McAllister Rides

by Matt Chisholm

  “If I know Bourn,” she said, “he put a condition on that hundred dollars.”

  “Condition?”

  “Yes. He told you that if the Comanches had touched me the deal was off.”

  He didn’t miss the bitterness in her voice.

  He told the truth.

  “He said that. But he doesn’t ever have to know.”

  Her voice hardened. “For my sake or for the sake of the five hundred dollars?”

  He didn’t know what to say to that.

  “You can say what you like,” he said. “You can call me all the names you like, but I never went back on the brand I rode for. Maybe I blotted a brand now and then, maybe I forgot to brand a calf with the right brand, but I was loyal. Bourn hired me to bring you back and I’ve done that.”

  “He hasn’t paid you yet.”

  He hesitated. She had a point there. But Bourn had advanced him money. If he didn’t take Mrs. Bourn to her husband, he would have to find that money.

  “No,” he said slowly, “he hasn’t paid me yet.”

  Grant walked into the firelight.

  “It’s a fine night,” he said. “Wa-al, Rem, who’s goin’ to take first watch?”

  “I will.”

  McAllister wanted to sit out there alone in the moonlight and think.

  “I won’t argue. I found a good spot up yonder. Care for me to show you?”

  McAllister understood that Grant wanted to speak to him alone. He stood up, said goodnight civilly to Mrs. Bourn and received a cold reply, before he followed the ranger along the hollow. They climbed slowly together to the rim. Grant halted and said: “This is as good a place as any.”

  McAllister asked: “What’s on your mind?”

  “I been thinkin’. An’ I made up my mind.”

  “Shoot.”

  “I ain’t a man to hone in on another man’s business,” Grant told him. “Never was my way. But a woman’s business – why that’s a different matter.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning if’n you take her back to that husband of hers, I’ll take a chance on you bein’ faster’n me with a gun.”

  McAllister thought about that for a moment

  Finally, he said: “You’re crazy.” He couldn’t think of anything else to say. He liked and admired Grant and wished he were more like him himself. But he couldn’t say that

  “So I’m crazy,” Grant said. “But that’s the way it is.”

  He said goodnight and walked away down into the hollow. McAllister listened to his retreating footsteps, thought about Mrs. Bourn, regretted deeply that Grant had interrupted them earlier and said: “Ain’t life hell?”

  Sixteen

  It was night.

  Ike Goldheimer was counting the day’s takings and his wife was pouring coffee in the big room of the store. This was the time of day Ike liked, he could feel the money he had earned in his hands and the terrible heat of the day had gone. Several men watched him, sipping drinks that Ike had served them earlier. There was a boss from a trail herd going north, a drover or two, an Osage Indian dozing in a dark corner, a Mexican trader playing cards with three travelers and there sitting upright in a hard chair the big man of the country, Mr. Tobias Bourn.

  Faintly, from the bedding grounds came the lowing of tired cattle.

  Bourn was saying: “I was a fool, Ike. I admit it. It was throwing money away. But I had to take a chance.”

  Ike finished counting a pile of silver dollars and looked up at him heavily.

  “You vosn’t throwing money avay, mister. Unt you vosn’t taking no chance. McAllister said he vould bring beck your vife and bring beck your vife he vill. I know dat poy.”

  “No,” said Bourn. “It was easy money for him from a soft old man.” One of the cowhands who knew him snorted softly. “He lit out for the Border or for Montana or some such place, laughing.”

  Ike said: “If he don’t gom beck, he’s dead. You don’t know dat poy.”

  The sound of horses walking came to their ears through the open doorway. They all lifted their heads and listened.

  “Ike,” said his wife, “that could be Rem now.”

  “It could be a hundred different men, vife,” Ike told her tolerantly.

  The hoofbeats stopped and there was a long pause while the animals were tied at the hitching rail outside. Bootheels sounded. One man walking tiredly, stiff from the saddle. A big man appeared in the doorway, stooping under the low lintel. He straightened and they saw that it was McAllister.

  Mrs. Ike sprang up.

