Kill McAllister

by Matt Chisholm

  Forster gave him a startled look.

  “Ride,” Grotten yelled and raked his horse with iron. The animal leapt forward. The others stared after him for a moment, then Forster bawled: “Ride, damn you.”

  They all put spurs to their animals and headed after the racing Grotten at a dead run. They rode recklessly all of them, running their horses to the limit through the lush grass of the valley, scattering grazing cattle as they went, not letting up. Two miles they covered until they were almost in sight of the shacks when suddenly Grotten brought his laboring horse to a halt.

  “Too late,” he bellowed and pointed.

  They all halted their horses and stared. A pall of smoke rose slowly over the tops of the trees.

  None of them moved for a while.

  Pale and defeated, Forster looked to Grotten. Slowly, they rode on, Forster and Grotten side by side.

  Checking that they were out of earshot of the others, Forster said: “Dice, we’re finished.”

  Dice swung on him.

  “I’m not finished,” he said. “I’m not finished till I have those two dead.”

  “Pull out with me,” Forster pleaded. “We have to cut our losses, Dice. Let’s head for Tombville, draw our money from the bank and head for California. Start out afresh.”

  Grotten said: “I told you, Forster – I’m not pulling out till I kill those two.”

  Forster saw that it was no use. He lifted the lines and rode on; slowly the others followed him. They came in sight of the burning shacks. Both were infernos. Nothing could be saved from them. Grotten turned to Nick Wetherby.

  “Pick up their trail,” he said.

  “I’m pullin’ out, Dice,” the halfbreed told him.

  “You’re pullin’ out when I tell you.”

  Nick lowered his gaze before Grotten’s hard stare. He lifted the lines and started to search around for sign. Grotten followed him. He had made his mind up not to take his eyes off the man till the Texas men were found. After a while, Nick found the sign that led away from the place and signed to Grotten who rode after him. Slowly they rode out of the valley into the east. Forster watched them go. Grotten knew they wouldn’t be seeing each other again, but he did not turn once in the saddle. It was as if their years together were nothing. Forster sighed. For once something had gotten to him. He never thought this one man would turn against him.

  The remaining men were watching him.

  “Make camp,” he said. “I’m going to take a fresh horse and scout around.”

  They watched him sullenly as he headed for the scattered horses that had been let out of the corral by the men who had burned the shacks. He had difficulty in catching a horse and it took him some time, but eventually he transferred his saddle to the fresh mount. Then he rode off toward the east. He knew that as soon as he was out of sight, the men behind him would make their plans to depart. And they would be taking some of the cattle with them. The herd was now scattered over hell’s half-acre and would take some catching. They wouldn’t get away with many.

  * * *

  McAllister and Sam drew rein. Their animals were tired now. They looked down on the smouldering embers of the two shacks. That halfbreed tracker was on their trail and they knew it. But first he would have to unravel the tricks they had played on him back in the rocky country in the hills. He wouldn’t reach here till the next day.

  There were four men camped below. It was night now and they could see them huddled around their fire. Even as they watched more men arrived and McAllister and Sam knew these were the wounded men.

  Sam asked the question that was in McAllister’s mind: “Is Forster down there?”

  “And Grotten. If we have those two this could be ended.”

  “Only one way to find out.”

  They dismounted and tied their horses. Then they went slowly and silently down the side of the valley until they hit the flat. They circled the still glowing remains of the two buildings and came toward the fire from the south. McAllister touched Sam’s arm. “Come in from the west,” he said. “I’ll go straight ahead.”

  Sam said: “Keno.”

  They parted and Sam pussyfooted away into the darkness. McAllister got down and crawled forward on his hands and knees. He had left the Henry back in his saddleboot. This was work for the Remington. He got amongst some brush not twenty yards from the fire and gave Sam a few minutes to get into position, then he rose to his feet and drew his gun.

  “Grab a handful of sky, gents,” he called, “or somebody gets his head blown off.”

