McAllister 5

by Matt Chisholm

  McAllister untied the rope fastening the man to the tree, heaved him to his feet and tied him to another tree. Then he carefully searched the area around the first tree. The man and the girl watched him wordlessly. McAllister felt them holding their breath. He searched every crevice and cranny in the bole of the tree.

  He walked back to the fire and turned to the girl. ‘Where did you put it?’

  ‘Put what?’

  ‘The key to the cuffs?’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘You took them from my pocket when we talked during the night.’

  ‘I did not. I swear I did not. I don’t have the key. That’s the truth.’

  ‘I’m going to search you,’ he said.

  ‘Search him,’ she told him. ‘If anybody has the key, it must be him.’

  ‘I don’t search him till I’ve tried everything else.’

  So he searched her from head to foot and all the time she kept herself rigid as if she did not want to be touched by him. He did not enjoy the experience. He found nothing, of course. Then he tried the camp area and all their gear. It took him an hour or more, but he found nothing.

  So it could be on the man. Although he knew that it was possible that she had concealed it somewhere outside the area of his search. He cursed softly to himself.

  Then he thought: It could be in his mouth. He could have buried it. His hands could be free right this minute.

  The first warning in the form of a small slither of fear touched him. For a dismaying moment, he felt himself valuing the man with the girl’s eyes. He pulled himself up and drew his gun again. What the hell was he getting spooky about? The fellow did not have a gun.

  Could he be sure of that?

  He’d damn soon find out.

  Three paces towards the man—

  ‘I lied to you.’

  He stopped and half-turned—‘So?’

  ‘I know where the key is.’ She was looking straight at him.

  ‘Where?’

  She pointed—‘He has it.’

  It seemed that the message took a measurable time to get through to his brain. He was turning and cocking the gun, nerves tense, ready to shoot at anything that moved. Even so, he was too late.

  He sensed rather than saw the object in the air. He saw it clearly enough to start to duck under it. But that was too late too. As it crashed into his face, it felt as big as a house. He could have believed that the whole of his face was crushed in. His senses were smashed from him. He was vaguely conscious of the ground striking him between the shoulder blades. And he heard a prolonged keening sound which he imagined came from himself.

  His first instinct was always to survive.

  His hands were over his face and he was rolling. He had lost his gun. Death had to be the next thing awaiting him and he had no wish to die. He stopped rolling when he met an immovable object and, without much reason, rose to his hands and knees. Something struck him a terrible blow on the crown of his head and he must have passed out again. He thought he heard a woman screaming something, but he could not be sure and he could not really remember any woman being there.

  Eighteen

  It was not the cold that woke him, but that was the first thing of which he was aware.

  The second was pain. Neither was a great favorite of his. It was night. A half-moon rode in a slightly clouded sky. There were a few stars. The wind came off the hills and the trees leaned away from it. He could hear the soft sounds of horses on grass muted by the gurgling of the creek water. A night bird called on the wing and it was a call which was new to him. Not surprising seeing that he had not been so long in the north country. It reminded him of a quail. He heard the skittering run of a very small creature among the small rocks and the grass beyond. It seemed to him that he had never heard so many sounds so clearly.

  He heard the crackling of a fire and the gentle crash of a falling log in the embers. Somebody threw some more fuel on to the fire and he heard it leap to new life.

  He stayed very still, moving no more than his eyes, suspecting that his very life could rest on his actions during the next few minutes.

  He assessed himself before he started to assess the situation. He knew that he was badly hurt. He had been badly hurt before and had managed to stay alive. Pain and danger had to be accepted by a man who lived his kind of life. Maybe that was why he had wanted out for a number of years now. When you’re very young you think yourself immortal. As you grow older, the feeling of immortality starts to weaken. Old age makes cowards of us all. Was that altogether true? For Christ’s sake, this was no time for philosophizing.

