McAllister 5

by Matt Chisholm

  This man would want McAllister off his back for ever. He knew McAllister’s reputation. He knew that McAllister would keep after him. The only way he could feel safe was to have McAllister dead.

  There was another side to it. This man had some pride in his own skills. He thought that he was better at this game than McAllister. He thought he was better at most things he did than other men. He had the gross vanity of all criminals and believed that he was smarter than anybody. He had to prove this to himself.

  So maybe, after all, McAllister did enjoy this. Certainly, he always rose to a challenge. He told himself that he was a damn fool. He was too old for this kind of kid craziness. His job now was raising horses. Just the same ... he reckoned he would not change now. He would rise to the bait till he was kicking up the daisies.

  He reached the river without incident and crossed it under a shrinking moon and in starlight.

  He shook off his thoughts about himself. This was not the time to think about anything else than his quarry. Just the same, the thoughts came back. They accused him of being as weak as a drunkard or a gambler, unable to resist the temptation of his vice. Every man seemed to have something he could not resist.

  McAllister did not believe that. If you got yourself in the right frame of mind, you could resist anything. A man who had lived by the gun knew that every human frailty could be conquered if a man was determined enough and the incentive was large enough.

  So what was his incentive? Justice? Or was it the love of hunting men, the ultimate quarry?

  His mind may have been occupied, but his instincts were still in full play. Something halted him. He stayed still and could not discover what it was. Then the mare’s ears flicked ever so slightly and the movement was caught in the corner of his eye. He knew that was what had brought him to a halt.

  The mare turned her head to listen carefully to something to the north of them.

  That meant one of three things most likely, McAllister knew. She had smelled the man, or the horse, or some creature not connected with either of them. Of one thing he was sure—the man and the horse would not be together.

  He ground-hitched the mare and, soft-footed, circled the area, not going too far from the horse. His pulse-beat had started to increase. This was the time to calm himself consciously. With the quarry so near, with both men braced to make the final strike, it was natural for his tension to rise. But he was not interested in being natural. All that interested him was to stay alive and preferably with a live prisoner in his hands. This man was the kind who would finish it with one blow. Quick and thorough. That much he had read from following in the fellow’s tracks for so long.

  On the lip of a short shallow gully he found some greasewood growing. Returning to the mare, he led her to this depression in the plain and hitched her to the greasewood. She started to whinny softly, but he silenced her with a hand over her nose. She did not like that and shook her head to get rid of the hand. He tied her nose and hoped that would keep her silent for a while. His quarry could suspect where she was—that would suit McAllister fine; but he must not be certain where she was.

  He climbed out of the gully at its south end and walked south as quietly as he could for about three hundred paces, then he turned into the west. After a very short while, he dropped to his hands and knees and stayed very still, listening for about fifteen minutes. The only sound that reached him he thought was the mare champing quietly on the bit, her mouth slightly constricted by the tie he had put on her nose.

  He thought about that. Could he be sure that the sound came from the mare?

  Now he lay flat on the ground and started very slowly to belly his way at an angle back in the direction of his mount. He had to admit to himself that he was working on sheer instinct.

  After no more than twenty paces he stopped and listened again. He knew that he was hearing a horse walking gently at a distance of something like three or four hundred paces. So it was not his horse.

  He concentrated the whole of his being on the sound, interpreting it as best he could. The horse was shod and it had bridle-chains. Careful listening informed him that most likely the animal was not being ridden. If it was, the man on its back was exerting no control.

  Now the animal whickered loud and clear and McAllister could locate it almost exactly. It was now sure of the mare and was greeting her.

  McAllister knew that he had been doing just what the man had intended him to do. He had placed all his attention on the horse while the man stalked him.

  Raising his head he took a careful look around. He was surrounded by shallow depressions in the ground and by low clumps of greasewood. The man could have been concealed in a hundred different places.

  McAllister rolled silently into a depression and waited. Movement could now be his greatest enemy. Yet he knew he must not lose the initiative, which was now in the balance. Still, it would be all right to seem to lose it.

  Placing his right hand on the Remington he drew the gun slowly from leather, but did not cock it. He had no intention of making the smallest sound that would reveal his presence. He listened for a short while and then, suddenly, his unreasoning instinct told him to hurry back to his horse. He started back towards her, using elbows and knees, staying as close to the ground as he was able. Once he snagged his clothes on a greasewood bush and heard its faint sound. This froze him in mid-movement, listening. Then he went on again until the mare was within sight.

  So too was the other horse, standing face to face with the mare in the companionship which horses love to share. In their wordless way, they communed with each other. McAllister guessed from the stranger horse’s behavior that it was a gelding.

  So, he thought, he had the man’s horse in sight, a dark shape almost silhouetted against the paleness of the ground. A few details marked, but not fully revealing themselves. A metal stud here, a light gleam of polished leather there, all soft-touched by moonlight. So here was the horse; where was the man?

  Maybe, he thought, it was no more than a matter of patient waiting. Of one thing he was sure, the strange horse was not where it was by accident. Now McAllister asked himself the question—was the horse here solely to distract his attention from something else?

  What alternative was there?

