McAllister Makes War

by Matt Chisholm

  “Wasn’t it Drummond who you thought owned that thirty-eight, Mr. Penshurst?”

  The banker didn’t look at him.

  “Well, yes. Will did own a gun like that. But that signifies nothing. The purest coincidence I feel sure.”

  The girl almost screamed: “This is ridiculous. You’ve picked on one of the most important men in town... you’re jealous ... you came into town without a cent to your name. You’re nothing but a gunman and you dare to stand there and –”

  “Emily!”

  “This man goes around bullying –”

  “Emily, you will be silent. Now, Mr. McAllister, your allegations I’m sure are quite unfounded.”

  McAllister stood up and towered over them both.

  “I’m not makin’ any allegations, sir. I’m just stringin’ the facts together. They don’t add up, but they will. All I want is for you to be sure this isn’t the gun Will Drummond owns.”

  Penshurst waved his hands.

  “Will gave a perfectly acceptable explanation, even if it is the same gun. He lost it some time ago. It could be the same gun, but it now has no connection with Will Drummond.”

  “Now are you satisfied?” the girl demanded.

  “Ma’m,” McAllister said, looking her straight in the eyes,

  “I shan’t be satisfied till I find the man who killed my friend and yours - Art Malloy.”

  She dropped her eyes; her face was white.

  “I’ll show you to the door,” she said.

  When they were at the door, McAllister turned and said: “It don’t give me no pleasure, ma’am, that I’m bringin’ grief to a woman as beautiful as you.”

  She laid a hand on his arm.

  “You were a real friend of Art’s?” she said.

  “Yes, ma’am. Only reason I took the badge.”

  “If you find the man who killed him, I’ll be satisfied. I loved him, Mr. McAllister.”

  “Yes, ma’am. I know that.”

  “And you suspect Will Drummond, however crazy it may sound,” she said in what was almost a whisper.

  “Just a hunch,” he said. “I’m part Indian, ma’am, an’ I run on hunches. They take the place of brains.”

  He turned and walked away.

  She stayed where she was staring after him for a moment, her eyes troubled. Her world seemed to be collapsing about her. Could the craziness of this Texas gunfighter be founded on the truth? Was it just possible that the gentle Will Drummond had gunned down Art and Darcy and then cold-blooded planned Marve Little’s escape so that he could kill him? It couldn’t be. But there was doubt in her mind now and she was honest enough to recognise the fact.

  She closed the door and walked back into the parlor.

  Her father said: “It can’t be possible what the marshal said.”

  “He didn’t say anything, father,” the girl told him. “Don’t worry. He’s only doing his duty and clutching at straws. It’ll blow over. We know that Will would never be mixed up in anything criminal.”

  “No,” Penshurst said, “of course, you’re right.” But she knew that there was doubt in his mind too. The sight of the gun had unnerved him.

  “You go on up to bed, father,” she said. “I’ll read awhile.” She sat down and picked up her book. He got to his feet and she thought how old he looked. Placing a hand on her shoulder, he said: “Don’t worry, daughter. It’ll blow over. Will couldn’t possibly be what McAllister suggests he is. A man couldn’t fool the pair of us for so long.”

  She patted his hand.

  “Of course not,” she said. He bent and kissed her on the forehead. When he had left the room, she sat staring at the page of the book without seeing it. She knew that she couldn’t bear to sit still, not while she had so much on her mind, not while her head was so full of unanswered questions. She had to see Will and now. Staying where she was for nearly fifteen minutes, she listened to her father’s movements above. Then she fetched a cloak and shawl from her room and let herself out of the rear of her house. She knew that she was sick with fright, but she knew that she must go through with it. She owed it to Art Malloy and to herself.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The woman opened the door. Drummond was at his desk, a drink at his elbow.

  “There’s a man here,” she said in her deep voice. “Says his name’s Ricketts.”

  “Did he come by the rear door?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. Show him in.”

