McAllister 6

by Matt Chisholm

  Lige had worked the last two years for McAllister. This gangling, lathe-thin black boy was a major asset so far as McAllister was concerned, for the sheriff knew how rare a horse-sense the young fellow possessed. He understood horses to an uncanny degree. He was also, as McAllister had learned to his acute discomfort, the worst cook ever born. That, however, had been all put right now, for Lige’s mother and father had moved out of town and established themselves at McAllister’s place. There had been two blacksmiths in town, and McAllister knew that Mose was not doing as well as he would have liked, so he suggested that Mose sell up and move out to his place. The work on the horse ranch was getting too much for McAllister and Lige, now that McAllister had his sheriff’s duties to undertake. Law enforcement took more of his time as new people came into the country. So Mose and his wife, Bella, moved out to McAllister’s place and they built a house on the east side of the creek, which gave them independence and privacy. There Bella started a small truck garden. Mose was good with horses, though he did not possess the flair his son did. The arrangement had worked out well. Bella prepared a meal for McAllister each evening and kept his bachelor quarters tidy. Previously, Lige had slept in the small house with McAllister; now they had built the boy a small bunkroom at the end of the barn so that he would be near the horses. He liked that. Mose found that he had the main part of the shoeing trade from the lower end of the valley, and this suited him fine. The Copleys were prospering.

  As he expected, the two Copley men between them had everything under control. Now that he had them both together in the breaking pen, he broached the subject of the race.

  Lige said straight off: ‘You gotta put Caesar in, boss.’

  ‘Say,’ said Mose, ‘that calls for one thousand dollars.’ He looked at McAllister for an explanation.

  McAllister said: ‘I’m raising it, Mose.’

  A small smile flitted across the ex-slave’s face. He could imagine. He said: ‘Who rides the horse?’

  ‘Me,’ said Lige.

  ‘You?’ said McAllister, face solemn. ‘What did you ever do to prove you could ride a class horse in a class race?

  ‘Do?’ squeaked Lige, who was having trouble with his baritone and treble these days. ‘I’m only the feller that knows this horse like nobody’s business. Who else is there can ride him? Who’s light enough?’

  ‘You reckon he has a point there, Mose?’

  ‘Well, maybe, but I got my doubts.’

  Lige jumped in with both feet: ‘You two ain’t serious, for God’s sake. You can’t be. Why if anybody but me was to ride that stud, they’d …’ His voice trailed off as he rolled his eyes from one to the other. ‘You both joshing me, for crissake.’

  ‘Language,’ said Mose.

  So it was agreed Lige should ride Caesar. McAllister changed his saddle from Sally, the mare, to Oscar, his gelding, and said: ‘You ride as light as you know how, Lige. Decide your gear with your dad. A surcingle, no saddle, that kind of thing. I’ll be out in a couple of days when I know the exact course. We’ll talk it over and find out how best to go about it. Just remember, there’s a thousand glorious dollars on you, boy.’

  The whole enormity of what was to happen seemed to drop on Lige then. He looked at his father a little uncertainly.

  ‘Don’t you remind me, boss. I sure know.’

  Mose said: ‘You can do it, kid.’

  ‘Sure, I can do it,’ Lige said, but he looked as if he was praying under his breath. McAllister rode for town.

  First man he ran into in town was Doc Robertson. McAllister reined in outside the Grand Union Hotel to talk with him.

  ‘My God, Rem,’ Robertson said, ‘what’s Wallach trying to do? Get himself killed? The ranchers’ll lynch him for this.’ McAllister said: ‘I reckon not, George.’

  ‘You reckon not! The situation’s tricky enough without him adding fuel to it.’

  ‘There’s substantial opposition to what the cattlemen’re doing, George. It’s all legal. All Lennie’s doing is expressing their thoughts.’

  The doctor said: ‘What in hell’s the good of talking to you? What do you care that I’ll be patching up wounded men all hours God sends?’

  The second man he ran into was Jolly Jack Dunbar. McAllister was surprised to see that he was still in town. The association meeting had been the day before. Usually the members scattered to their respective headquarters as soon as the meeting was completed. Maybe a few would stop for drinks at the saloon, but they seldom stayed overnight. ‘Rem.’