  His assessment of himself was not so bad. He was hurt, but the pain had disciplined him as pain has a way of doing. You either lived with the unpleasantness or you gave up the ghost. He must have experienced worse than this, but he could not think when. His face felt totally ruined, his skull as if it had been cracked. He wondered if his injuries were fatal. If they were not fatal, how much had they incapacitated him. The ache in his head was almost blinding. Even the pale light of the moon was too much for him. He wondered if he would start vomiting if he moved. Curious, he scarcely felt the pain of his leg now.

  He would not move until he knew exactly where the men were on the chessboard. And the woman. The woman could not be left out. He thought back through the action of the hour before the prisoner pulled his final and best trick. No, the woman could not be left out. Finally, she had decided to betray him. If it could be called a decision. Most likely she had acted on impulse, One of those actions none of us can do anything about.

  One of them was at the fire. But which one?

  He could hear a voice. It was very low in volume, but he knew that it was the girl’s. She was speaking urgently. The prisoner must be near her or she could not have made herself heard. It seemed to him that she spoke for an awful long time. She was about thirty paces from McAllister.

  So had they just left him here where he had dropped? No, he had been nearer the fire when he had gone down. They must have dragged him here. He wondered if she had done anything for him, to stop the bleeding, stuff like that. Maybe he was quietly lying here bleeding to death. He moved his right hand and heard the soft chink of metal. Then he knew that he was wearing his own handcuffs. That somehow gave him a terrible sense of defeat, of being ridiculous ... the sheriff wearing his own handcuffs. A real figure of fun. How the boys would laugh when they heard it. But maybe they would never hear it. Most likely he would become just another heap of bones, picked clean by the scavengers and bleached by the sun.

  He lifted his head very slightly and saw them, the girl a small silhouette against the bright light of the fire, the man hunched in a poncho to her right, the firelight ruddy on his face. Holding his head up the way he was gave him great pain, but he held it up just the same, because he had to take a good look at them.

  It was the man’s extraordinary calm under the woman’s words that surprised McAllister. The fellow was listening and nodding patiently. Or so it seemed.

  Now he heard the man’s voice.

  ‘All right, Ana,’ he said. ‘All right, for God’s sake.’ A hand cut the air as if to cut off the girl’s words. ‘I get your drift. You don’t want him dead. You’re soft on him. That’s understandable in an impressionable young woman like you. I don’t know what you keep on about. I gave you my word if you helped me I’d allow him to stay alive. I don’t have a damn thing to lose by his staying alive. He’s not going anywhere in a state like that. Most likely he’ll die no matter what happens.’

  ‘I’m asking you to keep to your word totally, Jack.’ So his name was Jack. Or might be. Jack who? ‘You promised to ride on and leave us both if I helped you to get free. You promised.’

  ‘And I’ll stick to my word,’ he said. ‘I bear no malice. McAllister came near to being my equal. I give him that. But I beat him in the long run and that’s all that matters. I possess what is known as the competitive spirit, girl. I’ve wo
n. I’m a little wounded and I guess my pride has taken a knock or two, but no real harm done. I’ll head for Frisco or San Antone or wherever and get me a stake. You tote your sheriff back to Black Horse—if he lives long enough.’

  ‘Come dawn,’ she said, ‘saddle and ride, Jack.’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘So now I’m going to do what I can with his wounds, Jack. And you won’t do anything to stop me.’

  ‘As I said: I bear no malice. But don’t go switching your loyalties again, Ana. He has the cuffs on and I have the key. You make a move to get him free or pass him a gun and I’ll kill him. If I’m mad enough, I’ll kill you too.’

  ‘You can be sure I won’t. All I want is for you to go and for us to start for Black Horse.’

  ‘It’s a bargain,’ he said with an earnestness that sounded better than genuine. McAllister was astonished that the girl could be fool enough to believe him. Or did she?

  He watched her get to her feet and he let his head rest on the ground again. By the sounds, she was collecting various objects near the fire. Then he heard her footsteps coming towards him and he closed his eyes.

