McAllister 3

by Matt Chisholm

  McAllister decided that he would have to head away from town, then lose his tracks completely before he turned back. And after he turned back he must leave nothing that a tracker could follow coherently. He knew that he had set himself quite a task. It sounded impossible, in fact. Just the same, he knew he had to do it if he wanted to stay alive. His major problem was staying in the saddle long enough. He had to face the fact that he was considerably weakened and, though he may have managed to limit or even stop the bleeding, he would not get any stronger.

  He smiled to himself, remembering his old man, Chad McAllister, mountain man and king of all the liars. Old Chad had always claimed that no matter what ailment a man could suffer from, it could always be cured on the back of a horse. “Lyin’ around in bed,” he had said, “just natcherly weakens a body.”

  McAllister thought longingly of bed. He turned on to a good hard trail, one which had been used by the Indians for centuries. He knew he would not leave too many tracks here, but the tracker behind would trace his passing from innumerable little signs and Oscar’s droppings. But if McAllister could leave the trail over rock, it would be some time before that tracker realized what he had done.

  Within the hour, he came to a low outcrop of rock which encroached on the trail. This would have been the ideal place to leave the trail, but it was too obvious and McAllister passed it up. He went on for another mile or two before he halted. Here brush grew on either hand to the edge of the trail. This was the place he wanted. There was risk in it, but, if he and Oscar could pull it off it would be worth it, for they would have gained maybe as much as a day.

  He took a peek over the brush to the right of the trail, confirming that this was the right place. The smooth stretch of rock on the other side of the low brush shone smooth in the moonlight. The jump was within Oscar’s capability, but the landing on the far side was the dangerous part. If Oscar slipped on the rock and went down, he could break a leg and that would be the end of them both. Just for a moment, McAllister hesitated to demand the effort from the horse, but he knew he had to do it.

  He walked Oscar back down the trail to give him a run-up, talking to him all the time. He knew the animal had taken a good look at the jump and was pretty sure that he knew what was wanted of him.

  “Let’s go, boy.”

  They got up a fair speed, McAllister measuring strides and pace as he went, knowing that Oscar must jump the brush clean and break not a single twig. As the game horse bunched his hind legs for the take-off, McAllister was wonderfully aware that everything was going just right. Oscar was exactly the right distance from the obstacle and had put the right amount of effort into the jump. They sailed over, a good six inches clear and, as they went, McAllister braced himself for the landing, prepared to keep the horse on his feet if he slipped.

  Oscar slipped.

  His hind legs seemed to go out from under him. It was not at all the kind of fall McAllister had anticipated. The horse sprawled clumsily, legs wide, quite out of control. There was nothing that McAllister could do to keep him on his feet. At once, Oscar fought furiously to regain his balance. Then everything seemed to go wrong. As the animal reared up, McAllister lost his seat. A hind leg slipped again and Oscar lurched. McAllister came out of the saddle clumsily, throwing out his hands to save himself, unable to roll out of the fall. Just the same, he fell sideways and landed on his injured shoulder.

  McAllister lay there enveloped in pain, his eyes tight in agony, dreading that Oscar had broken a leg. A wave of wonderful relief came over him when he found Oscar’s soft muzzle in his face. He opened his eyes and there was his horse.

  He sat up and caught hold of a stirrup to pull himself to his feet. Oscar turned his head to look at him. McAllister moved a pace to stand for a moment with his face against his horse’s. He was not a man to be sentimental with animals, but he sure loved that horse at that moment. He reckoned he’d never had one like him.

  He climbed painfully into the saddle and, for the first time since starting this ride, began to think that maybe some of the old McAllister luck was still around.