  ‘Jack.’

  ‘Rem, your friend Wallach must have taken leave of his senses.’

  McAllister dismounted and Dunbar stroked Oscar’s nose. Oscar liked that. McAllister said: ‘If he was on your side, Jack, you’d be cheering. What he’s doing is legal. Maybe it’s good that he can do it. The cattlemen’s association isn’t God, you know.’

  Dunbar smiled. ‘You tell them that. But seriously, Rem, I have to tell you that I wouldn’t be surprised if some of our members took steps after this outburst of Wallach’s. Hell, I ain’t too damn keen on strong-arm stuff, but you can push us too far, you know.’

  McAllister said pleasantly enough: ‘If there’s any strong- arm stuff, Jack, I’ll know where to come looking. Being a big wheel in these parts won’t save anybody if they break the law.’

  ‘Where do you think you’ll find a judge to come out against us?’

  McAllister smiled. ‘I’ll think of something, you can bet your sweet life on that.’

  Jolly Jack looked at him for a moment and then said: ‘I believe you would too.’

  ‘You better believe it.’ There were a few people gathered on the sidewalk watching them, but probably not able to hear what they said. ‘If anybody touches a hair of Lennie’s head, I’ll have ’em as sure as God made little apples. And another thing, Jack – and this you better not forget – if the hired gun who’s been hauled in here does his job and anybody gets killed, I’ll have a rope around somebody’s neck if he happens to be the governor himself.’

  This hit Jack Dunbar so hard that for a moment he was struck speechless. McAllister turned to lead Oscar away, but the rancher caught him by the arm. ‘Wait.’ McAllister stopped and turned. ‘You’re not serious, man.’

  ‘I’m serious.’

  ‘You mean somebody brought in a gunman?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Rem, I swear I don’t know a thing about it.’

  McAllister studied him. ‘You know,’ he said, ‘I believe you. But somebody did and somebody better stop him doing the job or there’s going to be a hell of a lot of grief around here.’

  He walked away, leaving the troubled rancher to stare after him.

  McAllister walked Oscar down to the large legend which ran: SUPERB LIVERY & CORRAL. He turned into the yard under the sign. Sammy Nolan was currying a fine- looking sorrel. He greeted McAllister cheerfully. Nolan had bought the livery about a month before. Previously he had freighted between Black Horse and Caspar. He was thirty years old and a worker; recently married and the wife was expecting. That had sobered the lively Nolan up somewhat.

  McAllister turned Oscar into the corral which lay beyond the barn. When he got back to Nolan, he said: ‘Well, Sam, what do you know?’

  ‘This race of yours has brought the bugs out of the woodwork.’

  ‘Sounds interesting.’

  ‘One of Jude McCarthy’s gang was here asking Mark about the race.’

  McAllister laughed outright. ‘Good grief, you mean there’s going to be a horse-thief in the race?’

  Nolan grinned. That’s what I mean.’

  Wagging his head in disbelief, McAllister headed back to his office. He gave a few thoughts to McCarthy, one of the most notorious horse-thieves in the territory. It was said that he stopped stages and counterfeited money on the side, but his renown rested on his love of good horse-flesh. McAllister was pretty sure that, if he entered a race, it would be with a safe horse, one which could not be reclaimed by an
owner. He would be pretty sure too that it would be a first-class horse. One way and another, McAllister had started something with this race.

  He was no sooner back in his office when the street door opened to reveal Glub Groos. The big man was sweating and he was mad. With him was one of his top-hands, a man named Griff Morgan. McAllister had known him slightly down in Crewsville, Arizona. Not a man whose company he would choose. He did not have to ask Groos what he wanted. The big man put both hands on top of the desk and thrust his face across the desk at the sheriff.

  ‘Do you aim to do something about that little son-of-a-bitch Wallach, or do you leave it to me, McAllister?’

  ‘I don’t aim to discuss it with you one way or the other, Glub,’ McAllister said.

  ‘I pay taxes like anybody else and I want an answer.’ McAllister said: ‘If you don’t like the way I do my sheriffing, get me replaced. I didn’t ask for the goddam job and I don’t want it. So calm down or get the hell out of here.’ There was no other way of speaking to the man. A soft tone would have earned his contempt. Groos looked rather at a loss.

