McAllister

by Matt Chisholm

  Mcallister snapped his hand down on the butt of the Dragoon gun in his belt.

  Someone had got there before him.

  21

  When They hit the street, Shatloe broke into a run and reached Turl.

  “My Gawd,” he said, “I don’t like leaving a jasper like Mcallister without no guard.”

  Turl laughed.

  “With what I have in mind, I don’t give a monkey’s ass what happens to McAllister.”

  “Where’re we goin’?”

  Turl turned his head and looked at him. He looked very pleased with himself.

  “Carmody’s,” he said.

  “What we wanta go see that old goat for?”

  Patiently Turl explained.

  “Clover and Franchon rode into town with the army gold. They left it with Carmody. Mcallister kindly killed them two gun-hands for us. Now we go take the gold from Carmody. It’s like taking candy from a kid.”

  Shatloe looked at him in wonder and admiration.

  “Yeah,” he said in an awed voice. “It is. That’s jest what it’s like.” His tone changed. “Yeah—but how about the old man? You know how he locks and bars that place of his’n. Hell, he ain’t gonna let us in.”

  “We’re the law,” Turl said.

  Shatloe considered that for a while, then he laughed. “Yeah,” he said gleefully. “We are, ain’t we?”

  They reached the house and Turl knocked softly on the street door. That didn’t get any result, so he knocked again, louder this time. He had to repeat the performance several times before they heard furtive movements behind the door.

  Carmody’s voice growled out—“Who is it?”

  “Marshal Turl.”

  “Turl! I don’t know what you want this time of night, but it can wait till morning. You disturbed my sleep. Get the hell away from here and come back some other time.”

  “This is important.”

  “Nothing’s so important you have to wake me in the middle of the night and tell me about it.”

  “How about Clover and Franchon?”

  “How about ’em? What’re they to do with me?”

  “They’re dead.”

  That shook the old man. His voice quavered when he spoke again.

  “Dead? But—”

  “Mcallister killed them.”

  They could almost hear the old man’s furious thinking on the other side of the door. Finally his voice came again.

  “So they’re dead. Good riddance. They was a couple of no-goods.”

  “Sure they were,” Turl told him. “But that ain’t all. Mcallister knows you have the gold and he’s on his way here to get it.”

  Shatloe beamed in admiration at his chief’s smartness and showed his approval by giving the thumbs-up sign.

  There was a long pause while the old man thought that one out.

  “So what do you want now?”

  “All we want is McAllister.”

  “And this gold you say I have? I ain’t admitting it, mind you.”

  “Wa-al, you could show your gratitude, I reckon.”

  Another think on the other side of the door.

  “All right. But, remember, I may be an old man but I can pull a trigger good as anybody. One of you plays any tricks and he’s a dead man.”

  A bolt was drawn and chains clinked. Shatloe started to draw his side-gun, but the marshal gripped his wrist and whispered: “Not yet.” When the chain had been unfastened, the old man swung the bar. The door creaked open and Carmody’s gross face appeared in the dim light. The small eyes blinked once and he swung the door wider to show the greater grossness of his body. Against the bulk of his belly a revolver gleamed.

  Turl stepped forward, saying: “No call for the gun, Mr. Carmody.”

  “I’m the best judge of that. Strike a light, then walk over to the table and light the lamp. You move wrong and you’re dead.”

  “That ain’t the attitude, Mr. Carmody. I am the law here.”

  “Get on and save the talk.”

  Turl reached into a pocket, found a match and ignited it on the seat of his pants. Cupping it in his hands, he started across the room, saying: “Where’s the lamp at?” As he got halfway across the room, he stumbled on something, burned his fingers and, with a vehement, “Goddamit,” dropped the match.

  For a brief part of a second Carmody’s eyes fell to the flame on the floor. That was the last mistake he ever made. Shatloe swept his gun from leather with lightning speed and struck the old man a terrible blow on the base of the skull. He made a soft sound like a faint guttural shriek and fell heavily, dropping his gun with a clatter.

