Ralph Compton: West of the Law Page 5

  ‘‘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.’’

  ‘‘Shannon, I told Trask that I’m not for sale. That answer still stands.’’ McBride shook his head. ‘‘I just don’t like the man.’’

  ‘‘Then I can’t convince you to change your mind?’’

  ‘‘No, Shannon, I won’t change my mind.’’

  The woman stood, her back stiff, and McBride knew he was losing her. She was slipping through his fingers like mist.

  ‘‘Then I can do no more for you,’’ she said, turning to leave.

  Desperately McBride tried to keep her there, close to him. ‘‘Shannon!’’

  She stared at him, her face a beautiful, porcelain mask. ‘‘Yes?’’

  The raucous racket of the crowded revelers was closing in on him so he could hardly hear his own voice above the clamor. ‘‘Earlier tonight I saw Jim Nolan and another man walk into the alley alongside the saloon with four young Chinese girls.’’

  That was bad. He knew that much as soon as he said it. It was a policeman’s flat statement, not the soft, winning words of a suitor.

  For a single moment of time Shannon Roark’s mask slipped and McBride caught a flicker of surprise in her eyes. ‘‘What is so strange about that?’’

  ‘‘There was a steel cage on the wagon that brought them here and Nolan had his bullwhip.’’

  ‘‘They were probably visiting the Chinese fortune-teller’s shack behind the saloon,’’ Shannon said. ‘‘The Celestials do that maybe once or twice a year.’’ Her smile was not as bright as before. ‘‘I suppose they want to know when they’ll meet their future husbands.’’

  ‘‘Why Nolan and the whip?’’ Keep her talking. Keep her here.

  ‘‘Those Chinese miners out at the Spanish Peaks are very jealous of their womenfolk,’’ Shannon said easily. ‘‘They often hire men like Nolan to guard . . . ah . . . their virtue. The steel cage is another precaution. It keeps passing cowboys at arm’s length.’’ The woman shook her lovely head. ‘‘I would imagine the other man you spoke of has taken the girls home already.’’

  She waited. But when McBride did not speak she said, ‘‘Any other questions, Mr. Smith?’’

  He smiled in turn. ‘‘Sorry, Shannon, I’m a questioning man, I guess.’’

  ‘‘Then ask yourself this—do you still want to be alive at this time tomorrow?’’

  McBride opened his mouth to speak, but the woman stopped him. ‘‘You still have time to change your mind about Gamble. If you do, come talk to me. I’ll be here until daybreak.’’

  She left then, and only the whispering memory of her perfume remained.

  Chapter 6

  John McBride stepped out of the Golden Garter and onto the boardwalk. He stood in the shimmering glow of an oil lamp that touched his shoulders and the top of his hat with orange light.

  Now, more than ever, Shannon Roark seemed an unattainable prize and her beauty haunted him, causing him more pain than pleasure. Did he have any chance with her? He knew he did not. It would be easier for him to reach up and try to grab a handful of stars.

  McBride cupped his swollen eye with a scarred hand, feeling its heat. Well, he’d been punched in the eye a few times before and the swelling would eventually go down of its own accord. He had no need to see a doctor. His back and ribs were aching, but nothing seemed broken. He would live.

  At least for a while.

  The humor of that thought made him smile and suddenly, to his surprise, he was hungry. He turned to his left and stepped along the crowded boardwalk, past the alley where he’d seen the Chinese girls.

  The night was oppressively muggy, damp heat lying over the town like a shroud. The air was thick, hard to breathe, smelling rank from rotten vegetation and the dead dog that lay in the street, its back broken by the wheels of a freight wagon. Fat black flies buzzed everywhere and each oil lamp had its attendant swarm of scorched, tattered moths.

  McBride stopped a staggering miner who was sucking on a whiskey bottle, and asked about a restaurant.

  ‘‘The Bon-Ton,’’ the man slurred. He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. ‘‘Thataway.’’

  The restaurant was crowded when McBride stepped inside, and he turned some heads. He didn’t know if word of his gunfight with Nolan had gotten around or if it was his battered face, bloody shirt and swollen eye that had drawn their attention.

  A little of both, he decided as he found an empty place at one of the four benches in the room. The Bon-Ton was anything but elegant, but McBride guessed that few frontier eateries were. A pretty and clean enough waitress took his order—steak, potatoes and a couple of fried eggs—then returned and poured him coffee.

  The clientele was mostly miners, rough, bearded men in woolen shirts, their canvas pants stuffed into scuffed mule-eared boots. All carried knives and a few wore holstered revolvers on their belts. No one looked at McBride directly, but he knew by the excited, whispered talk that he was the focus of much conversation. He had killed a named gunman in a fair fight, and that made him a subject for discussion and speculation wherever Western men gathered. If gunfighters of reputation, the likes of John Wesley Hardin or Ben Thompson, had walked into the Bon-Ton, they would hardly have elicited more interest.

