Blood on Mcallister

by Matt Chisholm

  As he rode in, he found that the streets were lighted after a fashion. They showed him a rapidly growing town. Here was a building half constructed, there one just completed. The place was a patchwork of different types of buildings. Some were of the frame type, one on the outskirts was of the old adobe kind. Here the bank showed new brick walls. He rode down Main, looking for the sheriff’s office and found it. He brought the canelo to a halt, stepped down and hitched the horse.

  When he walked in, Mart Krantz had his chair tilted back, his feet on his desk, a cigar going well and a book in his hands. Mart was a great reader.

  He was an angular hawk of a man with a close-cut unfashionable mustache. His hair was pepper and salt, though he was no more than thirty-five, his mustache was almost white. The things Mart had seen and done were enough to turn a man gray before his time. He looked ineffectual enough, but his eyes gave him away. He was a man with great calm, deadly calm. He was one of the best lawmen McAllister had ever known.

  He looked over the top of his book at the big man in the doorway and said: ‘Wa-al, I’ll be God-damned.’

  Ho got so slowly to his feet that it was not possible to believe that he was capable of moving with incredible speed.

  ‘Howdy, Mart.’

  They met mid-room and shook. The sheriff looked as pleased as he ever did.

  ‘What brought you into my bailiwick?’ ‘Stayin’ out to Jim Rigby’s.’

  ‘Take a weight off’n your feet, boy. Drink?’ McAllister nodded and Mart produced a bottle. He poured, they drank.

  They talked. Mostly it was do-you-remember-when and such like. They chuckled a little; Mart seldom laughed outright. They had another drink. Finally, McAllister said: ‘Can you stake me, Mart?’

  ‘Sure,’ said the sheriff. ‘How much?’

  ‘Fifty hurt you?’

  ‘Naw,’ Mart said as if the idea was ridiculous. He would have said the same had it been his last fifty. He went to a safe in the corner of the sparsely furnished room, took some notes out, counted them and brought them to McAllister.

  ‘Thanks.’ McAllister shoved them away in his pocket. ‘Things quiet around here?’

  ‘You know how it is, boy. Waitin’ for the cow-crowd to come in. Liven up then.’

  ‘Know a feller called Harry Shultz?’

  Mart never forgot a name or a face.

  ‘You mean the one calls himself Billy Gage’s manager?’

  ‘That’s the one.’

  ‘Never saw him before in my life.’ He waited for McAllister to tell him why he was interested. Mart never asked a question if waiting would bring him an answer.

  ‘He tried to roll me in Abbotsville. Hell, he did roll me. Cut me with that little ole knife of his’n. He’d been a mite handier with it, I’d be dead.’

  ‘Say, ain’t he out to Rigby’s too?’

  ‘Sure is. He attacked me in the hotel room. The light was pretty bad, so I’m makin’ out I didn’t see him.’ McAllister smiled. ‘It has him real puzzled. Thought you might have a dodger for him.’

  ‘Where’s he from?’

  McAllister told him what Billy Gage had told him. Mart said: ‘I have a friend in the New York Police Department. I could wire him from Abbotsville. Got a man goin’ in there tomorrow.’

  ‘Do that would you, Mart? I’ll pay you back.’

  ‘Chances are, he’s changed his name. I’ll send a full description and his method. Maybe that’ll help.’

  ‘Thanks, Mart. Comin’ over the saloon? I’ll buy you a drink with your own money.’

  ‘Maybe join you later, boy. Right now I’m waitin’ for a man.’

  ‘See you.’

  Mart nodded and McAllister went out onto the street. He untied the canelo and led it along the street. There was little wheeled traffic, but there were quite a few people about on the sidewalks, some enjoying the pleasant spring night, others hurrying to some destination. He followed the drift of the solo men he saw and that took him to the street that intersected Main. This brought him to what was plainly not the respectable end of town. Here were the bawdy houses and the saloons. They were pretty quiet now and would be so until the wild and woolly Texas men came into the town with the trail-herds.

  The first saloon he came to looked good enough for his purpose. It was called the Longhorn and it had a detailed and what was considered at that period an impolite painting of a fully-equipped Texas bull outside. McAllister smiled, thinking of how the respectable element would have objected, and went in.