  “Vy, Rem,” she cried.

  “Howdy, Mrs. Ike. Howdy, Ike,” McAllister said. “My, I’m purely starving. Do you have a steak around or something.”

  Mrs. Ike put her hands together in a sort of ecstasy, “Always he is hongry,” she cried.

  Bourn heaved himself to his feet. McAllister turned and stared at him as if his sight was impaired by the brightness of the lamplight.

  “My wife,” Bourn said.

  McAllister stared at him for a moment.

  “No trace, Mr. Bourn,” he said huskily. “I went clean into Comanche country, but I didn’t find hide nor hair of her.”

  The man seemed to have been struck a heavy blow. He looked unbelieving at McAllister for a moment and those watching thought he would come right out of character and burst into tears. But he didn’t. He said: “You owe me fifty dollars.”

  McAllister smiled as if in relief.

  “All along the trail,” he said, “I’ve been betting myself you’d say that and I reckon I won.”

  Bourn looked brusque.

  “I’ll take it now.”

  McAllister laughed.

  “You can take a horse to water,” he said.

  Bourn shouted: “McAllister, you took fifty dollars of mine and I demand that you return it There’s no real law in this country, but I have enough men –”

  “Here,” Ike shouted, snatching up a fistful of money with unaccustomed recklessness, “here’s your domned monies.”

  Bourn took it with both hands. He smiled a wintry smile and said: “I never thought Ike could part so easily with money.” He thrust the coins into his pockets, rammed his hat down firmly on his head and stalked out.

  Ike clapped his hands to his head.

  “Haf I lost my sanity?” he cried. “Mein Gott, am I crazy?”

  “No, hosbond,” Mrs. Ike said, “you did the decent thing, I think. Now, come, Rem my son, wash up. You have come a long way and you are tired. I have a fine steak for you mit fry potatoes. Some tomatoes. Some epple-pie. You look thin and ve must do something about dat.”

  A wide smile of pure pleasure spread across McAllister’s face.

  “Go ahead, ma’am,” he said, “don’t let me stop you.”

  “But let me stop you,” Ike cried. “Are you tryink to benk-rupt me, voman? Already this no-good owes me fifty dollars.”

  “And what you staked me for,” McAllister reminded him.

  Tears burst into Ike’s small eyes.

  “I vos forgettink. Gott in Himmel, I shall be ruint.”

  “I’ll put the horses up,” McAllister said and sauntered to the door with a new jauntiness.

  Outside, he picked up the canelo’s line and led the horse and the mule down toward the corral. Grant and Mrs. Bourn had taken the other two animals. As he walked, he thought about her. He had lied to a man, stared him right in the eyes and lied to him, but now he had faced Bourn, he was glad he had done it. He had never been gladder over an action in all his life. In fact that one lie gave him an extraordinary glow of satisfaction. By God, he felt downright virtuous. He remembered his farewell to Mrs. Bourn with Grant, having told his goodbyes, a couple of hundred yards down the trail. He reckoned he never would forget that woman, though a hundred others came along. She’d be in San Antone right now with her brother. Grant would make sure she arrived there safely.

  He was seeing and hearing nothing as he neared the corral, nothing but the woman in his mind
.

  The canelo whickered. To the other horses in the corral as McAlister thought.

  They reached the corral gate and McAllister started to take down the poles.

  “McAllister.”

  He knew the voice and he was able to put a name to it. Morny Richards. But the full import of it didn’t get through to his brain.

  Then he heard the sound of a gun coming to full cock.

  Only then did realisation explode in his brain, only then did the bone-deep tiredness leave him.

  He folded quickly like a jack-knife, braced his leg muscles under him and dove flat under the canelo’s belly. The horse shied and whirled as he dropped the line. The mule reared and turned away with kicking hoofs. McAllister rolled and kept on rolling as the shots came. He heard them whack into the poles of the corral, felt a splinter of wood sting his face and then he was tight up against an upright.

  “Is he hit?” A voice asked. That was Rick, the kid.

