Gunsmoke for McAllister (7 page)

The sheriff thought about that and said: ‘You're right.' He walked to the bureau and lifted a quirt from its top. He was smiling. He came to McAllister and hit him backhanded with the buttend of the quirt across his face. McAllister tried to get away from the blow, but the two men holding him were strong and he was weak. The sheriff laughed.

‘You got blood all over you,' he said. ‘You look a mess.'

He hit him again and McAllister gritted his teeth in pain and rage.

But the quirt wasn't good enough. The sheriff wanted flesh on flesh. He balled his fist again and hit McAllister in the belly, doubling him, then he brought up his knee and smashed it into his face.

The sheriff said: ‘I think he wants to lie down. Put him down, Rich.'

Rich released his grip on McAllister and hit him in the side of the face, knocking him out of the grip of the other man. He staggered across the room, hit the wall and fell. They kicked him two or three times while he lay there. They seemed to like doing it.

The sheriff said: ‘We'll stop there till he's stronger. We'll get some work out of him before we kill him.'

‘I'll do it,' Rich said. ‘I'll gut shoot him and watch him die slow. I ain't forgot what he done to me.'

McAllister lay there feeling as if an irate mustang had trodden his ribs through; his head felt as if it had exploded and his eyes wouldn't focus. The nicest thing he could think of to do was lie down and die.

‘Get up,' the sheriff said. ‘On your feet, McAllister.'

Two men grasped him by his arms and hauled him to his feet. His legs were like water under him. It was as if every limb had been disjointed. When they let him go, he sagged and fell. The sound of him hitting the plank floor was like thunder. It made them laugh. He rolled onto his back and looked up at them, trying to
focus and not doing too well.

The sheriff kicked him.

‘On your feet.'

McAllister thought that if they kicked him much more, he would die. So he fought to get to his feet. After a fight, he got onto all fours. The girl's feet came within sight and he raised his eyes to hers. Did he see pity there? He tried to rise completely and fell to his knees in front of her. She said something harshly in Spanish and spat in his face. That got another laugh. He wiped the spittle from his face with the back of his hand and heaved air into his tortured lungs. Then he started the fight to get up again. When he finally made it and stood there swaying, the sheriff said: ‘Get him to work.'

Rich laughed and said: ‘We won't get much work from him tonight.'

‘Give him a taste of the whip,' the sheriff ordered. ‘Nothing like that to bring a man around.'

Somebody pushed him toward the door, he took one pace and started to go down. He grasped the jamb of the door, his grip failed and he went down again. The sheriff laid the quirt across him and he struggled to rise again.

I'll kill him
, McAllister promised himself.
Before I'm done, I'll put a bullet between his eyes.

He crawled outside and made the fight to his feet again. The cool night air hit him and it was as sweet as wine. There were men all around him, a hand or a gun nudged him forward; he walked on legs that threatened to fold at any minute toward the dim light at the mouth of the mine-shaft. He fell twice on the way and twice they kicked him to his feet again.

As they approached the mine shaft a group of men in chains were bringing out another truck-load of ore. Their dim pale faces were turned toward him in dull curiosity. He tried to give them a nonchalant wave and a grin, but his face was frozen and his arm hung like lead at his side.

They entered the tunnel and started along it. He tripped on the track, reeled blindly against the side of the tunnel, the whip bit at him, he felt it cut the flesh of his face. Hate and pain were mixed in a kind of crazy fury within him. Then the light was bright and hurting his eyes. They halted and he heard the sheriff say: ‘Here's a friend of yours come to join you, Spur.'

He heard an exclamation, chains clinked and a man stood before him.

‘My God, Rem.'

That was old Sam, all right. Through mashed lips, he said: ‘Howdy, Sam.'

Sam seemed to be trying to say something he couldn't get out.

The sheriff said: ‘Get some irons on this man and get him to work. An' see he Goddamn works. Sweat him.'

An armed guard came and caught Sam by the arm, whirling him away and telling him to get on with his work. Sam went without a curse or a backward glance.

