McAllister Makes War

by Matt Chisholm

  A hasty passionate man whose appearance belied his character. To look at he could be a Methodist preacher with a sad face. But he was a heller. Somewhere in Texas he had a wife and three children. In Combville he kept a mistress, drank and ate hearty and made money. He always made money. And lost it. Men said he would gamble on where a fly would fall and they were probably right. He had served as a sergeant in the Texas cavalry during the war, had killed a fellow sergeant and somehow got away with it and had deserted before the end of the war. A good many sheriffs wanted him in his native State and several outside it, but he managed to stay a free man in Kansas. His saloon was accepted as the meeting place of Texas men coming up the trail with cattle. He had won the saloon in a game of poker. His brother Johnny was a weaker and, if possible, wilder version of himself. Fred was continually getting his younger brother out of scrapes.

  Darcy now called to McAllister: “Mornin’, friend.”

  McAllister crossed to him. As he drew close, Darcy’s eyes opened wide in recognition.

  “Wa-al, if’n it ain’t Rem McAllister.” They shook. “How’ve you been, boy?”

  They chatted of this and that, Darcy telling proudly of how well he was doing in this benighted northern town and what a pleasure it was to be making his pile from the hated Yankees. Which wasn’t what McAllister had heard. It seemed that Darcy made most of his money from the cattlemen of Texas. Finally, Darcy said: “I heard Malloy was killed.”

  McAllister told him: “Two men walked into his office and cut down on him with a greener.”

  Darcy tapped McAllister’s badge with a forefinger.

  “That gives you a personal interest, I reckon.”

  “Sure does.”

  They were very casual about it, but tension came between the two of them. Darcy had treed more town marshals in his time than any other man alive.

  “Ain’t many Texas men town marshals, Rem. Not in Kansas.”

  “Ain’t many Texas men had a friend shot down in front of their eyes, Fred.”

  They eyed each other like wary dogs.

  “You get a good look at the men who did it?”

  “I’d know ‘em if they grew beards, I’d know them twenty years from now. And I’m goin’ to find ‘em.”

  Darcy laughed.

  “You don’t thinly them fellers stayed around here after doin’ that. Hell, they’d be crazy.”

  “Maybe they did and maybe they didn’t, but I’ll find ‘em.”

  There was a short silence and Remington added: “You know who did it, Fred?”

  “No,” Darcy said, “I don’t have no idea.”

  McAllister knew he did. He started to go on, nodding his farewell.

  “Come around and have a drink with me,” Darcy invited.

  “I’ll take you up on that.”

  He walked the town, visited the stock-pens and the railroad spurs, walked through the smell of cattle, the dust and the bawling. A crowd of punchers with their long staffs with the pricker at the end were mouching near the line, men were driving cows aboard the train. McAllister turned away – this part of the cattle trade always sickened him a little. He didn’t like to see the wild creatures who had run free on the prairies and in the brush being packed into wagons. He looked out over the prairie to the holding grounds and saw the thousands of cattle grazing and wondered when the northward flow of the newfound wealth of Texas would stop. Then he turned back toward the office, found a small café and went in for breakfast. He had just enough for ham, eggs, fried potatoes and coffee. He would have to ask Carson for some money or he’d starve.

  He returned to the office and spent the day dozing at his desk. He wasn’t a man who believed in action when it wasn’t necessary and he hadn’t made up his mind what he was going to do or even what he could do about Art Malloy. What he wanted to know was: had the men who had killed him come of their own accord or had they been sent? If they had been sent, any one of a half-dozen men could have sent them.

  He had his eyes closed and his hat over them, chair tilted back and feet on desk when he heard the door to the street open softly. Before he could move he heard a female gasp of horror. He pushed his hat back, opened his eyes, let all four legs of the chair fall flat and took his feet from the desk.

  In the center of the office stood a vision. Golden hair and blue eyes that were now wide with indignation, dress of green silk, bonnet bright with flowers. Her figure was superlative, slim waist and full breasts. She was maybe a couple of years older than he was.

  “How can you sit there?” she demanded.

  McAllister rose to his feet.

  “Wa-al, ma’am, I bend my legs an’ I -”

  “And now you can joke.”

  “Ma’am?”

  “Art Malloy has not been dead more than a few hours-”

  “May I ask you name, ma’am?”

  She drew herself up,

  “I’m Miss Emily Penshurst.”

  “Any relation to the banker?”

  “I’m his daughter.”

  “An’ you were a friend of Art’s?”

  She sobered a little, but the indignation still showed in her fine eyes.

  “I was a friend of his. Both my father and I were.”

  “Were you an’ Art engaged to be married?”

  She hesitated and McAllister interpreted that as meaning that though they had not been engaged there had been some sort of an understanding between them. He wondered if this was the lady Carson had mentioned.

  “Do you know a man called Will Drummond?”

  “Why, yes I do. Though what that has to do with I don’t know what your name is, sir, but I did not come here to answer questions, but to ask them.” Her eyes flashed. McAllister reckoned Art must have had his hands full with this one. On second thoughts, he reckoned he wouldn’t mind at all having his hands full of her.

