McAllister 3

by Matt Chisholm

  Fifteen

  Now this story enters its second phase in which a number of diverting events took place.

  The first was the reception of a letter by Sam Todd who was the proprietor and editor of the Black Horse City Bugle. Which was in its own claim the first and finest journal in the county. It was, in fact, the only newspaper in the county. Its progress and even its very existence was precarious in the extreme. Nobody was ever certain whether Sam Todd would invest his takings in paper and ink or drink. This nonchalance gave the paper a somewhat raffish air and created an exciting uncertainty in the minds of its readers to such an extent that men in saloons were heard to make bets on whether it would appear that day, that week or even that month. Sometimes copies appeared in quick succession, other times the silence was so lengthy it was suspected that Sam had fled his many creditors under cover of darkness.

  His whole staff consisted of one large and mostly silent woman who not only devilled for him, but wrote wonderfully belligerent but seldom literate leaders. She attacked everybody in sight—the county committee, the sheriff’s office, the big ranchers, the little ranchers, the sheep men or the farmers. She had no favorites. Some claimed she was Sam’s wife; some that she was his mistress. But all who knew the man declared that he was not crazy-enough for either.

  It was this Sam Todd who received a letter from McAllister. By this time, McAllister had been gone from the town for upwards of a month and folks had already written him off as another three-day wonder who had challenged the might of a cattle baron and then decided that discretion was the better part of valor. Then the West’s talent for the making of legends took over and before you could say “knife” or any other short word, McAllister’s exploits were being exaggerated and lied about in the time-honored way. He’d challenged a hundred foes at a time. He could shoot the eye out of a gnat at a hundred paces. He had been Helena Larned’s secret lover. Poor Billington was beside himself with jealousy and rage when he heard this. Tallin was fit to be tied and declared for all to hear that if McAllister did maybe have the sand to come back into this country again, he, Tallin, would shoot him down like a mad dog on sight.

  The story came to the ears of the young lady in question and she was delighted. She even confided in her mother that she could only wish it were true. Her mother sounded disapproving, but within herself she rather wished it had been true only that she had been in her daughter’s shoes. It even came to the ears of the great Edward C. Larned himself. He was so beside himself with rage that he stormed through the town saying openly that if his men caught McAllister they would not hesitate to string him up to the nearest tree. After which, hearing of the letter which Sam Todd had received from McAllister, he sent secretly to find out what had been contained within it.

  By the same mail came a letter for the sheriff, Malcolm Donaldson. This worthy official was plainly delighted, even exhilarated, by the contents of the letter, but declared infuriatingly that wild horses would not drag one word of information about its contents from him. He did give a few snippets to his friend and colleague, Horace Carfax. The effect upon Horace was both entertaining and impressive—he was both excited and appalled at what he heard. The town was so intrigued that it hugged itself with delight and could not wait to find out what that devil McAllister had planned.

  Right then came the most astonishing thing of all. It took everybody by surprise. Most of all Edward C. Larned.

  One dark night, his half-built mansion, the house that was going to be the showpiece of the whole territory, was burned down. Whoever did it made a really thorough job of it. As thorough, everybody agreed, as the Bar Twenty boys made of McAllister’s humble dwelling.

  Ah, everybody cried, McAllister had done it.

  Even Edward C. Larned cried the same thing. He summoned the sheriff to him. He told Donaldson that if he did not catch McAllister, he would. And he would stretch his infernal neck into the bargain.

  Mrs. Larned was heard to remark that she was not at all sorry the wretched place had been burned down. She had never liked it and had been quite determined not to live in it.

  To the astonishment and fury of the great man, the sheriff refused to make any move against McAllister whatsoever. Larned yelled that he would have him run out of the country. The sheriff told him that he had been in touch with the capital by wire and had been informed by an unimpeachable source that McAllister was still there. Not even a wonder man like Remington, he said, could be in two places at once.

