McAllister (14 page)

A dog sneaked into the narrow gap between the buildings. He tried to get tough with the man who had the nerve to be hiding on his preserve, but a well-aimed stone cured him of his ambitions. Almost over McAllister's head from the open window came the sound of the saddler singing a tuneless song.

A door slammed and another opened. Voices sounded for a minute, a door closed, bolts were driven home and chains rattled distantly. Carmody was closing up for the night. He had the gold. Mcallister reckoned that Clover and Franchon were now on the street. He stood up and made his way toward Main, going carefully so he wouldn't stumble over anything in his path and looked out onto the street. It was pretty empty. A buckboard passed at a trot, the drunken driver lolling insecurely on the seat while the horses looked after themselves. Two townsfolk passed on the other side going west. Clover and Franchon came into view, walking slowly east, talking together in low tones. They looked tired. Mcallister wondered how much of the gold they had on them. He let them get thirty yards down Main before he came out of cover. He wanted the advantage of distance.

He walked slowly like a man taking the evening air, his hat low on his forehead. Wiping the perspiration from his face with his bandanna in his left hand, he loosened his gun in its worn holster with his right. The touch of the gun on his fingers brought what he was about to do into the right perspective. He was now back in his old trade and the gun was his tool. He would use it with the cold efficiency that was now part of him, fever or no fever. His leg was aching dully, but the doctor's wife had fixed it well and it felt good. The sleep at the stage station had refreshed him. He reckoned he was feeling as good as he needed to.

The two men ahead of him stopped in the lights of a saloon and for a moment Mcallister thought they would go in. That would mean another wait and he didn't want that—waiting never did even the coolest gunman any good. One thing he was sure of, he would never brace them in a saloon where they would have friends. But luck was with him and they went on. They had a definite destination now, for their pace became brisker and, with his wounded leg, he was hard put to keep the distance he wanted. For silence he walked on the rutted street and he stumbled badly once or twice, making him draw his breath in sharply from the sudden pain in his leg. He realised that suddenly he was agitated and the sweat was pouring from him. Already his shirt was soaked. His damp right hand he wiped continually on his pants.

It came to him that he could kill them both from here, one-two and they'd both be dead. Some people would call it cold-blooded murder, but he knew that it would be no more than justice, an execution of two men who had preyed on their fellows for too long. Why in hell should he risk his neck to give two deadly skunks like that a chance to make dog-meat of him?

But he knew he couldn't do it. He'd brace them and kill them. Or he'd brace them and die.

They surprised him by swinging abruptly to the left and disappearing from view. He realised with a jolt that he had forgotten the intersection of Main and Carson Street. Then they must be headed for the Carson House where Franchon boarded when he was in town. He started after them at a shambling lopsided run that made the pain roar through his body and explode in his brain. When he reached the intersection, he saw that both men had stopped about twenty yards down the street at the sound of his footsteps and were looking back. He halted, staring at them, sick with pain. With the range down to twenty yards, his advantage was gone. It was two fast guns against his one at short range and that made him a sitting duck.

Clover called: “Who's that?”

The outlaw's hand was on the butt of his gun, more by habit than through alarm.

Mcallister felt his pain blossom into anger and fought it down, knowing that he had the choice of being calm or dead. His eyes automatically picked his targets for him, checked
the distances; he would take Franchon first because the gun-hand was deadly fast.

“McAllister,” he said softly and clearly.

“My Gawd,” Clover roared, “what the hell—?”

Franchon took a step quickly away from Clover and pulled back the skirt of his coat.

Mcallister said, “I'm going to kill you both.”

“Don't talk so Goddam foolish, Mack,” Clover said. “You don't have a chance.” But his voice told Mcallister that he wasn't being so foolish and he did have a chance. Clover didn't stomach this kind of fight. He knew of McAllister.

Franchon said: “Make your move.”

Mcallister saw that the gunman's right hand was in shadow and he reckoned that Franchon already had his gun out held tight against his leg.

