Kill McAllister (3 page)

One of the men didn't like it right off. He legged it down the slope of the ridge toward the two horses that stood hitched to some brush there. McAllister shot him through the legs. He fell, yelling.

The other fellow fired a couple more shots, then ran over the crest of the ridge and tried to find cover on the other side. McAllister got to his feet, jumped to the top of the ridge, spotted his man and fired. The fellow dropped his rifle, sank to his knees and seemed to be weeping.

McAllister bawled out: “Get over the ridge and join your partner.”

“I'm hit an' I can't walk,” the man shouted back.

McAllister told him: “Walk or you won't hurt no more, you'll be dead.”

The man stood up and started to walk with remarkable agility. He climbed over the ridge and joined his companion. McAllister whistled up the canelo and it came trotting. With the animal walking by his side like a trained dog, McAllister went slowly up to the two men, keeping his rifle on them the whole time.

The first man he had shot was nursing a wounded leg. He was a shortish, square-cut man, dressed in rough clothes and heavy knee-boots. He could have been anything, but McAllister was sure that he hadn't done much hard work in his life. The other man was young and with a bony face, extraordinarily pale skin stretched over large bones, a fair sprouting beard of a week old and pale, almost pink eyes. McAllister knew the kind – shiftless, they had thought they had lain in wait for some raw Texas farm-boys turned cowhands. A few shots and they would have run. This was no great triumph for McAllister: he had no more than bested a couple of saloon layabouts. They were both hurt and they both looked scared. They eyed him like men sentenced to death.

McAllister said: “I ought to kill you two.”

The squat man's lips trembled. “Mister, you got us wrong. We thought you was somebody else. I swear it.”

“You raid the Struthers' herd a few nights back?” McAllister asked.

The pale man said: “We never raided no herd, mister.”

“Why'd you jump me?”

The squat man repeated: “We thought you was somebody else.”

“Where you from?”

The squat man thought out his lie. “We're farming east of here.”

McAllister said: “You never farmed in your lives. Now, I'll have the name of the man that came into our camp and said he'd cut our cows.”

The pale man said: “I don't know no man.”

McAllister grinned a little.

“Listen, Jayhawker, I was reared with the Indians. I'm a real Indian in my ways. You tell me what I want to know or I'll carve you so your mother won't know you.”

The two men looked at each other. They appeared to be sicker by the minute.

“See here,” the squat man said, “we're both hurt bad. If somethin' ain't done pretty quick, we like to bleed to death.”

“That brings tears to my eyes,” McAllister told them. “Now, you can tell me the name of the man who bossed you that night an' you can patch each other up.”

They looked at each other to see who would talk first.

“You,” said McAllister jerking his head at the pale man.

The fellow looked startled.

“They'll kill me if I talk,” he said.

“You'll bleed to death right here if'n you don't.”

The man swallowed a couple of times. He looked at his leg and the blood seeping from over the top of one boot. He mumbled something.

“Speak up,” McAllister told him.

“Forster,” he almost shouted. “Link Forster.”

“Where's he from?”

“All over.”

“Where's he headed with the cattle?”

“We don't neither of us know.”

“That's the truth, mister,” the squat man put in.

McAllister said: “I'm ridin' on an' I'm takin' your horses with me. I'll leave 'em down the trail a ways. When you've patched each other up, you can walk to 'em.”

“My Gawd,” the pale man said, “you're an Injun all right.”

“Ain't I?” said McAllister. He picked up the men's rifles and fixed them on the canelo's saddle. They didn't appear to have any sidearms. He stepped into the saddle and said: “I don't want to ever meet up with you two again. Hear?”

They nodded. He rode over to their horses, untied them from the saddle and headed north without another backward glance. He went two or three miles before he let the horses go. The rifles he slung into some brush. Then he followed along the trail of the northing cattle. He reckoned the two men had lied about their leader's name, but it might be the truth and might help. To him it looked like the cows were heading straight for Combville. Forster, or whatever his name was, was fixing for a quick sale. If he did have five hundred head with him, this was going to be a profitable trip for him.

