McAllister Makes War

by Matt Chisholm

  “I give you credit, Drummond,” he said. “That was real neat. It’s fooled everybody. Everybody that is except me.”

  Drummond said: “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Marve’s dead. There isn’t a chance he’ll talk now.”

  “I would have thought you’d be grateful, McAllister,” Drummond said. “I stopped a man escaping.”

  “You stopped a man livin’.”

  “The town will be grateful if you’re not. In fact, you’ll look a bit of a fool, Little managing to get away like that.”

  McAllister said: “He had a gun. I’ll find out how he got it.” Drummond smiled.

  “You haven’t done very well since you put on the badge, have you, McAllister? A bank raid and a prisoner escaped. I think the town could do without you.”

  McAllister watched the people gathered around the dead body. Carrion around dead game.

  “I told you this morning,” he said softly, “I’ll hang you, Drummond. That still stands.”

  “You’d better be careful how you step,” Drummond said. “I could get you run out of town.”

  McAllister said: “You can run me to California. I’d come back and get you.”

  Drummond walked off down the street, skirting the men around Marve’s body. McAllister walked that way, too, shouldered his way through the men and searched around for the gun Marve had had. He found it. It was a Colt pocket model, caliber .38. The same size that had killed Fred Darcy. Which didn’t really prove a thing. He dropped it into his pocket and asked a man to fetch the undertaker.

  * * *

  Emily Penshurst was still up when Drummond reached the Penshurst place. She told him that her father had just gone up to bed. She would fetch him.

  “No,” Drummond told her, “it’s you I want to see.”

  They went into the parlor where a lamp burned. He noted that the curtains were drawn. He turned to her and said: “I know I shouldn’t be here this time of night, but I had to see you.”

  She saw that his face was drawn and pale.

  “Your face,” she said. “Has something happened?”

  He sat down, genuinely tired. It was as if the whole of his strength had left him.

  “Something terrible,” he said.

  She came and sat beside him, put her hands on his arm. Suddenly, she was frightened. So much had happened lately; she felt insecure. Her future had seemed assured, now she was scared that something would happen that would wreck it.

  “Tell me,” she said.

  He hesitated for a moment, wondering how best to play his hand. Her touch stirred him; he could feel the warmth of her body beside him. Suddenly, he wanted her, wanted for a moment to forget the tension and the fear that were growing in him.

  “I killed a man.”

  She started back from him, her eyes wide.

  “My God ... Do you mean you’ll be arrested?” So it had come. The end of all her plans and hopes. She had picked the best man in town, the man with the brightest future and now this.

  He smiled wanly.

  “Oh, no,” he said. “I shan’t be arrested. It was all legal and above board.”

  “What happened?”

  “I was at the bank. I heard a commotion from the marshal’s office. It was Marve Little escaping. I challenged him and he fired at me. I had no alternative but to shoot. It was him or me.”

  She laughed shakily.

  “I thought you meant you had committed murder,” she said. “You have done your duty, that is all.”

  “Just the same... I’ve killed a man.”

  Her hands were on his arm again, her breasts were pressed against him.

  “Don’t let it be on your conscience,” she told him. “The man was a criminal. He would have died anyway. There wasn’t anything else you could have done. You mustn’t blame yourself.”

  “I’m not a violent man,” he said. “I hate violence.”

  “I know,” she said. “You’re the gentlest and kindest man I’ve ever known.”

  He gave her a grateful look, she smiled and kissed him on the cheek. He turned and put his arms around her; her arms went around his neck.

  “We shouldn’t,” she said.

  He kissed her on the mouth and her arms tightened. She fell back onto the couch with him almost on top of her. For a moment, she struggled against him, but the protest was no more than a gesture. Her mouth opened and his tongue slipped through her parted lips. She clung to him now, aroused.

  When he took his mouth from hers, she panted: “No, no.” He renewed his attack and her fervor matched his. His right hand fumbled at the neck of her dress and met the warm softness of her breast.