  And no doubt all present were aware that Hack Burns had threatened to kill the big man who was now bent to his food if he was still in town after noon tomorrow. That was an event to be eagerly anticipated.

  McBride was using a piece of bread to sop up the last of the gravy on his plate when a small, stocky man in a shabby suit of black broadcloth, a soft felt hat on his gray head, walked inside. The newcomer, who looked to be in his early seventies, glanced around the restaurant for a few moments. Then his eyes lit on McBride.

  ‘‘Mr. Smith, I presume,’’ he said.

  McBride nodded. The man tapped a miner who was sitting opposite McBride and said, ‘‘Do you mind?’’

  The miner looked up, opened his mouth to speak, then thought the better of it. He shrugged and slid farther up the bench. The gray-haired man took the vacated place and smiled benignly at McBride. ‘‘My name is Theodosius T. Leggett, owner and editor of the High Hopes Tribune.’’ He stuck out his hand. ‘‘Honored to make your acquaintance, sir.’’

  McBride took the proffered hand, then said, ‘‘I don’t talk to the newspapers, Mr. Leggett.’’

  ‘‘Ah, but that is no longer a problem,’’ Leggett said. ‘‘You see, I don’t have a newspaper anymore, not since’’—he looked around and raised his voice so everybody in the restaurant could hear—‘‘not since Mr. Gamble Trask destroyed my press and shut me down for suggesting that he was behind the shooting of Marshal Lute Clark.’’

  A buzz of comment ran around the Bon-Ton, but McBride detected very few voices sympathetic to Leggett.

  ‘‘What can I do for you, Mr. Leggett?’’ he asked, only half-interested in whatever the man might have to say.

  ‘‘Perhaps nothing. Perhaps everything. And, please, call me Theo. Everyone else does, when they call me anything.’’ Leggett waved to the young waitress. ‘‘Mattie, coffee h
ere, if you please.’’

  ‘‘Hold your horses, Theo,’’ the waitress yelled. ‘‘You’re not the only customer in the place, you know.’’

  ‘‘A delightful girl, just delightful,’’ Leggett muttered. He waved at Mattie again. ‘‘And bring a raw beefsteak with the coffee.’’

  The two men sat in silence for a few minutes, Leggett smiling slightly as he studied McBride’s face. Miners came and went, each one aiming a measuring glance at McBride as he passed.

  Mattie brought the coffee and laid a raw steak on the table. Leggett reached into his pocket, produced a pint of bourbon and held it up to McBride, his face framing a question.

  McBride shook his head and Leggett asked, ‘‘No?’’ then shrugged and poured a generous dollop into his own cup. ‘‘The beefsteak is for your eye, you know.’’

  ‘‘I don’t think I want to sit here holding a chunk of beef to my face,’’ McBride said.

  ‘‘Afraid these men will laugh at you? Trust me, after what you did to the late, unlamented Jim Nolan, they won’t.’’ Leggett picked up the steak. ‘‘Now, here, hold that to your eye. It will help with the swelling.’’

  McBride looked around the restaurant, then held the steak against his eye. ‘‘Thank you,’’ he said.

  ‘‘No trouble at all, my boy.’’

  ‘‘You still haven’t told me why you’re here.’’

  ‘‘Here? Why, to drink coffee. Later you and I will take a little stroll. I want to show you something.’’

  ‘‘A bit late for a stroll, isn’t it?’’

  Leggett laughed. ‘‘My dear boy, the night is young. It’s not yet midnight and High Hopes is only now hitting its stride.’’

  McBride started to rise, leaving the steak on the table. ‘‘Well, Theo, if it’s all the same to you, I believe I’ll pass on the stroll.’’ He grinned. ‘‘And the steak.’’

  Leggett’s eyes lifted to the tall man. ‘‘Even if a walk in the dark is the means of saving your life?’’

  ‘‘I don’t understand,’’ McBride said.

  The older man glanced around him. ‘‘Not here. There are too many ears. We’ll talk when we’re outside.’’

  Leggett insisted on picking up the bill for McBride’s meal, waving off his protests, then led the way to the door. They walked along the boardwalk until Leggett suddenly stopped under a hanging sign that said, TRAVIS RAMSEY & SON— GUNSMITHS.

  As though the sign had stirred something in his mind, the old newspaperman looked directly into McBride’s face and said, ‘‘You can’t beat Hack Burns in a gunfight, you know. He’ll put two or three bullets into you before you even shuck your gun. He’s the best around, maybe the best there is.’’

