McAllister 6

by Matt Chisholm

  McAllister said: ‘There’ll be more if we don’t stop ’em.’ The horse race was a long way off now. It was hard to believe it existed under the same sky. ‘Charlie, we have to nail somebody for this. If we caught all the Texas men, we’d learn nothing. When those boys hired out, they hire good. We want a local man. One without too much sand in his craw.’ Charlie said: ‘They’ll have a local man with them, maybe more than one. Somebody has to guide them.’

  ‘Question everybody here. Just one name’ll do us.’

  He mounted Oscar and circled the burning remains of the house, widening his circle until he found what he wanted. First, he found tracks coming in from the south-east. Made, he thought, by at least a dozen riders. On the other side of the location, he found clear tracks going out, heading southwest towards the Breaks. That told him almost beyond doubt that the Association had given orders for the hill ranchers to be hit; the small, shirt-tail outfits. They were cow-thieves to a man, the Association members had declared publicly more than once.

  When he got back to the Olsens, he found that Olsen’s son, Hube, drawn like McAllister by the smoke, had ridden in. He was trying to console his young wife. When he saw McAllister, he wanted to do nothing but come with him and pay his debt to the men who had done this.

  McAllister said: ‘Hube, right now the best thing you can do is get the family to shelter. Get ’em down to my place, if you want, and use the bam. Bella Copley’ll feed you.’ Hube argued, but McAllister was not in the mood for argument. He promised that he would have the guilty men in his jail pretty soon.

  Charlie Stellino came up with a young sheepherder who had been working around headquarters when the raiders hit. He was a New York boy who had come west for adventure. He was a bright kid. Sure, he knew a local man among the gunmen. Did not know his name, but he described him in detail. McAllister and Charlie knew him at once: this was Hank Tuttle, one of Harvey Emmett’s riders. He suited McAllister’s book fine.

  Hube said he would move the family to a shack he had back in the hills. The New York boy forked Hube’s horse and rode off to fetch horses and a wagon. McAllister and Charlie Stellino moved out at a brisk trot. Charlie said maybe they should ride with some care, those Texas men were not fools and they could be watching their back-track. McAllister said: ‘They’re just damn fool gunmen. They won’t watch anything. Half of ’em have ridden out of the country and the other half still thinks it can conquer it . Those days are over, Charlie.’

  ‘What kind of days are these, Rem?’ Charlie asked innocently.

  ‘The kind when a sheriff and his deputy can put the lid on a range war.’

  ‘Is that a fact?’ said Charlie.

  They followed the tracks down to Herb Mabley’s place on the northern edge of the Breaks. They knew they were too late when they saw the same tell-tale smoke over the brow of the hill. McAllister said: ‘Goddamn,’ and lifted Oscar to a harder pace.

  ‘This is the bit I hate,’ Charlie shouted above the clatter of their hoofs on the iron-hard ground.

  ‘What bit’s that?’ McAllister asked.

  Charlie said: ‘The bit when we get shot at.’

  There would not be any shooting at Herb’s place. The raiders were not wasting any time. They had simply hit Herb and gone on. The house was burning nicely and Herb was a cripple with a bullet through his kneecap.

  Looking down at Herb, McAllister said: ‘Worse than being killed to a cattleman. This poor bastard’ll never ride again. Make a travois, Charlie, and take him to Doc in town.’

  Charlie gaped at him. ‘You out of your head, man? I ain’t much, but I’m all you got.’

  McAllister snarled unpleasantly. ‘Do like I say. Jawing ain’t going to help. You got a man’s life in your hands. Ain’t that enough?’

  Charlie did not know how to argue with that, so he let McAllister fork Oscar and ride out.

  McAllister had not gone a mile into the Breaks, still following the tracks, when he heard a horse pounding along behind him. It sounded as if somebody was racing somebody. Pretty soon, a canelo horse came into view and McAllister started to swear, because he thought it was Charlie disobeying orders, but, when horse and rider were closer, he saw that it was Mose Copley. When Mose drew rein and sat his saddle watching McAllister’s face for his reaction, his face glistening darkly with sweat, McAllister said: ‘What the hell is this, Copley?’

