Blood on Mcallister

by Matt Chisholm

  ‘Who’re you?’

  ‘Ch-Charlie B-Bright.’

  ‘What do you do around here?’

  ‘Cook.’

  ‘Get up, cook. I’m McAllister.’

  ‘Mc-McAllister!’

  He climbed out of bed and showed that he was wearing filthy and worn longjohns. His teeth were chattering and he shook. McAllister felt a bit sorry for him.

  ‘Charlie,’ he said, ‘you be a good boy an’ you won’t get hurt.’ He put the lamp down and took a peggin string from his pocket. ‘Turn around.’ The man turned around. McAllister slipped the Remington away and quickly bound his hands behind his back. ‘You yell an’ you won’t yell no more, hear?’ The man showed that he heard perfectly. ‘Now walk into Clem’s room.’

  The man turned and walked to Clem’s room as ordered. As they went in, Clem sat up in bed and stared at them sleepily. He saw McAllister right off and plunged a hand beneath his pillow.

  ‘Touch that gun an’ I’ll blow your fool head off, Clem,’ McAllister told him. The man froze and brought his right hand into sight.

  ‘What do you want?’ he demanded, and had enough sense to be scared.

  ‘You. Get out here and put some duds on.’

  ‘I’m wounded,’ Clem said: ‘I can’t stand.’

  ‘Clem, you get outa that bed real smart, now.’

  The man thought about that and decided that the pain of standing was less unpleasant than the chance of being shot. He threw his legs over the side of the bed. McAllister put the lamp down and threw him his clothes.

  ‘Hurry it up now. I don’t have all night.’

  ‘What’re you goin’ to do with me?’

  ‘Kill you if you start foolin’ around. Do as I say an’ you’ll git back to your daddy safe an’ sound. Eventually.’

  Clem stood up shakily and started dragging on his clothes. McAllister saw that his thigh was heavily bandaged. When he was dressed, McAllister said: ‘Get downstairs.’

  ‘It’ll kill me.’

  ‘I’ll risk it.’

  The man shuffled ahead. McAllister didn’t like that much. It would mean the cook would get between him and his chief prisoner. He prodded the cook ahead with his gun and the man led the way downstairs. In the hall, McAllister called softly: ‘Billy,’ and the man came. ‘Git this feller on your back an’ tote him outa here.’ Billy looked as if he didn’t like the sound of that much, but he complied. They got Clem up on his back and trooped through the house, through the kitchen and out among the hogs. McAllister let them walk for five minutes when he said: ‘Billy, let the cook carry him a while.’ They loaded Clem onto the back of the cook and Clem said: ‘Pa’ll kill you for this.’

  McAllister said: ‘I dare say.’

  They went on till they reached the horses and McAllister told Billy: ‘I’m goin’ back. Keep your gun on these two and shoot ‘em if they look at you wrong. Be ready to move—I’m liable to come back here on the run. I’ll try an’ bring a horse for Clem.’

  ‘I can’t ride,’ Clem said.

  ‘You’d be surprised what you can do when a gun says do it,’ McAllister told him. He went to the canelo, unstaked it and stepped into the saddle. He walked the horse to the rear of the house and tied it. The placed seemed quiet. He took his rope from the saddle and walked around the house to the corral. There were about thirty horses there in the moonlight and as soon as he went through the fence they started bunching and shifting. He knew that it would not be long before somebody heard them and came out of the bunkhouse to see what was going on. So he didn’t pick and choose, but dropped his loop on the nearest. This was a small sorrel and it settled down as soon as the rope touched it. He didn’t waste any time, but headed for the gate. Knocking the bars loose, he led the horse through. He was pretty tense now because he was near the bunkhouse and this was the most dangerous moment.

  He was walking the sorrel along the outside of the fence back toward the house when he heard a call behind him.

  ‘Who’s this?’

  ‘Charlie,’ he called back gruffly.

  ‘Charlie? Charlie who?’

  McAllister vaulted onto the back of the horse and it started pitching. He cursed it savagely and the man who had challenged him shouted. McAllister kicked the horse in the slats and got a firm grip on its mane. It tried to crush his leg against the fence of the corral.

