‘I’ve been shot. I’m in pain and bleeding fast. I can’t do it in my physical condition.’
McAllister said: ‘I’ll attend to your wound when your hands are behind your back and you can’t kick me in the crotch. Savvy?’
The man slowly got his feet through the loop of his arms. He rolled on one side and groaned when the pain of his wound hit him. McAllister felt not a scrap of sympathy. His kindness only extended to not killing this man. He bent down and heaved off the other boot, then he tied the man’s ankles together and strung a length of rawhide between the ankles and the wrists. He rolled the man on to his back and pulled back his coat. The man lay there staring at him with baleful eyes, like a cornered puma. He swore: ‘I’m going to kill you for this, McAllister.’
‘Chance would be a fine thing,’ said McAllister.
He tore open the shirt and found the blood-soaked pad over the wound. Some of the blood had dried and adhered to the cloth. McAllister pulled the cloth away and the man drew his breath in sharply. The bullet had ploughed into the chest just under the shoulder blade. It had travelled at an angle, struck the shoulder joint and exited in a bloody hole.
‘You’ve lost a lot of blood,’ said McAllister. ‘But this wound ain’t bad enough to disappoint the hangman. You’ll live.’
‘It could go bad,’
‘Yes, it could at that.’
He worked on the wound, cleaning it out with water and a little whiskey. Then he tore the man’s shirt in strips and bound a pad tight against the wound. He pulled the man’s coat back around him. ‘Just lie there and keep your mouth shut till I tell you to do otherwise. From here on in you do everything I say. Hear? You give me grief and I’ll take it out on your hide.’
‘I heard about you,’ said the man. ‘Every word’s true.’
‘It couldn’t be,’ said McAllister.
He went and looked at the mare. She was pleased to see him. When he was sure that she had sustained no damage, he walked down to the mule and freed him, driving him up the slope to the mare. They greeted each other and seemed glad to be in company. Leaving them happily cropping the grass together, McAllister walked back into the rocks. The man had his eyes shut.
He opened his eyes. ‘What happens now?’ he asked.
‘I didn’t tell you you could talk,’ snapped McAllister. ‘Every time you do something without my say-so you lose out on a meal.’
‘You bastard.’
‘That’s one gone,’ said McAllister.
‘I shall report this treatment as soon as we’re in civilization.’
‘That’s another.’
The man clamped his mouth shut.
Then McAllister rode out on the mare to fetch the man’s horse. He found it difficult to believe that the man-hunt was finished. He now had a week’s riding ahead of him with this man in tow. He did not relish the thought. That the fellow would never accept capture and would all the time be scheming an escape was a foregone conclusion. When he got back to the rocks he found that the man had not moved. McAllister’s wounded leg was very sore from riding and his temper was on a short fuse. He stood over the man. ‘We’re riding,’ he said. ‘I’m going to cut your legs loose, so watch yourself. Don’t try anything foolish.’
He bent down and released the man’s legs. Still the man did not move, but he was watching McAllister, eyes as baleful as ever. McAllister said: ‘Get up.’ Then the man kicked out. His boot caught McAllister unerringly on his wound. The agony that exploded through him was so overpowering that for a moment he was utterly helpless. He stood there, holding his leg with both hands, his body consumed by a searing flash of pain.
The man moved with speed. He was on his feet, apparently no more than slightly restricted by the hands cuffed behind his back. He charged head down and butted McAllister in the face. Stunned, McAllister staggered back and fell. The man was on him in an instant, stockinged feet stamping down on him, anywhere he could get them—face, belly, the wound itself. Fighting desperately against passing out, McAllister tried to roll away from the onslaught. The man leapt after him and stamped down on his head, driving hard against rock. Now McAllister clung to consciousness by no more than a thin thread.
When finally he managed to sit up it was to see the man climbing through the ring of his arms to bring his cuffed hands to the front.