McAllister thought:
They knocked the sand out of Sam. When I knew him he'd of kicked that sonovabitch's teeth in.

They brought some rattling chains and fastened them to McAllister's wrists and ankles. He fought them feebly and to no purpose. He was knocked down and kicked to his feet again. Numbed, he moved to obey the orders they gave him. He joined Sam, a shovel in his hands and as he heaved a load of ore into a waiting truck, his ribs felt as if they were driving through his lungs. He wondered then if he was going to die.

He didn't know how long he worked there beside a Sam who was silent except for some soft curses and a groan or two, but after a while he must have passed out. The ground came up and hit him and he came to with Sam forcing some tepid water between his lips. The sheriff was no longer there, but the guards were and they didn't allow any coddling. Sam was whipped away from McAllister and the big man was kicked to his feet again. Sam said something about if he went on like this he'd die, but the guards laughed. Who cared? There were plenty more where he came from and he had aroused the particular dislike of the sheriff.

So they went back to working again and the minutes dragged into hours. One of the workers dropped unconscious and, as kicking would not revive him, he was dragged out into the night and left there. When around dawn the prisoners were marched away from the face down the tunnel, the man was still lying there at the mouth of the cave. McAllister thought he looked dead.

Sam at his side said: ‘Another chore for us. Diggin' his grave.'

They were marched into the center of the basin and halted. Each man lay down on the ground. McAllister dropped where he was. His sweat-soaked body shivered in the cold dawn air. He didn't care. He didn't speak, but in seconds had dropped into a deep sleep, the only cure, as he knew that would be offered to his battered body.

He awoke to find the sun high overhead. His tongue seemed to
fill his mouth and his head ached unbearably. When he moved he found that his body was terribly stiff, but the stiffness was nothing beside the pain of his injuries. He looked around him. Some half-dozen men were scattered about on the hard and dusty ground, all asleep, some of them stirring restlessly and groaning. Sam lay on his back with his mouth open. He was snoring noisily. McAllister realised that none of them were going to be offered any shelter from the sun. He would have given a hundred dollars for a single drink of water.

He looked beyond the men and saw the guard in the shade of the cabin roof, sitting at his ease, smoking.

Each sleeping man had a canteen slung over his shoulder. For a while, McAllister toyed with the idea of asking Sam for a drink, but he couldn't bring himself to wake the man. Instead, he set about making an inventory of his injuries.

The flesh on his right temple had been split open by a boot–toe; the sheriff's quirt had split his lip and torn one cheek. The blood was dry on his skin. His right arm was badly bruised where he had been kicked and seemed to have turned black from shoulder to wrist. All his ribs felt as if they had been caved in, but when he carefully examined them he found, much to his surprise, that none of them were broken. That was something of a relief. His left knee which had received several kicks was badly swollen. His pants were torn on his right thigh and beneath the tear the flesh showed that it had been lacerated. He reckoned he'd live, though for some time living was going to be a painful experience.

This wasn't the time, he told himself, to dwell on the things that were against him. He had to find the things that were for him. He had to find a way out of here. Getting away was going to be the most difficult thing he had ever faced. There were the chains to start with. The steel collars around his legs and ankles had already worked some unpleasant looking sores where they had rubbed on the flesh. Before they had fastened his ankles, the guards had removed his boots. A man couldn't get far without boots in this country.

But he and Sam would get away, of that he was sure. But how?

He ranged his eyes around the basin, noting once again the high steep walls. High on one of them, he could see a guard with a rifle. He didn't doubt that the man was not only watching the prisoners, but was keeping an eye peeled for Indians. That might be one of the reasons why the sheriff used prisoners to work the gold in this country. He would need all the men who he could muster to fight
Indians. The sheriff had it all worked out. While the Indian scare was on, white men in large numbers would not be coming into this country. The mere presence of the armed men in this place would keep the Indians on tenterhooks.

Sam woke.

He looked at McAllister as if he were surprised to see him. There was a sort of dazed look in his eyes.

‘Rem.'

