Ralph Compton - West of the Law

‘‘West of here, at Apishapa Creek. Do you know him?’’

‘‘I know of him. He’s pretty much a legend in the Barbary Coast district of San Francisco. Years ago he killed a man in New Orleans and got out of town just ahead of the law. Then he showed up in ’Frisco, calling himself a sea captain. He was hired on by a tea importer as first mate, led a mutiny and took over the company schooner. He hanged the captain from his own yardarm. Since then he’s been running slaves, opium, rum, whatever will turn a profit. But to my knowledge Portugee has never operated east of the Divide. What’s he doing in Colorado?’’

‘‘Busily robbing me,’’ McBride said. ‘‘That’s all I know.’’

‘‘Over on the dresser, McBride, a tin box. Bring it here.’’

McBride found the box and brought it to the bed. ‘‘Open it,’’ the marshal said.

‘‘There’s money in here,’’ McBride said.

‘‘How much?’’

McBride counted out silver coins onto the bed quilt. ‘‘Twenty-eight dollars and eighteen cents in change.’’

‘‘That’s what I had in my pocket the day Hack Burns shot me,’’ Clark said. ‘‘Take it. You can’t survive in High Hopes without money.’’

‘‘Marshal, I can’t—’’

‘‘Take it, McBride. This is no time for getting proud on me.’’

McBride saw the logic in what the man was saying and he dropped the coins into his pocket. ‘‘I’ll pay you back,’’ he said.

Clark’s head moved in a nod. ‘‘You surely will, McBride. You surely will.’’ His eyes moved to Dolly. ‘‘Get out of here, woman,’’ he said. ‘‘Men need to talk.’’

Clark waited until Dolly closed the door behind her, then said, ‘‘She’s leaving me, you know. She told me so this morning. She says she’s hired a widow woman to do for me, whatever that means.’’

‘‘I’m sorry, Marshal, I truly am.’’

‘‘No need to be sorry, McBride, I don’t plan on living much longer. I can’t get up out of this bed and Dolly took my guns away. That’s why I’m asking you to repay whatever favors you think I’ve done you.’’

‘‘Anything. Anything at all. Just name it.’’

‘‘If I’m still alive when you finally leave town, shoot me. Make it quick, right between the eyes.’’ The marshal’s voice took on a pleading tone. ‘‘You’ll do that for me, one lawman to another?’’

McBride could have argued, told the man any kind of life was better than death, but he didn’t. Clark wouldn’t have listened anyway.

‘‘Sure, Marshal,’’ he said. ‘‘When the times comes I’ll be glad to.’’

He didn’t mean a word of it.

There were two stalls in the barn and Dolly had set up a bed for him in the corner of one of them. McBride walked the mustang into the other and stripped the saddle and bridle. He forked hay to the little horse, then discovered a sack of oats standing in a corner. He scooped a generous amount for the mustang and affectionately slapped its rump as he was leaving. The horse continued to eat and paid him no mind.

The hour was late, but High Hopes was still wide-awake and roaring drunk. The saloons were blazing beacons of welcoming light, the Golden Garter brightest of all. Miners in mule-eared boots stomped along the boardwalks, laughing, talking, arguing about everything and anything. Here and there cowboys, wide sombreros tipped back on their heads, burst in and out of batwing doors, all jingle and shine, confident and belligerent youngsters who were worthy heirs to the traditional arrogance of the horseman.

As McBride took to the boardwalk, shuffling like an old, bent man, tin-panny pianos tumbled tangled notes into the street, where they floated like snow-flakes before melting into nothingness. A saloon girl in a vivid scarlet dress stepped out of the Golden Garter, took a few quick gulps of fresh air, then pinned on her smile again before going inside.

McBride’s disguise was tested a few moments later.

A sallow gambler in a black frock coat and frilled shirt emerged from the shadows, a long, thin cheroot extended in his right hand. ‘‘Got a light, old-timer?’’

McBride shook his head, then tightened his throat, attempting the peevish voice of an old man. ‘‘I don’t smoke and neither should you, sonny. Stunt your growth.’’

The gambler laughed briefly and faded back into the shadows. So far, McBride decided, so good.

But his biggest test was yet to come. He had to walk into the Golden Garter and find a way to talk to Shannon. He wanted her to leave with him that night. The train was out of the question, but if she had a horse, they could put distance between themselves and Trask by daybreak.

It was a dangerous plan, but McBride convinced himself he had no other choice. He had to get the woman he intended to marry out of High Hopes and time was not on their side.

For a few moments McBride stood at the door of the Golden Garter and looked inside. The saloon was crowded and couples were waltzing around the dance floor. It was unlikely a broken-down old graybeard would even be noticed.

McBride stepped inside, found a place at the bar and ordered a beer. He slid a nickel across the counter, and the harried bartender scooped it up without comment. Holding the glass up close to his face, he glanced around him.

Because of the packed patrons he could not see Shannon, but as though nobody cared to get too close, the way was clear to Gamble Trask’s table in the corner.

The man sat with his back to the wall. On his right was the cold-eyed gunman Hack Burns, beside him the two surviving Allison brothers. Then McBride got a double jolt of surprise. The man sitting with his back to him turned to say something to Trask. The expensive clothes, flashing diamonds and handsome, brutal features were unmistakable— it was Sean Donovan, late of Hell’s Kitchen, New York City. Next to Donovan, McBride saw his battered plug hat, and the man sitting under it was Portugee Lamego.

For some reason all the rogues had gathered in one place, and for John McBride that could only mean more trouble was about to be added to the mess of trouble he already had.

Chapter 25

Wary of being recognized, McBride stood at the bar, the untasted beer in his hand. Now and then he sneaked a glance at Trask and the rest of them. The men were deep in conversation, ignoring him and everyone else. Portugee was very animated, grinning widely, waving his hands around. Then he turned and slapped Trask on the back as though something the man had said had greatly pleased him.

At that moment McBride wanted his hat back. And he wanted to kill Portugee Lamego for wearing it.

After a few minutes Trask’s business with the others seemed to have concluded amicably and champagne made its appearance. A small, dapper man stepped into the saloon, bent over and whispered something into Donovan’s ear. The gang leader nodded, smiled and said something in return that made the others laugh. The small man straightened and took his place beside Donovan’s chair. Hack Burns looked up at the man, his gunman’s eyes wary and calculating. And so he should be wary, McBride thought.

The little man was Gypsy Jim O’Hara, an icy killer without a shred of conscience or human decency.

McBride had seen enough. Now his need to talk to Shannon was more urgent than ever. But how to get close to her without arousing suspicion?

His eyes slanted to Trask’s table. O’Hara’s cold gaze swept the room, lingered on him for a moment, then dismissed him. O’Hara was paying no mind to a useless old man.

Reassured, McBride moved closer to a black-haired girl standing at the bar, her foot tapping to the piano music. He set his beer on the bar, grabbed the woman around the waist and yelled, ‘‘Let’s cut a rug, girlie!’’