Kill McAllister

by Matt Chisholm

  “That’s what I was afraid of,” Malloy said. He thought about it for a good half-hour, then he got to his feet, buckled on his gun, put on his jacket and hat and walked out onto the street. He crossed the street to the Golden Fleece run by the Darcy brothers from Texas and asked Fred where Forster hung out. Fred told him the name of the hotel and he walked there. He asked the number of the room from the clerk, walked up the stairs and tapped on the door.

  “Who is it?”

  “Malloy, marshal.”

  There came the sound of a chair being removed from under the door-handle. So the man was nervous.

  The door opened and Forster revealed himself. Malloy started, for the man’s appearance had almost completely changed. The beard was gone and so was the mustache; the hair had been slicked down and darkened by grease.

  Malloy smiled a little.

  “I wouldn’t have known you, Link.”

  Forster tried a laugh. It sounded quite well.

  “Nothing like a change,” he said.

  Yes, thought Malloy, the man was educated all right. He’d been to school in the east or even England. Malloy was a great admirer of education, but he didn’t admire this man. He judged him for what he was, a proud, vain and ambitious man. And he didn’t like work. The world owed him a living.

  Malloy walked into the room, turned a hard back chair and sat on it facing the back. Forster looked at him angrily for a moment, then shut the door. He feared the little marshal, as did most men, and he didn’t know why. Nor did any other man know why the little man was to be feared. He wasn’t violent, he carried a gun but seldom used it, when he used it he wasn’t particularly fast or accurate. It was as though Malloy had a physical ascendency over him. It could simply have been that he had no fear and was supremely confident.

  “You’ve been out of town,” Malloy said. “Where’d you go?”

  Forster looked down at him from his much greater height.

  “Is that any business of yours?” he demanded.

  Malloy thrust out his chin, his great mustache bristled.

  “I’ll have none of your sass, Forster,” he barked.

  “I’ll be the judge of whether something is my business or not. When I ask a question I get an answer or I come to certain conclusions. Now where’d you go when you left town?”

  Fury showed on Forster’s face, his pale eyes snapped. This was too much for his pride.

  “What I do outside this town is my own business,” he said, “and I’ll thank you to stay out of it.”

  “You won’t thank me to stay out of it,” Malloy told him, “when you learn why I’m questioning you.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “There’s a man in town come here for the express purpose of killing you,” Malloy stated.

  Forster looked startled.

  “How do you know this?”

  “He came to me. Mind you, it would probably be no loss to the world if he carried out his threat. But I don’t like killings in my town. My advice to you is clear out while the going’s good.”

  “Why don’t you arrest him?”

  “He hasn’t done anything.”

  “But he’s threatened me.”

  “It was just an impression I gained. He wants you for lifting Circle S cows, Forster. I have eyes. Holst shipped Circle S cows yesterday morning, early.” Forster started visibly. “You thought you’d got away with it, but I have eyes. Looks bad, doesn’t it?”

  Forster’s face showed that it looked bad to him, too. He looked Malloy straight in the eye and said: “I don’t know what you’re talking about, marshal.”

  The lawman made a noise that could have been a chuckle, but which sounded like a faint explosion.

  “You’d better, Forster, or I’ll have your hide,” he said. “My advice to you is: Get out of town. Fast.”

  He turned and walked out of the room.

  Forster listened till his footsteps had died, then he finished dressing hurriedly, strapped on his gun and also left the hotel. But he left by the rear entrance.

  Chapter 6

  Forster’s mind was busy as he walked through the backlots. The walk did him good; it enabled him to clear his mind and to decide what to do. First things first. McAllister had to be stopped. That should not be difficult, for he was only one man. One thing was clear: he could not be killed. If he was, Forster would have Malloy to contend with. For a moment, Forster was tempted to take the man well out of town and kill him on the prairie. No, he would maim McAllister so that he would be stopped from his immediate intention. Forster smiled. He had men who could do that admirably.

