McAllister 6

by Matt Chisholm

  Brennan found that he was sweating. ‘I’m not staying to watch it,’ he said. ‘I’ll have a horse in it.’

  ‘Is that so?’ said McAllister. ‘You must be well-heeled, Mr Coulter, having a cool thousand to throw away on a race.

  ‘I shan’t be throwing it away,’ Brennan said. ‘I have a good horse.’

  ‘He’ll have to be more than good, Mr Coulter,’ said McAllister. ‘My word on it.’

  He walked to the door.

  ‘Good day to you, sheriff,’ said Brennan.

  McAllister smiled pleasantly. ‘I’m a funny kind of sheriff,’ he said. ‘It matters to me a drunk like Wally Chugg getting himself knifed just about as much as anybody else getting themselves killed around here.’ He went out then and closed the door softly behind him.

  Brennan did not move. He could not have stood up or his legs would have failed him. He told himself that he had not lost his nerve, it was just that he was temporarily in shock. McAllister had caught him by surprise. This was the first time Brennan had ever met the law face to face before a job. He decided that he did not like it one little bit.

  ‘The bastard,’ he whispered to himself. ‘To scare me this way. The bastard. I’ll kill him yet.’

  Nineteen

  The telegraph came from Debbie at the end of the week, telling her father that she had arrived safely in Chicago. Lennie Wallach was beside himself with joy. He ran out on to the street and called to McAllister as he walked past. He pulled him into the office and waved the telegraph form under his nose.

  ‘She’s safe, Rem,’ he said. ‘You don’t know how I feel.’

  McAllister said: ‘If you feel good, you’re a bigger fool than I took you for. There’s somebody in town who wants you dead. Maybe several people do. That ain’t no reason for rejoicing.’

  Lennie said: ‘That seems like nothing, now I know Debbie’s safe.’

  ‘From where you’re standing,’ McAllister told him, ‘you may look like a goddam hero, but from where I’m standing you’re nothing but a damn nuisance. Don’t you think I have enough on my hands without worrying about how to keep you alive.’

  Wallach took umbrage. ‘Oh, don’t you worry yourself about me,’ he said. ‘I can look after myself. Do you think this is the first time I’ve ever been threatened?’

  McAllister stalked out of the office snarling: ‘See if I care. Where’s the sense in keeping a goddam scribbler alive any road?’

  Over at the Last Chance, he found no more than a half- dozen scattered drinkers, and ordered whiskey and a beer. Mark Tully said: ‘I’ve warned you about the whiskey, Rem. It’ll shorten your life by a decade or send you blind. I don’t know why you drink it.’

  ‘Because once you’ve drunk the stuff nothing in life can seem as bad.’

  He drank the whiskey and washed it down with half the beer. He said: ‘You got the route for the race worked out yet, Mark?’

  ‘Sure.’ Tully took a folded piece of paper from his pocket and flicked it across the bar to McAllister, who put it in a vest pocket.

  ‘Now,’ said McAllister, ‘let’s get down to cases.’

  ‘What cases?’

  ‘Law and order.’

  ‘I ain’t interested.’

  ‘You didn’t hear what I have to say yet.’

  ‘I just ain’t interested in law and order.’

  McAllister said: ‘Mark, will you just listen for a minute to what I have to say.’

  ‘I don’t want to hear it. You’re asking a favor. I can tell the way your ears is twitching. And you have a sort of cunning coyote look about the eyes. If you’re asking a favor, it has to be something I can’t afford, it’s bad for me or it’ll bring me out in spots.’

  ‘Mark, I need another good gun in town.’

  ‘I knew it. But I said no already, so I do not need to repeat myself. Drink up and get the hell out of here.’

  McAllister drank the rest of the beer. Tully watched him. McAllister poured himself another whiskey and Tully whispered: ‘It’s suicide.’ When McAllister poured himself a third whiskey, Tully knew he was not only deadly serious, but that he was desperate.

