McAllister 2

by Matt Chisholm

  Manuel hauled himself to his feet. “Kill the old bastard,” he said.

  “You bet your sweet life,” said Clegg and thrust the barrel of the Spencer into the dark hole. He fired three shots, taking his time. There was a faint, fading scream from within the narrow tunnel. The air inside the chamber was foul with burned black powder fumes. Clegg said: “Manuel, you get in there and drag him out.”

  “Me?” said Manuel. “I don’t haul carrion.”

  Clegg said: “Get haulin’ or I kick your ass from here to El Paso.”

  Manuel looked as if he might make a fight of it, but he changed his mind and crawled out of sight. Clegg hitched his pants and walked over to the treasure on the floor. He dropped to one knee and picked up a necklace that had been made by a master craftsman some thousand years before. He thought it a mighty pretty thing and said so, conversing one-sidedly with McAllister as if the circumstances were normal.

  McAllister said: “Jack, is there some kind of a deal we can do so you untie me?”

  Clegg gave him a careless glance. “Nope,” he said. “There ain’t.”

  “We was partners for a while.”

  “You’re appealin’ to feelin’s I don’t have, Rem. All I have feelin’s for is this here gold. We wasn’t partners. You was a sucker, is all.”

  McAllister shut his mouth and kept it shut. He thought with his usual and quite misplaced confidence: I’m going to kill this bastard. He hated to be suckered more than anything in the world. He couldn’t remember when anybody had suckered him and gotten away with it. Of course, there always had to be a first time and maybe this was it.

  After a few minutes, Manuel came into view, crawling backwards and sweating a lot. A moment later, old Charlie was revealed, face downwards. He had been hit three times from behind—once in the buttocks, once under the left shoulder-blade and once through the back of the head. Clegg viewed him and nodded, pleased with himself. “Not so bad at that, considerin’ I couldn’t see him.” He gestured to the parfleches and sacks Charlie and Ignacio had left on the ground. “Let’s get haulin’. I’m stupid. I should of left these two alive till they’d hauled for us.”

  “What about me, Jack?” McAllister asked.

  “You?” said Clegg. “I ain’t forgot you, Rem. I’m savin’ you for old Southern. He’ll be as pleased as a dog with two peckers gettin’ you as a present. He wants to hang you, boy. I swear.”

  Manuel took hold of his burdens and staggered with them to the exit. He disappeared from view, dragging them with him. Clegg gave McAllister a grin and a mocking wave, and followed suit.

  They had left a candle burning.

  McAllister leaned forward and took a closer look at Ignacio. The man’s eyes were open. He was miraculously alive. Not very much alive, but alive just the same. And that little bit of life was what counted at this stage in the game.

  “If you’re strong enough,” McAllister said, “to untie my hands, Ignacio, I could stop you bleeding and that could save your life. How about it?”

  “Sta bueno,” Ignacio said, and gave a small weak grin.

  Twenty

  When Jack Clegg and Manuel emerged from the depths with their plunder, they were pretty well bushed by their strenuous efforts. In the fading sunlight of the late afternoon, they sat down to get their breath back. Clegg took a look at the sun and reckoned aloud that Southern would be riding in by dawn.

  Manuel said earnestly: “Ignacio was enough, Clegg. Too much. So you must allow the others to go. There has been enough blood spilled.”

  Clegg gave him the careless look which men of substance offer their inferiors.

  “Sure,” he said, and there was as much sincerity in his single word as he cared to offer—which was very little. Manuel was no fool and he knew it. Clegg should have seen the signs then. A thief with Manuel’s kind of conscience is a fish out of water.

  But Clegg was on top of the world and he could see no reason in the headiness of the moment why he should not stay there.

  He almost lost his balance there when he heard the girl’s voice.

  “I see you’ve been busy, boys.”

  Startled, they both turned.

  Pilar was a beautiful woman whether she’d just thrown you off-balance or not. Their brief moment of fear was mixed with admiration for her.