  He found Dice Grotten in a shack on the outskirts of town down near the creek. Dice was a man who could be trusted. He was no fool, but he was a simple man in that he gave his loyalty to one man and stuck to it. He gave his to Forster. They had been in the Union army together during the war between the states. They had belonged to a New England regiment; Forster had served first as a lieutenant and then as a captain, while Grotten had been a sergeant, a sober disciplinarian and a brave soldier. He had fought because he had abhorred slavery. He had always been a great reader and he was reading now as Forster entered the cabin, steel-rimmed spectacles perched on his blunt nose and a book propped up on the table near the lamp. The book was Milton’s Paradise Regained. Grotten was absorbed in it and looked a little annoyed at being interrupted. But his frown cleared when he saw that the new arrival was Forster.

  “Hello, captain.”

  “Hello, Dice.”

  Forster drew a chair up to the table.

  “Where’re the boys?” he asked.

  “Spending their money as fast as they can on drink and women I suppose,” was the growled reply. “You look like you saw a ghost. What happened?”

  “Had a visit from Malloy.”

  “Malloy?” A little alarm touched Grotten’s heavy face.

  Forster nodded. “He told me there’s a man in town who wants to kill me.”

  The alarm faded from Grotten’s face. He looked pensive.

  “Know his name?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Then we can settle his hash,” Grotten said steadily.

  “I’m sure you can. His name’s McAllister and he’s at the Dowling House on Garrett. Know it?”

  “Sure. Say, what’s his given name?”

  “Remington.”

  The frown returned to Grotten’s face.

  “You mean old Chad McAllister’s boy?” he demanded.

  “You know him?”

  “Heard of him. Didn’t you hear talk of the feller that went into Comanche country and took out that Texas woman? Went right into their camp and took her from under their noses.”

  “I never heard it.”

  “If it’s him, he’s a real heller.”

  Forster smiled so that he showed his strong white teeth and said: “Bring him down here for me, Dice, and we’ll see how much of a heller he is.”

  Grotten closed his book carefully and put it on one of the several bunks that were built around the walls of the shack. He took off his spectacles and put them carefully on a shelf. Then he put on his jacket and thrust a pistol into his belt to one side so that it did not show. He looked like a parson ready to go to church for Sunday sermon. He also looked strong enough to throw a long-horn bull. Forster had every reason to feel confidence in him.

  “How many boys can you get hold of?” Forster asked.

  “About six.”

  “Take two of them with you when you get McAllister. Send the rest down here.”

  Grotten nodded and walked out. Forster was still showing his teeth.

  Grotten plodded steadily through town, calling in at the various saloons and bawdy houses where he knew the boys might be until he had gathered six together. That he thought should be enough however much of a heller McAllister should prove to be. He chose to take Jack Sholto and Cal Cowdrey with him. The rest he sent back to the shack. Nobody argued. Men generally didn’t argue with
Grotten. He checked that the two men he had retained carried guns and led the way down Garrett. Within minutes, he was shouldering his way through the doorway of the Dowling House. The three of them lined themselves up at the desk. The clerk, who knew them, went a little pale.

  Grotten said: “Son, you never saw us. I want McAllister.”

  The fellow swallowed once powerfully and said: “I never saw you, Mr. Grotten. Number Two front.”

  “Good.”

  Grotten led the way upstairs. At the door of Number Two, he stopped and tapped softly.

  “Who’s there?” asked a voice inside.

  “I’m from the marshal’s office, Mr. McAllister. I’m Deputy Carson.”

  Bootheels sounded, a chair was taken from under the doorhandle and a tall dark man appeared.

  “Mr. McAllister?” Grotten’s voice was at its most urbane.

  “That’s me.”

  Grotten slid his hand under his coat and came up with the Colt’s gun. He gave McAllister credit. The big man didn’t even blink. Immediately the gun was on him, he accepted the fact that if he played the fool he was as good as dead.