  “Good man,” the marshal said and the excitement showed in his voice now. “Finish him.”

  Shatloe said: “Aw, now, wait a minute.”

  “Finish him.”

  “That’s just plain murder.”

  “Sure,” Turl agreed, “that’s what it is.” He drew his own gun and bending over Carmody dealt him a smashing blow on top of the skull. When he straightened up, he said: “Drag him out of the road. Quick, we have to find this gold and get out of here.”

  First they pulled all the curtains, then lit the lamp and started the search. While Turl tried the desk, bureau and cupboards, Shatloe searched for loose floorboards. The floor was covered with debris from the drawers when Shatloe suddenly called from a corner of the room: “Hey, look here, Turl. This is it.” The marshal strode across the room to the sound of a board being torn from its nails, picking up the lamp as he went.

  When he gazed over Shatloe’s shoulder and saw the U.S.A. stamp on the sacks and small boxes, he said: “You found it all right, boy.”

  The deputy hefted a sack and they listened to the clink of the gold. Neither of them had ever heard music so sweet. They started to get them out and range them on the center table, but before they could complete the task, Shatloe froze and whispered: “Somebody’s comin’.”

  “Quick!”

  Leaving the lamp on the floor near the hole, they shrank back into the shadows, drawing their guns and watching the door.

  A fist knocked on the door. The door squeaked open a few inches.

  Goddamit, Turl told himself too late, I should of barred the door.

  His thumb was on the hammer ready for rapid cocking and firing; he found himself holding his breath ready for the killing shot. Already he was planning the next move and the next. Once guns came into play he and Shatloe would have to get out of town. Or they could say this man at the door was a thief after Carmody’s gold and it had been him who killed the old man. Yeah, that was it.

  But what was wrong out there? The man wasn’t coming in. Turl licked his lips. Did the fellow smell a rat?

  The door opened a few more inches, the marshal almost fired, but realised in time that there was nobody there outlined by the street-lamp. He found that he was sweating copiously.

  Suddenly his stretched nerves nearly broke as one of the windows looking onto the street fell into the room with a resounding crash. Turl swung his gun, nearly fired again, but got control of himself and held back. Shatloe did not have so good a command of himself. He instantly fired two shots as though he were a machine set in motion. The roar of the heavy gun from the door followed so closely on his shots that its explosion seemed a part of them. Shatloe screamed, was hurled across the room, fell over the table and hit the floor taking the table with him. He missed the lamp by inches and lay with the cloth draped over him like a shroud.

  Turl swung his gun for the door, but by the time he had fired, the shoulder and arm that had appeared there so briefly were gone. The shot crossed the street, hit a window in the stage office and smashed it.

  A hand snapped around the door-jamp threw a careless shot from the cannon-like gun and missed. But it was near enough to make Turl jump in alarm and try to be somewhere else. As he leapt for a new hiding place, the man outside thrust the gun through the broken window and fired his second shot. It hit him in the lower left leg and smashed the bone
. He fell hard, lost his gun and started yelling.

  Mcallister came through the door fast, gave him a glance and said: “Like to help you some, marshal, but I’m kind of short on time.”

  “Get me a doctor for the luva Gawd.”

  “You don’t need a doctor, you need a hangman.” Mcallister picked up the lamp, took a good look at Carmody and Shatloe, put the lamp on the table and got to work. Whisking the table-cloth off Shatloe he laid it out on the floor, piled all the gold into it and tied the four corners together. By the time he had done that the town was coming to see what was going on. Some came running. He pulled out that old Dragoon again and put a shot over their heads. They ran back the other way. He shut the door and dropped the bar into its bracket, hefted the gold painfully and walked out of the rear with the marshal’s threats, curses and pleadings in his ears. Someone in the alleyway out back threw a shot at him, but he returned it and was given no more trouble. Going out through the backlots he worked his way north of town until he came up with the Navajo. By that time he was all in and the thought of riding all that way back across the desert sounded like a tale out of the legend of hell.