  “Ask ’em,” he said.

  “What do you intend to do about the killing of Art Malloy?”

  “That’s a fair question.”

  “Perhaps you’d be good enough to answer it.”

  “Sure. I intend to catch the men who did it and if I don’t shoot them dead, I reckon they’ll hang.”

  “That won’t happen with you sitting here.”

  “It’ll happen when I get around.”

  “Then I suggest you start.”

  “An’ I suggest, ma’am, that you go about your business and quit teaching your grandmother how to suck eggs.”

  She started back at his rudeness.

  “There’s no call for you to be insulting. Mr. Malloy was a good friend of ours and -”

  “It might interest you to know, ma’am, that Art was a good friend of mine, too. Never fear, Miss Penshurst, you’ll get your murderers ... on a plate.”

  “I wish I could believe that.”

  “Now perhaps you could tell me some more about Mr. Drummond.”

  “What has he to do with this?”

  “That’s what I’m tryin’ to find out.”

  “I fail to see any connection.”

  “I didn’t say there was one,’ McAllister told her. “I’m tryin’ to find out if there was.”

  “I assure you that Will Drummond had nothing to do with Art Malloy’s death.”

  “Maybe he didn’t,” McAllister said, “but I want to know all about everybody in this town that hated Art and there’s a good few of them.”

  “What makes you think Mr. Drummond hated Art?” She looked a little frightened now, though the indignation was still there.

  “Because Art was in love with you and you’re very beautiful.”

  She flushed red and lowered her eyes.

  “What makes you think Art was in love with me?”

  “One look at you is enough to convince me.”

  She turned half away from him.

  “I don’t think I care for this conversation.”

  “Don’t like it much myself. Now Drummond – did he ever show hate for Art?”

  She he
sitated again.

  “He didn’t like him. But that doesn’t mean he hated him. Why, if you knew Will Drummond, you’d know that he wasn’t capable of murder.”

  “Everybody is capable of murder, Miss Penshurst. To either do it or hire somebody to do it.”

  “Your suggestion is vile.”

  “Why did Drummond hate Art?”

  The question hung for a moment between them. She clenched and unclenched her hands.

  “I won’t admit he hated him.”

  “Why did he dislike him, then?”

  “I suppose - oh, I don’t know. If you had known both men you’d have seen how different they were. They were opposites.”

  McAllister said: “The opposite to Art would be something pretty unpleasant. He was straight and he was honest.”

  “I know that. I didn’t mean opposite in that way. I meant... it’s not easy to say this, not with Art dead, but Will Drummond is a gentleman. He has nice manners, likes literature and the arts. Art wasn’t like that. He was ... rough.”

  “Art was the gentlest man I ever knew.”

  “It was the way he lived ... with guns.”

  McAllister held his temper.

  “All right, ma’am,” he said, “you’ve said your piece and I get your drift. You want Art’s killers caught and so do I. We agree. You go off to your sewing bee and leave the dirty work to men like me ... and Art.”

  She gave him a look with some anguish in it then and he felt a little sorry he had said that, but not much.

  “Very well,” she said softly. She looked as if she’d say some more, but she didn’t; she turned on her heel and walked out onto the street. He went to the door and watched her angling across to the bank. He walked back into the office and found that the air was full of the smell of her. It was pretty nice. Art could have been crazy about that girl and so could Drummond. Men had been killed over a woman like that before now.

  Chapter Three

  It was getting near to dark. Already in some of the buildings along Lincoln lamps were lit. McAllister sat outside the office smoking his pipe. He watched Jim Carson walking down the street from the hotel.

  A wagon drew up, blocking his view of the bank entrance. Two cowhands rode past, giving him glances as they went. He was the law and if they were going to have fun in their own way they might be meeting up with him later.

  Carson came up and said: “All quiet?”

  “All quiet.”

  They walked into the office together.

  “Going to make a start on finding Art’s killer tonight,” Carson said.

  “Where do you start?” McAllister asked.

  Carson buckled on his gun. Took a bottle from a drawer, offered McAllister a drink, was refused and took one himself.

  “The Darcy boys is as good a start as any.”

  “Fred’s tough.”

  “Don’t I know it.”

  They both swung around as a dull explosion came to their ears. McAllister jumped for the door with Carson close behind him. A shot came from the direction of the bank. Carson pushed McAllister forward and ran onto the street, gun in hand. At once a rifle opened fire from the opposite side of the street, lead hummed past them both and a window of the office collapsed with a crash of broken glass. They both turned and dove back into the office, knowing they couldn’t survive out there. Carson got to a window and stared out across the street.

  “They’re cleanin’ out the bank,” he said needlessly.

  McAllister said: “Get yourself a rifle and cut down anybody that comes out of there. I’m goin’ around the rear.”

  He found his Henry, checked the loads and went out of the rear door of the office. He turned right, ran along the back of the buildings and went on along an alleyway between two stores that brought him out opposite the bank. At once he was shot at and was driven further back down the alley. Whoever was pulling this job were surely well-organised. They had all points covered.