  “You’d best come in,” he said affably, but Grotten wasn’t fooled. He had his hands full of man here.

  The three men stepped into the room. Sholto and Cowdrey fanned out on either side, their guns out now, and Grotten stayed near the door.

  Grotten said: “We’re going to take a walk down town. Quietly. You make a break for it and I gun you down.”

  “There’s a real marshal in this town,” McAllister reminded him.

  “There’s a risk,” Grotten agreed. “But there’s a lot at stake. If you try anything, it’ll be worthwhile killing you.”

  McAllister smiled a little.

  “We know where we stand,” he said. “Shall we go?”

  “Sholto,” Grotten ordered, “move out head. McAllister, keep away from him. I’ll go next. Cowdrey, you bring up the rear.”

  They moved off in procession down the landing, down the stairs and turned back on themselves to go through the building to the rear entrance. As they went through the kitchen a female cook raised hell at them tramping through her domain, but nobody paid her any heed and a moment later they were plodding through the backlots. Nobody spoke a word. They left the backlots for the rough ground on the outskirts of town, reached the creek bank and walked along it. The three Jayhawkers now had their guns out of sight, but McAllister knew that they would be quick enough to draw them if he tried anything. There was some apprehension in him, he wouldn’t have been human if there had not, but there was also a feeling of triumph, for he guessed that these men would take him to the man he sought.

  After some minutes walking they sighted some trees and headed for a shack standing among them. Though it was fairly newly built, as was every building around here, it already had a decrepit and uncared-for look about it. Sholto opened the door and shoved McAllister inside. He stared around, trying to get his eyes accustomed to the gloom.

  There were several men present. In fact, the place seemed full of men. His eyes settled on a man as tall as himself. The last time he had seen him, the man had been bearded and now he was clean-shaven, but he knew he would have recognised him twenty years from now in disguise. This was the man who had ridden into the trail camp before the herd had been spooked and Boss was killed.

  McAllister said: “So I finally caught up with you.”

  When the man spoke, he no longer attempted to disguise his cultured voice.

  “I think,” he said, “it’s I who have caught up with you.”

  “Does it matter?” McAllister asked. “We’re here, face-to-face.”

  The man showed his large white teeth.

  “What matters,” the man said, “is that you’re out-numbered and have no gun, that we out-number you and all have guns. In fact, you could be mutton in a second flat.”

  “You sure need some help when you do your dirty work,” McAllister remarked.

  “Strength is everything,” the man said, “and a man is a fool if he has it and doesn’t use it.”

  “What do you aim to do with your strength?” McAllister asked politely.

  “You came here to kill me,” the man said. “In return I’m going to maim you. You’ll be out of commission for a good while. That suits my purpose.”

  “Why not kill me?”

  “In the good Malloy’s town? You must think me a fool.”

  McAllister shrugged.

  “You’d best get on with it,” he said.

  Taking his time, Forster lit a cigar. He tossed aside the match and nodded to Grotten. That worthy stepped forward behind McAllister and struck him with his clenched fist in the neck. Or that was what he intended, but it seemed that McAllister either heard him coming or anticipated the move, because he stepped to one side, caught Grotten’s wrist as his giant fist grazed his neck and hurled him bodily across the shack. Grotten collided violently with his chief and bore him to the floor with a crash. Before anybody there could recover themselves enough to get into action, McAllister whirled and hurled himself at Sholto and Cowdrey who stood just inside the door. He smashed them both back against the door, crashed their heads together, hurled them aside and darted for the latch. But he did not move fast enough. Somebody caught him by the collar and dragged him back into the room, a fist was driven into his face, he stumbled around and a boot caught him in the thigh. Men hurled themselves on him, driving fists into his ribs and kicking his legs from under him.

