Tough to Kill

by Matt Chisholm

  He stopped and said: “Get your boots off. From here on in we pussyfoot.”

  They ground-hitched their horses and heaved off their boots and put on the moccasins they took from their saddlebags. They sighed with relief when they had them on and went forward silent as Indians. They moved forward for maybe a half-hour before McShannon, all of whose senses were acute, stopped and said softly: “House up ahead. I can hear the creek.”

  McAllister stopped and listened. He could hear nothing. They went on a little further and he saw the glimmer of a light.

  “Somebody still up,” he said. “Must be Markham.”

  They tied their horses in a motte of trees. McAllister unbuckled his gun-belt and hung it over the apple. McShannon hesitated a moment, then followed suit. That left them armed only with their knives. McAllister took down his rope and several shorter lengths of rope he had on his saddle. Then they moved off.

  McAllister led the way through the starlight till they reached the eastern end of the main corral. Here, he knew, were the horses Markham set such great store by. In the corral on the other side of the house were the ordinary saddle stock.

  “Boy,” he said, “you stay here and let these horses get used to you bein’ around. We’ll catch up a pair of ’em by an’ by. You hear a ruckus over by the house, you mount up, ride to our horses, get your own and vamoose. Don’t wait around for me.”

  McShannon knew better than to ask what McAllister planned to do.

  McAllister slapped him lightly on the shoulder and walked off into the night. He went quietly around the first bunkhouse, reached the door and went to one knee. One short length of rope he stretched and tied across the door about six inches from the ground. Then he went around the edge of the yard, keeping to the shadows, and tied a second rope across the entrance to the stoop. That done, he went around to the other side of the yard where the second bunkhouse stood and tied a third rope across the doorway. Satisfied, he walked to the corral that held the saddle stock and pulled out the gate poles.

  He walked back to McShannon and said: “Get in there an’ catch yourself a horse.”

  McShannon climbed the fence and built a noose with his rope. The whole place was still silent. McAllister, knowing that the gate was over by the bunkhouse, decided that it was too risky to let the horses out that way. He drew his knife and cut the rawhide thongs that helped keep the fence together. The rawhide gave easily under the razor-sharp blade, he lifted the posts down and worked his way along the fence, repeating the operation. When about twenty feet of fence was down, he walked into the corral.

  The horses were starting to get lively. Dimly, he could see McShannon dabbing his rope on his chosen mount. The rest of the animals started to run. McAllister built a noose as they pounded toward him. Dust rose and teased his nostrils. A dark animal swung around near him, he flicked out his noose over its head and choked it down violently. There was no time for finesse. The rest of the remuda swept past him making a noise like thunder. It would be a matter of seconds before the bunk-houses and the house erupted. He ran down his taut rope, got a grip on the horse’s coarse mane and vaulted aboard. The animal exploded, crowhopping violently across the hard ground of the corral. McAllister kicked it in the slats with his heels and yelled defiance to the night. McShannon followed suit.

  The remuda went around the corral once, then discovered the wide break in the fence. With tossing manes, they took off into the night with two yelling demons after them.

  7

  Markham couldn’t sleep. He had prowled his office since before midnight and had killed a bottle of whiskey in the process. It was a habit that was becoming more common with him. This inability to sleep puzzled and infuriated him. Men might obey him docilely, but sleep defied him. The night was cold, but he felt nothing of it, soaked as he was with liquor. Finally, he dropped into his chair at his desk and started to doze.

  He came awake abruptly when he heard the horses running. Starting, he got unsteadily to his feet and listened. To his horror, he realised that it was his prize animals that were on the move.

  He hurled his chair away from him and rushed to the rifle-rack on the wall, took down his new Winchester repeater and pounded out of the room. As he reached the stoop, he heard a blood-chilling scream from the east corral and knew it for what it was - a Kiowa battle-cry. Another followed it. He responded by bawling for his men to turn out. He crossed the stoop in one bound and it seemed that his feet were torn from under him. The Winchester went off with a crash and he landed hard on his head.

  Lying half-stunned in the dust of the yard, he heard the bunkhouses come awake. He also heard his treasured thoroughbreds thundering away into the night. It was like a horrible dream.

  Then, suddenly, as he groped in the dust for his rifle, the yard was full of horses and he knew that the saddle-stock was out, too. He was nearly run into the ground by a galloping horse. He cursed hysterically.

  Commotion broke out from either bunkhouse and men seemed to be jammed in the doorways while others struggled on the ground.

  He found his rifle and made an unsuccessful grab at a horse. Raging speechlessly, he tramped across the yard to the nearest bunkhouse. Men were in the doorway, getting to their feet, shaken and angry.

  “What in hell’re you fools playin’ at?” Markham roared.

  A man said: “Somebody tied a rope across the door.”

  “While you dim-witted sonsabitches’re lyin’ stinkin’ in your bunks my best horses have been run off. Where’s Foley?”

  Foley came forward brushing dust off him. He was hatless - an unusual condition for the straw-boss who was never seen without his hat.

  “Here,” he said.