  The going now was difficult and that was part of the reason why he had chosen to come this way. While he guided Oscar in the general direction he wanted to take, he left the pace and the footing to the horse. The horse was smart and he knew his business. The rock over which they now made their way was at its greatest width no more than twenty feet or so and it would take them for about a half-mile. It was like a straight hard scar on the breast of the hill and it brought them eventually to a great sweep of shale which sloped down into a small upland valley, the whole floor of which was naked rock. Now came the point where, if the tracker behind did fathom McAllister’s ruse, McAllister would lose him a second time. The most obvious thing for any man to do was to go down the slope of shale and turn right along the length of this valley into the north. This would take him five miles or more on his way, every inch over naked rock.

  McAllister put Oscar at the shale and they slid down it together and then, instead of turning right, McAllister kept on across the narrow waist of the valley. This brought him to a stretch of grass about fifty feet across. He skirted this, keeping to hard ground or rock when he could, and then once more Oscar’s hoofs clattered on rock. Another fifty yards and they were among the silver birches and heard the sound of water. So far so good. Man and horse drank sparingly and then McAllister put the horse along the crick bed, going south.

  They rode all night.

  Once, heart-stoppingly, they heard the voices and hoofbeats of the posse as it went along the trail above them in the opposite direction. Oscar did not betray his master by calling out to them in equine greeting because McAllister dismounted into the water and held his horse’s nose. McAllister was pretty pleased. He knew now that the tracker had been fooled by his trick and had passed the spot where Oscar had jumped the brush. Yes, that old luck might still be around.

  McAllister mounted and rode on. He felt as weak as a kitten, but he had some hope now. Maybe he might pull this off after all.

  Nine

  He reached Black Horse around dawn. He rode Oscar right along the creek bed till only a low bluff concealed the town from him. Here, he stripped all his gear from the horse and told it to go home. This seemed to puzzle Oscar. He was tired and he thought it time for a rest. But McAllister persisted and gave him an encouraging slap on the rump.

  Oscar understood then. He threw up his head and trotted on his way. McAllister watched him out of sight, then hid his gear in some brush, walked around the bluff and entered town.

  The first person he saw was Mrs. Robertson, the doctor’s wife.

  Through her kitchen window, he saw her starting breakfast. Doc Robertson was a hard-working man and he worked a long day. He got up at dawn or earlier. Bertha Robertson looked pretty startled when she saw him. He was enough to startle anybody at that moment. She came and opened her kitchen door and took a closer look at him.

  “My God,” she said. She was a nice-looking Scotswoman with those fine bones which would keep her looks into old age. She had soft brown hair and soft brown eyes. McAllister never heard anybody say they disliked her. She said: “Do you know, Remington, that every man in town is looking for you with a gun in his hand?”

  “Yes, Bertha, I know that. I should, I’ve just given some of them the slip back in the hills. Do you think you could keep this sighting between ourselves for the minute.”

  She looked at him straight, head on one side.

  Maybe his name being McAllister helped. She said: “I’ll see.”

  “Is George around?”

  “He is. Now don’t you go involving my husband in one single piece of mischief. Do you hear?”

  “He’s a doctor and I have a ball in my shoulder. I’ve bled through the night.” That statement was an instant passport to the woman’s kindness.

  “Come away in,” she said at once. “You poor thing.” He was sat on one of her kitchen chairs at her kitchen table. The table
propped him up nicely. Steaming coffee was immediately at his elbow. “A drop of the hard stuff” was slipped into it and she declared that she was away upstairs to negotiate with her husband. He was not over-enthusiastic usually about taking bullets out of villains.

  “Villains?” said McAllister. “I thought we were friends.”

  When George Robertson entered the kitchen, McAllister was sprawled across the table asleep.

  “Oh, the poor darling,” said Mrs. Robertson.

  Her husband snorted. “He’s an inconsiderate son-of-a-bitch. He knows damn well I’ll patch him up. He knows damn well I’ll keep my mouth shut and he knows damn well I could get myself run out of the country for doing both.”

  “No,” said his wife stoutly, “you would not be. You’re too good a doctor for that. They need you here. You’re the only doctor here.”

  “You’re talking for the local folks,” he argued. “I’m thinking of Larned.”

