Ralph Compton West of the Law Read online

  But sleep would not come to him.

  No matter how hard he tried to clear his racing mind, the scared faces of the girls kept coming back to haunt him and an iron fist twisted his heart in his chest.

  Outside the boisterous town was as noisy as ever, the saloons going full blast and the street still crowded with people, and once he heard a flurry of shots followed by a woman’s scream. Whatever had happened, a killing or some drunken rooster shooting at the moon, High Hopes ignored it and the free-spending miners led the festivities as before.

  Tired as he was from his long journey west, McBride gave up the unequal struggle. There would be no sleep until the dawning sun told the town it was time to turn off the lamps and seek the blankets. McBride rose and padded in his stocking feet across the floor to the window. The cage was gone, but now there was something else to attract his interest—a woman.

  A woman like no other he’d ever seen.

  She stood on the boardwalk outside the saloon, and even in the darkness her beauty burned like a flame. Thick auburn hair was piled high on her head and she wore a low-cut dress of vivid red silk. A thin ribbon of the same color encircled her slim neck, and her shoulders were bare, revealing the swell of her breasts and the deep, shadowed V of cleavage. Her face was oval in shape, and her eyes were large and set wide apart, her lips full, scarlet and inviting.

  She was, McBride decided, the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. Even back in New York, a city renowned for its exquisite women, she would have stood out from the rest.

  Like a rose among thorns, McBride thought, pleased that he could still wax poetic, despite the life he’d led, a life where nothing had come easy and the pursuit of criminals and the probing of their often terrible deeds had calloused his soul. In that moment, in a single, blinding flash of realization, he knew he must have this woman, that somehow, some way, she must be his.

  There were ominous signs to be read, but blinded by the woman’s breathtaking beauty, McBride did not read them. He would pursue the woman in the red dress clean, with no predetermined notions or conditions.

  He was new to the West and did not know that among the Sioux, Cheyenne and many other Indian tribes, red is the color of conflict, wounds and violent death.

  He did not know it then, but it was a thing he was destined to learn.

  Two men stood with the woman, close enough to her that they shaped up to be at least acquaintances. The man at her elbow was tall and as big as McBride himself, but much more handsome in a cheap, flashy way. He sported a thick mane of yellow hair, obviously pomaded, and a trimmed, full mustache calculated to set female hearts aflutter. He was dressed in a well-cut suit of gray broadcloth and a diamond stickpin glittered in his cravat. Whoever he was, self-assured and relaxed even in the company of a beautiful woman, the man projected an image of wealth and raw, arrogant power.

  Beside him, his face lost in shadow under a wide-brimmed hat, stood a smaller man that McBride decided could be only Hack Burns. He wore two guns in crossed belts, hung low on his hips, but unlike the bigger man, he was not in the least relaxed. McBride saw his head slowly turn this way and that with the icy menace of a cobra as he studied faces in the passing crowd. There was a readiness about Burns that reminded McBride of a tensed spring about to violently uncoil. He had seen the gunman’s like before, back in the Four Corners, sudden, cold-eyed men who would kill for money without emotion or a pang of conscience.

  McBride made up his mind that he wanted no part of Hack Burns. Not then, not ever.

  He stepped away from the window, lit the oil lamp, then sat on the bed and pulled on his boots. He rose and slipped his suspenders over his shoulders. The night was hot and he decided to forgo his coat and collar. A glance in the mirror told him that he badly needed a shave. He rasped a hand over his lean cheeks, but decided the razor could wait. Right now he had to see the woman again— up close and personal.

  John McBride slipped his gun into his right pants pocket, settled his plug hat on his head and left the hotel . . . stepping into a roaring night streaked with lamplight.

  Chapter 4

  The Golden Garter Saloon was packed wall-to-wall with people, gold miners mostly, in from the Spanish Peaks to spend their dust, a sprinkling of flushed punchers with their wide-brimmed hats tipped back, spurs chiming on their heels, and a few women in short dresses of vivid yellow, blue or green silk.

  As he made a place for himself at the bar, McBride’s eyes scanned the smoke-filled room, but he saw no sign of the woman in the red gown.