  Clegg said: “There’s plenty more where this came from.”

  “May I look?”

  “Be my guest,” said Clegg and loosened the rawhide thong that held a parfleche. His mind was continuing his previous thoughts about this girl. She had a body he could make good use of; he liked to have a woman around. Added to which, this one had class. And he never had a woman with class. Now that he was rich, he could afford to raise his sights. His thoughts pleased him. He was pleased too when he saw the girl’s reaction to the sight of the gold. It was the nearest thing to honest, plain lust he had seen on her face. It aroused male lust in him for her. Lust for gold, he found, was not dissimilar from lust for a woman. She picked up a delicate brooch and held it up in the waning sunlight.

  “I never saw anything more beautiful,” she said.

  “Beautiful women,” he said, “should have beautiful things. Keep it.”

  She put the trinket back. “No. I have my fair share coming.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  “So you have an arrangement with the sheriff, Jack?”

  He liked the way she used his given name. “Sure.”

  “So it makes sense for me to have an arrangement with you. I’m a realist if nothing else. It seems as if you have taken over here.”

  “Keno.”

  “What happened to McAllister, Charlie and Ignacio?”

  She had him off-balance again and the fact made him a little mad. He said: “We had some trouble down there below. It ain’t the kind of thing a man likes to talk about to a lady.”

  “Try me. I’m not easily shocked.”

  “The three of them jumped Manuel an’ me. They reckoned to have all the gold for themselves. Me an’ Manuel didn’t have no choice. That’s the truth, ain’t it, Manuel?”

  The Mexican was just a fraction too slow in saying: “Yes.”

  “Did you kill them?”

  “Kill them?” Clegg sounded shocked. “We didn’t have no choice like I said. The old man and Ignacio got themselves shot. Manuel an’ me was fightin’ for our lives.”

  Manuel was quicker this time and he volunteered—“That is so, señorita.”

  The girl left silence between them for a full minute, then she asked in a casual kind of way: “What about McAllister?”

  Clegg began to sound like a solid citizen. “McAllister’s a wanted man. He has to stand trial. An’ he didn’t have the guts to jump us. We have him tied up down there. We’ll hand him over to the sheriff when he gets here. That McAllister is a desperate character. The kind that ought to be locked up like a mad dog. Don’t you waste no sympathy on that one, miss.”

  She smiled and said: “I shan’t I promise you.”

  They gathered up their burdens again and started for the camp. The girl stayed where she was. As soon as they were out of sight, she rose, went to the head of the steps and looked down into the dark maw below. She admitted to herself that she was scared, but she knew that she would have to go ahead. A man’s life depended on it. She thought with a smile: And not just a man’s life Pilar—also your gold. She reached into a pocket for her stub of candle, begged from one of the Mexicans, and lit it with a match scratched on a step. Now, she slowly descended the steps.

  Twenty-One

  “Ignacio,” McAllister said, “don’t you move. I’ll come to you.”

  McAllister was bound from his ankles to above his knees with a three-strand rawhide riata. The same rope had been given a few turns around his neck and then passed down his back to his hands, which were behind his back. The rope from his neck to his hands was too short for comfort. In fact, it was short enough for pain. If he moved his hands or his legs too much, the tough
rawhide bit into his throat and threatened to strangle him. To reach Ignacio he had to stretch out his legs and then move his backside towards his feet. It took some willpower to make himself do this. No sane man likes to inflict pain on himself. By the time he had moved his feet forward a couple of times, he had given himself so much pain that it took even more willpower to make the move a third time. It took him ten minutes of agony before he lay on the floor with his back to the Mexican and with his hands close enough to be reached. He said: “Go ahead, Ignacio.”

  Silence.

  “Ignacio—you hearin’ me?”

  Silence. McAllister thought: Don’t tell me he’s gone and died on me.

  “Ignacio …”

  There was a faint rustle of sound behind him—“I must have fainted. It is not easy for me. My right arm is injured.”

  “Take your time.”

