Blood on Mcallister (3 page)

Harry got Gage to his feet and poured a bucket of water over him. Then he gave Gage a drink of water. McAllister took a bottle of whiskey from an onlooker and took a good swig from it. Then man didn't object.

‘Start fightin',' Frank said.

McAllister felt good now. The two men advanced on each other, got hand grips and started to strain. To McAllister's surprise Gage was in full strength. His surprise must have showed because Gage gave him a quick grin, forced him to his knees, broke the grip, hit him in the throat with a flat hand, kneed him in the face and tried to get a strangle hold on him with his arms from behind. McAllister, straining every rawhide muscle in his hard body, bore the man to his feet, threw himself backward and tried to break the hold that way. But he didn't succeed. When his sight started to go under the terrible pressure he started to worry a little. He drove his elbows into the man's belly, but that didn't get him anywhere. When he had almost blacked out, Gage did something he didn't understand and he found himself flat on his back with Gage kneeling on his shoulders.

Frank started to count.

‘One … two … three …'

The crowd went berserk.

McAllister threw himself this way and that, failed to get free that way, then got his legs after a supreme physical effort around Gage's neck and threw him clear. He got to his feet as fast as he could, but shakily, but Gage hurled himself back into the attack and in half a second flat had him on the ground again and Frank started to count once more. By now the sweat was pouring off McAllister and he could feel his strength leaving him. He tried everything he knew, but he couldn't dislodge the man astride him.

Frank counted to ten.

They both got to their feet. Gage was grinning widely and he shook his clasped hands above his head. The crowd cheered and Harry danced a little dance of pure joy. Gage had more cold water on his face and drank a little. McAllister found the man with the whiskey bottle and took a large gulp. That made him feel a little better.

‘Lay off that stuff if you want to win,' Frank told him angrily.

‘What do you mean “want to win”?' McAllister demanded. ‘I'm goin' to win.'

Frank looked doubtful. He was starting to hate McAllister. He had put a lot of money on him.

Gage started to soften McAllister up for the kill. He threw him six different ways, one after the other, and each time McAllister got to his feet looking worse. The crowd started to jeer him. He swore tiredly back at them. Once he managed to throw Gage, but the professional hit him in the throat with a flat hand and nearly knocked him out. By now McAllister looked a mess. When he got to his feet, he looked around for a bit before he found his foe. The crowd thought that was great; they slapped their thighs and kiyacked. They were loving every minute of it.

Gage threw him into the crowd, they tossed him back. He got to his hands and knees and looked up at Gage through black matted hair. The end wasn't far off.

He climbed to his feet and Gage advanced on him. He backed up and this time a flicker of fear went across his face. The crowd were demanding for Gage to kill him again. Gage threw him again and this time he didn't land too badly and came to his feet fairly well.

Then suddenly, he erupted.

Body parallel to the ground, his feet smashed into Gage's face, catching him on the point of the jaw. The crowd heard the impact and were stilled to a man.

The professional went over as if he had been pole-axed.

McAllister landed lightly and was on his feet in one moment.

Frank started counting.

Harry was yelling for Gage not to act like a Goddam woman and to get on his feet and fight, he had a fortune on him and if he lost it for him he'd take it out of his hide. Gage made a supreme effort to rise, raised himself on stiff arms that quivered uncontrollably with the effort and fell on his face in the dust.

Frank reached seven.

The crowd was frantic, like Harry it danced and raved. Like Harry it saw itself losing a lot of money on the fight. McAllister was mentally counting his profit.

Frank reached nine.

Harry rushed across the ring and leaned over Gage, yelling furiously for him to get up and quit fooling. Gage didn't stir.

Frank reached ten.

McAllister said: ‘It was that water you give him to drink. A man can't fight on water.' He reached out for the whiskey bottle, took it from nerveless fingers (the owner had lost twenty-five dollars on the fight) and drank deep. He and Frank started to collect the money owing to them. Harry threw another bucket of water over the defeated champion; the big blond man stirred slightly. Harry rolled him over and started to slap his face. He put a lot of energy into it. McAllister was stuffing money into his pockets. The crowd started to break up. Frank came over, grinning all over his face.

