Kill McAllister (6 page)

He threw himself forward and something hard struck him across the face, dazing him and knocking him backward. He heard himself hit the floor, but was incapable of feeling more pain. Again he regained his feet, stood swaying there, vaguely conscious that there was a man in front of him. He swung a fist,
felt knuckles on bone and then the floor rushed up to meet him again. He tried to push himself up on his hands; his face struck the floor.

He heard a voice say: “You should of killed him, captain.”

Another said: “I wouldn't be surprised if we did.”

Then a merciful unconsciousness took over.

There were stars above him.

The moon rode cold and serene.

He knew that he lay in the open, but he did not know where. All he was conscious of was the mass of agony that composed his body. He knew that he was as near to death as he would ever be without dying. He lay there trying to remember until the face of the man called ‘captain' floated uncertainly into his vision. Slowly the scene in the shack returned. And with it came fear that the men had taken him out onto the prairie and left him there to die. He tried to sit up, but the stark agony that knifed through his rib-cage prevented him. He heard himself groan.

He must have drifted off again.

The next thing he was conscious of was a sound which at first he could not identify, but slowly it seeped through into his benumbed brain that he was listening to a woman singing.

Something inside him laughed. Maybe it was an angel.

He rolled over onto his face and forced himself to his hands and knees. Lifting his head, he saw lights. A house. To left and right, more lights. Then it came to him that he was on the backlots of the town. Hope rose in him. He gritted his teeth together and fought his way to his feet through a curtain of weakness and pain. When he tried to walk, his legs folded under him and he hit the ground. Twice he gained his feet and twice his legs failed him, but he kept at it, his will driving him. Finally, having fallen a fourth time, he tried crawling on hands and knees, pushing as slow as a snail toward the lights.

He crawled till something stopped him. A picket fence. Gripping it with both hands, he hauled himself to his feet again. He saw that he was immediately behind a house and that a door was open allowing light to stream out into the night. Between him and the light was a figure.

He tried to call out and all he could get out was some kind of a croak. He lost his balance and pitched forward over the fence.

* * *

Voices.

There was a bright light shining in his eyes and it hurt them, sending hot darts of pain through his head. He winced and closed them for a moment. When he opened them he saw a girl's face; the loveliest face he had ever seen it seemed.

A man's voice said: “Who could do a thing like this?”

He heard himself whisper: “That's a very good question.”

He felt bad, lying there like that with a woman looking at him. He tried to sit up, but he couldn't move at all now. Voices and faces became blurred, he tried to hang on desperately, feeling that if he surrendered he would be dead. But he drifted back into darkness just the same.

* * *

Again light hurt his eyes.

This time it was sunlight and it shone into his eyes like hope itself. He was in a room and its quietness was accentuated by the distant sounds of the town that came to his ears. He lay there a long time, listening and thinking:
I'm alive
. It was good, just lying there and knowing he was alive.

Slowly details of the room came through to him – pretty curtains that could only have been chosen by a woman, flowered paper on the walls, a bureau with a mirror on it. By God, he thought, he was in a woman's room.

Time meant nothing as he lay there, letting his mind drift, not moving, because he knew that movement meant pain. He remembered some of the details of the fight that had put him here, he recalled how he had found himself in the backlots; the faces of the man and woman leaning over him returned. Thinking about them, he drifted smoothly off into sleep again with a last thought for the man he had come here to find, but who had found him.

The next time he woke, it was dark and there was a light burning softly in the room. A slight and pleasant smell teased his nostrils. He opened his eyes and looked around him. Sitting in a chair no more than a few feet from him with some sewing on her lap was a woman. A girl. No more than a couple of years older than himself and a beauty – black hair and skin as pale as cream; eyes large and eloquent; a mouth soft, full and perfectly shaped. The body beneath was as perfect. Everything a man could desire.

“So,” she said, her eyes meeting his and that lovely mouth smiling, “you decided to come alive.” She had a funny foreign accent that was as clearcut as crystal. Her dress, he noticed, was
low-cut like an evening gown might be and he could see the start of the soft swell of her breasts, milk-white.

He smiled back at her.

“I thought I was in heaven for a moment,” he said.

She turned her head away and darted him a look from the corner of her fine eyes.

“Compliments already,” she said. “Macready warned me that I should not stay in here.”

“And who is Macready?” he asked.

“My manager.”

“What an occupation, managing somebody like you! And what might your name be, ma'am?”

“I'm Nellie Stein.”

The truth came to him. This was the famous Nellie Stein, the English opera star who was making a triumphant tour of America. She had received a tempestuous welcome throughout the whole of the West and was now concluding her tour along the railroad cowtowns of Kansas. It almost took his breath away that he could find himself lying in bed with so famous a beauty so near.

“Why, ma'am,” he said, “you've surely struck me all of a heap. Why, is this your bed?”

She laughed and her laugh was pure music.

“No, my sacrifice has not been great. This is my maid's room. She is a soft-hearted girl, Betty. She insisted we put you in here.”

“How's she makin' out?”

“We made up a bed in my room for her.”

“I'm real sorry to put you to all this inconvenience.”

“All we want is for you to get well.”

He thought about that, finding himself in a very weak and emotional condition.

“I'm thankin' you, ma'am,” he said. “I reckon you saved my life.”

“Perhaps,” she said. “But Marshal Malloy was of the opinion that you are indestructible.”

He smiled, rolled his head to one side and fell asleep again.

When he awoke again, there were two men in the room and one of them was Art Malloy, puffing at his gigantic mustache. He carried a revolver on his right hip and he was chewing on an unlit cigar. He squinted at McAllister worriedly from under the broadbrim of his hat. It was still night and the lamp was burning softly. The other man was young and clean-shaven. He had spotless hands that looked as soft and sensitive as a woman's. There was
a quiet confidence about him that impressed McAllister. This man smiled as McAllister's gaze met his.