  Time, thought McAllister, what time was there, for God’s sake? Already Clegg and Manuel were on their way to the bright sunlight above. How long would it be before they were on their way back again?

  There was a long pause before he felt Ignacio’s fingers at the rope around his wrists. He tried to compose himself with patience. The minutes ticked away, but the Mexican did not seem to be any nearer freeing him. Only once did Ignacio speak —“The knots are very tight, my friend.”

  “You can do it.”

  Ignacio whispered softly: “Claro.” McAllister heard a faint gasping sigh go out of him and his head hitting the hard floor.

  Goddammit to hell, McAllister thought. The bastard’s fainted again. He felt himself panicking a little. Down here in the bowels of the earth, tied hand and foot and waiting for those two to come back for him so he could be given up to a crooked sheriff. Halleluiah! He started looking around for something that would help him, anything. The panic blossomed into a wild desperation. He started to pull at his bonds. The only result was pain, so he stopped.

  Was there something in that trunk that would help him? A knife? How the hell could he get anything from it with his hands behind him?

  The candle.

  Could he get hold of that and burn the rawhide? Perish the thought, you fool. Rawhide did not burn so easily. A small tugging at his bonds startled him. He had begun to think that Ignacio had died on him. His panic subsided a little and hope came again.

  The Mexican whispered: “Never fear, McAllister. I will have you free. We will stop these devils.”

  “That’s the kind of thing I like to hear,” said McAllister. “Just keep your hate going long enough to free me.”

  He had never known minutes to be longer. He seemed to lie there for endless hours while the weakening Ignacio struggled with the bonds. Once the Mexican gave up and whispered: “I’m too weak. I shall never do this.”

  McAllister lost his head a little then. He talked as he had never talked before: pleading, persuading, cursing, threatening, begging, encouraging. He seemed to go through all the emotions and moods known to man.

  Ignacio stopped him with, “I thought I heard a sound.”

  McAllister said: “It’s the last sound you’ll ever hear if you don’t get this goddam rope off me.”

  Ignacio’s fingers went to work again.

  At last there was a long sigh as if life itself had gone out of him. He said: “It is done.”

  McAllister’s own fingers got to work now. He too thought he heard a sound. Or was his mind playing tricks with him? His hands came apart so suddenly that he stopped all movement in utter astonishment. It was almost impossible to believe.

  “Ignacio, you wonderful man, you did it.”

  The Mexican was silent. McAllister took the rope from around his neck and it was a wonderful feeling. To free his legs took some time, for his fingers were almost lifeless from the pressure of the rope on his wrists. But finally, the thing was done and his legs were free. He tried to get to his feet, but his legs failed him. He cursed them obscenely, but that didn’t do any good. So he stopped cursing and took a look at Ignacio. The man lay in poor fight, but even so McAllister could see that his eyes were closed and that his already frail-looking body seemed as if it had shrunk. The right arm lay awkwardly and McAllister reckoned that the bullet which had caused the bloody wound in the thin forearm had broken the bone. There was another ghastly wound below the ribcage to the right. McAllister could not give the man much chance of surviving. But he owed him something and he knew that he had to do all he could to keep him alive. Which was not going to be easy under the circumstances.

  He crawled to the candle and took it down. Then he crawled to the trunk and lifted the lid. Inside he found one or two articles which would come in useful. First, he found a bottle of whiskey. He didn’t fool around, but pulled the cork and took a healthy swig. Almost at once the future looked brighter. He drove the cork home and laid the bottle aside. On searching further in the trunk, he came up with two old but clean shirts. He tore these into strips. He crawled back to Ignacio and washed out the arm wound with whiskey. This brought the wounded man to consciousness with a soft scream of pain.

  The only comfort McAllister gave him was: “You ain’t felt nothin’ yet, ole timer. Wait till I get to your belly wound.” He broke a wooden packing box and used two of the pieces for splints, strapping the arm firmly with rags and rawhide thongs. Ignacio watched with weary interest, once saying: “You know how to order these things, friend.” McAllister told him that the belly wound was going to give them both some trouble, and added: “But it’s going to hurt you more than it will me.” Ignacio offered him the ghost of a smile.

