McAllister Makes War

by Matt Chisholm

Pat laughed.

  “I used to shoot a red coat for breakfast every day back in the old country,” he said. “You’re askin’ a whole lot of mighty strange questions, Jim, and I suspect where they’re leadin’ us.”

  “Rem and I want help, Pat. An’ we want it bad. Would you swear in as a special deputy for a few days.”

  Pat slapped his massive thigh and roared.

  “Pat O’Doran a polisman. I never thought I’d live to see the day ... my dear old father would turn over in his grave. My sainted mother’d have forty fits, she would.”

  “Will you do it?”

  “Sure, I’ll do it. Anythin’ to help two old friends out.”

  Carson swore him in. Evans and the Texas cowhand were interested spectators. The marshal gave his new deputy a badge, a shotgun and a pocketful of shells. The Irishman was as pleased with the weapon as a child with a new toy.

  “What do I do first?” he demanded.

  “Frank Little is wounded at the doctor’s place. I want him down here where I can keep an eye on him.” He explained the whole situation to O’Doran. When he finished, Pat said: “By the Holy Mother and all the saints! You need me, Jim boy.” He laughed, he looked like he would break into song. “This is better than railroading any day of the week.” He agreed that he would go and get Frank Little himself. Sure, carrying the man down here would be no trouble at all.

  “You’ll need the greener,” Carson told him. “Go borrow Altmeyer’s buggy. I’ll cover you from the other side of the street. I can see the doctor’s and this place from there.”

  The Irishman hurried away, bearing his badge and the shotgun proudly. Carson was pleased. He knew that he had a man there who would never back down. He chose a carbine from the rack and crossed the street to stand near the bank. Penshurst was outside, his hands in his pockets. Carson nodded, but it was as if the banker didn’t see him. Carson didn’t blame him He wouldn’t be seeing much if he were a ruined man. He watched Pat bring the buggy up to the doctor’s house and go inside. The doctor would protest, but he knew that he was holding dynamite while he held Frank. Ten minutes later, Pat came out, holding the tall man easily in his arms. He set him down gently in the bed of the buggy, then he had a good look around. So did Carson. He doubted anything would happen now, but you never knew. He put his thumb into the lever of the carbine, ready to jerk a shell into the breech. Pat was climbing onto the buggy’s seat, picking up the shotgun and placing it across his knees. People had stopped to look. Even Penshurst was now paying attention. Pat had the lines in his hands and the horses were on the move, walking up the street. Carson watched the street, running his eyes over the houses, inspecting every watcher in every window. A curtain fluttered. The Darcy brothers were outside the Golden Fleece.

  I wonder how much you boys know, Carson thought.

  The buggy at last drew up outside the office. Carson crossed the street and stood around while Pat carried the wounded man into the office. He laid Frank on the pallet bed they had prepared. There was no room in the cell so Frank would have to stay in the office itself.

  The gunman looked pale. His dark and fevered eyes watched their every move.

  “You could of killed me, movin’ me that way,” he said.

  “Sure,” Carson said and covered him with a couple of blankets.

  “I reckon you don’t have any right to treat a wounded man this way,” Frank said.

  “I don’t want you killed the way you tried to kill Evans,” Carson said. “I want you killed in the law’s good time.”

  Evans at the grill said: “What do you mean? He tried to kill me? You’re crazy. Frank would never try to kill me. He’s a friend. What’re you tryin’ to pull?”

  “I know what they’re trying’ to pull, Burt,” Frank said. “But it won’t do them any good.”

  “Sure I’m tryin’ to pull something’,” Carson said. “I want to scare you into talkin’, Evans. An’ that’s what I’m goin’ to do. You’re goin’ to scare like you never scared before. Because you’ve got somethin’ to be scared of. Marve and Frank was hired to cut you down. McAllister got Frank and Marve got away. He won’t get far because McAllister’s gone after him.”

  Frank said: “He don’t stand a chance. Marve’ll be in Mexico before McAllister reaches the New Mexico line.”

  “Want to bet on it?”

  “Sure.”

