Ralph Compton - West of the Law

The rooster on the roof screeched its frustration with the wind as McBride stepped to O’Hara and turned him over with his foot. The man was dead.

Without conscious thought, McBride punched the two empty shells from his Colt and reloaded from the rounds in his pocket. He stuck the gun back in his waistband. It was likely that others would come to investigate the shooting at this hour of the morning, but he took time to search the barn. Shannon was not there.

McBride swung into the saddle and rode into the plain, where the light was shading from black to cobalt blue. A time to think, then he’d look for Shannon.

He was sure she was in the hands of Sean Donovan, and he knew how badly the man treated women.

He had to free her—even if it cost him his own life.

Chapter 28

John McBride rode due north into the brightening morning.

Miles ahead of him lay the great rampart of the Kaibab Plateau, where deer and antelope fed among vast forests of fir and ponderosa pine. But McBride had no intention of riding that far. He was looking for a place where he could sleep through the day and then return to High Hopes under the cover of darkness.

He found it just as the sun was lifting over the horizon to the east, a shallow valley between two low hills, shaded by a grove of wild oak, cottonwood and juniper. A stream cut through the trees and bubbled around the eroded bulk of a great sandstone boulder, thrown there during some ancient volcanic eruption.

McBride unsaddled the mustang, then found a place among the juniper where he could stretch out. He was both hungry and tired, but could satisfy only one urge. He tipped his battered hat over his eyes and willed sleep to come to him.

The sun rose higher and clothed McBride in dappled light. Jays quarreled in the tree branches, raining leaves and pieces of bark on him, but he slumbered on.

By late afternoon deer came to drink at the stream and McBride woke. He rose and stretched, scattering the whitetails, then saddled the mustang again.

Darkness was falling as McBride swung wide of town and rode up to Marshal Clark’s barn. Dolly had betrayed him, but in a town filled with betrayal, this was as safe a place as any other.

He forked hay to the mustang, then, pulling his hat over his eyes, made his way into the street, walking toward the Golden Garter. Hack Burns and Sean Donovan were men to be avoided. And so was Portugee. The two Allison brothers had never seen him and might not recognize him in his different clothes and hat.

No matter, that was a chance he’d have to take.

The saloon was already crowded, but Shannon was not at her usual table. There was no sign of Donovan and the others. Afraid of being seen, McBride left immediately and walked along the boardwalk to the Killeen Hotel.

A bored clerk sat behind the desk, his feet up, contemplating his twiddling thumbs. McBride waited, looking down at the man, then palmed the bell on the desk, loudly, several times.

A surly look on his face, the man rose to his feet. ‘‘No need for that. I knew you were there.’’

‘‘Then look up the next time,’’ McBride said. He nodded toward the stairs. ‘‘Is Miss Roark in her room?’’

‘‘Who wants to know?’’ the clerk said, his thin mouth twisting into an insolent grin.

McBride was in no mood to put up with an uppity hotel clerk. His gun was suddenly in his hand, the muzzle shoved hard against the man’s forehead.

‘‘I think I’m going to have trouble with you, but I’ll ask you just once again—is Miss Roark in her room?’’

Terror showed in the clerk’s eyes and his throat bobbed a time or two. ‘‘No . . . no, she’s not. She left a couple of hours ago.’’

‘‘Was anybody with her?’’

‘‘Yeah . . . yeah . . . a big man, near as big as you.’’

So Donovan did have Shannon in his clutches. But why? Did he believe she knew about Trask’s business dealings and thought he could profit by that knowledge? Would he torture Shannon to get at the truth?

‘‘Did Shannon—did Miss Roark—say where she was going?’’

The clerk’s throat bobbed again. ‘‘No, she said nothing. She just walked out with the big feller.’’

McBride thumbed down the hammer of the Colt and shoved the gun back into his waistband. He ignored the frightened clerk and stood at the desk deep in thought. Where had Donovan taken her? He didn’t know this country and would be reluctant to stray far from town. Shannon must still be in High Hopes. All McBride had to do was find her.

He walked out of the hotel and stood on the boardwalk, his eyes searching up and down the street. He was at a loss at what to do next.

Men were stomping back and forth, heading into one saloon or another, but the Golden Garter was busiest of all. It seemed that the death of its proprietor had not put a dent in business. Had Sean Donovan already taken over, bought drinks for the house and made it clear he was the new big man in town?

Once he forced Shannon to tell him about Trask’s other operations, he would also take over the drug trade and the trafficking of Chinese girls. Donovan was not a man to pass on making easy money, and he likely planned to spend some time in High Hopes to clean up before returning to New York.

McBride had no illusions. Sean Donovan was a ruthless man, a conscienceless killer when he had to be, and Shannon was in deadly danger.

Damn it, where was she?

The question again clanged through McBride’s mind like a fire alarm. He was standing uselessly in the street while his future wife faced Donovan alone. By now she must be terrified, confronted by the man’s devouring ambition and raw power. Donovan was not gentle with women, and those he couldn’t have he took by brute force. For Shannon, that would be a fate worse than death itself.

There was only one way. McBride knew he had to find Sean Donovan and kill him. And he was prepared to walk over the bodies of Hack Burns and the Allison brothers to do it.

Back at the barn, Dolly had casually referred to him as ‘‘gunfighter,’’ and maybe that’s what he’d become. If he had, now was the time to live up to the name.

Sooner or later Donovan would return to the saloon. And McBride would be there . . . waiting for him.

He stepped to the edge of the boards, then stopped. Two men had walked out of the saloon and stood together, lighting cigars. Both wore black frock coats and low-crowned, flat-brimmed hats, and the buckles of their gun belts gleamed in the lamplight.

They could only be Julius and Clint Allison.

One of the brothers glanced across the street and started to look away. Then his head swung sharply back. McBride felt the man’s eyes, shadowed by his hat brim, crawl over him.

McBride’s height and massive chest and shoulders were enough to draw any fighting man’s interest, and whatever Allison brother that was, the man was interested now.

There were enough men in town, including Donovan, who could have given the Allisons a description of McBride that his shabby clothes could not hide. The man across the way was suspicious, and it showed. He whispered to his brother and the second man looked across at McBride, his eyes lingering long. Then he abruptly turned and walked quickly into the saloon.

The other brother strolled to the edge of the boardwalk and brushed his coat away from his gun. His cigar glowed red in his teeth and his lips were shaped into a grin.

He knew! And he was ready.

McBride had it to do. He stepped down into the street but stopped when the doors of the Golden Garter swung open—and Sean Donovan walked onto the boardwalk, Hack Burns and the Allison brother at his side.

It took only a moment for Donovan to recognize McBride.

‘‘You!’’ he screamed. His hand flew for the gun under his coat. The Allisons were also drawing, very fast and smooth.