McAllister drove himself to his feet, knowing that his sole driving power was his will. His wounded leg tried to fail him, but he drove himself on. The man saw him coming. He rose, dodged to one side and, before he knew what had happened, the man had come at him half from the rear and flung his loop of arms over his head so that the steel links of the cuffs were tight against his throat. The fellow’s strength seemed to be far beyond the apparent capacity of his body. It was more like the strength of a maniac. There was a ferocity in his violence that seemed capable of defeating any human opposition.
McAllister allowed his legs to collapse under him in an attempt to withdraw from the strangling embrace, but the man stayed with him, tightening the grip on McAllister’s throat until his eyes bulged from his head. His vision wavered; he fought desperately for breath. The man rammed a knee in his kidneys. Exerting all his strength McAllister bent himself forward in an attempt to throw the man over his head. All he attained was an increase of the terrible pressure on his throat. He rammed an elbow back into the man’s belly and achieved nothing. Now the man butted him hard with his head and McAllister found consciousness slipping from him. Just the same, working on wild instinct and no more, no longer capable of thought, he reared up and swung the lighter man from his feet. He whirled and took the man with him. The links of the handcuffs were cutting into the flesh of his throat, but McAllister was now almost beyond pain.
Suddenly McAllister changed his movement, judged that he was near the rocks and hurled himself backward. They hit rock with the man underneath, crushed by McAllister’s weight. McAllister heard the man’s groan in his ear. With both hands, he wrenched the strangle hold from around his neck, staggered forward and away from the man and fell on his face.
He did not know how long he lay there, but once again his will drove him on. He rolled and came very slowly to his feet, feeling like a human wreck. The man lay where he had fallen. He was struggling to rise, but something had happened to him and he looked as if he were pinned there to the rocks. His eyes were on McAllister, expressing hatred that fell on McAllister like a physical blow.
The man whispered: ‘I’ll kill you.’
McAllister drew his belt-gun. ‘On your feet. Walk to the horses.’
The man twisted his face into a smile.
‘You can’t hold me all the way to Black Horse,’ he said. ‘You aren’t man enough. Sooner or later I’ll get you.’
‘Move,’ said McAllister. ‘Or I save the hangman a job.’
‘You,’ said the man, ‘you soft-centered son-of-a-bitch, you don’t have enough guts to do it.’
‘Pick up your saddle,’ McAllister said. He decided that he did not enjoy conversation with this man. Every time the fellow opened his mouth he had an almost irresistible impulse to knock his teeth down his throat. When the man picked up his saddle, he revealed McAllister’s revolver lying on the top of his bedroll. Chiding himself for gross carelessness McAllister regained the old Remington. Just having it back in his possession made him feel better. He hefted the bedroll and the gunnysack of supplies which lay by it and followed the man out of the rocks. As they approached the horses, so there came a deep grumbling of sound across the heavens and, looking up, McAllister saw the first warheads of the clouds coming across the basin. That could only mean rain. He sighed. Rain was all he needed to cheer him in the experience he had to face—sharing this man’s company on the long and weary trail back to Black Horse. Maybe the girl would come along too, but not if he could help it. He could not believe that a creature of this one’s cunning could be toted all that distance without something untoward happening.
His prisoner made a great show
of it being impossible for him to throw the saddle on his horse while his hands were braceleted together. McAllister dumped the gear on the ground and told the man to stand back at a safe distance. The fellow laughed at him silently and backed away. His eyes accused McAllister of being scared of him. As McAllister saddled the horse he became aware of the chill wind starting to sweep across the basin. He tied the lead-line of the mule to the saddlehorn of the man’s horse and told him to stay right where he was. Only when he had lashed the bedroll and sack of supplies to the mule did he order the man aboard.
In the saddle, the prisoner said: ‘I’ll take a bet with you, McAllister. You won’t get me to Black Horse. Not ever.’
McAllister stepped into his own saddle. ‘Head for the pass,’ he snapped.
The man shrugged and lifted the lines. When McAllister told him to hit a trot, he obediently did so.
Thirteen
The memory of how the girl looked when she saw the prisoner stayed with McAllister. The expression on her face concealed deep emotion in some way that he did not understand.