  Mose said: ‘My boy Lige can win that race without me, I reckon, boss, but you have a mite more’n even you can handle.’

  There was nothing to disagree with there, so McAllister nodded and rode on. Mose fell in beside him. McAllister told him about the Olsens. Mose had seen Herb Mabley. Charlie had wanted him to tote Mabley back to town, but Mose said that he wasn’t no nursemaid. That seemed to settle it. They followed along the tracks until they came to the Jacksons’ place.

  Abe and Tolly Jackson were brothers, both in their thirties. McAllister and Mose could see right off that they had been forewarned by their neighbors’ smoke and had been ready for the invaders. A dead horse lay on the trail and, not far from it, a man lay with a bullet through the back of his head. There was some timber to the right of the trail, and among the trees they found the raiders’ horses. There was a horse- holder with them. The man was as much a stranger to them as they were to him, so he did not know whether to greet or challenge them. They rode up to him openly and Mose wanted to save time and trouble by cutting him down. But McAllister said: ‘Mose, I’m sheriff here and I have to behave myself.’ When the man heard this he went for his gun. But he did not use it because he was looking down the twin barrels of Mose’s shotgun. Mose laid him out with the butt and then they scattered the horses. All the time, they could hear shots being exchanged by the attackers and the Jackson boys in the cabin.

  Two blasts from Mose’s scattergun and ten rounds fired by McAllister from different positions convinced the gunmen that they were under heavy attack from the rear. This came at the moment when they realized they were up against a formidable defense. Under both pressures they found that they were hired to kill men, not to be killed, and threw down their arms. When they were herded together in front of the cabin, a couple of them recognized McAllister and informed their colleagues that they had done a wise thing. This McAllister was a goddamn Indian when it came to a fight.

  The Jacksons wanted to hang at least one of them right there on the spot, just to make them feel better. But McAllister in his new and respectable role of sheriff could not permit that. He did say that he would be obliged if the Jacksons would help them herd the prisoners back to town. This was agreed.

  Now McAllister picked out the local man, Harvey Emmett’s rider, Hank Tuttle. Hank was one of those men who had seen better days, but not much better. He was a little old for a cowboy. Once maybe he had had some sand in his craw, but as he grew older so his craw lost sand.

  McAllister did not waste time or breath. He stood in front of the already nervous Tuttle and said: ‘Hank, there ain’t a Texas man here who won’t tell you I’m a mean sonovabitch. I want some names, I want them on paper and I want your John Henry at the bottom of it. Before you refuse, I’ll tell you if you don’t do like I say I’ll brand the MC Connected on your butt with a running iron. I know it’s illegal and I don’t give a damn if you shout it all over the county. Just so long as I have those names.’ When the man hesitated, McAllister added: ‘After the trial, I’ll give you fifty dollars and a fast horse.’

  The man looked at the Texans, and they nodded. They knew McAllister. Or thought they did. The difference did not matter under the circumstances. Hank Tuttle named the names. McAllister wrote them down on the slip of paper and Hank signed them. He had always been proud of the fact that he could sign his name.

  Twenty-Eight

  They overtook Charlie Stellino and his travois and wounded man on the way back to town. By the time they rode down Main Street, the race had been over a good few hours and dusk was settling in. McAllister was tired to the bone. The string of pris
oners gathered a crowd. Questions were shouted. When they were answered, several men went looking for ropes. What followed was so ridiculously easy that McAllister could hardly believe it was true. The strangest thing of all was that he had almost forgotten the race. He had the problem of how to contain the prisoners. The one cell behind his office was certainly not big enough. He produced every handcuff owned by the county and clipped five of them to the sidewalk rail. The rest were tied with reatas and an armed guard was put over them.

