill you and tack your hide to a wall of the saloon. I think—no, I don’t think —I know he suspects me of helping you. He told me once we’re married he’ll teach me about faithfulness with a dog whip.’’

‘‘He won’t hurt you while I’m around,’’ McBride said, a boast that rang hollow as a bronze gong even to his own ears. He was one man, a good man, he believed, but just one against many.

‘‘I have an armed guard posted near the door to the stable,’’ Cox said. ‘‘In four hours he will be relieved by another. I don’t think Trask knows you’re in town, but it pays to be careful.’’ The doctor moved away, then returned with a bundle of clothing. ‘‘Ebenezer told me you were in rags.’’ He smiled. ‘‘He was right.’’ Cox dropped the items one by one next to McBride. ‘‘Pants, shirt, shoes, socks, that’s it. By the way, you owe Andrew McAllen’s General Store ten dollars for this stuff.’’

McBride grinned. ‘‘He’ll have to wait for his money. After I was hit over the head I was robbed.’’

‘‘I’ll take care of it, John,’’ Shannon said.

‘‘Shannon, I don’t want you—’’

‘‘Let her pay for it,’’ Cox said. ‘‘When you two are married you’ll have a joint bank account anyway.’’

‘‘And let’s hope that’s soon,’’ Shannon said.

McBride was pleasantly surprised. ‘‘Do you mean that, Shannon? Will you marry me?’’

‘‘Of course I will, but we won’t talk about it now. After all this is over, we’ll have a lifetime to talk.’’

McBride was like a runner who’d just gotten his second wind. His eyes lifted to Cox. ‘‘How many men can I count on, Doc?’’

‘‘I’d say maybe a dozen don’t like what Trask is doing to the town. As to how many you can count on, the answer is, I don’t know. When lead starts flying, men have a way of suddenly remembering that they’re married.’’

‘‘And you, can I count on you?’’

Cox nodded. ‘‘Yes, you can. But then, I don’t know one end of a rifle from another.’’

‘‘Count me out too, young feller,’’ Ebenezer said. ‘‘I’m too old and slow to be getting myself into shooting scrapes.’’

Then the only man he could count on was himself. McBride accepted that. He didn’t like it, but he accepted it. The question was, where to go from here? Inspector Byrnes had told him one time that heaven never helps a man who will not act. He had it to do.

Shannon rose to her feet and brushed straw from her dress. ‘‘John, I have to get back to the hotel. I may be missed.’’

‘‘Will I see you later?’’

‘‘I’ll try. I don’t want anybody following me here.’’

‘‘I have to be going too,’’ Cox said. He moved to help Shannon to the ladder, then stopped. ‘‘I almost forgot. There was a letter for you at the post office and I picked it up for you yesterday. The clerk is a man I trust and he has no love for Gamble Trask. He gave it to me because he figured you’d be unable to get it yourself.’’

‘‘Without getting shot, he meant,’’ McBride said.

‘‘Exactly.’’ Cox handed over the envelope and smiled. ‘‘It pays to have friends in both high and low places.’’

After Shannon and Cox left and Ebenezer went about his business, McBride dressed hurriedly in his new clothes, then opened the letter. It was short and to the point and McBride smiled at its opening formality, but the smile faded as he read on:

To Detective Sergeant McBride, NYPD:

Bad news. A clerk with this department intercepted your letter to me. The envelope was steamed open, the contents read and communicated to those who would do you harm. The miscreant has since been severely dealt with.

John, your cover is blown and you are in the greatest danger. Now that there is mischief afoot, I wish you to remain in High Hopes and lie low. I am on my way.

I am, your obedient servant,

Thos. Byrnes, Inspector

P.S. I have reason to believe Sean Donovan has criminal contacts in Colorado. Be on your guard.

Byrnes was on his way to High Hopes. McBride shook his head and stuck the letter and envelope in his pocket. The inspector was a good police officer, and an excellent detective with amazing deductive powers, but he was not a gunfighter.

The task that lay ahead of McBride required men who were good with guns. In a revolver fight, Byrnes would be as much a liability as Alan Cox and the rest of them.

The man’s letter had not brought McBride any comfort. It had only added to his problems.

McBride crossed to the opening of the hayloft and looked down into the stable. A tall, round-shouldered man with hangdog eyes stuck the stock of a shotgun under his left arm and waved with his right.

‘‘All quiet,’’ he said, his prominent Adam’s apple bobbing.

McBride nodded. ‘‘Thanks for the help.’’

‘‘No problem. Glad I can be of assistance.’’

McBride sat back on the straw and calculated that his guard would last about two seconds against Hack Burns or the Allison brothers. And he looked like a married man.

A couple of hours later, McBride heard muted conversation as his guard changed. This man was smaller, stockier, with muscular shoulders and arms—probably Ned Barlow, the blacksmith. The man was apparently not much given to conversation, giving McBride only a perfunctory nod when he appeared at the hayloft trapdoor.

Night fell and High Hopes started to come alive. A piano was playing in one of the saloons and McBride was aware of a stealthy shuffle of feet as his guard faded into the darkness while a man stabled his horse, talking to himself or the animal, he could not decide which.

Quiet again filled the barn to its shadowed corners. A horse stamped and blew through its nose, and McBride heard Barlow hawk and spit soot from his lungs.

He’d had enough. He could no longer allow himself to remain in the barn like a trapped rat in the darkness, waiting for Trask and his toughs to come at him. There was a tight feeling in his throat and a green serpent writhed in his belly. It had a name, that reptile—it was called Fear.

McBride rose to his feet, then stepped back in alarm as something swooped past his face. It was a bat! It fluttered away from him on silent wings, leaving a faint odor of guano behind it. His heart hammering, McBride listened into the night. He heard nothing. Slowly, measuring each step, every creak of the floorboards sticking a knife into his gut, he made his way toward the trapdoor.

What was that?

He heard it again, a frantic shuffling of feet, like a hanged man kicking at the end of a rope. Then a long, drawn-out sigh that bubbled liquid and thick.

McBride took a step back and then another. He drew the Colt from his waistband and thumbed back the hammer. In the breathless hush the triple click was as loud as iron bolts hitting the bottom of a tin pail.

A man’s voice whispered low, fragmented sound reaching McBride’s ears. ‘‘Where . . . hell . . . he . . . there . . .’’

A second of silence dragged past, then another. McBride was sure someone was pointing up to where he was hidden. He switched the Colt to his left hand, wiped the sweaty palm of his right on his pants, then switched back. All he could do now was wait for what was to happen. He swallowed hard, swallowed again. It was like trying to gulp down a rock.