Chapter Sixteen
Ricketts halted outside the Great Western Emporium. He was in deep shadow. Over the way and at an angle to him, a lamp burned outside a saloon. This was the Lively Lady and it was booming. A piano clanged out a tune, voices were raised in raucous disharmony. A man came violently out of the swing doors, staggered across the sidewalk and untied his horse. He leaned against the animal for a moment, then mounted uncertainly. The animal turned slowly, the man raked home the spurs and went careering crazily down the street, giving a wild rebel yell as he went. The few passersby did not turn to watch him go. It was a commonplace to see a shrieking cowhand riding wildly through the streets at that time of night.
A buckboard, drawn by two half-wild mustangs, went quickly down the street.
Strip was on the other side of the street, caught by the lamplight.
Ricketts drifted across the street, got near Strip and said: “Use the shadows, you dumb fool.”
Strip muttered something and moved to an alleyway. Ricketts drifted back across the street, went slowly down the sidewalk until he reached the alleyway at the side of a hotel. Here was a large water barrel. He got behind it. He did not have a complete view of the street from here, but he had enough and it was safe. Ricketts was no coward, but he liked to be safe. If McAllister passed now they could catch him in a murderous cross-fire.
A man and woman passed, talking in low voices.
A big man left the sidewalk at the entrance of the alley, crossed it and mounted the sidewalk on the other side. He carried either a rifle or a shotgun and Ricketts knew that this was the big Irish deputy. The gunman didn’t like this, but he reckoned that McAllister and O’Doran would not be patrolling the same place at the same time. He worried a little that McAllister had returned to the office. Ricketts toyed with the idea of going to the office and catching him there. He put off making a decision. He’d give the marshal another hour. If he did not come by then, he would head for the office.
As he waited, the people on the street grew less, though the noise from the saloon seemed to increase. The Golden Fleece was to his right and over the way at an angle to him was the Lively Lady. He reckoned that McAllister would be checking on both saloons before the night was done.
After he had stayed still for something like thirty minutes, he heard the shrill sound of a dog. Anybody else than Ricketts hearing it would think the animal had been kicked, but Ricketts knew it for Strip’s favorite signal. Their man was coming. Ricketts edged out from his deep shadow and peered up the street. Nothing moved. He glanced across at the Lively Lady and saw a tall man standing silhouetted against the light of the large window. This he knew to be McAllister.
He took the sawn-off shotgun from under the skirt of his overcoat and placed a thumb on a hammer. The distance was too great for a scattergun and he prayed that his target would move in his direction.
McAllister stayed still for some time, then moved toward the center of the street. Ricketts licked his dry lips. McAllister changed direction and started walking directly toward him. Ricketts slipped back into the shadows, cocking the weapon as he did so. The lawman would cross the mouth of the alleyway and Ricketts would let him have both barrels at close range. The shot should cut him in half. A good clean job and nobody could be in doubt as to its result. You wouldn’t have to check if McAllister was dead. He’d be deader than last week’s mutton. Strip would fire from the other side of the street. Ricketts had never been surer of himself. This was the kind of neat job he liked to do. He planned to fire and hightail it down the alleyway and straight back to his hotel room. Nobody would be the wiser,
McAllister was thirty yards away and coming on steadily.
* * *
McAllister halted.
The street was without movement. The noise of the two saloons almost deafened him.
He thought: The time and the place to cut down on me. He had thought the same thought a dozen times during his patrol of the town and he knew he might well think it another dozen times before he was through.
He hefted the greener and went on.
There was an alleyway to his right; another to his left. He could be in a crossfire. His eyes flicked left and right, catching no telltale glimmer of light on metal. But his nerves were taut.
Suddenly a stentorian bellow -
“Down, Rem.”
He reacted immediately. The shout was Pat O’Doran’s. He hurled himself to the right, struck on his shoulder, somersaulted, stretched out in the dust with the shotgun cocked.
