McAllister 6

by Matt Chisholm

  Somebody came to the door of the shack and bellowed: ‘Who the hell’s out there?’

  ‘Rem McAllister and Mark Tully. We have a posse of twenty men and you’re completely surrounded,’ McAllister yelled. ‘We ain’t hanging anybody, so come on out. No guns and hands high.’

  There was silence while this information was debated. The silence went on a little too long for McAllister, so he started shooting through the window again. Mose Copley followed his example from the other side. They fired five bullets each then stopped. The door of the shack opened and somebody shouted that they were coming out.

  One by one, they appeared. The men in the trees counted seven of them. McAllister ordered them into line and they shuffled to obey. To look at, they were much the same as the three already captured. They were in various stages of undress.

  McAllister walked down the hill and went around behind them so that he would not get between them and the men behind him. As he drew near, one or two of the men greeted him with ironic good cheer. He returned the greetings and reached the shack. Entering cautiously, he found to his relief that it was empty. When he went out again, Tully was releasing his brother and the other two men. They joined their colleagues and the four Black Horse men hunkered down with their rifles pointed at the line of prisoners.

  McAllister said: ‘I don’t have to tell you, boys, this little caper is over. I know a good few of you men and I’m pretty glad it didn’t come to anybody being crippled or killed. If the cards had been dealt differently, I could be there and you here. If I was there, I’d be pretty damned pleased to cut my losses. It depends on how loyal you feel to the hand that pays you. So what’s it to be? Do I pack you all in a jail made for two – or do you ride out of here with your guns?’

  Eddie Price said: ‘Our guns are our living, Rem.’

  The hard, square-cut man spoke. McAllister remembered him as Doc Addison, a pro from way back. Should have been put out to grass. ‘What’s the deal, Rem?’

  ‘Well,’ said McAllister, ‘I don’t see anybody there I know for a liar. How about you, Mark? Charlie? Mose? All right, your word’ll do us fine. But hear this – you’ll be shot on sight if you hang around. The deal says you fork your horses and head east till you hit the Caspar road. You keep going and you don’t come back.’

  Doc Addison studied his boot toe. ‘Thirty minutes to collect my possibiles,’ he said.

  ‘Keno. All agreed?’

  They nodded. They were pleased to be alive, but that did not mean they had to be happy about it. McAllister led his men back into the cover of the trees and stayed there until the gunmen were ready for the trail. As the ten men sat their horses and looked uphill at their victors, Doc Addison called out: ‘See you, boys.’

  Mark Tully called down to his brother: ‘You keep your nose clean now, Frank.’

  Frank said a rude word and they rode off down the shoulder of the hill towards the Caspar trail.

  ‘Charlie,’ said McAllister, ‘I’d be obliged if you’d see them to the Caspar road.’

  They started walking back through the trees.

  Mose Copley said: ‘I am purely interested in where the other ten gunslingers is at.’

  Mark Tully said: ‘Up to no good, I’ll be bound.’

  Twenty-Six

  McAllister never did find out where the other ten gunmen were. Every man whom he knew to be leaving town for any other part of the Black Horse country, he told to keep his eyes open for the invaders. Every man coming in from outlying parts was questioned, but Harvey Emmett had them cached away somewhere safe and sound.

  ‘I have a feeling, Len,’ McAllister said to Wallach one day as they drank coffee in the newspaper office together, ‘that we won’t know where they’re at till it’s too late.’

  Wallach gazed at him through his lenses, looking like a cynical owl. He said: ‘Tomorrow is the day of the great race. Consider, my friend. There can be only one conclusion. The cattlemen have to strike tomorrow.’