  It was a big place and there were maybe a couple of dozen men in there, drinking and playing cards. It could hold a couple of hundred and probably would in a few weeks time. There were two or three half-clothed woman hanging around the men and they looked pretty rough to McAllister. He wouldn’t have ridden half a block to see them even after a year in the wilderness. Maybe he had Patricia Rigby on his mind. Now there was one hell of a woman.

  He went up to the bar and said: ‘Whiskey, Beer.’ The whiskey and the beer came, the whiskey in a bottle and the beer in a schooner. One or two men turned their heads to look at him idly.

  One man caught his eye. Etiquette was that a man didn’t drink on his lonesome.

  ‘Drink?’ McAllister asked.

  The man grinned. ‘That’s real nice of you, mister.’ He signalled for a glass and got it. McAllister poured. They toasted each other and drank.

  ‘Name’s McFee,’ the man said, ‘John McFee. I’m buyin’ cattle.’

  ‘Name’s Remington McAllister an’ I’m buyin’ drinks.’

  The man laughed. He was a pleasant-looking fellow of about forty, well set-up and well-dressed without being flashy. He had cattle-buyer stamped on him like a brand. An honest enough man, but sharp. He liked his food and his drink. He was twenty pounds overweight.

  They talked. McFee was full of the coming contest. He’d put his money on the visiting champion. Liked the look of him. Seen him handle himself over at Abbotsville.

  ‘Say,’ he exclaimed, ‘aren’t you the fellow who wrestled him?’

  ‘I reckon.’

  McFee laughed. The joke was on him. He’d lost a packet on that fight.

  ‘By Jupiter, sir,’ he said, ‘I hope you aren’t fighting him here.’

  ‘Not a chance,’ said McAllister. ‘He’s lined up against Clem Brenell.’

  ‘That’s what I thought. Can’t abide the man. Nothing but an arrogant savage. I shall watch Billy Gage give him his comeuppance with the greatest of pleasure, I assure you.’

  ‘Talk of the devil,’ McAllister said.

  McFee turned and saw the tall golden-haired man in the doorway. His face fell and he said: ‘That’s the end of a nice quiet drink. The man’s trouble and no mistake. Two drinks and he wants to fight the town.’ He drank up hastily. ‘I’ll see you around, McAllister. Thanks for the drink.’ He disappeared abruptly.

  McAllister smiled to himself and watched Clem Brenell move into the place. Three or four riders drifted in behind him. Men turned to stare; one or two walked away from the bar with their drinks in their hands. McAllister had seen men make their feelings obvious before, but never quite so obvious as this. The bartender put on a wary face. One of the girls left the man she was with and walked up to one of the men with Brenell. He strode to the bar and, without a word being spoken, a bottle and glasses slid across the wood to him.

  He poured one glassful and drank. Poured again, put the bottle down and gestured toward it. His men came up in their turn, poured and drank.

  McAllister was aware that there was silence in the place. He was quietly amused.

  Brenell looked around him and his eye fell on McAllister leaning on the bar not a half-dozen feet from him. He recognised him at once.

  ‘Wa-al, the drifter. Who’d you hire out to?’

  ‘Nobody,’ McAllister said. ‘Yet.’

  Then men with Brenell turned to inspect McAllister. The man with the cast in his eye was there. McAllister didn’t seem to find favor with him. Brenell g
ave McAllister a long stare and went back to his drinking.

  Time ticked on, the talk resumed again.

  Then a woman walked into the bar.

  She came in from a back office and there wasn’t a man there who didn’t turn to look his fill. Just a look would give any man his fill. McAllister had first seen her in Santa Fé, then a little later in El Paso. After that he had seen her in San Antonio, Fort Griffin and Wichita. Her name was Rosa Hernandez and she hailed originally from some jacal in Chihuahua. She had been one of thousands of half-Indian peon girls, who walked naked feet in dust, a flower in their hair and a prospect of old-age before its rightful time. She had turned herself into this—a beauty in any society and something of an enigma. Talk had it that there was a husband in the background somewhere, but Rosa kept him well in the background. She was a woman who didn’t need a man. She needed men. In the plural. And she had them. Yet, such was her power, she had never lost the respect of all the men who knew her. And some of her power was money. What the money didn’t supply, she supplied from the strength of her own character. McAllister trusted her as he would an honorable man.