  She shuddered. Together, they pulled McAllister up from the table, partly woke him and walked him into the doctor’s office. Here they stretched him out on the surgical table and the doctor demanded plenty of hot water.

  “And you not even had your breakfast yet,” Bertha said.

  Robertson smiled. “He’s not going anywhere. I’ll eat while the water boils.”

  Ten

  Two incidents followed McAllister’s surreptitious entry into the town of Black Horse. One was the introduction of a Hiram K. Shultz into the story.

  The second was that of Sheriff Malcolm Donaldson and his deputy, Horace Carfax.

  Hiram K. Shultz ran a dry goods store on Morrow and he would not have been introduced at all if it had not been for the fact that he enjoyed physical exercise and constantly bemoaned the fact that it was an insufferable hardship for a man of his physique to be shut up in a store all day long. Like so many of us, Shultz had a somewhat false impression of himself. He might see himself as the healthy, athletic type, but the world saw a shortish man, near-sighted and forced to wear spectacles, short in the leg and even shorter in breath. He sweated a lot and wheezed if he so much as strolled one hundred yards.

  Nevertheless, Shultz took his morning constitutional before the world awoke. Thus, as McAllister stood at the Robertson’s back door, Hiram K. Shultz observed him.

  By the time that McAllister was stretched out on the operating table and Dr. Robertson was taking his breakfast, Shultz had decided on his course of action. The fact that he was betraying a fellow man troubled him a little, but not enough to prevent him from the said act. It was his duty as a citizen, so he argued, and as a husband and father, to inform Edward C. Larned of the presence of the wanted man in Black Horse. He was a man who loved his stomach and who put first things first. So he breakfasted mightily, washed it all down with several cups of hot, sweet coffee and hurried officiously along the street to the Grand Union Hotel.

  If he had thought to ingratiate himself in person with the great man he was very much mistaken. He found the way barred by Howard Billington and, no matter how vigorously he protested, there was no getting past this immovable object. He informed Howie of his knowledge and had to be satisfied with that. Which he was not and returned disgruntled home to open his store for business. Howie breakfasted and informed Edward C. himself over his bacon and eggs. Larned grunted and told Howie to “get the men”.

  “What men, sir?” enquired Howie. Larned looked at him more in sorrow than anger and said: “My men, you damn fool. Who else?”

  Howie said: “They’re all out hunting McAllister, Mr. Larned.”

  Larned said: “I know there are some men out hunting McAllister, Billington. But I have half a hundred others eating their heads off at ranch headquarters. Get Tallin. He can handle this. Time he earned his keep. Get going, now. I want them all here before noon. Tell Tallin, if McAllister is allowed to escape this time, I’ll have his head.”

  “Yessir.”

  Howie sped to the livery where he demanded a horse in Larned’s name. Ten minutes later, he galloped out of town at such a rate that news of his rapid departure had spread through town in no time at all.

  In the meantime, the sheriff had reached town and, with his deputy in tow, had repaired, even at such an early hour, to the saloon and was taking a whisky to cut the dust in his throat and for his general health and wellbeing. His next move planned had been a large plate of ham and eggs to be eaten at the Good Life cafe run by a Chinese next door to the saloon. Alas, his program was interrupted. Word came to him that Edward C. Larned wished to see him immediately. On receiving this information, the county official was heard to say with unusual vehemence: “Oh, Jesus Christ.” He drank another whisky, washed it down with beer, and hitched up his pants. Interviews with the great man were always frustrating and generally an embarrassment. Sheriff Donaldson was a man who knew which side his bread was buttered, but that did not have to mean that he liked it. He left his deputy to gaze a little longer on the amber liquor and made his way to the Grand Union Hotel. Here, he found Larned at his breakfast, alone.

  The sheriff asked after Larned’s health and that of his charming wife and daughter. The information he received in return was three grunts. Larned’s mind was on other things. Foremost among them was the taking of Remington McAllister. He made this point very clear indeed and he emphasized his determination by banging his fist several times on the table top so that the cups and saucers rattled. Poor Donaldson watched the ham and eggs disappearing into Larned’s maw and was painfully aware that his stomach juices were playing hell with him. He had been three days in the saddle and he was not, as he himself said on more than one occasion, “a ridin’ sheriff”.

