McAllister Justice

by Matt Chisholm

“That could be any amount of men.”

  The voice was weak and McAllister could only hear with difficulty.

  “Joe, he dropped George Paston’s gun right by you.”

  “So?”

  “I don’t know. I wondered if you did.”

  McAllister started when a soft voice said at his side: “Mr. McAllister, I must insist that you don’t question Mr. Diblon further.”

  McAllister said: “You ever have a run in with Paston?”

  Diblon nodded.

  “What about?”

  “The Federal Marshal asked me to look into these gold robberies. He reckons the headquarters is in town.”

  “George Paston?”

  “Could be? But that don’t mean George shot me. Hell, he wouldn’t drop his own gun by me.”

  “Any other suspects?”

  “For the gold?”

  “Yeah.”

  Diblon stared first at McAllister, then shifted his eyes uneasily to the woman. His pale lips whispered, “Fenni-more.”

  McAllister heard Jenny Mann draw her breath in sharply. Boots crashed in the office as the door was thrown back.

  McAllister stood up and strode quickly into the office. A big man stood straddle-legged in the center of the room. A man as big as himself, hard-eyed and hard-mouthed. It only needed one look to show McAllister that here was a man that could be a match for him - with guns, fists or women. The realization was sobering.

  “You the new marshal?”

  The voice was hard too.

  “Who’re you?” McAllister demanded. He matched the man’s looks and voice.

  “I’m Fennimore.”

  McAllister’s eyes dropped to the man’s right hand and saw that most of the thumb was missing. His mind somersaulted. He had thought that at last he had nearly come up with the man he was looking for. The man he had hunted for a full year. Scarred face, thumb missing. Here was a man with both those characteristics and this wasn’t the man. This wasn’t the face he had seen for no more than a brief moment and yet which was printed indelibly on his mind.

  “And what,” he asked levelly, “can I do for you, Fennimore?”

  With all his toughness, the man showed unease. He hesitated before he spoke.

  “It’s about that gun of George Paston’s.”

  Chapter Seven

  “What about it?” McAllister asked.

  “I had it. A coupla days back. Everybody knows I had it.”

  “But you didn’t have it last night?”

  “No.”

  “That’s what you came to tell me.”

  “Sure. A man doesn’t care to be suspicioned.”

  McAllister smiled. Abruptly he changed the subject. “And what do you do for a livin’?” he asked.

  Fennimore looked surprised. “What in hell does that have to do -?”

  McAllister said: “I’m the marshal here. I’m paid to ask questions.”

  “I have the gamblin’ concession at the Paston place.”

  “All right, Fennimore, run back to your cards. I know where to find you if I want you.”

  The man had every right to be mad. And he showed that he was. Very slowly and through clenched teeth: “I don’t think I like you, lawman.”

  McAllister laughed outright. “I wouldn’t want it any other way, tinhorn.”

  The gambler tried to control himself; he turned and walked to the door, but he had to speak or burst. Swinging around on the marshal, he said: “I hope to God you tangle with me sometime.”

  “We’ll tangle all right,” McAllister told him chattily. “When I come around and want you to prove you didn’t shoot Joe Diblon.”

  The big man slammed out. McAllister walked back into the rear room and Jenny Mann said: “You look for trouble.”

  “Don’t I?” McAllister sat on the edge of the bed and asked Diblon: “He has a scarred face and a thumb missing. Any more like him around here?”

  “Sure,” Diblon said. “Where there’s dally men, you’ll find fingers and thumbs missing.”

  “Could you put a name to one?”

  The wounded man frowned, thinking. “Not right now.”

  Jenny Mann said: “I cannot allow the patient to talk any more, marshal.” McAllister rose and walked into the office, brooding.

