McAllister 7

by Matt Chisholm

  Not that he was bad at business. When it came to business, cattlemen said, ‘old J. Howard was all there and no mistake.’ He understood interest and percentages, money having confidence in itself, the difference between a gamble and an investment. Since coming to Black Horse some two years before, he had given a number of men good advice and strengthened the financial position of one or two quite powerful men among the cattle kings.

  Nobody guessed that J. Howard Lindholm had been biding his time. While he drank tea in polite parlors, chatted amiably to the milliner on Main, passed the time of day with the preacher and doffed his hat with grave and slightly comical courtesy to the hardware store owner’s wife.

  He bided his time. Just as he had done in Plainton, Illinois. He had had a beard then, and been slightly overweight. He had given way in his former years to weaknesses of the flesh. They were mostly conquered now. He had lost thirty pounds without much suffering, shaved his face and changed his name. He made it look as though he had fled to New York and thence to South America, but in fact he came West with the money from the safe of the bank that employed him as a teller. He had used the money wisely and maybe a little unscrupulously for some ten years in various towns of the West, but had done nothing further to attract the attention of law officers. He had loaned it at a high return, staked prospectors, that kind of thing. In ten years he had made enough capital to establish himself as a banker in a community such as Black Horse. In the two years since he came here, he had proven himself a solid man. Folks trusted him. He showed financial kindness to a few hard-pressed but powerful men who found themselves short of a little ready cash.

  He had, for example, nonchalantly handed a thousand dollars to the rancher Stoke Parlby and never asked for a note in return. ‘Good heavens, Stoke,’ he had said, ‘I don’t do this as a banker, but as a friend. If a friend can’t help another …’ Parlby invariably said when Lindholm’s name came up in conversation: ‘By God, there’s a man in a million.’

  How right he was.

  Lindholm’s card that beat all other cards, of course, was his self-control. He could be decisive and ruthless, but that ruthlessness was always under iron control. It was just nice to know that it was there, like a hideaway gun in a vest pocket, to be exploded lethally in a man’s face when it was needed. When necessary, Lindholm could be utterly devoid of mercy or any other human feeling.

  All men have weaknesses, however, and in this the banker was no different from other men. His weakness, as with most men who live by deception, was his vanity. He knew it, and he tried to guard against it. But how difficult to deny that he was smarter than almost anybody he had ever met. Who was clever enough to keep his true self carefully and successfully hidden from the world?

  He stood at the window of the bank now and glanced up and down the street, feeling so powerful by the coup he had pulled off that it was as if he could reach out and take the town in the palm of his hand. He was glad that his face was turned away from that simple fool Ham Stoppard, and the boy could not see the expression on his face. His mind considered the teller. He must make a small gesture or two to the boy. Show some appreciation for his extra duty guarding the gold.

  Lindholm turned from the window and said: ‘Ham, old chap, I want to tell you that the bank is grateful for all the extra time you have put in lately. Very commendable, and you shall not lose by it. We shall make a nice little profit from the handling of this fortune and the bank will be happy to share a little of it with you. What about a hundred dollars?’

  Ham stared at him in amazement. His Adam’s apple leapt.

  ‘A hundred dollars? Oh, Mr Lindholm, you mean you’re not still mad at me for losing that strong box?’

  ‘Mad at you? Good grief, boy, what could you do against four dangerous armed men? I never expected you to lay down your life for a dross of gold. A man’s life is worth more than that. You are a valued employee of this establishment. No, I do not think a hundred dollars is too much to pay for unshakable loyalty.

  ‘I’m very grateful, sir.’

  ‘Not at all, my boy. Now, I intend to have a truckle bed brought in here for you so that you may sleep here in comfort at night. How does that sound?’

  ‘Splendid, Mr Lindholm.’

  ‘Excellent, excellent. I’m going out now. Lock the door behind me.’ He gave Ham a cuddly smile and went out into the bright sunlight of Main Street. As he walked past Tully’s, there was a man standing on the sidewalk outside building a smoke. He noticed that the man wore his bandanna pulled tight against the throat, but with the cloth no more than half secured by a single turn. That was the signal. Lindholm walked on past and, in spite of his self-control, he could not prevent the swoop of sudden excitement in the pit of his stomach.

