Matt Chisholm
McAllister Justice
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter One
Mcallister remained still, watching the street.
The noise of the town came to him in waves, a tangible thing and his mind flicked agonizingly over the past, remembering the lost days, the thud of the bullet into the beloved living flesh, the face of his wife as she lifted her head from the dust to look at him and die.
There was nothing that could balance the wrongness that had been done. A bullet here could not pay for a bullet there, nor could a life of no value pay for a precious one.
But there was the custom and customs die hard. A man would die for what had been done and McAllister would do the killing.
He wasn’t used to the damp cold of this northern country and he shivered inside his thin jacket.
He needed a drink. Something to warm his blood. When he drew his gun, his fingers must not be stiff with cold. He heaved himself erect from the building and walked through the long moon-shadow under the cover of the sidewalk, his bootheels thudding dully on the crazy timbers. He headed toward the street mockingly called Main, which was nothing more than a twin line of hells of clap-board and canvas bordering a boot-high river of mud. The noise increased and his eyes darted everywhere, searching faces as he had done every living minute since that fatal shot. Miners, drifters, Johnny-Come-Latelys, pilgrims, soldiers, cattlemen, sheepmen - every kind was here with a sprinkling of newly-arrived railroadmen, all aiming for the hills and the gold, none able to reach it through the Sioux who barred the way. Prices were peak-high, grubstakes were spent and the men were desperate. To possess a poke of gold was to invite a broken skull or even death. Men starved on the streets and perished through exposure. The knife and the gun earned desperate men a pocketful of change in back-alleys.
McAllister eased himself past a couple of drunks and entered the first saloon.
He surveyed the noisy scene, preparing himself for what he was about to do, not really caring. The bitterness had built up in him till he had to have a working safety valve or he had to explode.
The gamblers worked hard as men tried to make enough to buy food that increased in price by the day. The price of fresh meat had soared till money was as valueless as talk. Half the professional gamblers were women. All hard-faced, looking older than their years, their eyes as bright and hard as reptiles’.
McAllister pushed his way through the press and stench of packed, unwashed humanity to the rude counter, caught a bartender’s eye right off and said: “Whiskey.”
The man put a bottle and a shot-glass in front of him and said: “One dollar.”
McAllister said: “Okay,” and lifted the bottle before the man could stop him.
The man said: “You pay first here,” and reached for the bottle. McAllister stepped back, lifted the bottle to his lips and drank deep. As the raw liquor tore a hot path down his throat and hit bottom the barkeep put one hand on the bar and made a reaching jump for the bottle. He leaned clean into a short chopping punch that knocked him back out of sight behind the bar.
He yelled and climbed to his feet, backed away from the bar with a bung-starter in hand and went on yelling. McAllister took another drink and laughed.
A few men turned to stare at him, but they made no move to interfere. McAllister took another healthy swig and handed the bottle to the nearest man saying: “This is on me, boys. Drink up.” The bottle was lifted and passed. McAllister beamed on the company.
Two burly bouncers came charging through the crowd. When they reached the bar one yelled: “Which one?”
The bartender pointed at McAllister and said: “That one.” He made a jerking movement with his thumb toward the exit and added: “Out. And hurt him when you do it.”
One of the bouncers, a big fellow with ginger hair, nodded in a businesslike way and started patting the palm of one hand with the sap he held in the other. As the barkeep started climbing on top of the bar, this one headed for one side of McAllister. The other, a squat dark man with scabs on his face, went for the other.
They both got to work without any preliminaries. The squat man reached for an arm and the redhead swung his sap. McAllister feinted at the squat man and struck the saparm underneath with a vicious cut with the edge of his hand. As the sap fell, he hit the big man with the ball of his fist in the face, turned and kicked the squat man in the knee. This one went over hard and hit his face on the bar. McAllister struck him in the neck with the underpart of his clenched fist, being careful of his knuckles. The squat man turned a ghastly hue and passed out.
The big man bent hastily to pick up his sap and McAllister kicked him in the ribs, sending him pitching sideways into a bunch of men and knocking two of them over. A man with McAllister’s whiskey bottle waited for the redhead to start to rise and hit him on the back of his head with the bottle.
McAllister said: “Obliged, friend.”
The redhead shook his head a couple of times, staggered to his feet and hit the man with the bottle. His feet left the floor and he landed on a chair which was smashed to matchwood. As the barkeep came crawling across the bar with the bungstarter in his hand, McAllister hit him him square in the face and knocked him out of sight again. All they heard from him was the crash and tinkle of glass.
McAllister turned in time to meet the redhead who was roaring in upon him. McAllister ducked under the storm of blows, received a clip around the left ear, grasped the man’s knees and threw him over his shoulder. The red hair struck the front of the bar with a resounding crack, splitting the wood from top to bottom. The big man got himself to a sitting position, battling bravely to focus his crossing eyes, muttered: “Christ!” out of rubber lips and passed out.