  There came the loud report of a gun and lead sang close above his head.

  Something a little like panic touched McAllister. He yelled to the horse and kicked it again. It jumped forward, turned and pitched across the yard. The gun went off again. There were shouts. Then suddenly, the horse decided he couldn’t dislodge the rider and started forward like a sensible horse should. There came the pounding of feet as men ran. Another gun went off. McAllister wrenched the sorrel’s head around and they scampered around the west side of the house. He heard a bullet strike a window and shatter it, then he was momentarily out of their sight, circling the house and reaching the canelo. He was sweating profusely now. He knew he had to move to save his own skin and there would be no chance of burning Brenell out. Pity. He transferred himself to the canelo and headed out of there on the run scattering indignant hogs to right and left. As he headed up the incline, men came around to the rear of the house and banged away at him to no effect. But he reached Billy and the two prisoners in a lather.

  ‘Get Clem on this horse,’ he said, ‘an’ tie him. Quick, now.’

  Together they heaved the protesting and cursing man aboard and tied his legs beneath the animal’s belly.

  ‘Now head for Two-Mile,’ McAllister said. ‘Do you reckon you can find it?’

  Billy said: ‘No, I don’t.’

  McAllister sighed. He pointed into the moonlit landscape and said: ‘Head thataway an’ keep goin’. I’ll catch you. All right?’

  ‘All right,’ Billy told him and mounted the bay.

  ‘What about me?’ plaintively asked Charlie, the cook.

  McAllister told him: ‘Start walking back to the house, Charlie. You’ll find the biggest fire you ever had to cook by.’

  Charlie groaned and started walking. Billy and his prisoner set off into the north-west, McAllister swung back on the canelo and headed south. He was going to do something that was damned silly. He knew it was and he was going to do it just the same. Brenell had burned Jim Rigby out and justice demanded that he should be burned out. So that was the way it would be. He circled the house on the run, using his eyes and seeing the men bunching and talking together in the yard outside the bunkhouse. He could imagine them arguing, some of them wanting to chase the horse-thief, the more cautious claiming that it was useless to try and trail anybody at night. He hit the yard from the south and they turned to watch him approach, none of them crazy enough to imagine that this could be the horse-thief back. McAllister’s old man had always told him to do the unexpected and he was carrying out the old man’s word. He rode down on them like a bat out of hell and he could tell that most of them thought he would pull up before he reached them. But he gave a shrill rebel yell and bore straight down on them. Most of them jumped clear, startled yells filled the air. One man wasn’t quick enough and was caught by the canelo’s shoulder. He was sent flying as if he weighed no more than paper. McAllister pounded on across the yard, came to a sliding halt at the stoop and piled out of the saddle before anybody had gathered his wits enough to draw a gun and shoot. By the time the first shot came, he was inside the house and taking a lucifer from a pocket.

  He reached for the lamp that stood at the foot of the stairs, picked it up and hurled it into the parlor. It shattered and coal-oil went all over, but wasn’t set alight. He struck the match and tossed in into the pool of liquid. At once flame shot up and caught the curtain.

  McAllister decided that was good enough for him. He valued his skin higher than a good fire. He ran into the kitchen. He thought he heard feet pounding along the side of the house. His eye caught a gleam of moonlight on something metal as
he passed the table. He stopped and felt with his hand. A lamp! He picked it up and smashed it against the wall. Reached into a pocket for a lucifer, struck it on his pants and tossed it into the oil that splashed out over the floor. The flame jumped and licked at the wall. McAllister tossed the table into the flame and jumped for the door, paused there a moment and went on towards those hogs again.

  A man shouted and a gun went off. Lead whistled so close past his head that he ducked instinctively. As he ran he ripped the Remington from leather. Then he ran headlong into a hog and went over. The gun went off again and a hog screamed in either rage or agony. McAllister snapped off a shot at the dim form of the man and started to his feet. Putting two fingers to his mouth, he gave a shrill whistle. Driving another shot at the man to one side of the house, he scrambled to his feet and started off running, praying fervently that the canelo would come to his call. It had never failed him yet, but it would just be his luck if it failed him now. He started up the slight slope down which he and Billy had approached the house so short a time before and let out another piercing whistle. But he didn’t stop running. There were too many men back there with too many guns for his liking.

