Kill McAllister (10 page)

“Sam,” he said, “where's there water from here?”

The Negro frowned, thinking.

“Nearest is north-west.”

McAllister had to decide. North-west would mean going right past the men up ahead, but the only way he could lose sign was to go through water. There was no time to wipe out sign.

“I'm goin' to get you on my horse and get you across the valley, Sam.”

“They'll sure get us, boy.”

“They'll hunt us down if'n we don't reach water.”

He strained at Sam and got him to his feet. It was then that he had found that the man had also been shot in the back. It was a wonder to McAllister that the man was breathing at all. The canelo stood obediently and finally Sam was in the saddle. McAllister loosened the Negro's belt and looped it over the saddlehorn. Sam groaned and clung to the apple. McAllister then fought his own way up behind the cantle, got the lines in his hands and got the horse on the move. He went due south a good way, then turned west for a mile before he made his final swing to the right and headed north-west. There was more gunfire back in the valley. McAllister was torn, knowing he had to try and get Sam out of this alive and feeling strongly that he should be back in there cutting down some of the Kansas men who had done this thing to his outfit.

“How far to water?” he asked Sam, but there was no reply. The trail-boss was either unconscious or dead. McAllister felt for the heart beat and found it weak and uncertain. He had never felt more helpless in his life. He went on north-west at a steady walk, praying that he could keep ahead of the Kansans till night came down to cover him, knowing instinctively that they would come hunting him.

* * *

The herd had not run more than three or four miles. It had now slowed to a walk, some of the animals had started to graze.

Forster pulled his horse up alongside Grotten and said: “Dice, take 'em on north. I feel uneasy about the men back there. I'll take Sholto back with me and make sure.”

Grotten nodded. It was a wise precaution.

Forster rode across the rear of the herd, called to Sholto and
the man came on the run. Forster looked him over. The man looked shaken, but that did not disturb the captain. A man had a right to look that way after what Sholto had just been through. Killing a whole outfit wasn't a thing a man did every day of the week. He told the man what he proposed and they rode back over the wide trail left by the stampeding cattle. When they reached the valley, they rode from fallen man to fallen man, checking to make sure they were all dead. When they reached the south end of the valley, they pulled up their horses and Sholto said: “That's taken care of.”

Forster sat still in the saddle, thinking.

“Wait a minute. What about the nigger?” he said.

“What nigger?”

“The first man I shot was a nigger.”

“I didn't see no nigger.”

Forster looked doubtful for a moment.

“I was pretty sure he was black.”

Sholto knew that there were Texas outfits who used Negro hands. It was possible.

“Maybe you was mistook. Was he close?”

“No,” Forster said, “he wasn't all that close. I could have been mistaken. But I remember where he fell. Over there. Let's go take a look.”

They turned their horses in the direction he indicated. When they reached the spot where Forster thought he had seen the man fall, he said: “It was here. I'm certain.”

“Well, he ain't here now that's for sure,” Sholto offered.

Forster showed impatience.

“Where the hell is he, then? I hit him fair and square. He wouldn't be walking anywhere.”

He looked around. The ground was churned and marked by hoofs. His eyes fell on twin narrow ruts in the surface of the ground.

“Hold on a minute.”

He swung down from the saddle, walked along the ruts for a few paces and then raised his eyes to the brush and rocks above. Leading his horse, he traced the ruts to the rim of the valley. Sholto rode behind him. In the brush, Forster pointed to the ground.

“Look. There's been a horse here. Somebody came here and dragged that nigger to a horse. He's taken him off.”

Sholto pushed his hat to the back of his head.

“It don't seem possible,” he opined. “Who'd'a done a thing like that?”

Slight apprehension struck Forster.

“I don't know who did it,” he said. “But we'll damned soon find out. Look, they went south. They mounted double and went south.”

Forster stepped into the saddle and they headed south, but that didn't get them anywhere for after a few hundred yards the tracks of the horse were lost in those of the herd. Forster swore in sudden fury. He was worried now.

“They must have either followed the herd tracks back south or cut off east or west.”