From behind the bar the barkeep, now with a ruined nose and two teeth missing, appeared with a shotgun in his hands. Without thought, McAllister dove onto the top of the bar, slid across it, piled on top of the man and practically trod him into the floor.
The squat man gave signs of coming to life, his right hand fumbling for his holstered gun and somebody broke a bottle over his head, putting him clean out of the fight.
There was another man behind the bar beside the barkeep and he yelled at McAllister: “You get outa here, mister. I don’t want none of you.”
McAllister uncorked a bottle, drank fully and said pleasantly: “To hell with you.”
The man dove for the fallen greener, got his hands on it and somebody came across the bar at McAllister who welcomed him with open arms and threw him at the man with the greener. They went down in a noisy tangle. McAllister picked up the scatter-gun that had fallen at his feet and smashed its stock against the shelves at the back of the place. Several men ranged along the bar looking as though they were considering the possibility of winkling him out of there, but they got caught up with a bunch of men who looked as though they were on McAllister’s side. Cut off from the battle by the bar, McAllister grew bored, took bottles from the shelves to pass the time and hurled them through the windows onto the street. The noise was so startling that the fighting stopped.
It started again when the two men behind the bar dragged themselves to their feet and tried to settle McAllister’s hash once a
nd for all.
He met them with a glad cry, found they didn’t have enough room to maneuver in the confined space and cut them down to size. One of them managed to regain his feet again, but McAllister settled him with the bung-starter.
A shot was fired into the ceiling and the fighting stopped abruptly. McAllister sighed. The fight that looked like it would be a dilly, had fizzled out like a damp squib. Some spoilsport lawman was on the scene.
Somebody with a badge on his coat was pushing his way through the crowd and McAllister knew him.
He came through the erstwhile combatants easy and smiling. Joe Diblon. A character, you could call him. Nothing vicious about him, but he was as tough as they came and when he said for you to stop fighting, you stopped. He had more than he could handle in this town, one man among so many, but nobody bucked him. To brace Diblon was to brace death itself.
He knocked out the empty shell in his gun and re-loaded, slipping the gun away into its scabbard that he wore high on his left hip, butt forward.
Catching sight of McAllister, he sauntered to the bar and leaned on it, not caring about the men behind him, knowing that his reputation would stop them making a move against him, while he was on his feet with his gun on.
“Hello, Rem,” he said.
“Howdy, Joe.”
“You start this ruckus?”
McAllister nodded. “Sure.”
“Have to take you in, Rem.”
They looked at each other, Joe knowing that if McAllister was in a bad mood, it could mean one of them dead in the next minute or so.
Diblon smiled up at the big man.
“How’s it goin’ to be?” he asked.
McAllister picked up the bottle again, pushed two shotglasses forward and poured.
“You behaved real nice,” he said, “that time I put you away in Mesquite Springs. I can do no less. Drinks on the house.”
The man who had tried unsuccessfully for the greener got shakily to his feet, eyes bloodshot, and said: “You pay for them drinks and all the others you had.”
Diblon nodded affably.
“Boys stay out when men’re talkin’,” he said. “You’re a real gent, Rem.”
“Ain’t I?” McAllister agreed and they drank.
Diblon put his glass on the bar and said: “Let’s go.”
McAllister climbed over the bar and the barkeep said: “You’ll pay for the damage.”
“What with?” McAllister asked and led the way through the watching men. As they passed one of the lady gamblers, she tried to trip McAllister and called him a son-of-a-bitching Indian, but they reached the street without any other incident.
Out under the moonlight, they walked the plankwalk side by side and Joe Diblon said: “I appreciate what you did, Rem. It could of been real nasty.”
“Shucks,” McAllister told him, “my heart wasn’t in that fight.”
They paced another hundred off and Diblon asked tentatively: “You up against it?”
McAllister nodded. “Cleaned out.”
Diblon laughed softly. “We don’t eat so bad at the jail.”
“Good, I could wrap myself around a meal.”
They reached Fremont and headed down it, going south, went past the new rough-hewn plank bank and began the slow angle across the mud to the town marshal’s office. It was tough going and every step they took threatened to deprive them of a boot as the red mud sucked at them. When they reached the sidewalk outside the office, they tried kicking the worst of the mud off, swearing gently.
Diblon said: “I’ll go ahead and light the lamp,” stepped to the door and inserted the key in the lock. It was necessary to keep the place under lock and key at all times in case somebody should steal the furniture for firewood.
He had thrown the door open and was about to step inside when somebody in the shadows near at hand fired a gun.
The bullet struck the door and the splinters tore into the marshal’s face, making him cry out. As McAllister threw himself flat on the boards, a second shot came, knocking Diblon from his feet. He dropped on top of McAllister who was in the middle of drawing his gun. The weapon was knocked from his grasp. He grabbed for it and the marshal began to struggle to his feet. He got no further than his knees, heaving on his gun as though it were as heavy as a cannon, gave a deep groan and fell on his face.
McAllister heard footsteps running off into the night. He got up, went to the marshal and rolled him onto his back.