  Behind his desk, he tried to think his way through this. There were several possibilities. If the man he was looking for had been the thumbless man who had held up the stage and was indeed in this country, then the shot that had brought Diblon down could have been meant for McAllister. Or Fennimore could have been the man in the stage hold-up. But that did not rule out the fact that McAllister’s quarry could have shot Diblon. McAllister was so bone-tired that the thoughts got nowhere, but just rattled around inside his skull. He started to doze off when he became aware that Jenny Mann was standing in front of him.

  “Mr. Diblon is sleeping comfortably,” she said. “I propose to go home for a while. Should you need me, you’ll know where to find me.”

  She went, head held high. Tired though he was, he was not unappreciative of the trimness of her figure as she went. He fell asleep in the chair and did not wake till Sime came in from patrolling the town, bringing a couple of pugnacious drunks with him. He put them in the cells, barred the street door and closed the shutters.

  “What’s that for?”

  “Those two punks you brought in have friends in town.” McAllister staggered to his feet, made himself up a bed on the floor and fell asleep telling Sime to wake him for breakfast.

  When Jenny Mann said she was going home for a while, she told the truth, but not the whole truth. True, she crossed the street, but she walked on past her brother-in-law’s store and continued until she came to George Paston’s saloon. This she entered by a side door at the top of the outside stairs.

  She was nervous as she always was when she crept in here after dark. Till now she had been lucky and nobody had seen her. That the respectable people in town would learn of her relationship with George Paston was her great fear. George had demanded from her a promise that she would never be caught entering here. George liked a friend in every camp and Jenny was his friend in respectable circles in town.

  She ran down the corridor and went quickly into George’s room and shut the door behind her. Paston wasn’t there. It was always his privilege to be late for an assignment. She went through the office into the bedroom beyond. There was less chance of anybody coming here and discovering her. Here there was an oil-lamp burning low. She sat on the bed at the extreme edge of the light’s circle. It was ten minutes before she heard the office door open. She stayed still until she heard George’s voice say: “You there, Jen?”

  She got up and walked to the doorway. At the sight of her, he turned and quickly locked the door to the corridor. When he came to her, he gripped her by both arms and looked into her face, all admiration for her. Paston was smart. When he was alone with a woman he looked at nothing but her and that was the kind of flattery a woman could take a lot of.

  “By God,” he said softly, “you get more damned beautiful every time I see you.” He bent his head, she tilted hers back as she stood on tiptoe and they kissed.

  She relaxed as he slid his arms around her and allowed him to run his mouth down the length of her slender neck to the curve where it met her shoulders. She gave a small shudder of pleasure.

  Then suddenly, she was cool, stepping away from him.

  “George,” she said, “I know you play both ends against the middle, but I shouldn’t like to think that you had tricked me.”

  He looked hurt. “How would I want to trick you?”

  “Tricks are as natural as breathing to you.”

  “A man has to survive.”

  “You told me you didn’t have anything to do with the gold steals.”

  “That’s right.”

  “But Diblon suspects you.”

  “That doesn’t make me guilty.”

  “He also suspects Fennimore.”

  �
��Who wouldn’t? He’s a natural suspect. The sight of him is enough to make a lawman’s hackles rise. Now, don’t you go worrying sweetheart. Little George is playin’ this square.”

  She watched him, trying to fathom the thoughts behind that smiling face, wishing that she could hate him as much as she distrusted him and knew she never could.

  “If you’re playing square,” she said, “why is it you want me to bring information out of the marshal’s office?”

  “A man in my position has to keep himself informed. Besides, it was my gun found beside Diblon. That kind of evidence makes me nervous.”

  “An innocent man has nothing to fear from the law.”

  “Don’t make me laugh. The kind of law you have in a town like this would hang a man as soon as look at him. A man like McAllister don’t give a damn whose neck the noose goes around so long as it goes around somebody’s.”

  “No,” she said firmly, “he’s not that kind.”

  The smile hovered off his face. “I didn’t like the way you said that.”

  Jenny said: “He’s tough and ruthless, but he’s straight.”

