McAllister 6

by Matt Chisholm

  ‘Like hell you’ll take it,’ cried Russ, now fully awake. ‘That’s real nice. A friend comes all smiling and all he comes for is a feller’s money. That’s all a feller means to him, a handful of goddam money.’

  ‘I’m doing it for your sake,’ said McAllister. ‘You know I don’t need the money, boy.’

  ‘Like hell you don’t need the money. When didn’t you need money, McAllister?’

  ‘I have to put a thousand dollars into the pot,’ McAllister explained. ‘Here’s this great horse race, maybe the greatest the West ever saw, and I can’t put a great horse like Caesar in for it because a friend of mine is too damn close-fisted to ante up with a measly twenty-five dollars.’

  He started to dismount.

  Russ yelled franticly: ‘Don’t you get off that fool horse, McAllister. That means I’m going to be persuaded and I want to be persuaded like I want a kick in the teeth. I want to buy a birthday present for my poor old mother with that twenty-five dollars.’

  ‘Your mother was hanged in Tucson for raising mavericks,’ McAllister snarled.

  ‘Now you’re getting personal.’

  ‘You bet your sweet life I’m getting personal. Take a look around you at this place. It makes me puke every time I come around. It needs money, it needs investment.’

  ‘It needs twenty-five dollars,’ howled Russ.

  ‘It needs a thousand.’

  Russ looked around him. He had to admit that what McAllister said was true. He wanted cash-money on this place desperately.

  ‘You sure Caesar ain’t too young?’ he said a little plaintively.

  ‘If I thought he was too young,’ McAllister said, ‘I wouldn’t run him, would I? You think I want to ruin my best horse?’

  ‘Hell,’ said Russ, ‘I did not like that remark of yours about me being a tight-wad, Rem. I ain’t no tight wad. To show you I ain’t I’ll give you a sup from my jug.’

  ‘It’ll show you a killer,’ said McAllister. ‘That stuff kills at forty rods.’ He grinned. ‘Just the same, I have worked up a thirst riding all this way to do you a good turn.’

  Russ walked into his collapsing house to fetch the jug.

  Eight

  Si Tallin, who ran a small cow-spread to the east of McAllister’s place, did not hesitate. He loved horses, he loved gambling and he thought Caesar the greatest horse in the world.

  He put one hundred dollars on the table and he said: ‘It’s money in the bank. If I had a thousand, it would be there.’

  ‘That’s what I like to see,’ said McAllister. ‘Real faith.’

  Scratch Morgan, who had a few cows, fewer horses, a truck garden and a morose nature, did not have one scrap of faith. He declared that he did not know one end of a horse from another and, what was more, he did not care. McAllister did not press the point. He rode on to the Mittelhouse place.

  Nine

  The Mittelhouse place was really something. It was one of those show places which can only be bought or maintained by a very rich man or a very rich company. Mittelhouse was both.

  What was more, he was class. Even the wild Texans among the cowhands (whenever he got around to addressing them) who did not give a damn for man or beast, called him ‘mister’. Mittelhouse made in a day what they would be lucky to earn in a year. Speaking objectively, I would not say that he was a nice man. It was not that he had too much money for his own good; it was just that he had too much for anybody else’s. He was one of those rare mortals who use several strata of lesser mortals to stand between himself and those of common clay. So far as McAllister knew, the man possessed only one redeeming feature – he loved horses. In McAllister’s book, this was a characteristic which could redeem an awful lot.

  Al Corby, the manager, was the only person in sight on the gallery of the large sprawling house when McAllister rode into the yard. There was not much to be said against Al except that he worked for and was loyal to Mittelhouse. What more could you want? Corby was several years younger than McAllister and he had come a long way from boyhood poverty in east Texas. Now he had a pleasant little house on the far side of the creek from the gentry’s house. Mrs. Lee, the Chinese cook’s wife, did his household chores for him. He had under him a good foreman, a large and well- paid crew.

