Ralph Compton: West of the Law Page 9

  ‘‘Love me, John,’’ she murmured, her head thrown back as McBride’s lips sought her throat. ‘‘Love me forever.’’

  ‘‘I will,’’ he said, his head filled with the sweet, woman smell of her. ‘‘Forever . . .’’

  An hour later, after they parted ways, McBride lay back on the tumbled bed.

  The scent of Shannon Roark’s perfume lingered . . . and he saw her everywhere.

  Chapter 11

  John McBride woke to a gray dawn. On bare feet he rose and padded across the floor to the window. The wind had died, and sometime during the night a mist had drifted into town from the plains. Now it was lifting, like a wrinkled and ancient Salome removing the last veil, revealing High Hopes in all its shoddy ugliness.

  McBride had harbored a hope, all the while knowing how forlorn it was, that he might catch a glimpse of Shannon. But the street was empty of people and only the curling mist was moving.

  He moved to the dresser, poured water into the basin from the jug and washed as best he could. He glanced in the mirror, decided to postpone shaving for one more day, then dressed. He shrugged into his high-buttoned coat but left off the uncomfortable celluloid collar and tie.

  McBride slid the Smith & Wesson into the shoulder holster and settled his plug hat on his head. He stepped out of the room and walked downstairs into the new day.

  The warm glow from the time he’d spent with Shannon was still with McBride as he sat at a bench in the restaurant and ordered steak and eggs. The waitress looked much less pretty in the harsh dawn light—pale hair, pale skin and pale eyes—and McBride could not help but compare her insipid look to Shannon’s vibrant beauty. Mattie poured McBride coffee, showing little inclination for conversation, and walked back to the kitchen, leaving him alone.

  At this early hour of the morning, there were few other diners and McBride ate quickly and left.

  He stopped for a while on the boardwalk outside the restaurant and breathed the cool morning air. The mist was all but gone and only a few wisps lingered in the alleys like gray ghosts. A train pulled into the station, the locomotive’s bell clanking. Then it hissed to a stop, belching steam.

  McBride stepped aside for an unsteady miner who was heading for the restaurant with his head lowered, obviously nursing a hangover. Before he got to the door, McBride stopped him. ‘‘Where does Marshal Clark live?’’ he asked.

  The man looked McBride up and down, the stench of whiskey and foul humor on his breath. ‘‘Hell of a thing to ask a man conundrums afore he’s had a cup of coffee.’’

  ‘‘It’s a civil question and I expect a civil answer.’’

  The miner saw something in McBride’s eyes he didn’t like and it took the edge off his surliness. ‘‘Just outside of town, thataway. Yellow house. That is, if’n the old law dog is still alive. He’s got lead in him.’’

  McBride nodded his thanks and the miner turned away with a muttered curse and lurched into the restaurant.

  The marshal’s house was not hard to find. A hundred yards of open, sandy ground separated the place from the town limits and it stood in a grove of mixed piñon and juniper. A white picket fence surrounded the house, and from its polished brass door knocker to the blooming pink flowers in the window pots, the place had obviously been loved and cared for.

  McBride rapped on the door and after a few moments it was opened by a thin, careworn woman who looked to be in her early forties. She pushed a stray lock of hair from her forehead, settled it behind an ear and looked at McBride without speaking.

  He touched the brim of his hat. ‘‘Mrs. Clark?’’

  The woman shook her head. ‘‘I’m not Mrs. Clark. I’m not ‘Mrs.’ anybody. You here to see the marshal?’’

  ‘‘Yes. The name’s Smith, John Smith.’’

  ‘‘He’s met a lot of those.’’ The woman studied McBride for a moment or two, then decided an explanation was warranted. ‘‘Lute and me are not married. We’ve lived together for the past ten years, so I guess you could say that makes me his common-law wife.’’ She smiled without warmth. ‘‘Not that it matters a hill of beans. Lute isn’t going to live much longer. When a man’s set his mind on dying, there ain’t much his woman can do about it.’’ Then, as an afterthought, as though it wasn’t important: ‘‘My name’s Dolly Jakes.’’ She took a step back. ‘‘Come in. Lute doesn’t get many visitors anymore.’’

  The house was dark and smelled of wax polish and meat baking in the stove. A grandfather clock stood in the hallway and ticked slow seconds into the quiet, its brassy voice hushed. A small calico cat twined through McBride’s legs and he bent and rubbed its head, smiling.

  ‘‘Charlie likes you,’’ Dolly said. ‘‘That’s a good sign. There are not many he likes.’’

  ‘‘Kids and animals seem to like me,’’ McBride said. ‘‘I don’t know why.’’

  ‘‘You’ve got gentle hands. Small, innocent things want to be treated gentle. So do women.’’ She nodded. ‘‘Room at the end of the hall. Go right in. You’ll be quite safe. Lute doesn’t keep his gun by the bed any longer.’’