  He hit the floor, rolled, caught a booted foot and reared to his feet with the foot in both hands. A man landed with a crash that brought the table down as worthless matchwood. McAllister leapt across the fallen man like an insane fury, came up against another, drove a fist into a belly and snapped a right up into the face above. The bone of the nose cracked like a pistol shot. A man went down on hands and knees, weeping and howling.

  McAllister was torn from his feet, he knew not how, hit the floor and was immediately kicked in the ribs. He was dimly aware that booted feet tramped all around him and that several men were bellowing instructions. He knew there was no hope for him, but the will to survive and to refuse defeat when he stared it in the face was strong in him. He tried rolling again, but he rolled into more boots. He was composed of a kind of numbed pain. His ribs felt as if they had been caved in and his head as if it had been shattered. Blindly he tried to get to his feet, trying to see the door, but seeing nothing but the brutal faces of the men around him.

  He threw himself forward and something hard struck him across the face, dazing him and knocking him backward. He heard himself hit the floor, but was incapable of feeling more pain. Again he regained his feet, stood swaying there, vaguely conscious that there was a man in front of him. He swung a fist, felt knuckles on bone and then the floor rushed up to meet him again. He tried to push himself up on his hands; his face struck the floor.

  He heard a voice say: “You should of killed him, captain.”

  Another said: “I wouldn’t be surprised if we did.”

  Then a merciful unconsciousness took over.

  Chapter 7

  There were stars above him.

  The moon rode cold and serene.

  He knew that he lay in the open, but he did not know where. All he was conscious of was the mass of agony that composed his body. He knew that he was as near to death as he would ever be without dying. He lay there trying to remember until the face of the man called ‘captain’ floated uncertainly into his vision. Slowly the scene in the shack returned. And with it came fear that the men had taken him out onto the prairie and left him there to die. He tried to sit up, but the stark agony that knifed through his rib-cage prevented him. He heard himself groan.

  He must have drifted off again.

  The next thing he was conscious of was a sound which at first he could not identify, but slowly it seeped through into his benumbed brain that he was listening to a woman singing.

  Something inside him laughe
d. Maybe it was an angel.

  He rolled over onto his face and forced himself to his hands and knees. Lifting his head, he saw lights. A house. To left and right, more lights. Then it came to him that he was on the backlots of the town. Hope rose in him. He gritted his teeth together and fought his way to his feet through a curtain of weakness and pain. When he tried to walk, his legs folded under him and he hit the ground. Twice he gained his feet and twice his legs failed him, but he kept at it, his will driving him. Finally, having fallen a fourth time, he tried crawling on hands and knees, pushing as slow as a snail toward the lights.

  He crawled till something stopped him. A picket fence. Gripping it with both hands, he hauled himself to his feet again. He saw that he was immediately behind a house and that a door was open allowing light to stream out into the night. Between him and the light was a figure.

  He tried to call out and all he could get out was some kind of a croak. He lost his balance and pitched forward over the fence.

  * * *

  Voices.

  There was a bright light shining in his eyes and it hurt them, sending hot darts of pain through his head. He winced and closed them for a moment. When he opened them he saw a girl’s face; the loveliest face he had ever seen it seemed.

  A man’s voice said: “Who could do a thing like this?”

  He heard himself whisper: “That’s a very good question.”

  He felt bad, lying there like that with a woman looking at him. He tried to sit up, but he couldn’t move at all now. Voices and faces became blurred, he tried to hang on desperately, feeling that if he surrendered he would be dead. But he drifted back into darkness just the same.

  * * *

  Again light hurt his eyes.

  This time it was sunlight and it shone into his eyes like hope itself. He was in a room and its quietness was accentuated by the distant sounds of the town that came to his ears. He lay there a long time, listening and thinking: I’m alive. It was good, just lying there and knowing he was alive.

  Slowly details of the room came through to him – pretty curtains that could only have been chosen by a woman, flowered paper on the walls, a bureau with a mirror on it. By God, he thought, he was in a woman’s room.