Kill McAllister

by Matt Chisholm

  Time meant nothing as he lay there, letting his mind drift, not moving, because he knew that movement meant pain. He remembered some of the details of the fight that had put him here, he recalled how he had found himself in the backlots; the faces of the man and woman leaning over him returned. Thinking about them, he drifted smoothly off into sleep again with a last thought for the man he had come here to find, but who had found him.

  The next time he woke, it was dark and there was a light burning softly in the room. A slight and pleasant smell teased his nostrils. He opened his eyes and looked around him. Sitting in a chair no more than a few feet from him with some sewing on her lap was a woman. A girl. No more than a couple of years older than himself and a beauty – black hair and skin as pale as cream; eyes large and eloquent; a mouth soft, full and perfectly shaped. The body beneath was as perfect. Everything a man could desire.

  “So,” she said, her eyes meeting his and that lovely mouth smiling, “you decided to come alive.” She had a funny foreign accent that was as clearcut as crystal. Her dress, he noticed, was low-cut like an evening gown might be and he could see the start of the soft swell of her breasts, milk-white.

  He smiled back at her.

  “I thought I was in heaven for a moment,” he said.

  She turned her head away and darted him a look from the corner of her fine eyes.

  “Compliments already,” she said. “Macready warned me that I should not stay in here.”

  “And who is Macready?” he asked.

  “My manager.”

  “What an occupation, managing somebody like you! And what might your name be, ma’am?”

  “I’m Nellie Stein.”

  The truth came to him. This was the famous Nellie Stein, the English opera star who was making a triumphant tour of America. She had received a tempestuous welcome throughout the whole of the West and was now concluding her tour along the railroad cowtowns of Kansas. It almost took his breath away that he could find himself lying in bed with so famous a beauty so near.

  “Why, ma’am,” he said, “you’ve surely struck me all of a heap. Why, is this your bed?”

  She laughed and her laugh was pure music.

  “No, my sacrifice has not been great. This is my maid’s room. She is a soft-hearted girl, Betty. She insisted we put you in here.”

  “How’s she makin’ out?”

  “We made up a bed in my room for her.”

  “I’m real sorry to put you to all this inconvenience.”

  “All we want is for you to get well.”

  He thought about that, finding himself in a very weak and emotional condition.

  “I’m thankin’ you, ma’am,” he said. “I reckon you saved my life.”

  “Perhaps,” she said. “But Marshal Malloy was of the opinion that you are indestructible.”

  He smiled, rolled his head to one side and fell asleep again.

  When he awoke again, there were two men in the room and one of them was Art Malloy, puffing at his gigantic mustache. He carried a revolver on his right hip and he was chewing on an unlit cigar. He squinted at McAllister worriedly from under the broadbrim of his hat. It was still night and the lamp was burning softly. The other man was young and clean-shaven. He had spotless hands that looked as soft and sensitive as a woman’s. There was a quiet confidence about him that impressed McAllister. This man smiled as McAllister’s gaze met his.

  “Well,” he said, “I guess you’re still alive, but I can’t say I know how.”

  McAllister grinned.

  “It’s a family trick,” he said.

  Malloy came to the side of the bed and as he moved, McAllister saw that there was another person in the room. It was a girl and he saw that she wore a lace apron and cap such as he had seen in pictures, but never in real life. He reckoned she was Nellie Stein’s maid. Before he could get a good look at her, Malloy was in the way again and saying: “How’d you feel, boy?”

  “Fine, just fine.”

  “That’s plainly a durn lie.”

  “There ain’t nothin’ wrong with me won’t heal,” McAllister said.

  “You don’t know what’s wrong with you.”

  “I’m breathin’, ain’t I?” McAllister half-snarled. “An’ I’m hungry as all get out.”

  “I’m afraid,” the young man said, “we can’t feed you solids yet awhile. Maybe some soup, huh, Millie?”

  The girl said: “I’ll get some right away, doctor.” McAllister noticed she talked in a funny way like Nellie Stein did.

