McAllister 3

by Matt Chisholm

  They left the bedroom and went downstairs. In the parlor, Bertha sat down and picked up her sewing.

  “I have a terrible feeling, George, that is the last we shall see of him,” she said. “I have the most awful premonition of death.”

  Donaldson snorted —“Some of Larned’s men most likely,” he replied.

  Up in the bedroom, McAllister turned the lamp low and placed it on the floor on the far side of the bed from the window. It gave him just enough light to see what he was doing. He placed a chair under the window and did the best he could to build a dummy in the chair out of bedclothes. On top of this, he placed his hat. It would help persuade any watcher outside that he had a visitor in the room or somebody sitting with him while he lay unconscious. Nobody watches beside an empty bed.

  He checked his gun for the last time and the extra chambers in his jacket pocket. Bertha had washed his jacket and darned it as best she could. He wore one of Robertson’s shirts. His shoulder felt stiff and sore, but he reckoned that, if he favored it and was careful, he would get by. He came of that generation and breed of men who had been reared to live with and ignore pain. He left his boots under the bed and wore instead his Cheyenne moccasins which Robertson had brought him from his warbag in Mose Copley’s barn.

  He put the lamp on the bureau and turned up the wick. There was enough of the dummy’s silhouette showing on the curtain in shadow to be convincing. He now walked downstairs, going as silently as his own shadow. He knew that the man and woman in the parlor would not hear him. Everything he did now was the action of a man who had learned his craft well and was proud of it. He had been taught by his father with thought of a belting if he failed. The Cheyenne had taught him with love. One way and another, he was good at what he did. He wanted to go through the whole operation without sound of any kind. Whether that would be possible was another matter entirely.

  The trickiest part of the whole operation was, of course, the first act of getting out of the kitchen door. The rear was the obvious place of departure, which had made him wonder if it would not have been wiser to go by the street door. He rejected that way on the grounds that there would be too much lamplight there, both from the parlor and the single street lamp which burned almost opposite the doctor’s house on the far side of the street.

  He risked taking a look from the kitchen window, but, though he stayed patiently there for ten minutes, he could not locate the man watching the rear. He even wondered if, in fact, there was no man there at all. Certainly the doctor had not been able to spot him once night had fallen. The day guard had stood and paced in the open with a repeating carbine in his hands. But when night fell, the man had pulled back into the darkness out of the area lit by the kitchen lamp.

  McAllister knew that anybody watching the back of the house could not fail to see the back door being opened. There was still enough moonlight and starlight for the man to see the door. Even if McAllister went out on his belly, he would be spotted. Apart from the risk to himself, he would draw gunfire to the house. He did not know what Robertson and his wife would do. Maybe they would run into stray shots. So causing the guard there to open fire was out.

  Not for the first time in his life, McAllister decided to take a leaf out of his old man’s book. Do the least expected. Do something so risky that nobody would suspect there was ever a man born crazy enough to do it.

  McAllister made his decision, hoping fervently that the McAllister luck was in the ascendant. The moon was by no means full and the light outside was tricky. He might, he just might get away with it. For the moment, he could think of nothing else and time was ticking by.

  He began to sing.

  The song was one his father used to sing, more a dirge than a song, a poor thing but the only one that would come to him that minute. It went something like:

  When I was a boy,

  I killed a man, killed a man.

  When I was a boy, I killed a man

  With the gun my father gave me.

  He loosened his gun in the holster and opened the door. The cool evening air hit him in the face and it smelled good, bringing the smell of pines and birch. He pulled the door back wide and stepped out into the pale light.

  When I was a boy,

  I killed a man, killed a man.

  When I was a boy, I killed a man,

  Who with prayer will save me?

  How did the damn thing go on from there? Did it matter? He tried to remember, thinking of his father, and standing there in the moonlight trying to look casual and spot the man who was watching for him. He grasped at the remote possibility that the man might not know him by sight. If that was so, it would be the proverbial McAllister luck, all right.

  He slowly strolled from the house, through Bertha’s truck garden and towards the white wicket gate. The words of the song drifted back to him reluctantly from the past.

  Now I’m a man,

  I’ve killed a man, killed a man.

  Now I’m a man, I’ve killed a man

  With the gun my father gave me.

  So far so good. What came next?

  His hand was on the gate, fumbling with the wooden catch, opening it. He was about to step through—

  Now I’m a man …

  ~*~

  “Hold up there.”

  Act casual.

  He looked around like a man mildly surprised.

  “Who’s this?” he enquired foolishly.

  There was a rustle in the undergrowth and a man stepped out of the shadow under the birches. His hat brim masked his face. He held a rifle across his chest.

  “My God,” exclaimed McAllister in a voice of alarm, “are you a robber or somethin’?”

  “I’m one of Mr. Larned’s riders.”

  “You’re a what?” McAllister prayed the man would come closer.

  “I’m a Bar Twenty hand.”

  “Why didn’t you say so. I know one of the crew.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “Name’s Si Tallin. Si an’ me were at school together down in east Texas.”

  “Is that a fact? How do they call you?”

