Kill McAllister

by Matt Chisholm

  McAllister took the rough parcel from Gus and stuffed it in the saddle-pocket. Gus stood watching him. When he had tied the pocket, Gus walked across to him.

  “I’m going to push south with what I have, Rem,” he said. “Then I’m going to come back for the rest. I’m five hunnerd short. When I have them, I’ll head east thirty-forty miles, then going around north till I hit Combville. If I can’t reach there I’ll hit some other town. Take me maybe two-three weeks.”

  “If I can hire some new hands, I’ll send ’em down to look for you-all.”

  “You do that.”

  They shook and McAllister mounted. He rode down to the herd and spoke to the boys guarding it. He talked to them one by one, telling them that Sam had taken over. Nobody argued; they all knew that he was the man with the most cow-savvy. He went on north, telling them he’d see them at the shipping point.

  Chapter 3

  It was strange being in Kansas. McAllister was a Texan, but he felt at home in New Mexico, Arizona or Colorado. In Kansas, he felt like a foreigner. He knew that here he was hated and he was fair game for any local man. From now on he was on his own and it gave a man a mighty lonely feeling. That first day he rode clear of the timbered country and came to a rolling plain; he had expected to see farms patchworking the countryside, but he saw none. All he saw was grass and some occasional timber, some water flowing in the bottomland and ridges that he scouted with great care. He saw no sign of man at all. Sign of cattle he came on in plenty, some going north, some going south. Sign of the cattle stampeding out and being driven back. He cut across country to his right, going east, and spent the rest of the day investigating tracks, but hitting none that interested him. In his mind he noted numbers, identifying the different bunches of cattle and ticking off whether they had been driven back south again or not. It was an uncertain business at best and he could never be sure that he was absolutely right in his estimates. But it was the only way he could work. He travelled at an easy pace, wanting to keep his horse as fresh as possible.

  He found water before nightfall, watered the canelo and then camped several hundred yards from it, camping dry and cold without a fire. He hobbled the horse on grass and just rolled in his single blanket. He arose stiff with the dawn, ate a little of the food Gus had given him, watered himself and the horse at the creek, then cut across toward the west. Again he met a fair amount of sign and checked it off in his mind, making sure that the cattle that had run north or roughly in that direction had been returned to the Nations’ line. But toward the end of the day, he found the sign of two fairly large bunches and the north-going and south-going sign was so mixed up that he could make neither head nor tail of it. This might or might not be the clue he wanted. He decided to swing north and see what he could see.

  Again night caught him out. Now his grub was running low and he found that he had precious little to eat. Somehow on the following day he would have to get hold of some supplies. Which wasn’t going to be easy in this country.

  Again he slept cold and this time he dreamt of hot coffee and steak an inch thick. Again he rose cold and stiff in the dawn, saddled up and went over the ridge to see a house in the distance. It looked as if the sign of the cattle he was following went almost past the house. As he went on he saw that the farm was fenced-against cattle. As timber was scarce in this country, the farmer had fenced most of his fields with hedges of orange osage. The house was a soddy and looked a pretty miserable affair. There was a woman and three ragged children in the yard and they all seemed to be suffering from colds. As he rode up a man came out of the fields.

  McAllister touched his hat to the woman and said howdy to the man. The children gawped and McAllister waited to be asked to get down but nobody asked him.

  The man went into the house and came out with an old single-shot rifle. It was a plain hint.

  “You a cattle drover?” he asked.

  “I’m with a trail-herd going north,” McAllister told him. “We had a stampede two-three days back and I’m hunting strays. Looks like I’m on the tracks of a fair-sized bunch right along your fence there. Did you see ’em?”

  He must have done if he had eyes in his head.

  The man said sullenly: “We see your Texas cattle all the time. We try an’ keep ’em clear. Our cows get sick after they been through. You know that.”

  “Were the last bunch drove?”

  McAllister knew they must have been driven. Cows didn’t run this far on their own.