  “Ten dollars says you wrong.”

  “Done.”

  Evans said: “It’s a lie. Say it’s a lie, Frank.”

  “It’s a lie.”

  Evans had a hold of the bars and he was sweating. His hair was all over his face and his eyes were wild.

  “Why would the boss want me dead?” he demanded.

  “What boss?” Carson asked.

  “He’s ravin’,” Frank said. “You kicked a scare into him, Carson. The way he is, he’ll say anythin’.”

  “He’s goin’ to say plenty by the time I’m through with him,” Carson said. “If he don’t, you will.”

  “Me? You should know better.”

  Pat pled: “Let me work on that Evans a little, Jim. I’ll make him sing like a bird.”

  “No call,” said Carson. “He’ll sing our tune before the day’s out. He’ll have to if he wants to save his neck. If he don’t he’ll hang.”

  “Hang?” Evans almost screamed. “Hang? You can’t hang me. I’m here for carrying a gun and assaulting a peace officer. You can’t hang a man for that.”

  Carson walked to the bars.

  “I can hang a man for robbery under arms and murder.”

  “Murder?” Evans frankly screamed this time. “Who said anything about murder?”

  “I did.”

  “Who did I murder?”

  “Art Malloy.”

  There was a short and stunned silence.

  Evans said: “I didn’t kill Malloy. Why should I want to kill Malloy? I didn’t have a reason even.”

  “Your orders were your reason.”

  “What orders? I never took orders from anybody.”

  Carson said: “I don’t want to discuss it with you, Evans. You stay in there and sweat and you think. Think what it’ll be like when you feel the rope around your neck.”

  Frank was grinning.

  “You got him scared all right, Carson,” he said.

  Carson walked across the office and looked down at the wounded man.

  “You don’t have too much to grin about, Frank,” he said. “You’re in the same position. It’s risky having you alive now. And you failed to kill Evans.”

  “Who said I was tryin’ to kill Evans?”

  “You mean you have the nerve to deny it?”

  “I was tryin’ to kill you an’ McAllister and you know it.”

  From the cell, Evans shouted: “I heard that. He wasn’t trying to kill me. He was trying to kill you and McAllister. He just made a liar out of you, Carson.”

  The marshal threw up his hands.

  “Believe what you want,” he said. “It’s all the same to me. Let’s have a drink, Pat.”

  He found a bottle. He poured for Pat and himself. They drank. Frank Little closed his eyes and slept. He didn’t seem to have a care in the world. Evans went and lay on his bed. The Texas cowhand built cigarettes and smoked them endlessly. He coughed occasionally. The day dragged on. Finally, Carson said: “We should try an’ get some sleep. Maybe we won’t get any tonight.”

  He got some blankets and made up a rough bed behind the desk. Pat knew that he didn’t mean to leave the office till he had the prisoners off his hands. Pat didn’t want to sleep - he was a man who needed little. So Carson lay down and was soon off, while Pat sat outside on a chair, tilted back, shotgun in hand and pipe in mouth. People glanced at him curiously as they passed. He smiled and nodded to them pleasantly.

  Tonight, he thought, would be the time. If something was going to be done it would be done under cover of darkness. He had a feeling that he was going to earn his money.

  Chapter Se
ven

  Around the start of darkness that day, two significant things happened to help the drama on its way.

  One, McAllister crept up the nearest ridge and spotted a horse grazing placidly on the buffalo grass. It was a fine thoroughbred black and McAllister reckoned it could belong only to Frank Little.

  It could be the bait of a trap, of course. But he thought not, unless the horse was sound. Then it was a trap. But he wasn’t going to inspect the horse till he was sure there was no trap. With the Henry held at the ready, he circled the spot, keeping under cover of the ridges, not hurrying, knowing that hurry had killed many a good man.