  Sam put a shot into the fire and knocked sparks all over to show them that they had a gun on either side of them.

  For a moment every man there went still before they slowly raised their hands.

  McAllister walked forward.

  To the nearest man, a black bearded and villainous-looking fellow, he said: “Where’s Forster?”

  “He rid out earlier.”

  “Which way’d he go?”

  “East.”

  “Did he say why?”

  “Said he was goin’ to scout around.”

  “What do you think?”

  “I think he run out on us.”

  “Shows he has some sense at least. Where’s Grotten?”

  “He went off with the halfbreed. Lookin’ for you.”

  McAllister ran his glance over the men; they looked scared. He didn’t blame them. The wounded men lay or sat on the ground and they looked utterly wretched.

  McAllister said: “You men are finished here. Pretty soon me and my outfit’ll be collectin’ cows. We find you around here an’ you’re liable to be decorating a tree. Hear?’

  They heard and they showed they heard. He and Sam backed into the darkness, met up and climbed to their horses.

  They untied them, and Sam said: “Gone east.”

  “Could be headin’ home.”

  “Combville?”

  “He wouldn’t be that crazy.”

  “Maybe he has a reason.”

  They mounted and rode down through the foothills. They made a dry camp that night, knowing they would be circling for Forster’s sign in the morning.

  Sam said: “We follow Forster an’ maybe that feller Grotten follows us.”

  McAllister chuckled.

  “If’n we keep our eyes skinned that could turn out to be a good arrangement for us.”

  “So long’s we see him first.”

  They slept.

  The following morning, they ate almost the last of their food in the cold pre-dawn light. They were both chilled from a cold night and were in low spirits. Wordless they rolled their blankets and tied them behind their saddles. After that they mounted and started their searching circles. Sam to the north and McAllister to the south. All the time they kept their eyes open for Grotten and the halfbreed. That halfbreed could track and neither fooled themselves about that fact. They didn’t hurry because it was a chore that couldn’t be hurried, but by the time Sam picked up sign they were both becoming impatient. This was around noon. From the horse droppings they found they both reckoned that Forster had about a twenty-four hour start on them.

  McAllister said: “Maybe we’ve been foolish. Could be we should of headed for Combville and chanced it.”

  “This way we’re certain.”

  “This way he could of come an’ gone by the time we get there.”

  They headed east along the tracks Forster had left or what they thought the man had left. They wouldn’t be sure till they found the man. They kept up a run, walk and run all day till the horse Sam rode, which didn’t have the qualities of the canelo, showed signs of wear and tear. But they held the pace till dark prevented them from reading the sign any longer. They were now on the open prairie and almost without food. But luck was with them at least so far as food was concerned, for toward noon the following day McAllister bagged a prairie hen and Sam an antelope. They stopped to cook themselves a hot meal and went on again. Twice they came on fresh Indian sign and once sig
hted what looked like a cavalry patrol at a distance. This they dodged, for they didn’t want to be held up while some officer pumped them for information.

  Sam’s horse was now showing definite signs of trouble and it became evident that it could not keep up with the canelo. Sam sweated and swore but there wasn’t anything he could do about it.

  When they stopped that night, McAllister broached the subject.

  “Sam,” he said, “that horse of yours is nigh played out.”

  “Aw, hell,” Sam said in disgust, “I knowed you’d bring that up soon or late.”

  “It’s true.”

  “Sure, it’s true. Who’s denyin’ it?”

  “I been thinkin’,” McAllister went on. “By the general direction of the tracks it sure looks like Forster’s headed for Combville. I’m aimin’ to take the gamble and head straight for town. Ride through the night.”

  “You’ll kill your horse.”

  “The hell I will. That canelo’ll run to the States an’ back.”

  “An’you leave me behind.”

  “I’m sorry, Sam. But the important thing is to get Forster before he lights out.”

  “I ain’t blamin’ you.”

  McAllister stood up and stretched his long frame.