  Mittelhouse’s Running M brand was burned on the hides of over six thousand critters in the Black Horse country. It was said to be on the hides of ten thousand more in Colorado and Idaho. Under the rim of the mountains, there were three thousand sheep watched over by herders on the Mittelhouse payroll. His land claims ran across three counties and were mainly made up of checkerboard claims made by his men, encircling water-rights and public range. The land he could legally call his own would not have supported a hundredth part of his stock. Lennie Wallach summed up the situation as a wasteful use of land and a disgrace to a property-owning democracy, a mockery of all which was held dear by the founding fathers of the nation. That was maybe putting it a bit steep, but it expressed what a good many people thought.

  On the other hand there were men like A1 Corby who looked on settlers as city scum who polluted the land. In defending the free cattle range, such men as Corby thought they were defending a way of life which was worth preserving. Wallach thundered in the Clarion that they were as anachronistic as the Indians. If they did not join the new generation of landowners, they would be wiped out.

  Mittelhouse would argue against that with the statement that one party represented quantity and the other quality. His own, of course, was quality. Although not born to the cattle trade, he had fallen in love with the simple, patriarchal way of life of the big cattle-owner. Small cattle-owners, in his opinion, were no better than grangers and rustlers. They should be allowed on the peripheral lands (for such men as he needed cheap and convenient labor), but should be kept off the main ranges.

  He had been raised in Texas and had been given the best education that money could buy. Up to the time when he had occupied these northern ranges, there had seemed nothing more than a man in his position could desire. Now there seemed nothing left for him to fight for. To think that was a mistake. Men like Lennie Wallach could see that there was a big fight coming. The cattlemen’s associations were becoming powerful; too powerful, some said. Hanging a few rustlers and horse-thieves was one thing, running small cattlemen off their claims was another.

  Now, as McAllister drew rein and A1 Corby called out politely for him to ‘light an’ set’, he saw that what folks said about Mittelhouse’s gallery was right – it was better furnished than most best parlors. McAllister stepped from the saddle and tied his mare, Sally, to the hitch-rail. As usual, Corby said: ‘Mighty pretty little mare you have there, Rem. Got around to selling her yet?’

  ‘That’ll be the day,’ replied McAllister, as usual.

  ‘What’s this I hear about a horse race?’ Corby said.

  ‘I reckon,’ said McAllister, not being strictly truthful, ‘you know as much about it as I do.’

  ‘Don’t give me that,’ said Corby.

  ‘Wa-al, I know there’s money in it, Al, that’s a fact. Big money. Enough to scare the pants off me, to tell the truth. The entrance fee is enough to make your blood run cold.’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Corby, showing interest. ‘How big would that be?’

  ‘Way I heard it, each entrant is expected to throw in a thousand dollars.’

  Corby was aghast. ‘A thousand dollars? Somebody has to be out of their head. Who has a thousand dollars to get a horse into a race?’

  ‘How about your boss for a start?’

  Corby grinned briefly. ‘Yeah. True enough. But who started this idea?’

  ‘No telling,’ said McAllister gravely. ‘You know how these things snowball. Mark Tully at the Last Chance is holding stakes.’

  ‘Who’s been entered so far?’

  ‘I ain’t too sure as yet, but I reckon old Mr Snyder of Bar-Two-El has his stud Chief in. There’s an Indian horse.’

  ‘An Indian horse, for God’s sake?
Where’s an Indian going to find that kind of money?’

  ‘Search me,’ said McAllister wonderingly. ‘There’s Hartley Crumb at Blue Hill-he’s entered his thoroughbred, Dillon. Or so I heard tell. Should be a lulu of a race, Al.’

  The ranch manager was sweating. There were a number of thoughts racing through his mind, foremost among them was how he was going to raise a thousand dollars. McAllister knew he owned a horse, and a very good one too. It was a grey stud, not big, but a stayer with a lot of strength and good lungs. It was not the horse that Mittelhouse’s favorite was, but over a distance it would stand a good chance and, under other circumstances, McAllister would have risked more than a few dollars on it. When Corby had gotten over the problem of how to raise one thousand dollars, he would be faced with the possibility of his horse beating his boss’s. A scaring thought!

  ‘How about you, Rem? You entering a horse?’

