Brenell was howling: ‘I’m goin’ to kill him, kill him, kill him kill him kill him.’
Griff drew his gun.
McAllister stopped and went still.
One of the men on the ground rolled about and groaned.
McAllister said to Brenell: ‘Put that gun down, you crazy fool.’
‘I’m goin’ to kill you,’ Brenell said. ‘I’m going to cut you down like a mad dawg. I’m goin’ to gut-shoot you and watch you squirm.’
He meant it and McAllister knew he meant it.
The mind started calculating again, placing Griff with the gun to one side, the two men on the ground to the other. Both were hurt, but both could shoot from the ground. He was up the creek without a paddle and no mistake.
Nothing would get him out of this but two well-placed shots and even then it might not be over.
He watched Brenell minutely.
The man’s hand cocked the hammer of the Colt’s gun and as the clicks came McAllister moved fast to the left and backward so he had all four of them in plain sight.
Brenell’s shot came too quickly and a foot to the right. McAllister drew from the high seemingly awkward position he carried the old Remington. It came out with deceptive smoothness and speed, hammer cocked as it came up. He fired once, knew he’d hit, jumped on his flat feet so that he faced slightly to the right and fired again.
Brenell took one pace backward, stepped stiffly through the doors of the saloon and fell on his back with a loud thud.
Griff was hurled back against the wall. He fell to the planks and his gun clattered to them also and went off again, this time harmlessly.
McAllister swung his gun left. One of the men on the ground had a gun out, but now it was there he didn’t know what to do with it.
‘Wa-al?’ McAllister asked.
The man said: ‘This ain’t my fight.’
‘It was a minute back,’ McAllister reminded him.
The other man said: ‘Hell, if you’re goin’ to shoot, git it over with.’
McAllister said: ‘Shuck your guns in the dust good an’ easy.’
They obeyed him. The weapons hit the dust.
A gabble of voices sounded inside the saloon, a man ran along the sidewalk, others came pounding along the street. The two men climbed to their feet and stood watching McAllister in the lamplight.
As a man came near from up the street, McAllister said: ‘You, fetch the doctor.’ The man hesitated. McAllister barked: ‘Move—you want men to bleed to death?’ The fellow turned and ran back up the street.
McAllister found that he was shaking violently. He reloaded the Remington and thrust it away in its sheath. A man came up beside him and asked: ‘What happened?’
He turned his head and saw that it was Mart Krantz, the sheriff.
‘It started out as a fist-fight,’ McAllister explained. ‘Brenell and his men jumped me. They didn’t do so good. Brenell pulled a gun. I shot him and Griff.’
‘Jesus,’ Mart said and saw a whole lot of complications straight off. His mind worked politically these days. His mind flitted over possible developments. He moved forward and McAllister followed him. As the sheriff dropped to one knee beside Griff, men crowded around. Krantz told somebody to bring a lamp and a man fetched one from the saloon. Griff was alive and groaning. Krantz stood up and said: ‘Carry him into the saloon. Take it easy now.’ He and McAllister went on into the saloon and found a bunch of men gathered around the fallen Clem Brenell. There was scarcely room to get into the place.
‘Give me air. Go on now, get back,’ the sheriff snapped. Men stepped back and revealed Rosa on her knees beside Brenell. She looked up.
‘He’s been hit in the leg,’ she said.
McAllister sighed with relief.
Brenell had his eyes closed and his face was pinched up with pain. The sheriff said: ‘Pick him up and lay him on the bar.’ They obeyed him, accompanied by the man’s groans. McAllister saw that his bullet had taken Brenell high in the left thigh. There was a lot of blood. He took off the man’s bandanna, tied it around the leg and twisted it tight. The flow of blood stopped almost immediately. He was still holding the tourniquet when the doctor came in. He was a young man with a busy air. As he got busy on the wounded men, Rosa led McAllister to a chair and sat him down. He had never been more thankful to sit. He felt terrible.
Krantz came over and said: ‘You all right, boy?’
‘Sure.’
Rosa said: ‘You don’t look all right.’
