Ralph Compton - West of the Law

Dolly shook her head. ‘‘No, but I can see in your eyes that you’ve already died a little death. I’d just hate to see you die another.’’

‘‘Trust me, the second will be a lot more permanent.’’

‘‘Will it, McBride? Will it really?’’

He had no answer for that question, knowing that Dolly was right. If he lived through this day, the hurt he felt right then would be with him for the rest of his life.

Dolly read the answer in his face and did not push him. She said, ‘‘Are you hungry?’’

McBride forced a smile. ‘‘Believe it or not, I am. I could eat a steak and maybe six fried eggs.’’

‘‘How about ham, potatoes and maybe three fried eggs?’’

‘‘Suits me just fine.’’

As they walked back to the house, McBride asked, ‘‘Do you still intend to leave the marshal?’’

The woman stopped and turned to him. ‘‘I’ll be at the station at noon, just like you. When the train pulls out again it will be empty and I’ll ask the conductor to take me wherever it goes.’’

‘‘I’m sorry it’s working out this way, Dolly.’’

‘‘Feel sorry for yourself, McBride. At least I’ll still be alive.’’

He grinned. ‘‘You sure know how to boost a man’s confidence.’’

‘‘Uh-huh, learned that when I was working the line.’’

Dolly’s kitchen was warm and steamy and smelled of cinnamon and stewed green apples. She waved McBride to a chair at the wooden table and took down a skillet from the pot rack.

‘‘How do you like your eggs?’’

‘‘Over easy.’’

‘‘Comin’ right up.’’

The food was good and when McBride had finished eating he pushed his plate away and said, ‘‘That was an elegant meal, Dolly.’’

‘‘Hardly elegant, but I hope it filled a hole.’’

‘‘It did all of that.’’ He nodded in the direction of Clark’s bedroom. ‘‘How is he?’’

‘‘He knows I’m leaving today. He hasn’t said anything.’’

‘‘Want me to talk to him?’’

‘‘Lute won’t talk to you. He’s all through with talking. Now he waits for death to take him.’’

‘‘A man doesn’t have much of a choice on when that might be.’’

‘‘I hope it’s soon, McBride. For Lute’s sake I do.’’

‘‘Has he eaten anything this morning?’’

‘‘I took a breakfast in to him. He wouldn’t touch it.’’

‘‘Maybe I should talk to him.’’

Dolly shook her head as she brought her cup of tea to the table. ‘‘No. Lute has turned his face to the wall. He’ll die very soon, I think.’’

McBride cast around in his head for something to say. He found only a useless scrap: ‘‘Silas Knowles is dead. Sean Donovan killed him.’’

Dolly’s face was expressionless. ‘‘Silas wasn’t much.’’

A tense silence stretched between them. Finally McBride said, ‘‘You may not see me at the station, at least not right away. I’ll have to figure out how to go at it.’’

‘‘Be careful, McBride. That’s all.’’

‘‘If I’m lucky, I’ll kill Hack Burns for the marshal.’’

‘‘No, McBride, you won’t kill Hack Burns. He’s too fast, too good with a gun.’’

‘‘I’ll just have to figure out a way to go at it, that’s all.’’

Dolly’s eyes angled to the clock on the wall. ‘‘In another hour I’ll say good-bye to Lute. Then I’ll come to the barn and say good-bye to you.’’ Her smile was fragile. ‘‘I’ll be saying good-bye to dead men.’’

‘‘Don’t count me out, Dolly,’’ McBride said. He tapped the handle of the Colt in his waistband. ‘‘I’ve gotten pretty good with this thing.’’

‘‘You’ll fire six shots. Then they’ll kill you.’’ The woman sighed deep and rose to her feet. ‘‘Better rest up now, McBride. You look tired.’’

As he was leaving, Dolly stopped him. ‘‘McBride.’’

He turned. ‘‘Yeah?’’

‘‘Good luck.’’

Chapter 30

McBride couldn’t remember the last time he’d been in church, but he felt it right to pray a little. He had no illusions about what he’d be facing in less than three hours. He didn’t have any kind of plan. All he could think of doing was to confront Donovan with his gun drawn and then let the chips fall from there.

But it was thin, real thin, and the outcome would be a very uncertain thing. If he raised enough fuss, others might hear and ask questions and the girls might be freed.

He shook his head on his straw pillow. It was all ‘‘might.’’ Nothing was certain.

McBride did not sleep. Portugee had taken his watch and he judged the approach to noon by the sun. When he figured the hour was near, he rose to his feet, checked his gun and stepped out of the barn. Then he stopped. He’d forgotten about the mustang.

He walked back inside and threw the little horse more hay and a generous scoop of oats. He slapped the mustang on the shoulder and said, ‘‘If we don’t meet again, pard, thanks for putting up with me.’’

The horse continued to chomp hay, as though McBride had not spoken. He smiled and walked out of the barn, into the sunlight.

To his surprise there was a large crowd on the station platform and he heard a brass band tuning up their instruments. He mingled with others walking toward the station and lost himself in the crowd. He asked an older woman at his side, ‘‘What’s all the excitement about, ma’am?’’

‘‘Orphan train comin’ in,’’ the woman answered. ‘‘What larks! That nice Mr. Donovan, the new owner of the Golden Garter Saloon, says he’s going to find good homes for all of them.’’

‘‘That’s true-blue of him,’’ McBride said, keeping a straight face.

‘‘They say it’s all young girls,’’ the old lady said. ‘‘I wouldn’t mind getting one myself. At my age I need a servant.’’

It seemed to McBride that the whole town with the exception of miners who had left for the diggings was gathering to see the show. There had never been an orphan train in High Hopes and only a double hanging would have attracted a larger crowd.

He faded out of the throng and walked behind the station. Empty freight boxes were piled at the end of the platform, away from the crowd, and McBride stood beside them. From his place of concealment he had an excellent view of the entire station.

Sean Donovan was beaming, playing to the hilt his role of protector and benefactor of poor orphans to a crowd of admirers. He had his arm around Shannon’s slender waist, but gone were the vivid silk dresses she wore in the Golden Garter. In their place was a somber day gown of russet taffeta. A small hat of the same color was perched atop her piled-up hair and she carried a yellow parasol against the glare of the noon sun.

Beyond Shannon and Donovan, the Allison brothers and Hack Burns stood together. Burns was wearing a coat, unusual for him, probably to conceal his gun from the arriving girls, McBride guessed. Donovan had made sure that nothing would alarm or scare the orphans when they stepped off the train. Even the half-dozen saloon girls who were distanced along the platform wore demure dresses, the better to convince the orphans that all was well and they were in kindly hands.

As yet there was no distant plume of smoke to herald the coming of the train. The expectant rails glittered in the sunlight, an inverted V of polished iron that vanished into a shimmering haze at the horizon.

The six-piece band finished an enthusiastic if ragged rendition of ‘‘Haste to the Wedding,’’ then struck up ‘‘The Wisconsin Emigrant.’’

McBride watched Donovan turn his head, look behind him, then smile and nod to someone, but he couldn’t see who it was. He left the cover of the piled boxes and walked to the corner of the station.