At that moment the marshal, walking along the sidewalk, heard the sound of a third horse coming up from the creek, stopped and turned. He saw that this was a rider he had never seen before. A Negro who rode a bay and led a saddled sorrel behind. He placed no importance on the stranger and walked on.
The stranger rode past him and the marshal noted that both beasts had been ridden hard a long way and he wondered. The Negro went almost to the bank on the opposite side of the street and swung down. Nonchalantly, he walked into an alleymouth, The marshal’s wonder increased.
McAllister called: “Forster.”
The man stopped and turned, inquiry on his face. He saw McAllister and stiffened.
“You.”
“Yes, me. I’ve come to equalise for Boss Harding.”
The few passersby paid them no heed.
Forster said: “I know nothing of Boss Harding.”
“You never will.”
Forster was carrying a leather bag in his left hand, his right was free. It brushed back the skirt of his coat and revealed the white bone handle of the Colt’s gun.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said.
“You don’t have to,” McAllister said. “All you have to do is pull that iron of yourn and fire. Because if you don’t I’m going to kill you where you stand.”
“There’s law in this town. You’ll hang.”
“Right this minute, there’s only one law you have to worry about and that’s me.”
The marshal coming in sight of them at this moment caught sight of Dice Grotten standing at an angle to McAllister so that he was out of sight of the big man. As he looked, Grotten drew his gun and cocked it. It was pointed at McAllister. The marshal drew his own gun and started to run and as he ran he shouted McAllister’s name. It all seemed to happen at once.
The big man turned, the Negro stepped out of the alleyway and there was a gun in his hand. He chopped the weapon down for the shot and the heavy slug took hold of Grotten and spun him around. Grotten was down, but he was firing. The marshal saw the dust spurt up at the Negro’s feet, heard a slug hit the wall behind him. The Negro fired again and again. Grotten kicked a couple of times and lay still. The marshal stopped running. He found that he was so relieved he wanted to shout.
Strangely enough Forster did not take advantage of this chance. He stood motionless while the shooting was going on, maybe knowing that McAllister was still watching him, maybe for some other reason. But he didn’t move.
When he saw the marshal, however, he called out: “Malloy, arrest that man, he’s threatening my life.”
Malloy took a quick look around.
“I daren’t,” he said. “That Negro there is holding a gun on me.”
Sam flashed him a grin and pointed his gun at him.
Forster seemed to go pale.
“I don’t stand a chance,” he said, “there’s two of them.”
“It ain’t my fight,” said Sam. “I’m here to see fair play. An’ I just seen it. Go ahead.”
Forster laid the bag on the ground and straightened himself. Suddenly he looked collected and cool now that he knew he was committed to the fight.
“All right,” he said, “it’s on your head, McAllister. I’ll kill you if that’s what you want.”
The street went still.
McAllister was standing upright and braced, hands at his sides. Forster was crouched slightly. McAllister knew that he was fast and might be faster than he, McAllister. But there was no other way. He felt the sudden calm of the irrevocable moment come on him. He had known it before and could only hope that he would live to know it again.
Forster was delaying it, hoping to wear him down. Each man wondered what the other’s method would be. Would he stay still? Would he shift out of his own smoke once he had fired? If so, which way would he go? A split-second hesitation could cost a man his life.
Suddenly, Forster’s whole body moved and his gun seemed to come like a live thing from the holster at his side. In the same movement, he fired and jumped to the left and fired again. McAllister felt the bullet wing past him. He drew, fired and flung himself flat to the left so that he lay flat in the dust with his arm thrown out before him. The first shot missed. Forster’s third nicked his right buttock.
Then it came to McAllister.
It was the distance that was worrying Forster. The range was too much for him.
A fourth shot came. Kicking up the dust to McAllister’s right while he laid a careful aim on his adversary.
McAllister fired.
Forster jerked suddenly, staggering back a pace, his mouth wide in shock. When he swung his gun around onto McAllister it was as though he were striving against an immense counter force. His face contorted with the effort, his lips drew back from his teeth like the snarl of an animal. The thumb cocked the hammer as though lifting a heavy weight. The effort caused him to take another staggered pace backward.
McAllister fired again.
Forster was knocked flat on his back, his gun went off into the air. He kicked twice and lay still, mouth and eyes wide.
McAllister stayed where he was, head up and staring. Then slowly he laid his head on his arm. He was very tired and it seemed that in that moment he wanted but a long sleep.
Feet tramped through the dust. He swung up and around on his butt, gun in hand, and saw that he was being approached by Sam and Malloy. Sam had a smoking gun in his hand. Only then did McAllister know that it was Sam who shot Grotten.
“Thanks, Sam,” he said,
“Even Stephen,” Sam said.
Malloy walked past them to look down at Forster.
“Officially dead,” he declared. He walked back to Sam and McAllister. “Well, I’d best do something about you two.”
McAllister stood up and asked: “Do you arrest us, Malloy?”
The marshal looked grim.
“See the judge in the morning,” he said. “Five dollar fine for carrying arms. I’ll take your guns now, gentlemen.”
They unbuckled their gun-belts and handed them over. Malloy turned and walked back toward his office. On the way, they saw him stop to speak to a man in black who hurried along the street, produced a tape-measure from his pocket and started to measure Grotten for length.
“What do you aim to do now, Sam?” McAllister asked.
“Sleep for a week.”
“Me, too, but first I wrap myself around a steak with fried potatoes.”
“I’ll join if’n I can keep awake,” Sam said.
They walked down the street together. McAllister wished Nellie Stein and Millie had been in town. They’d be in Europe by now, he reckoned. But as he walked to the restaurant, he saw a pretty face on the sidewalk, smiled and got a smile in return.
He looked back. The girl looked back. Sam was saying how he was going to get a crew together and go to the valley to collect the herd. He thought he wouldn’t be too far short of the original number by the time he’d finished. He’d throw the other cows in the valley in with the Struthers herd.
“Maybe you’ll write me a telegraph to the colonel,” said Sam, chuckling. “Reckon he thinks we’re livin’ it up in San Francisco on the proceeds by now.”
McAllister said: “If’n it’s all the same to you, Sam, I’ll take my time and stick around a while.”
She was a very pretty girl and there was promise in her eye.
He and Sam walked into the restaurant.
This electronic edition published in 2011 by Bloomsbury Reader
Bloomsbury Reader is a division of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc, 50 Bedford Square, London
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Copyright © P.C. Watts 1969
First published by Panther Books Ltd
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Kill McAllister Page 16
