McAllister Makes War (13 page)

“I couldn't agree with you more,” Penshurst said.

They smoked cigars together. Penshurst told them tales from his early years. Drummond seemed to find them interesting and highly entertaining. Penshurst seemed to blossom. They stayed late and left with regret. When he closed the door behind them, Drummond went into the kitchen where the woman was sewing at the table.

“We own the Golden Fleece,” he said.

“How much did it cost?”

“I'll tell you that when I know for sure,” he told her.

* * *

McAllister awoke. Pat had lit the lamps in the office. There was a pump at the rear of the building and McAllister put his head under that for a few minutes. He felt a little better then. He fetched food from the restaurant for the prisoners and the law. He ate in the office himself. The Texas cowhand objected to being in the same cell as Marve Little. McAllister told him there was no other in town and if he was fussy about his cellmates he shouldn't wear a gun in a town with only one cell. Marve was quiet.

“Tomorrow,” McAllister said. “We'll talk, Marve. Or you'll talk.”

“We don't have nothin' to talk about,” Marve growled. “Me an' Frank ... you reckon we gunned down Malloy because he killed our brother. You prove it.”

“I ain't interested. I can't prove that without much trouble. I want you for the bank robbery.”

Marve looked a little surprised.

“You can't tie me in with that.”

“I don't have to tie you in with anythin', if you talk. I want the man behind the bank raid. Give me that an' I could forget an awful lot. Frank's dead. I reckon that could make the Malloy balance right.”

Carson objected explosively -

“I'll have something to say about that.”

McAllister told him: “You keep outa this. You're sick. I'm actin' marshal.”

“Then what the hell am I doin' here?”

“Restin'.”

Marve said: “If I had somethin' to tell you, I'd talk. But I don't have. You can use the boot on me an' it wouldn't make no difference.”

“We'll come to that tomorrow,” McAllister said. He turned back into the office “Pat, if you can crawl to the door, drop the bar behind me. I'm goin' out. Maybe I'll be out all night.”

“Where you goin'?” Carson wanted to know.

“I'm goin' to catch a rat,” McAllister told him and walked out of the office.

It was dark on the street; a few lamps burned here and there; the saloons were going full swing. There was a lot of noise, shouting and music. There was little wheeled traffic, but there were plenty of people on foot. McAllister walked down Main and reached the creek. Here he turned along the footpath, threaded his way through the thick brush and came up eventually south of town. Working his way through the brush, he came to the rear of the Golden Fleece. There was no mistaking the place: lights were on and there was plenty of noise. Somebody was punishing an out-of-tune piano and several men were singing discordantly. McAllister stayed in the cover of the brush for a short while. A man came out of the rear door of the saloon and threw something made of glass amongst the trash in the empty ground. He hawked and spat, silhouetted starkly against the light from the door, stretched, yawned and walked back in, slamming the door behind him. McAllister broke cover, drifted through the darkness and trash, ducked down and slid himself under the loading platform. He took some tobacco from his pocket and stuffed it in his cheek. There was a long wait ahead of him, maybe.

He was there a couple of hours before he heard anything. During that time, a cat came and rubbed itself against him and a dog sniffed him out. The cat fled from the dog, the dog fled from McAllister when the man showed hostility.

The sound that aroused him was a horse walking roughly from the direction from which he had come himself. Some twenty yards in front of him was the tall and spreading form of a tree. The sound of the horse seemed to stop at the foot of this. McAllister strained his eyes, but he could only dimly make out the form of the man. There was a pause of a few moments, during which McAllister guessed the man was tying the horse. Then the man moved away, going west. Quickly, he was lost in the darkness. Once he walked into a shaft of light from a window, but the moment of revelation was too brief for McAllister to recognise the man.

All was quiet, except for the row in the saloon. Nothing stirred in the backlots. Thirty minutes passed. A door opened above
McAllister. It closed. Silence. Then bootheels sounded on the planks above him. The man walked to the edge of the platform right above McAllister, jumped to the ground and walked toward the horse. He walked like a man laden, kicking his way through the trash. He reached the horse and McAllister interpreted the sounds of that of a man loading a horse. This was followed by the creak of leather as the man mounted.

