Gunsmoke for McAllister

by Matt Chisholm

  Here, he saw, were several armed guards, all of them except one keeping well back from the toiling men. One by one, he inspected the slaves – for that was what they were–but he could not see Sam. Of course, the light was bad and he could have been mistaken. Then he spotted a man about whom there was something vaguely familiar. A rake-thin, stoop-shouldered man, long fair hair plastered over his forehead with sweat, moving with all the slow heaviness of a sleep-walker. He was occupied with shovelling the ore from the floor of the place into a waiting truck and stopped to rest frequently on his shovel. McAllister stared hard at him, unable to accept the fact that this travesty of a man could be his friend Sam Spur, but, as the man moved to one side into the light of a nearby lamp, McAllister saw that it was indeed Sam.

  It came as a deep shock to McAllister who recollected so vividly the liveliness of his friend, a man who had moved with a spring in his step, a man always ready with a joke and a laugh.

  Rage came coldly and enduringly to McAllister. He knew that he was going to get Sam out of there.

  But how? he asked himself.

  Sam was chained hand and foot. It wouldn’t do any good to play the hero and move in there with a gun in his hand and just prise Sam out of there. He had to get Sam out of those irons.

  The sheriff.

  He was the man. He would have a key to the irons. He would find the sheriff and put a gun on him, put some real fear into him and demand the release of Sam. The attempt would be fraught with danger, but it was something that would have to be done. No sooner did McAllister make the decision than he started working his way back down the tunnel to the basin, hurrying to get his gun on the man that had brought Sam to this, wanting to put some real fear into him, to make him pay.

  He reached the mouth of the tunnel and drew his gun.

  The fact that niggled in his mind was that the halfbreed had jumped him back in the rocks earlier. The shot fired must have warned the men in the basin of trouble and they must have searched and found the man by now. If that was so, they must have been warned of McAllister’s presence.

  He advanced slowly out of the tunnel.

  The lights still showed in the cabins. The machine houses stood bulky and dark. From across the basin came the sound of the guitar. A raucous burst of laughter came from the cabin nearer at hand.

  That was his goal.

  Hugging the side of the basin, he worked his way forward. The whole place seemed still now.

  When he had worked his way slowly around to the rear of the cabin, he left the wall of the basin and walked carefully and silently toward the building. To one side of it was a window covered in oiled cloth. He went close to this and found in it a slight tear. Applying his eye to this, he looked inside.

  The laughing man was the sheriff. With him was the girl he had seen in the cage, the girl who had held him so tenderly after Carlos had hit him with the club, the girl who had called him pobrecito. He couldn’t believe this was the same woman. She looked as if she was enjoying herself now. So did the man.

  The sheriff was sitting at a table drinking and the woman sat on the table top near him, laughing. She had obviously been roughed up – her hair was dishevelled and her white blouse had been torn in one place to reveal a full and lightly tanned breast. It seemed they had eyes for nothing but themselves. As McAllister watched, the sheriff drank deep, put down his glass and caught the girl by a wrist, pulling her toward him. An arm slipped around her waist and he drew her down to his lap, his mouth searching for hers. She was willing. She planted her full mouth on his and put her arms around his neck. The man seemed to become agitated. He rose from the chair with the girl in his arms and walked toward a bunk on the far side of the room. She screamed and kicked, but it was plain that she had no real objection. The man dropped her onto the bunk and started to pull the wide skirt from her waist. She laughed up at him, her eyes bright.

  McAllister left the window and walked around to the front of the house.

  After he had taken a careful look around, he put his hand on the latch and walked in.

  At the sound of his entry, the sheriff whirled from the bed, the surprise on his face turning to rage when he recognized McAllister. Then as McAllister watched him, the rage turned to fear.

  The girl lay on the bunk, staring over the side at him, her beautiful legs bare. She was scared and she showed it.

  McAllister said: ‘We won’t waste time. I want Sam Spur an’ I want him now. You’ll bring your keys and we’ll get him loose.’

  The sheriff straightened up.

  ‘You’re crazy,’ he said. ‘You don’t stand a chance.’

  McAllister said: ‘It’s you who don’t stand a chance. You look at me wrong an’ I kill you.’

