Kill McAllister (7 page)

He lay back, thinking of Forster and hating him. He never knew he had that much hate in him. He pictured himself coming up with the man, gunning him down.

All he had to do now, he thought, was keep his body stiff so that one of the broken ribs didn't penetrate a lung. If he could get his legs over the side of the bed, the battle would be won. Slowly, using his hands on the bed, he turned himself on his backside and suddenly his legs were over the edge of the bed. As his heels touched the floor, pain flooded through him and for a moment he thought he'd faint with it. But he got a grip on himself, eased himself onto his elbows swore a couple of times, fought his way through the wall of agony and was suddenly sitting on the edge of the bed. He felt terrible. Where were his clothes?

He could see his boots, worn and scuffed, but clean now, on the other side of the room. Pants and shirt were on a chair, washed and neatly folded. He looked down at himself and saw to his horror that he was stark naked. Where the hell were his long-johns? No cowman was dressed without them. He managed to drape a sheet around him with great difficulty and then, bracing every aching muscle in his body, he stood up.

The room reeled, then it turned over a couple of times. He tried to reach out for support, failed to find it and the floor came up to meet him. The fall shook the house.

The door burst open and the girl rushed in.

“Oh, no,” she cried and the next moment was on her knees on the floor beside him, concern on her face.

He looked up at her and grinned, wryly.

“If'n you'd given me that steak, I would of had the strength,” he said.

“You get back on that bed at once,” she ordered him.

“Can't get up.”

She helped him. She put her arms around him and showed herself to be very strong. Good working stock, he told himself. Together, heaving and straining, they managed to get him back on the bed and she at once covered him with the clothes. She stood and looked down at him, hands on hips, eyes mad.

“Don't you ever try that again,” she told him. “Don't you know you could kill yourself?”

“I've got to get out of here,” he said.

“In couple of weeks perhaps.”

“Now.”

“Not while I'm looking after you.”

He caught her by the wrist and forced her to sit on the bed beside him.

“I'll tell you what brought me here,” he said, “then you'll change your mind. You'll help me on my way.”

“Miss Stein said you were to stay here. She pays my wages and I'll see you stay here.”

“You hear what I have to say and you'll think differently.”

She tried to free herself, but he wouldn't let her go. He told her the whole story right from the moment that Boss Harding had hired him, to the time the Jayhawkers had ridden in shooting and how Boss had died, right up to how he had met up with Forster here in town. He didn't leave anything out, impressing the girl about how a cowman felt about getting his cows through. She cried a little over Boss and McAllister thought that showed nice feeling.

“Now,” he said, “can't you see I have to go?”

“No, I don't. That black man, Sam, will know there'll be more trouble. He'll be ready for it.”

“I wish I could believe that,” McAllister said. “But he'll need help, any road.”

“A lot of help one man can give him and that one man crippled as you are.”

There was something in what she said.

“But,” he told her, “you can see I can't stay here. I have to go to look for Sam. Christ, woman, they're my crew.”

“Don't you blaspheme at me, Mr. McAllister. I'm not one of your dancehall girls. Now, I'm going to get you some fine broth that'll help build up your strength.”

She freed herself and left McAllister swearing impotently on the bed. A short while after she was back with a bowl of broth. She started spooning it into him, but he took the bowl from her and drank the contents scalding hot and demanded more. She brought more and he downed that.

He said: “I'll be on my feet tomorrow, that's a promise,” and fell asleep. He was too deeply asleep to know that she leaned over and kissed him on the forehead.

He dreamed of being hunted in the dark on the open prairie. There wasn't anywhere to hide and every time a man came for him and he fired the bullets went right through him. He reckoned he was being hunted by ghosts. He woke in a sweat and found himself all tangled up in the bed clothes.

It was dawn and the light was beginning to come in at the window.

He assessed himself and said out loud: “I feel pretty good.”