From near at hand a shotgun roared twice, one shot coming so close on the tail of the other that there was one deafening sound.
A man screamed piercingly.
All these sounds were from his right. Somebody had tried to cut down on him from that direction and Pat had let him have both barrels.
Therefore, there could be danger to the left.
McAllister swung the shotgun as another weapon roared. This time from the alleyway to his left. Something ripped across his head, burned his back, tore into his shoulders. The flash came from the alleyway. He let go with both barrels. He heard the shot ripping into the woodwork of the building beyond. He rolled desperately, knowing if the man in there lived, there was another barrel to come.
It came and this time it missed.
McAllister reared to his feet, wondering how badly he was hit. But for the moment, it didn’t matter; he was moving, staying on his feet. He ran up the street for twenty yards, turned at a right-angle and hit the sidewalk, throwing himself flat.
Pat had reloaded and was firing into the alley.
McAllister got to his feet again and ran forward on the tips of his toes.
Pat shouted: “The bastard’s still in there, Rem.”
McAllister sweated. He thought of rushing the alleyway, but turned the idea down. Running into two barrels of buckshot was beyond the call of duty in his opinion.
He looked around him. There were lights burning in the building to his right; an office of some kind. He tried the door and it resisted him. He backed up, hurled himself forward and nearly tore the door from its hinges.
He came face to face with a terrified man who held a gun in his hand. The hand shook violently. The sight of it terrified McAllister.
“I’m the law,” he said, “put that fool gun away.”
The man swallowed hard and continued to wave the gun around.
McAllister demanded: “Is there another way out of here?”
“Side door into the alley,” the man whispered.
McAllister pushed him aside and went through the doorway behind the man. This was an inner office with a large safe in the corner. A door on the other side of the room. McAllister opened this and found himself in a kind of lobby. To his left was a door. It was bolted. He drew the bolts as quietly as he could, paused a moment, filled his lungs with air then wrenched the door open. Hurling himself through it, he landed in the alleyway in a long dive, rolled and came up against the building opposite.
A gun thundered.
Something struck the wall above his head. He rolled again, dropped the shotgun which he realised in a moment of panic was empty and drew the Remington.
He could see nothing.
He prayed that Pat didn’t start shooting into the alley.
Another shot came This one was closer, but it showed McAllister the man’s position. He fired.
Silence.
He waited.
The man was some twenty feet further down the alley and McAllister reckoned that any minute now he’d run. He was most likely flat on the ground hard up against the opposite wall. If he ran, he would be on his feet faintly silhouetted against the night sky at the end of the alley.
Five minutes passed.
If the other man was alive, he was wondering if McAllister was dead. McAllister was wondering if he had hit the man.
His eyes were becoming more used to the darkness now.
Suddenly, he became aware that there was a blurred shape a
gainst the night sky. The man was walking slowly backward.
McAllister raised the Remington, cocked and fired. A shot racketed back in reply. Blinded by his own gunflash, McAllister rolled to the other side of the alley. Footsteps were pounding away from him. He fired his gun empty. The footsteps continued, the man reached the end of the alley and turned left.
Pumping empty shells out and thumbing fresh loads into the Remington, McAllister shouted: “The next alley east, Pat.” His gun loaded, even under the hammer, he ran down the alley. He swung left and a shot winged past his head. He turned right, dropped and found himself amongst the trash of the backlot. He had come to rest in more comfortable places in his life.
He eyed around for the man he was after and couldn’t see him. The scene was lit by nothing but the stars.
Reaching around, he found a can with his left hand and hurled it forward as far as he could. A gun sounded from the rear of a building, a good forty paces away and he fired at the flash without much hope of getting a hit. A window collapsed under the shot and he cursed, knowing he would have to be careful else some innocent would get hurt.