McAllister heaved himself from under the loading platform and drew the Remington. The rider and horse moved away from the tree. Lamplight from the buildings touched them faintly.

McAllister called out: “Hold it right there, Fred, or I'll blast you.”

The horse came to a standstill. The saddle creaked as the man turned.

Fred Darcy said calmly: “Damn you, McAllister - I thought I was in the clear.”

McAllister's mind told him:
He's too calm. He's going to try something.
His muscles and nerves tautened for a quick shot.

A faint sound came from behind him. He started to turn. Something hit him hard on the base of the skull. The ground leaped up violently and struck him in the face. He fought to rise, to roll, but another blow came and pitched him onto his face'

* * *

Will Drummond walked toward Fred Darcy.

“It's all right, Fred,” he said quietly. “I've settled McAllister.”

Darcy said: “Thanks, Drummond. That's real neighbourly of you.”

Drummond came up and kept the nervous horse still by holding onto the bridle.

“I'll say goodbye again,” he said. “The road's clear all the way to California now. I'd best move on before the law awakes.” He laughed.

“Luck to you,” Darcy said.

“There's just one other thing, Fred, before you go,” Drummond said.

“What's that?”

“This.”

Drummond shot the pocket revolver out at armslength, cocked and fired.

Darcy fell back over the cantle, seemed to stay for a moment on the rump of the horse and fell to the ground almost at Drummond's feet. Drummond released the suddenly panic-stricken horse now and it jumped forward into the brush.
Drummond thrust the gun away and hastily went through the pockets of the dead man, finding what he wanted in the inside pocket of the jacket. He put these in his own pocket and got to his feet, turning and running as fast as he could go into the brush. He ran west, the brush tearing at his clothes until he reckoned that he was opposite his own street. Then he turned down an alleyway, reached the street and walked along it, hoping that his disheveled appearance would pass muster in the poor light. He let himself into his kitchen. The woman was still there, sewing. She looked up and her expression didn't change. Did she ever show an emotion? he asked himself.

“You look like you had yourself quite a time,” she said.

“You asked me how much the Golden Fleece cost,” he said, a twisted smile marking his unnaturally pale face. “Nothing. It didn't cost us a cent.”

“Good,” she said. “I hope you don't have to pay for it later.”

“What's that supposed to mean?” he demanded, nettled.

“There's been violence.” He nodded. “There's been a deal too much lately. You could pay for it with your life.”

“And you wouldn't weep a single tear.”

“Not a single tear.”

He walked out of the room and went up to his own. He found a bottle of whiskey there and drank deeply. Killing a man always made him a little sick in the stomach. He washed carefully, got into his night clothes and got into bed. He thought that he would not be able to find sleep for hours, but he was asleep in minutes.

His last thought was that he was a pretty smart man. He hadn't been able to risk a shot on McAllister because there wouldn't have been time to kill Darcy and get away. Maybe he should have taken the extra risk and gone back and killed McAllister after. But he thought not. He had showed a good profit as it was.

McAllister was dimly aware that there were men all around him. When he opened his eyes, the light of a lamp bit into them. He could see men's boots, above them faces; he heard his name. The
world was composed of a head-splitting pain. He wanted to retch, but was ashamed to do so in front of so many men.

“Wa-al,” said one man, “he's alive for sure.”

“This one's dead,” a more distant voice shouted. “Shot plumb through the heart.”

McAllister tried to sit up. Somebody must have carved his skull with an axe.

“Who's dead?” he demanded and his voice was no more than a croak.

One of the men near him shouted: “Who is it, Jake?”

The answering shout came back: “Fred Darcy.”

The men said the name, savoring it, realising that the famous Texan gunfighter had at last met his comeuppence. They were astonished and grave.