  ‘Me? If I can raise the cash, Al. But where the hell do I find a thousand dollars?’

  ‘What would you enter?’

  ‘Caesar,’ said McAllister.

  The manager frowned: ‘Caesar? Ain’t he a mite young?’

  ‘Everybody keeps saying that to me,’ said McAllister. ‘I reckon Caesar could do it. It’s over a thirty mile course, Al.’

  Corby raised his eyebrows. ‘Thirty miles? That’s a whole different row of beans, for crissake.’

  ‘Ain’t she now.’

  Corby said: ‘Now you make yourself comfortable there, Rem. I’ll go rustle up Mr Mittelhouse. He’d sure like to have a word with you about this here race.’

  McAllister sat himself in a rocker and Corby went into the house. He studied the scenery. When he heard a faint sound from the direction of the door, he turned his head to see Mittelhouse’s dark lady standing there. He rose and removed his hat.

  ‘Morning, ma’am.’ He was pleased because she was one of the reasons why he had ridden out to the Running M. Like most of us, McAllister liked to kill two birds with one stone.

  ‘Why, good morning, sheriff.’

  Her manner was not flirtatious, nor was it standoffish. It was more cool. But not cool enough to drive a man away. Just the opposite. This was a young woman who understood men. Not much over twenty and a widow already. Staying at the home of a much-sort-after bachelor of wealth-that could play hell with a girl’s reputation. The tongues of the county were wagging furiously already. There was a lady companion of sorts in the background, but nobody paid her much heed.

  ‘Forgive me, but I could not help overhearing the conversation between yourself and Corby. A horse race!’

  He could not place her accent. It sounded almost foreign. Maybe that was because she had been well-educated. High faluting colleges did strange things to the way a person spoke.

  ‘Yes, ma’am. Looks to be the richest race we ever held in these parts. Mittelhouse reckons he has the finest horses in the world and there’s a good few of us’d like to prove him wrong.’

  ‘And do you have a horse, sheriff?’ Her superior tone nettled him and he did not like being nettled by beautiful women.

  ‘I breed horses, ma’am. Yes, I reckon I have an even half- dozen could beat old Champion.’ She laughed outright in her disbelief. ‘Don’t get me wrong – I think Champion is a fine horse. But I think mine’re finer. It’ll be a race to remember, all right.’

  ‘What’s the purse?’

  McAllister said: ‘The entrance fee is one thousand dollars.’ She exclaimed at the amount. ‘It ain’t usual, but there it is. The winner should take a good few thousand.’

  He could see that her eyes were bright with interest. She asked, and he began to tell her, about the various horses which would probably be entered. They were hard at it when Mittelhouse came on to the gallery and stared at them unsmilingly.

  ‘Morning, McAllister.’

  ‘Morning, Mittelhouse.’

  It was said that McAllister was the only man in the country to omit the mister in front of Mittelhouse’s name. The fact got to the big rancher and he made little effort to hide it. If you had asked McAllister why he did it, he would have replied simply: ‘He don’t mister me.’

  Mittelhouse walked between the lady and McAllister just to show the visitor who was closer to beauty by right. This point established, he said: ‘Now, what’s all this I hear about a horse race?’

  McAllister told him all he claimed to know. When he was through talking, the great man nodded his head a few times and said carelessly: ‘Yes, I daresay I shall put in a horse or two.’

  McAllister rubbed his hands together and said: ‘The more the merrier.’

  Mittelhouse said, more in pity than annoyance: ‘You really think you have a chance with those California mustangs of yours, McAllister?’

  ‘A man in my position don’t risk one thousand dollars if he don’t think he has a chance. So far as I’m concerned, it’s money in the bank.’

  ‘I’m afraid that Champion will give you a rude awakening.’

  ‘I’ll even go as far as making a side bet with you, Mittelhouse.’

  The girl looked with interest from one man to the other, thinking that grown men were so like jealous children that there were times when she wondered why she bothered with them. She knew why, of course. Men dominated the world and if you did not have one, you might as well not exist.