  So it was all done. The gold was clear of the country. All was secure. Now for the next move. He reached the intersection and turned right down Morrow. Right at the bottom of the street, he could see Josiah Ramage’s new house. Lindholm smiled to himself. Now that the gold was safe, he felt flushed with new strength and confidence. It was a good feeling and he experienced a surge of happiness. What a wonderful world he lived in. How lucky he was to be so successful and to have been endowed with such talent.

  Now, now, Lindholm, he told himself. Modesty at all times. Anything else could lead to over-confidence, and that could be fatal.

  His knock on the Ramage street door was answered by Miss Allison Disart, a fact which pleased J. Howard immensely, for nobody liked a fine-looking woman more than he did. Her uncle had introduced him to her on the street the day before, and he had been struck by her beauty and attractions. Since the meeting, his thoughts had once or twice returned to her. He found that each time they did so they were a little warmer than the last, and that his imagination grew a little more colorful. By jingo, he thought, maybe she was a young woman who found slightly more mature men attractive. She certainly looked intelligent enough.

  Her uncle, she told him now, was on the rear gallery, and she led the way down the hall. Walking behind her, he had a chance to inspect her from where her dark hair curled on her creamy neck, to the slender waist and the irresistible swell of her fine hips. She was, as the boys at Tully’s would say, a hell of a lot of woman.

  Whiskey Joe was on the back porch, jacket off, vest unbuttoned and booted feet up on the rail. As a rich man he could greet the banker casually, and he promptly did so.

  ‘Howdy, Lindholm. Hot ain’t it? Park yourself someplace. Ally, honey, just you make yourself scarce now. Dry old business stuff ain’t for pretty girls to bother their heads with.’

  She went into the house.

  ‘A remarkably fine-looking young lady, Joe, if I may say so,’ said Lindholm.

  Joe said: ‘Now you keep your mind on business, J. Howard, and off that gal. You’re old enough to be her daddy.’

  ‘My dear Joe, I assure you—’

  ‘Assure me nothing, man. You’re male and over fourteen, ain’t you? Hell, take that look off your face. I’m only joshing. Set. Drink some of that goddamn lemonade I’m rotting my guts with.’

  The banker poured a glass of lemonade and sipped it. He leaned forward and spoke in low tones. Some secrecy was called for, he felt, even out here.

  ‘Joe, I’ve been thinking about all this gold.’

  ‘I never stop. Lovely, ain’t it?’

  ‘Seriously, I have an uneasy feeling. The gold was taken off the stage. It was done efficiently. How many efficient road agents have you and I ever heard of? Most of them are bungling amateurs. These boys knew their business. If they’ve gone for one shipment, what’s to stop them going for another?’

  ‘I’d expect that. But they won’t get it. McAllister’ll ride shotgun. I’ll hire other guards. Nobody don’t take gold off old Joe twice. My word on it.’

  ‘We must think further than that, Joe.’ Lindholm was earnest, he was impressive. He used, his slightly hesitant manner, denoting a modest man, but one who knew what he was talking about.

&nbs
p; ‘As your business adviser—’

  ‘Say,’ said Joe, looking at him with delight on his wrinkled face, ‘is that what you are? Hell, I like the sound of that. Sure, a millionaire has to have a business adviser, don’t he?’

  ‘Seriously, Joe, with your best interests at heart, I think that we should give consideration to the rest of the gold.’

  ‘Young Ham’s guarding that.’

  ‘I mean the gold you haven’t brought out yet.’

  Joe took his feet down from the rail and considered Lindholm soberly. ‘I ain’t telling you where it’s at, if that’s what you’re driving at.’

  ‘No, no, no – perish the thought. What I’m saying is that if these men are organized and they can’t get at the gold you’re shipping out on the stage, they’re going to start thinking.’

