Kill McAllister (20 page)

Grotten walked up to the halfbreed who was now stretched out on his back, kicking. He was shot through the stomach and he would take a long time dying. But he would die and that would take time. Grotten lifted his gun. Nick opened his eyes and saw it.

“No,” his lips said soundlessly.

But it was a service that Grotten would have done for a horse or a dog. He shot Nick through the head. Then walked calmly to his horse, reloaded and mounted. He rode on without another glance at the two men. Now he had to settle McAllister, before or after McAllister settled with Forster—he didn't care which. He only cared about avenging his brother's death.

* * *

An hour later, Sam lifted his head. It was purely experimental and the result was not to his liking, for it caused him excruciating pain. It felt as if his skull has been split open by an axe. He tried sitting up and was violently sick. This left him weak. He rolled over, got to his knees and felt his head gingerly with the tips of his fingers. He knew that he had been hit in the head because it was covered all over with drying blood. His face too. Just above the right temple, he was still bleeding. But he was alive and the way he felt right then, he didn't know if he was too pleased. He tore off the tail of his shirt and wound it around his head so there would be pressure on the open wound.

That done, he walked over to the halfbreed and took a look at him. The man was very dead. Sam noted the bullet hole in the head and knew that Grotten had done that. The Negro shivered involuntarily. He looked around. His horse and the half breed's fed quietly not fifty yards away. The thought of riding with his head thundering as it was didn't appeal to him, but he knew he'd have to do it. He picked up his fallen gun, loaded it and put it away. Then he got his rope from his saddle and caught his own horse. It still looked bushed, so he caught the halfbreed's as well. Maybe two horses could help him catch the men in front of him. He'd show McAllister.

He packed his gear and mounted. The world swung around him a couple of times before it settled down fairly well. He reckoned he'd live, though, at the moment, living wasn't much fun. He hit a fair pace with the spare horse coming along behind. He'd made
up his mind that he would ride now till he hit town, swapping from one horse to the other. That is, if he could stay in the saddle long enough.

* * *

McAllister came in sight of town, caught sight of the raw rash on the spring green prairie from the top of a ridge. He was bushed, but the canelo was still running, though it had had nothing but water and a few hours' feeding for three days. It was near noon and the sun was hot. As yet no trail herds had arrived and the town looked strangely lonely standing there in the midst of that great sea of grass.

The canelo trotted on, waded through the ford of the creek and heaved its way up the other side. Men were busy in the pens, preparing them for the expected cattle. A locomotive puffed on a siding. McAllister rode up from the creek into town. It was not too busy in the noon heat; a shingle creaked in the light breeze that came across the plains; a dog scratched its fleas in the dust and the marshal stood smoking a stogie outside his office, thumbs in the armholes of his vest. The vast mustache looked as preposterous as ever, giving the man that deceptive comical look. Malloy lifted a hand in greeting.

McAllister turned toward him and swung down.

“So you're still alive,” Malloy said.

“Just.”

“Nice to see you, boy.” The man's sharp eyes ran over McAllister's ragged and patched clothes. “How in tarnation have you been livin'?”

“A mite rough.”

“You don't need to tell me.”

“I'll give you the full story when I have time,” McAllister said. “Right now I have urgent business.”

“I can guess what it is. Forster.”

McAllister nodded.

“He in town?”

“He is.” As McAllister turned away, Malloy said: “Best give me your gun before there's trouble.”

McAllister stopped and turned. He looked Malloy straight in the eye.

“I'm not handin' in my gun this time, marshal.”

Malloy thought about that a while. Finally, he said: “I could take it away from you.”

“No,” McAllister said quietly, “you couldn't.”

There was silence for a moment between them before Malloy swallowed once and said: “Maybe I couldn't at that. But I could try?”

“I came here to do somethin' you can't do, Malloy. This is justice and you know it. If I shot Forster in the back that would be justice and you know that too. Don't make me do something I'll regret.”

Malloy smiled a little.

“A man has to face facts, I guess,” he said. “And you sure are a fact and no mistake. All I can say is, be careful, boy, I don't want to have to bury you.”

McAllister said: “I'll be careful, Malloy, and thanks.”

“You're welcome.”

“Do me a favor an' put the canelo up, will you? He's run his heart out.”

“Sure. Forster's in the bank.”

McAllister gave the canelo's line to the lawman and started up the street. He was no sooner out of sight than a second horseman came pounding up from the direction of the creek. The marshal went still and waited. The man rode abreast of him and passed. Malloy saw that it was Dice Grotten. The marshal tied the canelo to his own hitching post. The horse could wait. Murder couldn't. He hitched his gun forward on his right hip and sauntered along the street.

McAllister reached the bank, got into the shade of the store on the opposite side of the street and waited. Time ticked by.

After fifteen minutes, the door of the bank opened and a man came out. McAllister couldn't see his face in the shadow of his hat, but he knew it was Forster. The dapperness had gone and in its place was a roughness that was out of character, but it was the man all right. Forster didn't see him, but turned left and started along the street.

At that moment the marshal, walking along the sidewalk, heard the sound of a third horse coming up from the creek, stopped and turned. He saw that this was a rider he had never seen before. A Negro who rode a bay and led a saddled sorrel behind. He placed no importance on the stranger and walked on.

The stranger rode past him and the marshal noted that both beasts had been ridden hard a long way and he wondered. The Negro went almost to the bank on the opposite side of the street and swung down. Nonchalantly, he walked into an alleymouth,
The marshal's wonder increased.

McAllister called: “Forster.”

The man stopped and turned, inquiry on his face. He saw McAllister and stiffened.

“You.”

“Yes, me. I've come to equalise for Boss Harding.”

The few passersby paid them no heed.

Forster said: “I know nothing of Boss Harding.”

“You never will.”