  The sheriff said: ‘I – I don’t have the keys.’

  The girl climbed over the edge of the bunk and pulled her skirt on. McAllister thought it was a pity that a girl like that could go for an animal like the sheriff.

  ‘Mister,’ McAllister said, ‘you find the keys quick or I’ll bend the barrel of this gun over your head an’ find ’em myself.’

  ‘Use your sense, man,’ the sheriff said. ‘I have armed men all around this place. You’re a fugitive from justice. Give yourself up.’

  McAllister laughed unpleasantly.

  ‘An’ what’re you?’ he demanded. ‘What kind of a place is this with men chained like slaves?’

  ‘They’re all convicted men.’

  ‘You’re a liar.’ The sheriff blinked at this and started to sweat. ‘I wasn’t convicted an’ I’d be here myself now if I didn’t break out.’

  ‘I don’t have any keys,’ the man said. ‘You can do what you like, but I still don’t have the keys.’

  ‘Who does have ’em?’

  ‘Rich.’ The man’s eyes darted. McAllister knew it was a lie. He went up to the sheriff and hit him hard in the face with his clenched fist. The man back-pedalled across the room, hit the wall and fell to the floor. The girl screamed. McAllister turned on her and told her to keep quiet.

  The sheriff looked like a man who hadn’t been hit in a long time like that. His pride was as hurt as his body.

  McAllister said: ‘Get up so I can knock you down again.’

  With her hands to her face, the girl said through her fingers: ‘Tell him or he will kill you.’

  The sheriff got to his feet, feeling his face tenderly with the tips of his fingers.

  His words sounded mushed as he spoke through bruised lips.

  ‘I’ll kill you for this.’

  ‘The keys.’

  The man went to a bureau against the rear wall of the cabin and opened a drawer. He brought out a bundle of jangling keys and threw them to McAllister who caught them in his left hand.

  ‘Now,’ he said, ‘the three of us’ll walk to the tunnel and get Sam.’

  The sheriff said: ‘He isn’t in the tunnel.’

  McAllister told him: ‘I know he is, I just saw him.’

  The man gave up then and walked to the door. McAllister said: ‘Remember, it’s dark outside. I’m goin’ to shoot at the slightest thing.’

  The girl hurried to the sheriff and caught him by the arm. The man seemed scarcely to notice her. He moved through the doorway into darkness. McAllister followed.

  He heard the faintest whisper of sound to one side and started to turn.

  Something as hard and fast as the hoof of a mule caught him on the side of the head. He stumbled back against the wall of the cabin, lost his grip of the Remington and heard the gun strike the ground.

  Chapter 5

  He made a weak attempt to fight off unconsciousness, striving with all his will to stay on his feet and strike back at the man who had struck him, but there was no strength in him. His legs seemed to flow away from under him like water. The ground came up and hit him hard.

  He heard a man ask: ‘Did you kill him?’ and thought it was the sheriff.

  A man’s voice said: ‘Naw.’

  This time the girl di
dn’t fall on her knees beside him and say pobrecito. Somebody caught him by the scruff of the neck and dragged him into the cabin. Lamplight struck under his eyelids and he winced. Now he seemed to float away.

  He could have been out an hour or a minute; he had no idea. When he opened his eyes, there were several men around him. The girl was leaning against the bunk watching him out of her dark eyes.

  The man nearest to him was the sheriff. Carlos was there and so was Rich. There were a couple of other men McAllister didn’t know. They were all armed and they all looked as if they didn’t care for him much.

  ‘He’s awake,’ a man said.

  The sheriff turned and his pale eyes fell on McAllister.

  ‘Throw some water on him and get him on his feet.’

  Somebody brought a pitcher of water and emptied it over his face. McAllister spluttered a little and climbed slowly to his feet. He didn’t feel at all good. Then he didn’t expect to.

  The sheriff said: ‘Hold him,’ and two men came up on either side of McAllister and took ahold of his arms. Something died inside McAllister – he knew what was coming. He looked past the sheriff and saw the girl’s face. She was worried for him. Which was significant.