  ‘They’re going to pack up their traps and clear out.’

  ‘With more gold untouched in the hills somewhere?’

  Joe was still. ‘What’s on your mind?’

  ‘On my mind, I have the idea of well-organized, patient thieves. Men who are smart enough to wait. Sooner or later, you will go to that gold. If you go to it, they can. No matter what you do, a good tracker can follow – and you know it.’

  ‘Go ahead.’

  ‘I merely have an idea that it might be wise for us to organize too.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘If there’s enough gold in your mine to finance it, we should obtain the necessary machinery – crushers and that kind of thing – bring in laborers, work the mine to its full capacity. Clean up, Joe, once and for all. Get the whole thing on a sound business footing. Maybe you think it isn’t worth it.’

  ‘Worth it! Jesus, Lindholm, I struck Eldorado. I could finance anything I damn well please.’

  ‘Well then …’

  ‘I dunno. What’s so wrong with the way I’m playing it now? I’m rich enough, ain’t I?’

  ‘You’ve worked hard all your life, Joe. Now’s the time to take it easy. Hire the work done.’

  ‘It sure is a thought,’ said the old man. ‘But the whole world will know then.’

  ‘The world’s got to learn sooner or later.’

  ‘I druther it was later.’

  ‘But you could be in real danger, Joe.’ Lindholm played his hand carefully, not pushing too hard with his voice. ‘I mean physical danger. If these men ever got their hands on you in an attempt to discover where the gold is …’

  ‘Now you’re letting your imagination run away with you, J. Howard,’ Joe said. ‘This is Black Horse. We have law and order here. Nobody ain’t going to threaten me.’

  Lindholm rose. ‘All right. I’m not trying to pressure you. I just leave you with the idea so you can think on it. There’s your niece to consider now, too. Thanks for the lemonade.’ Joe made a face. ‘I’ll think about it.’

  Lindholm walked back into the house. He hoped he would see the girl again, but he did not – and found himself more disappointed than he thought possible.

  Chapter Seven

  As he paced down Morrow and turned into Main, sweating somewhat more than a little, a refrain kept going through his head: McAllister will ride on the stage. McAllister will ride on the stage.

  He knew that would mean a fight if the stage was attacked. Men would be killed. And that was not something he wanted. Not that he objected morally to a man or two being killed. He merely felt that murder was distasteful and, in most cases, foolish. It wanted only for one of his road agent colleagues to be killed and the whole operation would turn sour. Those four men were in it for the profit, not to exchange shots with an over-enthusiastic lawman. Goddam that McAllister to hell.

  Just the same, he hated to have a whole strong box of gold lost to him.

  Was that a sign of weakness in him? Had he become greedy? Maybe it would be wise to allow the stage line to get the next consignment through safely.

  Yes, he decided, he would do that. There must not be a breath of suspicion against him.

  Now, another question came into his head to plague him. How long could he keep the road agents in the country with safety? They were all good men. They all knew their business. But they now had a large amount of gold in their possession and at least one of them must be at this very moment tempted to go out and spend some of it. There was always one such in a gang.

  Walking towards him came Charlie Stellino. Charlie did not have much going for him in J. Howard Lindholm’s eyes. First, he was a friend of McAllister and Mark Tully. Second, he had no respect for money. Third, he had no respect. Period. He was a no-good wastrel who fooled around with a few cows and called himself a cattleman, living, if gossip was right (and gossip usually was right over such things) on other men’s beef. It was a scandal that the sheriff should be in cahoots with such riff-raff. Charlie Stellino could do McAllister’s reputation no good and one day he would bring McAllister down.

  Just as Charlie approached him, Lindholm saw, emerging from a rooming house, a decrepit figure which the banker at once recognized as belonging to a prospector who had come into town on the same stage as Allison Disart. Charlie halted, cocked an eye at Lindholm and pointed to the prospector.

  ‘He smells gold, Lindholm,’ Charlie said. ‘That baby don’t go nowhere where there ain’t gold.’

