McAllister Makes War

by Matt Chisholm

  Carson smiled a little.

  “Bring up the rear, Rem,” he said. “An’ you’d best walk backward.”

  He went out onto the street and looked around. There was a fair amount of foot and wheeled traffic about. He lifted a hand and McAllister said to the prisoner: “Get movin’.” Evans hung back a moment, but McAllister gave him a shove and he walked uncertainly out onto the street. Once there, he looked around nervously. His tongue was still busy on his dry lips.

  Carson started walking. McAllister prodded Evans after him and walked close behind him. As soon as he was out on the street, the flesh of his back crept in apprehension. His unfailing instinct told him that what was coming was coming soon. It would come before they reached the judge.

  People were turning to stare now. They had heard of the run in at the Golden Fleece the night before.

  * * *

  Marve and Frank Little halted their horses.

  They were on a backlot.

  Frank dismounted from his beautiful black gelding and patted its shining neck with genuine affection. He looked around and he didn’t like what he saw. He hadn’t thought of the trash lying around when he had said for Marve to hold the horses here.

  “They could break a leg with all this stuff around,” he said. Marve agreed.

  “I could bring ’em right out on the street,” he said. Frank shook his head.

  “Could be lead flyin’,” he said. “They might get hit.” He walked to the head of the alleyway running between the buildings and leading to the street. Here to his right was the rear of the hotel. The way was clearer here. They could run directly south from here. That might be better all around. “Bring ’em over here,” he called.

  Marve scooped up the black’s dragging line and rode his superb bay over to where Frank stood. The elder brother heaved his rifle from the boot on the saddle, checked it and said: “Keno.”

  “Luck,” Marve said and Frank walked away down the alley.

  There was a water-butt almost on the street and Frank took his station here, buried in deep sun-shadow. He was slightly put-off to realise that the sun was against him here. A man coming down the street would have an advantage over him in this position. He cursed himself for not having thought of that before. He thought. He would take the risk of letting the prisoner and guard go past him. He’d catch Evans just as he was going into the Golden Fleece. It would be a slightly longer shot, but it was still an easy one for him.

  He put his rifle behind the butt and rolled himself a smoke. Striking a lucifer on the scat of his pants, he puffed calmly. He was a little tense, he discovered, but not unduly excited. There was real risk in this, he didn’t deny, but he was a man almost without nerves. Odds didn’t throw him, because he had supreme confidence in the speed of his own reactions. He didn’t doubt that, all things being equal, he could kill prisoner and a guard with two shots. Then he’d leg it down the alley and away. The hard ride to El Paso, dodging the law and Indians all the way, keeping out of the sight of any living soul except when they obtained the necessary supplies. Then over the Border. They’d have a lot of fun in Mexico, him and Marve. They’d have money in their pockets.

  He finished the smoke, dropped it and ground it out under his heel.

  Folks were turning and looking up the street.

  He put out his hand and touched the barrel of the rifle. The time was near.

  The corner of the building to his right, obscured his view of the street and he didn’t want to show himself by stepping forward for a clearer view. So he waited. A half-minute passed before Carson, the marshal, came into view. The man looked like he had troubles. He bore a six-shooter on his right hip and a greener in his hands held across his body, ready for action. Frank grinned wolfishly. That wouldn’t do him much good at the range he would start shooting.

  Evans came into view, walking a good half-dozen paces behind the marshal. Behind him loomed McAllister’s tall figure. Frank cursed. Trust that sonovabitch to be close in that way. Unless Frank got Evans at just the right angle, it would be terribly difficult to make the shot. He might be forced to cut McAllister down first. The prisoner and his escort had to walk across the head of the alley, go a hundred paces to Frank’s left before they turned into the Golden Fleece. As the line of men came broadside on to Frank, that was the moment for the gunman to shoot. The only time. McAllister being so close cut down the time available considerably. Now, if a townsman got in the way, the shot could prove impossible.

