Blood on Mcallister (6 page)

Shultz hurled himself down from the saddle.

‘I never seen such a disgustin' sight in all my life,' he cried. He hurled his hat into the dust. ‘You call yourself a runner? You let this beat-up cowhand run your ass off?'

‘Tut, tut,' McAllister said, ‘ladies present, Mr. Shultz.'

‘What did you do that for, Rem?' Pat said, dismounting. ‘I think that was real mean of you. I thought Mr. Gage did very well.'

‘He did,' McAllister said. ‘He did very well. He'll practice that last spurt, he'll get it an' he'll be unbeatable.'

‘You were just showing off,' Pat said.

‘Sure I was,' McAllister admitted. ‘Never could bear to be beat in front of a beautiful gal.'

She said: ‘Oh,' in disgust and stormed into the house.

Panting, Gage laid a hand on McAllister's arm. He was so winded that he could hardly speak.

‘Where … where'd you learn … to run … like that?' he demanded.

‘Cheyenne Indians,' McAllister told him.

‘You mean they can all run … like that?'

‘Not all of ‘em. But a good few can leave me standin'.'

Gage looked dismayed.

‘Hell,' he said. ‘The foot-race is open to all-comers. You don't think there's going to be any there, do you?'

McAllister grinned.

‘Could be,' he said.

‘I'm disgusted,' Shultz said. ‘This feller beats you at wrestlin'—now this.'

McAllister said: ‘You don't have to worry. I shan't be competing in Clanton.'

‘Thank God for that,' Gage said.

‘I'm real disgusted,' Shultz said again and went into the barn to sulk.

‘This Brenell guy, Rem,' Gage said, ‘do you reckon he's good.'

‘Hard to tell. He sure looks like a has sand, I'll say that. But he looks like he's wild. Got a temper. Fighting—I reckon he don't like bein' hurt because nobody's been able to hurt him in a long while. I seen you fight, Billy, an' I'd reckon you have a good chance.'

‘I reckon if I start losing, Harry'll drop me like hot coals.'

‘Would that be so terrible?' McAllister asked.

Gage looked at him. He seemed like a little lost boy.

‘Why, Harry's done everything for me,' he said. ‘I wouldn't be nothing today if it wasn't for him.'

McAllister said: ‘Get your breath back and we'll fool around in the yard. Only don't try kicking my teeth in again.'

Billy laughed and put his head under the pump.

It was nice at the Rigbys' in spite of the nauseous presence of the man Shultz, but McAllister hankered for town. Not only that, he wanted to visit with his old friend Mart Krantz
who was currently sheriff of the county with its seat at Clanton. And he felt too that if he bought a handsome present for Pat his chances might be increased. Though what he would use for money he had no idea because Shultz, when he had attacked him in the hotel, had cleaned him out down to his last dollar. All he had was loose change. Maybe Mart would stake him.

So he told Rigby where he was headed, saddled the canelo and set off. He felt good; the run and the fooling around with Billy Gage had made him feel in fine fettle. He envied the contestants in the coming competition. As he rode, he wondered about Gage and still found it hard to believe that he had been the other man in the hotel room. If he had been McAllister was no judge of character.

He followed the creek north-west as Rigby had directed, rounded the bluff he met at the bend in the creek and saw the lights of the town in front of him. The canelo lifted its feet.

As he rode in, he found that the streets were lighted after a fashion. They showed him a rapidly growing town. Here was a building half constructed, there one just completed. The place was a patchwork of different types of buildings. Some were of the frame type, one on the outskirts was of the old adobe kind. Here the bank showed new brick walls. He rode down Main, looking for the sheriff's office and found it. He brought the canelo to a halt, stepped down and hitched the horse.

When he walked in, Mart Krantz had his chair tilted back, his feet on his desk, a cigar going well and a book in his hands. Mart was a great reader.

He was an angular hawk of a man with a close-cut unfashionable mustache. His hair was pepper and salt, though he was no more than thirty-five, his mustache was almost white. The things Mart had seen and done were enough to turn a man gray before his time. He looked ineffectual enough, but his eyes gave him away. He was a man with great calm, deadly calm. He was one of the best lawmen McAllister had ever known.

