“Out back of my place at nine?”
“Sure. Pat can have the town for a while.”
She gave him a smile and went on her way. Her thoughts were confused. She no longer knew where she stood with Will Drummond and she was almost sure that McAllister was right and Drummond had been mixed up in the killings. She realised that she had nothing to go on and that it was McAllister’s strength of character that had convinced her. Now she didn’t seem to care. For the first time in her life only today seemed to matter. Why did that man McAllister so easily convince her that being herself was right? Maybe she would regret this bitterly later. But somehow she was sure that she would not. McAllister could ride away tomorrow and she would remember him only in a warm and even grateful way. There was nothing mean and small about the man, he didn’t pretend to be something he was not. He admitted to being what he was. He didn’t want to settle, so he would not. If she had refused him, he would have walked away with regret but without malice.
She found herself singing as she went into the house.
McAllister was humming to himself as he went into the office. Pat smoked his pipe behind the desk. Carson was cutting his nails with his pocket knife.
Carson snarled: “All right for you to look so damned happy. You ain’t chained to this Goddam bed.”
McAllister played a game of checkers with him and that seemed to cheer him a bit. Then McAllister carefully dismantled and cleaned his gun, washed his hands, combed his hair and said: “Pat, keep an eye on the town for a while, will you?”
The Irishman said: “Sure. Holy saints, if I didn’t know better, I’d say you was after courtin’ a wee girl.”
“Would you now,” said McAllister, slipped into his coat and went out onto the street. Dusk was dropping softly over the town. He walked a block, halted at the mouth of the alleyway there, spent five minutes watching the street, then slipped into the alley. Reaching the end, he turned half-left and crossed an empty lot. He walked until he had the Penshurst place on his left and some trees on his right, then swung into the trees. It was almost pitch dark under there. He waited patiently for thirty minutes, not seeing any movement to rouse his suspicion, till the kitchen door of the house opened and the figure of the girl was briefly silhouetted against the light. He went forward to meet her and a moment later she was in his arms. They kissed, then went arm in arm through the trees.
“This,” she said, “is as crazy as can be, but I’m happy. Are you happy, Rem?”
He said: “I feel so durned good I could sing and dance.” He put his arm around her and she slipped her own around his waist.
Slowly, they went through the timber toward the creek. She thought: If only I weren’t a woman and I could ride away with this man. Go and see far places, get out of the rut of being a woman in a man’s world. Yet that was plain foolishness, because she had never been more glad that she was a woman.
They stopped near the creek, he took off his coat and they lay down on it together, talking softly, foolishly and greatly to their pleasure. They stayed there for an hour and during all that time Emily never wondered once how she, a lady, came to be lying on the ground by a creek with a man as rough as this. If she had thought of such a thing a short time before she would have been deeply shocked. After an hour, she sat up, arranged her hair and said, smilingly: “You do muss a woman so, sir.”
He kissed her and she put her arms around his neck.
“Enough of that,” he said. “I have to get you home. Where’re you supposed to be at, by the way?”
“At a girl friend’s.”
He strapped on his gun and stood. She rose and took his hand. Suddenly, he stiffened. Startled, she looked around. He was staring toward the timber, but she could neither hear nor see a thing.
He moved with such sudden violence that she screamed. She was knocked from her feet as the shot came. She fell on the ground screaming. McAllister drew his gun fast and fired two shots into the trees. He ran several paces to the left and flung himself down. A shadow flitted in the trees; he fired another shot. Twigs crackled under fleeing feet. He fired again, but knew that he had lost his man. Ejecting spent shells and thumbing in fresh, he rose to his feet.
“Rem.”
In a second he was down on one knee at her side.
God, she’d been hit.
Panic swooped through him.
He could see the dark stain on her dress, high up above the heart. The left shoulder. Holstering his gun, he hastily ripped some cloth from the tail of his shirt, rolled it into a tight wad and pressed it down on the wound after he had ripped her dress clear of it.