‘Time we had that drink,' he said.

Gage sat up and looked like a house had fallen on him. McAllister heaved him to his feet. The blond man's good-xsnature was still with him. He gave McAllister a battered grin and said: ‘That sure was a lulu. Where'd you learn to fight like that?' He had difficulty in using his jaw.

‘The Cheyenne,' McAllister told him. ‘They sure do like to rassle.'

Harry yelled: ‘What got into you? What the hell come over you? You know how much I got on you? You just ruined me. That's all you just did—you ruined me.'

‘I'm sorry, Harry,' Gage said, genuine regret on his open face. ‘I'm real sorry. Let's hope we don't meet up with this hellion again.'

‘Bein' sorry don't do nothin' about the money I lost.'

McAllister said: ‘Harry, you give me a pain. Why don't you git the hell outa here?'

The man stopped dead. The anger washed from his face and he looked at McAllister with pure hatred.

Gage said: ‘Now, boys, don't let's have no bad feelin'. Harry's upset and I guess that's understandable. I'd be if I'd bet heavily on a feller an' lost. Come on, McAllister, I'll buy you a drink.'

‘I thought you didn't drink.'

‘I'll have a sarsaparilla.'

They pulled on their shirts and walked with Frank Deblon to the Bull's Head. They left Harry paying out and swearing. In the saloon there were a few more men than earlier. McAllister walked up to the bar and said: ‘Whiskey, two glasses an' a sarsaparilla an' if you so much as smile when you pour it I'll decorate my saddle with your ears.'

The man didn't smile. He'd seen McAllister in action and lost ten dollars on him. The whiskey and the sarsaparilla came. They drank. They found a table and talked. Gage told them about himself. Harry Shultz had found him in New York and seen him fight and had offered to manage him. Gage was no businessman so he'd liked the idea. Now they were touring the West taking on all-comers. They made four challenges in one go: fist-fighting, running, putting the weight and wrestling. So far Billy Gage had never been beaten and they were making money. It was a good life and would continue to be if some more McAllisters didn't appear on the scene.

Frank Deblon and McAllister got several whiskeys under their belts and they talked. Billy Gage was a nice fellow and McAllister like him. Gage said again how grateful he was that McAllister had saved him out on the prairie and he couldn't say how sorry he was that he hadn't stopped to help McAllister, but business was business and he had to win
the race. McAllister said don't give it a thought. He and Frank drank some more. They were feeling good because they had won a lot of money. Frank said it beat being a marshal any day of the week. Gage stayed sober as a judge and it was a bit embarrassing having him sitting there clear-eyed and clear-headed.

Harry Shultz came in, gave McAllister a savage look and went to the bar for a drink. Billy Gage made some excuses for him—Harry was feeling bad. He had every reason to, he'd lost a lot of money and a man had reason to be mad when he'd done that, didn't they think so? They reckoned Billy was about right.

Where was Billy headed for next? McAllister asked. They were going west to the next town, Clanton. Why, if that wasn't a coincidence, McAllister exclaimed. He had some friends someplace north of Clanton and he was on his way to visit with them.

‘Say, that's great,' Gage told him, his honest face beaming, ‘we could meet up in Clanton. You could see me compete. They have a good boy over there and the town is puttin' up a lot against me.'

‘You mean there's a local champion?'

‘Yeah. This feller claims he can out-run and out-fight and out-jump me. His old man's backing him to a tune of something like a thousand dollars.'

McAllister and Deblon whistled their appreciation of such a princely sum. If that was the stake of one man, what would all the accumulated bets amount to? Their respect for Billy Gage heightened. He told them about the Clanton champion. Young fellow about his own age and with a local reputation for toughness and wildness. His old man was the big auger in the country. He could control a cattle empire and an army of riders, but he couldn't do nothing with his own son. They nodded. It was often the way. McAllister was enthusiastic. He'd sure like to see Gage take this boy on.

‘My money'll be on you, son,' he told Billy. ‘I seen you run and I've felt how you can fight.'

They all laughed.

