They got along well together, Larkin overlooking Jolly’s burst of rage and tolerant of his jibes; Jolly respecting his partner’s prowess sincerely, no matter how much he joshed him.
They were in the tack shed on the ranch one morning when Larkin said to Jolly: “Fred, I reckon it’s time I got this chore done.”
“Chore?”
“McAllister.”
“You thought about how you’re goin’ to do it?”
“Sure. I’m goin’ to brace him.”
“At his place or in town?”
“It’ll have to be his place. He ain’t hardly ever in town.”
“I’ll come along to make sure that Greg Talbot ain’t around with a scattergun. That Talbot, he’s poison.”
“I’d appreciate that. Just so long as you remember McAllister an’ me have to settle this between us.”
“All right.”
They laid their tackle down. They had decided when this time came that they would take their time from Tallin and leave the country. It was always wise to do so on the heels of a killing. They went into the bunkhouse and packed their gear. They each had a horse of their own in the remuda. They lugged their bedrolls and warbags over to the horse pen and roped their mounts.
At that moment, Tallin, coming from the house, spotted them and came over to enquire where they thought they were going.
Jolly said: “We’re movin’ on, boss. So we’ll take our time.”
Tallin said that he was sorry to lose them, but he would not stand in their way. He walked back into the house and a short while after came back with their half-month’s wages in his hands. He paid them and said that he had a mind to go into town and would ride with them. This was not exactly what they wanted, but they could do nothing else but agree. Together, the three men rode to Black Horse. The trail took them past McAllister’s place. They saw their quarry working horses in the pen. Each man thought his own thoughts. In Black Horse they all three took a drink together in a saloon and shook hands in farewell. They wished each other luck and parted.
Tallin repaired to the Grand Union Hotel, determined to speak with Helena. Harold Tibbs informed him that he had just missed Helena who had gone horse-backing with her mother. It was not lost on Tallin that had he not taken a drink with the two riders he would have seen Helena. The strands were starting to come together. Tallin was rather thrown by missing Helena. He had nerved himself for the interview and now felt overwhelmed by the anti-climax. He could think of nothing better to do than to have another drink. He went back to the saloon and found that Jolly and Larkin had left. So he drank alone.
The two ex-Larned men rode north, unaware that Helena and her mother were also headed for the ranch. As they approached the cutoff of the trail that would lead them to McAllister’s, they saw riders ahead of them and halted.
“Not to worry,” Jolly said. “We can wait, Slim. We ain’t keepin’ to no schedule. We’ll rest up in the timber yonder. Soon as the ladies head back for town, we can go in and finish it. It’s a cinch.”
“Sure,” said Larkin and they headed for the trees.
What they were unaware of at that moment was that Howard Billington was already under cover of those same trees. Fate decreed that he should see them coming, that he should muffle his horse’s nose so that it would not signal his presence there and that he should stay under cover all the while they were there. The motte of trees was extensive and they went into cover nearly one half-mile from him. The three of them watched McAllister’s place through the afternoon.
If the three of them thought they were unobserved, they all owed themselves another think. During the course of the afternoon, Greg Talbot, who might be as blind as a bat when gazing at an object close up, possessed phenomenal sight when it came to seeing at a long distance.
He drifted over to the horse pen and sat atop of it watching McAllister at work on a young colt. He must have been there for a good half-hour before he remarked as McAllister joined him for a quiet smoke: “If that ain’t the funniest thing.”
“What?”
“Wa-al, there was this feller that come riding out from town.” He let that information hang in the air so that McAllister was forced to ask the mandatory: “What feller?”
“Why, this feller all dressed up like a city dude. Ridin’ one of the mayor’s horses. You know, that there sorrel with white fore-stockings. He rid along the trail, then left it a mile past and headed straight for timber.”
“Is that a fact?”
“Sure is.” Here a long pause. “Much a fact as them two other fellers that come a-ridin’ in from Bar Twenty range.”
McAllister turned his head. Now he was really interested.
“Who?”
“Not real clear, but they sat their horses like they was Fred Jolly an’ that Slim Larkin.”
“You don’t say,” said McAllister.
“I reckon that first feller on the livery hack knows the other is there. But the other two don’t know he’s there. An’ they’re both watchin’ this place through glasses.”
McAllister said: “You see the way that colt was workin’, Greg.”
“I seed him. Yessir, I sure did. Jim dandy.”
“Tomorrow I’ll try a hackamore on him. He’s bright. He’ll take to it in no time at all.”
“I wouldn’t wonder.”
“Greg, I reckon them fellers did not reckon on you.”
Talbot smiled with pride. “That’s a fact. Trouble with that kind, they think I ain’t nothin’ but stink and spit. They were never more wrong. I’m smart, McAllister. An’ before the day’s done, I’ll show you just how damned smart I am.”
McAllister went back to work with the colt. Idly, Greg Talbot saddled a horse and rode out. He rode down towards the creek and disappeared behind the willows.
Up in timber, the watching Jolly said: “That’s Greg Talbot pulled out, Slim. That’s a help for a start.”