He looked over the top of his book at the big man in the doorway and said: ‘Wa-al, I'll be God-damned.'

Ho got so slowly to his feet that it was not possible to
believe that he was capable of moving with incredible speed.

‘Howdy, Mart.'

They met mid-room and shook. The sheriff looked as pleased as he ever did.

‘What brought you into my bailiwick?' ‘Stayin' out to Jim Rigby's.'

‘Take a weight off'n your feet, boy. Drink?' McAllister nodded and Mart produced a bottle. He poured, they drank.

They talked. Mostly it was do-you-remember-when and such like. They chuckled a little; Mart seldom laughed outright. They had another drink. Finally, McAllister said: ‘Can you stake me, Mart?'

‘Sure,' said the sheriff. ‘How much?'

‘Fifty hurt you?'

‘Naw,' Mart said as if the idea was ridiculous. He would have said the same had it been his last fifty. He went to a safe in the corner of the sparsely furnished room, took some notes out, counted them and brought them to McAllister.

‘Thanks.' McAllister shoved them away in his pocket. ‘Things quiet around here?'

‘You know how it is, boy. Waitin' for the cow-crowd to come in. Liven up then.'

‘Know a feller called Harry Shultz?'

Mart never forgot a name or a face.

‘You mean the one calls himself Billy Gage's manager?'

‘That's the one.'

‘Never saw him before in my life.' He waited for McAllister to tell him why he was interested. Mart never asked a question if waiting would bring him an answer.

‘He tried to roll me in Abbotsville. Hell, he did roll me. Cut me with that little ole knife of his'n. He'd been a mite handier with it, I'd be dead.'

‘Say, ain't he out to Rigby's too?'

‘Sure is. He attacked me in the hotel room. The light was pretty bad, so I'm makin' out I didn't see him.' McAllister smiled. ‘It has him real puzzled. Thought you might have a dodger for him.'

‘Where's he from?'

McAllister told him what Billy Gage had told him. Mart said: ‘I have a friend in the New York Police Department. I could wire him from Abbotsville. Got a man goin' in there
tomorrow.'

‘Do that would you, Mart? I'll pay you back.'

‘Chances are, he's changed his name. I'll send a full description and his method. Maybe that'll help.'

‘Thanks, Mart. Comin' over the saloon? I'll buy you a drink with your own money.'

‘Maybe join you later, boy. Right now I'm waitin' for a man.'

‘See you.'

Mart nodded and McAllister went out onto the street. He untied the canelo and led it along the street. There was little wheeled traffic, but there were quite a few people about on the sidewalks, some enjoying the pleasant spring night, others hurrying to some destination. He followed the drift of the solo men he saw and that took him to the street that intersected Main. This brought him to what was plainly not the respectable end of town. Here were the bawdy houses and the saloons. They were pretty quiet now and would be so until the wild and woolly Texas men came into the town with the trail-herds.

The first saloon he came to looked good enough for his purpose. It was called the Longhorn and it had a detailed and what was considered at that period an impolite painting of a fully-equipped Texas bull outside. McAllister smiled, thinking of how the respectable element would have objected, and went in.

It was a big place and there were maybe a couple of dozen men in there, drinking and playing cards. It could hold a couple of hundred and probably would in a few weeks time. There were two or three half-clothed woman hanging around the men and they looked pretty rough to McAllister. He wouldn't have ridden half a block to see them even after a year in the wilderness. Maybe he had Patricia Rigby on his mind. Now there was one hell of a woman.

He went up to the bar and said: ‘Whiskey, Beer.' The whiskey and the beer came, the whiskey in a bottle and the beer in a schooner. One or two men turned their heads to look at him idly.

One man caught his eye. Etiquette was that a man didn't drink on his lonesome.

‘Drink?' McAllister asked.

The man grinned. ‘That's real nice of you, mister.' He signalled for a glass and got it. McAllister poured. They toasted each other and drank.

‘Name's McFee,' the man said, ‘John McFee. I'm buyin' cattle.'

‘Name's Remington McAllister an' I'm buyin' drinks.'

The man laughed. He was a pleasant-looking fellow of about forty, well set-up and well-dressed without being flashy. He had cattle-buyer stamped on him like a brand. An honest enough man, but sharp. He liked his food and his drink. He was twenty pounds overweight.