“All I want is the gold,” Mcallister said. “I'll do a deal if you want.”

That startled Clover and the big man said: “What in hell're you talkin'—” as Mcallister lifted his right hand six inches, fingering up the heavy gun, palming it and thumbing back the hammer.

From then on, the whole thing was faster than thought, fear and courage mixed inseparably to make the bare need to stay alive, to kill the other two. The gun-butt was slippery in his sweating hand and he muffed his first shot. Instead of hitting Franchon in the head and putting him out for sure while he turned his gun on Clover, he hit him in the left shoulder, spun him and put him down on the ground. The gunman had already loosed off two shots that sounded like one with the speed of thumbing and triggering and both had missed him. As the two balls whistled close on either side of his head, his brain became crystal clear and his eyes saw everything. He was moving now on instinct born of long experience and practice. He stepped out of the smoke of his shot, not hurrying but moving with the easy speed of his trade, dropping the muzzle of his gun as he swivelled slightly and came around facing Clover. The outlaw had fired one shot that had gone wide, because it was a panic try. The shot a man takes because he is frightened and must fire even though he knows it will do no good.

Gripping the gun-handle as tight as he could, Mcallister
brought the muzzle up in line with the target and fired his second shot.

As Clover also let go his second, he took McAllister's ball through the heart. Mcallister kept moving, seeing Clover out of the corner of his eyes as he brought his gun to bear on Franchon again. Clover walked three stiff-legged paces backward, struck his shoulders on the side-walk rail, jack-knifed and collapsed under it, hitting the planks with a dull, dead sound.

Franchon raised himself up on one elbow and Mcallister knew he would go on shooting till he died.

Mcallister sighted carefully and fired again.

Franchon fired in the echo of the explosion and a pane of glass collapsed noisily somewhere behind McAllister. Franchon gave a thin wavering cry and fell back onto the dust, but before his head hit, Mcallister had put a ball through his brain.

Like McAllister's old daddy had always said:
Always finish with a head shot, son. They don't play any tricks after that
.

The tall man stood motionless, staring down at the body, lifted his glance and eyed Clover. Suddenly his gun was heavy in his hand and he was very tired. They had both been deadly rats and he should have had no regrets, but he wasn't a man who could kill with no after-effect.

Turning slowly, he started back down Main, starting to load his gun and telling himself:
Now Carmody
.

Someone behind him shouted: “Hey, you.”

Running feet hammered a sidewalk.

He stopped and turned as a man leapt from the sidewalk into the dust, a tall man in a black coat. There was a gun in his hand.

When the man stopped a few yards off, Mcallister saw the badge gleaming on his chest. The town marshal.

“You want me, marshal?” Mcallister asked, conscious that he was unarmed without his gun loaded.

“You're under arrest.”

Mcallister blinked owlishly at him, not knowing how to play this.

“Turl,” he said, “take a look at the two polecats I just shot.”

“I don't have to. I know who they are. I witnessed the whole thing.”

Mcallister gave that a little thought, remembering what he knew of this lawman—a very cool customer, the blue-eyed killer kind who played cards with the boys in the back room and won more that way than he did at five dollars per an arrest. There could be many reasons why he should be pleased that Clover and Franchon were out of the way, both private and official. Then why the arrest?

The only answer to that could be Carmody.

“What're you holding me for?” Mcallister demanded.

“Murder.”

The gun didn't waver and it didn't take much imagination to realise that the marshal wouldn't be sorry to see Mcallister join the two gunmen in the dust.

“You know damn well that charge wouldn't hold water in this town. Those two
pistoleros
have bitched up this neck of the woods too long.”

Turl's face was in shadow, but when he nodded, Mcallister knew he was smiling.

“Franchon was a respected employee of Mr. Carmody. Clover was wild, but he has plenty of friends in town.”

“You included?”

The marshal ignored the question.

“Take ahold of your gun by the tip of the barrel and pass it to me. Make a wrong move and I'll blow your belly out through your backbone.”

“You wouldn't do that.”

“Give me one reason why not.”