  “Ma’am,” McAllister said, suddenly peppery, “if’n you don’t aim to go rustle me up a man’s size steak don’t you bother to stir yourself none.”

  “And what does that mean in English?” the girl demanded pertly and McAllister made a mental note that he would have to do something about her. He got a good look at her and saw that she wasn’t much over eighteen; she was pretty with a fresh face, bright eyes and a round full figure. Just the way he liked to see a female parceled. There were compensations to being nearly beaten to death and he liked counting compensations of this kind.

  “It means, miss,” Malloy said, “that if you don’t give the patient a steak he is going to have your scalp.” He said it very solemnly. The girl flushed up and looked mad.

  “I wouldn’t advise solids,” said the young doctor.

  McAllister fought pain and got up onto his elbows.

  “McAllisters never take advice,” he said and was pleased that his voice was strong again. “If I don’t get somethin’ solid inside me I’m a-goin’ to climb outa this here bed and get me some.”

  “Mr. McAllister,” the doctor said, a little flustered, “I wouldn’t advise—”

  The girl pushed forward. “Didn’t you hear, doctor,” she said. “McAllisters never take advice. You should know by now that this kind of patient needs bullying. You lie down now, Mr. McAllister, and do as the doctor tells you. He knows best.” McAllister glared at her in fury and strove to get up. She gave a cry of impatience, took him by the shoulders and gently but firmly pushed him so that his head was back on the pillow again. Her touch and the smell of her was kind of nice. “Don’t you dare move, now. Why, you’ve three broken ribs and you’re all cut and torn something awful. I never saw—”

  “You mean you’ve seen me?” McAllister demanded.

  “I found you, didn’t I?” she snapped.

  McAllister quietened.

  “So, it was you found me.”

  “Yes, it was.”

  “I reckon that gives you a kind of a right, then. Tell you what, doc. I’ll drink this durned soup if’n this ministering angel ministers it to me. How’s that?”

  The doctor grinned.

  “That sounds like a good compromise,” he said.

  Malloy cleared his throat and stamped to the door.

  “I’m wastin’ my time here,” he said. “The boy’ll live. McAllister, you going to tell me who did this to you?”

  McAllister said: “I don’t have to. You know. And he needed an army to help him.”

  “I guess he would at that. But knowing who did it doesn’t help. He rode out of town last night.”

  “Which way’d he go?”

  “South.”

  Malloy opened the door and McAllister said: “Wait, marshal. How’re the trail herds comin’ along?”

  Malloy told him: “Last one’s around twenty miles south of town right now.”

  “That the Struthers’ outfit?”

  Malloy frowned.

  “No. Nobody heard of the Struthers’ outfit.” He closed the door behind him. McAllister started worrying. What had happened to Sam? Had he given up the idea of heading for this town? Had he reckoned that there was too much risk and taken the herd further west? Or had the whole outfit been simply wiped out?

  The doctor picked up his bag, preparing to leave.

  “I leave you in good hands, Mr. McAllister,” he said. The girl looked as if she had been given a prize she didn’t want. “I’
ll see you tomorrow morning. Plenty of sleep and we’ll have you out of bed in no time at all.”

  “How long, doc?”

  “Two-three weeks and you’ll be walking. A month and you’ll be as good as new.”

  “Wanta bet?” McAllister snarled.

  The doctor gave him an uncertain grin, bade the maid goodnight and went out. The girl turned to McAllister and started tidying the bed without looking at him. He watched her closely, enjoying every second of it.

  “It was worth gettin’ beat,” he said. She pursed her lips and continued with her work. “Honey, be all woman and find me a steak. I’ve gotta get back my strength an’ cow meat’s the only thing that’ll do it.”

  She stopped. She rested both hands on the bed and looked into his eyes. If he had been able to push his head forward, she was close enough to kiss. But he couldn’t, so he didn’t, though he was tempted to.

  “Mr. McAllister, sir,” she said, “you’re not going to have a steak. You’re to lie there, eat slops and get well just like the doctor said.”