  Larned stamped and roared with rage. McAllister must be in Black Horse country. He had a double in the capital.

  The sheriff yawned.

  Yet he did wonder who had settled Larned’s hash and burned his precious mansion down. He felt he would rather like to shake the villain by the hand. You may gather that Malcolm Donaldson was developing a healthy dislike of Edward C. Larned.

  On top of all this the Black Horse City Bugle came out with banner headlines.

  BLACK HORSE HERO DEFIES CATTLE BARON

  The gross lady in Sam Todd’s office had excelled herself. Added to which Sam had surpassed himself by actually reading and checking her copy and correcting some of her spelling mistakes. He rather spoiled the effect by adding some of his own.

  The article began:

  Black Horse County’s own, its very own. Remington McAllister, has done it again, has once more struck a blow for freedom and the little man. This popular local figure has once again sounded a clarion call which will be heard in every corner of our Glorious Republic.

  There was a good deal more of that kind of thing. The whole county and several more adjoining lapped it up. Three times Sam had to return to his press and have another run. Everybody wanted a copy. This was history in the making. And it would all end in a blood-bath, which was enormously to the local liking. Nobody doubted that McAllister would be positively riddled with bullets long before Larned could get a rope around his neck.

  Actually, when you come to think about it in the cold light of day, the article did not say anything very much at all. But legends were in the air and nothing but a legend would satisfy the people.

  In his second edition, Sam had inspiration and he changed his format slightly.

  He allowed the front page article to run over on to the second page. He needed extra space on the front page for a second banner headline. This read:

  MCALLISTER NEVER SURRENDERS

  He thought that was his masterpiece, the culmination of his career. It was very nearly the end of it, too. Six masked men entered his office one night as he worked. The terrifying lady assistant nearly put them to flight, but one of them, brave to the point of recklessness, managed to strike her over the head with a gun-barrel. Seeing how successful this was, somebody else did the same for Sam. When both came to their senses, the whole print-shop was in ruins, type mangled and printer’s ink scattered all over. It was a wonder that they had not set fire to the place. Nobody saw or heard anything, naturally.

  Whoever had done this thing had underestimated Sam.

  The following day, with a splitting headache, he got to work with a little old hand-press. His worthy assistant penned a blistering copy. Sam openly accused the Bar Twenty and its owner of the assault.

  This had a truly remarkable effect on the town. It was as though some magician had snapped his fingers and turned the townfolk in a second into savage Larned-fighters. Not even that great man, so indifferent to the likes and dislikes of the common people, could stand in the face of such a powerful public opinion. Quietly, he summoned a buggy and was carried out to the ranch. He was heard to remark darkly that Black Horse would quickly realize that he was not a man to be so treated. They would regret it bitterly. Mainly in the pocket where they hated to be hurt most. That may have dismayed some, but their blood was up for the moment.

  What had done the real trick, of course, was McAllister’s final piece of cheek. It sounded like a mad act, a piece of grand-standing. But when you think about it, you will see that it was abo
ut the only move he could make if he ever wanted to come back into this country and raise horses there again.

  He had informed Sam Todd and the sheriff that he had staked a claim on a piece of land almost within sight of the town. It possessed water rights and had immediate access to the main trail. It was some of the best grazing ground which Larned claimed for his own.

  Sixteen

  If the town had known that McAllister was coming, there’s no doubt that they would have put out the flags for him.

  As it was, they made him feel that he was coming home. The school-house, the saloons (all six of them) and Mr. Shultz’s hardware store all emptied when the cry went up. Folks ran out on to the street and there was McAllister, smiling and riding Mose Copley’s horse. The animal was recognized at once, of course, and Mose had to come forward to have his hand shaken by McAllister. The sheriff came and shook his hand. The mayor even stopped cleaning out his livery stable to greet him and welcome him home. It was a gala day, all right. When all the greetings were over and done with, a whole host of folks escorted him to his hotel. The colonel was conspicuous by being out of sight. It was left to the unfortunate Tibbs to greet the guest.

