Ralph Compton - Blood on the Gallows

The woman leaned forward and whispered a few words, and the man finally turned away. But not before he gave McBride a challenging glance that spoke of arrogance and power and of a high-handed confidence built with a fast gun and kills on his back trail.

The young man, whoever he was, obviously walked a wide path and was used to lesser men stepping out of his way, and McBride was in no mood to confront him. Instead his attention was drawn to the woman sitting opposite him.

She looked to be in her early twenties, her hair auburn, her eyes, as far as McBride could judge, a luminous green. But, unlike her companion whose clothes were new and cut in the latest eastern style, her brown wool dress was expertly darned in places and her slender hands were red from the washtub and harsh lye soap. Despite all this, she was exceptionally lovely, gifted with a classic beauty that had defied the ravages of the harsh land, its scorching suns, cruel winters and ceaseless winds.

The girl was not, McBride decided, the man’s wife, but judging by the way he was intently talking to her, he very much wanted her to be. Either that or he was a predator seeking a bedmate, spouting practiced pretties to a girl much poorer, younger and less sophisticated than himself.

McBride’s ruminations were interrupted by a pleasant, middle-aged waitress who poured him coffee and waited to take his order. He asked for steak and eggs and something for the kitten, a request that drew another irritated look from the man at the window table.

‘‘Take the damned cat outside and feed it,’’ he snapped. ‘‘This is a restaurant, not a livery barn.’’

McBride ignored the man even as he read an alarmed warning in the waitress’s eyes. He smiled. ‘‘And, as I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted, something for the kitten.’’

‘‘Milk,’’ the waitress suggested. ‘‘Does he like milk?’’

‘‘I think he needs something more substantial than milk,’’ McBride said, aware of the fashionable young man’s hostile stare.

The waitress thought for a few moments, then smiled. ‘‘I have some fried chicken left over from lunch. I could break up some of that for him.’’

‘‘Sounds good to me.’’ McBride held the kitten at eye level. ‘‘Sound good to you, Sammy?’’ The little animal mewed softly and the big man grinned. ‘‘Sammy likes your suggestion. Fried chicken it is.’’

To McBride’s surprise the waitress leaned close to him and urgently whispered, ‘‘That’s Lance Josephine. He’s killed a lot of men and for no good reason. Be careful.’’

Right then McBride had been thinking about steak and eggs, but he caught up with what the woman was telling him and nodded. He glanced over at Josephine. The man was looking at the waitress suspiciously, obviously wondering what she’d just told the big stranger. His glittering eyes followed her to the kitchen, then slid like gun barrels back to McBride.

But the big man refused to be baited. The last thing he wanted was trouble with a man who killed for the joy of it. He took off his plug hat, placed it on the chair next to him and made a show of fussing with the kitten.

Josephine’s eyes held on McBride for long, threatening moments; then he turned to the girl again. He said, loud enough for McBride to hear: ‘‘I’ve got to talk to Dora about letting saddle trash like that in here.’’

McBride was stung and he felt a surge of hot, rising anger. The kitten sensed the man’s tension and its amber eyes studied his face, its small body suddenly rigid. It took a tremendous effort of will, but McBride let Josephine’s comment go. Thinking back, he’d been called worse in New York, where the sullen denizens of Hell’s Kitchen were never at a loss for an insult when it came to the police.

Sticks and stones may break my bones . . .

McBride smiled to himself. He’d often recited that when he was a kid and there was a lot of truth to the old saying. He breathed deep, relaxed and when their food came he and the kitten ate as though they were starving. Which, of course, they both were.

The food was good and when he’d eaten, McBride sighed and pushed back from the table. The calico kitten, full of chicken, curled up in his lap and promptly fell asleep.

Then it happened.

Lance Josephine had been talking intently but quietly to the girl. Now his voice rose with his anger. ‘‘You will, Clare, because I say you will. We’ll get married tomorrow by Judge Preston if I have to horsewhip you and then drag you to his office by the hair.’’

Josephine’s thick fingers closed tightly on the girl’s hand, squeezing hard, and her face went pale with pain. The matronly waitress was standing helplessly at the kitchen door, a look of horror in her eyes.

‘‘Lance, no, you’re hurting me,’’ the girl said, her beautiful mouth twisted in agony.

McBride sprang to his feet, the frightened kitten jumping from his lap. Rain spattered against the restaurant window and a distant rumble declared that the thunder was returning.

Before McBride had time to act, a large, big-bellied man wearing a cook’s stained apron brushed past the waitress. He had a meat cleaver in his hand. ‘‘Here now, Mr. Josephine,’’ he said, stepping toward the young man’s table. ‘‘That won’t do.’’

Lance Josephine slowly turned his head and glanced up at the cook. McBride thought he looked like a snake contemplating a rat. Josephine jumped to his feet, sending his chair flying, and suddenly there was a gun in his hand. He fired into the cook and the man shrieked and staggered back a couple of steps. The cleaver dropped from his hand, clanking onto the wood floor.

Josephine fired. Then fired again. Hit three times in the chest, the cook slammed against the wall, then fell heavily to his left. The restaurant shook when his body hit the floor.

Lance Josephine was smiling. His cold eyes moved from the waitress to McBride. ‘‘You both saw it. He came at me with a meat cleaver. It was self-defense.’’ He turned and looked down at the girl, who was frozen in place, her expression stunned. ‘‘You saw it too, Clare. He gave me no choice.’’

The woman made no answer. McBride was aware of the waitress’s strangled cry as she threw herself on the dead man’s body and of his own flaming rage. He took a step toward Josephine. ‘‘You low-life piece of human filth, you murdered that man!’’

Lance Josephine’s eyes were black with death. He started to bring up his gun, his mouth a tight, hard line. McBride reached into his coat and pulled his .38 Smith & Wesson. ‘‘Go ahead, I want to kill you real bad,’’ he said.

A fast draw from a shoulder holster was the last thing Josephine had expected and it threw him. He hesitated an instant, his shocked eyes on the .38, and that gave McBride the time he needed. The big man swung his revolver with all the power he could muster. The barrel crashed into the bridge of Josephine’s nose, smashing bone. Blood splashed thick and scarlet over the man’s mustache and rolled down his chin. He lifted his head, took a staggering step back and triggered his Colt.

McBride heard the thin, vicious whisper of the bullet as he struck out again. He slammed the gun barrel into the side of Josephine’s head and the man groaned and dropped like a felled ox.

The waitress was sobbing over the body of the dead cook and McBride’s eyes moved from her to the girl. He called her by name. ‘‘Clare, go get the marshal.’’

The woman looked at him, her shocked eyes uncomprehending.

‘‘Get the marshal—now!’’ he yelled.

Like someone rousing herself from a trance, Clare let out a shuddering breath, then rose to her feet and ran past McBride to the door. She turned and glanced at him briefly. Her look told him that he too had a share in the violence that had overtaken her.