Suddenly, the man was on the move again; McAllister heaved himself to his feet and ran too. The man flung a shot back at him, but it was wide. McAllister ran on. After a dozen paces or so, he knew that he was on dangerous ground, for he could not hear the man above the sound of his footfalls and knew the fellow could have stopped.
In the next second, he knew he had made a mistake. A shot came, something struck him hard high in the left arm and he was spun around as he ran. He tripped and fell, lost his gun and had another shot sent at him.
He lay cursing and searching around for his gun.
The man was running again now.
McAllister found his gun, floundered to his feet and found that his left arm felt numb and heavy. But he started running. Ahead was the dark maw of an alley. The dim figure of the man ahead of him disappeared into this. Was Pat in his position at the other end?
McAllister halted, pressed back against the wall and saw the man. From the other end of the alley a man cried out a challenge. In the alley, the man fired. Pat poured fire into the dark way. Lead sang past McAllister. He yelled for Pat to hold his fire. The man was still on the move. A door opened, allowing a shaft of light into the dark alley. For a brief second the man was outlined against it. McAllister lifted his gun, but was afraid of hitting Pat. The door slammed and the light was gone. McAllister started running. He weaved badly and once crashed against the side of the alley and knew that he was in shock from the bullet in his upper arm. He reached the door and tore it open, knowing that he was a damn fool even as he did it. He charged clean through into a lighted passageway. No shot came. He ran forward and came to the lobby; to his right were the stairs, facing away from him to the street door. The place was deserted.
Had his quarry gone up the stairs or straight through the door ahead of him out onto the street? He had to make a guess and if he was wrong it could cost him his life.
Had Pat seen the man going in through the door? The chances were that he had. Therefore if the man had gone out onto the street Pat would have fired on him. The man must have either gone up the stairs or through the doorway to the left. So had the man taken to that room because it was near to escape or had he gained height by mounting the stairs?
McAllister decided to bet on the stairs.
Edging forward, he craned his neck to see up the stairs, gun cocked, ready for action. A floorboard creaked. He knew from the sounds in the background that there were plenty of men out on the street come to watch the excitement.
In the house, silence pressed down on him. The only sound seemed to be that of his own breathing and his stealthy advance.
He reached the side of the stairs, still craning his neck, yet shifting his gaze every now and then to the door to his left. It was closed tight.
He reached the foot of the stairs, turning, facing upward.
Suddenly, a sound ... a gun cocking.
The top of a man’s head came into view ... a gun.
They both fired in the same instant, both nervous, both hurried. Wood splintered near him, he hurled himself forward flat against the stairs, gun still forward. The man had disappeared from view. McAllister gathered his right leg under him in preparation of an upward charge. There was no profit in lying where he was, waiting to be shot at. He might as well risk being shot while he went in to finish his adversary.
Hurried movement overhead.
McAllister looked right and glimpsed the man running along the landing. He snapped an awkward sideways shot and knew he’d missed. Getting his feet under him, he pounded up the stairs, reached the top, turned and faced a window with the lights of the street beyond. In that second, he knew he’d been suckered. The man had him in the light, while he himself was below the level of the window in darkness. McAllister fired two shots low. He thought he heard a grunt, but he was moving too fast to know for sure. Leaping forward, he bounded into the air and came down hard on the man with both feet. The air went out of him noisily. McAllister lost his balance and went down. Something clipped him sharply on the side of the head and he fell against the wall.
Sound told him that the man was scrambling to his feet. McAllister triggered and found his gun was empty. The man fired at point blank range and missed. His bulk showed briefly against the light. McAllister rose and drove his head into the fellow’s belly, his superior weight driving the man backward. With a rending crash the window gave. His adversary went on backward out of the window. He hit the cover of the sidewalk, rolled and disappeared into the street. A shout went up from the crowd down there.
McAllister leaned against the wall and gulped breath into tortured lungs. He was shaking and he wanted to retch. Somebody was yelling up from the street, wanting to know if he was alive. Most likely Pat.
