Ralph Compton - Blood on the Gallows

‘‘You’ve been a peace officer somewhere along your back trail.’’

‘‘How can you tell?’’

‘‘The way you stand, the sternness in your eyes, the noble, righteous way you talk. It takes one to know one, I guess.’’ The lawman shook his head. ‘‘No, McBride, I don’t take the time to charge a man with anything. I hang him or I gun him. That’s how I administer the law in this town. But for this once I’m allowing you some slack since you’re only passing through. Call it professional courtesy.’’

‘‘A gun and the rope isn’t much of a way to administer the law.’’

‘‘It suits me. It suits this town.’’

McBride turned on his heel but into the dark, dead space between them Harlan said, ‘‘Take care of your kitten, McBride, and stay out of trouble. I don’t want to draw on you unless I have to. That’s friendly advice from one law officer to another.’’

McBride stopped and turned. ‘‘Marshal, don’t threaten me with your gun. When a man threatens me with a gun I get scared and when I get scared I get violent and bad things happen. That’s more friendly advice from one law officer to another.’’

‘‘Look into the cat’s eyes, McBride,’’ Harlan called out to the big man’s retreating back. ‘‘Maybe you’ll see the spirit world and decide you really don’t want to go there any time soon.’’

The marshal laughed, a mocking cackle that followed McBride all the way to the hotel. Like bat wings flapping around his head.

Chapter 5

‘‘I’m sorry, sir, but we don’t allow animals in the hotel.’’ The desk clerk didn’t look sorry; he looked pleased, a small man forcing a big man to take a step back. It didn’t happen often.

‘‘He’s a kittlin’,’’ McBride said. ‘‘What harm will he do?’’

‘‘You can leave the animal outside and pick it up in the morning if you have a mind to.’’ The clerk had sleek, patent leather hair parted in the middle and a thin line of black mustache adorned his top lip. He looked smug, officious, and McBride badly wanted to punch him.

Instead he said, ‘‘He’s hungry.’’

The clerk shook his glossy head. ‘‘I’m afraid that is no concern of the staff and management of the Kip and Kettle Hotel.’’

McBride held the kitten high and talked into the little animal’s face. ‘‘Hear that, huh? Cat, you’re an undesirable. I’d have thought you’d fit in real well in this town.’’

‘‘There are other hotels,’’ the clerk said as McBride tucked the kitten into his slicker.

The big man nodded. ‘‘Well, now. Me and the kittlin’ have taken a liking to this one.’’

‘‘Then I’m sorry. There’s really nothing I can do.’’

‘‘What’s the trouble here?’’

McBride turned and saw a buxom, round-faced woman at his elbow.

Immediately the desk clerk’s voice took on a fawning tone. ‘‘This man wants to bring an animal into the hotel, Miss Ryan. I told him no, as per your instructions.’’

‘‘What kind of animal?’’ The woman looked to be in her early thirties. She had beautiful turquoise eyes and a generous cleavage that would draw any man’s attention.

McBride smiled. ‘‘You must be Denver Dora Ryan, Prop.’’

The turquoise eyes frosted a little. ‘‘Dora will do just fine. What kind of animal?’’

McBride showed her the calico. ‘‘He’s just a kittlin’.’’

‘‘I’ve never heard one called that before.’’

‘‘My Irish grandmother used to say that, I mean, call a kitten a kittlin’.’’

The little cat had spread-eagled itself against McBride, its head on his chest, asleep.

‘‘You call it that? Kittlin’?’’

‘‘No. I’ve taken a notion to call him Sammy. I’ve always thought Sammy was a crackerjack name.’’

Dora reached out and ran a forefinger up and down the kitten’s back. ‘‘It’s a name. Where did you find him?’’

‘‘Back there on the boardwalk. Two fellows were shaping up to take pots at him.’’

The woman looked shocked. ‘‘Who would do such a thing?’’

‘‘One called himself Jake Streeter, the other was Ed somebody.’’

‘‘Jake Streeter and Ed Beaudry,’’ Dora said. She turned to the desk clerk. ‘‘Hear that, Silas?’’

The man smiled. ‘‘I heard it.’’ He looked at McBride and asked, disbelief and scorn in his voice, ‘‘How come you’re still alive, mister?’’

McBride refused to be baited. ‘‘Just lucky, I guess. Right now Mr. Streeter has a headache and Mr. Beaudry needs to see a dentist.’’

Dora looked at McBride as though she were seeing him for the first time. ‘‘Silas is right. You are lucky to be alive. Streeter and Beaudry are contract killers out of the Rattlesnake Mountains country in the Nations. They’re fast with the iron and they’ll cut any man, woman or child in half with a shotgun for fifty dollars.’’

‘‘Seems likely. Somebody told me they’re good at what they do,’’ McBride said.

‘‘The best.’’ Dora turned to the desk clerk. ‘‘Put the stranger and his friend Sammy in room twenty-three.’’

‘‘But, Miss Ryan—’’ The clerk saw the expression in the woman’s eyes and bit off his words. ‘‘Yes, yes, of course, Miss Ryan,’’ he said, his prominent Adam’s apple bobbing. ‘‘Room twenty-three it is.’’

‘‘I’m obliged,’’ McBride said to the woman.

‘‘Think nothing of it. I feel sorry for the cat,’’ Dora said. She turned and walked away, the silk of her dress rustling as though she were walking through fallen leaves.

The clerk pushed the register toward McBride. ‘‘Make your mark.’’

The big man signed his name and took the key.

‘‘Upstairs, third door on the right,’’ the clerk said. His dull eyes lifted to McBride’s face. ‘‘Miss Ryan meant what she said about feeling sorry for the cat. She doesn’t take a shine to most folks that way.’’

‘‘Shows good sense. Neither do I.’’

McBride climbed the stairs, aware of the clerk’s gaze crawling over his back. He had made an enemy but that seemed real easy to do in Rest and Be Thankful.

The room was a fair size, furnished with a bed, a dresser, two cane-bottomed chairs, a nightstand and an oil lamp. A basin and a pitcher of water stood on the dresser and above those an embroidered sampler was tacked to the wall that read HAVE YOU WRITTEN TO MOTHER?

‘‘There’s no place like home, huh, Sammy?’’ McBride said as he lit the lamp, then set his bedroll and rifle in a corner. He dropped the kitten onto the bed and immediately the little animal, its eyes glowing with amber fire, launched into a long, complicated series of yowls and meows that sounded like a speech.

McBride listened for a while, then sat beside the kitten. ‘‘Sammy, I don’t speak cat, but if you’re thanking me for saving your life, you’re quite welcome. On the other hand, if you’re telling me you’re hungry, then we’ll head for the hotel restaurant.’’ He smiled. ‘‘Just don’t order the oysters. I can’t afford them.’’

There was no sign of the desk clerk as McBride crossed the lobby and stepped through a pair of frosted glass doors into the restaurant.

There were only two other diners, a young couple who sat at a candlelit table near the window. The man was expensively dressed in the fashion of the time, his yellow hair long and curling over his collar. He was handsome, flashy, a diamond stickpin the size of a hazelnut in his red cravat. But there was a hint of cruelty in his mouth and his blue eyes hardened when he saw McBride take a seat, holding the kitten.

‘‘Surprised he didn’t bring his horse,’’ the sneering man said in a whisper, but intentionally pitched his words loud enough for McBride to hear.