  McBride rapped on the door of Clark’s room and stuck his head inside. The place smelled of sickness, of damp sheets, of the slow decay of a human being and of the laudanum that kept him numb.

  ‘‘Marshal Clark?’’

  The room was dark, the curtains drawn. A voice came from the heaped shape on the bed, thin and unfriendly. ‘‘What the hell do you want?’’

  ‘‘Name’s Smith, John Smith. I’d like to talk to you.’’

  ‘‘I’ve known a lot of men who called themselves John Smith. Ran more than a few of them out of towns from the Pecos to the Picketwire. What do you want with me?’’

  McBride stepped to the bed. He looked around in the gloom, found a chair and sat down. Clark’s face was lost in the darkness, but McBride felt the burn of the man’s eyes.

  ‘‘How are you feeling, Marshal?’’

  ‘‘As well as any man who can’t move from the neck down feels. Man can’t stand on his own two feet, he ain’t a man any longer. He’s nothing.’’ He was silent for a while, then asked, ‘‘Dolly send you in here?’’

  ‘‘Yes, she did. I told her I needed to talk with you.’’

  ‘‘Good woman, Dolly. We used to have a time, her and me, in bed and out of it. Now that’s over, like everything else.’’ A lonely man will often talk freely once he gets past the first few words and Clark did now. ‘‘Dolly was working the line in Abilene when I met her. I killed the man who figured he owned her, then a deputy sheriff who figured on stopping us leaving. Then I brung her here. That was ten years ago and she’s been a good woman to me since.’’

  Clark groaned and his head moved on the pillow. ‘‘Bottle . . . on the table.’’

  McBride found the laudanum, raised the marshal’s head and held it to his lips. Clark swallowed a few times, then turned away. ‘‘Enough. For a spell.’’

  Now that McBride had become accustomed to the darkness he could make out the pale outlines of the marshal’s face. His cheeks and temples were sunken and his eyes lay deep and in shadow. A dragoon mustache, showing gray and obviously kept trimmed by Dolly, failed to hide a wide, hard mouth that showed arcs of humor at the corners. At one time Clark’s face had been good, strong, the forehead high and intelligent, his thick eyebrows a sign of strength and determination. But now his face was shrunken, wrinkled, like a withered winter apple.

  Clark’s head turned until he could lift his eyes to his visitor. ‘‘I know your name ain’t Smith and you’re not pinned onto a tin star but you’ve got lawman sign all over you.’’

  McBride smiled. ‘‘Theo Leggett told me that very thing.’’

  ‘‘How is Theo?’’

  ‘‘Dead.’’

  ‘‘How did it happen? Opium or the drink?’’

  ‘‘Neither. He was shot.’’

  Briefly, McBride told the marshal about the murder of Leggett, leaving out his own part in the affair. ‘‘I
believe Gamble Trask ordered Theo killed,’’ he said. He waited, wondering how Clark would respond.

  It was a long time before the marshal spoke and for a while McBride thought the laudanum had put him to sleep.

  But the man’s voice was firm, wide-awake. ‘‘Theo and a few others, including me, didn’t like what Trask was doing to this town. When he built the Golden Garter he filled it with whores, opium and busthead whiskey. He brought Hack Burns with him too. A combination like that is bad news and pretty soon most mornings we were getting a dead man with breakfast.’’

  Clark paused, then said, ‘‘Like its name signifies, me, Theo and the others had high hopes for High Hopes. There was talk of a church and a town hall, even a fire station. We were foolish enough to figure the town would be a good place for families to live, but Trask put an end to all that. His saloon attracts the miners and they spend money in the stores and businesses. Suddenly it seemed that everybody was getting rich and there was no more talk about churches.’’

  ‘‘And you tried to shut Trask down?’’

  ‘‘Yeah, that’s it, I tried. I walked into the Golden Garter and told Trask to close the place and get out of town on the next train. Then Hack Burns threw down on me and his bullet cut my backbone in two. He’s fast, mighty fast on the draw.’’

  ‘‘And now he’s the new marshal.’’

  ‘‘Yeah, he’s the new marshal all right, and High Hopes is going to hell in a handbasket even faster.’’

  ‘‘Marshal Clark, my real name is John McBride. I was . . . I guess I still am . . . a detective sergeant with the New York Police Department.’’

  ‘‘Figured you for a shadow of some kind, a Pink maybe.’’

  ‘‘Gamble Trask is a threat to the life of . . . a friend of mine and I aim to take him down. I plan on asking the others who think the same way as you do about High Hopes to help me.’’ McBride thought for a moment. ‘‘Doc Cox, Grant Wilson, the blacksmith . . . I can’t remember his name.’’

  ‘‘Ned Barlow.’’

  ‘‘Yes, him and as many others as I can find.’’

  ‘‘There are no others, McBride. And none of those men are gunfighters. Ask them to go up against Hack Burns and you’ll kill them, just as surely as if you’d put a gun to their heads.’’

  ‘‘There’s more, Marshal. Trask has hired the Allison brothers.’’