Harry Shultz came up. He was mad all through still and his eyes snapped angrily. It was time Gage took a bath and a rub down. He couldn't lounge around like other folk. He was
a champion in training. He'd taken a beating from McAllister and that showed that Shultz would have to tighten up. He hauled Gage out of there and the big blond man went meek as a lamb.

McAllister looked after them. He felt a little sorry for Gage. The boy was nothing better than a performing bear. Then he forgot about him. He and Frank got to drinking in earnest, swapping yarns and talking of old times, such as when they had been town marshals together down in Fort Griffin, Texas. That sure had been a wild town. These northern cowtowns were nothing more than kindergartens compared with them. Why, do you remember the time when …? It went on like that for a long time. They laughed, they slapped each other on the back, they demanded another bottle, it came and they shrank its contents a little more than slightly.

Night came. The saloon filled, men came to buy McAllister a drink, McAllister bought them a drink, the whole world was a comrade. McAllister spared a thought for Gage and his virtuous teetotal life, felt pity and faded the picture out with another drink. The night roistered on and finally Frank decided he'd best go see if the town was behaving itself while he could still stand. McAllister thought that bed wouldn't be a bad idea. Frank said he'd find him the best hotel in town, nothing was too good for his old friend Remington McAllister, but first he must hand over his gun. Sure, McAllister said, who needed a gun in a town policed by his friend Frank Deblon. Solemnly, the battered old Remington forty-four with the worn cedar butt was handed to the bar-keep and they wandered out of the Bull's Head into the night.

Frank led him to the Bradbury House on Lincoln after they had picked up McAllister's gear at the livery and the proprietor gave McAllister the best room in the house overlooking the street. The big man was feeling pretty sleepy by this time and Frank heaved off his boots for him as he lay on the bed. He was snoring by the time Frank blew out the light and tiptoed from the room as silently as a raging buffalo bull.

McAllister woke with a start and knew in that first instant of wakefulness that he was still drunk. That was warning enough and mentally he fought to pull himself together. He listened with drunken care. He was no longer alone in the room. He could hear a man breathing.

Carefully, he slid his hand under the pillow and found nothing. He remembered handing his gun in at the Bull's Head and cursed silently.

A match scratched.

McAllister froze and almost closed his eyes so that he could watch the room through his lashes.

The match flame showed him a face.

Harry Shultz.

The man's eyes were on him, watchful, fearful and mean at the same time. He raised the lucifer above his head, spotted the lamp and moved toward it. The match went out. Shultz swore and there came the faint sound of him searching for another. He found one and struck it, lit the lamp and straightway came to the side of the bed.

His right hand slid away out of McAllister's vision and a second later came into view again, this time with gleaming metal in his grip. A knife.

The left hand came forward, touched McAllister's pants' pocket and came out with a bundle of notes in it.

McAllister brought his clenched fist up and hit him in the side of the face with all his strength.

Shultz fell across the bed, giving out a faint cry of alarm. McAllister drew back his leg to his chest and straightend it violently, kicking the man clear of the bed and across the room. He seemed to run backward with his legs going like a humming bird's wings till he hit the wall so hard that the whole building shook.

McAllister came off the bed fast, as near to sober as didn't matter now.

Crouched back against the wall, the squat and powerful Shultz gazed at McAllister out of shocked and wild eyes, the knife was held out point forward in front of his body. He
looked as if he could use it.

McAllister reached back for his own knife and drew it. It was a bowie given to him by his old man, Chad McAllister, and the old man had given a few lessons along with it.

McAllister said: ‘I'm goin' to have your guts for galluses, Shultz.'

The man's thick lips drew back in a brief and rather horrible smile from yellow teeth. He took a pace forward and flicked his knife expertly from his right to his left hand.

McAllister heard a faint sound behind him.

He tried to move to the right so that he would have the two men on either side of him, but something hard struck him on the back of his head. He dropped to one knee and made an ineffectual swipe at Shultz with his knife as the man jumped in. Shultz evaded the blow and lunged forward with his own weapon. The expression on his face showed that he enjoyed doing it. The man behind McAllister struck again and this time the big man stretched out on the floor.