  “I love you,” he told her.

  * * *

  McAllister was tired, but he sat at the desk with his pipe going like a small furnace and carefully penned his report of what had happened. He was no great shakes with a pen, but he found that committing the incident to paper helped clear his mind. As he went on he warmed to the task and found by the time he finished that he had not done badly. Anybody reading it would suspect how he felt about Drummond. He knew that it would help to slowly swing the responsible opinion in town against the man. Every little helped. He was getting Drummond rattled and pretty soon the man would make a mistake. Then he would nail him.

  He went to sleep with a feeling of satisfaction. He was not a man to dwell on his failures. Marve Little was dead, so he must go on from there.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The town talked of nothing but the shooting. Popular opinion had it that Will Drummond was something of a hero. Nobody had thought he had it in him. What luck he had been in the bank when Marve Little made his break. Fancy a man like Drummond swapping shots with a gunhand like Marve and coming off best. Drummond’s hand was shaken, his back slapped. He seemed to blossom modestly under the treatment. Even Penshurst congratulated him on his coolness and presence of mind.

  The coroner, a sad-eyed medico of middle years, asked a lot of pertinent questions. Drummond answered like a respectable citizen doing his duty. He wanted no credit, it was a terrible thing to have killed a man, even a man as bad as Marve Little had undoubtedly been. When it came to McAllister’s statement, the coroner seemed to hesitate. McAllister dwelled on the curious coincidence of both Darcy and Little being killed by a .38 gun. He pointed out that there was undoubtedly a connection between the killing of Art Malloy, Fred Darcy and Frank Little. Now there was the killing of Marve Little. The coroner seemed to think that the other killings were no concern of his. McAllister dwelled on the strangely timely presence of Drummond in the bank. But it got him nowhere. The coroner’s curiosity was aroused, but he ruled that Drummond had killed Marve Little with justification. He even seemed to think that McAllister, having been careless enough to let a prisoner escape, should thank his lucky stars that a good citizen like Drummond had been there to stop the runaway.

  Next, McAllister showed his report to the judge. The old man was three-parts drunk, but his brain was working all right. He read the document through, then cocked his head at McAllister.

  “By God,” he said, “you don’t mince matters, boy. This is practically an accusation of murder against Drummond. But you don’t have any evidence. You’ll have to do better than this.”

  “I aim to,” McAllister said.

  “Find out who that gun belongs to,” the judge told him. “And, has it occurred to you that an awful lot of witnesses are now dead?”

  “It sure did.”

  “So you yourself may shortly be a target.”

  “I reckoned that too.”

  “I should avoid dark alleyways at night,” the judge pronounced.

  McAllister grinned.

  “I aim to,” he said.

  He walked to the gunsmith on Garrett and showed him the gun. The man said he had never seen it before. McAllister walked down to the bank and found Drummond in the company of Penshurst.

  Drummond looked up from his desk in the inner office and s
aid: “It’s customary to knock before you enter a gentleman’s office.”

  McAllister took the gun from his pocket and laid it on the desk.

  “Ever see that before?” he demanded.

  Drummond shook his head.

  “No, I didn’t. Should I have?”

  McAllister turned to Penshurst who sat at his own desk looking troubled.

  “Did you, Mr. Penshurst?”

  “I - I don’t think so.”

  McAllister handed it to him. The banker’s hands were shaking.

  “No,” Penshurst said with a look at Drummond. “No -1 guess I never saw it before. Mind you, it is not an uncommon weapon. It is possible ...”

  McAllister put the gun in his pocket and said: “Thank you, gentlemen.” He walked out. Penshurst sat looking troubled.

  Drummond said: “You look worried. Did you see that gun before?”

  “I - no, it’s ridiculous. There are so many ...”

  “You don’t seem sure.”

  “It’s crazy ... but ... well, for a moment I thought it was that pocket pistol of yours.”