  ‘He’s writing libel,’ he shouted. ‘Ain’t that a crime?’

  ‘If you think he’s committed a libel,’ McAllister said, ‘get yourself a lawyer and sue him.’

  ‘That takes months,’ Groos roared. ‘I want him stopped now.’

  ‘Then get an injunction against him.’

  ‘Don’t think I won’t. I’ll buy me the best goddam lawyer in the country and I’ll stop that bastard in his tracks.’ McAllister said: ‘If he can prove what he wrote is true, it could cost you your ranch, Glub.’

  Groos was heading for the door. He turned back now. ‘Nobody don’t believe that little son-of-a-bitch. It’s all lies.

  ‘Then you have a good case. Go ahead.’

  Groos stood for a moment, swaying his great head from side to side like a puzzled bull. ‘He should ought to be burned out,’ he said.

  Morgan said warningly in a soft voice: ‘Mr Groos.’

  ‘Aaah! What the hell,’ Groos shouted. ‘McAllister knows the kind of man I am. He knows what I stand for. It just surprises the hell out of me he can side with sheepherders and cow-thieves.’

  McAllister stood up and said: ‘Glub, you repeat that and maybe it’ll be you who gets sued.’

  Groos’ eyes snapped. He stared. ‘Christ!’ he said. ‘What the hell’s happened to this man’s country. There was a day when a feller just knocked your goddam block off for saying out of turn. Now he threatens to sue. You mean you joined the willy-wetlegs, McAllister.’

  McAllister said: ‘I don’t reckon knocking a man’s block off makes a man of you. But, if you’re making aspersions, I could knock your thick head off any day of the week, one hand tied behind my back, and with that little punk you tote around with you for protection.’

  For a moment, Groos looked like a man who could not believe the evidence of his ears. ‘By grab, Griff,’ he said, ‘I do believe this horse-trader is giving us the old heave-o. Why, you two cents worth of cold piss, I’ll—’

  He swung a massive doubled fist at McAllister’s head. He signaled it a good few seconds before he threw it. He screwed up his face for the effort and swung back his fist, then he sent it approximately in the direction of McAllister’s head. McAllister moved that head two inches to one side, seemed to slump in the body, gripped the wrist with both hands and fell backwards. Groos, seemingly too big for such a movement, yet apparently not, left the floor, sailed over McAllister and met the wall of the office with a sound which can only be described as horrific.

  McAllister, who was never one to delay once the action had started, was at once in action against Griff Morgan. The top-hand’s instincts were of a more lethal and self-preserving nature than his employer’s, for at once his right hand dropped to the butt of his gun. That, however, in no way prevented McAllister’s fist from sinking into his belly up to the wrist. Griff did manage to clear his gun from leather, but the action was no more than a reflex. His mind was elsewhere, as you might say. He seemed to bow down before his attacker and the gun fell to the floor with a clatter. McAllister hit the man with the ball of his hand and knocked him, as the saying has it, ass-over-tit. In doing so, it caused him to crack his head rather painfully on the bench which stood against one wall. After that, Griff Morgan seemed to lose much interest in serving his master.

  ‘My word,’ Groos said with remarkable mildness, ‘how did you work that one, McAllister. That was a real lulu and no mistake.’ He climbed ponderously to his great feet.

  McAllister said ‘Get the hell out of here, Glub, and take your boy with you.’

  ‘Sure,’ said Groos, ‘I know when I’m beaten.’

  He aimed a kick with one of those great feet at McAllister’s crotch. Had it landed, I do not have to tell you that any ambitions of an amorous nature which McAllister may have entertained would at that moment have been terminated. However, he was saved by a backward step and a deft movement with both hands which grasped the ankle of the aggressive foot and wrenched it upward.

  When Groos landed on his back on the office floor the by no means substantial building threatened to come down like a pack of collapsing cards. From his mouth, there issued a sound which can roughly be described as Whoooo-ooo-eeee. He repeated this unusual sound almost exactly when McAllister dropped on his vast belly with both knees. After that he rolled up his eyes and appeared to sleep with his eyes open.