  “Yes, Mr. Larned,” he said, “I get your drift, sir. But you haven’t told me yet what McAllister is supposed to have done.”

  Larned looked at him as if he could not believe the evidence of his ears.

  “I don’t think you have been listening, Donaldson. I have told you a number of times that he fired on and injured three of my men. He came here to this very hotel and threatened my life and property in the presence of my wife and daughter. This kind of behavior is absolutely unacceptable. I think even you will agree. He has tried to murder three perfectly respectable men in my employ. For this I should expect a prison sentence at least, at most a simple hanging.” He wiped his fingers on his napkin and folded it neatly. The act seemed to give him pleasure. “The man lies injured at the house of Dr. Robertson. All you have to do is go there and arrest him.”

  “I’m afraid,” said the sheriff in some trepidation, “that I shall have to have a few more facts than that, Mr. Larned. I mean, so far, you have given me no idea what this man has actually done.”

  “My God, I have told you and told you. He fired on my men—”

  “Why did he fire on them?”

  “Why? What kind of a question is that? Are you trying to tell me that the law against shooting people is conditional?”

  “Well, you have to admit, sir, that a man doesn’t usually shoot another without some kind of a reason. Even if it’s a wrong one.”

  Larned leaned forward across the table. “Donaldson, do you think you are really in the right job? Are you truly on the side of law and order?”

  Donaldson leaned back in his chair to get a few more inches of empty space between himself and the angry man.

  “Me an’ Horace Carfax came in here along Black Horse Valley,” he said. Larned looked slightly startled, a fact that the sheriff did not miss. “We saw that McAllister’s house, barn and corral had been burned to the ground. Would that have any bearing on him shootin’ your men, Mr. Larned?” This was said so humbly that there could be no exception taken to it. Nonetheless, Larned looked at him with suspicion. Even he could smell hypocrisy when it stared him in the face, as you might say. Nobody could be as humble as the sheriff and mean it.

  Larned said: “I don’t think it is a part of your duties to support a cattle thief, sheriff.”

  The sheriff said a lit
tle wearily: “I suppose your boys found the usual cowhide with the Bar Twenty brand showing through on the underside.”

  This question and tone took Larned back a little. He said: “As it so happens, yes, they did. Right in McAllister’s barn under the hay.”

  The sheriff arose. “I have heard,” he said, “that you sent to your headquarters for some of your riders, Mr. Larned. I hope you did not intend for them to come into town and take McAllister. That will be quite unnecessary now that the official law is here.”

  Larned himself was now on his feet. “They will be most necessary,” he cried. “This man McAllister has shown himself desperate. He has already defied strong parties of armed men.”

  The sheriff said casually: “I’ll go have a little palaver with McAllister. I daresay we can settle this without any dramatics.”

  He turned and walked to the door. Larned cried: “Dramatics!” and sat down.

  The sheriff, deep in thought, returned to the saloon. If he had needed a drink before, he needed one more now. He was one of those men who, meager of frame and spare of flesh, can eat and drink vast quantities any hour of the night or day and not put any extra flesh on to their bones. He seemed to have been desiccated by the western wind and sun. A dried up lank wisp of a man with a hesitant walk and even a hesitant way of speaking. His great handlebar moustache and his small goatee of a beard gave him the appearance of an emaciated billy goat, looking out upon the world in mild wonder.

  It is just as well that appearances are so often deceptive. The sheriff was no billy goat. His hesitancy was no more than a mannerism. It was most definitely not based upon any uncertainty in his character. Cautious he might be, indecisive, never. He was skilled at sailing through political shoals and adept at avoiding political rocks which could have sunk a lesser man long since.

  When he once more took his place at the bar beside his friend and deputy, Horace Carfax, he said: “Horace, we just got ourselves in a tight place.”