  While the Indian packed the gold into the saddlebags he had somehow acquired, Mcallister lay down to take a breather, as he claimed. Not long after, José had to get pretty violent with him to get him awake. Swearing in his adept way, he somehow crawled aboard, loosened his belt and hooked it over the saddle-horn. Nothing more that he knew would keep him in the saddle. The last thought that came to him before he fell asleep again was: All we want now to round off a nice week’s work is a passel of Indians.

  22

  Any Other leader among the Apache people but Gato would have counted the running fight with the Clover gang as a defeat. True, most of the whitemen had been killed, but Gato had lost half of his small band. The bloody and tired remainder squatted around him waiting for the pale light of dawn. Their position was a small distance to the north and below a ridge within a mile of Mesquite Springs. It was this kind of daring that endeared the leader to such desperate men as these. To have taken a beating and then to rest almost under the eyes of the enemy!

  He hadn’t told them, but they knew he was after horses. Sure, an Apache could get up on a horse and ride hell out of him when a whiteman had thought him run into the ground, but even in Apache eyes these mounts were no longer of much use.

  “Soon it will be dawn,” Gato’s son said rashly as a reminder, for anybody knew that any taking of horses must be done in the last gloaming of night and the first weak light of day when a man who is awake can see what needs to be seen and a man newly-woken does not see enough.

  Gato grunted.

  “You would like to ride to the edge of the town and steal the horses?” he asked innocently.

  “Yes,” the young man answered eagerly.

  “Go then.” And as the warrior got quickly to his feet, Gato added with humor in his voice: “I will wait for horses to come to me.”

  That stopped the young man and alerted all of them. They listened and after a short while heard the sounds of which Gato had been aware before them. Horses were coming toward them from the direction of the town. One of the older men crowed with delight and softly slapped his naked thigh. The young man drew his breath in with shame, but when Gato called softly to him to prepare for action, his goodnature returned and he went smiling toward his pony.

  Gato said: “Hold the noses of your horses,” and every man there moved quickly to obey. When each one of them held his horse, Gato included, the chief said: “There are four animals coming. It is important that we have all of them. Whether the riders live or die, I do not care. We must have the horses.”

  They listened and knew that the approaching animals were moving at a steady trot and would pass them at about a hundred paces to the west. There was silence for several minutes until one of the whitemen’s horses whinnied. This was a signal for one of the Indians to vault onto his mount’s back but Gato hissed: “No!” and he stopped.

  Thudding rhythmically in the dust, the horses drew opposite the waiting Indians and they were caught faintly by a cold light and moved through it like ghosts. The Apaches saw that there were two riders only and two pack animals.

  “No shooting with guns,” Gato said and vaulted lightly into the old Mexican saddle. His horse was so tired that it refused to move, but a sharp cut with the quirt and it lifted itself into a stumbling run, straining up the steep grade of the ridge. Gato heard the naked rumps of his men slapping into their saddles behind him, forced his pony over the ridge and down towards the riders below him. His men streamed after him, holding back their war-cries until their victims sighted them. The only sound was that of the pounding hoofs and the thud of rifle-butts and bow-hafts on the backsides of the weary animals.

  It seemed to Gato, as he headed for the two whitemen that they would never become aware of his approach half from the side and half from the rear. He got to within eighty feet, seventy feet, sixty feet, still neither of them stirred in the saddle. He flipped his heavy war-club by its wrist thong and caught it in his hand, hefting it for the first blow, savage anticipation filling his breast. Suddenly one of the horses whinnied again and the leading rider jerked around quickly in the saddle. He seemed to sit his trotting horse and stare at the Indians pounding down on him for an eternity, but when Gato howled his hatred at him, he answered with a shrill cry. At once the other figure moved and the two ridden horses jumped forward as though puppets worked on the same string. The pack-animals hung back as pack-horses will, but they were given no choice and their lead ropes snapped tight and hauled them ahead. A quirt snapped viciously and they jumped abruptly into willing action.