  The bartender, his pomaded hair parted in the middle of his head, slicked down shiny and flat on either side, asked McBride to name his poison. The product of a drunken, violent father, McBride had long ago sworn off alcohol, but he ordered a beer and let it sit, the foam settling as its tiny bubbles popped.

  He saw her then.

  A momentary parting of the crowd revealed the far corner of the saloon. She was sitting at a table with four miners, studying the playing cards in her hand. Stacks of poker chips stood on the table in front of her and surprisingly, given her surroundings, a small silver tray holding a steaming china teapot and a cup and saucer.

  The woman’s eyes met McBride’s for an instant—dark hazel, he noticed—then dropped to her cards again, long lashes lying on her cheek-bones like spread black fans.

  The throng crowded together again and she was once more lost from his sight.

  McBride turned to the man at his side, a young miner wearing a plaid shirt, a seaman’s woolen cap on his head.

  ‘‘Can I buy you a drink?’’ he asked.

  For a moment the man looked surprised, but then he shrugged and said, ‘‘Sure, why not? Whiskey.’’ He stuck out his hand. ‘‘Name’s Jim Palmer, harpooner, late of good old Nantucket Town. Now I’m here at the diggings.’’

  McBride shook Palmer’s hand, gave his name as John Smith, then motioned to the bartender to fill the miner’s glass. When the man had his drink he asked, ‘‘There’s a woman over there at the corner table, playing cards. Who is she?’’

  Palmer gave McBride a knowing smile. ‘‘Sooner or later every stranger who sets foot in High Hopes asks that same question.’’ He tried his drink, grimaced and set his glass back on the bar. ‘‘Her name’s Shannon Roark. She’s the house dealer for the owner of the saloon.’’ The man nodded to the end of the bar. ‘‘That’s him over there. Name’s Gamble Trask and he cuts a wide path around these parts.’’

  Trask was the handsome man McBride had seen outside the saloon with Shannon. Their eyes met and McBride was burned by the challenge in Trask’s eyes, that and the arrogance of money and power.

  McBride had no quarrel with Gamble Trask. He had nothing to prove and did not want to draw unwelcome attention to himself. He looked quickly away, missing the cruel smile of triumph on the man’s face.

  Palmer was talking again, smiling as though at some inner thought. ‘‘I know what’s on your mind, John Smith, but let it go. A lot of well-set fellows have tried to dab a loop on Shannon, as the cowboys say, but she’s sent them all packing with their tails between their legs and shrunk to about three feet tall. I believe Miss Roark is a woman who will choose her own man in her own time and on her own terms.’’ He nodded, still smiling, wistfully, like a man watching a fairy gift fade in the morning light. ‘‘Yup, that’s what I believe all right.’’

  ‘‘I want to meet her,’’ McBride said.

  Palmer shrugged. ‘‘Easy enough. If you’re a gambling man, just sit in on the game at her table. If you’re not, she takes a break two or three times a night. You could ask her if you can buy her a drink.’’

  ‘‘Champagne?’’ McBride asked, making a snap judgment.

  Palmer shook his head. ‘‘Tea. She never touches the hard stuff.’’

  ‘‘Then I’ll do—’’

  McBride never finished his sentence. Suddenly Palmer, a small man, was jerked backward by the collar of his shirt and sent sprawling on the floor.

&nbs
p; ‘‘Just makin’ room at the bar is all,’’ the man who stepped into Palmer’s space laughed. Those around him who were within earshot laughed with him, uneasily, shifting their feet or suddenly finding something of great interest at the bottom of their glass.

  John McBride didn’t laugh. Growing up hard as he had done, he’d met his share of bullies and he detested the breed. He had not wanted to draw unwelcome attention, but he could not let this go.

  The man who stood arrogantly beside him, purposely crowding him, was the red-bearded man he’d seen from the hotel window who’d driven the young Chinese girls into the alley like livestock. Up close, Red Beard was huge, big in the shoulders and arms, and he shared Gamble Trask’s arrogance, his cruelty plain in his thin mouth and pale blue eyes. The man had fresh scratches on his left cheek, the marks of a woman’s fingernails. Remembering the little Chinese girls, McBride did not want to think about what had caused them to be there.