  He poured himself a drink and knocked it back, then stood brooding, staring into his empty glass. His mood seemed to have changed abruptly. “What else did you learn?”

  “McAllister’s looking for a man with his thumb missing and his face scarred. My woman’s intuition tells me that’s why he came to Malcolm.”

  “Fennimore?”

  “No. He’s seen Fennimore.”

  “If it’s not Fennimore, there’s only one man it can be.”

  She looked puzzled and would have asked a question, but the big man said quickly: “Get back to your post, honey. Don’t miss anything.”

  She came close to him and there was a simmering anger in her tone when she spoke. “Do you use all your women like this?”

  He touched her cheek with his finger-tips and said half-tenderly: “No, you’re the only one. I can trust you.”

  He kissed her, unlocked the door, saw the corridor was empty and stood aside for her. He showed irritation when she did not go at once, but said: “When are you going to finish up here?”

  “Let the fortune finders get to the main gold hills, I’ll clean up, then we can live in style. You’ll be the envy of every lady in the land.”

  “Just for the moment,” she said bitterly, “you mean that.”

  He grinned. She stepped past him and hurried down the corridor to the side door. He waited for it to close behind her before he strode the half-dozen paces to another door and tapped on it.

  Footsteps sounded and a voice asked: “Who is this?”

  “Paston.”

  A bolt was withdrawn, the door was opened suddenly and Paston stared into the forty-five caliber muzzle of a Colt.

  “Put that damned gun up,” Paston ordered and went in.

  The man said: “My old grandpappy always said ‘Never open a door without a gun in your hand and you won’t go far wrong’.”

  “One day your grandpappy’ll lose his grandson through him’ doin’ that.”

  The room was lighted dimly by one lamp turned low. The place was sparsely furnished and mostly filled by two cot beds. On one of these a man lay with a bloody arm in a sling. The man with the gun re-locked the door and Paston asked: “Where’s Dix?”

  The man on the bed said: “Up at the creek cabin.”

  “Why there?”

  “You said for him not to come into town.”

  Paston nodded and told the man with the gun to open the door. The man obeyed and he went down the corridor and out the side door. At the bottom of the steps he turned left and walked rapidly down the alleyway to a barn behind the saloon. Here he saddled his sorrel horse, mounted and rode out of town through the backlots, picking his way through the trash thrown there. He rode steadily north-west until he came within sound of the creek, then he turned and angled west till he hit a bunch of cottonwoods. The eeriness of the scene impressed him. The wind was lifted and shifting black clouds across a watery moon. It sang morosely through the foliage. He came to a gully and dismounted to lead his horse across it, wading through a foot of water at the bottom and scrambling awkwardly up the further side. By the time he remounted and lifted the sorrel to a trot, he was sweating.

  He located the cabin by a chink of light and halted his animal. Upon his shrill whistle, the chink of light disappeared. An answering whistle came after a pause of a couple of minutes and he heeled the animal forward at a walk. As he sighted the dark shape of the small dwelling, a voice called out of the murk: “Hold it there.”

  The sorrel stopped and Paston called: “It’s Paston.”

  “Anybody with you?”

  “No.”

  “Come ahead.”

  Paston dismounted and led the animal forward. A man stepped forward and took the line from his hand saying: “I’ll put up the nag. Go on in.”

  He felt his way up the rickety steps onto the stoop and pushed open the door. The lamp was low and he could see little. He reached for it and turned it up. A man was standing with his back to the further wall with a gun in his hand.

  “My God,” he remarked, “you fellers is certainly jumpy.”

  Left-handed, the man put the gun away in its battered holster. As he stepped forward the lamplight brought the scar down his right cheek up in deep relief. Paston found himself looking into a dark face that was lit by a pair of strangely pale eyes.

  He sat down on a packing case and the scarred man slumped on one of the four bunks.

  The man said: “You’d be jumpy if you was where the guns was.”

  Paston laughed and said: “Now, ain’t that idle talk, Dix.”