“Joe.”
In the dim lamplight, the marshal raised his eyes to the big man.
“He got me clean through the guts, Rem,” he said. “He’s killed me.”
“Hold on. I’ll light a lamp and get you inside.”
McAllister hurried into the office, struck a match and found a lamp on the battered desk. He lit the lamp, replaced the chimney and went outside again. Picking the lawman up in his arms, he carried him inside, going through the doorway beyond the desk into a small room with a narrow cot in it. He laid Diblon down on it. When he had brought in the lamp from the office, he saw that the marshal’s front was covered with blood and Diblon was groaning softly. McAllister unbuckled the belt, removed it, opened the pants, shirt and longjohns, and found that the belly had been torn open. It was not a pretty sight. Reaching for a towel, he folded it tightly, placed it over the wound and put Joe’s hands over it to hold it in place.
“Don’t move,” McAllister said. “I’m going to get the doc. Where’s he at?”
“No good, I’m a goner.”
“Where’s the doc at, Joe?”
“Leave it.”
“Where’s he at, Joe? Don’t waste time.”
The marshal screwed his face up as the pain hit him, rolled on one side and doubled his body up.
McAllister bent over him and shouted: “Where’s he at, goddam you?”
The ashen lips whispered. “McMichael’s maybe.”
Where the hell was McMichael’s?
McAllister turned and went to the outer door of the office. Two men stood there staring in.
“Who was shot?” one demanded.
“Where’s McMichael’s?” McAllister demanded.
They both stared at him in surprise and one said: “South end of Fremont. You a stranger here?”
McAllister thrust between them and swung south. His foot struck something on the sidewalk and, looking down, he saw that it was a gun. Picking it up, he found that it was a Smith and Wesson. As he walked, he inspected it and found that two shots had been fired. He dropped it into his coat pocket and started to run. At the end of Fremont, he found no saloon or store bearing the name McMichael and stopped a man to ask its whereabouts. The fellow grinned fatuously and pointed to a double-storeyed plank house.
“That’s Katey’s place,” he said with a snicker.
McAllister waded through the mud, went up to the front door and banged on it with his fist. It was opened by a large man, wearing black clothes, a blackjack sticking out of a pocket and a few days’ growth of whiskers on his face.
“Doc here?” McAllister demanded.
“Maybe.”
“Yes or no?”
“Maybe.”
“Try bein’ helpful.”
“If he’s here, he ain’t in no mood to be disturbed.”
From behind the man came the sound of a piano accompanying a woman singing flat. The words were not of the parlor variety and McAllister reckoned he had come to a cathouse.
“Man’s been shot,” he explained. “He’s like to die and I have to have a doctor.”
The man growled–
“Mister, you get the hell outa here. Doc’s a real good client and my orders is –”
“Kate around?”
“She’s busy right now. Now, either come ahead and join the fun or get the hell outa here, will yuh?”
McAllister took the Smith and Wesson from his pocket and said: “Let’s go find doc, shall we?”
The bouncer stared at him without expression.
“You don’t use guns around Miz Kate’s place,” he said in a shocked voice. “We’re all friends here. Put the gun away, mister. I’ll go find doc.”
McAllister put the gun away and the man pulled the sap so fast from his pocket that it was all the big man could do to dive under it as it was aimed at his head. His shoulder hit the bouncer’s knees as the man leaned into the blow with the result that he went over McAllister’s head and landed on his’ face, on the boardwalk. From the sound, McAllister gathered that either the planks or the face suffered under the impact.
But the bouncer wasn’t finished. He came up like a rubber ball, growling inarticulately and reaching for McAllister in the blindness of rage and pain. Two blows with the ball of the hand rocked him and a solid left swing to his belly doubled him up. Sweet reason came to him when McAllister clipped him smartly behind the right ear. He kneeled and looked up at McAllister with pathetic disbelief on his face.
“My Gawd,” he remarked thickly.
“Let’s go find the doc,” McAllister suggested gently.
“Sure,” the bouncer said, getting unsteadily to his feet. “Anything you say.” He took a long look at McAllister and added: “Sir.”
He led McAllister through the lobby-cum-parlor where several painted and half-naked women were drinking and being fondled by several men who had enough wealth to spend on other things beside food. They didn’t take much notice of him except for a red-headed woman who called out: “Come on and join the fun, honey.”
The other end of the room finished in a flight of stairs up which the bouncer led McAllister. Halfway up, he tried to kick backward at the big man’s face, but McAllister caught him by the ankle, stepped aside and threw him down the stairs. He broke several bannister rods as he went and made a lot of noise. That stopped the fondling as everybody turned to look.
“You don’t learn too fast, Clarence,” McAllister said, more in hurt than anger.
One of the men threw a blonde off his knee and slapped a hand down on his gun-butt, but McAllister palmed the Smith and Wesson and said: “Get back to the good work, mister. This ain’t your day.”
One of the women swore.
McAllister Justice Page 1