  McAllister said: ‘Somebody has brought a hired gun into town to kill Lennie Wallach. The way I see it, the only men who would want to do that are the cattlemen. Their first try was through Debbie, but we got her out of town. Lennie’s heard from her. She’s safe. Now Lennie’s acting like a goddam hero and he’s bracing himself to write the cattlemen to defeat. It’s pathetic. I can’t watch the damn fool all the time, Mark. You can see into his office from your street door. You’re the best man with a gun in town. You ain’t gun-shy, and you’ve done your share in your time.’

  Tully pursed his lips and said nothing.

  ‘So Lennie’s just another fair-weather friend, huh? We can sit and drink with him. Laugh at his jokes. Smoke his, cigars. When he needs a little help, it’s another matter.’

  Tully cleared his throat. ‘You bastard,’ he said.

  McAllister smiled. ‘Ain’t I?’ he said.

  Tully said: ‘Just don’t make me a deputy or anything. I’d never live it down.’

  McAllister said: ‘Just watch Lennie’s office is all, Mark.’

  Tully looked bitter. ‘Keno,’ he said. ‘Do you pay for the drinks or am I handing out charity now?’

  McAllister paid him and walked out.

  Brennan was forced to break a rule. Always when he went on a job, he kept himself to himself, did the killing and quietly departed. Now he was held by the smell of money. He was not going to permit himself to be thrown by McAllister removing the girl from town. He took a quiet look at the hotel register. At the moment, there were three guests there beside himself. One was a J. Dalby, who had the room next to his. That must have been one of the men he had overheard talking together about the race. He still had not clapped eyes on him. That was Room Two. The next was a T. Wiscombe. He was a Denver drummer. Just one look at him ruled him out. The third man was a K. T. Rutter. To the best of his knowledge Brennan had never set eyes on him. But he thought maybe he’d heard the name somewhere. Rutter … Rutter ...

  By listening to the proprietress and the waitress the following morning at breakfast he located the fellow. There were a number of men in the dining room, for non-residents came in for their breakfast there. Rutter sat in the far comer, a neatly dressed, sober-looking man in his late thirties. Brennan studied him carefully, but it was not until the man rose and went out that Brennan realized who and what the man was. He had seen and actually been introduced to him in Denver some years before. This was the detective, Katie Rutter. If he still worked out of Denver, it was reasonable to suspect that he could be a link in the chain connecting Brennan with the man who had hired him.

  Brennan left the table and went into the lobby in time to see the man going out into the street. Brennan followed him slowly, as if he were a man strolling with no purpose in the world. Rutter turned right when he stepped on to the sidewalk and headed east. He went into the bank. Brennan followed him in, looked around and could see him nowhere. Approaching a teller, he asked for some change. The door to the manager’s office was to his right and it was closed. Brennan prayed that the door would open so that he could see inside, but it did not. He turned from the counter and spent a long time counting coins in the palm of his hand. Afraid that he might attract attention to himself, he put his money away and reached the street door.

  He heard another door open behind him. He turned quickly and found himself looking into the manager’s office. A man who must be the manager, or possibly owner, was behind the desk. To one side of him sat another man who looked like a rancher. Standing in front of the desk and with his back to Brennan was Katie Rutter. Satisfied, Brennan turned and went out on to the street.

  Bankers and cattlemen, he thought. They went together all right. It made sense. He wondered if it was the banker who had actually hired him. This could prove interesting. And profitable. Just the same, he was touched by caution. He was pla
ying for high stakes, but he was also playing a very dangerous game. But, he told himself, he had nothing too much to fear. He was the man to be feared. He was the one who held, and used, the gun.

  Katie Rutter was a man widely known to law-enforcement offices and to the criminal fraternity, as he had a range of connections. He had never worked for any of the big agencies, for he liked to plough his own furrow. He used to say that as an independent he could do a great many things which a large agency dare not risk. This meant that he could cut a lot of corners, thus saving time and money. His charges were competitive. But he was doing very nicely, thank you. He had been careful when coming into town to make his presence known to Remington McAllister, the local sheriff. He knew McAllister of old as a man not to cross. McAllister had shown what he was worth when serving as a United States deputy marshal down in Arizona. He did not tell why he was here, and McAllister knew better than to ask.