  “So I’ll get on. Watch your back-trail.”

  “I’ll do that.” Sam rose and they shook. “I owe you thanks, boy.”

  “You owe me nothin’.”

  McAllister threw the hull on the canelo, fixed the bridle and mounted.

  “So long,” he said.

  Sam said: “So long,” and lifted a hand. McAllister turned the horse and rode off into the night. He let the canelo make its own pace and the animal hit a spine-shaking trot that he would keep to for hours. McAllister knew that if he wanted to get the most from the horse, he would have to let it keep to it. So he hammered through the night, unhappy at leaving Sam behind, but content now that the hours of darkness were not being wasted. The canelo would be in pretty poor shape by the time they reached town, but it would survive. It was a lot of horse.

  The stars came out and he took his position from them. Then the moon bathed the spring prairie. He heard a coyote call. It sounded like the song of death to him. He hoped it wasn’t his own.

  Chapter 21

  Sam lay huddled in the buffalo robe given to him by the Indians. He woke and remembered with something like a chill that he was alone on the open prairie. Indians were hostile and there might be an enemy on his trail.

  He heard a faint sound and tucked his head out of the robe. It was broad daylight. He sat up, cursing himself for the loss of riding time. He heard the sound again and this time knew what it was.

  It was a gun coming to full cock.

  He turned his head and saw them. Two of them – Grotten and the halfbreed. He groaned inwardly... suckered like a greenhorn.

  Grotten said: “So I finally caught up with you, black man. Where’s McAllister?”

  Sam looked blank.

  “Who?” he said.

  “McAllister. He ride on?”

  “Oh, him. Sure. He rid on a coupla days back. You don’t stand no chance of catchin’ him.”

  Sam got his hand on the gun inside the robe, watching them both carefully. Grotten had lowered his gun, but the halfbreed had his rifle levelled. So it would be the halfbreed first, then Grotten. And it would have to be damned quick. In fact, the fastest bit of shooting Sam had ever done in his life. He braced his left hand against the inside of the robe, ready to throw it back.

  “On your feet,” Grotten ordered.

  “Sure.”

  Sam started to rise, dropping the robe clear of his body, cocking and firing at the halfbreed in one movement. The bullet caught the man in the middle and jack-knifed him. Then he started to sit down in a grotesque way. But Sam didn’t wait to see. He was swinging the gun on Grotten. As he looked into the dark eye of Grotten’s gun, he knew it was too late. The gun went off, belching forth flame and something struck Sam a stunning blow in the head. His own gun went off, but he was on the ground floundering like a fish, helpless. He wanted to curse the man, but his tongue was as helpless as his limbs. He rolled over and saw the clear morning sky; it shivered and pitched. Then he knew nothing.

  Grotten walked up to the halfbreed who was now stretched out on his back, kicking. He was shot through the stomach and he would take a long time dying. But he would die and that would take time. Grotten lifted his gun. Nick opened his eyes and saw it.

  “No,” his lips said soundlessly.

  But it was a service that Grotten would have done for a horse or a dog. He shot Nick through the head. Then walked calmly to his horse, reloaded and mounted. He rode on without another glance at the two men. Now he had to settle McAllister, before or after McAllister settled with Forster—he didn’t care which. He only cared about avenging his brother’s death.

  * * *

  An hour later, Sam lifted his head. It was purely experimental and the result was not to his liking, for it caused him excruciating pain. It felt as if his skull has been split open by an axe. He tried sitting up and was violently sick. This left him weak. He rolled over, got to his knees and felt his head gingerly with the tips of his fingers. He knew that he had been hit in the head because it was covered all over with drying blood. His face too. Just above the right temple, he was still bleeding. But he was alive and the way he felt right then, he didn’t know if he was too pleased. He tore off the tail of his shirt and wound it around his head so there would be pressure on the open wound.

