Tough to Kill

by Matt Chisholm

  The anger that was never far from the surface, showed on Markham’s face.

  He said: “I’ve taken from you more’n I ever took from any man. I ain’t takin’ no more.”

  McAllister smiled.

  “You don’t have no idea how much you’ve taken, Markham,” he said. “The whole valley’s armed. Your southern line camp’s burned, one of your men’s dead and another wounded. The crew have ridden out. You couldn’t hold their loyalty. This is the beginning of the end for you.”

  Markham looked at him unbelievingly.

  “You’re lyin’,” he said.

  McAllister went on -

  “This place is surrounded. Your boys try anything and they’ll be cut down.”

  The men looked over their shoulders instinctively. Even Markham cast a hurried eye this way and that. Then suddenly, faster than McAllister thought the man could move, he slapped a hand down on the butt of his gun and drew it. The Colt’s gun came to full cock and it pointed at McAllister’s breast.

  “Climb down off’n that horse,” Markham said.

  McAllister sighed wearily.

  “You’re diggin’ your own grave,” he said.

  He threw a leg over the cantle and stepped down. The men with the rifles levelled their weapons at him.

  Markham said: “Get into the house.”

  McAllister wondered what the valley men would do. They could see, most of them, that Markham had him covered. He mounted the stoop and walked into the house. Markham walked in after him. McAllister wondered if the cowhands were scattering for cover. He knew that if the valley men opened fire now, Markham would kill him.

  The hall of the house was dim after the brightness of the sunlight outside. He was aware that a woman stood in front of him.

  She said: “Why, Mr. McAllister,” and he knew that it was Alvina. She saw the gun in her father’s hand and drew her breath in sharply.

  Markham said: “Get to your room.”

  When she didn’t move, McAllister said: “Go ahead, girl. You can only do me harm, standin’ there.”

  She turned then and mounted the stairs.

  “If what you say’s true,” Markham said, “an’ the valley men are out there, they fire one shot an’ I kill you.”

  “You can do that,” McAllister told him. “But you can’t stop this. You burn one more house in the valley, you kill one man an’ they’ll clean you out.”

  Markham went to the door and opened it a little, not taking his eyes from McAllister.

  “Jones,” he shouted, “come on in here.”

  A moment later, the man Jones appeared, carbine in hand. Markham said: “Cover this man, Jones. I’m goin’ out to talk to them bastards out there.”

  Jones grinned a little and centered the carbine on McAllister. Markham walked out onto the stoop and Jones said: “Make some play, man. It’ll be a pleasure.”

  McAllister said: “You’re goin’ to get yourself killed for wages.”

  The man sneered without speaking.

  McAllister was facing the stairs. Jones’s back was to them. Over the man’s head, McAllister saw the flutter of a skirt and raised his eyes, saw Alvina on the stairs with a cushion in her hands.

  “Jones,” she called.

  The man started to turn his head, but thought better of it. Alvina lifted the cushion and threw it with all her strengh at his head.

  McAllister moved. With every nerve in his body screaming against the insanity of it, he dove to one side and forward. The man managed to fire the rifle once before McAllister was on him.

  Outside, the sound of the shot brought Markham’s bellows as he gave his ultimatum to the valley men to a halt. McAllister’s charging weight hurled Jones back against the first stair. He tripped and went down with the big man on top of him. McAllister drove his fist into the face beneath him.

  As he did so, firing broke out at a distance. He heard cries of fright and anger from the yard. Feet pounded, the door was thrown open and Markham appeared. McAllister turned, swung Jones’s rifle and said: “Drop the gun, Markham, quick.”

  Markham halted, looked terribly tempted to try a shot, but thought better of it. His Colt hit the floor. He looked from Jones’s inert body on the stairs to his daughter above.

  “Christ,” he said, “have you turned against me, child?”

  Alvina stepped over Jones’s body and faced her father.

  “Likely my man’s out there,” she said.

  “Your man? What in hell’re you talkin’ about?”

  “Kiowa McShannon.”

  “That saddlebum!”

