Ralph Compton - West of the Law

The ladder to the trapdoor thudded softly against the pine frame. Thudded again. And again. Somebody was slowly climbing toward him. A blue darkness filled the barn, slanted with deeper shadow. McBride heard the saloon piano, a cheerful chiming made tinny and thin by distance.

The thud of the ladder became no louder but more rapid. The dome of a hat rose through the opening, then the pale blur of a face. The man’s head swiveled as he looked around. He made out the faint image of McBride’s body and recoiled, his back slamming against the trapdoor frame, cursing as his gun came up.

McBride fired. Too quick. A miss. Straw and wood splinters erupted near the man’s head.

The man’s gun flared, flashing orange in the gloom. But McBride had moved. He was already diving for the floor and the bullet cut through the air inches above him. He landed with a crash, flat on his belly, the air bursting from his lungs. He was much closer to the unknown gunman, separated by only a few feet. He stuck the Colt out in front of him and fired.

A shattering scream and the man disappeared from sight. McBride heard the body crash heavily to the floor below. His breath coming in labored shudders that racked his chest, he scrambled down the ladder and his feet hit bottom. A scattergun roared and the ladder jerked under the impact. McBride threw himself onto his left side and immediately a second blast kicked up dirt and manure near his face, stinging into his eyes. A click as the shotgun was hastily opened. He fired in the direction of the sound and heard an agonized gasp as a man was hit hard. A body slumped to the floor and McBride rose to his feet, his gun up and ready.

‘‘Don’t shoot no more. I’m done.’’

It was Ebenezer’s voice.

Warily, McBride stepped to the old man and looked down at him. His voice tight, he asked, ‘‘Why?’’

‘‘Every man has his price, young feller. Gamble Trask paid me mine.’’

‘‘Fool’s gold,’’ McBride said. Anger and compassion were fighting a battle inside him.

‘‘Best you saddle up the mustang and get out of here,’’ Ebenezer said, his voice unraveling into thin threads as his dying hastened closer. ‘‘They will be coming for you soon.’’

McBride’s head moved, nodding to the dead man at the foot of the ladder. ‘‘Him?’’

‘‘His name is Harland. He’s the youngest of the Allison brothers. He told them he could take you by hisself, wanted to prove something, I guess.’’ The old man coughed blood into his beard and cackled. ‘‘He . . . he was wrong. . . .’’

Then he groaned deep in his chest as death took him by the ear.

McBride had not been long in the West, but he had come to know much of gunfighter arrogance. Trask and the Allison brothers would have heard the shots and think him dead. They would not come for a while, but he had no time to lose.

He saddled and bridled the mustang in the dark, fumbling with straps and buckles in his haste, then spared a few moments to look for Ned Barlow.

The man was lying on his back in an empty stall and his throat had been expertly cut. Whether Harland Allison or Ebenezer had killed him, McBride did not know, nor did he care. The end result was the same. He climbed awkwardly into the saddle and swung the mustang out of the stable.

For the most part McBride had walked the little animal, uncertain of his horsemanship, but he ran him now. The mustang hammered at a fast, choppy gallop into the night and McBride, hanging on grimly to the saddle horn, was nonetheless glad to let the darkness of the plain swallow him.

Chapter 24

After fifteen wild minutes, the mustang slowed to walk, blowing hard, and McBride drew rein. He turned and looked behind him into the night but neither saw nor heard anything.

He swung to the west, then looped to the south until he met the Santa Fe tracks. He followed the tracks back toward High Hopes, riding under stars and a still, dreaming moon. The wind tugged at him, eager to tell its tale, and out on the flat grass the coyotes were silent, listening.

McBride followed the tracks for miles until the station came in sight. The platform was in shadow, but a lamp still glowed in the ticket office. Beyond the station High Hopes was a random scatter of lights, the buildings lost in the gloom. McBride listened and thought he heard men shouting his name, but the wind shredded their words so he was not sure.

He drew rein on the mustang and sat the saddle, deep in brooding thought. He had to be near Shannon, and that meant he needed a place to hole up that was close to her. He thought of trying to reach Doc Cox’s house, but dismissed the idea. Why put the man in danger? Besides, he didn’t even know where he lived.

He could try to find an empty shack or some other building, but that was an uncertain undertaking. He could be seen as he bumbled around in the dark like a fool, trying doors.

It came to him then. . . .

There was one man in town who might welcome him and hide him out, a fellow lawman—Marshal Lute Clark. The more he thought about, the more McBride decided it was his only option.

He remembered that there was a small barn behind Clark’s house. He could stable the mustang there, where it would be seen by no one. A dying tin-star marshal of a two-bit town has few visitors.

Still, it was with some reluctance that McBride swung away from the station and made his way to the edge of town. He knew danger rode with him and he was bringing that unwelcome guest right to Clark’s doorstep. But he was desperate. Shannon was depending on him and he had to be close.

McBride ground tied his horse behind the Clark home, then walked around to the front and tapped on the door. It opened a few moments later.

‘‘Oh, it’s you,’’ Dolly said without evident surprise. She looked tired, worn. ‘‘Come to see Lute again?’’

‘‘How is he?’’ McBride asked.

‘‘He’s dying a little quicker today. That pleases him.’’

‘‘I need to talk with him.’’

‘‘I’ll tell him. He’ll say yes or no.’’ She looked McBride up and down. ‘‘You look like hell. Come in.’’

Dolly opened the door wider and McBride stepped into the dark hallway. She closed the door behind him. ‘‘I’ll tell him you’re here.’’ The woman hesitated a moment, then said, ‘‘Talking about looking like hell, I was pretty once myself, can you believe that?’’

‘‘I can believe it. You’re still pretty.’’

‘‘No, I’m not. One time I was so pretty that Lute killed two men over me. How many women can say that?’’

‘‘Very few, Dolly. Maybe none at all.’’

‘‘I just wanted to tell you that, about the two men, I mean, not that it matters a hill of beans anymore.’’

‘‘I’m glad you did, because Lute told me the same thing.’’

‘‘I was a good woman to him, to Lute,’’ Dolly said.

‘‘You still are.’’

‘‘Not any longer. I’m leaving him, tomorrow, the day after, the day after that. I won’t stay around and watch him die.’’

McBride shook his head. ‘‘Dolly, I don’t know what to say. I don’t have the words.’’

‘‘It’s not about words, McBride. It’s about feelings.’’

‘‘He told you my real name.’’

‘‘Lute tells me only what he wants to tell me.’’ She turned away. ‘‘I’ll speak to him.’’

Dolly returned a few minutes later.

‘‘Lute will talk to you.’’ Her tired eyes lifted to McBride’s in the gloom. ‘‘You may be bringing death to this house, John McBride. I know it and so does Lute. That’s why he will welcome you. Just don’t expect me to do the same.’’

‘‘I’ll do my best to see that neither of you gets hurt.’’

Dolly’s mouth stretched in a wan smile. ‘‘Then you’ll disappoint Lute and please me.’’ She waved a hand to the door at the end of the hallway, a small, lost gesture. ‘‘Go, have your talk. Afterward I’ll have hot coffee waiting. You look all used up, or did I already tell you that?’’