  “You want to bet on it, miss?” he demanded.

  “It wouldn’t be fair to bet on it,” she told him. “I’d be sure to win.”

  “I’m the stubbornest man in Texas.”

  “And I’m the stubbornest woman in Europe.”

  “And the prettiest.”

  She blushed. She left the bed and occupied herself about the room for a moment before she went out of the room, muttering something about getting him something to eat.

  He lay there for a moment, very still, forgetting the girl instantly, thinking about Boss dead there on the prairie, Sam and the crew somewhere south of here with the cows. The marshal had said there were no more herds to come in, but McAllister knew there was one. Somehow, he had to get word to Sam. But how? And would word be enough? Sam would want help. You couldn’t keep a herd intact and fight a bunch of Jayhawkers all at the same time.

  He thought: McAllister, if’s just a matter of will. If you want to get off this bed hard enough, you can get off it.

  He tried to sit up, but he was held where he was by a hot wall of pain. He grated his teeth together and the sweat leapt out on his forehead.

  “Christ!” he whispered. He fought vainly and felt like weeping in his helplessness.

  You were only kicked and hit, he told himself, you weren’t shot.

  He lay back, thinking of Forster and hating him. He never knew he had that much hate in him. He pictured himself coming up with the man, gunning him down.

  All he had to do now, he thought, was keep his body stiff so that one of the broken ribs didn’t penetrate a lung. If he could get his legs over the side of the bed, the battle would be won. Slowly, using his hands on the bed, he turned himself on his backside and suddenly his legs were over the edge of the bed. As his heels touched the floor, pain flooded through him and for a moment he thought he’d faint with it. But he got a grip on himself, eased himself onto his elbows swore a couple of times, fought his way through the wall of agony and was suddenly sitting on the edge of the bed. He felt terrible. Where were his clothes?

  He could see his boots, worn and scuffed, but clean now, on the other side of the room. Pants and shirt were on a chair, washed and neatly folded. He looked down at himself and saw to his horror that he was stark naked. Where the hell were his long-johns? No cowman was dressed without them. He managed to drape a sheet around him with great difficulty and then, bracing every aching muscle in his body, he stood up.

  The room reeled, then it turned over a couple of times. He tried to reach out for support, failed to find it and the floor came up to meet him. The fall shook the house.

  The door burst open and the girl rushed in.

  “Oh, no,” she cried and the next moment was on her knees on the floor beside him, concern on her face.

  He looked up at her and grinned, wryly.

  “If’n you’d given me that steak, I would of had the strength,” he said.

  “You get back on that bed at once,” she ordered him.

  “Can’t get up.”

  She helped him. She put her arms around him and showed herself to be very strong. Good working stock, he told himself. Together, heaving and straining, they managed to get him back on the bed and she at once covered him with the clothes. She stood and looked down at him, hands on hips, eyes mad.

  “Don’t you ever try that again,” she told him. “Don’t you know you could kill yourself?”

  “I’ve got to get out of here,” he said.

  “In couple of weeks perhaps.”

  “Now.”

  “Not while I’m looking after you.”

  He caught her by the wrist and forced her to sit on the bed beside him.

  “I’ll tell you what brought me here,” he said, “then you’ll change your mind. You’ll help me on my way.”

  “Miss Stein said you were to stay here. She pays my wages and I’ll see you stay here.”

  “You hear what I have to say and you’ll think differently.”

  She tried to free herself, but he wouldn’t let her go. He told her the whole story right from the moment that Boss Harding had hired him, to the time the Jayhawkers had ridden in shooting and how Boss had died, right up to how he had met up with Forster here in town. He didn’t leave anything out, impressing the girl about how a cowman felt about getting his cows through. She cried a little over Boss and McAllister thought that showed nice feeling.

  “Now,” he said, “can’t you see I have to go?”

  “No, I don’t. That black man, Sam, will know there’ll be more trouble. He’ll be ready for it.”

