Ralph Compton - West of the Law

McBride shook Palmer’s hand, gave his name as John Smith, then motioned to the bartender to fill the miner’s glass. When the man had his drink he asked, ‘‘There’s a woman over there at the corner table, playing cards. Who is she?’’

Palmer gave McBride a knowing smile. ‘‘Sooner or later every stranger who sets foot in High Hopes asks that same question.’’ He tried his drink, grimaced and set his glass back on the bar. ‘‘Her name’s Shannon Roark. She’s the house dealer for the owner of the saloon.’’ The man nodded to the end of the bar. ‘‘That’s him over there. Name’s Gamble Trask and he cuts a wide path around these parts.’’

Trask was the handsome man McBride had seen outside the saloon with Shannon. Their eyes met and McBride was burned by the challenge in Trask’s eyes, that and the arrogance of money and power.

McBride had no quarrel with Gamble Trask. He had nothing to prove and did not want to draw unwelcome attention to himself. He looked quickly away, missing the cruel smile of triumph on the man’s face.

Palmer was talking again, smiling as though at some inner thought. ‘‘I know what’s on your mind, John Smith, but let it go. A lot of well-set fellows have tried to dab a loop on Shannon, as the cowboys say, but she’s sent them all packing with their tails between their legs and shrunk to about three feet tall. I believe Miss Roark is a woman who will choose her own man in her own time and on her own terms.’’ He nodded, still smiling, wistfully, like a man watching a fairy gift fade in the morning light. ‘‘Yup, that’s what I believe all right.’’

‘‘I want to meet her,’’ McBride said.

Palmer shrugged. ‘‘Easy enough. If you’re a gambling man, just sit in on the game at her table. If you’re not, she takes a break two or three times a night. You could ask her if you can buy her a drink.’’

‘‘Champagne?’’ McBride asked, making a snap judgment.

Palmer shook his head. ‘‘Tea. She never touches the hard stuff.’’

‘‘Then I’ll do—’’

McBride never finished his sentence. Suddenly Palmer, a small man, was jerked backward by the collar of his shirt and sent sprawling on the floor.

‘‘Just makin’ room at the bar is all,’’ the man who stepped into Palmer’s space laughed. Those around him who were within earshot laughed with him, uneasily, shifting their feet or suddenly finding something of great interest at the bottom of their glass.

John McBride didn’t laugh. Growing up hard as he had done, he’d met his share of bullies and he detested the breed. He had not wanted to draw unwelcome attention, but he could not let this go.

The man who stood arrogantly beside him, purposely crowding him, was the red-bearded man he’d seen from the hotel window who’d driven the young Chinese girls into the alley like livestock. Up close, Red Beard was huge, big in the shoulders and arms, and he shared Gamble Trask’s arrogance, his cruelty plain in his thin mouth and pale blue eyes. The man had fresh scratches on his left cheek, the marks of a woman’s fingernails. Remembering the little Chinese girls, McBride did not want to think about what had caused them to be there.

A white-hot anger building in him, McBride bent slightly and offered Palmer his hand. The miner shook his head, making no attempt to rise from the floor. ‘‘Let it go, Smith,’’ he said. His frightened eyes went to Red Beard, who was watching him and McBride with faint, contemptuous amusement. Palmer said, ‘‘Nolan didn’t mean nothing by it.’’

The man called Nolan grinned, his teeth long and yellow as piano keys. ‘‘That’s right, tin pan, I didn’t mean nothing by it. Just cleared myself some room.’’ He looked around at the men at the bar, his grin widening. ‘‘Ain’t that right, boys?’’

A chorus of approval by intimidated men followed and a few loudly banged their glasses on the bar. McBride’s voice, cold and flat, cut across the noise.

‘‘This gentleman’’—he bent and hauled Palmer to his feet—‘‘and I had not finished our conversation. Now, Nolan, if that’s your name, step away and clear a space.’’

Nolan looked like he’d been slapped. He stood staring at McBride in stunned wonderment for a few long seconds, then said, shaking out the bullwhip in his right hand, ‘‘Mister, nobody talks to Jim Nolan like that. Just to be sure you remember, I’m going to cut some of the hide right off’n you.’’

The man carried a Colt in a cross-draw holster on his left hip and McBride had no doubt he was a practiced fighting man. He had not wanted to step into the limelight, but now it was being forced on him and if he tried to back off, he knew Nolan would kill him.

A hush had settled on the saloon, the last few notes of the piano faltering to a ragged stop. McBride was aware that down at the other end of the bar Trask and his gunman Hack Burns were watching him intently. Smiling.

Nolan stepped back, giving himself room to swing the whip. Above his beard, the man’s face glowed with a triumphant, vicious light. He was a man who looked like he enjoyed killing and he was enjoying it now, like a glutton anticipating the first bite of a feast spread before him.

‘‘You’re making a big mistake, Nolan,’’ McBride said, his eyes cold. ‘‘I’m a man grown, not a little Chinese girl you can push around.’’

Stung, Nolan roared and swung the bullwhip.

McBride moved—very fast for a big man. His fingers curled on the beer mug in front of him and he hurled it with all his strength into Nolan’s face.

The glass hit Nolan high on the forehead, opening a cut, and beer splashed over his face and beard. The big man roared his fury, and swung back his arm again, readying the bullwhip for a slashing strike at McBride’s face that could tear out his eyes.

McBride did not let him get set. He moved in on Nolan and stabbed a straight right into the man’s mouth. Nolan was sobered by the unexpected power behind that punch and he stepped back, shaking his head, blood and saliva flying from his smashed lips. He dropped the whip, realizing the big man would not give him room to swing its ten-foot length, and waded into McBride, punching hard to the body with both hands.

McBride fought back, standing his ground. He took a swinging right to the jaw from Nolan and pretended to stagger, hoping the man would come after him. Nolan did and McBride closed with him again. He hammered the front of his skull onto the bridge of Nolan’s nose and felt the crunch of bone. Nolan went back, gasping, blood staining his red beard scarlet. But he was far from beaten.

Nolan rushed in, swinging both fists at McBride’s face. Solid blows smashed into McBride’s chin and he staggered for real this time, his hat flying away as his head snapped back. His legs were threatening to buckle under him, and in that instant McBride knew he was fighting for his life. If he dropped to the floor, Nolan would use his boots to kick him to a bloody pulp.

‘‘Now you got him, Jim!’’ somebody in the crowd yelled. ‘‘Put him away.’’

McBride hung on, wrestling now as Jim Nolan tried to throw him to the floor. He felt steel in the man, the roping muscles along his spine as big as a ship’s cables. For the first time since the fight began, McBride realized this was a knuckle, boot and skull battle he could easily lose.

He arched as Nolan’s enormous arms circled his waist, trying to break his back. The pain made McBride gasp and he felt the bones of his lower spine grind. Nolan’s shattered face was very close to his own. He smelled blood on the man’s breath as his grip tightened. ‘‘I’m going to snap you like a twig,’’ Nolan taunted. ‘‘You’ll scream like a woman.’’