  The sheriff said: ‘I’m goin’ to give you what you gave me, ten times over. I’m going to do it whenever I feel like it all the time you’re here. I’m goin’ to make you wish you’d never been born. Nobody ever hit me an’ got away with it.’

  He doubled his right fist and drew it back for the first blow.

  Rich said: ‘You’re goin’ to hurt your hand somethin’ awful, boss.’

  The sheriff thought about that and said: ‘You’re right.’ He walked to the bureau and lifted a quirt from its top. He was smiling. He came to McAllister and hit him backhanded with the buttend of the quirt across his face. McAllister tried to get away from the blow, but the two men holding him were strong and he was weak. The sheriff laughed.

  ‘You got blood all over you,’ he said. ‘You look a mess.’

  He hit him again and McAllister gritted his teeth in pain and rage.

  But the quirt wasn’t good enough. The sheriff wanted flesh on flesh. He balled his fist again and hit McAllister in the belly, doubling him, then he brought up his knee and smashed it into his face.

  The sheriff said: ‘I think he wants to lie down. Put him down, Rich.’

  Rich released his grip on McAllister and hit him in the side of the face, knocking him out of the grip of the other man. He staggered across the room, hit the wall and fell. They kicked him two or three times while he lay there. They seemed to like doing it.

  The sheriff said: ‘We’ll stop there till he’s stronger. We’ll get some work out of him before we kill him.’

  ‘I’ll do it,’ Rich said. ‘I’ll gut shoot him and watch him die slow. I ain’t forgot what he done to me.’

  McAllister lay there feeling as if an irate mustang had trodden his ribs through; his head felt as if it had exploded and his eyes wouldn’t focus. The nicest thing he could think of to do was lie down and die.

  ‘Get up,’ the sheriff said. ‘On your feet, McAllister.’

  Two men grasped him by his arms and hauled him to his feet. His legs were like water under him. It was as if every limb had been disjointed. When they let him go, he sagged and fell. The sound of him hitting the plank floor was like thunder. It made them laugh. He rolled onto his back and looked up at them, trying to focus and not doing too well.

  The sheriff kicked him.

  ‘On your feet.’

  McAllister thought that if they kicked him much more, he would die. So he fought to get to his feet. After a fight, he got onto all fours. The girl’s feet came within sight and he raised his eyes to hers. Did he see pity there? He tried to rise completely and fell to his knees in front of her. She said something harshly in Spanish and spat in his face. That got another laugh. He wiped the spittle from his face with the back of his hand and heaved air into his tortured lungs. Then he started the fight to get up again. When he finally made it and stood there swaying, the sheriff said: ‘Get him to work.’

  Rich laughed and said: ‘We won’t get much work from him tonight.’

  ‘Give him a taste of the whip,’ the sheriff ordered. ‘Nothing like that to bring a man around.’

  Somebody pushed him toward the door, he took one pace and started to go down. He grasped the jamb of the door, his grip failed and he went down again. The sheriff laid the quirt across him and he struggled to rise again.

  I’ll kill him, McAllister promised himself. Before I’m done, I’ll put a bullet between his eyes.

  He crawled outside and made the fight to his feet again. The cool night air hit him and it was as sweet as wine. There were men all around him, a hand or a gun nudged him forward; he walked on legs that threatened to fold at any minute toward the dim light at the mouth of the mine-shaft. He fell twice on the way and twice they kicked him to his feet again.

  As they approached the mine shaft a group of men in chains were bringing out another truck-load of ore. Their dim pale faces were turned toward him in dull curiosity. He tried to give them a nonchalant wave and a grin, but his face was frozen and his arm hung like lead at his side.

  They entered the tunnel and started along it. He tripped on the track, reeled blindly against the side of the tunnel, the whip bit at him, he felt it cut the flesh of his face. Hate and pain were mixed in a kind of crazy fury within him. Then the light was bright and hurting his eyes. They halted and he heard the sheriff say: ‘Here’s a friend of yours come to join you, Spur.’

  He heard an exclamation, chains clinked and a man stood before him.

  ‘My God, Rem.’

  That was old Sam, all right. Through mashed lips, he said: ‘Howdy, Sam.’

  Sam seemed to be trying to say something he couldn’t get out.