  That done, McAllister walked to the Grand Union Hotel. Mose Copley walked behind him with his shotgun. Mark Tully appeared with his pistol in hand. He looked grim and all set for business. He just asked one question: ‘Who is it?’ McAllister reeled off the names, and Mark nodded and said: ‘Let’s get it over with.’

  McAllister said: ‘It could be damned rough, Mark.’

  The saloonman hawked and spat into the dust and said: ‘Rougher the better.’

  They walked into the hotel, and their way was barred by Colonel Ralph English. His dining room was full of distinguished guests and it was not right that armed men should -

  McAllister said: ‘Colonel, you get out of our road or you’ll join your distinguished guests in jail charged with murder.’ He unlimbered his old worn Remington forty-four and walked into the dining room. Mose Copley and Mark Tully went in behind him and fanned out to left and right. Seated at the nearest table were Mittelhouse, Rosa Claythorn and May Harris. When Rosa saw McAllister, her face lit up brightly, a fact which was not missed by Mittelhouse.

  McAllister’s voice roared out: ‘Gentlemen.’

  There was immediate silence and heads turned.

  ‘I have to inform you that organized murder has been attempted on a large scale in Black Horse County. I am arresting the following men and they will come with me charged with murder and various lesser crimes. You will stand up and walk towards me with your hands held above your heads.’

  Harvey Emmett was on his feet. ‘McAllister, how dare you – ’

  ‘You’re the first on the list. Harvey Emmett, Glub Groos, Lytton Wayne, Harold Shulz, Martin Gruber. That’ll do for now.’

  Somebody said: ‘I want a lawyer.’

  McAllister said: ‘After what we saw today, I’d say you needed a preacher more.’

  Somebody near him clapped their hands briefly. McAllister turned his head and saw that it was May Harris. He gave her his best smile.

  He said to Tully: ‘Where the hell do we put ’em, Mark?

  ‘I have an empty storeroom. They should fit nice and tight in there.’

  ‘Let’s go then.’

  Glub Groos pushed himself forward, chin thrust out, small eyes fierce. He looked down at McAllister and said: ‘I have twenty riders in town, McAllister. You won’t get ten yards outside this building.’

  McAllister pushed the muzzle of his gun into Glub’s considerable midriff and said: ‘One shot fired, Glub, and the second hits you. And remember there’re a lot of nesters and townsfolk out there with lynch ropes in their hands. You’re going to need us to get to jail alive.’

  After that, the ranchers bunched together in a rather crestfallen group. They then learned that McAllister was not quite through. He said: ‘Landon Chalmers.’

  The banker rose at his table with a puzzled frown on his face, as if he too expected to be arrested. ‘What is it?’

  ‘You aim to foreclose on these men tomorrow.’ Chalmer’s face was worth seeing. Every rancher bunched there turned on him in a kind of amazed fury. ‘I’ll inform you publicly here and now that these men have systematically held public domain and prevented legal settlement on it. Just bear that in mind when you collect their herds and lay claim to any land.’

  Chalmers, scarlet-faced, sat down without a word. One of the ranchers shouted, ‘Traitor’, and tried to get across the room at him. But a foot tripped him and he went down noisily. After that, they came along as mild as lambs.

  As soon as they were out on the streets and a few hundred nesters were there cheering them, a lank dark figure fought its way through the crowd and ran to McAllister.

  ‘Boss,’ Lige cried out, ‘Caesar’s hurt bad.’

  That brought McAllister up with a jolt. Mark Tully saw the distress and lost look on his face and said quickly: ‘Go ahead, Rem. It’s all over here bar the shouting. I can ride herd on this bunch.’

  McAllister followed Lige through the crowd. In a couple of minutes, he was entering Lon McKenna’s livery yard. Lige ran ahead of him into a barn and there stood McAllister’s stallion. Caesar.

  McAllister reached for a hanging lamp and held it high, running his eyes over his horse. ‘Where?’ he said.

  Lige pointed to the off foreleg. McAllister leaned close and saw to his astonishment that a deep gash about a foot long on the upper part of the leg had been neatly sewn.