  Why hadn’t he thought of it before? The man would be offered the best cover by McAllister’s attention being on the horse, and he might not be apart from the animal, but near it. Now McAllister shifted himself to a new position, moving with enormous caution, so the faint light helped him from a different angle. The man was smart, he told himself. He hated to admit it, but the fellow was really smart. He reckoned that he was on the far side of the horse, Comanche-fashion, heel hooked over the saddle, doing nothing to control the horse, for a controlled horse moves in a distinctly different way from a loose animal. This gelding had come, free as the air, to the mare, as any gelding would. It might no longer be capable of playing the male with the female, but it still had a male horse’s instinct for female company.

  McAllister placed one cheek against the ground and looked upward on the slant. Now he saw the man’s boot toe above the dip of the saddle. Most likely he had his spur caught there.

  Slowly, very slowly, McAllister started to Indian his way towards the two animals.

  Almost at once the mare betrayed him. He was half surprised that she had not done so before this. However, as the whinny came full-bodied from her, he knew that the man had removed the rawhide from her nose. McAllister was about to rear to his feet and charge when there was a sudden movement from ahead of him. The man was in the saddle, lying forward so that his head was protected by the horse’s neck. The animal wheeled away from McAllister who was under the impression that the man lunged for the mare’s line, as if he hoped to take her with him. McAllister halted and cocked his gun, but found himself reluctant to fire for fear of hitting his own animal in the poor light. Momentarily, his eye caught the soft glitter of the moonlight on the barrel of the gun and then the mu
zzle-flash cut the dark blindingly. Flinging himself to one side he heard the bullet strike rock and whine viciously away into the night.

  The gelding was lunging away now, heading towards the river. The rider was striking it with his quirt, wanting desperately to get away. McAllister was up and firing, but with little hope of success. Two shots and he lowered his gun. Ammunition was too precious to waste.

  The mare was agitated, trying to free herself from the brush. McAllister went to her and calmed her with voice and hand. There followed his usual emotions at such a time: slight surprise at being alive and some gratitude for being so. By the law of averages sooner or later a bullet fired like that one back there would hit him in the heart or head. Not for the first time in his life he swore that this was the last time, the very last time. He did not need to prove himself any more. He felt no need to prove himself. He had done it all and seen it all. Breeding good horses was enough. More than enough. But he would finish this commission, take this man in. And then call it a day. Go home. Stay home. Look forward to long uneventful days with nothing to occupy his time but the joy of living. That was more than enough for any man.

  He listened to the hoofbeats drumming away rapidly to silence. About now the man would be crossing the river. He would run on through the night. Once more, in the dawn, McAllister would take up the trail and follow patiently along it, now and then stealing time and miles on his quarry by anticipating his direction and taking cut-offs. He led the mare back towards the river, found a dip in the plain and unsaddled. Not long after, he unrolled his bedroll, lay down and fell into the light sleep he employed when on this kind of a job. He would wake and listen to the night every so often, just to be sure. The mare stood over him, as good as any watch dog.

  Five

  Dawn found him at the river, the mare drinking. Not yet struck by the heat, Sally was full of go and wanted to run and McAllister told her: ‘Save it, girl. You’ll surely need it.’ A short while later, he picked up the gelding’s tracks and followed them along, climbing to slightly higher ground to the north of the river. He decided that his quarry was heading for the mountains to the north-east. However, by noon he changed his mind, as had his quarry. He had apparently fooled around awhile to cover his tracks and then angled back towards the river and the trail again. Why?

  The answer came later in the morning, when the sun was high and both McAllister and the mare were starting to suffer. His man was now some four or five hours ahead of him and travelling fast; too fast for one man with one horse. But maybe he did not intend to stay that way.

  Just before noon it was shown that he did not intend to. McAllister, following the tracks of the running horse, came into the camp of a lone traveler and found a stranger, dead. He had been shot through the face from below so that the bullet had broken through the jaw and passed up through the brain. The result was not pretty. In spite of his being used to such sights, coming on this so unexpectedly McAllister found his stomach turned. There was something degraded about the dead body lying there amongst the litter of the camp. The killer had gone quickly through the man’s effects, taking what he wanted. Turning this way and that, reading the ground, McAllister quickly knew that the dead man had owned a mule. A large, strong animal. The mule had gone with the fugitive, so that he could ride change and change-about and keep his animals fresh, thus increasing his advantage over McAllister greatly.

  Duty-bound, McAllister went through the dead man’s effects and found that he was named Lemuel Sullivan, late of New York City. His hands were those of a man who had done little manual labor. His distorted features had been those of an intelligent and educated man. His pockets had been turned out. There was no money on him. He was without a gun, though there was a belt and holster among his effects. There was not a scrap of food in the camp, nor a canteen for water.

  Suddenly McAllister’s heart turned over.

  There had been a woman in the camp.

  McAllister stayed still for a moment, thinking, wondering if the woman was still around. Had she gone with his quarry, mounted on the mule? Why the hell would the fellow want to burden himself with a woman when escape was the only thing on his mind? Or was it not the only thing?

  What sort of a woman?