  A white-hot anger building in him, McBride bent slightly and offered Palmer his hand. The miner shook his head, making no attempt to rise from the floor. ‘‘Let it go, Smith,’’ he said. His frightened eyes went to Red Beard, who was watching him and McBride with faint, contemptuous amusement. Palmer said, ‘‘Nolan didn’t mean nothing by it.’’

  The man called Nolan grinned, his teeth long and yellow as piano keys. ‘‘That’s right, tin pan, I didn’t mean nothing by it. Just cleared myself some room.’’ He looked around at the men at the bar, his grin widening. ‘‘Ain’t that right, boys?’’

  A chorus of approval by intimidated men followed and a few loudly banged their glasses on the bar. McBride’s voice, cold and flat, cut across the noise.

  ‘‘This gentleman’’—he bent and hauled Palmer to his feet—‘‘and I had not finished our conversation. Now, Nolan, if that’s your name, step away and clear a space.’’

  Nolan looked like he’d been slapped. He stood staring at McBride in stunned wonderment for a few long seconds, then said, shaking out the bullwhip in his right hand, ‘‘Mister, nobody talks to Jim Nolan like that. Just to be sure you remember, I’m going to cut some of the hide right off’n you.’’

  The man carried a Colt in a cross-draw holster on his left hip and McBride had no doubt he was a practiced fighting man. He had not wanted to step into the limelight, but now it was being forced on him and if he tried to back off, he knew Nolan would kill him.

  A hush had settled on the saloon, the last few notes of the piano faltering to a ragged stop. McBride was aware that down at the other end of the bar Trask and his gunman Hack Burns were watching him intently. Smiling.

  Nolan stepped back, giving himself room to swing the whip. Above his beard, the man’s face glowed with a triumphant, vicious light. He was a man who looked like he enjoyed killing and he was enjoying it now, like a glutton anticipating the first bite of a feast spread before him.

  ‘‘You’re making a big mistake, Nolan,’’ McBride said, his eyes cold. ‘‘I’m a man grown, not a little Chinese girl you can push around.’’

  Stung, Nolan roared and swung the bullwhip.

  McBride moved—very fast for a big man. His fingers curled on the beer mug in front of him and he hurled it with all his strength into Nolan’s face.

  The glass hit Nolan high on the forehead, opening a cut, and beer splashed over his face and beard. The big man roared his fury, and swung back his arm again, readying the bullwhip for a slashing strike at McBride’s face that could tear out his eyes.

  McBride did not let him get set. He moved in on Nolan and stabbed a straight right into the man’s mouth. Nolan was sobered by the unexpected power behind that punch and he stepped back, shaking his head, blood and saliva flying from his smashed lips. He dropped the whip, realizing the big man would not give him room to swing its ten-foot length, and waded into McBride, punching hard to the body with both hands.

  McBride fought back, standing his ground. He took a swinging right to the jaw from Nolan and pretended to stagger, hoping the man would come after him. Nolan did and McBride closed with him again. He hammered the front of his skull onto the bridge of Nolan’s nose and felt the crunch of bone. Nolan went back, gasping, blood staining his red beard scarlet. But he was far from beaten.

  Nolan rushed in, swinging both fists at McBride’s face. Solid blows smashed into McBride’s chin and he staggered for real this time, his hat flying away as his head snapped back. His legs were threatening to buckle under him, and in that instant McBride knew he was fighting for his life. If he dropped to the floor, Nolan would use his boots to kick him to a bloody pulp.

  ‘‘Now you got him, Jim!’’ somebody in the crowd yelled. ‘‘Put him away.’’

  McBride hung on, wrestling now as Jim Nolan tried to throw him to the floor. He felt steel in the man, the roping muscles along his spine as big as a ship’s cables. For the first time since the fight began, McBride realized this was a knuckle, boot and skull battle he could easily lose.

  He arched as Nolan’s enormous arms circled his waist, trying to break his back. The pain made McBride gasp and he felt the bones of his lower spine grind. Nolan’s shattered face was very close to his own. He smelled blood on the man’s breath as his grip tightened. ‘‘I’m going to snap you like a twig,’’ Nolan taunted. ‘‘You’ll scream like a woman.’’