  A few minutes later, Ricketts entered.

  It was the first time Drummond had ever seen him and he looked him over carefully.

  In appearance, he was the most unremarkable man possible, the kind who could stand unnoticed in a crowd, a man who mingled without effort with any background. A store clerk, you would say: pale eyes that looked upon the world mildly; a drooping mustache of indeterminate color; a rather weak chin. Drummond looked at his hands and saw that they were white and soft. Ricketts was not a man who favored physical labor; he was a man of skills and he lived by them. He wore a simple suit of brown, the pants pushed into high boots. On his head was a wide-brimmed hat set straight. There was no gun in sight. At once, Drummond feared that he was mistaken in his man.

  “Mr. Drummond?”

  “Yes. Are you Ricketts?”

  “That’s correct!” The voice was quiet and hesitant.

  “Sit down.”

  The man in brown sat down primly, well-forward in the chair, knees together like a prim schoolmarm; he put his hands on his knees and sat staring at them.

  “Drink?”

  “No, thanks. Never touch the stuff.”

  Drummond poured himself one and offered the man a cigar. Ricketts shook his head – “Thanks, no. I don’t smoke.” Drummond wanted to ask: “Do you go with women?” but he refrained. He stood looking down at the man, puzzled and a little worried.

  “You know why I wanted to see you?” he asked.

  The eyes flicked up at him briefly and down again.

  “Men only want to see me for one thing, Mr. Drummond. They want a man killed. That’s my job.” The same gentle tone. Drummond came to the conclusion that the man was stark mad.

  “I want a man killed. And I want him killed quickly.”

  “Is he here in town?”

  “Yes.”

  “Give me his name and I’ll name my price.”

  “Price first.”

  “Very well. My usual charge is five hundred dollars.”

  That shook Drummond. He hadn’t thought of anything like that price.

  “That’s high,” he said.

  The eyes flicked up and down again.

  “How much do you usually pay for a killing?”

  “One fifty on agreement. The same after the job is done.”

  “That’s not a good craftsman’s pay, Mr. Drummond, and I imagine you know it. I’ll work for five hundred if it’s a normal straightforward killing.”

  “I’ll go to four hundred and no more,” Drummond said.

  “I haven’t made myself sufficiently clear,” Ricketts said.

  “My price is five hundred. I never haggle. If you don’t like the price, I suggest you hire yourself another man.”

  Drummond knew he’d met his match.

  “Very well,” he said. “I’ll pay five hundred.”

  Ricketts raised his eyes and lowered them again.

  “Who’s the man?”

  “McAllister.”

  “The marshal?”

  “Yes.”

  The eyes were raised and this time they fixed themselves on Drummond’s.

  “Mr. Drummond, you haven’t been altogether fair to me,” the gunman said. “Nobody could call killing McAllister a normal straightforward killing.”

  “A bullet stops him like it does any other man.”

  “I know McAllister and I’ve seen him work. He’s liable to shoot back. This will cost you seven hundred.”

  Drummond ground his teeth together. He was so angry that he could ha
ve hit the mild man in brown.

  “Are you afraid of being shot at?” he demanded.

  The man said with the same mildness: “I’m not afraid of anything, Mr. Drummond. Do you accept the price or not?”

  Drummond walked to the other side of the room, knowing the man had him. He had to have McAllister dead and quick. He didn’t want to face the man himself.

  A tap came at the door.

  “Come”

  The housekeeper entered, her face heavy and impassive.

  “Miss Penshurst is here to see you.”

  Drummond was startled. What in heaven’s name could Emily want this time of night.

  “Can’t you see I’m busy, woman, I can’t see her now.”

  “I put her in the parlor. You’d best see her.”

  “She’ll have to wait.”

  “She’ll wait.”

  The woman withdrew, closing the door behind her. Drummond turned to the gunman.

  “You’ll have to go now. I have a visitor.”