  The three men were passing the alleyway. Frank pressed himself back. It seemed that McAllister’s eyes were flicking everywhere. Frank wiped the palms of his hands carefully on the leg of his pants.

  McAllister was past now. Frank stayed back where he was for the count of six, unseen and able to see. Then he edged forward, the gun held out of sight. McAllister was turning, facing back Frank’s way. The gunman pulled himself back into cover. He found that he had started to sweat. He cursed the deputy. God damn ...

  He peeked out again.

  There was a man on the opposite side of the street watching him. Frank ignored him. In a couple of shakes it would all be over.

  The prisoner and escort were now almost opposite the saloon. The crowd had thickened. There were several people near Frank, but they were pushing forward toward the saloon. A buggy was stopped, by the people in the center of the street. The driver stood up to see better.

  Frank started to get desperate.

  Call it off, said a voice in his head.

  But he wasn’t a man easily beaten. The buggy was within a dozen paces of the alleyway. The thought was no sooner in his head, than Frank acted. He ran forward, climbed over the rear of the buggy and instantly had a clear view of his target.

  The owner of the buggy turned and bawled out: “What the hell do you reckon you’re doin’?”

  “I’m doin’ no harm, mister,” Frank said. “Just gettin’ a better look.”

  “You have the most infernal nerve, sir.”

  Carson had mounted the sidewalk. McAllister was pushing Evans forward. The target was pretty good. Evans was in view from the waist upward.

  Frank said quietly: “Stay very still, mister, or you get some lead up your butt.”

  The man froze.

  Frank raised the rifle.

  McAllister was turning, looking down the street over the heads of the people. Frank sighted on Evans.

  McAllister was galvanised into violent action. He seemed to turn and hurl Evans from his feet and throw himself down even as Frank fired.

  A man beyond Evans threw up his hands and staggered back.

  Frank knew that he had to move fast or it would be his last move. He would have tried for McAllister but the deputy was out of sight. Frank bounded over the side of the buggy and landed flat-footed. A man barred his path, too frightened to move. Frank headed straight for him, throwing him to one side.

  A man yelled.

  Frank reached the mouth of the alleyway and started down it.

  He was an active man and he could move fast. He had never moved faster in his life than he did now. He could see Marve in bright sunlight at the end of the dark passage. It seemed as if he ran down that dark and narrow way forever. The horses were jigging about all over and Marve was having his hands full in holding them.

  Marve was moving the animals around so that the black would be handy for Frank to mount. Frank strained to greater effort; his lungs felt as if they would burst. He could hear the air heaving in his chest.

  Oh, God, he thought, I’ll never make it before somebody shoots.

  But suddenly the black was right in front of him. He tried to vault into the saddle as he had done so many times before but his legs wouldn’t obey him now and he fell heavily against the horse’s flank.

  Marve was shouting.

  Frank got his left foot in the stirrup-iron and heaved himself astride. The loose line was in his hand and the black had taken the jump before he was in the saddle. Marve was spurring away. Without getti
ng his right foot in the iron, Frank hit the black with steel. Marve was already across the vacant lot and was almost to the brush beyond.

  Something struck Frank a terrible blow in the back, jarring him forward against the saddlehorn. He grasped the horn with one hand and dropped the rifle. The horse’s forward jump that would have become a flat run turned abruptly into a wild pitch. Frank’s right hand grasped the coarse mane and he clung on for dear life, hitting the animal with the spurs again, shouting: “Get on, you bastard, get on.”

  The animal seemed to go crazy at the vicious touch of steel and swerved suddenly. Frank jerked in the saddle as helplessly as a rag-doll, held for a brief moment, then was hurled loosely from the saddle.

  He hit the ground hard on his back and lay there with all the wind knocked out of him.

  Marve came pounding back.

  “Get on,” Frank screamed.

  “You hit?”

  “I’m a goner. Run for it, you fool. You can’t do nothin’.”

  Feet pounded in the alleyway. A shot winged by. Marve ripped his handgun from leather and fired a couple of shots. His bay was dancing this way and that.