  “Saddle up and get after them horses.”

  “What on? That was the remuda just went past you.”

  Markham danced in his rage.

  “Don’t answer me back, Foley, or I’ll knock your teeth down your throat. I want my horses back.”

  The men started to show interest. They had never heard Foley spoken to in that way.

  “Ain’t no sense in goin’ after ’em till daylight, any road,” Foley said.

  “Nownownownow,” Markham howled. “Them horses’re delicate. They could come to harm runnin’ in the dark.”

  Foley turned to the men and said in a weary voice: “Get your ropes, boys, and see if’n you can ketch up any of the remuda. There wasn’t nobody spookin’ them. Maybe they ain’t gone too far.”

  The men moved off to find their ropes with Markham screaming for them to hurry.

  8

  The two thoroughbreds were covered in sweat and lather when they slithered to a stop and McAllister and McShannon slipped from their backs. The two men slapped their rumps with their hats and whopped them on into the night. They pounded away into the darkness. As the sound of their hoofs faded, both men listened. Neither heard any pursuit. They untied their horses and swung into their saddles.

  McShannon said: “You’re on your own, daddy. I’m off to spark the beautiful and desirable Alvina.”

  McAllister said: “You’re crazy.”

  “Ain’t I?” was McShannon’s response as he turned his horse and circled off through the darkness into the east. McAllister shook his head sadly and set off south. He had better lay a trail for the pursuit to follow in the dawn.

  McShannon circled far to the east under the bright eyes of the stars, but he did not think of them because he was thinking of the bright eyes of honey-blonde Alvina Markham. He felt quite a fellow riding through the night, knowing that he and McAllister had counted coup on the biggest man in the land and, so far, had got off scot free. He swung around in a large half-circle and started to head into toward the Box M headquarters from the east and reckoned he was a crazy fool to be riding back into trouble this way, he didn’t give a damn. Ten minutes in Alvina’s company and the danger would be paid for, just as the beating and the burning out would be paid for.

  Ever since the dance in town, ever since he had to
uched her hand in the square, she had been the only woman for him. And he’d be damned if he stopped till he got her. Ten thousand Markham’s and their power would not stop him.

  He halted his heaving horse and dismounted. He loosened the girth after he had tied the animal He wondered briefly if he would reach it again in one piece. But the thought was only brief. He was young and he had a woman in his blood.

  He started on the walk to the house. This time he kept his gun on him. If his courting was interrupted this time the man who did it would get lead in his brisket.

  In twenty minutes, he saw the lights of the house. He stole around the edge of the corral from which he had so short a while before lifted twenty good horses. There were riders in the yard in the process of mounting and that told McShannon that Markham’s riders had caught up with some of the cowponies. Certainly they hadn’t got near any of the racing stock. He lay down and waited till they had ridden out. He reckoned there were about six of them.

  The lights in the upper part of the house went out one by one. Those on the first floor went off till only one was left and McShannon guessed that was Markham’s.

  He rose to his feet and passed along the east side of the corral and walked silently around to the rear of the house. He didn’t hesitate. Hitching his gun around over his buttocks, he grasped an upright of the stoop and started up. He climbed as quickly and surely as a monkey, reached the upper gallery then ran clear around the house and stepped over the rail. He paused a moment, listening to his heart beating with excitement. Not excitement engendered by the danger he was in, but through the coming meeting with the girl.

  On silent feet he crossed the gallery and scratched on a window pane.

  Waiting, he thought he heard the sound of whispers from inside the room. Instantly suspicious, he hitched his gun around to his hip and loosened it in its holster. He wasn’t going to be caught napping this time.

  The curtain moved.

  He put his face close to the glass and there within inches of his own face was that of Alvina. He watched alarm and delight appear on it. Her hand came up to release the catch. As quietly as possible he raised the window. A titter came from the darkness. He reached out a hand and Alvina’s grasped it.

  “Who’s with you?” he demanded.

  “If s only Lucy.”

  He stepped through the window and knew the exciting scent of a woman’s bedroom. There were two girls close on either side of him, whispering.

  “One at a time,” he said.

  Lucy’s voice came from the darkness.

  “Is Mr. Owen with you?” she demanded.

  He grinned. “This is a one man mission,” he told her. “Mr. Owen is mindin’ the horses somewhere back in the hills.”

  “Oh,” she said in disappointment.

  “But he will be coming to see you before long for sure,” McShannon told her.

  “Lucy,” Alvina said pointedly, “shouldn’t you be getting some sleep.”

  “You mean go and leave you alone with a man in your room?”

  Alvina said fiercely: “All right, I’ll see I play chaperone when Mr. Owen comes calling.”

  Lucy drew in a sharp breath.

  “Very well,” she said. “But nice girls don’t receive men in their rooms at night in their night clothes.”

  McShannon hadn’t thought of the implications. He had thought only in general and warm terms of seeing Alvina. Now he realised with a pleasurable shock that she was standing within inches of him wearing nothing but her nightdress. With the aid of providence, this would prove an evening to remember.