  She didn’t see him at first.

  She greeted the men at the far end of the bar from him, smiled at the men at the tables, they answered using her first name, familiarly, but with respect, as though they had been favored by being allowed to use it.

  Then she came to Clem Brenell who stepped forward and put an arm around her. McAllister didn’t know if she was going to object or not, but he didn’t give her a chance.

  ‘Rosa,’ he said.

  She turned and saw him. She moved out of the encirclement of Brenell’s arm and came to him.

  ‘Rem!’ Nothing but pleasure and surprise showed on her face. In a second she was in his arms. They laughed in mutual delight. He gave her a great smack of a kiss and not a man there missed it. Then she was speaking in Spanish. ‘Why, my friend, this is wonderful. I had no idea you were in town.’

  McAllister replied easily in the same language.

  ‘I only just arrived. I’m staying at the Rigby house.’

  ‘Ah, the Rigby house. Where the oh, so beautiful Patricia lives.’ She grinned with brief malicious mischief. ‘And has the little McAllister ambitions about her?’

  ‘When didn’t I have ambitions about a fine-looking girl?’

  ‘True. But, we must have a drink. Carlos, bring drinks to the table over there.’

  They went to the table and sat, Carlos brought the bottle and two glasses.

  McAllister took a good look at her.

  She was older, of course, but who wasn’t? She was about a couple of years older than he was and the years had been good to her. He didn’t doubt that she was now at her most beautiful. Her hair was dark, but touched at the front by deep red, a color no doubt inherited from some Spanish forebear; her eyes were the deepest brown, fringed by lashes that were almost ridiculously long. Her mouth was large and generous, but finely modeled; her nose one of character, maybe a little on the large side for a woman. Piece by piece her face may have fallen short of beauty, put all together, she was a woman who would turn men’s heads till she was old. The toughness that was an integral part of her didn’t show.

  They talked. She wanted to know what had happened to him since she had seen him last. He wanted to know the same about her. She kept up with him, drink for drink, but for all the effect it had on her she might have been drinking water. They laughed together and each time they did so men turned to watch them.

  Clem Brenell and his men leaned back against the bar on their elbows and never took their eyes from them. Brenell drank steadily. By the time an hour passed, he was looking savage. McAllister overheard some of the words that passed between him and his men and he didn’t have much doubt that Clem Brenell, while courting Pat Rigby, laid some claim to Rosa here.

  He fired the question straight at Rosa.

  ‘What’s the Brenell boy to you, Rosa?’

  She opened her fine eyes wide.

  ‘To me? Why he is nothing to me, Rem.’

  ‘You mean that?’

  ‘Certainly I mean it. He thinks that he has claim to any woman he wants, that one. But he is not my kind.’

  ‘I didn’t think he was.’

  She must have read the signs.

  She laid a hand on his arm and said: ‘You will stay away from him. He is no good and his father is a powerful man in this country. Many men have been hurt who have stood in their way.’

  ‘You make it almost a challenge.’

  ‘No, I do not. Now, you have outgrown your foolish ways. You are wild no longer.’

  ‘The Double B boys stopped me on the open range. They took me to their headquarters and this man and his father threatened me. You know how I like to be threatened. Now, my guess is he’s going to do it again.’

  Clem Brenell was coming toward them. His men fanned out behind. It was all so childlike and obvious that McAllisster couldn’t help laughing out loud. Rage showed in the young Brenell’s eyes.

  Brenell halted, hands on hips. McAllister noted the gun slung low on the hip like a legendary gunfighter. He had never favored the position himself. The gun was tied down to the thigh by a rawhide thong. This boy was playing at being the real thing. Which didn’t mean he could not handle the gun. And he was itching to—McAllister could see that in the angry eyes. There didn’t have to be a reason; there never did have to be a reason with this man. He hankered to use the gun and on a human target so that was what he would do. Backed by three men. That was his style.

  McAllister let the laugh turn into a grin. He kept his eyes on Brenell and the grin on his lips. If this man wanted to get mad, then McAllister would help him on his way.