  As soon as she was on her knees beside him, she placed a hand on his forehead and her flesh felt very cold. She said softly ‘Oh, my God,’ in Spanish, and he whispered: ‘You found me unconscious.’ She placed a cold finger on his burning lips for a second.

  ‘Get the other side of me so I can watch him. Prop my head up.’

  She moved around him and found a rock to support his head. Now he could see the man at the fire without straining. He pushed his battered brain into action, trying to keep his thoughts away from the woman whose gentle fingers were probing and assessing the extent of his injuries. He had to work on the assumption that her loyalty was as unstable as her treachery. She could still be under the influence of this man, she could suddenly and unaccountably turn against McAllister again. Behind all his thoughts was the certain knowledge that the man would kill them both before he saddled and rode. McAllister reckoned that dawn was not so very far off.

  The girl lowered her head until her mouth was close to his ear. ‘You have stopped bleeding, but your face is a terrible sight. All caked with dried blood. I think your nose is broken.’ You bet your sweet life his nose was broken. His whole face felt as if it was broken.

  She had brought water and an old torn shirt of his. Now she gently washed away the dried blood from his face and dried it by dabbing softly with the cloth. It hurt a lot. McAllister closed his eyes against the pain. When he opened them the man by the fire was gone.

  McAllister reached up a hand and clutched the girl’s arm. ‘He’s gone.’

  She turned quickly and he heard her gasp of dismay.

  ‘Have you got a gun?’

  ‘Over there, under that bush.’

  He rolled over so that he could see where she was pointing. He thought he saw the bush. He said: ‘Get out there and attract his attention. Find him if you can.’

  She stood up. He could see that she was very scared. He didn’t blame her. He watched her go towards the fire. He waited for the count of five, then started crawling. It was not easy with his hands cuffed together. His head felt as if it were an insupportable burden. He found that he was weaker than he thought possible.

  When he reached the bush, he was so exhausted that he lay still for a while to get his strength back. He could hear the girl calling the man: ‘Jack … Jack…’

  With both hands McAllister searched under the bush, but failed to find the gun. He cursed a little, then crawled to the next bush where he had no more luck. He wanted to call to the girl, but he knew that would give his position away if his enemy was not aware of it already. Now he searched the bush itself, exploring through its branches with his manacled hands, pulling himself to his knees.

  The girl had moved off into the trees, still calling.

  McAllister crawled back to the first bush and started to explore through the branches. Now his fingers touched something hard and smooth. He brought a small object out into the moonlight. His disappointment was so great that he could have wept from frustration. The girl had hidden the derringer.

  He held the little gun in the palm of his hand and gazed at the two short barrels. A last-resort gun, a weapon for the close quarters of a bar-room.

  Yet, he told himself, he had used it to some effect on this man before. The wound the fellow carried now had been caused by this little gun. In the right hand... He opened the breeches and checked. It was not loaded. That was almost more than he could take. The man had relieved him of his pouches that hung on his gun-belt. He had nothing on him, neither cap and ball, nor powder. He tucked the weapon away in a pocket and started on his way to the fire. If his pouches were not on the man, they would be near the fire. The girl seemed to be a long way off now, still calling. McAllister had the uneasy feeling that Jack was ignoring her and was at that very moment watching him. It would suit his kind of humor to wait until McAllister started to load the derringer and then to shoot him dead.

  What the hell? thought McAllister, you could only die once, and he stood up. This itself was not an easy thing to do. The world turned a few crazy somersaults on its own account before it settled down unsteadily. He walked a few tentative steps until he gained some confidence and then continued to the fire. It was beginning to burn low. He glanced at the sky and saw the first signs of the false dawn that comes always clearly in the high country before the true dawn. He had to hurry or he would be caught flat-footed out of cover.