  “He’s the man I’m goin’ to marry.”

  McAllister picked up the Colt and prodded Markham out onto the stoop. There was a man lying kicking in the dust of the yard.

  McAllister shouted: “Come on out, you Markham riders. I have the boss here under my gun.”

  A stray shot hummed by from the other side of the corral and McAllister guessed that was from a valley man who couldn’t see what was going on. He bawled for him to stop firing and ordered them all to come on in.

  Men started to come out of the bunkhouses. Slowly, the valley men started to advance on the house. They were cautious and their guns were ready in their hands. The Markham riders clustered sullenly in the center of the yard and the valley men scattered all around them. McAllister saw McShannon lift a hand in greeting to Alvina who had come out onto the stoop. McAllister sent a couple of men into the house to bring Jones out. The man could walk on his own two feet, but he didn’t look happy. He complained that his jaw had been broken. Markham stood silent and bitter.

  Lucy came out from the house and stood by Alvina. She fluttered a smile in Jack Owen’s direction. Markham caught it and glowered.

  “What happens now?” he demanded at last.

  McAllister said: “We wait for your men to come in. If they’ve burned down in the valley, we finish you here. We’ll burn your house and kill your cattle.”

  Markham looked at him aghast.

  “You wouldn’t dare.”

  “Try us.”

  Time ticked by till McAllister asked: “Is it too late to stop Foley?”

  Markham looked stricken.

  “He was going to hit the Dowell place at dawn.”

  Sorenson said: “You could send a man an’ stop them from going any further, Markham. If you stopped there, we might live an’ let live. But, by God, if you’ve harmed a hair of a valley man’s head I vote we hang this whole mangy crew.” When they heard this, the girls on the stoop went white.

  “For heaven’s sakes,” Alvina said, “let a man ride to the valley and stop them.”

  “It’s up to you, Markham,” McShannon said.

  Everybody there looked at Markham. The man looked as though agonising mental convulsions were taking place in his head. For the first time in his life he had come on a situation which would not allow him to have his own way. Every fiber of his being demanded that he go ahead and have his way with the valley. Only on the valley grass would he find winter feed for his herds. Every man there knew that he wanted to have his animals on high range in summer and to winter them on the lowlands. All that stood in his way were a dozen little men. But little men that might not only burn him out, but put a rope around his neck. Survival was the first law of all and Markham wanted to survive. Maybe even then he was planning to retreat so that he could come back and fight another day.

  He looked at one of the men.

  “Catch up a horse and ride to Foley,” he said flatly. “Go into the valley at McAllister’s place and work north. That way you’ll be bounden to meet up with him. Tell him how things are here. Tell him to come on back.”

  The man turned and walked away. Within minutes, he went out of the yard on a horse, going fast.

  One of the valley men said: “An’ Foley best not start anything when he gets here.”

  Markham tried to wither him with a look.

  “You got me beat this round,” he said, “but keep your t
rap shut, friend. I’ll remember your face.”

  Sorenson walked up to Markham.

  “Markham,” he said, “you’re my size an’ my age. For a long time I wanted you without your guns behind you. We have any sass from you an’ I’ll jamb your teeth down your throat.”

  Alvina protested.

  “My father’s beaten,” she said. “Leave him be now.”

  Markham turned on her like an enraged bull.

  “I ain’t beat,” he said through his teeth. “I ain’t even started.”

  McAllister said: “You’d best consider yourself beat, for your own sake.” He turned to the two girls. “Ladies, you’d be wise to start gettin’ your gear out here. There’s a good chance the house will be gone by dawn.”

  Markham didn’t say anything to that. He gave McAllister a deadly look and sat down on the stoop step with his head in his hands. McAllister gave orders for the valley men to disarm the Markham riders, to search both the bunkhouses and the main house for arms. Within a short time there was an impressive arsenal of weapons piled in the yard. The valley men then roped the cowhands together and sat them down against one of the bunkhouse walls. Markham watched all this with a wooden face, not stirring from his position.