The street door slammed back and boots sounded below. Doors opened on the landing and heads appeared. McAllister started emptying his gun of used shells and thumbing fresh rounds in. It gave him something to do while he recovered himself.
Boots sounded on the stairs, In a moment, Pat appeared, his face concerned.
“You all right, boy?”
“I’m all right, Pat, Took some lead in the arm is all.” Pat’s powerful arm was around him and he shook it off. He could manage. He walked downstairs on rubbery legs and was glad to get out in the cool night air. The man he had chased into the house lay on the edge of the street, his head at an awkward angle. His face showed in the lamplight and it was not pretty; the eyes stared straight ahead, the lips were drawn back in a snarl. He wore a long overcoat.
“Anybody know him?” McAllister asked.
“Sure,” Pat said, “that’s Ricketts.”
“A killer,” another man added.
“The other one?”
“Dead Up the street a piece. Hung around with Ricketts. No-account and deadly.”
McAllister put his hand on Pat’s arm.
“You saved my life, I reckon. Thanks.”
“Any time,” said Pat.
McAllister went through the man’s pockets and found nothing of consequence except for a roll of money. It was a lot of money for a man of this kind to be carrying. McAllister handed it to Pat and started for the office. He heard Pat say: “Somebody get the doc.”
On the way to the office, he felt like fainting, but he didn’t because only women were allowed to do that. Ten minutes later, the doctor saw to his wound in the arm. The bullet, he pronounced, had done no more than cut the flesh. It would hurt a bit and he had lost too much blood, but he’d be all right. The next hour was spent in digging buckshot out of him, his shoulders and his back. The shot had torn his scalp in a couple of places. The doctor said he’d been lucky it had missed his eyes. Then the doctor left and the three lawmen sat there drinking whiskey.
The door opened.
Three guns were directed at it.
Emily Penshurst came into view. They put their guns awa
y and McAllister grinned.
“Nearly got yourself shot, ma’am,” he said. “We’re all of us a little jumpy after just now.”
“I heard you were shot, Mr. McAllister.”
“Just a mite.”
“It isn’t serious?”
“No, ma’am.”
“I - I’m sorry. I hope you’ll take care. Don’t expose yourself on the street any more.”
“No, ma’am,” he said gravely. “I’ll keep myself well-hidden.”
“Now, you’re mocking me.”
“God forbid.”
“What I mean is ... we have lost one ... good law officer in this town and we don’t want to lose another.”
McAllister stood up. His arm was in a sling and his head was bandaged so that he felt like the hero of a melodrama.
“That’s a fine sentiment, ma’am, an’ one I can second,” he said.
“That’s all I wanted to say. Now I’ll go.”
McAllister reached for his hat and put it on.
“I’d admire to walk you home, Miss Emily,” he told her.
“No, thank you. You should stay here. I’ll be safe enough.”
“Can’t allow it,” said McAllister. “These streets ain’t no place for a lady at night.”
“You’re crazy to go out after what happened,” Carson said.
McAllister smiled. “The man tryin’ to kill me is right out of killers right now.”
Pat said: “I’ll go.”
McAllister said: “You’re just tryin’ to spoil my pitch, boys. It ain’t often a homely Texas cow nurse like me gets to escortin’ an elegant lady like Miss Penshurst an’ I don’t aim to miss out on it.”
She blushed and smiled.
Given time, McAllister thought, we could mean something to each other. It was a nice thought and it pleased him.
Out on the sidewalk, he offered her his injured arm and she took it gently. There were still people about and they eyed the pair curiously. Emily behaved as if they weren’t there.
They paced unhurriedly down Main and turned down Garrett. It was a fine starlit night. It was hard to believe with this sweet smelling silent woman at his side that so short a while before two men had tried to murder him and they had both died. A sudden gratitude for being alive at all came to him. Having Emily Penshurst with him was a kind of bonus that he hadn’t expected.
McAllister Makes War Page 14