  That done, he walked over to the halfbreed and took a look at him. The man was very dead. Sam noted the bullet hole in the head and knew that Grotten had done that. The Negro shivered involuntarily. He looked around. His horse and the half breed’s fed quietly not fifty yards away. The thought of riding with his head thundering as it was didn’t appeal to him, but he knew he’d have to do it. He picked up his fallen gun, loaded it and put it away. Then he got his rope from his saddle and caught his own horse. It still looked bushed, so he caught the halfbreed’s as well. Maybe two horses could help him catch the men in front of him. He’d show McAllister.

  He packed his gear and mounted. The world swung around him a couple of times before it settled down fairly well. He reckoned he’d live, though, at the moment, living wasn’t much fun. He hit a fair pace with the spare horse coming along behind. He’d made up his mind that he would ride now till he hit town, swapping from one horse to the other. That is, if he could stay in the saddle long enough.

  * * *

  McAllister came in sight of town, caught sight of the raw rash on the spring green prairie from the top of a ridge. He was bushed, but the canelo was still running, though it had had nothing but water and a few hours’ feeding for three days. It was near noon and the sun was hot. As yet no trail herds had arrived and the town looked strangely lonely standing there in the midst of that great sea of grass.

  The canelo trotted on, waded through the ford of the creek and heaved its way up the other side. Men were busy in the pens, preparing them for the expected cattle. A locomotive puffed on a siding. McAllister rode up from the creek into town. It was not too busy in the noon heat; a shingle creaked in the light breeze that came across the plains; a dog scratched its fleas in the dust and the marshal stood smoking a stogie outside his office, thumbs in the armholes of his vest. The vast mustache looked as preposterous as ever, giving the man that deceptive comical look. Malloy lifted a hand in greeting.

  McAllister turned toward him and swung down.

  “So you’re still alive,” Malloy said.

  “Just.”

  “Nice to see you, boy.” The man’s sharp eyes ran over McAllister’s ragged and patched clothes. “How in tarnation have you been livin’?”

  “A mite rough.”

  “You don’t need to tell me.”

  “I’ll give you the full story when I have time,” McAllister said. “Right now I have urgent business.”

 
“I can guess what it is. Forster.”

  McAllister nodded.

  “He in town?”

  “He is.” As McAllister turned away, Malloy said: “Best give me your gun before there’s trouble.”

  McAllister stopped and turned. He looked Malloy straight in the eye.

  “I’m not handin’ in my gun this time, marshal.”

  Malloy thought about that a while. Finally, he said: “I could take it away from you.”

  “No,” McAllister said quietly, “you couldn’t.”

  There was silence for a moment between them before Malloy swallowed once and said: “Maybe I couldn’t at that. But I could try?”

  “I came here to do somethin’ you can’t do, Malloy. This is justice and you know it. If I shot Forster in the back that would be justice and you know that too. Don’t make me do something I’ll regret.”

  Malloy smiled a little.

  “A man has to face facts, I guess,” he said. “And you sure are a fact and no mistake. All I can say is, be careful, boy, I don’t want to have to bury you.”

  McAllister said: “I’ll be careful, Malloy, and thanks.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “Do me a favor an’ put the canelo up, will you? He’s run his heart out.”

  “Sure. Forster’s in the bank.”

  McAllister gave the canelo’s line to the lawman and started up the street. He was no sooner out of sight than a second horseman came pounding up from the direction of the creek. The marshal went still and waited. The man rode abreast of him and passed. Malloy saw that it was Dice Grotten. The marshal tied the canelo to his own hitching post. The horse could wait. Murder couldn’t. He hitched his gun forward on his right hip and sauntered along the street.

  McAllister reached the bank, got into the shade of the store on the opposite side of the street and waited. Time ticked by.

  After fifteen minutes, the door of the bank opened and a man came out. McAllister couldn’t see his face in the shadow of his hat, but he knew it was Forster. The dapperness had gone and in its place was a roughness that was out of character, but it was the man all right. Forster didn’t see him, but turned left and started along the street.