He got his legs over the side of the bed and there was a considerable amount of pain, but it was bearable. All the sleep he had had and the nourishment he had taken the night before, had done him some good. He stood up; the room rocked a couple of times, then steadied. He smiled with satisfaction and walked gingerly across the room. Every muscle in his body ached, but it was bearable. He pulled back the curtains, hunted around and found his longjohns on the top of the bureau. It took him a long time to climb into them, because it was almost impossible to bend his body, but he finally made it. After that he lowered himself carefully and painfully to the chair for a rest, all the time listening for the sounds of anybody moving about the house. He heard nothing. If madame was a singer, that meant she went to bed late and rose late. That suited him.

He got his strength up again, eased himself to his feet and pulled on his shirt. This was living hell; he sweated, cursed and winced, glad that there was nobody here to see him making a fool of himself. Getting into his pants was even worse, but when he had them on he felt so triumphant that he could have shouted with joy. His boots stumped him. He tried and tried again, but he couldn't get them on. Finally, he was forced to stamp his feet into them. While he was doing this, the door flew open and Millie appeared. She looked so mad that for a moment she had him cowered.

“Mr. McAllister I What in heaven's name do you think you're doing, sir?”

“Just climbin' into my duds, ma'am, is all.”

“Then you can just climb out of them again.”

“Can't be done. I've got to see a man.”

Another female figure appeared in the doorway. This was Nellie Stein in a silk dressing-gown, hair in curlers, but still managing to look vital and beautiful.

“What's this, Millie?” she demanded, aghast.

“Mr. McAllister seems to think he's going, ma'am.”

“Then he may think again.” Mistress looked as mad as the maid. “Get back into bed this instant, sir.”

“Ladies,” McAllister declared, “you sure got me scared an' no mistake, but it don't make no difference. I got a friend in trouble an' I've got to be there when it happens. You'd do the same in my boots. Wouldn't you now?”

Nellie Stein said: “At the moment, I am concerned with your welfare, Mr. McAllister.”

“Call me Rem.”

Both ladies toosed their heads. They came bustling over to him, one on either side and tried to force him out of the chair back to the bed.

“Look out,” McAllister cried. “You're so strong, you moved a rib.”

They jumped back in horror.

“Millie,” Miss Stein said, “run and get Mr. Malloy. Perhaps he can make this foolish young man see some sense.”

Millie ran out without a word.

McAllister found his gun and strapped it on.

Miss Stein's eyes snapped with temper.

“Did Millie tell you my story, ma'am?” McAllister asked.

“Yes, she did, but that doesn't make any difference.”

“You ain't the kind to let a friend down, Nellie.”

She softened suddenly.

“I don't want you to let your friend down, Mr. McAllister,” she said. “It's just that if you get on a horse you're liable to kill yourself. See it from our point of view. We—”

“I know, you saved my life an', believe me, I'm grateful. If there's ever anythin' I can do for you … you name it. But right now, I have to ride. Look, ma'am, if I stayed here while my friends were bein' killed, you savin' me wouldn't amount to a row of beans. Can't you see that?”

She sat down. She looked near to tears. McAllister thought he was starting to win.

“I can see that. If I were a man, that is how I should feel.”

“Then you be a real angel. Rustle me up some grub an' I'll be on my way.”

“But you'll be careful. Promise me that.”

“Promise. I'm always careful. Now, the grub, ma'am.”

She stood.

“Very well. I suspect I'm doing wrong, but you leave me no alternative.” She went out of the room and McAllister walked up and down to test his strength. He didn't feel like wrestling a longhorn, but he felt better than he would have thought possible yesterday. After a while, Nellie Stein came back with a parcel in her hands. On her heels came Millie with Art Malloy behind her. Miss Stein looked defiantly at her maid and said: “I changed my mind, Millie.”

“Changed your mind, ma'am,” cried the maid. “Well, I haven't changed mine.”

Malloy barked: “What's all this about, McAllister?”

“I'm on my way, marshal,” McAllister told him.