  “You kept my room like I said, Tibbs?” McAllister asked.

  The lobby was packed tight with people. McAllister made them a brief but moving speech from the stairs, thanking them for the warmth of their welcome and their loyalty and informing them that Black Horse was without doubt the finest town, pardon me, city, in the whole durned territory. They cheered, he waved to them and mounted the stairs. They wanted to follow him, but the sheriff barred their way. Mr. McAllister was a little tired from his long journey and would take a short rest.

  Mr. McAllister in fact climbed the stairs and entered his room third floor back to find that he had company.

  Female company.

  Sitting on his chair was the most delectable girl he had ever had the good fortune to see.

  He bared his head and said: “Ma’am.”

  She was trying to look serious, but her sense of humor was too much for her.

  McAllister liked that. He did not dislike a woman to be serious, a woman had every much right as a man to be that, but a woman, like a man, was a poor thing without a sense of humor.

  “Am I right,” he said, “in suspecting that you see something funny in the situation?”

  “Yes,” she said, and he found her voice as easy to listen to as she was to look at. “It has its funny side. But it has its scary side too.”

  “Scary?” he said.

  “For we who are watching on the sidelines.”

  “I thought everybody was waiting to see the blood.”

  “We’re not all animals, McAllister.”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “And don’t patronize me. Just be nice. It takes a lot for a girl like me to be found by a gentleman waiting in his bedroom.”

  “That thought had crossed my mind.”

  She looked at the floor so seriously and with such interest that one may have been forgiven for the thought that she found something of great interest there. Finally, she said, looking up at McAllister with a frown: “Why don’t you stop, McAllister, while you’re winning?”

  He said: “I’m not so sure I’m winnin’. If I’m not, then it’s not time to stop.”

  “I suppose you think that my father sent me.”

  “Didn’t he?”

  She took no offence. Her face remained grave. “He did not. How can I persuade you? I know my father so much better than you do. I—”

  “I’ve known plenty of his kind. The West is thick with them. The first-come-first-served—outfit. They drove the Indians and the buffalo out and brought the longhorn in. They think that gives them prior rights to everythin’ in sight. Wa-al, my daddy was here before them all. He walked in with Joe Walker and Jim Bridger. He hunted and traded with Indians who’d never seen a white man before. I was suckled by the Cheyenne and half-raised by Texas brush-poppers. Do you think the sod-busters came in here guarded by a crew of rawhide cowboys like your father’s breed did? No, ma’am. They set down their roots in solitary spots and braved the elements and Indians. They have the right to call themselves Americans too. And this, if I’m not mistaken, is America, too. They have the same rights here that they have back east.”

  “My God,” she said, “you sound like my father on the other side.”

  “I am on the other side,” he said.

  “Do you have to sound so angry with me?”

  “If I didn’t feel angry,” he told her, “I wouldn’t be here. I’d of run.”

  She had to admit that was true. She looked a little unhappy. She had not envisaged that they would quarrel when she had steeled herself to come here. Her mother had told her she would be rejected.

  “My mother warned me,” she said.

  “Of me?”

  She smiled a little. “She said you were not a man for a young girl to be alone in a hotel room with.”

  “You could put it down to a useful experience. What else did your mother tell you?”

  “She said you were a good-looking, attractive, don’t-give-a-damn reprobate.”

  McAllister laughed. “Everything to make you come,” he said.

  She grew grave again.

  “That’s right,” she said. “So I came.”

  It was as well she did, McAllister thought. She was the next step in his campaign against her father. He felt that she was his weakness. If he possessed one vulnerable spot, it was this girl. Bringing her down would have neatly capped off his revenge. But her coming here had shown him the kind of man he was and he was glad that she had come and he now knew. Maybe it was a relief to know that he was not as hard and mean as he had thought himself. There was some humanity left. The realization left him with some regret. Women like her had always been too much for his resistance. Their beauty and inaccessibility had always been a challenge to him.