  “Run,” Frank howled. He tried to raise himself from the ground, but it was as though he were pinned there by a giant stake through his shoulder.

  It’s caught up with me at last, he thought.

  Marve gave him a last desperate look, neck-reined the bay around and went off in a cloud of dust. Booted feet pounded up. Frank tried to draw his gun, but a voice said: “Leave it.”

  The man reached down, drew the gun and tossed it aside. Frank saw that it was McAllister. He heard the beat of Marve’s retreat going away into distance. He should do all right with two fast horses. The law would never catch up with him.

  Another man ran up. This was Carson the marshal.

  McAllister said: “One down an’ one to go.”

  “Where you hit, Frank?” Carson asked.

  “In the back,” Frank said. “The only way you could do it, McAllister.”

  The deputy pursed his lips, but didn’t answer.

  “I’ll get some men to carry him down to the doc’s,” he said. He walked away down the alleyway.

  Carson said: “We’ll patch you up, then we’ll have a little pow-wow, Frank.”

  Frank grinned a little.

  “You know where’ll that’ll get you.”

  “I’m goin’ to get you on the end of a rope, Frank, an’ you know that.”

  “But you won’t get Marve. He’s got two of the fastest horses in Kansas,” Frank said. That pleased Frank. He didn’t care much what happened to himself now. He was a fatalist. When a man’s time came, he went and there wasn’t much he could do about it. He waited patiently for the men to come to carry him to the doctor’s and wondered idly if he would bleed to death before they got him there. It would save a whole lot of trouble if he did.

  Chapter Six

  Carson heard horses outside on the street. He walked to the door and looked out. McAllister was in the act of dismounting from his canelo. In his hand he held the lead rope of a chunky-looking dun.

  Carson said: “Where do you think you’re goin’?”

  “After Marve Little.”

  “Are you hell?”

  “I am hell.”

  “I don’t remember giving an order.”

  “That’s because you never gave it. I’m doin’ you the courtesy of stoppin’ by an’ tellin’ you, ain’t I? An’ me in a hurry too.”

  “Just stop to think, Rem. You can’t catch Marve. He’s an hour ahead and he has real classy horseflesh.”

  McAllister grinned maddeningly.

  “They’ll be run belly-deep into the ground while my canelo’s still steppin’ proud. If Marve knew my horse’s kind he’d turn around an’ give hisself up.”

  “All right,” Carson said in disgust. “So you have a fancy horse. Maybe the town needs you here.”

  “Hire yourself another deputy. I’ll resign till I hit town again. Use your head, man-Frank dies an’ all we have is Evans. We want every man in this outfit we can get. They couldn’t kill one prisoner. You think they’re goin’ to have a chance with two or even three?”

  “They could raid the jail while you’re gone.”

  “Fort up and hold out till I get back. This won’t take a couple of days.”

  Carson went red in the face.

  “You get in that saddle an’ you’re fired.”

  McAllister said: “You almost sound as if you mean that.”

  “I do mean it.”

  “You’re just worried that nasty Marve’ll shoot holes in me. You really care, marshal.”

  Carson became incoherent. McAllister mounted and Carson stamped his feet, yelling: “You’re fired.”

  “I was never fired by a nicer feller.”

  McAllister turned the canelo toward the creek and set it off down the street at a lope, the dun following briskly behind, Carson swore on for a full minute before he stomped furiously back into his office. The Texas cowhand behind bars said: “What happened, marshal? You look kinda mad.”

  “You want your teeth knocked in?” Carson demanded.

  “No, siree.”

  “Then don’t talk. Don’t even breathe loud.”

  * * *

  McAllister crossed the creek and turned south, cutting a little west until he struck the sign left by Marve Little. Not long after he lost the sign among the mass of cattle tracks there. He was irritated by this because he knew that it might be hours before he picked up Marve’s sign again. But he kept on going. Luck was with him and he saw, when he picked up the sign again, that Marve must be traveling in an almost dead straight line. But Marve had the advantage and McAllister knew it. McAllister would have to stop when it grew dark, because sign couldn’t be followed when you couldn’t see it. Marve would keep on going. Mile after mile would be eaten up as the man ahead switched from one horse to another. There wasn’t much going in McAllister’s favor. He wanted some luck.