“Over my dead body,” said Malloy.

“You tell him, marshal,” said Millie.

“He couldn't live with himself if he didn't go,” Nellie Stein said.

“He won't live long if he tries riding like he is,” Malloy offered.

“You won't do much good standin' there jawin', Malloy.” McAllister snarled. “You want to do somethin' useful, you come along to the hotel with me and help tote my gear.”

“Like – heck I will.”

Ten minutes later, Malloy was in McAllister's hotel room helping him with his gear. It was a great relief to McAllister to be clear of Millie and her sharp cockney tongue. Then he and Malloy were heading downtown to the livery and
T
ousting out the old man there. Malloy sullenly saddled the canelo, muttering that he was helping to kill a man and a lot he cared. If a man wanted to kill himself, he reckoned that was his own business. Getting into the saddle was a real chore for McAllister and Malloy had to give him a boost into the saddle. The old man cackled at McAllister's discomfort.

“Look kinda like you was kicked by a mule,” was his comment which was received by McAllister with a baleful glare.

“Well,” McAllister said, “thanks for your help, marshal.”

“If those ribs don't kill you,” Malloy said, “Forster and his men will.”

“Wanta bet?” McAllister demanded.

“Aw, shucks. You have that kind of fool's luck, you'll get away with it.”

McAllister smiled.

“That's what I'm bankin' on.” He lifted the canelo's lines and went out of the yard at a walk. At the gate he turned and lifted a hand in farewell.

The old man cackled derisively.

“There goes a danged fool,” he said.

Malloy looked at him coldly and said: “There goes a brave man.”

McAllister walked the horse out of town, not daring to lift it into a trot, but once across the creek, he knew that he would have to make a better pace than that if his ride was going to be at all worthwhile. He kneed the canelo into a swinging trot and the animal hit a pace so smooth that he might have known what his master most wanted. McAllister kept it to it for a mile, then, bathed in sweat and in considerable pain, he slowed once more to a walk. The thought hit him that he wasn't going to make it, that he had made a complete fool of himself and would be forced to return to town, but he kept on going.

The sun came up and warmed his back. He started to think about his plans, working out in his mind how far along the Nations line Sam would go before he swung the herd north into Kansas, how long it would take Forster to locate it. Thinking took his mind off his pain. He lifted the pace again and the canelo hit a foxtrot that was the easiest pace to bear. They made better progress and McAllister's mood cheered. Suddenly, it seemed possible that he would make out. He began to see slight hope that he would be able to reach Sam before the Kansas men did.

He stopped and rested at noon, easing himself carefully from the saddle and wondering how the hell he was going to get back up again. He loosened the horse's girth and took the bit from its mouth so that it could graze the better. Then he lay down in the horse's shade and slept.

He slept longer than he had intended, as he saw from the sun when he woke. Getting to his feet, he washed his mouth out with water, tightened the girth, put the bit back in the horse's mouth and started to get into the saddle. Once more he forced himself through the wall of pain and sat shaking and sweating in the saddle. He shook the lines and swung south-west.

Forster helped himself to another mug of coffee, tried to make himself comfortable against the saddle and failed. This damned open-air life didn't suit him. It was all right for Texas roughs and men like Dice Grotten, they throve on it, but he had his mind on the easier, more civilised life. He wanted money, big money, and fast. He wanted soft beds to lie in, beautiful women, fine wines and the life of the business tycoon and he suffered the life he was leading now so that he could buy these things.

Grotten pared his nails with his razor-sharp knife and eyed his chief. He knew the man better than he knew himself and knew that right now he was uneasy and impatient. The men they had sent out to find the herd had been gone two days and not a word had been heard from them. By both their reckonings, the Struthers' herd must be within a day's ride of this spot. If they didn't hear from them soon their plans could be ruined. If the herd had made better time than they thought possible, it could mean that it was too near to the railroad and the settlements to do anything about it. And it was their last chance this year to obtain cows.