  When he got to the crest of the hill, however, he halted and looked back. The house had caught nicely and the flames were taking over—the wood would be as dry as tinder this time of the year. He could hear the shouts of the men and another sound, one he wanted to hear. The sound of a horse’s hoofs. His elation died almost immediately as he realised that he could hear several horses running. That meant they had some men mounted and were after him. Was the canelo running this way or not? He had to take a chance. He let out another shrill whistle and lay flat. If it wasn’t his horse, maybe the others would go past him in the dark.

  A horse hit the bottom of the slope and he thought he could see the canelo in the moonlight, but couldn’t be sure at that distance. Certainly the horse was riderless with stirrup-irons swinging. The animal came straight toward him. Behind came a darker mass of riders. They were indistinct, but he thought there were at least three of them and they were spurring and quirting their horses recklessly. As the leading horse came near, he stood up. It snorted and he knew it was his own. Turning, he caught the animal’s mane as it passed. It was slowing, but even so the action was enough to almost pull him from his feet. He kicked against the ground and vaulted onto the animal’s back, hitting the saddle hard and yelling to it. Even before he got his feet into the stirrup-irons, the canelo had its legs under it and was running. The men behind were banging away at him, but they were moving too fast for shooting and he had little fear they would hit him.

  He went directly north, praying the horse would keep its feet out of prairie-dog holes and he ran away from them simply because he had superior horseflesh. A couple of miles and they gave up. He went on another half-mile, then he turned east, looking for Billy and wondering how many men back at the house got their backsides singed trying to get a man out of the upstairs bedroom who wasn’t there. It was a nice thought.

  It wasn’t easy easy finding Billy and he took the risk of calling every now and again because he didn’t want the damn fool to be found wandering over this range when daylight came. After a couple of hours and uncomfortably near dawn, he found a very worried Billy. As he rode up the fair man said: ‘My God, am I pleased to see you?’

  McAllister grinned. ‘I’m pretty pleased to see you too.’

  ‘All I want to do is get into camp, get off this Goddam horse and go to sleep lying on my belly.’

  ‘You have a mite more ridin’ to do yet. In fact you won’t be off’n that horse for a long time. So grit your teeth, boy.’ Billy groaned.

  Clem said: ‘You’re a damn Indian, McAllister. My leg’s givin’ me hell. I didn’t ought to be ridin’.’

  “You did a lot of things you didn’t ought,’ McAllister told him. One more won’t hurt you.’

  ‘The wound’s poisoned. This could kill me.’

  McAllister said: ‘We have to travel fast now, Billy. I’ll lead the way. Keep behind that one and keep that horse of his movin’.’

  Billy said: ‘He is in pain, Rem.’

  McAllister made a sound of disgust and got the canelo on the move. The horse stretched out in a long lope and he kept them to the pace for the next hour. They didn’t draw rein until it was dawn and they were on the brink of the canyon.

  McAllister stepped down.

  ‘Lead the horses down into the canyon,’ he said. ‘Catch up the pack-horse, pack the supplies and lead all the animals up the other side. Then go on north a mile and I’ll join you there.’

  ‘What’re you going to do?’

  ‘Delay anbody that tries to follow us.’

  Billy dismounted, gathered the lines of the horses together and started to lead them down the narrow trail into the canyon. Clem looked as though he didn’t like being on a horse going down that narrow way, one little bit. McAllister didn’t let it bother him. As soon as they had gone on, he cut some brush with his knife and started wiping out tracks. By the time he reached the camping spot, Billy had managed to load the pack-horse and was ready to lead on. McAllister had to admit to himself that Clem Brenell looked pretty awful. It didn’t soften his feelings towards the man much.

  A couple of hours later, he joined Billy a mile north of the canyon and mounted the canelo.

  ‘Where do we go now?’ Billy asked.