  ‘Well,’ said Lindholm stiffly, ‘there’s no gold around here, Stellino. That’s a well-known fact.’

  ‘I heard different,’ said the cowman.

  Alarm blossomed in Lindholm. ‘You heard talk of gold?’ he said, trying to keep his sudden disquiet from his voice.

  ‘Sure did. Can’t recollect where, but I sure heard it.’

  ‘Do you mean actually in Black Horse country?’

  ‘I reckon so.’

  ‘You know what I say to that, Stellino?’

  ‘No. What do you say to that, Lindholm?’

  ‘I say “Stuff and nonsense, sir.” ’ And with that he went on past the cowman.

  Stellino grinned and shrugged. He wondered: Maybe that strong box the town had seen Lindholm put on the stage...

  The banker consulted the gold hunter he kept in his right-hand vest pocket. The time reminded him that he must hurry. He arrived at his office, sweating noticeably. He found also that he was irritable; something which he could not afford. He must play his part perfectly now and through the near future. He must not spoil his own grand plan by a silly little mistake, by giving offence to anybody. He tapped on his office door and was challenged by Ham. Thank God, he thought, for fools like Ham.

  When he walked into the office and Ham locked the door behind him, the banker saw that his teller held the gun in his hand.

  ‘Ham,’ he said, squeezing his voice into a kindly shape, ‘take a spell. You’ve been long enough incarcerated in this room. Go breathe some fresh air for an hour, take a tub and smoke a cigar. I’ll mind the store, as they say.’

  Ham expressed his appreciation at the banker’s concern. He gave the impression of being a humble man truly grateful for the fate which had brought him into the service of so considerate a man.

  He had not been gone from the bank for more than five minutes when the other teller tapped on the door and announced to Lindholm that there was a Mr Stevenson to see him.

  Lindholm opened the door to receive his visitor, saying: ‘Why, Mr Stevenson, how good to see you, sir. Come in, come in.’

  The newcomer was a man of some presence. The teller returned to his counter under the impression that he had been privileged to see a man of substance, one of those divine creatures who form and motivate the actions and affairs of lesser men.

  Inside the office, Lindholm waved the visitor to a chair and inspected him with the greatest care. He saw a tall, personable man, possessed of a distinguished air, a strong and natural character and a physical well-being and fitness beyond the average. His features, while not exactly handsome, were imposing, very nearly noble, but too worldly and too full of common good-humor for that. It was the face of a man wh
o had lived, possibly a little too thoroughly and even maybe hectically. He had, one suspected, frequently looked on the wine while it was red and the women who were willing.

  When the stranger spoke, it was in a well-modulated and pleasant voice, but with enough rough corners and Yankee drawls to make it a voice of character. ‘How private are we here?’

  ‘The room is to all practical purposes sound-proof. Speak in a natural tone and nobody outside will hear you.’

  ‘Good. Now, let’s not waste time. I thought the job the other day went well.’

  ‘Excellent,’ said Lindholm. ‘Capital. Bully.’

  ‘So, do you deem it wise to give a repeat performance?’

  ‘The second consignment is due out on tomorrow’s stage.’ Stevenson smiled easily. ‘Do we gather ye rosebuds while we may? Or do we accept that discretion is the better part of valor? In short, do we do a hyste or don’t we?’

  ‘I confess that I’m still debating,’ said Lindholm. ‘I’m tempted to run a dummy tomorrow and plead that I thought there would be a second hold-up. It would establish me as being cautious on Joe’s behalf.’

  ‘Something to be said for that. I and the boys are in no hurry. We all realize the size of this caper. None of us would want to spoil it with undue haste or inordinate greed.’

  ‘Good to hear you say that. There’s something else against your hitting the stage tomorrow. If you do so, there could be bloodshed. The last thing we want is that kind of thing. I think you would agree.’

  ‘Every time, but why do you think—’

  ‘McAllister’s riding shotgun.’

  There was silence in the room. Stevenson raised his eyebrows.

  ‘McAllister!’ He pondered the information. ‘Isn’t it a little unusual for a sheriff?’