Forster was carrying a leather bag in his left hand, his right was free. It brushed back the skirt of his coat and revealed the white bone handle of the Colt's gun.

“I don't know what you're talking about,” he said.

“You don't have to,” McAllister said. “All you have to do is pull that iron of yourn and fire. Because if you don't I'm going to kill you where you stand.”

“There's law in this town. You'll hang.”

“Right this minute, there's only one law you have to worry about and that's me.”

The marshal coming in sight of them at this moment caught sight of Dice Grotten standing at an angle to McAllister so that he was out of sight of the big man. As he looked, Grotten drew his gun and cocked it. It was pointed at McAllister. The marshal drew his own gun and started to run and as he ran he shouted McAllister's name. It all seemed to happen at once.

The big man turned, the Negro stepped out of the alleyway and there was a gun in his hand. He chopped the weapon down for the shot and the heavy slug took hold of Grotten and spun him around. Grotten was down, but he was firing. The marshal saw the dust spurt up at the Negro's feet, heard a slug hit the wall behind him. The Negro fired again and again. Grotten kicked a couple of times and lay still. The marshal stopped running. He found that he was so relieved he wanted to shout.

Strangely enough Forster did not take advantage of this chance. He stood motionless while the shooting was going on, maybe knowing that McAllister was still watching him, maybe for some other reason. But he didn't move.

When he saw the marshal, however, he called out: “Malloy, arrest that man, he's threatening my life.”

Malloy took a quick look around.

“I daren't,” he said. “That Negro there is holding a gun on me.”

Sam flashed him a grin and pointed his gun at him.

Forster seemed to go pale.

“I don't stand a chance,” he said, “there's two of them.”

“It ain't my fight,” said Sam. “I'm here to see fair play. An' I just seen it. Go ahead.”

Forster laid the bag on the ground and straightened himself. Suddenly he looked collected and cool now that he knew he was committed to the fight.

“All right,” he said, “it's on your head, McAllister. I'll kill you if that's what you want.”

The street went still.

McAllister was standing upright and braced, hands at his sides. Forster was crouched slightly. McAllister knew that he was fast and might be faster than he, McAllister. But there was no other way. He felt the sudden calm of the irrevocable moment come on him. He had known it before and could only hope that he would live to know it again.

Forster was delaying it, hoping to wear him down. Each man wondered what the other's method would be. Would he stay still? Would he shift out of his own smoke once he had fired? If so, which way would he go? A split-second hesitation could cost a man his life.

Suddenly, Forster's whole body moved and his gun seemed to come like a live thing from the holster at his side. In the same movement, he fired and jumped to the left and fired again. McAllister felt the bullet wing past him. He drew, fired and flung himself flat to the left so that he lay flat in the dust with his arm thrown out before him. The first shot missed. Forster's third nicked his right buttock.

Then it came to McAllister.

It was the distance that was worrying Forster. The range was too much for him
.

A fourth shot came. Kicking up the dust to McAllister's right while he laid a careful aim on his adversary.

McAllister fired.

Forster jerked suddenly, staggering back a pace, his mouth wide in shock. When he swung his gun around onto McAllister it was as though he were striving against an immense counter force. His face contorted with the effort, his lips drew back from his teeth like the snarl of an animal. The thumb cocked the hammer as though lifting a heavy weight. The effort caused him to take another staggered pace backward.

McAllister fired again.

Forster was knocked flat on his back, his gun went off into the air. He kicked twice and lay still, mouth and eyes wide.

McAllister stayed where he was, head up and staring. Then slowly he laid his head on his arm. He was very tired and it seemed that in that moment he wanted but a long sleep.

Feet tramped through the dust. He swung up and around on his butt, gun in hand, and saw that he was being approached by Sam and Malloy. Sam had a smoking gun in his hand. Only then did McAllister know that it was Sam who shot Grotten.

“Thanks, Sam,” he said,

“Even Stephen,” Sam said.

Malloy walked past them to look down at Forster.

“Officially dead,” he declared. He walked back to Sam and McAllister. “Well, I'd best do something about you two.”

McAllister stood up and asked: “Do you arrest us, Malloy?”

The marshal looked grim.

“See the judge in the morning,” he said. “Five dollar fine for carrying arms. I'll take your guns now, gentlemen.”

They unbuckled their gun-belts and handed them over. Malloy turned and walked back toward his office. On the way, they saw him stop to speak to a man in black who hurried along the street, produced a tape-measure from his pocket and started to measure Grotten for length.

“What do you aim to do now, Sam?” McAllister asked.

“Sleep for a week.”

“Me, too, but first I wrap myself around a steak with fried potatoes.”

“I'll join if'n I can keep awake,” Sam said.

They walked down the street together. McAllister wished Nellie Stein and Millie had been in town. They'd be in Europe by now, he reckoned. But as he walked to the restaurant, he saw a pretty face on the sidewalk, smiled and got a smile in return.

He looked back. The girl looked back. Sam was saying how he was going to get a crew together and go to the valley to collect the herd. He thought he wouldn't be too far short of the original number by the time he'd finished. He'd throw the other cows in the valley in with the Struthers herd.

“Maybe you'll write me a telegraph to the colonel,” said Sam, chuckling. “Reckon he thinks we're livin' it up in San Francisco on the proceeds by now.”

McAllister said: “If'n it's all the same to you, Sam, I'll take my time and stick around a while.”

She was a very pretty girl and there was promise in her eye.

He and Sam walked into the restaurant.

This electronic edition published in 2011 by Bloomsbury Reader
Bloomsbury Reader is a division of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc, 50 Bedford Square, London
WC1B 3DP
Copyright © P.C. Watts 1969
First published by Panther Books Ltd
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ISBN: 9781448207459
eISBN: 9781448207145
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