  ‘Who did that?’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘You sewed it?’

  ‘No. Doc Robertson sewed it. I done it. It was my fault, boss. Ole Caesar, he was going real good over that rough stuff on the short-cut on the downhill run to Wild Horse Point. I pushed him too hard, Miz Rem. You going to fire me?’

  ‘I’ll think about it. How did Doc think Caesar would make out?’

  ‘He reckoned there was a good chance.’

  ‘All right,’ said McAllister. ‘You ain’t fired.’ He did not look at Lige. That was more than he could do. So he turned for the open doorway of the bam. When he reached there, he turned around and said: ‘By the way, Lige, who won the race?’

  Lige, who seemed to have damp eyes, looked faintly surprised.

  ‘We did, of course, boss,’ he said.

  Twenty-Nine

  Rosa Claythorn looked out of the dining-room window on to the street and saw McAllister’s tall form approaching through the crowd. Mittelhouse caught her looking and scowled, and in that moment Rosa knew a wild hope that McAllister would turn his head, see her and smile. Suddenly, she realized that it was McAllister she wanted. She was dimly aware that near her a chair scraped back as someone stood up. She turned and saw May Harris on her feet.

  ‘Where are you going, May?’ she said sharply. Her own voice told her that her nerves were on edge.

  ‘I have a date,’ May said, and she did not blush. She just looked determined.

  ‘You have a what?’

  ‘A date.’

  Uneasiness stirred in Rosa and she said, her voice even somewhat sharper: ‘You are here, May, to be my companion.’

  ‘I was here to be your companion, Rosa.’

  Mittelhouse became aware of their exchange.

  ‘May, if you go out that door, you’re fired.’

  Mittelhouse said: ‘Calm down, ladies.’

  ‘Oh, go to hell,’ Rosa said.

  May said: ‘I think I already resigned.’ And she headed for the door.

  ‘Well, I’m damned,’ Mittelhouse declared. He had not yet recovered from the departure of his associate cattlemen. Together he and Rosa watched May Harris walked out of the hotel and into the crowd. She timed it just right to come face-to-face with McAllister. Rosa’s rage nearly exploded when she saw the silly grin on McAllister’s face. Nobody, she thought, could choose May Harris when she was around. She saw May take his arm and go off, smiling up at him.

  ‘The girl was a trollop all the time and I never knew it,’ Rosa said.

  Mittelhouse said: ‘For the tenth and last time, Rosa, will you marry me?’

  There was a dead silence between them. Slowly, Rosa wrenched her gaze from the backs of the retreating man and woman. Her gaze met Mittelhouse’s.

  ‘You bet your sweet life I’ll marry you,’ she said.

  McAllister was saying: ‘May, it ain’t going to be too much fun for you. What with a whole bunch of murder charges to see to and generally playing sheriff and thinking up ways of using ten thousand dollars …’

  She squeezed his arm and laughed.

  ‘May I tell you, McAllister,’ she said, ‘that yo
u are a marvelous man?’

  He beamed on her and said: ‘Ain’t I just?’

  McALLISTER 6: McALLISTER—DIE-HARD

  By Matt Chisholm

  First published by Hamlyn Books in 1981

  Copyright © 1981, 2017 by Matt Chisholm

  First Smashwords Edition: February 2017

  Names, characters and incidents in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information or storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law.

  This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book

  Series Editor: Mike Stotter

  Text © Piccadilly Publishing

  Published by Arrangement with the Author’s Agent.

  About the Author

  Peter Christopher Watts

  (19 December 1919 — 30 November 1983)

  Is the author of more than 150 novels, is better known by his pen names of “Matt Chisholm” and “Cy James”. He published his first western novel under the Matt Chisholm name in 1958 (Halfbreed). He began writing the “McAllister” series in 1963 with The Hard Men, and that series ran to 35 novels. He followed that up with the “Storm” series. And used the Cy James name for his “Spur” series.

  More on PETER WATTS

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