  McAllister felt a little sick at the thought. He had spent the last few days pushing the same conclusion from his mind. After the expulsion of Doc Addison and his men, Lennie’s Clarion had thundered and Black Horse County had listened avidly to the thunder. Farmers had come into town with a swagger which had in the past been seen only on the cowmen. Even a sheepman was seen displaying an air of bravado. ‘Law and order,’ Lennie had written in his leader, ‘must come first in Black Horse County. From this day forth, public domain has been recognized and used as public domain. Any man hogging range to which he has no legal right should be treated as a common criminal.’ A cowboy, late one night, mounted and traveling at a considerable rate, rode past the Clarion and emptied his revolver through its windows. Some tried to read into this an organized attack on the newspaper, but McAllister declared that it was a personal action on the part of a drunken cowhand.

  ‘That don’t mean,’ McAllister told Wallach, ‘that they changed their minds about you, Len. They still want you dead. So for God’s sake don’t get drawn into a gunfight.’ That was the way it would be, McAllister felt sure. That was why Cam Brennan was here.

  Wallach said to McAllister: ‘Rem, come clean. You know more than you admit. Why do you say gunfight? Why don’t you mention a back-shooting? You know something I don’t know.’

  ‘Sure I do. I know the name of the man who’s been hired to do it.’

  ‘You mean they brought somebody in to kill little old me?’ He looked scared, but rather pleased and flattered too.

  ‘That’s what I mean.’

  ‘Who?’

  Why the hell not tell him? thought McAllister. He gained nothing by being in ignorance.

  ‘Cam Brennan. He’s staying at the Sansom house under the name Walter Coulter. His style is to pick a fight and get the victim to draw. Nobody can draw as fast as Cam, so Cam always wins. He walks away from every killing with a half-dozen witnesses swearing he shot in self-defense.’

  ‘Simple,’ said Wallach, ‘but ingenious.’

  ‘Cam’s made a tidy income out of it.’

  ‘There’s just one snag.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘One day Brennan’s going to meet up with somebody faster than himself.’

  ‘I reckon he checks on the victim’s reputation first.

  ‘Just the same … ’

  McAllister said: ‘Len, you ain’t getting one of your damn silly ideas, are you?’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Bracing this gunny.’

  Wallach laughed and said: ‘You must be crazy. What chance would I have against a professional gunman?’

  ‘Just you remember that.’

  Cam Brennan sat at his window and watched Wallach and McAllister talking in the Clarion office. To say that he was scared would have been an overstatement. To say that he was confused would be nearer the truth. Just the same, he knew that he was not far from being scared. Ever since Mole Trusty had gotten himself knifed and had then cut and run, Brennan’s confidence had been shaken. That did not mean that he would welch on his contract. He would never turn away from money. Shortly before, he had been so certain of making a great deal of money; now he saw that fortune receding from sight. It was a bitter and disappointing experience. He thought about Katie Rutter lying injured in the hotel room just along the corridor. Then he watched McAllister walk to the door of the Clarion and step out on to the street. In that second, Brennan made up his mind. He thought: I shan't kill Wallach tomorrow. I’ll kill him today and get it over with. Rutter or somebody else will come to pay me off tomorrow night. It’s bound to be at night. That’ll suit me. I shall need it to be dark. Whoever comes will take me to his principal, because if he don't I’ll make him wish he’d never been born. He’ll take me all right. By then I shall have either won the race or lost it. If I win —fine. If I lose, no matter. I shall be collecting plenty, either way. I could use Mole right now, but I’ll have to get by without him. Which will mean all the more for me.

  He found it a
n enormous relief that he had decided to act now. He checked his gun and found a spare in his saddlepockets, loaded it, and tucked it under his belt. You could never be too sure. He settled his hat straight on his head and drank a glass of water. He always had a slight thirst before a job. Not nerves, just a natural thirst. He held out his right hand and found it was steady as ever. That gave him a small feeling of pride. Another glance out of the window, and he saw to his great satisfaction that Wallach had come out of his street door and was looking casually up and down the street. With equal satisfaction, Brennan saw that he wore his gun. The way he wore it was truly pathetic, in the manner of a man quite unused to guns. It was going to be like taking candy from a kid. It hung down over his belly with the point of the scabbard almost in his crotch.