The squat man said: “I'm shot in the guts. You only got it in the leg. You get to the Lineman place, fork a horse and get after Link pretty damn quick.”

The pale man whined.

“Jesus God, I'm too bad hurt. I can't walk, I can't make no ride.”

The squat man reached into his shirt and brought out a sharpbladed knife.

“You do like I say, Sol. An' what's more, you get Lineman to send his wagon along for me.”

“Now, see here . . .” Sol began.

“Get movin' or I'll slit your gizzard for you, you yeller son-of-a-bitch.”

The pale man got to his feet without another word. He knew Patmore and he knew if he didn't get moving he'd get his throat cut now. He knew that if he didn't get to the Lineman place he'd get his throat cut later. He started walking, favoring his right leg considerably.

It took him a long time to reach the soddy at which McAllister had stopped; he stopped several times to rest on the way and the pain in his leg was so bad that several times he thought he'd faint. But he made the farm and found Lineman there. From the farmer he got a shock of liquor and a saddleless horse. Lineman also promised to pick the squat man up in his wagon. Sol rode out and, in spite of the pain in his leg, hit a good speed. He stopped long enough to tell the squat man that help was on the way and the squat man only demanded to know what took him so long. He turned and rode on, circling well out into the country to get around McAllister. After dark, he reached another farm, which was in a more populous district and borrowed another horse. Here he was also able to obtain a saddle and have a slightly more comfortable ride. He tried to make the farmer ride on for him, but the man refused. By this time, Sol was feeling nearly dead from the effects of the wound, but he stayed in the saddle. Fear kept him there,
fear of what would happen if he failed.

He rode into Combville just as dawn broke over the Kansas plains. He rode into the livery and woke the old man who worked it for the owner. When he had lowered himself gingerly from the horse, he said: “Where's Link?”

“At the Drovers.”

The Drovers, thought Sol, that meant that Link was in the money. He must have got rid of the cows already. He must have moved some. The horse was bushed, but he found that he could not walk easily on his injured leg, so he climbed onto the animal's back again and walked it out onto the street. Five minutes later he was getting down outside the hotel. There was a man asleep behind the desk in the lobby. He cursed when Sol woke him.

“Which room's Link Forster in?”

The man told him to get the hell out of there and come back at a civilised hour. Sol wished he had a gun with him, he'd get some respect when he spoke to a man.

“I gotta find Link,” he said. “Please, mister, which room is he in?”

The man told him what he could do with himself.

Sol said: “If you don't tell me the number of his room, I'll wake every man in the house finding out.”

The thought of that seemed to fill the clerk with horror. Hastily, he said: “Number two. Front.”

Sol limped up the stairs, found No. 2 and tried the door. He couldn't open it, so he knocked loudly. Voices from adjoining rooms bawled for him to shut his noise. From inside No. 2 a man bellowed: “Who the hell's this?”

“It's me, Link.”

“Who's me?”

“Sol Brown.”

Somebody padded across the floor, there came the sound of a chair being removed from beneath the handle and the door opened. A big golden-haired, bearded man appeared. He caught hold of Sol and dragged him into the room. Sol cried out as the sudden movement jarred his leg. The big man stared down at it.

“What happened to you?”

“Some bastard shot me.”

The big man frowned.

“What happened?”

“Me an' Charlie watched your back trail like you said. We was there almost two days, I guess, when along comes this feller.”

“What feller?”

“Big dark guy. A Texas man. Leastways, he rid a Texas rig and he spoke kinda like one.”

“Name?”

“We wasn't in no position to ask his name. He shot me in the leg and he shot Charlie right through his guts. Charlie's back at Lineman's place. I come on here. I'm shot near to death, Link, but I come on to bring you the word.”

The big man walked to the bed, sat on it and started pulling on his boots. He had obviously been sleeping on the bed wearing his shirt and pants. Sol found a chair and sank into it.

