Another man entered. They saw this was young Rick Richards. His face was deathly white and he held his left arm. Blood dripped from it to the floor.
Mrs. Ike put a hand to her mouth and gasped in horror.
Rick came and stood by his brother. Another man entered. They saw this was McAllister. He had the same dazed look the other men wore. In his right hand was a bloodstained knife.
“These fellers bit off a little more than they could chew, I reckon,” he said. “Tie ’em up will you, Ike, they ain’t too safe to have around. There’s a dead man out in your corral.” he walked to the center of the room, smiled at Mrs. Ike and said: “How’s that steak coming, ma’am?” took one more pace and fell on his face.
Mrs. Ike screamed –
“They’ve killed him.”
Ike said: “Don’t be foolish, voman. He’s a McAllister.”
“Chad was killed.”
“It took six bullets and a drop of a thousand feet to kill him.”
Mrs. Ike rushed forward to attend to McAllister, Ike turned his attention to the two Richards.
* * *
Two days later.
McAllister, Ike and his wife were standing at the door of the store. The canelo stood saddled and ready. The mule was back in Ike’s possession for McAllister’s debt McAllister shook hands with Ike.
Ike said: “I know it ain’t no goot saying nothink, but try to stay out off trouble, poy.”
McAllister grinned. “I’ll do my best. Pay you off at the end of the trip, Ike.”
Ike waved a hand in glorious abandon.
“It is only money.”
His wife gave him a startled look. She went to McAllister, stood on tiptoe and pecked him a kiss.
McAllister said: “Go easy, Mrs. Ike, you know how jealous the old man is.” She slapped him. McAllister walked to the canelo and stepped into the saddle. He took things mighty easily because his side was still as sore as hell. He lifted a hand to them and rode slowly away, crossing the creek at the ford and kept on going. He rode a couple of miles when he came to the bedding grounds where the trail bosses bedded the cattle before crossing the river. He sighted a wagon and headed for it. At the tailboard a cook was busy preparing a meal. McAllister knew cooks and he knew the manners of the range. He did not ride close and raise a dust near the cooking, but called out a greeting. The cook answered in a surly manner as cooks will, for they are men permitted a temperament.
“Boss around?” McAllister asked.
“Here he comes yonder,” the man replied.
McAllister turned and saw a man riding in from the herd on a roan horse. He went to meet him.
“You bossing this outfit?” he asked when they both halted.
The man eyed McAllister’s horse with some admiration and said: “I am. Tom Harding’s the name.”
“Rem McAllister.”
They shook and Harding asked: “Old Chad McAllister’s boy?”
“I reckon. You hiring riders?”
“Sure am. Headed for Combville, Kansas, and trouble. We had word the Jayhawkers are out and waiting for us.”
“What’s the pay?”
“Dollar a day and found.”
“I’m your man.”
“Good, throw your horse in with the remuda and I’ll show you your string.”
“How good’s the cook?”
“First rate. We eat real good in this outfit.”
McAllister nodded, pleased. If there was anything he liked in this world, it was good chow. The Jayhawkers could raise all the hell they wanted if the chow was right. He turned his horse and headed for the wagon. He reckoned he’d talk to the cook real nice and maybe he’d rustle up a steak.
THE END
This electronic edition published in 2011 by Bloomsbury Reader
Bloomsbury Reader is a division of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc, 50 Bedford Square, London
WC1B 3DP
Copyright © P. C. Watts 1969
First published by Panther Books
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ISBN: 9781448207497
eISBN: 9781448207183
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McAllister Rides Page 16