  He began searching the camp. Gear was strewn about everywhere. There was nothing that McAllister hated more than an untidy camp. You could read a man’s character right off from the way in which he kept his camp. There was a saddle here, another there, tangled blankets, a buffalo robe, a horse-blanket—that was his own soft-woven Navaho he kept for Sally’s back only. Cooking gear, a small empty whiskey bottle. The man had finished McAllister’s last drop. McAllister cursed him foully. He lifted blankets and threw them aside, searching. He looked at the saddles again. One was missing. His own. Goddammit to hell, he thought, the son-of-a-bitch was riding off on Sally using his, McAllister’s saddle.

  Now there was need for real hurry. He threw a saddle aside and there lay his belt. He dropped to his knees. Distantly, he could hear the girl still calling. Vaguely, in the back of his mind, there was some worry for her. She may have lied to him, even betrayed him, but he still owed her. He was still alive because of her.

  He fumbled the belt around his waist, buckled it and started loading the little gun.

  He heard a shot. Just one shot.

  The girl was not calling any more.

  He climbed to his feet and started walking in the direction of the shot.

  As he walked, he became aware for the first time that the dirt under his feet made slow going. It had rained during the night. When he got among the trees, they were still dripping slightly. A cold damp foliage brushed against his damaged face and the soft wet touch was like balm. He felt awful, yet his condition was over-ridden by the need of the moment. That man was going back to Black Horse to stand in front of a judge, no matter what.

  There was still not another sound from the girl.

  Again he had the unnerving feeling that the man was watching every step he took. He walked maybe two hundred paces before he came to the grass on which he had left the animals. They were on long picket lines and they had grazed the grass pretty close in their circles. They should have been moved hours back. Sally was there. She raised her head and whinnied loudly at his approach. He called to her and looked around for signs in the grass. There was a mess of it, all made since the rain. He guessed that the man and girl had come and gone several times. He walked over to Sally and she nuzzled him with her soft muzzle. She was saddled and ready, girths tightened. So the man must be somewhere near at hand. In this poor light, he would hold his fire for fear of hitting the horses. He was ready to ride out on Sally, the best animal there. McAllister stood close to
the mare, listening, but he could hear nothing above the sound of the horses which told him anything useful. Somewhere near here, he thought, the girl was lying hurt—or dead.

  He found that his wretched physical condition had placed him curiously beyond fear, even beyond caution. He took the line from Sally and led her across the glade. On the far side, he stripped the saddle from her back and dumped it among some brush there. Then he gave her a sharp slap across the rump and told her to get the hell out of there. She kicked up her heels rather flirtatiously and ran through the trees, whinnying happily. At least, thought McAllister, there was a chance that Jack would not get away on his favorite horse.

  He started through the trees, calling: ‘Ana.’ He did not care if the man found him. In fact, he rather welcomed the possibility. He knew he was at the end of his tether and he did not care much what happened. Providence, he thought, had a way of caring for damn fools and drunks. And he wasn’t drunk.

  He found her half-in and half-out of some brush, lying awkwardly with her head down and one arm caught beneath her body. He got his arms around her and lifted her out, laying her on the ground. She was warm and when he felt for the pulse in her throat, there was a slight response. The light was too dim to see much of her face, but her eyes were closed.

  He said her name several times. He’d seen men and women come back from death itself at the sound of their names. Finally, she opened her eyes. When she saw who it was, she reached a hand for one of his and touched the steel of the handcuffs.

  ‘He threw the key away,’ she said.

  ‘Never mind about him,’ he told her. ‘You’re all that matters right now.’

  She smiled a little and said: ‘That’s nice. He’s right. You have a soft inside.’ Her face twisted itself up and she caught her breath for a long time before she said: ‘McAllister …’ But she did not say any more, because she was dead.

  ‘Oh, Jesus,’ McAllister said softly.

  He stayed where he was for a moment, holding her hand. Then he laid it down and turned to listen to the night. He could hear Sally working her way through the trees and knew from the sounds that she was still free and was not being led.