Blood on Mcallister

Matt Chisholm

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Thirteen

Fourteen

It was spring. The herds were starting to trail slowly north from Texas, the Indian ponies were picking up strength from the new spring grass so that their owners could hunt the buffalo or raid the horse-herds of the whiteman. The prairie dogs barked from their ubiquitous towns, birds sang and the plains were flushed with the blooms of spring flowers.

The big man rode easily, moving to the motion of the fine California horse. Man and beast were honed down to muscle and bone after a hard winter on the prairie. McAllister had scouted for the army through the hard months, negotiated for endless hours with the chiefs of the Cheyenne led by Many Horses, interpreting for the army, trying to make each side see the rights of the other. This had been after the bloodiest fighting he had ever experienced. He had suffered capture and torture at the hands of the Indians and thought never to see another spring again. But here he was now, riding free, his pay in his pocket, a good horse under him and all the world before him. There was something in the air that reached to him, made him glad to be alive.

It was time, he told himself, that he had him some fun. While the money lasted he would enjoy the whiskey and the women, relax, have no trouble. Above all, he wanted no trouble. Which was a laugh, because trouble was attracted to him like steel to a magnet. But a man could dream, couldn't he?

The prairie seemed to roll north to eternity, broken by the smudge on the horizon that was the town, lying astride the east to west railroad, destination of the thousands of Texas longhorns that would shortly be coming up the trail. One town was as good as another—this one would do till he got the burrs out of his wool and the dust from his throat. Then he reckoned he'd move on and visit with the Rigbys, ranching not forty miles from here. That would be nice—he'd jaw with Jim over a jug, get some good home cooking under his belt and dandle little Pat on his knee.

He became aware of a flutter of movement slightly to his right and he was touched by the caution that was second nature to him. He stopped the canelo and searched the terrain with his sharp eyes. To his right and stretching a quarter mile to the north was a motte of trees and, nearer to him, a jumble of rock. It was among this that he had seen the movement.

He kneed the horse into motion and went almost silently on the grass into the shadow of the nearest tree. He stayed still for perhaps a minute before his eye caught the movement again. A man's head and shoulders came into view. Then another. Both had their backs to McAllister and were staring into the north. McAllister looked beyond them and saw movement on the prairie, movement which at first he could not interpret and which puzzled him. But, as the minutes passed, he made it out to be a man running.

Reaching back into a saddle-pocket he took out his glasses and put them on the runner. It was real funny. It looked like the fellow was dressed in his longjohns. He ran easily with the long distance-consuming stride of the experienced runner, pacing easily, his breath coming without effort. If he kept on in the same direction he would shortly pass the rocks behind which the two men were hidden.

Even as McAllister watched he saw beyond and to the north of this man a second figure, garbed in approximately the same manner, also running. Then, lifting the glasses a mite, he saw another and another figure running in the same direction. There were more. Altogether, there were a dozen men, half dressed and racing for all their worth over the prairie.

A race.

Interest flickered in McAllister. The town had organised a foot-race. He could imagine the boys in the saloon making bets and wished he had been there to do the same.

The men in the rocks, seeing the runners coming closer, bobbed down out of sight.

It didn't need much imagination to see that pretty soon something was going to happen to somebody. And that something was not going to be pleasant. Men nobbled horses in horse-races—why shouldn't they nobble men in footraces?

The big man swung down from the saddle, tied the canelo and went forward softly on foot, using the trees and rocks as cover. As he drew near to the place where the men were hiding, he saw that he had been mistaken and there were three, not two, men hiding there. In the hand of one of them was a large club. There was now no doubt in McAllister's mind about their intentions.

He smiled unpleasantly to himself and his dark face looked rather like that of a hungry wolf.

He got down on hands and knees and Indianed forward.

The silence was so complete that he could hear the pad-pad of the approaching runner's feet. One of the men in the rocks raised himself slightly and, as the runner came opposite the rocks, sprang forward.

McAllister leapt to his feet, gave a cry of warning and launched himself forward with a speed that would have done credit to an attacking cougar. He glimpsed the runner's face as the man turned to look in the direction of the cry, showing sudden alarm. He turned to resist his assailant and then McAllister saw no more because the two men in the rocks had turned to meet him. The first man was at a distinct disadvantage and though he was every bit as big as McAllister and looked to be as strong, McAllister was on him before he knew what was coming. What came was a swinging fist to his face that belted him back into the rocks. He tripped and went down heavily.

McAllister turned his attention to the second man, blood rising with action and the knuckles of his right hand smarting from the blow. This man was armed with the club which he swung with speed and strength at McAllister's head. The big man sidestepped the blow, came in under it as it was raised for a second strike and drove his head hard into the man's by no means slim belly, taking him violently backward and depositing him on the ground. The force of the attack delivered McAllister on top of him and they lay for a moment, swinging wildly at each other, panting and gasping with the exertion. When at last McAllister staggered to his feet, he was astonished to see that the runner had broken off his engagement with the first attacker and was running off as fast as he could go.