‘You hit?’ Krantz asked.
‘No. But I think one of them opened an old wound when he kicked me,’ McAllister said.
Rosa made him strip off his vest and shirt and, as he had feared, his side was all bloody where the kick had opened the knife wound. The woman drew her breath in through her teeth at the terrible sight.
Krantz said: ‘That don’t look so old to me.’
‘Been there a day or two,’ McAllister admitted.
‘You’re a boy for punishment,’ Krantz remarked.
‘It’s time you grew up,’ Rosa said tersely.
‘Maybe you have somethin’ there,’ McAllister admitted.
When the doctor had finished with the two wounded men, he came over and looked at McAllister. He pulled a face when he saw the wound and declared that a couple of the stitches had been broken open.
‘You’ll have to take care of that or you’ll be in trouble,’ he declared. He cleaned the wound carefully and repaired the damage. ‘I want to see that tomorrow. Take it easy. The flesh is all churned up and it could become a mess. Go home now and get some rest. The less you move, the better.’
He packed his bag and walked out.
Krantz said: ‘You know what you just did? You just put the local champion out of action?’
‘The damn fool didn’t give me any choice,’ McAllister said.
‘Tell that to the men who have money on him,’ Krantz said. ‘Half the town have bet a fortune on Brenell. They ain’t exactly going to love you.’
The saloon was filling with men now. They bunched down the other end of the place from McAllister and started looking toward him, murmuring among themselves. Krantz was looking troubled. Slowly, they started moving toward the three people at the table. Krantz turned to face them. A man at the back yelled: ‘A rope’s too good for this bastard.’ A shout went up. Another bellowed for them to take McAllister outside and string him up now.
Krantz held up his hands and shouted for them to quieten down, but their ire was up now and they bawled back at him. A big fellow strode forward and thrust his face into the sheriff’s and told him: ‘You stay outa this, Krantz. This ain’t no affair of yourn.’ Another man pushed forward out of the crowd, gun in hand. It waved around all over the place so that both Krantz and McAllister at once had the jitters.
Mart snapped: ‘Put that fool gun away.’
The man yelled back: ‘I’ll put it away when there’s a rope around this man’s neck. He’s been paid to put Clem outa action. Can’t you see it’s a put-up job? Clem knowed he’d been brought in to do a job. Now he’s done it.’
Mart said: ‘McAllister’s a friend of mine. He wasn’t brought in to do anything.’
‘Then why’d he come here?’
‘It’s a free country.’
‘Not to go around shootin’ folks regardless. Christ, sheriff, it stands out a mile. Clem caught this jasper skulkin’ around on Double B range. He warned him off. Him and Mr. Brenell knew McAllister was a gun-hand at first sight. It stands outa mile.’
McAllister stood up.
‘Stay away from me,’ he said.
Hastily, Mart Krantz said: ‘Take it easy, Rem. I’ll sort this out.’
Another man thrust forward. ‘You ain’t goin’ to sort any-thin’ out, Krantz. This boy’s ours. Hank, you got the rope there?’
Hank had the rope there with a noose already built. A great shout went up. Men pushed, the crowd started to surge forward. Two men lunged up against McAllister a
nd seized him by the arms. McAllister took them by their necks and smashed their heads together. As they reeled back from him, the crowd recoiled for a second and in that time, McAllister and the sheriff had drawn their guns.
Mart said: ‘Stand back, men. We’re goin’ to walk outa here. Put that gun up or somebody’ll get hurt.’
The two guns made all the difference, but they didn’t quieten the crowd’s rage. The shouting went on so the sound battered against the two lone men. Those at the back wanted to come forward, those at the front wanted to get away from the two guns they respected so much. McAllister picked up his shirt and vest and said: ‘See you later, Rosa.’ The woman’s face was white.
The sheriff started edging toward the door; McAllister followed him; the crowd moved steadily after them.
A man yelled: ‘You ain’t doin’ yourself any good, Krantz. We’ll have the bastard an’ we’ll have you too if you stand in the way.’
Krantz shouted: ‘I heard that, Williams. That was a direct threat to a peace officer.’