  “A man can get soft.”

  Paston shot his leading question at him, hoping to take him off balance. “Did you shoot Diblon?” If he expected Dix to give anything away with his face, he was disappointed. The pale eyes did not even blink, but stayed unwavering on his face.

  “Why would I want to do that?” Dix asked.

  “Did you or didn’t you?”

  “I didn’t. But is it your business if I did?”

  Paston knew he had to watch his step. This man was as dangerous as a sidewinder.

  “All right,” he said. “So you didn’t shoot Diblon. But what does McAllister want you for?”

  At this question, the pale eyes showed a shadow of reaction. Or so Paston thought.

  “I didn’t ever hear of anybody by that name.” The man was taut and wary now.

  “He’s the new marshal in town and already he has the place buffaloed. It was him cut the boys down when they tried to stop the stage. You mean you never knew that?”

  “I didn’t know it.”

  Paston said: “He’s looking for a man with his thumb missing and a scar on his face.”

  Dix showed the glimmer of a smile. “That sounds awful like Fennimore.”

  “It ain’t Fennimore. I know. My advice is for you to clear out.”

  “The pickin’s are good around here.”

  “They’ll be better on the gold-field. I have news that already a couple of hundred men have started out from Dead-wood. You could join ’em.”

  Dix nodded as though he liked the idea. “I could give it a whirl.”

  “I could do with a good man up there,” Paston told him. “Once the diggin’s start we’ll need more men there than here.”

  “I’ll go tonight,” Dix said.

  Paston was pleased. He didn’t think it would be as easy as this. He said his farewells and went out to his horse.

  Dix didn’t stir until he heard the sound of the horse being ridden away into the night. Then the other man came back into the cabin and Dix rose, saying: “I’m clearin’ out. The diggers’ve started walkin’ in. I’ll be with ’em.”

  The other man offered to go along, but Dix told him Paston wanted him to stay here. The gunman threw a few possessions in saddlebags and his bedroll, checked pistol and rifle and went to catch up his horse. Mount
ed he headed north as he had said he would, but a couple of miles away from the cabin and he started a long circle. This brought him into town through the backlots somewhere around midnight. This pleased him because he reckoned the chances were that McAllister would be making a late patrol through the streets. He tied his horse in the shadows at the rear end of an alleyway, then walked to Main and stood in the shadows of the saloon. He held his Spencer carbine in his hands and settled down to wait. He didn’t mind how long he waited, for he was a man of infinite patience and he wanted McAllister dead. Men passed close to him, but none noticed him, for he was like a dark shadow himself. Noise and music came from the saloon. He whistled soundlessly to himself. He was happy. This time there wouldn’t be any fancy planting of evidence. Just a straightforward killing. A man of his skill couldn’t miss with a rifle at this range.

  Chapter Eight

  Mcallister, as was his habit, woke immediately into clear consciousness, sitting up and reaching for the butt of his gun. The tinkle of glass from the shot still rang in his ears. Some fool had put a shot through the office window.

  As he stood up, Sime came groggily to his feet demanding to know what in hell was going on and staggering gun in hand for the door.

  “Not that way,” McAllister roared. “Stay right here.”

  Turning he opened the door to the sick room and heard Jenny Mann scream. He didn’t waste time on explanations, but legged it across the room, lifted the bar on the rear door and ran around the back of the building. Between the office and the next building was an alleyway about wide enough to admit a horse. The shadow was black here. He ran the width of the building and came onto the street.

  Outside the saloon was a bunch of men. They were likkered up and he could see the dull gleam of guns in their hands. A couple of drunken fools were riding their horses up and down the street whooping like Comanches. One was firing his gun in the air.

  One of the men on the other side of the street fired again at the office. This raised a roar of laughter.

  McAllister thrust his gun into his belt and started across the street. He didn’t make any speed because the mud was so thick. Halfway across he dodged one of the horsemen and roared at the top of his voice: “Put those fool guns away.”