“Hold that tight against the wound,” he ordered her curtly. Her great eyes watched him. He ripped the bandanna from around his neck and tied it around her shoulder. It tended to pull the wadding away from the wound, so he took a length of peggin string that he was never without from his pocket and lashed it around the upper part of her body, pulling the wadding back into place.
“You’re goin’ to be all right, honey,” he said. “No call to be scared now.”
“I’m not scared, but I think I’m going to faint.”
“Go right ahead. When you wake up the doc’ll be looking after you.”
He kissed her on the forehead, draped the coat around her and lifted her from the ground. He went along the creekside trail, not risking going into the trees for the short-cut in case the gunman should still be there waiting for them. It took him a good ten minutes to reach Main and he sweated all the way terrified that the girl would die. This was all his damn-fool fault. He was spotted at once and soon he had a crowd around him. Pat came out of the office. A kid was sent scurrying for the doctor. By the time McAllister reached Garrett there must have been more than a hundred people around him. A man being shot wouldn’t arouse comment, but a girl like Emily Penshurst getting hit was sure news. Questions were fired at him, but he turned them away. When they knocked at the Penshurst door, the banker answered and he went to pieces at once. McAllister told Pat to clear the crowd away and carried Emily upstairs. He found her room, laid her on the bed and lighted the lamp. She opened her eyes and smiled.
He sat on the bed and held her hand.
Penshurst came in and fluttered around, saying that he loved his daughter and please God don’t let her die. Emily told him that she had no intention of dying. McAllister suggested Penshurst go and get himself and McAllister a drink. The man weaved off, but he was back in a moment with the doctor.
The young man’s face was grave as he bent over Emily and took the dressing off her. He gave the wound a careful inspection and asked McAllister: “Any exit hole in the back?”
“No, the lead’s still in there.”
The girl looked at McAllister and her eyes pled with him.
The doctor said: “Boiling water.”
McAllister went downstairs and found water on the stove. He poured this into a clean bowl and took it upstairs. The doctor poured some carbolic into the water and started cleaning the wound. McAllister had seen some pretty gruesome sights in his life and thought that nothing could affect him, but the sight of the doctor probing the livid wound in the soft white flesh of the girl upset him. Penshurst hurried from the room. McAllister could have used a drink, but he stayed where he was holding the girl’s hand. It seemed an eternity before the doctor held up the forceps and showed him the piece of lead.
“Thank God for that,” McAllister said.
The doctor dressed the wound with clean wad and bandage.
“Keep her warm and watch for a temperature,” the doctor told him. “She’ll pull through. She’s young and she’s strong. I’ll look in again at daybreak.”
McAllister said: “I have my job, doc-can you send a woman?”
“Sure, I’ll get one along right now.” The doctor went. Penshurst wandered in with a bottle of whiskey in his hand. “How is she?” he asked.
“I’m all right, papa,” the girl told him. “The doctor says I’m going to be all right.”
<
br /> McAllister took the whiskey from him and drank from the bottle. That made him feel a little better. Penshurst wandered away again. The last half-hour seemed to have aged him ten years.
McAllister sat with the girl until the woman arrived, somebody Emily knew. He patted the white hand that lay on the coverlet and said: “I have a little business to attend to. I’ll be right back.”
“Be careful.”
He grinned reassurance and went downstairs.
Outside, the cool air hit him. Until now he hadn’t realised how hot it had been in the house. He thought about what he would do next. His first idea was to get Pat with his shotgun, but he ruled that out. This was personal as well as official. He had to do this himself without help.
So where did he start?
Drummond’s place. He’d search the whole town if necessary.
He wondered what frame of mind the man would be in now. Either he could be planning to bluff it out or he could be panicking and ready to run. McAllister thought he was ready to run. In Drummond’s boots, he knew he would have been.
He started down Garrett.