‘Can you spare a man a drink.' Without a word, Sam unslung the canteen and handed it to McAllister. ‘How long does this have to last?'

‘Water's precious here. Once a day. Twice if you're lucky.'

McAllister took one mouthful, put the stopper back and handed the canteen to his friend. He left the tepid water in his mouth for several minutes and slowly swallowed it. He could have drunk the Pecos dry.

They talked. McAllister told Sam what had happened to him since he had received Sam's letter in El Paso. Sam told his story. He had written to McAllister because he had located silver in the hills. No, not here; about five miles to the east. While prospecting through the hills he had stumbled on this place by accident. Rawley and his men had come on him and taken him. Rawley? McAllister asked. Who was he? That was the sheriff's name. Sam didn't have any idea how long this mine had been here, but he reckoned it had been opened up after the Gato scare was at its height. He'd heard that a prospector had found it and had gone to Rawley for a stake. Rawley had killed him and moved in with his associates.

‘What I can't make out,' McAllister said, ‘is how he gets away with it. They must know down in Euly this is goin' on.'

‘Not a whisper so far. At least that's the way it seems. They've made no more than one shipment of gold. They took a pack train right through the sierra into New Mexico and claimed they'd found the gold in New Mexico. They're gettin' ready for one more shipment, so I've heard.'

‘Then what happens?'

‘They kill us all.'

The words hung between them in the silence. It didn't seem possible, but McAllister didn't doubt that it was true. He had experienced Rawley at work.

‘The girl,' he said. ‘When I saw her in the cage I thought she was one of us.'

Sam smiled.

‘That's Carlita. She's my girl.'

McAllister didn't know what to say. He had seen the girl with the sheriff. She had spit in his face.

‘You know she's here?' he asked.

Sam said: ‘Sure. She sent word by a cousin of hers, she'd come.' McAllister looked away and Sam added: ‘I know what you're thinkin'. You're wrong. When we go out of here, she comes with us.'

McAllister didn't argue, but he had other ideas.

He said instead: ‘I have a horse not far off. He's tied. If we don't get away soon, maybe he'll get himself free and head for water. We need a horse.'

Sam said: ‘Rem, you're ail beat up. I ain't no stronger'n a dogie. We couldn't run a mile.'

‘What the hell's gotten into you, man?' McAllister demanded. ‘I didn't never hear you talk this way before.'

Sam said: ‘Maybe I've been hit once too much.'

‘Sam,' McAllister said, ‘I come all this way for you an' I ain't goin' without you. Git that into your fool head.'

There was a hopeless look on Sam's face.

‘It sounds wonderful,' he said. ‘I dream of havin' a gun and shootin' my way outa here. I see Rawley's face in front of me and I empty a gun into it.'

McAllister laughed.

‘That bastard's mine,' he said and meant it.

Sam wasn't paying him any attention. He was looking north toward the larger of the two cabins. The girl stood at the door, her wide skirt moving in the light breeze. She looked toward them.

‘Good girl,' he said softly. ‘I even thought about marryin' her.'

‘A Mex?'

‘Look who's talkin'.'

McAllister took a good look at Sam and couldn't believe that this was the same man he had ridden with. He looked as if he hadn't eaten a good meal in months. His ribs showed through and his skin was burned almost black. His fair beard hung ragged from his jaw and in his eyes was a faraway dazed look. When he remembered the things he had seen Sam do, it didn't seem possible. Well, he thought, he must get out of here before they did the same thing to him. If they could do it to a man like Sam they could do it to him. He had always rated Sam as his superior. He could ride, fight, drink and womanize like no man he had ever
known. And now he was reduced to this – a shadow.

A man shouted. McAllister turned his head. The guard to the south was on his feet, shouting and gesticulating.

Sam said: ‘Waterin' time. They water us like hosses, then they give us what they laughin'ly call bait.'

He called to the others. Some raised their heads and McAllister thought he had never seen men more hopeless. None of their eyes showed the slightest hope. Slowly, they heaved themselves to their feet. All except one man. He was a puny-looking Anglo, his flesh burned and purple from the sun.