  Drummond smiled easily.

  “You were quite right to think that. I did have a gun like that. But it was not the same one. I lost mine a couple of months back as it so happens, but it was not that gun. I looked with particular care. Mine was in a much better condition.”

  The banker looked relieved.

  “That’s that settled, then,” he said.

  Drummond reached for his hat and said: “I think I’m all through here. I’ll walk back to my own office.” He nodded to Penshurst and walked out. He wanted to be alone, to think. McAllister didn’t have a thing to go on, but he was getting close. Too close for comfort.

  He went into the Golden Fleece by the side door and went straight into the office. He found his bottle there and took a stiff drink. He was drinking more than usual lately. He found it steadied him up a little and he needed to be steady.

  He sat and mused, not pushing his thoughts, but allowing them to come. The foremost of them was that McAllister must die. And soon, before he got any closer. Drummond’s men had either gone or were dead. He would either have to hire a gun or do the job himself. This was the job for an expert and it was stupid to bark yourself if you could hire a dog to bark for you. He ran his mind down a list of names.

  He came up with Dye Ricketts.

  He was the same breed as the Little brothers. He could be hired and he was loyal to his hiring. A man with a reputation both for pride of craft and for skill in it. Ricketts it would be. All he had to do was to check that he was still in town. He stood up. He would do that right away.

  * * *

  Pat O’Doran was feeling good. He was walking now and had proved it by sinking a pint in the Golden Fleece. With that under his belt he walked back to the office, belching happily. There he found Jim Carson sitting on the edge of his cot smoking. McAllister sat behind his desk frowning ferociously. McAllister was thinking. His whole trouble was that he was in a town and he was trying to track down a man in a town. He was not in the right environment. He could track a man in the wilds over rock as good as an Indian, but here in town he was lost. He needed to be a skilled detective and that was something he was not. All he had gained was to rattle Drummond, but he could no more prove that Drummond was his man than fly. And he knew the man would kill him at the first opportunity.

  Carson was saying: “But what do you aim to do, Rem? We’ve had God knows how many men killed and you could be the next.”

  “I know I could be the next an’ most likely am,” McAllister told him. “You think I’m enjoyin’ it or something’?” He ruminated. “All I can do is wait till he makes his try an’ nail him then.”

  Carson argued: “He hires another man or the man kills you. Either way it don’t get you anywhere.”

  McAllister made a sound of disgust and reached for his hat. He slapped it onto his head and stalked out. Pat looked after him, worried. He let a few minutes pass, then he rose and picked up the greener.

  “What do you think you’re doin’?” Carson demanded.

  “I’m after takin’ a small wee walk,” Pat told him.

  “You got strong all of a sudden.”

  “It’s a miracle, that’s what it is,” Pat said and went out onto the street. The whole place was dark except for a light here and there. The front of the Golden Fleece blazed with light further down the street. Pat was tempted to go in there for another drink, but he suppressed the temptation.

  McAllister walked warily. He knew that this night could be the night and it wasn’t a comfortable feeling. He kept to the shadows and away from the light. He kept his eyes turned away from the lights, too, so they would be better in the darkness. Turning right at the interesection, he walked down Garrett to the Penshurst house. There were quite a few people about still and he thought that there were too many people for it to happen here.

  The Penshurst door was opened by the daughter. Her eyes came wide at the sight of him. She didn’t like him and he didn’t take to being disliked by so beautiful a woman.

  “Evenin’, ma’am,” he said, touching the brim of his hat. “Is your father to home.”

  She hesitated.

  “He’s here, but I don’t know if he’ll see anybody.”

  “Tell him I’ve come to see about the gun,” he said.

  “The gun?”

  “He’ll know what you’re talkin’ about.”

  She left him standing at the door and went into the parlor. Her father was sitting in an armchair reading a paper.

  “Who is it, my dear?”

  “McAllister, the marshal.”

  She didn’t miss his start of alarm.