  Ricketts stood up, his hands at his side, his attitude meek and submissive again,

  “Do you want me to do the job?”

  “Yes, I suppose so. Yes. But you must do it soon. It that understood?”

  The man nodded.

  “I’ll do it tonight when he does his rounds. That’ll be half in advance.”

  Drummond protested.

  “I don’t keep that much money in the house.”

  “How much do you have?”

  “A couple of hundred.” He couldn’t risk more. McAllister might manage to kill the man and the money would be lost.

  “I’ll accept that.”

  Drummond went to his desk, unlocked a drawer and drew out a bundle of notes. He handed them to Ricketts who carefully and laboriously counted them. Satisfied, he thrust them into a pocket. Drummond fumed.

  Ricketts said: “The woman who let me in–is she to be trusted?”

  “Yes.”

  “She won’t talk?”

  “No. Not a chance.”

  “Right. There’s nothing more to be said. I’ll have your man dead by dawn. You don’t know me. You never spoke to me or saw me before in your life.”

  “That’s understood.”

  The pale eyes flicked up to Drummond’s face for a second and then the man was gone. For a moment, Drummond was overcome by an unusual physical weakness. He leaned against the table and placed a hand on his forehead. If anybody could kill McAllister that cold man would.

  He pulled himself together and walked into the parlor where Emily Penshurst awaited him. She turned toward him as he entered in the room and he knew at once from the expression on her face that something was wrong.

  “My darling,” he said and opened his arms to her.

  She stayed where she was, staring at him. Going up to her, he put an arm around her shoulder and kissed her affectionately on a cheek.

  “You look upset,” he told her. “Come, tell me and we’ll straighten it out.”

  “McAllister just came to our house,” she told him.

  He looked surprised, but he didn’t show the alarm that arose in him.

  “Whatever could he want?”

  “He brought that wretched gun.”

  “What gun?”

  “The one he showed you and father today at the bank. The gun that was taken from Marve Little’s body. Somebody passed it to him in the jail.”

  He put a puzzled look on his face. He held her at arm’s length and looked fondly into her face.

  “But how can that possibly concern you, my dear?” he asked.

  “He brandished that awful gun under our noses and practically accused us of knowing that it was yours.”

  “Mine? But this is absolutely ridiculous.” He folded her into his arms again and hugged her close. “You’re not to give it another thought, darling. The gun isn’t mine and I think the marshal knows that. He’s just desperate to find somebody to accuse for the shootings and doesn’t know which way to turn. Go home, forget about it.”

  “But he hinted...”

  “What did he hint?”

  “That you killed Fred Darcy and arranged for Marve Little to escape so that you could kill him. I’m frightened, Will.”

  “No need for you to be frightened at all, honey,” he told her.

  “I’m not worried in the slightest. There’s nothing to worry about.”

  “There is, Will.”

  He showed surprise again.

  “How do you mean?”

  “That gun was yours.”

  He fell back from her.

  “What?” he whispered.

  “The gun was yours,” she said determinedly, watching him levelly. “I remember the scratch near the handle.”

  “You’re not making sense,” he said. “And even if it was mine, it doesn’t mean a thing. I lost it months ago. I told your father.”

  “You told him today. Not months ago.”

  “Look, honey, you’re overwrought. You’re not making sense. What kind of a fool would a man in my position be to commit the killings you’re accusing me of?”

  “I’m not accusing you of anything, Will. I’m merely saying you lied about the gun.”

  “Look, just what’re you trying to do? You owe me some loyalty.”

  “I’m trying to find the man who killed Art Malloy.”

  That was like a slap in the face to him. He stared at her as if he couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

  “So that old ghost walks again,” he said.

  “He’s walked since he was killed.”

  He got a grip on himself with an effort. He knew that he must be alone to think. Crazily the thought that he should kill this girl came into his head, but he dismissed it. Not from any softness of heart, but because it would not have been safe to do so.