  McAllister wearily went to a drawer in his desk and brought out two pairs of handcuffs. He was a little annoyed. He had two prisoners, which was two more than he wanted at this time. Still, duty was duty …

  He cuffed his prisoners together, back to back, left wrist to right, and gazed down at them ruefully. Putting an important rancher like Glub Groos in jail could present something of a problem. However, while he was sheriff, nobody was going to come into his office and try to knock his block without the full weight of the law dropping on him from a great height.

  Later, when he met Doc Robertson on the street, he said: ‘George, when you have a minute, stop by the office and look at two men I have prisoner there, will you? They both look like they tangled with a bunch of drunken Missouri mules.’

  Doc Roberston gave him a hard look. ‘Don’t tell me you’ve gotten back into your bad old ways, McAllister, and you’re knocking folks about again?’

  ‘It kind of looks that way, George,’ McAllister said.

  He went along to Betty Sansom’s place and met Betty in the lobby.

  ‘How’s Walter Coulter?’ he asked.

  ‘How should I know?’ she said. ‘I hardly never see the man. He don’t never leave his room for more’n a few minutes.’

  ‘How about Tuesday Morning?’

  She thought back. ‘Went out early. I remember – it was before the stage pulled out.’

  ‘Thanks, Betty.’ He mounted the stairs.

  She said: ‘Where do you think you’re going?’

  ‘I have a room here, remember.’

  He walked into Room Number One without knocking and looked at the man seated at the window. He knew he was there, because he’d seen him peaking around the edge of the curtain from down the street.

  Cam Brennan said: ‘Don’t you ever knock?’

  ‘Mr Coulter?’

  ‘That’s the name.’ Brennan told himself not to get mad with this man. He had everything to lose if he lost his temper. Just the same, McAllister coming in here like this had startled him. Maybe it was because he had heard from Mole that he had not been able to follow the man who had been here in this very room at midnight. Nobody had left the hotel that night. So, they both concluded, the man must be staying here. Maybe, Brennan had said, he had gone out the rear door and cut down the alley nearby. No, said Mole, he had thought of that and he had watched the place from a spot across the street which gave him a clear view of the alley. Nobody had left the hotel. How about this morning? Ah, now, that was different. A man named Bob Dooley had left and walked
down the street to the bank. He had been inside for about a half-hour. So Brennan had something to think about.

  McAllister now said: ‘Where did you go when you left town on Tuesday morning, Mr Coulter?’

  Brennan felt his heart miss a beat. ‘I rode east, sheriff. May I ask why you want to know?’

  ‘Ask all you want. Where did you go exactly?’

  ‘I went to the Bar 4 X ranch to look over the range.

  ‘Can anybody verify that?’

  ‘I doubt it. Do you want somebody to?’

  ‘No, Mr Brennan, it’s you who’ll want somebody to verify it.’

  Brennan felt a little sick; but he stayed outwardly calm. He said: ‘Why do you call me, Brennan, sheriff? My name ain’t Brennan. It’s Coulter.’

  ‘Did I say “Brennan”?’ said McAllister. ‘Must be confusing you with a man mighty like you. No, you wouldn’t want to be Brennan, Mr Coulter. Not in my town, not with me knowing he was here. He has an interesting technique, does Brennan. He’s very fast and good with a gun and he challenges men who are not so fast or good. When they draw their guns, he kills them. He does it for a living, and a very good living it gets him too. So I hear.’

  ‘That’s very interesting,’ Brennan said. ‘I never heard of him.’

  McAllister stepped to the window and looked across the street. As he knew he would, he looked straight into Lennie Wallach’s office. He could see Lennie at work at his desk.

  He said: ‘The stage was stopped right near where you were at on Tuesday, Mr Coulter. That could prove embarrassing for you. You see, a young girl was abducted from the stage. A thing like that could get a man lynched in this kind of country. Nobody would do much about a town drunk who got himself knifed, but a young girl being abducted – why that’s a different matter altogether. How long you staying in town, Mr Coulter?’

  ‘Just long enough for the race.’

  ‘I shouldn’t think a little old race would be enough to keep a man of the world like you in a dull old town like this. You could see pretty good races down Denver way.’