“Then they got away,” Sholto said. “This is a kind of big country. Hell, I ain't no hand at trackin'. This is a job for the half-breed.”

Forster clapped his thigh.

“Nick! Sure, that's the answer. Ride hard for the herd, Sholto, and send Nick back to me. Tell him to fog it.”

Sholto said: “Keno,” put spurs to his animal and raced away down the valley.

Forster stayed where he was, thinking.

He was in a fix now and he didn't like it. If that nigger got away and talked, his having the herd could come to nothing. More than that, he could find himself dangling by the neck. Forster felt a little sick at the thought and real fear briefly touched him. That black must be hunted down and killed. Him and the man who was with him. Could it possibly be McAllister? Perish the thought, he told himself. The man had been too badly beaten to sit a horse for a month. No, somebody else had entered the play. Well, they would both have to be killed and quick before they could reach any kind of settlement.

But what if they weren't found and killed?

The possibility didn't bear thinking on, but Forster knew that a wise general planned for all possibilities. He drove his brain furiously. Holst would likely not touch any cattle he took him in view of what had happened in Combville. He had planned to get rid of them with another contact he had further west. But that would be risky if the shot man talked. So what else could he do with the damned cows?

Suddenly, an idea hit him.

Grotten's brother
.

It was like an inspiration. He laughed out loud. There were real
possibilities there. The more he thought about it, the more he liked it. Dice and his brother were close; Mike would do anything for Dice. Mike had the range, but not the cows. He was land rich and cow poor. The problem was solved. Forster and Grotten would bring Mike in on the deal and they would both go into the cattle rearing and fattening business. They could sell beef when some of the fuss died down, they could sell further north, they could carry out a massive brand change. It would be tricky but it could be done. It had been done before and it would be done again.

He planned on excitedly to himself, until he saw the mounted figure of the halfbreed racing back toward him. This was Nick Wetherby, a halfbreed Osage. If anybody could pick up the sign of the missing men, it was him.

Nick pulled his horse back onto its haunches. He was a thickset, ugly man. He didn't like whites much and he hated Indians. He owed loyalty only to himself, but he kept in with the Forster gang because the members treated him more or less as an equal.

“Sholto says you got sign, boss,” he said.

Forster explained to him what he thought had happened and what he wanted. Nick twisted his face into a quick grin and said: “This ain't goin' to be easy. Take time. You go ahead. I tell you when I find somep'n.”

Forster turned his horse and rode north, knowing he had left his problem with an expert. Nick turned south riding along the edge of the cow-sign, watching the ground close to the east. He covered five slow miles this way, then reckoned he had gone far enough this turn. He crossed the cow sign to the west and now rode slowly north, watching the ground to the west. It was near nightfall when he found what he wanted about a mile south of the valley – the sign of one horse, carrying double, as he knew, going north-west. The halfbreed chuckled to himself. It had been easier than he thought. Come the following day, he'd find those two men for the boss and then they would be dead. He liked the thought of that. Violence with him on the winning side was one of his few simple pleasures. He rode north along the valley, passed through it and rode on five miles north till he came to the sight of a fire.

He was challenged. He answered and rode in.

Forster looked up eagerly from his meal.

“Well?”

Nick slipped from the saddle.

“I find 'em, boss,” he said with pride. “Goin' north-west. Dawn, we find 'em. They ain't goin' so far. Ridin' double. One
man hurt bad. Find blood a-plenty. Maybe dead now, huh?”

“Start before dawn. Pick up the trail at first light,” Forster said. “Dice and Sholto'll go with you. Me too maybe. Those two have to be dead.”

Nick grinned.

McAllister's whole body ached with holding Sam upright in the saddle. He slipped to the ground as the canelo halted and Sam slewed sideways in the saddle and would have fallen had it not been for the belt looped over the saddlehorn. McAllister knew that he had to get working on those wounds or it would be to no avail his getting Sam away from the Kansas men. He reached up to support Sam and listened. Nothing but the normal prairie sounds reached him. He reckoned not even Kansas men would be fools enough to hunt him in the dark.