  McBride’s strength was fading fast. Nolan’s arms were an irresistible force, like steel hawsers crushing the life out of him. He knew his backbone could soon shatter, leaving him paralyzed and helpless on the floor.

  Desperately McBride chopped a short right to Nolan’s chin and then another. The man shook off the blows and laughed. ‘‘You won’t hurt me with those punches!’’

  The crowd was cheering wildly now, their blood-lust surging. Judging by the sound and the cries for Nolan to end it, McBride figured that a stranger had mighty few friends in the Golden Garter.

  McBride suddenly went limp and hung his head. He heard Nolan’s triumphant yell and for a moment the terrible pressure on his spine eased a little as it dawned on the big man that the battle was won.

  It was all the time McBride needed.

  Straightening, he stabbed his thumbs into Nolan’s eyes, thrusting hard. The man screamed and jerked his head away, but he again immediately applied pressure to McBride’s weakening back.

  Fear spiking at him, McBride again went for Nolan’s eyes. His powerful thumbs dug deep. He roared like a wounded animal, every last shred of civilized behavior fleeing from him. McBride rammed his thumbs even deeper, trying to blind Nolan.

  Finally the man had enough. He broke his hold and stepped unsteadily back, dashing away blood from his eyes with the heel of his hand. Maddened by the pain in his spine, McBride went after Nolan, no mercy in him.

  A killing rage welled in him and exploded in his skull like a million pieces of shattered glass reflected in fire. He slammed a wicked right hook to Nolan’s chin and followed up with a fist to the belly. His face gray under a grotesque mask of blood, Nolan backed up, his mouth hanging open and his knees like rubber. McBride kept after him, hooking short, punishing blows to the man’s head. Nolan started to go down, but McBride, his blood up, would not let him off the hook. He dug his fingers into Nolan’s hair and held him up as he hammered a smashing right into the man’s chin, then another.

  McBride opened his fingers and Nolan dropped to the floor, his busted jaw hanging loose.

  Used up, McBride stood where he was, his chest heaving. His left eye was swollen shut and he tasted the raw iron tang of blood in his mouth. It hurt to breathe, his ribs and lower back pounding spasms of pain at him. Finally he turned and walked back to the bar, the crowd of stunned miners and saloon girls opening a path for him. McBride was aware of the tangled combination of wonder, fear and apprehension in their eyes, like children watching a caged tiger at a traveling circus.

  Even the bartender, who had seen much of violence, was wary when McBride leaned on the bar and ordered a beer. Palmer, his eyes as guarded as the o
thers’, stepped beside McBride and opened his mouth to speak. He didn’t get the chance to utter a word.

  ‘‘Look out!’’

  A woman’s voice.

  McBride spun and saw Nolan on his feet, staggering a little as he drew his Colt. The man had made a reputation in the town as a bully and a hard case, good with his fists or a gun. If he lost that reputation now, he knew he was finished in High Hopes.

  Nolan fired as McBride yanked his Smith & Wesson from his pocket. The bullet burned across the heavy meat of his left shoulder as he assumed the duelist’s stance as his firearms instructors had taught him. He held the revolver at eye level, his arm straight, the instep of his left foot behind the heel of his right. He and Nolan fired at the same time.

  The big .45 slug from Nolan’s gun plowed across the top of the bar, inches from McBride’s waist, showering splinters. McBride’s bullet parted Nolan’s beard, thudding into him square in the middle of his chest. Hit hard, the man stumbled back, but he was still trying to bring his gun into line. McBride fired his self-cocker again, and once again, scoring both times.

  Nolan went to his knees, pumping bullets into the floor. Then his eyes rolled up white in his head and he fell flat on his face as all that was alive in him fled.

  A sickness curling in his belly, McBride let his revolver drop to his side. In the echoing silence that followed, gray gun smoke drifted through the saloon and he was aware of a young girl in a yellow dress at his side, her shuddering breasts rising and falling as, shocked by what she had just witnessed, she fought for breath.

  ‘‘Well done, that, man!’’

  McBride turned to see a man striding toward him, a beaming smile on his handsome face. He paused momentarily when he drew abreast of Nolan’s body, then motioned to a couple of men. ‘‘Wilson, Reid, get that out of here. It’s staining my floor.’’