  “Believe me,” he said, “the gun was not mine. You’re mistaken. I give you my sacred word on that. Now go home and get a good night’s sleep and you’ll see things differently.”

  Suddenly, she seemed at a loss. She seemed to look at him one moment as if she were afraid of him, the next as if she despised him.

  “Think about what I’ve said,” she told him. “Think carefully. If you’re lying about the gun, I shall find out.”

  “Emily,” he said, “all I know is I love you. We’re going to be married and nothing’ll stop us. No woman has ever meant as much to me. Remember that. Nothing else matters.”

  She gave him a long unfathomable look and walked out of the house. He went to the door and watched her as she walked down the street. When he closed the door and turned, he found the housekeeper there.

  “I heard every word,” she said. “Our time here’s getting short.”

  “Don’t you believe it,” he said. “We’ll stay just as long as I choose.”

  “Then you’ll stay alone.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “They’re closing in on us. Get out while the going’s good.”

  “I’ve got too much tied up in this town.”

  She snapped: “There’s not enough here to hang for,” and turned back into her kitchen.

  It wasn’t true, he thought. He wasn’t finished here. There just wasn’t enough evidence against him. Good God, there was no evidence at all. Just the gun and that didn’t amount to anything. With McAllister dead, everything would be all right.

  * * *

  Ricketts entered a small hotel off Main, mounted to the floor above and tapped four times on a door. It opened and he stepped inside. The man who had let him in closed the door and propped a chair back under the handle. Ricketts sat on one of the two beds in the almost bare room and took off his hat, revealing the fact that he was almost totally bald.

  The other man sat on the other bed and said: “Well?”

  He was a little man, as nondescript as Ricketts, with watery eyes and a red nose. His hands shook a little and he had a disturbing habit of continually hitching his right shoulder forward as if his coat hung unco
mfortably. He was wanted in various States for various crimes among which were child molestation, rape and murder. He had killed two men with a butcher’s knife, one with a shotgun and had strangled a woman with a scarf. It gave him pleasure to be paid for committing crimes which to him were a pleasure in themselves. He was not intelligent enough to know pity, but possessed an active animal cunning that had permitted him to live under very trying circumstances. He feared Ricketts whom he regarded as being something of an aristocrat in their gruesome trade.

  “He was a little difficult,” Ricketts said, “but he saw it my way in the end. There’ll be a hundred in this for you, Strip, if you do your part well.”

  “Bank on it,” Strip said. “Who’s the party needs killin’?”

  Ricketts drew his breath in.

  “McAllister,” he said.

  The watery eyes looked startled for a moment. Then Strip started to giggle.

  “Dangerous, killin’ a lawman,” he said. “But, hell, that bastard needs killin’.”

  “We do it tonight. Now.”

  Strip’s voice was shrill -

  “Now?”

  Ricketts nodded. He rose from the bed and started to get ready. He pulled an old and battered case from under the bed and opened it. From it he took a Colt’s revolver in beautiful condition, loaded it and stuffed it in the top of his pants. When he had filled a pocket with spare shells which he felt sure he would not need, he took his second weapon from the case. This was a sawnoff shotgun, also in good condition. Meanwhile, Strip also prepared himself. First, he put on a long overcoat which he left unbuttoned, then he pulled a similar case from under his own bed and from it produced another shortened shotgun. He patted this with affection, loaded it and placed it in a long pocket inside the flap of the overcoat. Ricketts left his shotgun on the bed and donned an overcoat. There was a hole through from the pocket to the inside of the garment. He stuck his hand through this and held the shotgun under cover that way.

  The two men grinned at each other wolfishly, pleased with themselves.

  “Where’s McAllister now?” Strip wanted to know.

  “On the streets. All we have to do is to find him.”

  “Good. Let’s go. Christ, I feel good, Dye.”

  “Me too.”

  “There jest ain’t nothin’ like it.”

  They left their room and went out of the hotel by the side entrance into a dark alleyway.