They howled back at him. He and McAllister reached the door and somehow got out onto the sidewalk. The crowd surged out after them. They started down the street toward the sheriff’s office. Men began to run ahead of them and both McAllister and the sheriff knew that it would take only one shot from one of them to start a blood-bath. In seconds the street could be a shambles. McAllister was sweating in spite of the fact that the top of his body was bare. By the street lights the rage on the men’s faces stood out dramatically. It was like some fantastic scene created by the imagination of Daumier—the leaping shadows, the strident yells, the darting figures and the small clear circle around the two lonely figures, a circle that was kept in being by their two guns and their reputations. Finally, after what seemed an eternity, they reached the office and backs to the door, the sheriff gave his warning.
‘You will disperse to your homes,’ he told them. ‘Go on home now. This can bring you nothin’ but trouble.’
Their only reply was a volume of curses and insults. He and McAllister backed into the office and slammed the door. At once, Mart dropped the bar on the door. At once, the courage of the mob rose. The shouting increased, rocks were hurled, cracking against the door. One shattered a window and the glass showered inside. Mart started putting up the shutters and said: ‘Find a shotgun, Rem.’
McAllister went to the rack on the wall and found a greener. When the shutters were up, he lit the lamp. As its dim light blossomed Krantz turned to him and said: ‘By God, boy, you done it this time. I shoulda known you’d bring trouble with you.’ He said it without bitterness.
Six
Mart Krantz was worried. It was midnight and the mob was still out there. They were drinking steadily and with the consumption of alcohol, their courage rose and their anger increased. Their champion lay on the bar in the saloon with a bullet in his leg. Their pockets and their civic pride had been hurt. They had no liking for the wounded man; in fact, they disliked him for his arrogance to a man, but he was their man and an outsider had come and done this to him. They wanted the stranger’s hide. And they meant to have it.
The sheriff was in an impossible position. After all, these were his people. It was these men whose votes had put him in office. He was too independent a man to let that color his actions, but the idea of using force against his own people was repugnant to him. But he had another worry too. Clem Brenell’s father was a big man in the country and he could stir up real trouble. There was little doubt in the sheriff’s mind that McAllister had had no choice when he had shot down Clem and Griff, but that wouldn’t make any difference to the senior Brenell. When he heard what had happened to his son, he would come into town loaded for bear.
For the last hour, the mob outside the office had been quieter, but, now suddenly they grew strident again. The two men in the office could hear some ring-leader exhorting them to action. They gathered around him on the other side of the street, drink in their hands, shouting agreement to his speech. One or two, too drunk to stand, lay either on the sidewalk or in the dust of the street.
Krantz went to a shutter and watched them through a slit. He saw the speaker jump down from the wagon-bed from which he had made his speech and lead the way across the street. The crowd started after him. A dozen or so were bunched tightly together; they were chanting in unison, the excitement high and Krantz saw that they bore a large and heavy object in their arms. He couldn’t see clearly by the dim lamplight, but it looked like a great beam of wood to him. That meant they intended to batter down the door. He reached for the shotgun and said to McAllister: ‘We’re about to have company. They’re goin’ to batter the door down.’
‘What do you do if they do?’ McAllister asked.
‘This greener ain’t for decoration,’ the sheriff said.
McAllister told him: ‘You ain’t goin’ to fire on ‘em an’ you know it, Mart.’
‘I can bluff to the last minute.’
‘Then they hang me. No, sir, I don’t fancy that. Open that door and save yourself buyin’ a new one.’
The usually taciturn sheriff looked distraught.
‘Hell, I can’t do this to you, boy,’ he said.
‘You ain’t doin’ nothin’ to me, Mart. Open that door an’ quit foolin’ around.’
The noise from the crowd was deafening now. Mart gave McAllister a long look and stepped to the door. When he opened it, the crew with the battering-ram were just ready to make their assault. When they saw the sheriff, they paused. A great cry went up.
Mart raised his hand. In the other was the shotgun.
When there was silence, he said: ‘Boys, this ain’t goin’ to do you no good.’