  It was the best part of an hour before he was pretty sure that there was no trap. He approached the black. The animal lifted its head and watched him. As soon as he got near, the black sidestepped and tried to run. The trailing rein made him stumble. McAllister pounced on the line and held it. At once, the animal stood. McAllister looked it over. It was saddled and bridled and, though it had been run hard, looked in good condition. He lifted the forefeet one at a time and inspected them. Nothing was amiss. But when he inspected the off hind foot, he found the loose shoe. So Marve had left the horse because of a loose shoe. McAllister let the foot drop.

  He stood and thought awhile.

  Marve now had one horse. He might ride on all night. He might rest and save his horse. If he knew what he was at, he would rest. McAllister might catch him tomorrow.

  He went back and fetched his own two horses and brought them to the black. The canelo didn’t like the look of the black and went for it. McAllister staked them far apart. There wasn’t much wood around, but he managed to build a small fire and by its light, he worked on the black’s shoe. By the time he finished, he reckoned it would last a day or two. Then he thought some more. If Marve couldn’t find time to repair the shoe, he must be in an almighty hurry. In such a hurry that he most likely hadn’t stopped to rest the night. On thinking further, McAllister reckoned that the shoe had come loose with a couple of hours of daylight to go. That then could have been the reason for Marve pushing on. He wanted to get as far as he could go in daylight. Tomorrow might see him caught after all.

  The following day, McAllister was in the saddle by first light. He had three horses now and he ran harder than ever. The pace might be hard on the man, but the three fine horses took little heed of it. The black, he had to admit, was every bit as much horse as the canelo was so far as speed was concerned, but he doubted it had the staying power. He reckoned if he didn’t run Marve down that day, he didn’t know horses.

  He rode right through the day without a stop, never pausing at noon, except to switch the saddle from the canelo to the dun. An hour later, he switched to the black and stepped the pace up a mite. The big horse liked to run and he surely ran it. Then, late in the afternoon, he spotted the lone figure ahead of him. He knew then unless darkness saved Marve, he would have him.

  * * *

  The other significant thing that happened that first night was that Drummond went to see Fred Darcy. That in itself was significant. It had never happened before.

  He found the two Darcys in their office drinking whiskey. They were startled at the sight of him.

  “What happened?” Fred demanded, jumping to his feet.

  Drummond said coldly: “You ask what happened when Evans is down at the jail with Frank Little alongside him? If one of them talks we could all hang.”

  Johnny went pale.

  “Is that right, Frank tried to kill McAllister?”

  “And Evans,” Drummond told him. “Evans is our weak link. They can tear Frank to pieces, but he’ll never talk.”

  Fred said: “I ain’t met the man who won’t talk soon or late.”

  “Well, they’re got to be stopped,” Drummond said. They looked at him. They had never seen their cool chief so disturbed. It rattled them to see him so. “We’ve either got to get them out of there or kill them. I don’t mind much which.”

  “Have you got the men to do it?” Fred wanted to know.

  “I’ve got men.” He walked to the table and poured himself a whiskey. He drank it off before he resumed. “Fred, I need somebody smart to lead them.”

  Fred Darcy twisted his full face in a wry grin.

  “That means me.”

  “That means you.”

  “That means bracing McAllister.” Fred didn’t hide the fact that he didn’t like that.

  “He’s out of town and liable to stay out for some time. He’s after Marve and Marve has two very good horses with him. He’ll take some catching. What I want done I want done tonight.”

  “Tonight?” Fred looked a mite startled.

  “If Evans hasn’t cracked already, he soon will. We have to stop him quickly.”

  Johnny said eagerly: “Don’t you give it another thought, Drummond. Me and Fred’ll stop him.”

  Fred growled: “You stay out of this.”

  “Like hell I do.”

  “Now you listen to me, Johnny ...”

  Drummond said: “Let him go along, Fred. He’s good with a gun.”

  Fred had been protecting his wild younger brother for years. It was said that he had saved him from hanging on more than one occasion.