  Then came a period of waiting. After a couple of hours, during which time the two girls brought hot coffee to both the captors and captives, McAllister asked McShannon to ride along the valley trail and see if he could spot any riders approaching. McShannon mounted his sorrel and rode out. The remainder of the men lounged around the yard, waiting, hating it, not knowing what had happened to their homes in the valley. McAllister prowled around the yard, still wondering if he had done the right thing, starting to ask himself if it wouldn’t have been wiser to have stayed in the valley and to have ambushed Foley and his men.

  Every now and then he stopped to listen for the sound of an approaching horse. The light began to fade. He began to feel in his bones that it was too late. The valley had been ravaged. Foley had reached Sorenson’s house and was laying siege to it. He looked at Markham and knew how terrible would be the revenge of the valley men if this had happened. And McAllister’s wife was Markham’s sister. McShannon and Owen both wanted his daughters for their wives. All that could come out of this was bitterness.

  19

  He heard a horse.

  It was coming fast. He heard one of the girls cry out and looked up to see Alvina looking across the yard toward the trail, hoping that it was McShannon come back safely.

  The horseman came lunging out of the darkness, pulling up his horse in the middle of the yard. It was McShannon.

  He swung down from the saddle and said: “They’re comin’.”

  “How long?” McAllister asked.

  “Five minutes. No more.”

  The wounded man who lay against the wall of the bunkhouse groaned. The men sitting near him, tensed. Markham stood up. Every nerve in him was raw and every man there knew it. McAllister told the valley men to get under cover.

  “No shootin’ unless you have to,” he ordered. “You girls get in the house.” Alvina and Lucy obeyed him without a word.

  Everybody went still when they heard the hoofs. They looked at each other in surprise, for the five minutes McShannon had mentioned hadn’t passed.

  Jack Owen of the sharp ears said: “One horse only.”

  Just the same, the valley men walked into the bunkhouses and took up their positions at the windows. McShannon and McAllister stayed in the middle of the yard, their rifles in their hands. A lone rider came at a gallop into the yard. McAllister was shocked and surprised to see that it was Carlotta. Her hair was all over the place and she looked terrible.

  McAllister said her name and helped her down from the saddle. She rested for a moment against him and whispered: “I had to come.”

  Markham came storming forward, letting the tension out of him by shouting.

  “You git outa here. I told you I didn’t never want to set eyes on you again.” He looked as if he would strike her. McAllister let some of the tension out of himself by taking the man by the scruff of his neck and hurling him clear of her. Markham tripped and fell. A growl went up from his men.

  Carlotta looked at him coldly for a moment, then said: “I came to stop it. There’s been shooting enough.”

  Markham got to his feet, looking with a terrible bitterness at McAllister.

  “Your brother,” McAllister told her, “sent a rider to fetch Foley and the crew from raiding the valley. They’re due any minute. You’d best get into the house.”

  She said: “They’ll kill you.”

  McAllister gestured to the valley men at the windows of the bunkhouses and she was the snouts of the rifles for the first time. She gasped and reached out a hand to steady herself on McAllister.

  “This place could be a slaughter-house,” she said.

  Gently, McAllister pushed her toward the house.

  “Go inside, honey,” he said. “Nobody’s goin’ to get killed if I can help it.”

  She gave him a lost look and walked past her brother into the house. The door had no sooner closed behind her than the listening men heard the sound of horses approaching.

  Markham laughed.

  “Now we’ll see,” he said. McAllister and McShannon said nothing. Riders came surging out of the darkness. Suddenly, the yard was full of men and horses, the stamping of hoofs, the creak of saddle-leather. Foley showed in the lead. He started to dismount.

  McAllister’s voice cracked out.

  “Stay in the saddle where we can see you,” he said. Foley hesitated for a moment. He looked around warily and saw the rifles. He looked aghast. Turning to Markham, he asked: “Did you call us back?”

  “I did. I had a gun on me.”

  “I should of knowed.”

  “They’d of hung us all if you hadn’t of come.”