Slim chuckled and said: “Yeah, we can do without that high-smellin’ rooster.”
Further along the line of trees, Howard Billington also noticed Talbot’s departure.
Now’s the time, he thought. With that moment, tension came. He could feel every muscle in his body tauten itself. His mind froze up in a kind of panic. He told himself to believe in the story he was offering McAllister. He would circle these trees and come on the house from the south again. He mounted and lifted his horse into a sharp trot.
The other two men hiding in the wood heard him and looked at each other. They could not see the rider for trees, but Jolly said he would check and ran as fast as he could westward. He was just in time to see Billington ride down a southerly ridge and disappear from sight. Billington, he thought—strange. Why should that dude kid be hiding in the trees? He went back and told Larkin, but the gunman had no more idea than he.
As for Billington, he rode the half-mile to the main trail and would have turned down it to ride north again, but he sighted a light wisp of dust coming from the direction of town. At once, he thought of getting back into cover again.
The only cover within easy reach was the creek with its willows and alders. He headed for it, dismounted and led his horse into the cover of the brush. When he had taken the animal into deep cover and tied it, he returned to the edge of the brush and watched the road from there. Now he found himself becoming agitated, wanting to get the bloody chore over and done with. The longer he waited concealed there watching the tiny figures swathed in dust on the distant trail, the greater that agitation became. He began to think about the man McAllister’s reputation. He thought of all the men, so much more experienced than Billington, whom McAllister had beaten in fights.
As the two riders came nearer, he had the awful suspicion that they might be Helena and her mother. Now what had been agitation turned to near-frenzy, for it was not long before he was quite certain that one of the figures there was Helena. He strained his eyes with a hungry intensity, the thought of her going laughing to McAllister nearly driving him o
ut of his senses. For one terrible moment, his anguish was so great that he came near to a dreadful impulse to sight his gun on her and kill her as she passed. He had to fight back this almost overpowering desire. So that he would not see her, he turned and walked through the brush to the edge of the creek and stared furiously at the smoothly passing water.
Here he stayed, consumed with the thought of destruction, wanting to kill and assuage the pain of his desire for the girl, fully aware at the same time that he was not being rational. Gradually, he fought down this wish to kill the girl, McAllister, anybody, himself included. Slowly his brain cleared, slowly he rid himself of the generally destructive mood and settled his mind on killing McAllister and seeing the look of horror and loss on the girl’s face. The pain he gave her in his mind brought a kind of savage joy to him.
My God, he thought, am I going crazy?
How late was it? Had the two women left McAllister’s place? No, surely not, he would have heard the sound of their horses on the trail. How long had he been here beside the water indulging himself in his crazy dreams? He walked along the small sandy strip at the side of the water and climbed the bank to he up among the willows and take a look at the house. Finally, he picked out the two horses standing hipshot in the shade of the cottonwood. So they were still there. He glanced at his pocket watch. It was getting late. How long did they intend to stay? What was going on down there?
He bit his lip painfully, a habit of his when distressed. Suddenly, he found himself on the edge of tears of frustration and rage. It had all seemed so clear-cut and simple when he had made the proposition to Larned. For once in his life, he had been in command of the situation. Must everything end in humiliation for him?
By God, he could dish out humiliation. He would go in there and kill McAllister right in front of the girl’s eyes, so that she would know who had done it. Damn the future and having her as his wife. He did not care. All he cared about was for once in his life to be a winner.
He must hurry. He would see McAllister in daylight. Get a clear shot. Get calmed down now. Approach the house openly so not a shred of suspicion was aroused. McAllister must trust him. He would shoot the man clean through the heart. Kill him with just one shot. Then the world would know him as the man who killed McAllister.
Now his depression and his frustration were gone. In that one second, he was suddenly uplifted, happy. As he walked back to his horse he started singing to himself.
His horse whickered with pleasure as he approached it. Thoughtfully, he took the animal to water and allowed it to drink. Then he led it up the bank and mounted.
Hurry, his mind told him. Don’t delay, courage can run out in a second. He put a hand up to his chest and felt the thick fold of notes in his right-hand breast pocket. Then the bulk of the gun over in the pocket on the left. The touch of both gave him an intense feeling of satisfaction.
He rode his horse in at a trot.
McAllister came to the door of the house and stood watching him.
“McAllister,” he called, just as a man might with an urgent message. He turned his horse in beside Mrs. Larned’s and Helena’s, dismounted and started towards the house. Halfway he stopped. McAllister had not moved. He saw with rising excitement that the man did not have his gun on.
“McAllister,” he called, “I have an urgent and confidential message for you.”
“Who from?”
“Mr. Larned.”
That was true. He carried a message of death. He wiped the palms of his hands on his pants legs.
McAllister stepped away from the door and started towards him. Oh, sweet Jesus, what a moment this was! He had never felt like this in his life before. The man seemed to grow immense as he came on with that long slow stride. The way those dark eyes watched him … did they miss a thing? Surely he must have already read
Billington’s thoughts; he had to be aware of what was about to happen.
Six paces from him, McAllister stopped.
“What is it?”