  Clark’s voice had sounded tired. now it became alive again. ‘‘You mean Stryker an’ them?’’

  ‘‘Yes. He’s in town now.’’

  Clark let out a long sigh. ‘‘Then it’s all over. You ever read the Good Book? The Allison brothers are the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse—they spread death and destruction wherever they go. McBride, I don’t know why you’re here, but take my advice and get out of High Hopes before it’s too late. Go back to New York, where you belong.’’ He held for a few moments, then added, ‘‘And don’t call me marshal again. I’m not the marshal. Hell, I’m not even a man anymore.’’

  McBride understood how Clark felt and he could not find the words. He could imagine himself lying in that bed, paralyzed, helpless, waiting only for death.

  ‘‘Marshal Clark, I—’’

  ‘‘Spare me your pity, McBride. Just . . . just leave me be. It’s over, I tell you. Now, go home to the big city.’’

  McBride rose to his feet. He looked down at Clark. The man’s cheeks were glistening with tears. ‘‘I have to ask you a couple of things more, that’s all. Did you know that Trask is dealing in young Chinese girls?’’

  ‘‘Yeah, I knew. He buys them cheap in San Francisco and then sends them East at a big profit. At first he used the Chinese girls in his saloon, in the cribs, but miners don’t much care for Celestials, even the women. Pretty soon Trask realized there was more money to be made by shipping the girls to New York and other places.’’

  ‘‘Trask has been talking about making one big score, then leaving High Hopes for good. You any idea what that might be?’’

  Clark shook his head. ‘‘No, I don’t.’’

  ‘‘How about orphan trains? Theo told me Trask was somehow mixed up with orphan trains.’’

  ‘‘I don’t know anything about that either.’’ Clark’s voice was weakening. ‘‘McBride, you told me a friend of yours was in danger. Listen and listen good—you have no friends in High Hopes. And anybody who tells you different is a liar.’’

  Another sigh escaped Clark’s lips. ‘‘Now, let me be and don’t come back here again. I want to lie here in the dark and get through with my dying in peace.’’

  McBride walked quietly to the door. Clark’s voice stopped him.

  ‘‘Send Dolly in here. I need her.’’

  Chapter 12

  Noon came and went but McBride saw no sign of Hack Burns in the street. It seemed that Shannon had prevailed on Trask to rein in his gunman. At least for now.

  Shannon had asked for his protection, but McBride was at a loss where to start. When she was in her suite at the hotel, he was close by and could look out for her. But when she was at the Golden Garter he couldn’t camp out there night after night, watching over her.

  There had to be a better way. And that better way was for Shannon to leave High Hopes with him. They could head back East, to a big city where no one would know them, get married and start a new life together.

  But even as he considered that, the dark, ominous shadow of Gamble Trask cast itself over his plans.

  Trask wanted Shannon for himself and he wouldn’t stand idly by and let another man take her away from him. If McBride tried to leave High Hopes with Shannon, it would have to be over Trask’s dead body. Then so be it. He’d told Marshal Clark that he planned to bring the man down. Now he’d have to make good on his boast.

  He was one man against five of the best guns in the West. But no matter, the time for bragging was over. If he wanted Shannon Roark to be his wife, he had it to do.

  The light slowly changed in McBride’s room. The yellow glow of day shaded into the blue of dusk and then the darkness of night. Out on the street the miners were coming in from the hills, shabby, bearded men with gnarled hands seeking whiskey and female companionship after days of backbreaking labor when injury and death came easy but gold came hard.

  The reflector lamps had been lit along the boardwalk, casting long shadows of men as they passed, black, undulating shapes moving across a backdrop of orange light. There was a stillness about the night, a strange quiet that made men talk in whispers and wonder why they did. It was as though the town were holding its breath, waiting for something to happen.

  McBride decided it was time to investigate Trask a little further, a first, minor skirmish in his coming war with the man. He lit the lamp in the room and gingerly shaved his battered face by its dim flicker. Then he slid the Smith & Wesson into the shoulder holster, put on his hat and headed outside. He mingled, unnoticed, with the miners crowding the street and stepped into the alley beside the Golden Garter.

  Shannon had said that the Chinese girls had been visiting a fortune-teller behind the saloon, but she was probably repeating what Trask had told her. If there was a fortune-teller’s shack back there, McBride was sure it was the place where the girls were held before being shipped out on an eastbound train.

  Yet how was that possible? Surely the girls would wail and holler and beg passersby for help, attracting unwanted attention. Trask had to have found a way to get them to the train station without causing too much fuss.

  The moon had not yet climbed into the sky and the alley was dark, pooled in shadow. Something small squeaked and scuttled at his feet as McBride passed the corner of the saloon and found himself in an open area of ground. A brewery wagon was parked to his right, its tongue raised. A few upended wooden barrels stood close by. About twenty yards ahead of him, he could make out the vague outline of a shack with a crooked tin chimney sticking through the steeply angled roof. There was no light showing in the single window to the left of the door.

 
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