  They sat at the table and drank some more whiskey. Drummond talked. He explained the set-up down at the jail. The marshal and one deputy were the only guards. Two men only needed two bullets. Who was the deputy now McAllister was out of town? Pat O’Doran. That made the brothers laugh. One simple fighting Irishman. They’d settle his hash. This would give Johnny an added incentive because once O’Doran had boxed his ears as if he were a kid. They must make their raid in the early hours; surprise must be on their side. They must be ruthless and quick. If they could get Frank out of there alive, they were to do so. If not, they were to kill him. Fred demanded to know what they would get out of it. Drummond showed some anger. What did they expect? If Evans or Frank talked, they’d hang. Wasn’t that enough incentive. They argued. Drummond relented and named a sum. It wasn’t as much as the Darcys wanted. They reached a compromise which was the sum Drummond had first thought of. He departed and left two shaken men behind him. When he reached the backlots, he smiled to himself with satisfaction. It had seemed a short while ago that things were starting to go against him. He didn’t like that. Now he saw that even in a temporary defeat he could derive some profit. He would have the Darcys on the run tomorrow. He would take over the goldmine of the Golden Fleece at a knockdown price.

  He crossed the backlot, smiling. The bank was as good as his. He had put that pompous fool Penshurst on his feet again, but it was him who was propping the man up. The daughter was falling like ripe fruit into his hands. He would make his stake here, then he would return to the East where he could live a cultured and respectable life. Emily would like that. She was just what he wanted. She would be dependent on him, but she would be a beautiful decoration to his life. Other men would envy him for her; she would fit into any society. Yes, he was on the way.

  He let himself in the kitchen of his house and his housekeeper looked up from her sewing.

  “How did it go?”

  “The Darcys’U do it?”

  “Let’s hope they make a real job of it this time and don’t bungle it like those Littles did.”

  “You should have been born a man, Clarissa,’ Drummond said.

  “I’m a better man than you’ll ever be,” she snapped. He hurried from the room, wondering why he didn’t cut adrift from the woman.

  * * *

  Emily Penshurst sat reading a book. Her father stood at the window of the house he could no longer afford and looked over Garrett. He wondered how his daughter could so cut herself off from what he regarded as his personal tragedy. She went about her life calmly, almost gaily, as if nothing had happened. He turned his head to watch her.

  She reminded him of her mother, dead these ten years. Sarah had been a clear-headed woman, always the driving force in the family. But he hadn’t done so badly
on his own. He had built up a tight little bank here, he had been respected and liked. He wondered if he would ever be able to climb back. It was his own esteem he wanted to reach again. Now he was nothing more than Will Drummond’s clerk.

  He thought about Drummond. The man’s manner had changed toward him in the last few days. Some of the politeness had gone. His attentions to Emily had become more obvious. At times it had been downright embarrassing. But he, Penshurst, had not dared to say anything. He knew why. It was not because he was now in Drummond’s power, but because he wanted to see the girl married to the man. He wanted Emily’s future to be secure.

  How much did he trust Drummond? With money; with his daughter. Unease stirred in Penshurst. He did not know on which count.

  He turned.

  “I think we should talk, daughter,” he said. He tried to make his voice gentle, but he could hear the strain in it.

  At once, she looked up, smiling.

  “Of course,” she said. “Talk by all means, papa.”

  “About you.”

  “Me?” She sounded faintly surprised.

  “You and Will.”

  “Oh, papa, do we have to?” She looked modestly flustered, but Penshurst wasn’t taken in for a moment. Emily had been adept at being modestly flustered from the age of ten.

  “How serious is it between you two?” he demanded.

  “Do we have to be so blunt?” She looked just the slightest bit cross. She did it very prettily.

  “Yes, I’m afraid we do,” he said. “The situation is–ah–calls for bluntness. Frankly, the sooner I see you settled the better. Has Will said anything to lead you to believe ...”

  “Do you mean has he proposed, papa?”

  “That’s what I mean.”

  “Not in so many words.”

  “But he has hinted?”

  “Well,” she cast down her eyes and blushed, “he’s very ardent. Nobody could complain about Will’s ardor. He’s attentive. If he didn’t mean to propose to me one day, his behavior is peculiar to say the least.”

  “This is no time for joking, miss.”

  “I’m not joking. Indeed, I take the matter seriously. My future is at stake after all.”