“You pair of bumblin' fools,” the big man said. “Just one man an' you can't cut down on him.”

“We tried, Link. Christ, I never seen a man move like it. We shot at him an' he jest come straight at us. I thought when you shot lead at a man he was natcherly scared. But not this one. He jest come for us like a bat outa hell an' before we knowed what happened we was both down.”

The big man looked at him coldly. He got up and stamped his feet firmly into his boots, put on a necktie, buckled on a gun, shrugged himself into a jacket and clapped a broadbrimmed dark hat on his head.

“Get yourself down to the doc's and get that leg patched up. Then you get out to the camp and stay there. I don't want you around town. Got any money?”

“Not so's you'd notice.”

Forster took a coin from his pocket and tossed it to the wounded man. Sol caught it deftly. Forster reached the door, opened and turned.

“Sol,” he said softly, “did this feller make you talk?”

Sol started and gulped.

“Why, Link, you know me.”

“That's what's troublin' me. Did you talk?”

“No, sir.”

“Charlie?”

“He'd rather die.”

“You didn't give this feller my name.?”

“No, Link, I swear it.”

“Well, I'll find out if you're lyin'. You know that, don't you?”

“I know it.”

“Did you recognise this feller as one of Boss Harding's men?”

“I never seen him before.”

Forster went out, slamming the door behind him. He went down the stairs two at a time, went through the lobby past the sleepy clerk and out onto the street. Here, he turned right and headed for the livery. Across the way, he sighted the marshal. The sight of the man gave him a turn. He raised a hand in greeting and hurried on. He would rather have reached the livery unnoticed.

When he reached the livery, the old man was dozing on an upturned bucket.

“Chips,” Forster said, “get the bay out for me an' hurry.” The old man rose and fetched the horse. Forster eyed the animal with pleasure. He liked quality in all things and the animal had it. The old man toted the saddle and bridle out and Forster put them on himself. The bay was mettlesome and didn't like anybody but its owner to handle him. In short time, Forster was in the saddle and riding out through the town. He saw the marshal watching him as he went and cursed the fact. But things were too urgent to worry about a detail like that.

It was a short ride down to the pens of Latimer and Holst, but in that time he managed to shove some pretty hot and confused thoughts through his mind. He was capable of cool thinking, but he was an impetuous and emotional man. The thought of this stranger gunning down two of his men had put him slightly off-balance coming as it did now that everything seemed to be breaking in his favor at last. For so long since the war he had tried to make his stake and now it was almost in his hands. He knew now that he had been crazy to bring that many cows to Combville, but the deal with Holst had been too good to miss. The number of men who bought and shipped cattle who would handle that much rustled stuff were limited. Holst was paying cheap, but he was paying cash and that was what Forster wanted more than anything. He wanted it not only for the deals he had in hand, but for his self-respect. He was never meant to be a pauper.

As he neared Holst's pens, he couldn't see a soul in sight and the thought reached him that Holst might be back at his hotel. Panic hit him.

He halted his horse and looked around. Over to his left an engine was shunting a line of cattletrucks alongside the pens. The glow of the fire warmed the cold early morning light. He turned his horse that way and rode alongside the tracks. The bay didn't like it and tried to balk, but he urged it on by using the spurs. There was a bunch of men in conversation near the locomotive. They looked like punchers and railroadmen, but when he got
close he saw that Holst was among them. He reached them and they turned.

“Holst,” he said, “a word with you.”

The urgency in his voice brought the man to his side. Forster slipped from the saddle.

“What's wrong?” Holst demanded. He was a bluff Ohio man who was making fast money in the cattle trade. His reputation was bad, but he didn't let that bother him, for all that interested him was to make money and the speed at which he made it.

“Maybe nothin',” Forster said, trying to get a hold on himself. “I can't go into details now, there's no time. But how quick can you ship those cows out?”

“How quick? Well, I can get them aboard tomorrow.”