* * *
Will Drummond was confused. For once that brain of his was refusing to remain cool. Ever since he had seen McAllister with the girl he had lost his sense. For the first time in his adult life he had acted on impulse. One man’s life had stood between himself and safety and now he had given himself away and that man was hunting him. He had followed McAllister and the girl because he was jealous when he should have been following them because the man had to be killed. The only weapon he had taken with him was a hand-gun when he should have taken a rifle. The light had been bad, the range too long. He cursed himself savagely.
Now what?
What must he do?
He seemed to have lost all sense of direction. He was here in his house, sitting and beating his forehead with his clenched fist. He had failed utterly. He had shot the girl instead of the man. The whole town could be hunting him if Emily was dead. His world was collapsing about him. This could mean utter ruin.
But did it?
He wasn’t finished yet.
Where was the woman? Where was his housekeeper?
He went into the hall and called her. There was no reply. He rushed into the kitchen. The lamp was burning, but she wasn’t there. He stormed upstairs calling her name, tore open her door and found himself in darkness. He struck a match and saw that the bed had not been slept in. He looked around. Her small personal things were missing from the top of her bureau. His heart swooped in his chest. She’d run out on him.
Running downstairs, he burst into his office.
Darkness.
He fetched the lamp from the kitchen, muttering furiously to himself. Back in the office, the safe in the corner gaped open.
“The bitch ... the dirty treacherous bitch ...”
That she could have done this to him. She was the last person on earth ... By God, he’d kill her.
But this hadn’t finished him. He kept his money scattered. There was some in the safe in the saloon; the bulk of it lay in the bank. And in the bank was money belonging to the town. He’d clean this damned place out before he was done. This town would remember him for a long time to come. He wanted McAllister dead before he went, but first things first. He had to get away with his money. He had to make a fresh start somewhere-Oregon, California, maybe Mexico. All he wanted was money and fast horses.
He found his saddlebags and stuffed into it a change of shirt and underclothing. The Spencer carbine, a pocketful of shells, load the belt gun and he was ready. He felt steadier now he had made up his mind. He would start somewhere else, with capital, change his name. Six months would see him re-established, cutting a figure. The West gave a man a chance to grow quickly.
He hurried from the house.
At the livery, he told the owner: “Saddle my black. Put a lead line on the sorrel.”
“Takin’ a trip, Mr. Drummond?”
“Yes. Taking a trip.”
“Mighty funny time of night to start out.”
Drummond hurried away without answering. He needed speed. The man could talk all he wanted after he was gone. He entered the saloon by the rear entrance and went straight to his office. Here he took a heavy dose of whiskey on board and that helped to steady him some more. Locking the door, he opened the safe and started stuffing money into the saddlebags. That done, he tied up the bags and slung them over his shoulder. His legs were shaking now and he sat down.
Where was McAllister? Was he hunting the town for him?
A knock fell on the door.
He picked up the Spencer and said: “Yes.”
“Mr. Drummond?”
“Yes.”
“It’s Lem, Mr. Drummond.”
He put down the carbine and opened the door. The bartender stood there blinking at him.
“What is it?” He tried to make his voice sound natural.
“The marshal was here asking for you.”
“McAllister?”
“Yeah.”
“What did you tell him?”
“I ain’t seen you all evenin’.”
“Good. Lem, I want you to look after things around here. I’m going on a trip for a couple of days.”
“Sure, Mr. Drummond.”
“Get back to the bar then.”
The man turned away. Drummond hurried. He picked up the carbine and hurried out of the rear of the building, down the alley and quickly across Main to the livery, eyes watchful for a big man. His horses were ready and the liveryman watched him curiously as he mounted. He rode away without a word, going out of the north gate of the corral, avoiding the street. Through the backlots to the creek he went, followed the stream south and came to the bank from the rear. Tying his animals to some brush there, he let himself into the bank by the rear door and went straight into his office. He lit a lamp and kept it low. Opening the safe, he started filling the empty saddlebag. When he thought about Penshurst’s face when he discovered this in the morning, he chuckled to himself. The old fool would die of shock.