  “Of course they was drove.”

  “Were the drovers Texas or Kansas men?”

  “What would Kansas men be doin’ driving Texas cattle?”

  “They need to eat and they need money like anybody else.”

  The children caught the strained note in the men’s voices. The two little ones clung to their mother’s skirts.

  The man said: “You won’t do yourself no good askin’ questions here. We’re poor folk an’ we don’t know nothin’.”

  There was hatred in his voice, but he didn’t express it too clearly because of the Henry in McAllister’s boot under his leg and the Remington at his hip. Every Kansas farmer had heard how wild the Texas boys were and how they would shoot an innocent man without thought.

  “You didn’t see the brand on the cows?”

  “I didn’t see nothin’.”

  McAllister lifted the lines and walked the canelo away from the house. He would have liked to beg a drink from the pump in the yard, but he’d be damned if he did. He went on a couple of miles till the soddy was out of sight, then he knew that he was after the right cattle.

  He knew because he was shot at.

  He was approaching a high ridge, going right along the tracks of the cattle still trying to see if he could make out the marks of horses’ hoofs among the trampled cow sign, but he could not.

  The marksman made one mistake. He was nervous and he didn’t allow McAllister to get near enough to be a dead sure target. He fired and the range was too long. The lead raised dust in front of the canelo.

  McAllister didn’t waste any time. Only a fool stood around with a man shooting at him from good cover. He spun the canelo on the space of a pocket-handkerchief and went back the way he had come. No sooner had he done so than a half-dozen shots sounded and showed him that there were at least two marksmen up on the ridge there.

  He got the canelo behind the last ridge he had come over and peered over. So the cow-thieves had watched their back-trail. This almost proved that he was on the right tracks. Right or wrong, he had to do something about it. There was something fundamental in McAllister’s nature that objected to being shot at.

  He turned his horse and trotted east under cover of the ridge. He waited until it petered out, then he turned north and raked the startled canelo with the spurs. The animal got its legs under it and ran as only it knew how. The riflemen spotted him almost at once and fired several shots but the range was either too long for them or McAllister was moving too fast because none of them came closer than several feet. He hit the ridge behind which the men were sheltering a good way to the east of them, rocketed up it, and as soon as he hit the crest, turned west and headed directly for them.

  Old Chad McAllister had once advised his son: “When you don’t know what to do, son, charge. It surely does disconcert a man to be charged when he thinks he has you fixed.”

  He saw two men crouched at the crest of the ridge, rifles in their hands. As soon as he hit the top of the ridge, they sighted him, swung their weapons and cut down on him. Their shooting was wild, but he knew that as he came nearer their chances of hitting increased. He turned the canelo slightly to the right, slipped his feet from the stirrup-irons, swung himself over and clung for an instant to the left side of the horse and then dropped to the ground. Now he had his Henry repeater in his hands and as soon as he hit dirt, he levered and fired.

  One of the men didn’t like it right off. He legged it down the slope of the ridge toward the two horses that stood hitched to s
ome brush there. McAllister shot him through the legs. He fell, yelling.

  The other fellow fired a couple more shots, then ran over the crest of the ridge and tried to find cover on the other side. McAllister got to his feet, jumped to the top of the ridge, spotted his man and fired. The fellow dropped his rifle, sank to his knees and seemed to be weeping.

  McAllister bawled out: “Get over the ridge and join your partner.”

  “I’m hit an’ I can’t walk,” the man shouted back.

  McAllister told him: “Walk or you won’t hurt no more, you’ll be dead.”

  The man stood up and started to walk with remarkable agility. He climbed over the ridge and joined his companion. McAllister whistled up the canelo and it came trotting. With the animal walking by his side like a trained dog, McAllister went slowly up to the two men, keeping his rifle on them the whole time.