  “I’m Morgan Smith. Stayin’ here with the Robertsons. But why’re you out here with a gun?” There was puzzled wonderment in his voice.

  The man lowered the gun and rested the butt on the ground. Before the man could reply, McAllister put on a knowing voice: “I get it. That McAllister up there. Say, do you know who that is visitin’ with him?”

  The man craned forward and followed in the direction of McAllister’s pointing finger. The hat and bedclothes did not look bad silhouetted against the curtains. To McAllister, though, they remained suspiciously still.

  The man said: “I been wonderin’—” McAllister hit as hard as he could with the under edge of his left hand. The effort took so much out of him that he almost fell on his face. The man lost his grip on the carbine, staggered and caught at his throat with his hands. McAllister wrenched his gun from leather and slammed the barrel over the man’s head. The fellow fell to the ground with a low moan. McAllister slipped the gun away and leaned for a moment against the fence. He felt as if he had run five miles and been run over by a herd of buffaloes. He was astonished and dismayed to find himself so weak. The blow had jolted his shoulder and sent a wave of agony through his body.

  No time to fool around.

  He reached into a pocket for the inevitable piggin string, found one and stooped to quickly lash the man’s hands behind his back. The fellow moaned, and struggled feebly.

  “Make a whisper,” McAllister said, “an’ you’re dead.”

  He found another piggin string and started on the ankles. The man drove his boot heel into McAllister’s face. Which, thought McAllister as he lay on his back and nursed a mashed lip, shows just how slow I am. He was startled to find the man on his feet, yelling and running. McAllister started after him. The man rounded the end of the picket fence and headed for the street.

  McAllister realized that he was wasting his time.
The man on the far side of the street must be warned by now. So he turned back, scooped up the fallen carbine from the ground, saw that it was a Spencer repeater and dived into the trees. After about fifty yards, he stopped to regain his strength. He felt awful. But, he told himself, things could be worse. Not much worse, but worse. At least he was out of that house and past a guard. On the street, somebody fired three shots spaced one after the other regularly. That was a signal if ever he heard one. Pretty soon there would be a whole bunch of gun-happy cowboys hunting him. Not a prospect that he liked much. He walked on, not hurrying, because that would not help and would only weaken him. He needed to conserve his strength from here on.

  He circled the town. It was not long before he heard the men beating through the trees. He caught a glimpse of lamplight flickering among the foliage. He came to the rear of a saloon and picked his way through the trash there, old cans and such. Once he stumbled on a can and nearly went down. At the side of the saloon was a narrow alleyway. He headed down this and came to a lighted street. This was Morrow. He walked back down the alley again until he came to the rear of the barn behind the blacksmith’s shop. He could hear Mose’s hammer on the anvil. It made a cheerful sound. Was the horse there ready for him? Too many men, he reckoned, had risked themselves for him. He climbed the corral fence. A horse nickered softly as he walked towards the barn, his moccasins making no sound on the hard ground. He thought: Good old Mose, he has a horse ready for me.

  Thirteen

  Mose Copley was afraid.

  The fear was not misplaced, for he was in a dangerous position. His position here in Black Horse always contained an element of danger, but now that danger had suddenly intensified. That intensification had started the moment he agreed with Mrs. Robertson to help. He had been crazy to do so, he knew that now. He had allowed himself the luxury of friendship and all the time he should have been thinking of his wife and his son. He was no longer in a position where he could decide matters for himself alone. He decided also for them. When he threw in with McAllister, he threw them in too. He knew that now and it was too late. He knew it was too late when Tallin and the other man walked into his forge.

  He knew white men and how they looked when they were menacing. These two were bent on mischief and he was their target.

  Mose had taken a rest from swinging the hammer. He was seated on his anvil smoking his pipe, listening to the sounds of the town. He had heard the three warning shots and he knew something was wrong. Then he heard the shouting. Men ran or rode down the street. He would have risen then and gone to the open doorway to look, but these two white men walked in. He knew Tallin of old. He had run foul of him when he first came to town and set up shop. Mose had made the mistake in thinking that out here in the West an ex-slave was as free as the next man. But he had been mistaken and it was Tallin who had informed him of his error.

  Now the tall Texan stood inside the doorway, stooping slightly under the low sloping roof, looking up at Mose from under the brim of his hat.

  Tallin said: “We found the horse, Mose. Now you holler, you black son-of-a-bitch, an’ you’re dead. Hear?”

  Mose nodded. He did not doubt that the Bar Twenty range boss spoke the exact truth. What jury would find against a white man who shot Mose Copley?

  Tallin said: “So you be still, or it goes hard with you, boy.” The two white men stared at him for a moment, then walked out on to the street. Mose sat where he was and he found that though the night was cool he was sweating. He would do just what Tallin told him, he would sit still.

  Then he got to thinking: Why the hell should I sit still? I am a free man now and if I want to move around and yell my head off, that’s about what I shall do. Just the same, I am going to be mighty careful.

  He walked to the doorway and looked out. There was still some shouting down the street. A man ran past him, muttering to himself in his excitement. Mose knew how exciting a manhunt could be. He had been the quarry in one once.