The emotions of the Hollys and their riders were easy enough to interpret. As was to be expected, they regarded any man who would lay violent hands on a woman with disgust and abhorrence. It was the same always on the frontier. That was one reason why McAllister had decided not to stop, but to move on as soon as he decently could. He wanted to get his quarry to Black Horse alive. Holly’s young riders were a wild-looking bunch, the kind of boys who would take justice into their own hands without a lot of prompting.
‘I’ll be moving along,’ McAllister said. ‘I’m obliged to you for your help, Ben. Couldn’t have gotten along without you and that’s a fact.’
‘You’re purely welcome,’ Holly replied.
McAllister leaned from the saddle to shake hands. Holly said: ‘Miss Ana, now … We’d be real happy to keep her with us, wouldn’t we, ma?’
‘Sure,’ said Mrs Holly. ‘And welcome. We have work for any number of hands.’
‘I shall come with you, McAllister,’ the girl said and her eyes went to the prisoner.
There was a warning note in McAllister’s head. He did not exactly ignore it. Let’s say that he noted it and decided, through some strong instinct in him, to allow the girl to come along.
‘All right,’ he agreed, ‘but it’s going to be a rough trail and we won’t reach Black Horse inside a week or more.’
‘I can’t stop you if you want to go, my dear,’ said Mrs Holly, ‘but those hills can be dangerous country for a girl.’
‘I think I’ll go just the same,’ the girl replied and she thanked the Hollys nicely for their kindness. She decided she would ride the mule and that was how they set out, the prisoner leading the way with McAllister behind him and the girl bringing up the rear on their mule.
Holly shook his head as he watched them go slowly down the pass.
‘I don’t like it. McAllister should not of let the girl go along. That trail’s no place for a woman and that man they have tied there is a murdering polecat. Anything could happen between here and Black Horse.’
One of the young riders spoke up: ‘That McAllister can look out for himself, boss.’
‘I hope to God he can,’ said Holly fervently.
As McAllister rode along behind his prisoner, he thought about the ride ahead of him. His thoughts did not fill him with joy. Once he turned in the saddle and looked back at the girl. She did not smile. There seemed to be a wall between them. Strange to think that so short a time before they had made love together. The difference, he knew, was the man they now had with them. Maybe it had not been a good idea to allow the girl to come along.
When they were down off the pass, he quickened the pace to a trot and this they held for a while until they hit a rising trail, whereupon McAllister reduced the pace to a plodding walk. So he would continue until they reached the town, conserving the strength of the horses all the way.
Around noon they sighted a hunter’s camp and saw two men beside a fire. The prisoner at once headed towards them, but McAllister was not having it and altered course. He had seen this man perform and he knew that he would take every advantage of the presence of other men. As they headed on down a small valley and McAllister greeted the hunters at a distance with a wave of the hand, the prisoner turned in the saddle and said with a savage smile: ‘It won’t save you, McAllister. You won’t ever get me to Black Horse. Bank on it.’
McAllister said nothing. At noon they loosened cinches and rested. While the prisoner lay tied to a tree, McAllister and the girl sat and ate at a distance from him, so that they could talk together without being overheard.
‘Something’s the matter,’ McAllister said. ‘What is it?’
The girl looked off into the distance. ‘It’s him,’ she said. ‘He’s evil.’
‘That’s why I’m taking him in.’
‘You should have let him go, forgotten about him. Everything that kind touches becomes evil.’
‘I think you should have stayed with the Hollys. It would have done you good to settle quietly for a while. They’re good folks.’
‘I know. But I’m here. I didn’t like to think of you alone on the trail with him.’
‘Well,’ he said, ‘now we have to make the best of it.’ Still she looked into the distance. ‘There’s only one thing to do,’ she said.
When she did not continue, he asked: ‘What’s that?’
Slowly, she took her gaze from the distance and turned it on the prisoner who, having finished eating, lay back against the trunk of the tree with his eyes closed.
‘Kill him,’ she said.