  “What does he want?”

  “He says he’s come to see about the gun.”

  “The gun?”

  The man was alarmed and couldn’t hide the fact.

  “What gun’s he talking about?”

  “Somebody passed Marve Little a gun before he escaped from jail. He brought it over to the bank this morning and asked Will and I if we could identify it.”

  “And could you?”

  “No. No, we could ... I...”

  “What, father?”

  “At first I thought it was that pocket Colt of Will’s.”

  “Why, that’s ridiculous.”

  “I know. There are many such guns around. Well, show the marshal in. Let us get it over with.”

  She looked at her father doubtfully for a moment, then went to ask the marshal in. He seemed huge as he loomed into the small room. He towered over her father and his voice seemed to boom softly. She was conscious of the aggressive maleness of the man and was a little angry with herself because of it She didn’t like the man. He stood for everything she hated.

  Her father was nervous. He rose from his chair and shook hands, not knowing what to say, waving a hand for McAllister to sit down.

  “Shall I leave you?” Emily asked.

  “No,” McAllister said. “Please stay, ma’am. You may be able to help.”

  “Now, marshal,” Penshurst said. “What can I... how can I help you.”

  “That gun I showed you at the bank this morning, Mr. Penshurst. You said you’d never seen it before.”

  “That was true, I had not. Never.”

  McAllister let that statement hang in the air for a moment.

  Finally, he said: “But you hesitated. Why?”

  The banker stared at him wordlessly for a moment.

  The girl said: “Are you doubting my father’s word, sir?”

  Penshurst waved her to silence. McAllister said: “What makes you think I doubt his word?”

  “Your manner.”

  “I apologise for it. I don’t mean to doubt his word, though I may doubt his memory. There’s more than one gun of that pattern in this town and I wondered how he could be so sure he hadn’t seen that one before.”

  “I don’t think I like-”

  Penshurst said: “That’s
all right, my dear. I can handle this.” He turned to McAllister - “As you said, marshal, there are several guns of that kind in town and I wanted to be sure.”

  “But you weren’t sure.”

  “Not at first.”

  “Were you sure when I left? Are you sure now?”

  “Er-I-reasonably.”

  “Reasonably isn’t good enough, Mr. Penshurst. If you think you’ve seen this gun before I want you to say so.” He took the gun from his pocket and held it up for them to see. Glancing up at the girl he saw the look on her face.

  “I - I know a gun like it,” the banker said.

  McAllister turned to the girl.

  “An’ you, ma’am,” he said. “Do you know a gun like it?”

  Her eyes said ’yes’ but out loud, she said: “No. No, I never saw it before.”

  McAllister said to the banker: “The gun you know like it, who owns it?”

  The banker was white to the lips. He looked at his daughter and didn’t find any help there.

  “You’re putting me in a very embarrassing position, marshal,” he said.

  “Murder’s embarrassing too.”

  “Murder?”

  It was the daughter who spoke.

  McAllister said: “Let’s see what we have. Fred Darcy tried to leave town. Somebody shot him with a thirty-eight gun.”

  “There are folks who say that you killed him, marshal,” Emily said.

  “Emily!” her father protested.

  “Sure,” McAllister said easily. “That’s how it was meant to look. All right, Fred was killed with a thirty-eight. Nothing really unusual in that. Now Marve Little is passed a thirty-eight and he breaks out of jail with it. He’s stopped by Will Drummond and killed.”

  “What are you tryin’ to imply?” the girl demanded.

  “Why, ma’am,” McAllister said innocently, “I ain’t tryin’ to imply anythin’. I’m just thinking my thoughts out loud like. Aw, yes, there’s another fact that’s real interestin’. Not long before Fred Darcy got himself shot with this thirty-eight, his saloon was bought from him by a man who once owned a thirty-eight, I’ll bet.”

  “Who?” asked the banker.

  “Will Drummond.”

  “What?” Father and daughter shouted the question together.