They rode thus for around ten minutes, the distance slowly growing less between them. McAllister knew that the man would scare any minute now and would do something about it.
Almost with the thought, the man ahead halted. McAllister didn’t hear the crack of the rifle, but he heard the whine of the bullet. He turned the canelo right, slipped from its back and hit dirt running. He covered a dozen yards and dropped flat. He was well within rifle range, but he knew that he was out of sight in the buffalo grass if he kept his head down.
He took off his hat and raised his head. The man stood some fifty yards away, his horses near at hand, searching for McAllister in the cold light of the moon.
He’d take him alive, McAllister promised himself. This man was going back to stand trial, never mind him having a rifle while McAllister only had his belt-gun. There were more ways of killing a coyote than strangling it.
He started worming forward.
The man was calling -
“McAllister ... McAllister ...”
The canelo whickered and one of Drummond’s horses answered it. McAllister kept going.
The man was on the move now, searching through the grass, rifle held ready.
McAllister lifted the Remington from leather, still and waiting now, ready for when the man came within range.
Nearer ... forty paces ... calling McAllister’s name again, threatening to kill him. McAllister stayed still. Thirty paces ... the man wandered a little to the right, starting to circle, turning abruptly every now and then. The canelo, not liking the man’s approach, moved slowly off through the grass and started feeding.
“I’m going to kill you, McAllister.”
Thirty paces ... McAllister was tempted to try a shot, but he resisted the temptation. He was going to take this one alive. That was what he was getting paid for, to bring men in for trial.
Twenty paces. McAllister found himself holding his breath. The man must spot him any minute now. He braced one leg under him ready to spring to his feet.
The man changed direction again and came directly toward the man in the grass.
Suddenly, he stopped, seeming to stare straight at McAllister. The carbine butt slammed into his shoulder. McAllister moved, gaining his feet and moved abruptly off to the right. The rifle slammed and the bullet tore past McAllister, missing him by no more than inches. He changed direction and charged. Drummond levered frantically. McAllister yelled like a Comanche, dodged to the left, changed course and came on again. The rifle seemed to go off almost in his face and he felt the scorching blast of the muzzle flash on his cheek. Then his whole weight crashed into the man.
Both men went down hard.
McAllister reared to his feet and turned. Drummond had dropped the Spencer. His right hand moved and a gun appeared in it. McAllister was surprised by the man’s speed. He lashed out with a foot and kicked the gun out of the man’s hand. Drummond screamed with the pain of it, scrambled quickly to his feet and rushed on McAllister furiously. McAllister hit him in the belly. He backed up, yelling foully.
McAllister Said: “Stay still or I’ll crack your head for you.”
The man’s answer was to charge insanely.
McAllister stepped to one side, caught him by the front of his clothes and flung him as hard and far as he could. Which was considerable. The man tripped and went down. He made a high keening noise as the wind went out of him. McAllister holstered the Remington, went up to Drummond, took him by the scruff of the neck and dragged him across the prairie to the horses and dumped him. He made a strangling noise and started to retch. McAllister whistled to his horse and the animal came trotting up.
There was a rope on Drummond’s saddle. McAllister tied his hands tight in front of him and lashed the rope to the saddlehorn. Then he mounted the black and rode back toward town. He didn’t hurry because it was as much as Drummond could do to stay on his feet.
At his yell, Pat came out of the office. The Irishman looked at what McAllister had on the end of his rope and said: “What the divil’ve you got there, man?”
“A skunk,” McAllister said, “put him in his cage.”
Pat took the rope and led Drummond into the office. As he went past McAllister, Drummond spat. McAllister took the horses back to the livery and told the man there that Drummond wouldn’t need the horses any more.
“He ain’t goin’ nowhere.”
He walked along Main to Garrett and turned down it. The woman brought in to tend Emily answered his knock.
“How’s she doin’?” he asked.
“Pretty good, marshal.”
He went up and tiptoed into the room. Her eyes were closed, but when he had stood by the side of the bed for a minute, she opened her eyes, looked straight at him and smiled.
“Did you attend to your business?” she asked.
“Sure did.”
“Is all your business here attended to, Rem?”
“Most all, honey.”
“Does that mean you’ll be moving on?”
“Not till I walk you to the creek in the moonlight again.”
She reached out and touched his hand.
“Where’s your sling?” she asked.
He laughed.
“Whatya know? I plumb forgot about it.”
“What’re you going to do now?”
“Right now I’m goin’ to eat a man-size steak,” he said.
“Lovin’ an’ fightin’ sure do make me hungry.”
“You,” she said and he bent and kissed her.
This electronic edition published in 2011 by Bloomsbury Reader
Bloomsbury Reader is a division of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc, 50 Bedford Square, London
WC1B 3DP
Copyright © P. C. Watts 1969
First published by Panther Books
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ISBN: 9781448207480
eISBN: 9781448207176
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McAllister Makes War Page 17