He fastened the saddlebag and straightened up. Nearly clear. Blow out the lamp, feel your way to the door and there were the horses standing waiting in the moonlight. He’d almost made it.
He ran to the horses and slung the saddlebags behind the cantle of the saddle, tied them down and patted them with satisfaction. He had a fortune there.
Stepping into the saddle and picking up the lines, he touched the horse with iron and started at a trot down the incline to the creek. At last he was safe.
Chapter Eighteen
The Golden Fleece, McAllister thought. If he’s hightailing out of here he’ll go there. He remembered the big safe in the corner of the saloon’s office. Shouldering his way through the crowded saloon, he went up to the bar and said: “Seen Drummond?” The man told him ‘no’, he hadn’t seen him all evening. Just the same, McAllister went into the office and looked there. Not finding the man, he next thought of the livery. No, he thought, it’ll be the bank for sure. If he’s running he’ll need cash. He hurried to the bank and tried both doors, but they were both locked. He headed for the livery. He knew Drummond’s horses so he didn’t need to ask questions. He checked the animals under the liveryman’s curious gaze and found the ones he wanted. As he walked onto the street again, he wondered if he wasn’t wrong about Drummond. Maybe the man wasn’t planning to run. Maybe’ he was still around town set on killing McAllister. He started to go more cautiously.
Where in hell did he try now?
The house.
He hurried to Garrett, turned down it and reached the neat well-kept house. A light burned in a front window. He drew his gun and went in. The door to his right was open, a light burned beyond it. He listened carefully, then stepped into the room. His eyes fell on the open safe, papers strewn all over. Was this a trap? Was the man waiting somewhere in the darkness with a gun in his hand?
He searched the house from top to bottom and found
nothing. He started to worry, he was losing valuable time. Outside the house, he broke into a run, thinking as he pounded down the street: Where to now? The saloon was the nearest spot where the man would be certain to go. Hell, he could go on like this all night with him and Drummond going around in circles.
But this time at the saloon at least he had evidence that the man had been there before him. The safe gaped open like the one in the house.
McAllister let rip an obscenity.
He rushed out onto the street, angled across it for the livery, people stopping to stare at the big man pounding along late at night, wondering what his rapid comings and goings meant. At the livery, the man said: “Sure, Drummond was here, marshal. Took both his horses. Went out through the corral.”
McAllister went still, thinking, knowing he couldn’t track the animals in this light.
Had Drummond headed straight out due north?
His mind switched. Had Drummond visited the bank? If the man was running and he was, McAllister knew for sure, then he would clean out the bank first. So maybe he headed through the backlots down to the creek trail and so around to the bank. McAllister ran into the barn, untied his canelo and vaulted onto its bare back. He went out of there on the run, liveryman staring, bug-eyed. Swinging left on the street, he went at a flat run down Main, circled the bank, brought the pony to a sliding halt, leapt from its back and ran for the rear of the bank. A light burned there. The rear door was wide. His right hand plucked out the Remington.
A sound caught his ears. He cocked his head and listened.
Horses running beyond the creek. Could be Drummond.
He looked in through the window of the bank, saw the office was empty and the safe was open.
Turning, he dashed for the canelo. The animal was on the move even before his backside slapped down on it; it headed down the grade and splashed into the ford. It fought its way through the water, bounded through the shallows and heaved itself up the bank on the further side.
I always thought my horse faster than Drummond’s black gelding, he thought. Now we’ll see.
The canelo was stretched out now, head down and ears back, mouthing air into its great lungs, pulling away distance under its flying feet. McAllister called to it and it strained. In the moonlight ahead of him, McAllister glimpsed the moving blur that was a man and horse.
McAllister Makes War Page 16