  McAllister did not warn him, because he knew that Katie had heard all the warnings. McAllister had made a little joke of it. He said: ‘Just leave my town as you found it, Katie. Even better if you can,’ and Katie had laughed.

  ‘We must have a drink and a jaw before I go, Rem,’ he said.

  ‘Sure,’ said McAllister.

  Now, here in the banker’s office, Katie waited for Harvey Emmett to speak. Emmett was a leading cattleman, but he was a quiet man and seldom made his presence felt. That did not mean that he did not wield a lot of influence. When he talked, which was not too often, men listened. Even men like Glub Groos. Emmett was married to a Sioux Indian woman, which was unusual, and the lady in question was accepted in polite society, which was even more unusual. If you had known Harvey Emmett, you would have known why. If he said his Indian woman was fit for polite society, that was so – and nothing more was said about it. Rather like her husband, she was inclined to stay in the background.

  Few were fools enough to misjudge Emmett for his modesty and quiet manner of life. He was tough. He gave few orders, but those he gave were carried out to the letter. Being married to a Sioux did not make him soft on Indians. He was not soft on anybody, least of all himself. He was a small grey man with bright, lively blue eyes. He cared only about his ranch and its survival, the state of his health and the size of his profits. He cared deeply, very much in his own way, about the West. Nobody knew where he hailed from. Some said he was an Englishman who had come over in his youth; others claimed that he was from New Jersey.

  ‘So far as I’m concerned, Mr Rutter,’ he said, polite as always, ‘it’s up to you. I bow to your judgment. I know you will judge carefully because no doubt we shall have other commissions for you in the future.’ He turned to Landon Chalmers, the banker. ‘How about you, Landon? Do you go along with that?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ said Chalmers. He was, in Emmett’s unspoken opinion, overweight. He ate and drank too much. But his brain was still good and his nerve pretty steady. Nerve was what counted in this game. There was a good deal of power at stake here, and power was always a risky game. That’s what attracted men to it.

  ‘Very well, Mr Rutter, what do you think?’

  ‘I’m not a great one for hunches, gentlemen, as you know,’ said the detective, ‘but when I get one, I generally play it. Now I have a feeling my work’s not through here. There’s a couple of things about our man that makes me a little uneasy. Not to his usual pattern. If it’s all right with you, I’d like to stay on till the race is over. How about my special fee ending today and my going on my usual daily flat rate till then?’

  ‘This hunch, Mr Rutter,’ said Emmett, ‘are you able to tell us about it?’

  ‘Not really. It’s no more than a hunch, Mr Emmett. Something about our man that shows he’s not performing to his usual pattern. This kind of man usually has his favorite modus operandi, as you might call it, and sticks to it.’

  ‘Do you mean he’s untrustworthy?’

  ‘Oh, no, I wouldn’t say that. He’ll do the job all right, but I have a hunch he has something else in mind. With me breathing down his neck, he’ll stay on the straight and narrow. I don’t think we’d get a cleaner job done by any other man. He’s in a class on his own. When he’s through there’ll be no fingers pointing anywhere.’

  ‘Very well,’ said Emmett. ‘We trust you to the hilt, Rutter. Stay on if you think it’s wiser.’

  Rutter thanked them and left the office.

  The banker turned to Emmett when the door had closed behind the detective and said: ‘Did that conversation make you uneasy, Harvey?’

  Emmett thought about it. ‘This sort of thing is new to you, Landon. It’s always risky, but it’s a risk we have to take. If Wallach goes ahead as he is now, we’ll have the whole territory against us.’

  ‘We should have our own newspaper.’

  ‘True. But if you remember a crazy sheepman took a shot at the one we had and, so far as I know, he’s still running. I’d suggest pressurizing Wallach, but I’ve seen the type before. He doesn’t pressurize.’

  Chalmers said: ‘Wallach is no more than half the battle. There’s the sheriff.’

  Emmett rose to his feet, nodding. ‘I know it. But have no fear in that direction. When the time comes, he will be disposed of by the other side.’

  ‘The other side?’

  ‘A granger.’