  The first man he had shot was nursing a wounded leg. He was a shortish, square-cut man, dressed in rough clothes and heavy knee-boots. He could have been anything, but McAllister was sure that he hadn’t done much hard work in his life. The other man was young and with a bony face, extraordinarily pale skin stretched over large bones, a fair sprouting beard of a week old and pale, almost pink eyes. McAllister knew the kind – shiftless, they had thought they had lain in wait for some raw Texas farm-boys turned cowhands. A few shots and they would have run. This was no great triumph for McAllister: he had no more than bested a couple of saloon layabouts. They were both hurt and they both looked scared. They eyed him like men sentenced to death.

  McAllister said: “I ought to kill you two.”

  The squat man’s lips trembled. “Mister, you got us wrong. We thought you was somebody else. I swear it.”

  “You raid the Struthers’ herd a few nights back?” McAllister asked.

  The pale man said: “We never raided no herd, mister.”

  “Why’d you jump me?”

  The squat man repeated: “We thought you was somebody else.”

  “Where you from?”

  The squat man thought out his lie. “We’re farming east of here.”

  McAllister said: “You never farmed in your lives. Now, I’ll have the name of the man that came into our camp and said he’d cut our cows.”

  The pale man said: “I don’t know no man.”

  McAllister grinned a little.

  “Listen, Jayhawker, I was reared with the Indians. I’m a real Indian in my ways. You tell me what I want to know or I’ll carve you so your mother won’t know you.”

  The two men looked at each other. They appeared to be sicker by the minute.

  “See here,” the squat man said, “we’re both hurt bad. If somethin’ ain’t done pretty quick, we like to bleed to death.”

  “That brings tears to my eyes,” McAllister told them. “Now, you can tell me the name of the man who bossed you that night an’ you can patch each other up.”

  They looked at each other to see who would talk first.

  “You,” said McAllister jerking his head at the pale man.

  The fellow looked startled.

  “They’ll kill me if I talk,” he said.

  “You’ll bleed to death right here if’n you don’t.”

  The man swallowed a couple of times. He looked at his leg and the blood seeping from over the top of one boot. He mumbled something.

  “Speak up,” McAllister told him.

  “Forster,” he almost shouted. “Link Forster.”

  “Where’s he from?”

  “All over.”

  “Where’s he headed with the cattle?”

  “We don’t neither of us know.”

  “That’s the truth, mister,” the squat man put in.

  McAllister said: “I’m ridin’ on an’ I’m takin’ your horses with me. I’ll leave ’em down the trail a ways. When you’ve patched each other up, you can walk to ’em.”

  “My Gawd,” the pale man said, “you’re an Injun all right.”

  “Ain’t I?” said McAllister. He picked up the men’s rifles and fixed them on the canelo’s saddle. They didn’t appear to have any sidearms. He stepped into the saddle and said: “I don’t want to ever meet up with you two again. Hear?”

  They nodded. He rode over to their horses, untied them from the saddle and headed north without another backward glance. He went two or three miles before he let the horses go. The rifles he slung into some brush. Then he followed along the trail of the northing cattle. He reckoned the two men had lied about their leader’s name, but it might be the truth and might help. To him it looked like the cows were heading straight for Combville. Forster, or whatever his name was, was fixing for a quick sale. If he did have five hundred head with him, this was going to be a profitable trip for him.

  Chapter 4

  The squat man said: “I’m shot in the guts. You only got it in the leg. You get to the Lineman place, fork a horse and get after Link pretty damn quick.”

  The pale man whined.

  “Jesus God, I’m too bad hurt. I can’t walk, I can’t make no ride.”

  The squat man reached into his shirt and brought out a sharpbladed knife.

  “You do like I say, Sol. An’ what’s more, you get Lineman to send his wagon along for me.”

  “Now, see here . . .” Sol began.

  “Get movin’ or I’ll slit your gizzard for you, you yeller son-of-a-bitch.”