  He could see now that the light wagon in front of the bank was turned on its side and guessed that at least one marksman was hiding behind it. He could see no one moving about inside the bank. There was nothing to shoot at. From up the street there came shouts. From the office came the sound of shots. Carson was doing his best. The answering fire McAllister saw came from the roof of the bank. He waited, knowing that soon or late a man would have to show himself.

  After a few minutes, he heard a shrill whistle.

  A man burst suddenly from behind the upturned wagon and started for the alleyway at the side of the bank. The Henry’s butt was in McAllister’s shoulder, he aimed hastily and fired. The shot hit the man and drove him running against the wall of a building. But he went on and was quickly lost to view.

  McAllister ran out of the alleyway.

  No shot came from the direction of the bank. He crossed the street to the mouth of the alley running alongside the bank. From the other end of the alley came shouts; his eye caught a flurry of movement, men moving around, horses turning. Several shots came in his direction and he flung himself flat on the ground. Feet pounded behind him and Carson arrived. Shots drove him away from the mouth of the alley to shelter behind the bank itself.

  The shooting stopped and horses’ hoofs pounded. McAllister lurched to his feet. He needed a horse and quick. Full darkness would be here in a moment and the robbers would get clear under its cover. He turned and ran for the saloon. There were several men outside it now.

  “I want a horse,” McAllister shouted.

  They merely stared at him. Carson came up, panting.

  “Take any horse you want,” he cried. He untied a sorrel and a man came forward hastily.

  “Get your hands off my horse,” he bellowed.

  “The city’s requisitioning it,” Carson told him,

  “The city’ll pay if any harm comes to him.”

  McAllister turned to a chunky bay, tunied it and vaulted into the saddle. As he turned away from the hitching rail, a man yelled for him to stop. He raked home the spurs and the animal hit a flat run down the street. Carson was close behind him. A moment later they ran neck and neck out of the town onto the eastering road.

  “There they go,” Carson cried.

  McAllister saw a dark bunch of horsemen going fast over the first ridge.

  They came to the creek and splashed into it, sending up a cloud of wild spray. The horses came out dripping on the further side and climbed the bank, the two riders spurring them as they went.

  As they came into view of the plain above, McAllister thought he heard a distant shot over the sound of the horses’ hoofs. The bay seemed to take a leap in the air. When it came down it landed on legs of paper and McAllister scarcely had time to kick his feet from the stirrup-irons and jump clear. He picked himself up and the horse lay screaming and kicking. McAllister ducked under several shots that came his way, shot the horse through the head and got down behind it.

  Carson had reined around and was pounding back to McAllister. To go further along the road was impossible. His horse halted and he jumped from the saddle to join McAllister. They peered along the road but there was little they could see. It was almost full dark now. The bank-raiders had carefully chosen their time to make their attack. The two lawmen heard the distant and dying sound of hoof-beats, but McAllister reckoned there were still at least two men guarding the road.

  Full dark swooped down on them.

  McAllister said: “We ain’t doin’ no good here. Let’s get back to town.”

  They stood up. Nothing happened. McAllister fought the saddle and bridle off the dead horse and Carson said: “You would have to get that horse shot. Now there’ll be hell to pay when we get back to town.”

  “What was I supposed to do,” McAllister wanted to know, “let those jaspers get away?”

  Carson laughed ruefully.

  “They did that any road. No, I know this town. Likely you’ll pay for the nag out of your own pocket.”

  McAllister said something choicely obscene
. They both climbed onto the sorrel and, laden with the saddle, they headed back for town. They felt a mite foolish.

  * * *

  An hour later, they returned to their office. A fair amount had happened in that hour – the mayor had said the town would pay for the horse when McAllister threatened to resign; the banker, Penshurst, a fussy little man had wept and declared that he was ruined. The robbers had got clean away with twenty thousand dollars in gold. The two marshals made coffee, laced it strongly with whiskey and sat at their desks sipping it.

  Carson said: “This is a damned good start. Art killed dead and now the bank raided. Maybe there’s a jinx on our partnership.”

  “Ever have a hunch?” McAllister asked.

  “Plenty.”

  “I have a hunch Art being killed and this raid are connected.”

  Carson lit a stogie and puffed.

  “I can’t see that,” he said.

  “Nor can I,” McAllister agreed, “but that’s my hunch. There’s a little reason behind it when you look at it. This town was afraid of Art. More afraid than of you an’ me. Would anybody have dared make that raid if Art was alive?”

  “Makes sense,” Carson had to agree.

  “I reckon if’n you find those raiders you’ll find Art’s killers.”

  Carson stood up.

  “I’ll patrol around a bit an’ try to make the town afraid of me,” he said.

  McAllister said: “I’ll stick around for another couple of hours, then I’ll hit the hay. Leave the Darcys to me, will you, Jim?”

  Carson looked at him for a moment.

  “Sure,” he said. “But they’re poison.”

  He went out.

  McAllister checked the old Remington, stood thinking for a moment and followed him onto the street. He walked along to the Golden Fleece and entered. The place was full to bursting point, the din was deafening and it looked like business had never been better. He found the two Darcys together at the bar, drinking whiskey.