Ralph Compton - West of the Law

Portugee had stopped near the platform. It looked like he’d rounded up every spare freight wagon in town. In addition to his own three, there were another seven, drawn by mules, each covered with a bowed canvas. He and Ali al-Karim were up on the box of the first, Portugee at the reins, and his crew of ruffians were scattered among the others.

McBride drew back his head, then returned to the shelter of the boxes. Portugee must plan on driving the girls west to a station on the Union Pacific and then loading them on a train to carry them across the Divide. Thinking of his hat and money belt, McBride knew a man who would rob an honest traveler of his few possessions would also make sure he disposed of the wagons at a handsome profit.

It seemed that everything Portugee touched turned to gold. McBride hoped to soon change all that.

The band was playing ‘‘Old Joe Clark’’ when a cheer went up from the crowd. McBride stepped away from his hiding place and his eyes searched the distance. He saw what had excited the crowd, a ribbon of black smoke emerging from the haze.

McBride drew back and checked his gun. But as he shoved the Colt back into his waistband, his elbow caught the edge of one of the empty boxes and it clattered, rolling onto the platform.

Donovan’s head turned toward the sound and his face went black with anger when he saw McBride. Shannon was watching him too, but her eyes revealed a tangle of emotion, compassion knotted up with apprehension and a measure of fear.

Donovan urgently whispered to Burns and the Allisons. Burns smirked, the birthmark on his face like a bloodstain. Then he and the brothers walked slowly but purposefully in McBride’s direction.

It had come. The fight was on. McBride pulled his gun and held it at his side, thumb on the hammer, waiting, ready.

Burns got closer. He’d pulled back his coat, clearing his gun. The sun caught the star on his shirt and winked silver light.

At that moment, Dolly walked out of the waiting room, a carpetbag in her hand. She sized up what was happening, smiled at McBride and stepped quickly between him and the three gunmen.

It was a shrewd move and McBride appreciated it. If Burns and the Allisons cut loose, the chances were that a stray bullet would hit Dolly. At that time in the West, the Victorian ideal that a male should never abuse a respectable member of the fairer sex set a standard that was rigidly enforced. Killing a woman was a hanging offense, a fact that would not be lost on Burns and the Allisons.

McBride saw hesitation in Burns’ face. He and the Allisons stopped where they were, but the confrontation was not over. All Dolly had given McBride was a few extra moments of time.

In the distance he heard the hoarse, smoky chuff-chuff-chuff of the approaching locomotive. The crowd was cheering and the band had stopped ‘‘Old Joe Clark’’ in midnote and was now robustly playing ‘‘The Dark-Haired Lass.’’

The train was closer now. The locomotive’s bell was clanging and thick, greasy smoke belched from the chimney. Blond heads were sticking out of every carriage window, all of them giggling. The girls were obviously amazed and excited at the size and scope of their reception.

McBride had to move. To remain where he was would put Dolly in even more danger. He picked up one of the empty crates and threw it at Burns. The gunman jumped to the side, cursing, and the box, splintering into pieces, bounded past his legs.

McBride turned and ran. He jumped off the edge of the platform and sprinted behind the station. He heard the thud of feet as Burns and the Allisons took off after him.

The train had come to a clanking, hissing halt and another cheer went up from the crowd. McBride ran directly for Portugee’s wagon. The man was standing up in the box, yelling to his men to leave the wagons, get up on the platform and ride herd on the girls.

Portugee turned to say something to the Arab and saw McBride. His dark face twisted in shock and he reached down for the rifle leaning against the seat.

McBride fired at a run. His bullet hit Portugee dead center in the chest and the man screamed and toppled backward into the wagon bed. Al-Karim stood, his right hand flashing for the dagger in an ornate sheath he wore at his side. No mercy in him, McBride fired into the man, fired again and saw the Arab topple from the wagon seat and hit the ground with a thud.

A bullet grazed McBride’s upper right arm and another split the air near his head. He heard the screams of girls from the platform, and panicked people streamed back toward town, away from the flying lead.

McBride ran past a wagon, then another. A bullet gouged the side of a wagon and threw splinters into his face. He got behind a huge, steel-rimmed wheel and snapped off a fast shot at Burns. A miss. But it had the effect of slowing the man down. More wary now, he and the Allisons came on at a walk.

McBride fired again, then ran for the platform, reloading as he went. People were streaming past him and the terrified orphan girls were milling around, uncertain of what to do or where to go. As he jumped onto the platform a fusillade of shots came from McBride’s left and men were going down—Portugee’s men.

A stray bullet hit a tall girl in a white dress and she collapsed to the ground, sudden blood staining her left shoulder. Some of the other girls clustered around her as McBride ran past.

He was looking for Sean Donovan.

He pushed his way through a shifting sea of shrieking young females—and was stunned at what he saw ahead of him.

Detective Inspector Thomas Byrnes was standing on the platform, gun in hand, with a dozen of New York’s finest around him, a motley group of detectives in shabby suits and plug hats. Several of Portugee’s pirates lay sprawled on the ground. The rest had their hands in the air, looking seasick.

Byrnes grinned, waved to McBride, then staggered as a bullet hit him. His detectives were firing at targets to McBride’s left. McBride turned and saw the Allison brothers, holding their ground, shooting steadily like the professional gunmen they were. But Hack Burns had turned and run, sprinting back toward town.

There was no sign of Shannon or Donovan.

Pushing his way through the girls a second time, McBride jumped off the platform and went after Burns. He pounded past the Allisons, fleetingly noted the startled expression on their faces and then was beyond them, running hard.

No bullets probed after him. The brothers were fully engaged with Byrnes and his men and didn’t have time to spare for him.

Ahead of him, Burns reached the outlying buildings of town. He looked over his shoulder, saw McBride and thumbed off a shot. The bullet kicked up dirt at McBride’s feet, but he did not slow, nor did he fire. He figured the range was too great for his dubious marksmanship.

Burns disappeared into an alley and McBride ran after him. He emerged into the street at the other side and quickly looked around him. The street was deserted, the good people of High Hopes obviously deciding it was safer indoors when a shooting war raged.

There was no sign of Hack Burns, but opposite McBride was the Golden Garter. It could be that Donovan had fled there with Shannon.

His gun up and ready, McBride crossed the street. He was halfway to his destination when the saloon’s batwing doors swung open. A man stood there, his legs spread, looking at McBride with a cruel, mocking grin.

‘‘You chased me, McBride,’’ Burns said. ‘‘Well, now you’ve caught me.’’

The gunman was in no hurry. He had McBride flat-footed in the middle of the street, out in the open with no cover.

Burns’ left hand slowly moved to his shirt pocket and he started to take out the makings. But then his right dropped to his gun and it came up spouting flame.