Hands helped McAllister to his feet. He thought:
Darcy dead. Me with a split head. Some bastard's goin' to pin this on me.

“Find my gun,” he said.

The man with the lamp started to search around.

“Here it is,” said a man.

McAllister didn't put a hand for it.

“Look at it,” he said. “Smell it.” The man obeyed. “Have him check you.” Another man took the gun, smelled the muzzle, checked the loads. “Has it been fired?”

“No, sir. This gun ain't bin fired.”

“You agree with that.”

“Sure do, marshal.”

“Right, thanks.” He took the gun from them and thrust it away into the holster. He staggered a little as he walked and his head throbbed almost unbearably. He felt like he was going to fall on his face at any moment.

Another lamp burned under the tree. The young doctor was down on one knee beside the dead body of Fred Darcy. He looked up as McAllister came up.

“How do you feel?” he asked.

“Like hell,” McAllister told him.

“Well, Darcy's dead all right. Did you shoot him?”

“No,” said McAllister, “but I'd like to know the man who did. Doc, do you think you could dig the bullet out that killed him?”

The doctor cocked his head. “It's in pretty deep, but I'll get it out if it helps you at all.”

“I'm grateful.”

“You go and get some rest.”

“Marshal and deputy wounded, a murderer skulking around town and you tell me to get some rest.”

“It's what you need.”

McAllister patted the young man on the shoulder and said: “Thanks anyway,” He walked back through the men gathered at the rear of the saloon and wondered about Fred Darcy. He was lighting out all right, but he wouldn't have done that without selling the saloon. McAllister would like to know who he sold it to. Abruptly, he turned around and walked back to the dead man. The others watched him as he dropped on one knee and went through the man's pockets. Nothing.

“Did anybody ketch his horse?”

“Sure, it's over yonder.”

McAllister walked over to the horse and searched in the saddlepockets. There were some changes of clothing and some supplies. Nothing else. He untied the bedroll and opened it. Nothing there. Fred Darcy had been a comparatively wealthy man and here he was leaving town without a cent on him, bar the loose change in his pockets. The whole thing smelled.

Slowly, he walked back to the office, knocked and called and after a fairly long delay the door was opened. Pat O'Doran said: “The wanderer returns.” McAllister stepped into the lamplight and the Irishman said: “Jesus!. What in the holy name happened to youse?”

“I was clobbered. But good.”

Pat said: “I have the very cure for that right here.”

He found the whiskey bottle and handed it to McAllister, who took a good pull and felt a bit better. He took another pull and felt better still.

Five minutes later the mayor appeared fluffing and huffing, telling McAllister that things looked bad for him and he didn't know what view the judge was going to take of the affair. Things seemed to have gone from bad to worse since Malloy had been killed. McAllister told him that if he wasn't satisfied with what he was doing, he had better get himself another marshal. The mayor took a drink and changed his tone a little. He was a very worried man. He didn't want any more killings in his town. Already the eastern newspapers were saying bad things about his town.

The mayor departed and the young doctor arrived. He had dug the bullet out of Darcy. He handed it to McAllister who inspected it and passed it on to Carson. The marshal pursed his lips and said: “Thirty-eight.”

“That let's me out,” McAllister said. The doctor picked up his case and went. His head aching like hell, his temper short, McAllister spent an hour with Marve trying to make him talk, trying every angle he knew, but he didn't get anywhere. He decided to sleep and did so.

He awoke at dawn, took a wash, shaved and felt a little more human, but his head still ached like a fury. He inspected his wounded – Pat said he felt fine, just fine and he'd be skipping in a couple of days. McAllister walked over to the restaurant and fetched breakfast from the little Mexican girl for his wounded and the prisoners. After he had eaten well himself – a plate of ham and three eggs washed down with a pot of coffee. He felt even better then. He carried the tray back to the office and watched the others eat. The Texas cowhand was looking chastened and Marve was sullen.

“Feel like talkin', Marve?” McAllister asked.

“Go to hell.”