  First things first, McAllister thought. The dead must be attended to. Time was precious, but not so precious that the proprieties could be ignored. Using his heavy-bladed knife he scraped a shallow grave, then rebuked himself for undue haste and labored on to make it deeper. There were a fair number of fairly large rocks near. He rolled the man into his own blanket and then into the grave. For an hour he worked at building a cairn of stones over the burial. After that he sat down and loaded his pipe. When he had it fired, he let his eyes roam around the camp-site, searching without hurry for clues.

  When he heard Sally whinny he did not look any further. He stood up and saw the woman and did not have to be told that she was scared of him.

  ‘Don’t be scared,’ he said, but, as he expected, that did not do much good. Maybe he had a face that naturally scared women, though he had never been aware of it.

  She came a few paces nearer and then stopped again.

  She was on the smallish side, yet trimly made. In spite of the fear that was evident on her face, he could see that normally she was a laughing girl. He could not line her up with the dead man. He had belonged to the city and had not long been out in the west. She belonged here. Or further south.

  Her hair was a very dark brown and drawn up in a kind of bun on the crown of her head. Her features were almost delicate, the mouth a little large, but shapely. Her eyes were a clear grey and beautiful.

  In a moment of inspiration, he dropped into Spanish. ‘Do not be afraid, lady. I have buried the dead man and I am now going to say some good words over him before I move on.’

  She said in the same language: ‘I am afraid of you. After what has happened that is surely natural. I would be afraid of anybody.’

  ‘It’s very natural,’ he said. ‘I would be surprised if you were not.’

  She came into the camp area and stood looking forlornly at the cairn of stones. She said: ‘It is terrible that Lemuel is dead. I am afraid and I don’t know what I shall do now. Look, that man has taken everything. There is not a single thing left to me. To lose everything so suddenly, isn’t it a thing to leave any woman confused and lost?’

  ‘It is indeed,’ he replied. He held out something in his hand and she took it from him. It was the small, fine wrought crucifix which he had taken from the dead man’s neck. ‘I have everything that he carried on him. Here.’ He had wrapped everything in a square of oilskin that he had found. ‘His watch, that kind of thing.’ She thanked him in a small voice.

  ‘And me,’ she asked, ‘now what happens to me?’

  ‘There’s a way-station some miles east of here. I will take you there,’ he told her.

  She thanked him again in that near-whisper.

  ‘Have you eaten?’

  ‘I couldn’t eat.’

  ‘Then let us say a few words over Lemuel’s body and get on.’

  She stood one side of the grave and he the other. ‘Lord,’ said McAllister, ‘I am not too sure what kind of a man Lemuel Sullivan was, but it’s certain that you know. Therefore we commend his soul to you.’ The girl said ‘Amen’, and for a moment McAllister thought she would weep, but she did not.

  He mounted the canelo and helped the girl up behind him and then they started out. She asked: ‘Do you know this man who killed Lemuel?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How do you know him?’

  ‘He’s a criminal and I am following him.’

  ‘And when you catch him, you will take him somewhere to be hanged?’

  ‘That’s the general idea.’

  ‘It would have been better if you had caught him yesterday, I cannot help thinking.’

  He replied: ‘It would be better if we did many things yesterday that we cannot do until tomorrow. I assure you, if I could
have caught him a week ago, I would have done so.’

  They did not speak another word until the way-station came in sight. When they rode down to it they found there four men and a woman. It was a fairly strong place, for Indians were always guarded against in this country. There was a corral nearby with a dozen or so horses in it. They were not all stage or wagon horses. At least a couple of them were saddlers and McAllister noted the fact. There was also a barn of sorts there. Inside was stored the corn and hay for the animals. It would not be cheap keeping horses around here. There was no feed growing within a good many miles. McAllister reckoned it was not the kind of place where he would want to stop for any length of time.

  The station was run by a man named Arnold Fairbrother. He was half a trader and had a fair supply of store goods on the place. The emigrant trains, he told McAllister, were always short of something and he could charge any price he wanted. The sky was the limit. McAllister, who had thought of buying a horse from him, sighed. He took Fairbrother aside and told him about the girl and what had happened back on the trail. The man showed a good deal of sympathy, but he was not too helpful.

  ‘She could stay here till an emigrant train comes through, I reckon,’ he said with no great enthusiasm. ‘But I’d take a risk offering to keep her. Hell, I don’t have no idea if anybody would take her. They have their hands full mostly feeding themselves.’

  McAllister left the subject for the moment. He and the girl ate a meal served by Fairbrother’s wife, a surly woman who scarcely spoke a word to them. Her cooking was no better than her conversation, but for McAllister it was at least a change. He told the girl what had passed between Fairbrother and himself.

  ‘You present me with a problem,’ he told her. ‘Added to which I do not even know your name.’

  ‘Ana Sullivan,’ she answered.

  He was surprised, though he could not have said why except that for some reason or other he had not seen this girl as the dead man’s wife. That she was Mexican, he had no doubt. She was educated after her fashion and spoke well. She belonged to a respectable family. Which added to the mystery of being out here, married to the New Yorker. There was probably, he told himself, a simple enough explanation.