  He rode hard, letting the willing canelo make its own brisk pace. The animal loved to run. The chunky dun, riderless, kept up well. Around noon, McAllister switched the saddle to the back of the dun and tried it out. The man in the livery had sworn the animal was a stayer and McAllister’s eyes told him the same thing. As soon as McAllister was up the animal hit a fast long trot and kept to it till mid-afternoon when McAllister transferred himself back to the canelo again. By now he was sure that he had a good horse in the dun. His chances of catching Marve were better, but not good. The man had two thoroughbreds with him. McAllister could only hope that they didn’t possess the endless bottom that his two horses with their mustang ancestry had.

  The flatness of the country started to disappear. It started to roll. It was still possible at times to see a great distance, but there was low land between the ridges that were out of sight. A pursuer could never be too sure that the pursued was not over the next ridge, waiting.

  McAllister pressed on hard till dark. He stopped then for two reasons. One, because he couldn’t see Marve’s tracks any more. Two, because he heard the whinny of a horse. He halted, groundhitched his two horses, took out the Henry and went cautiously up the next ridge.

  * * *

  Jim Carson was nervous and he had every right to be. He was no coward, but he knew real danger when he saw it. McAllister had shown lack of responsibility and an indifference to danger that angered the marshal. But he knew that his firing of the man was meaningless. He needed McAllister and he had never needed a man more.

  So Carson sat at his desk and worried.

  Frank Little was at the doctor’s house wounded. And Carson needed Frank alive. He might die of his wounds, he might be killed in the same way as he had tried to kill Burt Evans.

  Evans was another worry. He was in the cell with the Texas cowhand, but how long would he stay there? There was menace in this town and it was doubly worrying because Carson had no idea from whence the menace came. He ran his mind over nam
es again and again, trying to guess at the men who were big enough and dangerous enough to run a business like this. More and more, as he thought, he came to agree with McAllister’s hunch that Malloy’s killing and the bank robbery were tied in together. He couldn’t prove it, but it was a feeling he had.

  His main trouble was that he wanted to be in two places at once. He needed to keep an eye on the jail and he should be with Frank Little.

  Mid-morning, the mayor came fussing in. Homer Touch was something of a laugh, but he was no fool. He knew that trouble was brewing and he knew you couldn’t fight trouble without the expenditure of money. Money was the mayor’s weapon. It could buy guns and it could buy men. He understood at once when Carson put his case to him. Carson glossed over McAllister’s departure and said that it was unavoidable and necessary. Touch didn’t quite agree with that, but he went along with the marshal.

  “Mr. Carson, you need help,” he said. “The town isn’t made of money, but I daresay it would run to a special deputy. Say, till McAllister gets back. Or things look more settled. We’ll consult each day. Hire a man at a rate of fifteen dollars a week. You know a good man?”

  “I know a good man. But whether I can get him or not is another matter.”

  The mayor departed fussily.

  Carson stepped onto the sidewalk, spotted a small boy and whistled him. The youngster came running.

  “You know Pat O’Doran, son?”

  “Sure, marshal.”

  “Is he in town?”

  “Lappin’ it up in the Golden Fleece.”

  Carson flipped a coin and the boy caught if deftly.

  “Go fetch him for me.”

  The kid sped off.

  Five minutes later, O’Doran’s bulk heaved itself into the office.

  “Sit down, Pat.”

  The giant Irishman punished an inoffensive chair. It groaned.

  “You look worried as hell, man,” he said.

  Carson said: “Would you like a rest from railroad work for a few days?”

  “I’d be takin’ my rest over at the Golden Fleece right this very minute if you hadn’t sent for me.”

  “Can you use a shot-gun?”