  “I wish I could believe that,” McAllister said. “But he’ll need help, any road.”

  “A lot of help one man can give him and that one man crippled as you are.”

  There was something in what she said.

  “But,” he told her, “you can see I can’t stay here. I have to go to look for Sam. Christ, woman, they’re my crew.”

  “Don’t you blaspheme at me, Mr. McAllister. I’m not one of your dancehall girls. Now, I’m going to get you some fine broth that’ll help build up your strength.”

  She freed herself and left McAllister swearing impotently on the bed. A short while after she was back with a bowl of broth. She started spooning it into him, but he took the bowl from her and drank the contents scalding hot and demanded more. She brought more and he downed that.

  He said: “I’ll be on my feet tomorrow, that’s a promise,” and fell asleep. He was too deeply asleep to know that she leaned over and kissed him on the forehead.

  Chapter 8

  He dreamed of being hunted in the dark on the open prairie. There wasn’t anywhere to hide and every time a man came for him and he fired the bullets went right through him. He reckoned he was being hunted by ghosts. He woke in a sweat and found himself all tangled up in the bed clothes.

  It was dawn and the light was beginning to come in at the window.

  He assessed himself and said out loud: “I feel pretty good.”

  He got his legs over the side of the bed and there was a considerable amount of pain, but it was bearable. All the sleep he had had and the nourishment he had taken the night before, had done him some good. He stood up; the room rocked a couple of times, then steadied. He smiled with satisfaction and walked gingerly across the room. Every muscle in his body ached, but it was bearable. He pulled back the curtains, hunted around and found his longjohns on the top of the bureau. It took him a long time to climb into them, because it was almost impossible to bend his body, but he finally made it. After that he lowered himself carefully and painfully to the chair for a rest, all the time listening for the sounds of anybody moving about the house. He heard nothing. If madame was a singer, that meant she went to bed late and rose late. That suited him.

  He got his strength up again, eased himself to his feet and pulled on his shirt. This was living hell; he sweated, cursed and winced, glad that there was nobody here to see him ma
king a fool of himself. Getting into his pants was even worse, but when he had them on he felt so triumphant that he could have shouted with joy. His boots stumped him. He tried and tried again, but he couldn’t get them on. Finally, he was forced to stamp his feet into them. While he was doing this, the door flew open and Millie appeared. She looked so mad that for a moment she had him cowered.

  “Mr. McAllister I What in heaven’s name do you think you’re doing, sir?”

  “Just climbin’ into my duds, ma’am, is all.”

  “Then you can just climb out of them again.”

  “Can’t be done. I’ve got to see a man.”

  Another female figure appeared in the doorway. This was Nellie Stein in a silk dressing-gown, hair in curlers, but still managing to look vital and beautiful.

  “What’s this, Millie?” she demanded, aghast.

  “Mr. McAllister seems to think he’s going, ma’am.”

  “Then he may think again.” Mistress looked as mad as the maid. “Get back into bed this instant, sir.”

  “Ladies,” McAllister declared, “you sure got me scared an’ no mistake, but it don’t make no difference. I got a friend in trouble an’ I’ve got to be there when it happens. You’d do the same in my boots. Wouldn’t you now?”

  Nellie Stein said: “At the moment, I am concerned with your welfare, Mr. McAllister.”

  “Call me Rem.”

  Both ladies toosed their heads. They came bustling over to him, one on either side and tried to force him out of the chair back to the bed.

  “Look out,” McAllister cried. “You’re so strong, you moved a rib.”

  They jumped back in horror.

  “Millie,” Miss Stein said, “run and get Mr. Malloy. Perhaps he can make this foolish young man see some sense.”

  Millie ran out without a word.

  McAllister found his gun and strapped it on.

  Miss Stein’s eyes snapped with temper.

  “Did Millie tell you my story, ma’am?” McAllister asked.

  “Yes, she did, but that doesn’t make any difference.”

  “You ain’t the kind to let a friend down, Nellie.”

  She softened suddenly.