  Corby came out of the house. Mittelhouse told him about McAllister’s wish for a side bet and Corby had a good laugh over that. ‘Rem,’ he said, ‘you’re throwing your money away. It’d be like taking candy from a kid. Have you seen Champion run lately?’

  ‘I’ve seen him run on the flat,’ McAllister said and rose. He bowed to the lady and said it was a pleasure meeting her. Mittelhouse glowered. When McAllister was mounted on Sally, the girl said: ‘What a lovely little mare, Mr McAllister.’ He lifted a hand and rode off.

  The dark lady smiled.

  Ten

  As McAllister rode the country taking news of the great race and mostly finding that the news was well ahead of him, his mind was quite full of the widow Rosa, Mr Mittelhouse’s dark lady. Nobody could blame him for that. It was not often that a tall, willowy, elegant and beautiful woman, widow or not, came into Black Horse country. No matter how he read the brands on the steers, counted the crows on the wing and took note of where a wolf had brought down a small calf, his mind returned to that woman. Maybe, (and I suspect that this is near the truth) it was a case of the other man’s apple tasting the sweeter. The thought of so lovely a creature in the already overladen hands of the rich Mittelhouse was too much for McAllister’s egalitarian soul. He saw no reason why a common horse-breeder should not also be in the running for beautiful and elegant women.

  While McAllister was thus occupying himself, in town Camden Brennan was also busy with his plans for the future. The more he thought of his set-up here in Black Horse, the more he saw the possibility of cleaning up enough for him to stick with respectability for the rest of his life. That was a nice thought. One can only surmise that under that butcher’s heart lay emotions which better fitted his exterior. In other words, that secretly he hankered after virtue. A little late in the day, you might say-and you could be right. But there it was. Brennan saw a way out and he decided to take it.

  His first thought was that whoever was paying him to get rid of the newspaper proprietor must put a high price on his anonymity. It was reasonable to suppose that if Brennan managed to put the screws on him, he would pay. If he was the kind to be physically feared, one to do his own killings, then he would not be employing Brennan to kill Wallach in the first place. Men who hired killers were usually a pushover. Therefore he had only to discover who was hiring him. After that, all would be easy. Brennan would clean up there, and he would clean up on the horse race. Thus his cupidity and his pride would be catered for.

  He liked what he had planned. He knew a sudden and stimulating delight in life. He laughed out loud in his room and rubbed his hands together. Life was rich, he told himself.
And pretty soon, he would be, too.

  Having made up his mind, he walked down to the stage and telegraph office on Main and sent the following message to a man in Kansas City. He did not like putting his trust in other men, but Mole Trusty was a villain after his own heart. Mole understood from the outset that if he played double, Brennan would kill him with great speed and no compunction. It made for a good working relationship.

  The message read:

  ‘Do not come Black Horse. No job for you here. Buy shorthorns soonest. You will be contacted.

  Love to Aunt Ethel.’

  He paid the man and returned to his room to watch the front of the newspaper office. He was just in time to see Lennie Wallach come out of the office, hat and coat on. This indicated more than his usual brief absence from the place. Brennan slipped hurriedly from his room, saw Wallach ahead of him on the street and followed him.

  He went to the very place which Brennan had just vacated – the express and telegraph office. It was no difficulty at all for Brennan to stand at the open doorway and hear what business the newspaperman was transacting. He was buying a single ticket to Caspar.

  Caspar! thought Brennan. That was one hell of a trip. Had Wallach lost his sand and was now making a break for it? He did not know the man well enough to know.

  By the time Wallach came out of the office, Brennan had made himself scarce. For the rest of the day, he watched the newspaper office either from the window of his room or the window in the dining-room. Big Betty Sansom declared to her waitress: ‘That Walter Coulter in Room One don’t hardly ever go out of the place. It ain’t healthy.’

  But that evening, he did leave his room and the hotel. He walked along the street and took a drink at the bar of the Last Chance. There was a good deal of drunkenness in there and Brennan did not approve of drunkenness. He hated the idea of losing control of his senses. He liked to be clearheaded and alert at all times. That was how he kept one jump ahead of the others.