  ‘‘I have no intention of meeting Burns in a gun battle,’’ McBride said. ‘‘I’ve got nothing to prove.’’

  ‘‘He’ll come after you. You’ll have to prove yourself then.’’

  McBride felt trapped. The logical thing to do was to catch the first train out of town and go somewhere else. But his stiff-necked pride would not let him run away again. He knew it was a weakness in him, his pride, but he acknowledged it and accepted the limitations it placed on his future actions. And then there was Shannon. His feelings for her also conspired to keep him in High Hopes. There was no escaping that. What she was and what he hoped they might become was holding him in place, like a butterfly pinned to a board.

  ‘‘Leggett, what do you want from me?’’ McBride asked, his patience with the man wearing thin.

  ‘‘Soon. Trust me, I’ll tell you soon.’’ Leggett’s shrewd eyes made a study of McBride, from his battered plug hat to the dusty toes of his boots. He tapped the side of his nose with a forefinger. ‘‘Do you know what this is, John? It’s a nose, a nose for news, and right now it’s telling me that you’re a lawman of some kind. A Pinkerton maybe?’’

  ‘‘I’m not a Pinkerton,’’ McBride said. This old man was no fool.

  ‘‘But a policeman nevertheless. Or you were. From back East somewhere, Boston or Philadelphia perhaps, but more probably New York.’’

  Leggett read McBride’s startled expression and raised his arms above his head. ‘‘Yes! Formosa facies muta commendatio est! For those among us who know no Latin . . . ahem . . . that means, ‘Your handsome face is a silent testimonial.’ ’’

  The old man cocked his head to one side, his eyes as bright and inquisitive as a bird’s. ‘‘Look, no notebook, no Faber. Do you want to tell me about it?’’

  ‘‘I was a police officer, in New York, as you guessed.’’

  The boardwalk had cleared as the miners crowded into the saloons and the more respectable sort of townspeople had sought their beds. The moon was riding high in a starless sky, hazy from the rising heat, and out on the rolling plains the coyotes were talking.

  Leggett had stirred McBride’s memory. My God, had it been only a few short weeks? It already seemed like a lifetime ago.

  Strange, that . . . very strange . . .

  The Honey Heaven had been the worst kind of brothel in the Four Corners, one of big Sean Donovan’s lesser establishments where he sent his worn-out whores to be finally worked to death. Only the poorest, most drink-sodden male denizens of the slums that made up Hell’s Kitchen ever went there. The women’s cheeks were pockmarked, their skin mottled, cavernous canker sores all over their toothless gums. Their rented lovers took them in beds crawling with lice, bedbugs, crabs, fleas and other vermin. The men kept their shoes on lest the gibbering rats chew on their toes before they were finished, and the brothel stank of ingrained filth, vomit and disease and the stench of the rank barrels placed outside the doors of the rooms to collect human waste. Among all this ran swarming, naked children with the sly, feral eyes of wild animals, starving, their ribs showing in bodies covered in sores and as white as the bellies of fish.

  Here, one dark, rainy night, young, handsome Patrick Donovan came to collect his father’s dues. He flashed his diamonds, pretending not to notice the vile hell around him. As his father had told him many times, ‘‘Money doesn’t stink.’’ Patrick himself believed in that implicitly.

  Here too, that night, came Detective Inspector Thomas Byrnes, Detective Sergeant John McBride and a dozen uniformed officers. They had come to raid the place, the shot, stabbed or just plain dead bodies thrown on the sidewalk outside the Honey Heaven most mornings having finally become too much for even the most hardened residents of the Kitchen.

  Perhaps when young Patrick Donovan spotted McBride and drew his gun, he believed, as the son of a rich and influential man, the big cop would quail before him and let him go. In this he was wrong. Fatally wrong. McBride, a man who was fond of children and was already incensed at how they were abused at the Honey Heaven, saw Donovan slide the .44 Colt from a shoulder holster and fired, instinctively, without thought. His bullet smacked into the middle of Patrick’s handsome forehead and the young man suddenly looked old and he dropped. Inspector Byrnes later noted, with grim satisfaction, that he had been dead when he hit the ground.

  From that moment on, big Sean Donovan, ravaged by grief and possessed by a terrible rage, declared John McBride a marked man, saying that he would bestow riches on the one who brought him his ears.

  ‘‘Why did you leave the city?’’ Leggett asked.

  ‘‘I killed a man,’’ McBride told Leggett, the details of that night a lifetime ago lingering like ghosts in his memory.

  ‘‘And you had to flee New York.’’

  ‘‘Something like that. The father of the man I killed put a price on my head. I was given a leave of absence and told to head West and lie low.’’