  Morny’s reply came.

  “He’s gotta be. I give him three.”

  Seth sang out.

  “Take it easy. The bastard’s an Injun.”

  There was silence as they waited cautiously. All three of them were there. They had been waiting for him. They knew him and they were certain of his coming. They were men who paid their debts and tonight they would pay one to their pride for they had little else. Horsethieves’ pride, McAllister thought.

  Carefully, he slid his hand down until it rested on the cedarwood butt of the old Remington. His fingers slipped the keepsafe thong free, his thumb rested on the hammer. They had him nicely here, but at least one of them would go with him

  Did ever a man have luck like mine? he thought. I pass up five hundred dollars like it was nothing. I’m in debt, now I’m jumped by these three sidewinders. My daddy should of drowned me like a kitten.

  Cautiously, he raised his head and looked around, expecting a shot at the movement but none came. He could see a wagon some thirty paces away and knew that one man could be concealed behind that. A little way to the right was a shed of Ike’s at the end of the main building. Another could be there. He looked in the opposite direction and all he could see in the way of cover was the corner of the corral. A likely place for a bushwhacker.

  So if he could get inside the corral it was likely that only one man would have a fairly clear view of him in the moonlight and that was the man at the corner. So get inside the corral and settle his hash.

  He raised himself to his knees and started to work his way over the lower pole of the corral fence. A gun roared from not far away, a slug slammed into the pole he was going over and hastened his departure admirably. He flung himself flat into the dust of the corral, tore the Remington from leather and spun around, shooting at the corner of the corral.

  A man screamed: “Gawdamighty, he’s killed me.”

  That was Seth.

  McAllister was on his feet, legging it as fast as he could go for that corner.

  He was no more than halfway when a gun sounded from there, something struck him in the side, tore him from his feet and dumped him on the ground.

  A voice inside his head screamed –

  I’m hit.

  Had Seth suckered him or was the man really badly hit. The guns were still sounding and it seemed that all around him flying lead was pounding dust into his lungs. He coughed a couple of times on it and fired again at the corner thankful that he still had his gun in his hand. The hammer clicked on an empty chamber. He cursed in sudden fear as he realised that in the next second he could be dead.

  Seth yelled wildly: “I hit him, I hit him, I hit him.” He laughed like a maniac. “You see that, fellers. I suckered him good. I really suckered him.”

  Hastily, McAllister lay on one side thumbing fresh rounds into the Remington. He lifted his eyes and saw a dark shape showing above the corral fence. Seth was coming in to make sure.

  Feet pounded as the other two men came running.

  One shouted: “Watch out, Seth.” Seth was laughing fit to bust.

  McAllister cut short that laugh with one sure shot. Seth Richards was ripped over the top of the fence as if he were no heavier than a feather. But he hit hard and his light-triggered gun went off as it fell. There was not another sound from Seth and McAllister knew that he had killed him. This time there was not the usual regret.

  The footsteps stopped.

  Morny’s voice came.

  “Careful, kid, he just killed Seth.”

  The awed tone of the boy – “My Gawd.”

  They were thirty yards apart, one on either side of him and him in an open corral. He thrust two more rounds into the revolver and listened. He knew there was only one way this could finish. He had killed their brother and they wouldn’t stop until he was dead.

  He felt his side and his hand came away sticky with blood and he wondered how long he could last before he became too weak. Bourn would laugh when he heard about this. He wondered what Ike was aiming to do after hearing the shots. He reckoned he would strictly mind his own business. None of the other men would make a move. The code of the country came first. A man minded his own business. McAllister reckoned you could take a code a mite too far.

  McAllister’s mind flitted, trying to think of something that could offer him cover. Both men were pretty near him now on the other side of the corral fence within easy pistol shot of him. His only protection was the dim light of the moon. The horses in the corral had bunched on the other side, skittering every time there was a gunshot. The farther fence was a good fifty paces away. He could never reach it alive.

  “McAllister.”

  That was Morny, nervous, not knowing how bad McAllister had been hit. The sound of the voice gave McAllister a good idea of the man’s position.