  Brennan made a test draw and found that the old familiar movement, practiced so many thousands of times, was as smooth and effortless as ever. The years had not slowed him. If anything, he was better than ever. He allowed himself a smile, then he walked out of the room and down the stairs.

  Black Horse was crowded. This he knew from his watch at the window. But now that he was down on the street, it seemed that he was packed all around with people here for the great race. He could hear talk of it all around him. He could even feel the excitement. It was an excitement that he loved, and he listened to it with pleasure. However, first things first. His target had not moved.

  He angled straight across the street for Lennie Wallach. If the newspaperman was aware of his approach, he gave no sign. He seemed to be standing there and enjoying the crowd. The space in front of the Clarion office seemed fairly clear, a fact which pleased Brennan. Yes, he had the feeling that this one was going to be smooth. The way he liked it.

  He walked straight up to Wallach and said: ‘I’m the man who’s come here to kill you, Wallach.’ He felt a small thrill as he saw the startled acknowledgement of his presence show on the man’s face. ‘I’m going to walk back there a dozen paces and I’m going to turn and gun you down.’

  He turned and walked away.

  Over in his saloon, Mark Tully saw the meeting almost too late. Only as Brennan turned away from his mark did Tully realize what was happening. McAllister’s delaying tactics had failed. The crowd in the saloon, which had cleared for a moment to give Tully a view of the encounter, now closed again and hid the two men from view. Desperately, Mark reached under the bar and his hand closed on the butt of his gun. He vaulted over the bar, knocking glasses and bottles to left and right. Several men swore at him. He thrust his way through the throng, shouting for them to give him room. Then he was out on the sidewalk, and he saw Brennan turn back to face Wallach again.

  Brennan had turned to Wallach’s cry of: ‘I’m bracing you, Brennan. Draw your gun, you yellow bastard.’

  This was working beyond Brennan’s brightest dream. There was the challenge loud and clear for everybody to hear. The whole street was packed with witnesses.

  To his immense amusement, he saw that Wallach’s gun was still in its holster. He saw Wallach make the start of the move. His own hand slapped down on the butt of his gun. It came from leather as smooth as ever, thumb cocking. For the smallest fraction of a second, he was aware that by some fantastic trick of light it looked as if Wallach’s gun was already in his hand.

  Brennan fired one shot, but it was at the sky. He did not hear the first report of Wallach’s gun, for the bullet took him in the chest and drove him back off his feet. There was no chance at all of him hearing the second shot, for he was dead before it caught him in the side of the head.

  For a moment, everybody on the street was still.

  Mark Tully said: ‘I’ll be goddamned.’

  McAllister stepped up beside him and said: ‘I’ll be goddamned,’ which may not have been original, but it amply expressed his disbelief. He walked across the street and looked at Wallach. He expected to see him in the post-killing daze that came to most men, but he saw that the newspaperman was quite calm. He looked at McAllister and said: ‘The man was a fool. Why is it everybody thinks only morons can learn simple things like shooting a gun?’

  ‘Well, I never knew you could handle a gun like that, Len,’ McAllister said.

  ‘It’s not the kind of thing a man admits to lightly,’ Wallach said. He handed McAllister his weapon and said: ‘Delay arresting me a few hours, will you? I have a really bully article in my head about this.’

  McAllister took the gun and said: ‘Be my guest.’

  ‘Come in and give me a run-down on the fellow, Rem, and his tie-in with the Cattlemen’s Association.’

  McAllister followed him into the newspaper office, saying: ‘I can’t prove a connection with the Association, Len.’

  Wallach said: ‘Who said anything about proving it?’

  McAllister thought how it would look when the Clarion appeared on the streets in the morning with a broadside against the Association, linking them with an attempted murder. The defeat of the Texans and now this. If they meant to start a war tomorrow, all this should shake them considerably.

  When McAllister got back to his office, there was a letter awaiting him. Charlie Stellino, who had agreed to wear a deputy’s badge till after the race, handed it to him and said: ‘Some kid brought it in. Maybe it’s from that luscious widow you been sparking.’