  ‘Good God!’

  ‘I’m going back to my place today,’ said Emmett. ‘It’s my daughter’s tenth birthday tomorrow and we’re having something of a celebration.’

  They shook hands. The banker sent his birthday greetings to the child and said he wished he’d known, so that he could have given her a present. Emmett walked out of the bank.

  Chalmers slumped in his chair. He had the sudden and depressing feeling that he had bitten off more than he could chew, that he had moved up into a class which proved far too rich for his blood.

  But, he told himself, it was too late to pull out now, and he was not even sure he wanted to. In a manner of speaking, he held all these big men in the palm of his hand. Many of them were in debt, and he held the notes. He dared not stop now. If they went down, he went down, and he did not intend to do that. When he thought of men like Wallach, he sank into a kind of red fury. Such little men were nothing more than a damned nuisance. They were caught up in a game which was too big for them. They should occupy themselves with such trifling affairs as they could handle. You could not expect men like the great ranchers to see their empires topple because of a few hundred dirt farmers and their greedy gobbling up of land. The trouble was that there were some of them who could not be stampeded or scared off. What they displayed could not be called courage. It was a sort of reckless foolhardiness.

  Matters would have been a sight different if there had been some lawman other than this McAllister. Who could have foretold that he would beat the cattlemen’s candidate even without campaigning? His reputation alone had gotten him through. Ah, well, as Emmett said, lawmen could die like anybody else. But there would be hell to pay in the capital when a lawman of McAllister’s renown was killed.

  Chalmers sighed. He thought he would go and give himself a large drink. He’d earned it.

  Twenty

  The council of war took place in the kitchen McAllister had built on to the old house. It was roomy and there was a large table there to lay the map out on. Bella Copley worked at the stove preparing a meal, throwing in the odd comment when one occurred to her, and the three men bent over the table, studying the rough map McAllister had drawn.

  ‘You just take us quick along the course, boss,’ Mose said, ‘then we’ll get down to detail.’

  ‘All right,’ said McAllister. He thrust a forefinger at the top of the map. ‘That’s south. We have the map upside down. Right? Here’s the start.’ That was a point just outside town, across Black Horse Creek. A piece of flat open ground with a gully on the far side of it. The very gully, in fact, where the dead body of Wally Chugg had been found. ‘You start out due east and go around the south side of T
ollard’s Butte. If there’s any land mark I mention you don’t know, you sing out, Lige, hear? You have to know this route like the back of your hand. In the dark. You ride along the east side of the butte and head directly south along the main trail following the crick. There’s a three mile or so flat stretch here, and this is where the thoroughbreds will make an easy gain. All the riders will know it and they’ll take advantage of it. You just take it easy. Old Caesar’ll know how fast he’ll want to go. Now you turn west along the south side of Lost Wagon Butte, going directly west to pass around the north side of Valley Butte. Got it? Good. This takes you clean across the valley. You know it well enough. It looks flat, but it ain’t and it’ll take- some of the stuffing out of the classy horses. Caesar’ll maybe gain a mite here, but don’t strain him. There’s plenty for him to do yet. Now you turn back northeast across the valley again for Indian Rock. Same sort of trip. Now you head west along the head of the valley towards the Breaks. The ground’ll be hard here. Watch yourself. This is where Caesar could hurt himself. Straight up the breaks, keeping over to the right of Main Break and going around this butte here. Don’t think it has a name. You know the one I mean? Good. This’ll bring you south of old Gregg Talbot’s place. You don’t go past it, but swing left and south and you’ll hit a trail along this break here that’ll bring you after a stiff climb up on to the tableland. A couple of miles of hard running across this and suddenly you hit a downhill almost all the way home, at least until you pass north of Wild Horse Point. Cross Black Horse Creek and you’re home.’

  Lige was looking at him with wide eyes. ‘How far do you reckon that is, boss?’

  ‘For the rest of the entries about forty miles, I’d reckon, wouldn’t you, Mose? For you maybe thirty-five or less.’

  Lige said, a little shocked: ‘You ain’t telling me to cheat, is you?’