  The pale man got to his feet without another word. He knew Patmore and he knew if he didn’t get moving he’d get his throat cut now. He knew that if he didn’t get to the Lineman place he’d get his throat cut later. He started walking, favoring his right leg considerably.

  It took him a long time to reach the soddy at which McAllister had stopped; he stopped several times to rest on the way and the pain in his leg was so bad that several times he thought he’d faint. But he made the farm and found Lineman there. From the farmer he got a shock of liquor and a saddleless horse. Lineman also promised to pick the squat man up in his wagon. Sol rode out and, in spite of the pain in his leg, hit a good speed. He stopped long enough to tell the squat man that help was on the way and the squat man only demanded to know what took him so long. He turned and rode on, circling well out into the country to get around McAllister. After dark, he reached another farm, which was in a more populous district and borrowed another horse. Here he was also able to obtain a saddle and have a slightly more comfortable ride. He tried to make the farmer ride on for him, but the man refused. By this time, Sol was feeling nearly dead from the effects of the wound, but he stayed in the saddle. Fear kept him there, fear of what would happen if he failed.

  He rode into Combville just as dawn broke over the Kansas plains. He rode into the livery and woke the old man who worked it for the owner. When he had lowered himself gingerly from the horse, he said: “Where’s Link?”

  “At the Drovers.”

  The Drovers, thought Sol, that meant that Link was in the money. He must have got rid of the cows already. He must have moved some. The horse was bushed, but he found that he could not walk easily on his injured leg, so he climbed onto the animal’s back again and walked it out onto the street. Five minutes later he was getting down outside the hotel. There was a man asleep behind the desk in the lobby. He cursed when Sol woke him.

  “Which room’s Link Forster in?”

  The man told him to get the hell out of there and come back at a civilised hour. Sol wished he had a gun with him, he’d get some respect when he spoke to a man.

  “I gotta find Link,” he said. “Please, mister, which room is he in?”

  The man told him what he could do with himself.

  Sol said: “If you don’t tell me the number of his room, I’ll wake every man in the house finding out.”

  The thought of that seemed to fill the clerk with horror. Hastily, he said: “Number two. Front.”

  Sol limped up the stairs, found No. 2 and tried the door. He couldn’t open it, so he knocked loudly. Voices from adjoining rooms b
awled for him to shut his noise. From inside No. 2 a man bellowed: “Who the hell’s this?”

  “It’s me, Link.”

  “Who’s me?”

  “Sol Brown.”

  Somebody padded across the floor, there came the sound of a chair being removed from beneath the handle and the door opened. A big golden-haired, bearded man appeared. He caught hold of Sol and dragged him into the room. Sol cried out as the sudden movement jarred his leg. The big man stared down at it.

  “What happened to you?”

  “Some bastard shot me.”

  The big man frowned.

  “What happened?”

  “Me an’ Charlie watched your back trail like you said. We was there almost two days, I guess, when along comes this feller.”

  “What feller?”

  “Big dark guy. A Texas man. Leastways, he rid a Texas rig and he spoke kinda like one.”

  “Name?”

  “We wasn’t in no position to ask his name. He shot me in the leg and he shot Charlie right through his guts. Charlie’s back at Lineman’s place. I come on here. I’m shot near to death, Link, but I come on to bring you the word.”

  The big man walked to the bed, sat on it and started pulling on his boots. He had obviously been sleeping on the bed wearing his shirt and pants. Sol found a chair and sank into it.

  “You pair of bumblin’ fools,” the big man said. “Just one man an’ you can’t cut down on him.”

  “We tried, Link. Christ, I never seen a man move like it. We shot at him an’ he jest come straight at us. I thought when you shot lead at a man he was natcherly scared. But not this one. He jest come for us like a bat outa hell an’ before we knowed what happened we was both down.”

  The big man looked at him coldly. He got up and stamped his feet firmly into his boots, put on a necktie, buckled on a gun, shrugged himself into a jacket and clapped a broadbrimmed dark hat on his head.