  He stayed there, thinking. He knew that he dare not go back through the barn to warn McAllister. Tallin and the tall thin man had gone that way. Mose shuddered as he thought of them gunning McAllister down in the dark. McAllister would have reached the point where he thought he was almost safe. Once on the back of that horse and away he …

  Mose stepped back into the smithy and reached for a light hammer. There was no other weapon he could think of. He walked back from the street, holding the hammer against his leg so that it would not be noticed so easily. Entering his small house, he walked in on his wife and son eating their supper. Bella took one look at his face and she knew. They had come through enough together for her always to know. Then her eyes touched the hammer.

  Mose said to her: “You an’ the boy stay still, now. Shut an’ bar the door.”

  She went to protest, to stop him, but she recognized that look as naked rage and she kept her peace. There was no stopping him. He opened the rear door and slipped out into the dark of the corral. Three fences and the walls of the house and barn made up the corral. He could hear the horse champing on its bit just inside the barn door, the soft murmur of the men’s voices. There was more than one waiting for McAllister.

  He reckoned the only way he could warn McAllister without being seen or heard by the men in the barn was to creep around the outside of the corral and stop him before he entered the corral. He had made up his mind to do this when he was startled to realize that the figure of a man had silently appeared halfway across the corral. It was McAllister going soft as a cat. This unnerved Mose so that, for a moment, he could scarcely move.

  The men’s voices stopped. Had McAllister heard them? Had they seen McAllister?

  Mose moved now without thinking. He went, as silently as McAllister, along the rear wall of his house, until he reached the rear wall of the barn. Now he was so close he could smell the horse. He guessed the men inside could not see him. Could McAllister see him against the dark wall of the barn?

  He saw that McAllister carried a saddle gun. He edged forward quiet as a mouse and came within six feet of the small barn door. He waved a hand above his head, hoping McAllister would be warned by the movement.

  The big man did not break his pace, but he did veer slightly to his right. Then suddenly, he took a sharp pace to his right, and Mose reckoned it most likely took McAllister out of sight of the men inside. He was signaling with his right hand. Mose got it. He was being told to get back out of McAllister’s road. This gave him the chance to keep out of the fight. That was not a bad idea. He had to go on living here. So did his wife and boy. He edged away from the door along the wall. McAllister changed direction again and headed straight for the door. Dismay swooped into Mose’s stomach like cold and heavy clay. After all, McAllister had failed to get the message.

  As McAllister reached the doorway, he seemed to duck down low.

  There was what Mose thought to be a very long silence.

  Fourteen

  McAllister knew, better than anybody else, that he was in no fit state for fighting. When he came to think of it, he was not in a fit state for anything except for lying in bed – alone. So why, after he had received Mose Copley’s warning, he carried on into the barn he would never know. Except maybe he thought he did not have a notion to stick around town where every man’s hand was most likely against him. He wanted that horse and the open country.

  But, as the old saying has it, to be forewarned is to be forearmed.

  As he came up the open doorway, he saw two things: that the door stood to his right at a right-angle to the wall; that the horse which was tied just inside the door shifted itself so that it actually stood across the doorway. The men inside must have cursed it, but there was nothing much they could do about it.

  McAllister played the whole thing by the ancient family rule — when in doubt, always do the unexpected.

  He ducked under the horse’s belly and fired the Spencer into the ground under the horse.

  The result was a delight and inspi
ration to those who like that sort of thing. The unfortunate horse, already slightly startled by a man diving under its belly, lost its head entirely at the report of the gun. It first rose neighing in terror on its hind legs. When it dropped its forelegs to the ground, it kicked out wildly with its hind feet. The hard steel hooves rapped violently against the door and shattered it. The man behind the door cried out in pain and alarm. McAllister darted back under the horse’s neck this time, aimed straight at the man he was sure was on the other side of the doorway. The butt of the Spencer struck this man in the region of his belly. As the man’s upper body jack-knifed, McAllister brought the flat of the carbine butt up and caught him under the chin.

  That was two out of the fight. McAllister wondered two things — was there a third enemy in the barn, and could he stay on his feet much longer?

  He felt for the horse’s line and started talking to the animal, attempting to calm it. The man behind the shattered door was trying to extricate himself. McAllister fired the Spencer into the lower part of the door. The man behind it cried out. McAllister now walked the horse out of the barn, caught at the saddlehorn with one hand and managed to get a foot into the near-side stirrup. He still was not sure that there was not a third man in the barn. He would soon know.

  Then he was in the saddle and the horse was running across the corral. It was only then that he realized that he was not on the back of his own horse. He therefore had no idea if this animal could jump or not. To jump a strange horse in the dark over a fence he could scarcely see was not his idea of enjoyment. To his surprise and joy the animal went at the fence willingly. It landed pretty well and the next moment was taking McAllister at a run to freedom.

  ~*~

  It was not until he was clear of town and on the open trail that McAllister had time to realize that he felt awful. He stopped the horse and listened for any pursuit. So far there was none. They would expect him to be going along his home trail. But he was not. He was going in the opposite direction. He was headed for the territorial capital. He just hoped that he would stay in the saddle long enough to get there.