  The sheriff said: ‘Get some irons on this man and get him to work. An’ see he Goddamn works. Sweat him.’

  An armed guard came and caught Sam by the arm, whirling him away and telling him to get on with his work. Sam went without a curse or a backward glance.

  McAllister thought: They knocked the sand out of Sam. When I knew him he’d of kicked that sonovabitch’s teeth in.

  They brought some rattling chains and fastened them to McAllister’s wrists and ankles. He fought them feebly and to no purpose. He was knocked down and kicked to his feet again. Numbed, he moved to obey the orders they gave him. He joined Sam, a shovel in his hands and as he heaved a load of ore into a waiting truck, his ribs felt as if they were driving through his lungs. He wondered then if he was going to die.

  He didn’t know how long he worked there beside a Sam who was silent except for some soft curses and a groan or two, but after a while he must have passed out. The ground came up and hit him and he came to with Sam forcing some tepid water between his lips. The sheriff was no longer there, but the guards were and they didn’t allow any coddling. Sam was whipped away from McAllister and the big man was kicked to his feet again. Sam said something about if he went on like this he’d die, but the guards laughed. Who cared? There were plenty more where he came from and he had aroused the particular dislike of the sheriff.

  So they went back to working again and the minutes dragged into hours. One of the workers dropped unconscious and, as kicking would not revive him, he was dragged out into the night and left there. When around dawn the prisoners were marched away from the face down the tunnel, the man was still lying there at the mouth of the cave. McAllister thought he looked dead.

  Sam at his side said: ‘Another chore for us. Diggin’ his grave.’

  They were marched into the center of the basin and halted. Each man lay down on the ground. McAllister dropped where he was. His sweat-soaked body shivered in the cold dawn air. He didn’t care. He didn’t speak, but in seconds had dropped into a deep sleep, the only cure, as he knew that would be offered to his battered body.

  He awoke to find the sun high overhead. His tongue
seemed to fill his mouth and his head ached unbearably. When he moved he found that his body was terribly stiff, but the stiffness was nothing beside the pain of his injuries. He looked around him. Some half-dozen men were scattered about on the hard and dusty ground, all asleep, some of them stirring restlessly and groaning. Sam lay on his back with his mouth open. He was snoring noisily. McAllister realised that none of them were going to be offered any shelter from the sun. He would have given a hundred dollars for a single drink of water.

  He looked beyond the men and saw the guard in the shade of the cabin roof, sitting at his ease, smoking.

  Each sleeping man had a canteen slung over his shoulder. For a while, McAllister toyed with the idea of asking Sam for a drink, but he couldn’t bring himself to wake the man. Instead, he set about making an inventory of his injuries.

  The flesh on his right temple had been split open by a boot–toe; the sheriff’s quirt had split his lip and torn one cheek. The blood was dry on his skin. His right arm was badly bruised where he had been kicked and seemed to have turned black from shoulder to wrist. All his ribs felt as if they had been caved in, but when he carefully examined them he found, much to his surprise, that none of them were broken. That was something of a relief. His left knee which had received several kicks was badly swollen. His pants were torn on his right thigh and beneath the tear the flesh showed that it had been lacerated. He reckoned he’d live, though for some time living was going to be a painful experience.

  This wasn’t the time, he told himself, to dwell on the things that were against him. He had to find the things that were for him. He had to find a way out of here. Getting away was going to be the most difficult thing he had ever faced. There were the chains to start with. The steel collars around his legs and ankles had already worked some unpleasant looking sores where they had rubbed on the flesh. Before they had fastened his ankles, the guards had removed his boots. A man couldn’t get far without boots in this country.

  But he and Sam would get away, of that he was sure. But how?

  He ranged his eyes around the basin, noting once again the high steep walls. High on one of them, he could see a guard with a rifle. He didn’t doubt that the man was not only watching the prisoners, but was keeping an eye peeled for Indians. That might be one of the reasons why the sheriff used prisoners to work the gold in this country. He would need all the men who he could muster to fight Indians. The sheriff had it all worked out. While the Indian scare was on, white men in large numbers would not be coming into this country. The mere presence of the armed men in this place would keep the Indians on tenterhooks.