She meant it. She took her gaze from the prisoner and looked into McAllister’s eyes. Her eyes were like the knowing eyes of an old woman, embittered, sad.
McAllister, with his hard life behind him, a man who had looked on all the horrors the frontier had to offer, recoiled from her, shocked.
‘You can’t mean that,’ he said, ineffectually.
‘I mean it, and you know I mean it. You know, too, it’s the smart thing to do. If you don’t, he’ll kill you. And most likely me, too.’
He could feel only that everything she said was true. This man had about him some evil invincibility that was indescribable. With all the violent men McAllister had known, he had never known one like this.
‘Just the same,’ he said with a lightness he did not feel, ‘it ain’t going to be done. I never failed to bring in a prisoner alive in my life and I don’t aim to change now.’
‘You’re a fool.’
‘Maybe.’
She got to her feet and walked away from him. He watched her go. She looked a small and lonely figure. He felt a consuming pity for her. Maybe his enemy was right—he had a core that was too soft for the things he undertook. He shrugged. A man could not alter his nature and he did not know that he would even if he were able. Most men became like those they hated most. He had fought against that truth ever since he knew how.
He rose and started tightening the animals’ cinches. The prisoner came out of his sleep effortlessly and smiled.
‘I’m already ahead of you on sleep, McAllister,’ he said. He laughed almost pleasantly. ‘I can see you’re being mighty cautious how you come near me. No call at all. When I make my move, I shan’t be taking any chances. I’m a strictly no-risk man. I’ll move when I have you dead to rights. Then, boy, you’re dead.’
‘I never yet killed a prisoner,’ said McAllister, ‘but there’s always a first time.’
‘Not you, McAllister. You’re the only one of your kind. You don’t break your rules, not ever. I’ll kill you and I’ll ride, laughing. And the girl will go with me.’
McAllister struck him across the face with his open hand. The blow knocked the man from his feet. He landed on his back and looked up at McAllister with a little wonder showing in his eyes.
‘That was just to make me feel better,’ said McAllister, ‘and to show you you ain’t so damned safe.’
/> The man climbed to his feet. The blow had left a red mark across his face. It robbed him of some of his dignity and he looked a little ridiculous.
‘I’ll pay you for that and everything else when the time comes,’ he said.
‘Get on the horse,’ ordered McAllister.
He turned and saw the girl watching them. She shook her head as if she thought McAllister had only piled up more grief for himself. When he was in the saddle, McAllister took out his reata, made a noose and dropped it over the prisoner’s head. Tightening it around his neck, he said: ‘Go ahead.’
They rode on, working their way into the high mountains. Now they could hear the perpetual song of the wind, sighing forever in the timbers and the towering peaks above them. It seemed they were dwarfed to nothing by the overpowering might of nature. For long stretches of the trail McAllister rode with extreme caution, wary of the ingenuity of his prisoner, knowing that it would be possible for a man to spur his mount and disappear from sight behind rocks, into brush and through timber in seconds. Yet the prisoner never gave the slightest sign that he was tempted by the possibility of escape. The rope between his neck and McAllister hung slack all the way. McAllister knew that he was supposed to be lulled into a false sense of security.
That night, he chose his camp with great care, picking a spot where he and the girl could sleep at a safe distance from the prisoner, while the prisoner was a safe distance from any convenient cover.
While McAllister gathered fuel for the fire, the girl prepared their meal. The animals had rolled and were now on good grass and picketed on long lines to give them a fair amount of freedom. The prisoner was secured by rope to a tree at a distance of twenty paces from the fire. While McAllister searched for convenient fuel, not a word passed between the girl and the prisoner. He watched her every movement, but she did not once so much as glance in his direction.
When McAllister took the man his meal, the prisoner once again asked to be released so that he could eat, but McAllister refused. No more was said. McAllister returned to the fire. Neither he nor the girl spoke. He would have been made of stone if he could not feel the strained relationship between them. When they were through eating and she had cleaned the dishes, McAllister lay back against his saddle and lit his pipe.
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