“It’s this.”
Billington’s hand went quickly to the butt of his gun. The heavy weapon came from leather with a soft and smooth whisper. His thumb heaved back the well-oiled hammer.
McAllister had not moved.
Was something wrong? Had he miscalculated in some way?
Then it was all over. Something seemed to kick him in the chest strong as a mule’s hoof. The sound of the gun seemed to come from a long, long way off. He was falling, falling … The hard ground jarred painfully against the hard line of his shoulder blades, he choked for want of breath … oh, God, was this dying …?
He lifted the gun as he heard the girl scream. McAllister had jumped to one side as he fired. The big gun bucked in his hand. The scream stopped abruptly. He tried to find McAllister with the foresight of the gun. Something smashed into his face. He heard rather than felt his head strike the ground.
Twenty-Three
Greg Talbot stepped from the brush on the creek bank. There was still a scream hanging in the air. Talbot saw McAllister come up on his feet. He was running hard for the house, covering the ground with great long strides at an incredible speed. Talbot saw that one of the women was lying on the floor in the doorway. The other knelt beside her. McAllister was shouting to him: “Watch the boy.”
“Watch the boy,” Talbot said. “Christ, what’s there to watch? The kid’s dead.”
When Talbot reached the house, McAllister was on his knees with the girl laid across them, his thumbs thrust in under her arm to hold the pulse and stop the bleeding. She was deathly pale with her eyes closed.
Her mother knelt on the other side of her and repeated over and over: “My God, she’s dead, she’s dead, she’s dead …”
“Mary,” McAllister said in that calm voice of his, “she is not dead.” McAllister turned his head and saw Talbot there. “Take the fastest horse you can get a rope on. Take a spare. Bring the doc here. Just tell him. We can save her. If you hurry.”
Talbot turned and ran. He knew urgency when he saw it.
McAllister said to Mary Larned: “I’ll carry her in and put her on the bed. Your thumbs must take the place of mine. If we can hold up the bleeding we can keep her alive till the doctor comes.”
The woman looked at him and he watched some of her fear retreat before the assurance the sight of him gave her. She did exactly as he told her, replacing McAllister’s thumbs with her own on the pressure point.
McAllister said: “This isn’t easy, but we can do it if we’re really careful.”
They did it. He lifted the girl and carried her while her mother maintained the pressure. When Helena was laid on the bed, McAllister told her mother to stay right there and not to move till he got back. He would be no more than a few minutes.
He walked out of the house and into the yard. The horses in the corral were still uneasy from the noise of the shooting. The three horses under saddle had skittered a little in alarm, but already they were quietening down. The boy lying in the middle of the yard was stirring, sitting up and gazing around him in complete bewilderment. He seemed to be in some pain and held his chest with his right hand.
When he heard McAllister’s footsteps, he looked up quickly, then at once started searching for his gun. It lay near him. As he snatched at it, McAllister did the only thing he could do under the circumstances. He shot out his right foot and kicked the boy back into the dust again. That knocked the wind out of Billington and for a moment he lay still, utterly helpless to make another effort.
McAllister could see where Talbot’s bullet had torn a hole in the right side of his coat. He pulled the coat aside and was surprised to see no mark on the shirt beneath, whereas he had expected to find a bloody hole. He turned the coat back and put his hand in the inside pocket. When he brought it out it was full of treasury bills, folded. The heavy bullet had torn through one half of the fold, and as McAllister shook the money, the bullet fell to the ground.
McAllister picked up the gun and hurled i
t into the creek. Standing over Billington, he let the bills fall like leaves over his prostrate form. The boy groaned.
McAllister hauled him to his feet by the scruff of his neck and said: “Pick up your bounty money and git.”
Billington stood there looking lost and forlorn, suddenly very small and insignificant.
“Helena,” he said. It was not a question, just a statement of misery.
“You shot her,” McAllister told him.
Billington turned away. McAllister thought that he was weeping. He wandered to his horse and climbed into the saddle. He turned his distorted face for a moment to McAllister and then rode away. He was going north. McAllister walked back into the house.
Twenty-Four
“What the hell,” said Jolly, “was that all about?”
They had seen Billington and McAllister meet, they had heard the faint and distant sound of the shot and watched the boy fall. Greg Talbot had walked out of the brush on the edge of the creek and then McAllister had run for the house. If ever they had seen urgency in a man’s movements, it was then.
Jolly had the glasses.
“What do you reckon?” he asked. Larkin said dryly: “I didn’t see too much. You have the glasses.”
Shortly after, they saw Talbot legging it for the corral. Minutes later, he headed like a maniac for town, towing another horse behind. Larkin remarked in admiration: “Watch that nag go, Fred. My God, that McAllister sure has some fine animals.”
Jolly exclaimed: “I guess I have it. The kid fired a shot. He hit one of the women. That has to be it.”
Larkin said: “I had the same thought.”
The boy was climbing to his feet or trying to. McAllister came out of the house.
Jolly said: “For cry in’ out loud, I thought Talbot shot Billington.”
McAllister appeared to kick the boy in the head.
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