  ‘The creek.’

  ‘Why the creek?’

  ‘You’ll see.’

  Clem said: ‘Pa’ll kill you for this.’

  ‘You said that before.’

  They went on.

  Twelve

  Carl Brenell was in a confused state of mind. He didn’t know whether he was more astonished than enraged. He didn’t know if he was more enraged than worried. Nothing had ever hapened to him like this before. He sat in his room in the hotel with four or five of his men gathered there. Cal Bryant was there, and Griff. They had just ridden in from headquarters or what was left of headquarters and had told him the news. What he didn’t know was that they had debated whether to bring the news to their boss or to ride clean out of the country. After a taste of Brenell’s rage they wished they had got out of the country. When Brenell had simmered down a bit, he said: ‘How do you know the boy wasn’t burned?’

  Cal said: ‘No, boss. Not a chance. Griff an’ me, we went up to his room. It wasn’t touched then. The parlor and kitchen was on fire, but the flames hadn’t gotten up the stairs. They took him for sure.’

  ‘Who took him?’

  ‘The cook said it was McAllister.’

  That brought the man’s head up as if he’d been touched by a red-hot poker.

  ‘McAllister! I knew it. I knew it the minute I set eyes on the man. Trouble. Rigby’s gun-hand.’ He put his head in his hands and thought a while. ‘Cal, take one of the boys and get Rigby for me. Griff, you go find that feller Harry Shultz an’ tell him I want a word with him.’

  Ten minutes later Cal Bryan returned with Jim Rigby. He looked a worried man. As soon as he entered the room, he showed the frame of mind he was in.

  ‘Brenell,’ he said, ‘it’s no good you starting anything. I want out. This isn’t my fight.’

  Brenell got to his feet and strode across the room to him, shoving him violently into a chair.

  ‘Isn’t your fight?’ he roared. ‘Your Goddam gun-hand burns my house down and it ain’t your fight?’

  Rigby gasped.

  ‘Burned your house? Aw, no. It isn’t possible.’

  ‘That ain’t all. They burned my house an’ rid off with my boy. You hear that? My boy. By God, I got the law on my side now. Now, you tell me where that McAllister’s at. Tell me where he took my boy.’

  Rigby shook his head helplessly.

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said.

  Brenell pulled up a chair so they were knee to knee. He stared into the other man’s face.

  ‘You know,’ he said, ‘an’ you’re goin’ to tell me.
’

  ‘I don’t know. I swear I don’t.’

  ‘Where’d you go with that pack of supplies yesterday?’ Brenell shot at him. ‘See here, I know everything that goes on in this country. It’s my country. I know you went off with that pack-animal, loaded. An’ you came back without it. Where’d you go.’

  ‘I went to Half-Mile. But he won’t be there now. He’ll have moved.’

  Cal said: ‘He went north for sure, Mr. Brenell. He could of headed for Two-Mile. Arch is trailing him now.’

  ‘Look, Brenell,’ Rigby said, ‘I don’t want any part of this. I swear I didn’t call McAllister in. I don’t want any trouble. I have my daughter to think of.’

  Brenell said: ‘You stay in town, Rigby, or you’ll get all the trouble you ever dreamt of. Hear? Now get outa here.’

  Rigby went. A moment later Harry Shultz entered the room. Brenell at once sent the others out.

  ‘You didn’t kill him,’ Brenell said, stabbing a finger at him.

  Harry Shultz said: ‘I’ll do it when the time’s right.’

  ‘My money says the time was right yesterday,’ Brenell shouted. ‘You know that sonovabitch burned me out and took my son? You know that?’

  Shultz looked impressed.

  ‘You don’t say,’ he said.

  ‘Don’t stand there looking smart,’ Brenell snarled. ‘Find McAllister and kill him.’

  Shultz took a cigar from his pocket, bit off the end and spat it on the floor.

  ‘It ain’t only McAllister,’ he said. ‘That Billy Gage’s thrown in with him.’

  ‘Your man?’

  ‘He ain’t my man no longer.’

  Brenell said: ‘I want McAllister found and killed. Understand?’