  Lucy said goodnight and departed, leaving behind her the impression that Alvina should be ashamed of herself. McShannon struck a match, found a chair and carried it to the door and jammed it under the handle. The match went out and he was left in even deeper darkness.

  “Alvina,” he said, “where you at?”

  “I’m sitting on the bed,”

  “I -er- shucks.”

  “Come and sit down, Mr. McShannon.”

  “I - well - ain’t that kinda… ?”

  “Mr. McShannon, I know you to be an honorable man. I’m sure I wouldn’t be compromised if you sat beside me and put your arm around me just as you did at the dance that night. I’m cold.”

  He tiptoed across the room and felt his way to the bed. He knew that he had reached the right spot when his hand found a soft breast. He gasped and broke into a sweat.

  “Ma’am …” The bed creaked suggestively as he sat on it.

  “You may call me Alvina under the circumstances. Your arm isn’t around me.”

  He put his arm around her. The sensation he gained from the movement was more intoxicating than a large shot of rye. For a while, as they talked together in whispers, to sit there with his arm around Alvina Markham was the attainment of his desire. Nothing more could have been wished for by man. But as time passed and the warmth of her body seeped through to his and her head came to rest on his shoulder, human nature being what it was, thoughts of throwing her down upon the bed, breathing words of passionate love through her parted lips came to McShannon. However, self-confident man though he was at facing other men, or fighting Indians, riding wild horses and roping cows, running at the head of stampeding cattle, just to mention a few incidents that were a part of his life, he had no more idea of bringing this scene to its natural culmination than he had of how to fly.

  It was, as is perhaps more often the case than a man cares to admit and certainly a woman never would, the lady who took the initiative.

  “Mr. McShannon, I’m tired sitting here and not at all comfortable,” she said. She lay down and somehow his arm became caught between her own and her body and McShannon was compelled to lie down with her. He turned his head to protest in a whisper when he found his mouth on hers in the darkness. There wasn’t even time to say: “Aw, shucks.” She had him. Their arms went around each other, their bodies rolled close together and their mouths devoured each other in the sweetest meal in life.

  When he came up for air, McShannon managed to say: “Shucks, ma’am.”

  “The name’s Alvina.”

  “Alvina,” he said.

  “I may never see you again for a long time,” she said. “We may never have a chance of being like this together again.”

  “Honey,” said McShannon trying to behave like a gentleman, but with his whole being trying violently to make him ungentlemanly, “we’re going to do something you may feel awful sorry for later.”

  “Then let me feel sorry later. I’m mighty glad for it now.”

  She grasped him around the hips and held him tightly to her and they strove together as they tried to get closer than was physically possible.

  “You mean that, girl?”

  “Don’t ask foolish questions,” she rebuked him. “We don’t have too much time.”

  That was a fact. Her arms came around his neck, her mouth was on his, open and their tongues met deliciously. His body seemed to melt into hers. This he knew was the moment of truth.

  Footsteps sounded outside the door. Spurs crashed their music out.

  “Carlotta,” a voice roared, “who in hell’s in there with you?”

  They heard Alvina’s aunt reply indignantly.

  McShannon sat up as though somebody had thrust an inch of cold steel in his rump.

  “My father!” exclaimed Miss Alvina.

  McShannon heaved himself off the bed and the springs gave out their strident music.

  They heard Markham roar: “I heard a man’s voice up here. God in heaven, it must of come from Alvina’s room.” The boots and spurs crashed their way along the passageway. Great fists pounded on the door and Markham shouted: “Open up this Goddam door, girl.”

  Alvina got off the bed and clutched McShannon’s arm.

  “What shall we do?”

  “Let the old goat in an’ I’ll bust his head,” McShannon said.

  “No, you must go. Out of the window quick,” she told him, pushin
g him toward that exit.

  “I ain’t running away from no bull-frog.”

  “For my sake, Kiowa. Quickly. I beg you. Get away before you’re seen or we shall never see each other again.”

  There was some truth in that.

  “Alvina, open this door. I can hear you. I know you have a man in there. Open it or I’ll bust it down.”

  A great weight was hurled against the door. It cracked resoundingly and the chair gave a little. McShannon bounded to the window and heaved it open. Alvina was by his side, pulling his head down and planting a last kiss on his lips.

  When that was done, she said: “When shall I see you again?”

  “You ride much?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “Know Indian Rock?”

  “Surely.”

  “See you there two days from now, around noon.” “I’ll be there.”

  Another kiss as the door nearly collapsed under Markham’s blows and kicks. McShannon threw a leg over the sill.

  “See you, honey,” he said.

  The door came in with a resounding crack. Alvina turned in utter panic toward it, seeing her father’s bulk silhouetted there. When she glanced back at the window, McShannon was gone. Markham roared: “There’s a man in there.”

  He picked up a lamp from the floor of the landing and rushed into the room. At once his eye slid from his cowering daughter to the open window. The curtain blew in with the light breeze. Markham slammed the lamp down on a table and went on to the window. Thrusting his head through the opening, he bellowed: “Come on back here.”