  Rosa’s hand on his arm tightened.

  ‘Rem,’ she said.

  Not taking his eyes from Brenell he said softly: ‘I’ll pay for damages, honey.’

  Brenell said: ‘I told you to move on, mister.’

  ‘You said get off’n your range, boy. I’m off’n it.’

  ‘Wa-al, now I’m tellin’ you to git outa town. Clean out. Walk to that door, git on your fancy horse an’ ride. Now.’

  ‘Go,’ Rosa said softly. ‘There are four of them.’

  ‘Sure,’ McAllister said, ‘I’ll go. Never did cross a lady in all my life.’ He stood up. ‘Bein’ nice seein’ you, Rosa. Sorry we didn’t have longer. Still, that’s the way it goes.’

  He touched his hat to her and was suddenly aware there wasn’t a sound in the room. Turning he headed for the door not looking back. He heard the sound of their bootheels following him.

  They’ll do it outside, he thought. Four of ‘em. Three’ll hold me while Mr. Brenell has his fun. Like hell.

  The funny thing was, Brenell had to be in one piece to fight Billy Gage. Too bad.

  Outside, he leaned against the upright of the sidewalk with which the saloon was graced. Brenell came through the doors, stood looking at him for a moment, puffing on his smoke. Then he stepped forward to allow the others to come out. He threw his smoke into the dust.

  ‘I don’t like your attitude, drifter,’ he said.

  McAllister said: ‘I don’t like your face, the way you wear your clothes, I don’t like your tied-down gun, I don’t like the way you think you own the world, I don’t like you having men to back you when you bully your way around. There ain’t nothin’ I like about you. I reckon you an’ your old man are just bags of wind. I aim to bust you.’

  The light of battle came into the wild eyes.

  ‘You think I couldn’t take you?’ Brenell asked.

  ‘You couldn’t take a candy from a kid.’

  The hand snapped down to the gun-butt. McAllister hadn’t reckoned on that. He knew the boy was a bully; he hadn’t reckoned him on being a killer. His own attitude changed at once. He was suddenly cold, his mind clicking like a machine, calculating, placing each man, thinking of his next move. It all happened in the batting of an eye.

  A grin flicked
across Brenell’s face. It was a grin of pure rage.

  ‘I’m goin’ to teach you,’ he said and he could scarcely get the words out. ‘I’m goin’ to teach you an’ you’re goin’ to stay teached.’

  Old Chad McAllister had once said, during the few years of McAllister’s education: ‘Son, if a feller’s aimin’ to get hit, oblige him fast afore he hits you.’

  As usual, the old man was right.

  McAllister hit Brenell.

  He hit him in the belly with all the strength in him just above the buckle. Brenell jack-knifed. As one of the men jumped forward, McAllister brought over his left, landed his knuckles on the side of Brenell’s head and drove him into this man. They fell through the door of the saloon and landed in a heap.

  The two other men, stunned for a second by the abrupt violence of this action, now moved. One of them aimed a kick at McAllister. The boot toe caught him as he rammed forward and it landed on the wound that had been dealt him by Harry Shultz. In his imagination he saw the wound burst open and it was like a moment of truth. He knew he was a damned fool for doing this. Why couldn’t he back down and beat a retreat like other men?

  The kick sent him reeling against the wall of the saloon and there the fourth man caught him, pounding a fist into his ribs and chopping down with the other fist in the back of McAllister’s head. The big man came down to one knee, dazed and confused. The other man came close and joined the other. They took turns hitting him like two hammermen driving in a drill.

  He came to his feet with his head down, got it into one man’s belly and bore him backward. The man was breathless from the hard contact with McAllister’s head; landing on his back with McAllister’s weight on top of him nearly knocked him out. He rolled away from under and tried to get to his feet, but McAllister hurled himself forward in a flying tackle and put him back in the dust again.

  The other man bounded from the sidewalk and landed on McAllister’s back. Or that what his intention. McAllister heard him coming and sidestepped in time. The man landed on his face in the dust, McAllister dropped on the small of his back with both knees. The man screamed.

  McAllister turned.

  Clem Brenell and Griff came out of the saloon. In the lamplight, they both looked like hell.