“I'm facing you.”

Mcallister handed over his gun as rage overtook the lawman and for a moment he looked as if he would smash his gun into the tall man's face. Mcallister readied himself to resist the blow, but it didn't come. But Turl cocked his gun and the clicks of the hammer going back were fair warning.

“The calaboose—not too fast and not too slow.”

Mcallister turned and started down the street, his mind all confusion and trying to find some way out of this. He thought of offering the man a bribe, but he knew the only money that could be used was the army gold and once the marshal knew of that anything could happen.

They passed a few loitering figures, the marshal was asked what had happened and gave a curt reply. They marched
through the empty street, the moon sailing serenely above, their boot-heels muffled by the thick dust.

The jail was reached without Mcallister coming any nearer to a solution of his problem. But he had to have that gold and he had to have it tonight. He wanted the cover of darkness and a fast horse so that he would be well on his way by dawn without Gato spotting his dust. He stopped, playing the first card that came to his hand.

Turl said: “Get on.”

“I want a lawyer and I want him now,” Mcallister said.

Turl replied: “Don't make me laugh. Get on before I bust your fool head.”

Mcallister stepped onto the boardwalk and entered the small adobe that was the marshal's office and jail. The deputy, a man from the same mould as the marshal, tall, cold and a dab hand with a gun, looked up from a dime novel he was reading. This was Trump Shatloe from Kansas. Mcallister knew him.

“Howdy, Trump,” he said.

Shatloe pursed his lips.

“My, my,” he said softly. “I heard gunfire. Don't tell me it was you, Mack.”

“Don't call me Mack, you cheap Kansas sonovabitch or I'll ram your black teeth down your chicken throat.”

As Shatloe got to his feet, the marshal threw the Remington down on the table and said: “Cool off, Trump. You don't have to kill this punk. The town'll do that for you. There's goin' to be a hangin'. He just killed Clover and Franchon.”

The deputy looked his disbelief.

“Jeez,” he said. He was awed. He knew McAllister's reputation, but now he realised he was in the presence of a master.

The deputy stared so long at Mcallister that the marshal said: “Wa-al, can you put him in a cell all on your lonesome or do I have to swear in a posse to help?”

Shatloe started and got a-hold of himself.

“Sure, sure, marshal, right now.” He set his jaw and looked tough, heaved a Colt's gun from leather and motioned Mcallister to the rear of the office in the direction of the cells. “Inside, bum.”

Mcallister raised his eyebrows and stepped past him. As he did so Shatloe shoved him and said: “Hurry it up.”

The prisoner stopped and turned slowly.

“Every time you do that,” he said softly, “you're piling up more grief for yourself.”

Shatloe looked like he would explode. “Why, you—!” He lifted the gun and would have used it if Turl hadn't said sharply: “Quit foolin' around, Trump, and git him under lock and key.”

“It ain't safe to leave me alone with him,” Trump growled. “I'll do him a mischief.”

“Give you a buck if I weep,” the marshal said.

A minute later, the grilled door clanged to behind Mcallister and he sat on the plank-wood bunk and watched his two guardians laughing together in their office. He told himself that he surely hated a jail when it adjoined the office as this one did. He also told himself that those two-bit lawmen would be pretty damned sorry they ever put Rem Mcallister behind bars. He considered offering them some of the gold and it looked like a good idea, but before he could call to them and come and talk, he thought:
Aw, to hell with it, I ain't crawling to those two punks
.

He lay down. The rest was necessary and he wanted to think. After a while he heard the street door open and slam shut. When he looked into the office, only Shatloe was there. A six-shooter lay on the desk and a shot-gun was propped by his side. Mcallister bet they were both loaded. He knew he had to break out of here and soon, before old Carmody heard about the killings. He knew also that he was hurt and tired to the bone. The fight had drained almost the last of his strength.

He Must have dozed.

The abrupt opening of the street door woke him. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, suppressed a groan as the wound knifed pain through him and saw that the marshal had entered the office. He looked considerably agitated.