  Rick called –

  “You reckon he’s dead, Morny?”

  “Playin’ ’possum more like. Can you see him?”

  “I ain’t sure.”

  McAllister had them both placed now.

  Getting himself awkwardly to one knee with a movement that sent a shoot of agony through his side, he drove a shot in Morny’s direction, turned hastily and sent one at Rick. This one hit the corral fence. McAllister swore and let go another one. The instant he had fired this last shot, he was on the move, rising and charging straight for Morny, knowing him to be the more dangerous of the two.

  Two shots came at him, before he dove forward into a sliding dive, hard up against the fence and thrust the Remington over the lower pole. Morny, he could now see, was standing out in the open. McAllister fired again and missed in the uncertain light. Morny drove two shots back at him. One passed just by his right ear, the other hit the upright. McAllister fired back and then his gun was empty.

  Morny must have heard the empty click of the hammer.

  “His gun’s empty,” he yelled and started forward.

  McAllister heard Rick start to run. He managed to get one round into the chamber of the Remington. He strove to get to his feet. Morny reached the fence, thrust his gun through and fired from not more than four or five yards away. Even so he missed. McAllister felt the wind of the bullet past his face. He fired his one shot and heard it strike the fence.

  Morny chopped another shot at him, but he was moving first to the left and then charging straight in on the man. Morny rose to meet him, raising his gun and yelling. The hammer clicked emptily and then McAllister was swinging the Remington for the man’s head. Morny dodged and the barrel of the heavy weapon struck him on the shoulder. He grunted with the violence of the blow. He struck out blindly at McAllister and, as luck would have it, the barrel of his gun caught McAllister a stunning blow across the face. McAllister staggered back, tripped on his own feet and went down. As he hit ground, he was vaguely aware that Rick was coming over the fence. They both seemed to be shouting instructions in their excitement. Morny started over the fence. Rick fired one shot and it ploughed up dirt near McAllister who felt as though he had been kicked by a mule. He kne
w that his speed had been halved and it was only speed that could save him now.

  He flicked the Remington, caught it by the barrel and hurled it with all his might at the approaching Morny. The man cried out and charged forward. But McAllister was no longer there, he had ripped his knife from leather and hurled himself at Rick. The boy tried to fire at him, but he was startled by the suddenness of McAllister’s movement and missed hopelessly. The next instant, McAllister had lunged at him with the heavy knife. The boy screamed and staggered back clutching his arm.

  Morny bellowed. McAllister turned and met his charge, He crouched, knife held forward and Morny halted.

  McAllister said: “You’re finished, Morny. Just throw down the gun.”

  From behind McAllister came Rick’s voice: “I’ve one shot left, McAllister. Hold it right there.” His voice was full of pain.

  * * *

  Back in the store, Ike listened to the flurry of shots and picked up his shotgun from under the counter. It was a Greener, made in Pall Mall, London, and it was his pride.

  One of the men playing cards turned his head and said: “Stay out of this, Ike, it ain’t none of your business.”

  Ike said: “Dat iss a friend of mine out zere. Dat makes it my pizzness.”

  The man pushed his chair back and stood up.

  “Change your mind,” he said.

  Ike swung the twin barrels of the shotgun till they pointed straight at the man. At that range the gun would have taken the fellow apart.

  “Don’t pe foolish,” Ike said.

  Another man said: “Stay out of it, Tom.”

  The man gulped once and sat down. Ike walked to the door. His wife said: “You pe careful, Ike.”

  But the fat man never got beyond the doorway. Men were walking slowly up from the corral. Everybody in the store went still and listened.

  Ike frowned and looked worried. Slowly, he started backward and crossed the room until he was backed up against his counter. His wife looked at him with fear on her face.

  The footsteps came closer.

  Ike said: “If they killed McAllister, you poys are going to witness an execution.”

  The footsteps came up to the doorway. A man stooped and entered the store. It was Morny Richards. He looked around at them like a man dazed. He stood there as if he didn’t know what to do.