  ‘What do you know about a luscious widow?’

  ‘Only what the whole county knows.’ – The letter was not signed, but McAllister knew that it was from Doan Billington, the bank-teller. It read:

  ‘Foreclosing commences day after race. Draw your own conclusion about invasion forces strike.’

  McAllister found a match, wiped it on the seat of his pants and burned the letter.

  ‘So much for the widow,’ Charlie said.

  He did not think that his sheriff had heard him. McAllister said: ‘Charlie, this is what I want you to do tomorrow.’ It took him about fifteen minutes to inform Charlie of what he wanted. At the end of it, Charlie looked pretty depressed.

  He said: ‘Just like I thought. All along you aimed to make a dead hero out of me.’

  McAllister said lightly: ‘It’s not a chance that comes to every man.’

  When he walked out of the office, he did not feel light-hearted. Tomorrow was going to be one of those disastrous days you would like to forget, but you never could. Such days were not favorites of his, not now that all he wanted to do was to raise horses and lead a quiet life.

  The day of the great race was certainly the most memorable day that Black Horse had ever experienced or was ever likely to experience.

  As there were at that time no more than a few thousand people in the whole Territory, McAllister became convinced that folks must have come in from Idaho, Wyoming and even Canada. When he rode from his place to the flat in the far side of Howard Creek to the east of town, he thought that he had never before seen so many people in one place.

  Mose Copley drove the buggy with Bella beside him. Lige rode Sally and led Caesar; McAllister forked Oscar. Bella took one look at the mighty crowd and declared that the whole world must be there. Caesar, always lively and already aware that something unusual was about to happen, was acting up a little. But, McAllister was happy to observe, the stud was showing no sign of nerves whatever. That was what Mose had repeatedly told McAllister: ‘Miz Rem, I didn’t ever see a horse with a steadier nature. I reckon there ain’t nothing on God’s earth could spook him.’ McAllister knew that if there was any horse which young Lige could ride to victory, it was Caesar.

  Colonel Ralph English’s white mane of hair showed high above the crowd. He was the starter and a judge. He stood in a wagon-bed and was heavily engaged in his favorite activity-the shouting of orders. He had found himself a little short on power lately as proprietor of the Grand Union Hotel and was now having the time of his life.

  As stakeholder and judge, Mark Tully was much in evidence. He stood near the colonel, a heavy Gladstone bag on the floor beside him. In that bag was the stake, no
w at something like ten thousand dollars. With him were two stalwarts armed with shotguns. Mark had his gun strapped on. As he said, that amount of money was worth killing for, either in robbery or by winning the race. Every rider out there today took his life in his hands.

  Mose parked the buggy almost alongside the starting place and took the team to the corral into which teams and saddlers were being thrown. By the time he returned, Mark Tully was demanding that the entries be brought near the starting line. McAllister stripped the blanket from Caesar’s back and revealed a small blanket pad, a surcingle and a pair of stirrups, no more. This brought a lot of comment from those standing near. Everybody there was an expert and had plenty of advice to offer. Most of it amounted to the fact that there was a lot of rough country for the horses to negotiate, and that nobody could stay on Caesar’s back with that ridiculous gear. McAllister and Lige knew different. Lige had practiced day in and day out with the rig on Caesar, Oscar and Sally. He could have stayed on that rig upside down.

  Lige was acutely nervous, and McAllister would have been surprised if he had not been. Caesar was mettlesome but calm. It had been a good idea to bring Sally and Oscar with him. He was used to them around him, and their presence had reassured him. Lige looked towards his mother and father, swallowed so his large Adam’s apple leapt and bobbed, and vaulted on to the stallion’s back. Caesar at once stood. He tossed his head several times and fooled around with the bit, and then he went still and calmly watched the other horses showing off their nerves.

  McAllister said above the uproar of talk and shouting, ‘I don’t have any orders for you, Lige. You know what I know. You’ll see me every part of the course. Give me the sign if you’re having any trouble with the other riders.’