  Gato thrashed his exhausted beast with his club, his savage cries chorusing with those of his followers for, horsemen as they were, each one of them knew that the whitemen’s horses were fresh and might get away.

  Dimly Gato saw the lead rider throw up his hand, saw the bright flame of a fired gun and felt the wind of a heavy ball pass his face. The shock of the near-miss clicked the mechanism of his mind. That front man was an Indian. He bellowed his rage again. His club rose and fell, trying to drive life into a horse which could not longer respond and Gato felt the pursued men drawing away from him with every jump.

  A rider drew level with him and he saw that it was his son, eagerly leaning forward over the neck of his straining mount, flogging its bony rump with the butt-end of a bow.

  “They’ll get away,” the young man shouted.

  “No,” Gato screamed into the wind of his speed. “Your bow.”

  The young man grinned quickly. His naked thighs tightened against the barrel of his pony as he reached back for an arrow and fitted its notch to the gut-string of his bow, his body swaying easily to the movement of the animal beneath him. The pursued were drawing away steadily, ten yards, fifteen yards, almost too far for the boy to make a hit at this pace.

  “Quick!”

  The young powerful body pulled the bow-string to the weapons full capacity and let fly. Even above the noise of the hoofs Gato heard the clear sweet twang. In the poor light he could not see the arrow’s flight, but the men ahead did not waver. They thundered on toward the north.

  “Again!” Gato bellowed. His horse was at the end of its strength. Once it stumbled and nearly fell, but Gato mastered it and kept it on its feet against the law of nature. It tried for him until it seemed its heart must break. Another one of his men passed him.

  Again the big man in the lead turned in the saddle and fired that monstrous pistol of his. This time no ball tore the air near Gato, but the young man fell back onto the pounding rump of his pony, bounced twice and slid off into the dirt and into the path of the animals behind. Men swerved wildly to avoid him, a pony leapt him, then they were all intent on the chase again.

  Gato screamed, slipped the club from his grasp and lifted the rifle from its loop over the saddle-horn, jacking a round into the breech and trying to get an uncertain aim On t
he figures ahead that were now disappearing into their own dust. As soon as he fired, his men resorted to firearms. Gato shouted for someone to go back and pick up the boy as soon as he had wasted three precious shots on the quarry who were by then well out of pistol-shot. Commonsense told him to call off the chase, but he was angry and thwarted and he had taken beatings enough. As the seconds passed his men were using up shot and that was almost as precious as horse-flesh. He bawled his order for them to halt. They pulled in the horses that were only too willing to stop and grouped around him, sullen and angry.

  Gato sat his heaving horse for a moment, calming himself, commanding his brain to rule his passion. Finally, he said softly: “We will get them. The desert is large and we have time.”

  An older warrior said: “Time, but no horses.”

  A younger man looked worried at such a tone being used to his leader, but Gato said nothing, except: “You will see.”

  His mind got to work.

  Two men, a whiteman and an Indian, setting out into the desert with pack-horses. That pack-saddles had contained something very heavy. Therefore, if two men should take such a risk as this, the contents of those saddles must be valuable. Now—both must head for water. What water? He smiled nodding to himself. Now he was sure that the horses would be his … and the contents of the saddles. Also a whiteman who would give pleasure to his warriors and give them new heart.

  He pointed into the north-west and beat his horse into a heart-broken trot.

  Already he saw himself regaining his self-respect after the ignominious treatment he and his men had received at the hands of the White Eyes. He would catch this whiteman and his Indian at the water-hole and give his men their pleasure, then he would go in search of the army wagons and with good fortune would catch them within sight of the fort. That would be his ultimate triumph. To let the soldier-chief see his own wagons being robbed and not be able to do anything about it. Good. He grunted his satisfaction. But, of course, all such thoughts meant nothing without fresh mounts.