The water glistened not far off in the moonlight. He'd have to light a fire, boil water. He got Sam's belt free of the horn and eased the man to the ground. It hurt his ribs like hell. He got the tarp from behind the saddle, spread for Sam and rolled him onto it. He was in a fairly sheltered spot here; there was sparse brush growing alongside the creek and he would risk lighting a fire. He found some stones, some dry kindling, then took another look at Sam. The man was shaking like an aspen leaf and he was unconscious. A terrible sadness came down over McAllister, because he could see himself riding on very shortly without the Negro. He knew Sam was tough, but he had two pieces of lead in him most likely and they would take some getting out. The travel on horseback hadn't done him too much good.

McAllister got the fire going, fetched water from the creek. Pretty soon the water was boiling. He found his small pocket knife and opened it. In his saddlebags: he found a little whiskey.

Sam woke up and asked: “Where we at, boy? They after us?”

McAllister said; “We reached water like you said, Sam. They ain't around here right now. I'm goin' to take the lead out of you.”

Sam snorted.

“Wastin' your time, man. Git on yo' way an' leave me to die.”

“You can see me doin' that,” McAllister said with disgust. “Have a snort.” He put the whiskey bottle to Sam's mouth and the man drank a little. McAllister reckoned he'd best not have too much, hit in the belly as he was. He sipped himself and felt a
little better. He told Sam: “Ready?”

“As ever.”

McAllister pulled a shell from his belt and gave it to the trail-boss. “Bite on that, feller.”

Sam got it between his teeth and grinned a little.

McAllister covered all of him except his face and his belly with blanket and coat. He was still shaking badly. McAllister stirred the fire so that he had some light to see by and picked up the penknife. He cut away the shirt that was adhering to the blood. The whole front of the garment was soaked. With the hot water and a rag torn from his own shirt, he washed away the now congealed blood and found the bruised and smashed flesh to be to the left of the belly and over the hip bone. He rolled Sam onto one side and found the flesh at the rear of the hip.

“Lucky ole bastard,” he said conversationally. “Went in front an' out the rear.”

“Lucky?” said Sam. “Man, I'd hate to be unlucky.”

McAllister unfastened the pants belt and pulled them down, wiping away the blood he found over the lower belly, the tops of the thighs and the buttocks. The wound was still bleeding, so he made pads after he had cleaned the wound with whiskey and tied them firmly in place with strips of blanket. It wasn't a perfect arrangement, but it would have to do. Throughout this operation, which must have been painful in the extreme, Sam didn't utter a sound.

“That's one,” said McAllister. “Let's start on the other.”

“I sure am perforated,” Sam said evenly.

Sam rolled over on his face and McAllister cut away the remainder of the shirt. The whole of the black back was caked in blood. In places he had to rip the shirt free. Sam winced once, but he didn't say anything. McAllister washed away the blood and stirred the fire up again. He found the wound up near the right shoulder socket and there was no exit hole. So he would have to search for lead. He cleaned the blade of the small knife in some whiskey, gave Sam and himself another snort and got to work. The hole was big enough to thrust a thumb in and looked ferocious. Blood was oozing from it, which McAllister thought was a good thing from the dirt point of view. But Sam must be pretty weak after losing so much blood. He probed for the lead with the small blade and found it quickly lodged up against the shoulder socket.

“This is goin' to hurt you more'n it does me,” he said.

“Doin' that right now,” said Sam. “Admit it, you're enjoyin' yo'self.”

McAllister chuckled.

“I just found out a nigger's red inside and bleeds just like a whiteman,” he said. “I always thought they was made different.”

Sam said through his teeth: “Don't waste no more whiskey on that knife, son. Let's kill that bottle.”

McAllister gave him another drink and finished the bottle himself. He found he was shaking as much as Sam. But getting the lead out wasn't as difficult as he thought. The bullet must have been nearly spent when it hit Sam. It came away with a fresh rush of blood. Quickly he made a pad and tied it tightly in place over the wound. But die blood continued to come and the fact worried him. He found the pressure points and held them hard for some time, but it didn't do much good. He knew that if he kept that wound clean it would be a miracle. If he could keep Sam still, it would have been difficult, but they had to be moving and he felt that, if he moved the man, it would kill him.