McAllister, having delivered the athlete safely from his
danger now found himself surrounded by three apparently tough and definitely dangerous men. No, four dangerous men, for, as the man with the club came once more into the attack and drove McAllister out of the rocks, McAllister came in the path of the second runner who stopped in his stride, swung a hard right into McAllister's face and went on. The big man landed on his back and a man jumped with both booted feet onto his belly. The result was noisy, painful and nearly finished the fight there and then, but McAllister managed, almost as a reflex action, to grasp the man by the ankles and to throw himself to one side so that the man was pitched to the ground. McAllister got to his knees and met the rush of another man, caught him around the waist, rose to his feet and pitched him over his shoulder so that he landed on the ground head first. The result was satisfactory. The man started to circle on his hands and knees making a noise like an injured cat.

At that moment, the third man kicked McAllister's legs from under him, put him on the ground and kicked him hard twice in the ribs. It dawned on McAllister that if he didn't do something pretty decisive pretty soon, he'd find himself dead.

By now, the other runners were streaming by. They watched the fight with some curiosity, but they didn't stop.

McAllister caught ahold of the ankle of the man who was kicking him, rose to his feet and turned, ripping the man from his feet and hurling him into the rocks. The sound of the man's landing gave him some satisfaction. As he stood enjoying this, a man jumped on his back, got his arms around his throat and bore him backward. Never one to argue against such persuasion, McAllister went backward as was desired, but for no more than a second. For that second the man's grasp relaxed slightly. McAllister whipped his own hands around the back of the man's head, doubled forward and hurled him over his own head. The fellow cried out in agony and looked as if his back was broken.

The man in the rocks staggered out looking as if he had been run over by a bunch of longhorns. He had as much fight left in him as a day-old calf. He seemed on the verge of tears.

McAllister didn't feel too good himself, in fact, he thought
it time that he brought the occasion to an end. He lifted his Remington .44 from its sheath and cocked it.

‘You got horses around here, boys?' he asked. One of them nodded in silence. ‘Then get on ‘em an' ride. I'd ride someplace else than town was I you. If I see you there I'm liable to nail your hides to the nearest door.'

They looked like they took the point. They all carried guns, but none of them looked as if they had any inclination to argue with the dark eye of the weapon looking at them.

Two of them helped the man on his hands and knees to his feet and they limped off through the rocks. A few minutes later McAllister heard the sound of horses going off through the trees. He watched them ride south. Walking back to the canelo, he took a long swig of water from his canteen, wiped his face, sighed from his aches and pains and stepped tiredly into the saddle. As he rode away north of the trees, he saw that the runners had rounded the south end of the timber and were now streaming back toward town.

Slowly, he followed them.

Abbotsville, Kansas. Here today and gone tomorrow. Born of the cattle boom; just another town planted flat on the face of the prairie, there because of the railroad and the good grass around it that could sustain cattle while they waited to be shipped to the east. It was the center, too, while it lasted for the few ranches in the district. Now it was booming or rather waited to boom when the cattle arrived, which would be in a month or so from now. It was putting on a new face for the occasion—signs were being freshly painted, the languid lady on the false front of the Bull's Head Saloon on Lincoln and which had shocked the respectable element of the town still had a bullet hole in each white breast from last season when a cowhand had celebrated with a six-gun. Why there should be a half-naked woman as the sign for the Bull's Head nobody had been able to say. Men were busy repairing the stock-pens ready for the Texas herds; a locomotive puffed busily on a branch-line; storekeepers were unloading supplies for the business to come through the summer, the saloons were bursting at the seams with liquor, the town marshal was cleaning his guns for action in the
near future. Business would be brisk and he would take a nice return for risking his life and limbs at five dollars an arrest.

McAllister came slowly in on the canelo, found the livery and handed the animal over to the old man in charge. He strolled to the Bull's Head which was now almost deserted, took a solitary beer and felt better. Then he downed two fast whiskeys and another beer and felt almost human. Only now did he become conscious that he looked what he was, a man who had spent most of the winter chasing Indians and being chased by them. His clothes were in tatters, his face had a two week's growth on it and his hair was down to his shoulders. If he didn't do something about it folk would take him for a colorful frontier character and that was the last thing he wanted.

He walked out of the saloon and came face to face with the marshal. Frank Deblon, an old friend. They greeted each other with slaps on the back and a handshake that would have been death to a pilgrim.

‘Come an' have a drink,' said Frank. ‘My God, how long has it been, Rem?'

‘Too long. But I'm on my way to gettin' cleaned up, Frank. Give me a coupla hours to soak an' we'll have that drink.'

‘I'll be at the fight.'

‘What fight?'