They talked. McFee was full of the coming contest. He'd put his money on the visiting champion. Liked the look of him. Seen him handle himself over at Abbotsville.

‘Say,' he exclaimed, ‘aren't you the fellow who wrestled him?'

‘I reckon.'

McFee laughed. The joke was on him. He'd lost a packet on that fight.

‘By Jupiter, sir,' he said, ‘I hope you aren't fighting him here.'

‘Not a chance,' said McAllister. ‘He's lined up against Clem Brenell.'

‘That's what I thought. Can't abide the man. Nothing but an arrogant savage. I shall watch Billy Gage give him his comeuppance with the greatest of pleasure, I assure you.'

‘Talk of the devil,' McAllister said.

McFee turned and saw the tall golden-haired man in the doorway. His face fell and he said: ‘That's the end of a nice quiet drink. The man's trouble and no mistake. Two drinks and he wants to fight the town.' He drank up hastily. ‘I'll see you around, McAllister. Thanks for the drink.' He disappeared abruptly.

McAllister smiled to himself and watched Clem Brenell move into the place. Three or four riders drifted in behind him. Men turned to stare; one or two walked away from the bar with their drinks in their hands. McAllister had seen men make their feelings obvious before, but never quite so obvious as this. The bartender put on a wary face. One of the girls left the man she was with and walked up to one of the men with Brenell. He strode to the bar and, without a word being
spoken, a bottle and glasses slid across the wood to him.

He poured one glassful and drank. Poured again, put the bottle down and gestured toward it. His men came up in their turn, poured and drank.

McAllister was aware that there was silence in the place. He was quietly amused.

Brenell looked around him and his eye fell on McAllister leaning on the bar not a half-dozen feet from him. He recognised him at once.

‘Wa-al, the drifter. Who'd you hire out to?'

‘Nobody,' McAllister said. ‘Yet.'

Then men with Brenell turned to inspect McAllister. The man with the cast in his eye was there. McAllister didn't seem to find favor with him. Brenell gave McAllister a long stare and went back to his drinking.

Time ticked on, the talk resumed again.

Then a woman walked into the bar.

She came in from a back office and there wasn't a man there who didn't turn to look his fill. Just a look would give any man his fill. McAllister had first seen her in Santa Fé, then a little later in El Paso. After that he had seen her in San Antonio, Fort Griffin and Wichita. Her name was Rosa Hernandez and she hailed originally from some jacal in Chihuahua. She had been one of thousands of half-Indian peon girls, who walked naked feet in dust, a flower in their hair and a prospect of old-age before its rightful time. She had turned herself into this—a beauty in any society and something of an enigma. Talk had it that there was a husband in the background somewhere, but Rosa kept him well in the background. She was a woman who didn't need a man. She needed men. In the plural. And she had them. Yet, such was her power, she had never lost the respect of all the men who knew her. And some of her power was money. What the money didn't supply, she supplied from the strength of her own character. McAllister trusted her as he would an honorable man.

She didn't see him at first.

She greeted the men at the far end of the bar from him, smiled at the men at the tables, they answered using her first name, familiarly, but with respect, as though they had been favored by being allowed to use it.

Then she came to Clem Brenell who stepped forward and put an arm around her. McAllister didn't know if she was going to object or not, but he didn't give her a chance.

‘Rosa,' he said.

She turned and saw him. She moved out of the encirclement of Brenell's arm and came to him.

‘Rem!' Nothing but pleasure and surprise showed on her face. In a second she was in his arms. They laughed in mutual delight. He gave her a great smack of a kiss and not a man there missed it. Then she was speaking in Spanish. ‘Why, my friend, this is wonderful. I had no idea you were in town.'

McAllister replied easily in the same language.

‘I only just arrived. I'm staying at the Rigby house.'

‘Ah, the Rigby house. Where the oh, so beautiful Patricia lives.' She grinned with brief malicious mischief. ‘And has the little McAllister ambitions about her?'

‘When didn't I have ambitions about a fine-looking girl?'

‘True. But, we must have a drink. Carlos, bring drinks to the table over there.'