  While he worked on the wound, McAllister thought about how he would get the man out of this place. If Clegg came back to find Ignacio still alive, he would undoubtedly kill him. By the time he had cleaned the wound out and happily found the leaden slug lodged up against the lower rib, McAllister had made up his mind just how he would save Ignacio. It wouldn’t be easy and he wouldn’t be able to do it at all if Clegg came back too soon.

  So time was important. Often he crawled to the exit and listened, but heard no repeat of the sounds. It took him several tries to get the lead out and Ignacio had fainted yet again by the time he succeeded. But succeed he did and that was the main thing. He cleaned the wound out and revived the patient with a good pull at the bottle. Flushed, exhausted and brighteyed, Ignacio lay back and waited for what would happen to him next.

  McAllister now succeeded in standing up, a fact which pleased him greatly. “We’re on our way, Ignacio,” he said. Now he gave his attention to the rifles wrapped in hessian against the wall. He found that they were a number of old Remington rifles, all single-shot percussion guns. However, they were well-oiled and in good condition. He also had another piece of luck, for he found his own gun lying forgotten in a dark corner. He checked it and slipped it away into his holster. Then he loaded every one of the rifles. That done he put his hands and mind to transporting Ignacio to a safer spot. To do this he emptied a parfleche of gold and attached the riata which had held him to it. He lifted Ignacio on to this and told him that he meant to drag him through the tunnel. Ignacio nodded. If McAllister could do it, he was willing.

  McAllister dragged him to the exit hole and crawled down the narrow tunnel, holding the riata. Once into the larger tunnel, he hauled on the riata and pretty soon he had Ignacio beside him. Now he had a long careful listen and was pleased that he heard nothing. He had been so damned scared back there, bound hand and foot and without a gun, that being out here free with the Remington back in leather had transformed him. Not for the first time, he realized that life was good.

  “We shall make it,” he told Ignacio.

  The man nodded. “Of that I am sure,” he said.

  McAllister asked: “Where does this tunnel lead to?”

  “To the tunnel down which we came to enter the canyon.”

  “Is there another chamber like the one we just left?”

  “Follow this tunnel for twenty paces and there is a similar room to your right.”
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  “Good. I aim to put you in there where you’ll be safe, Ignacio, till I clean this business up. All right? I’ll leave some loaded rifles with you—just in case.”

  “All right.”

  McAllister dragged Ignacio down the passage and found the side tunnel. He dragged him down this and came into the chamber, as the Mexican had said. Now McAllister moved several times between the chambers, carrying guns and canned meat to the wounded man. He found some extra candles in the trunk and left those too. He wrapped Ignacio in some of the blankets. So far so good. Now he came to the great unknown. What was going on up above in daylight? If it was still daylight up there. He asked Ignacio if he would make out all right while he was gone. The man did not reply. He was asleep.

  McAllister started back towards the main entrance. By now, the candle was about two inches long. He wondered if he could get done what he intended before it burned out. He was tempted to blow it out and feel his way along, but he did not relish being down here in the dark.

  But he did blow it out, because he heard somebody walking towards him. Hurriedly, he back-tracked to the first small side-tunnel. There he crouched and waited, listening to the footsteps coming nearer. Pretty soon, he could see the faint light from the candle the approaching man was carrying.

  Then he heard something else.

  There were other footsteps, further back down the tunnel; the murmur of voices. The near footsteps were curiously hesitant, hurrying then slowing, hurrying again. He stayed back until they were almost on top of him before he peeked out.

  It was the girl.

  He was undecided for one short moment until he saw the stark fear on the girl’s face. That meant she was running away from the men behind her.

  “Pilar.”

  She halted and looked around her. He would not have thought that her fear could grow, but he watched it doing so now. She crouched back against the far wall, paralyzed with terror.