  She stood up and came towards him. She stood so that her breasts were no more than an inch from his chest. She looked up at him and he was very conscious of her mouth and its inviting perfection. Her eyes were of the brightest green and would have seduced a monster.

  “I came,” she said, “because I didn’t think you should die. No orders from a fond papa, no ulterior motive.”

  “Helena,” McAllister said, “you’re a nice girl. I’m sorry I thought otherwise.”

  She stood on tiptoe and kissed him very softly on the mouth. It was touch-and-go then whether she would be a fallen woman with or without her agreement. He had been kissed by some mighty fine women in his time, but he would be damned if a small, almost sisterly kiss, had ever had such an effect on him. His physical reaction was total. He was half-thankful and half-regretful when she slipped by him and out of the room.

  He did not move for a full minute. Then he said: “Well, I’ll be damned.” He knew the girl had gotten to him. He knew equally that he was too old for her. Too old for her? Whatever made him think a thought like that? A man only thought that sort of thing when he was dreaming of marriage. Marriage? A shudder of panic ran through him. He shrugged the idea off, but it returned again. He thought of the difference in their lives and their worlds. He could not see this girl in his world of horses. He tried to imagine her talking with old Greg Talbot and he failed. She would not last a week. She was made for silk sheets and plush carpets. Life in a soddy would break her spirit.

  He walked to the mirror, wondering if he needed a shave. He saw the lines under the dark eyes, the hard line beside the mouth. Christ, he was ugly. And old. Well, too old for a young girl of twenty. Folks would snicker. As well they might.

  No, McAllister, stick to horses.

  But she stayed in his mind. It was not tomorrow when he would risk all that was the last thing he thought of before he slept that night. It was Helena Larned, the daughter of the man who wanted him dead.

  Seventeen

  The town was on its toes. Here was excitement indeed. McAllister was
about to stake out a claim plumb in the middle of a cattle baron’s range. The like of it had never been known before.

  Larned would kill him in the first twenty-four hours, some said. Bets were taken. Quite a number of men were wagering in favor of McAllister.

  Just about everybody was there. First, of course, there was McAllister himself. He drove a wagon to which a team of four horses was hitched. In the wagon was his gear, tools and all the rest of it. In two large wagons behind came his lumber. He had to offer double wages to the drivers because they needed to be compensated for being shot by Larned’s men before Larned’s men shot them. However, as the day progressed, it became pretty evident that if any shooting developed it would not take place that day. Every man, woman and child wanted to see McAllister make his first devastating and daring move against Larned. Black Horse City was deserted. The sheriff and deputy were there, having suddenly gained courage enough to maintain law and order, to make certain that Mr. McAllister was not molested in any way during the claiming of his legal rights.

  “While I’m sheriff of this county,” said Malcolm Donaldson “the weak shall be protected from the strong.” That was a laugh, folks said. McAllister did not look so damn weak to them.

  Sam Todd was there, notebook in hand, whisky bottle in coat pocket, his formidable assistant close behind him. One enterprising saloon keeper loaded up a wagon with beer. To add a really nice touch to the whole affair, the town band was loaned a wagon and placed at the head of what became a parade of the citizens of Black Horse. They strode purposely forth with a somewhat bewildered McAllister at their head. No man, he decided, could have planned it this way, but he was not fool enough to reject what had fallen into his lap. The McAllister luck was in full flood. But neither was he fool enough to think that it would always be like this. When the stakes were in and the band had played, when the beer had been drunk and folks were tired, they would go home. Then he would be left alone with half a hundred armed riders over the next ridge. He had a bloody fight on his hands and he knew it. What he knew also with just as much certainty was that if they wanted to move him out of their road, they would have to kill him and carry him out feet first.