  McAllister said: “Don’t any of you men try anything. Every one of you’s covered. You don’t have a snowball’s chance in hell.”

  There was silence, as if the mounted men were counting their chances.

  McShannon said in a tight voice: “How many houses did you burn, Foley?”

  For a moment, the man didn’t answer. He threw uneasy glances around him. Finally, he said quietly: “Dowell’s place.”

  “Kill anybody?”

  “Didn’t see nobody.”

  A man walked out of one of the bunkhouses with a rope in his hands. It was Dowell.

  “What do you think you’re goin’ to do with that?” McAllister asked.

  Dowell said: “I’m goin’ to hang the bastard that burned my home.”

  Every man in the center of the yard, seemed to stiffen. Hands jerked to gun butts or rifles were shifted. The rifles in the windows of the bunk-houses clicked back onto full cock.

  His voice shaking, Foley said: “Put away that rope, Dowell, or this place will be a shambles.”

  Someone ran lightly out of the house and past McAllister. Too late he saw that it was Carlotta. She came to a halt between Foley and Dowell.

  “Stop it, you men,” she cried out. “Can’t you see that this can only end one way? Foley, you turn your horses around and ride away from here. And don’t ever come back.”

  McAllister didn’t know what to do. She was right in the line of fire from both parties. If he made the wrong move now it would not only end in the deaths of a dozen men, but in Carlotta’s too. He stood impotently raging.

  Markham, whom he had forgotten, spoke, his voice wavering with the danger of the moment.

  “Charlie, for God’s sake stand aside.”

  Alvina and Lucy came out of the house and halted near McAllister and McShannon. McAllister said: “Go back,” but they didn’t move.

  Then something happened that took them all by surprise. One moment, Foley was in the saddle, the next he wasn’t. Suddenly, he was on foot, an arm had shot out and grasped Carlotta around the body. The dark barrel of his gun stood out against the whiteness of her throat. S
he made a sort of strangled sound and tried to pluck at his holding arm with her fingers, but his grasp stayed like steel.

  Foley shouted: “Don’t nobody move till I tell ’em. Anybody looks at me wrong and the woman’s dead.”

  “For Crissake,” Markham said in futile protest. “You gone crazy, Foley? Put down that fool gun.”

  Dowell said: “He’s bluffin’. He knows he touches her, we’ll stretch his neck.”

  Foley said: “You’ll stretch my neck any road. I don’t have nothin’ to lose.”

  McAllister raised his voice.

  “He means it. He’s mad dog enough to do it. Don’t nobody move.”

  Foley said: “I’m goin’ to walk outa here and the woman goes with me.”

  Nobody spoke, nobody moved. Carlotta looked at McAllister. He stayed motionless, holding his breath.

  Markham spoke.

  “Get outa here, Foley. Nobody ain’t goin’ to try nothin’. But when you’re safe away, you leave Charlie go. You harm a hair of her head an’ I’ll hunt you down to the ends of the earth.”

  “Save your gab, Markham,” Foley said. “I had enough of it over the past few years. Right, boys, stay put, I’m movin’ out.”

  He started to move backward slowly, dragging Carlotta with him. She made no resistance. Her face was drained of blood and her eyes showed her fear. He covered five yards, six, and by then he was almost untouched by the light from the house. McAllister watched and sweated, helpless.

  Foley was almost out of his sight, when there came the flat crack of a rifle. Every man there jumped. It seemed that Foley was wrenched violently away from Carlotta. He fell and she fell with him. McAllister and McShannon sprang forward. McAllister reached her first and lifted her from the gound. McShannon looked down at Foley and turned him over with the toe of his boot. He saw that the man was shot through the side of the head. McShannon looked toward the right hand bunkhouse and knew that the man who had fired the shot had taken a terrible risk, one that he would never have dared to take. As the bullet struck Foley’s brain, he could so easily have triggered off a shot that would have killed Carlotta.

  Jack Owen walked from the bunk-house with a smoking rifle in his hands. He looked awful. He stood there blinking around him. Finally, his eyes fell on McAllister.