They howled back their obscenities at him.
‘Give us McAllister, Krantz, an’ get the hell out of it.’
Somebody fired a shot and the bullet thudded into the wall of the office. Krantz lowered the shotgun and cocked both hammers. The men to the rear of the crowd pushed the front ranks forward and they came to the edge of the sidewalk. Those at the front strained back to-get away from the greener.
There was a sudden silence as McAllister stepped out of the office. Then a solitary man yelled: ‘There he is.’ A howl went up.
When it had died, McAllister raised his voice.
‘So I shot your champion. An’ he wasn’t no damn good.’
They bellowed back at him, shaking their fists, fouling the air with their curses. Only the shotgun stopped them from flooding forward and tearing him to pieces. Savagery showed on every face there. The sheriff shouted for silence. Let them hear what McAllister had to say.
A man bawled: ‘It’s be the last thing he says afore we stretch his neck.’ The rest of them howled their agreement.
McAllister, as soon as he could make himself heard, said: ‘Like I said, Brenell wasn’t no damn good. You lost nothin’. I whipped him. What do you think Billy Gage would of done to him? He had three men to help him an’ I whipped him. Gage would have eaten him alive.’ They tried to shout him down, but he persisted.
A man yelled: ‘But that don’t help much. So you whipped him. But that don’t give us anybody ‘at can go against Gage.’
McAllister bawled back: ‘I’ll go against Gage.’
That stopped them for a moment.
A man shouted: ‘What makes you think you could do any better against Gage than Brenell could?’
McAllister replied: ‘I whipped Gage in Abbotsville wrestlin’. I out-ran him today in practice. What’s the matter with you fellows? Did you like Clem Brenell so much? You got anythin’ to admire him for? Was he such a nice feller?’
A man shouted: ‘He’s a no-good punk,’ and there was a big laugh.
Mart Krantz sighed. This was a mite better, when men laughed there was always a chance. He said: ‘McAllister’s a good man with fists and wrestlin’. I seen him fight all over. And he can out-run any man livin’. My money’s on McAllister. My money says he’s our man. I’ll give anybody five to one
on him.’
The chance of a gamble hit them. A man rushed forward to take the sheriff’s bet. Then somebody remembered that the stakeholders were not there. That was the mayor and the judge. Get ’em out of bed, somebody yelled and men ran off. It seemed as if the mood of the crowd had changed by magic. The battering-ram was dropped and forgotten. Men were making bets among themselves. Men came up to McAllister to ask him how he was at putting the weight and he said he was so-so; maybe he wouldn’t do too good at that, but he would stand a good chance with the running and fighting.
They were saying now that it was a good thing that a real man had come along to give young Brenell his comeuppance. It was time somebody showed father and son what was what, they had ridden too high around here for too long.
After a while, McAllister and the sheriff stepped back into the office.
‘My God,’ Mart said, ‘that was a close call an’ no mistake. But, boy, you ain’t in fit state to compete against a man like Gage an’ you know it.’
‘I ran with Gage today and did all right.’
‘That was before the fight. That wound don’t look to good to me. You’d best rest. I’ll get a bed made up for you here.’
‘That won’t be necessary, sheriff,’ a voice said from the door. They both turned and saw Rosa standing there. ‘Rem, come to my place. You need taking care of.’
The sheriff was at once at a loss. This was the woman who all men in town wanted and couldn’t seem to get near. And now here she was inviting a man into her place.
McAllister said: ‘Mart’ll put me up, Rosa. Folks’ll talk if’n I come to your place.’
‘People talk all the time about a saloon woman. A little more won’t hurt. Come, I won’t take “no” for an answer.’
Mart said: ‘She means it. Best do as she says, Rem.’
McAllister smiled. ‘You’re a good girl, Rosa.’
She laughed—‘That’s the first time I’ve had that said to me.’
‘Go ahead, Rem,’ Mart said, ‘an’ watch out for old man Brenell. He’ll want your hide when he hears what happened to his son an’ it can’t be too long before he does hear.’
Blood on Mcallister Page 6