Ralph Compton - West of the Law

He made no answer to Trask’s question.

‘‘John?’’ A slight note of irritation.

‘‘Sure,’’ McBride said. ‘‘That’s fine by me.’’ Around him people were watching. He was now full in the glare of the spotlight, a place he never wanted to be. A place, he knew, that could well get him killed.

Trask was talking again. ‘‘Do you want to hear about the job I’m offering?’’

The safest course was to go along with it. At least for now. ‘‘Like I told you earlier, I’m listening,’’ McBride said.

Trask clapped his hands. ‘‘Excellent! I like a man who listens.’’ He turned his head and glanced up at Burns. ‘‘John is true-blue, isn’t that the truth of it, Hack?’’

Burns nodded, his face expressionless. ‘‘What-ever you say, boss, whatever you say.’’

Trask turned to McBride again. ‘‘Now, John, here’s the deal. I liked how you handled yourself against Nolan. You’re good with your fists and a gun and I need men like you. I want you to serve as one of Marshal Burns’ deputies. A hundred and twenty a month, and that’s just for starters. And I’ll pay a substantial bonus every time I think you’ve done a good job for me.’’ The man smiled. ‘‘How does that set with you, Deputy Marshal Smith? Think of it, man—you can get rich in High Hopes. I can make you rich.’’

McBride nodded. ‘‘It’s a tempting offer, but I believe I’ll pass.’’

Throwing up his hands in mock exasperation, Trask said, ‘‘Well, what more can I do? John, I can tell by your accent that you’re new to the Western lands and unfamiliar with our ways. Trust me, you’ll never get such an offer again, not from me or anyone else. Remember, I’m the big man in town and I plan on getting a sight bigger. You can grow with me.’’

‘‘I appreciate it, Trask,’’ McBride said, knowing the use of the man’s name without the ‘‘Mr.’’ would sting. ‘‘But I’m not for sale.’’

Ice formed in Trask’s eyes. He was a powerful man, a man well used to getting his way and now this . . . this nonentity had the impertinence to thwart him. ‘‘All right,’’ he said, ‘‘I planned on giving you a fair shake and you turned me down. No harm done.’’ He rose to his feet. ‘‘Marshal Burns, see that . . . ah . . . Mr. Smith is out of town by noon tomorrow.’’

Now Burns showed his first sign of interest. The mark on his cheek stood out in stark relief as he smiled at McBride with all the warmth of a hungry panther. ‘‘I’ll see that it’s done, boss,’’ he said.

‘‘You’re making a mistake, Trask,’’ McBride said, his voice level. He did not look up, studiously turning his beer glass on the table. ‘‘I plan on staying around for a while.’’

Trask had been about to walk away. Now he stopped. ‘‘Smith, get out of High Hopes by noon tomorrow or you’ll die,’’ he said. ‘‘The choice is yours.’’

After Trask left, Hack Burns lingered. ‘‘You made the boss look small in front of everybody, Smith,’’ he said. ‘‘I’ll kill you for that if I see you around town after noon tomorrow.’’

McBride’s gaze lifted to the gunman. ‘‘He is small, Burns. I didn’t make him that way.’’ He felt his battered face stiffen. ‘‘And I don’t plan on going anywhere.’’

‘‘Just remember what I told you,’’ Burns said. ‘‘I saw you gunfight Nolan, and mister, you ain’t near good enough. If you’re on the street’’—he pointed directly upward—‘‘after the sun is that high, you’re a dead man.’’

John McBride smiled inwardly as Burns walked away. Back in New York what the gunman had just told him would be considered a sure conversation stopper. But it was true that Burns’ talking was all done. Tomorrow he’d act, and he’d be almighty sudden and deadly.

Common sense told McBride that now was the time to cut and run, just like he’d done in New York. Inspector Byrnes had ordered him to lie low and not attract attention to himself. Bitterly, he realized he’d disobeyed that order. By morning the whole damn town would be aware that Gamble Trask had told him to get out of High Hopes and that Hack Burns had promised to shoot him on sight if he did not.

He was now a marked man, and as such, he’d be the focus of much talk and speculation. His cover was blown. It was high time to pick up and leave.

Yet McBride was tired of running. The way he’d been forced to flee Sean Donovan and his hired assassins still rankled, eating at him like a cancer. The bottom line was he could swallow his pride and get out of High Hopes or stay and face Hack Burns. Neither option had much appeal for him. And even if he killed Burns in a gunfight, and that outcome was in doubt, what then? He would attract even more attention, becoming a named man, a gunfighter, and his fame would spread.

Notoriety like that might even reach New York by way of the newspapers and dime novels and the eager ears of Sean Donovan. Of course, his name would be told as John Smith, but his description would be written in detail. Donovan was not a stupid man. He might put two and two together and start asking questions. And had not Byrnes told him that the man’s tentacles reached far . . . maybe as far as the town of High Hopes, west of forever?

Like a man groping his way along a dark tunnel, McBride could see no way out and there was no light. Suddenly he felt trapped with nowhere to turn. . . .

Then Shannon Roark walked into his life.

He saw her step toward him, moving through the crowd of drab miners like crimson fire.

McBride rose to his feet, his heart pounding, as the woman reached his table. Her smile was dazzling, her lustrous beauty breathtaking. ‘‘May I sit?’’

‘‘Yes,’’ McBride stammered. ‘‘Yes, of course.’’

‘‘My name is Shannon Roark,’’ the woman said as he helped her into a chair.

‘‘Yes, yes, I know that.’’ McBride knew he must look a sight with one eye swollen shut in his battered face, blood staining the sleeve of his shirt where Nolan’s bullet had burned him. And now he was sounding like a shy, awkward teenage boy at his first cotillion. ‘‘My name is’’—he hesitated a moment, then finished—‘‘John Smith.’’

The brilliant smile flashed again. ‘‘And I also know that. Gamble . . . Mr. Trask . . . told me.’’ Shannon leaned across the table, her fingertips resting lightly on the back of McBride’s hand. ‘‘I heard about the unpleasantness between you and Gamble. I’m so sorry. He’s terribly upset.’’

‘‘Is that why he ordered me out of town?’’

‘‘Oh, that . . . it’s just Gamble’s way. He didn’t mean a word of it.’’

‘‘He sounded pretty convincing to me.’’

The woman’s perfume filled McBride’s head and his eyes lingered on the slim, ivory column of her neck, her naked shoulders and the swell of her breasts barely confined by the crimson silk of her dress.

He was falling in love, moment by moment, devastated by a longing that was almost a hunger. He had no idea where it would end . . . but he fervently hoped this was the beginning.

‘‘John,’’ Shannon said. She smiled. ‘‘I like that name, John. It has a rare solidity to it. John, Gamble won’t tell you this himself, but he needs a man like you. He needs a strong right arm he can depend upon. He confides in me and he has told me that many times.’’

With a tremendous effort of will, McBride fought back to sanity. He was glad his voice held steady as he said, ‘‘He has Hack Burns for that.’’

The woman shook her head, a glossy tendril of auburn hair bouncing at the back of her neck. ‘‘Burns can’t fulfill that role, nor can the rest of Gamble’s men. Hack Burns is a killer and I believe he might be insane. As for the others . . . well, they’re big on brawn but light on brains.’’ Her brilliant hazel eyes found McBride’s. ‘‘Gamble needs you, John. One day he’ll be the biggest man in the state of Colorado and he won’t forget those who helped him. I can make everything all right again, let bygones be bygones. You only have to say the word.’’