“Well,” he said, “I guess you're still alive, but I can't say I know how.”

McAllister grinned.

“It's a family trick,” he said.

Malloy came to the side of the bed and as he moved, McAllister saw that there was another person in the room. It was a girl and he saw that she wore a lace apron and cap such as he had seen in pictures, but never in real life. He reckoned she was Nellie Stein's maid. Before he could get a good look at her, Malloy was in the way again and saying: “How'd you feel, boy?”

“Fine, just fine.”

“That's plainly a durn lie.”

“There ain't nothin' wrong with me won't heal,” McAllister said.

“You don't know what's wrong with you.”

“I'm breathin', ain't I?” McAllister half-snarled. “An' I'm hungry as all get out.”

“I'm afraid,” the young man said, “we can't feed you solids yet awhile. Maybe some soup, huh, Millie?”

The girl said: “I'll get some right away, doctor.” McAllister noticed she talked in a funny way like Nellie Stein did.

“Ma'am,” McAllister said, suddenly peppery, “if'n you don't aim to go rustle me up a man's size steak don't you bother to stir yourself none.”

“And what does that mean in English?” the girl demanded pertly and McAllister made a mental note that he would have to do something about her. He got a good look at her and saw that she wasn't much over eighteen; she was pretty with a fresh face, bright eyes and a round full figure. Just the way he liked to see a female parceled. There were compensations to being nearly beaten to death and he liked counting compensations of this kind.

“It means, miss,” Malloy said, “that if you don't give the patient a steak he is going to have your scalp.” He said it very solemnly. The girl flushed up and looked mad.

“I wouldn't advise solids,” said the young doctor.

McAllister fought pain and got up onto his elbows.

“McAllisters never take advice,” he said and was pleased that his voice was strong again. “If I don't get somethin' solid inside me I'm a-goin' to climb outa this here bed and get me some.”

“Mr. McAllister,” the doctor said, a little flustered, “I wouldn't
advise—”

The girl pushed forward. “Didn't you hear, doctor,” she said. “McAllisters never take advice. You should know by now that this kind of patient needs bullying. You lie down now, Mr. McAllister, and do as the doctor tells you. He knows best.” McAllister glared at her in fury and strove to get up. She gave a cry of impatience, took him by the shoulders and gently but firmly pushed him so that his head was back on the pillow again. Her touch and the smell of her was kind of nice. “Don't you dare move, now. Why, you've three broken ribs and you're all cut and torn something awful. I never saw—”

“You mean you've seen me?” McAllister demanded.

“I found you, didn't I?” she snapped.

McAllister quietened.

“So, it was you found me.”

“Yes, it was.”

“I reckon that gives you a kind of a right, then. Tell you what, doc. I'll drink this durned soup if'n this ministering angel ministers it to me. How's that?”

The doctor grinned.

“That sounds like a good compromise,” he said.

Malloy cleared his throat and stamped to the door.

“I'm wastin' my time here,” he said. “The boy'll live. McAllister, you going to tell me who did this to you?”

McAllister said: “I don't have to. You know. And he needed an army to help him.”

“I guess he would at that. But knowing who did it doesn't help. He rode out of town last night.”

“Which way'd he go?”

“South.”

Malloy opened the door and McAllister said: “Wait, marshal. How're the trail herds comin' along?”

Malloy told him: “Last one's around twenty miles south of town right now.”

“That the Struthers' outfit?”

Malloy frowned.

“No. Nobody heard of the Struthers' outfit.” He closed the door behind him. McAllister started worrying. What had happened to Sam? Had he given up the idea of heading for this town? Had he reckoned that there was too much risk and taken the herd further west? Or had the whole outfit been simply wiped out?

The doctor picked up his bag, preparing to leave.

“I leave you in good hands, Mr. McAllister,” he said. The girl looked as if she had been given a prize she didn't want. “I'll see you tomorrow morning. Plenty of sleep and we'll have you out of bed in no time at all.”

“How long, doc?”

“Two-three weeks and you'll be walking. A month and you'll be as good as new.”

“Wanta bet?” McAllister snarled.

The doctor gave him an uncertain grin, bade the maid goodnight and went out. The girl turned to McAllister and started tidying the bed without looking at him. He watched her closely, enjoying every second of it.

“It was worth gettin' beat,” he said. She pursed her lips and continued with her work. “Honey, be all woman and find me a steak. I've gotta get back my strength an' cow meat's the only thing that'll do it.”

She stopped. She rested both hands on the bed and looked into his eyes. If he had been able to push his head forward, she was close enough to kiss. But he couldn't, so he didn't, though he was tempted to.

“Mr. McAllister, sir,” she said, “you're not going to have a steak. You're to lie there, eat slops and get well just like the doctor said.”

“You want to bet on it, miss?” he demanded.

“It wouldn't be fair to bet on it,” she told him. “I'd be sure to win.”

“I'm the stubbornest man in Texas.”

“And I'm the stubbornest woman in Europe.”

“And the prettiest.”

She blushed. She left the bed and occupied herself about the room for a moment before she went out of the room, muttering something about getting him something to eat.

He lay there for a moment, very still, forgetting the girl instantly, thinking about Boss dead there on the prairie, Sam and the crew somewhere south of here with the cows. The marshal had said there were no more herds to come in, but McAllister knew there was one. Somehow, he had to get word to Sam. But how? And would word be enough? Sam would want help. You couldn't keep a herd intact and fight a bunch of Jayhawkers all at the same time.

He thought:
McAllister, if's just a matter of will. If you want to get off this bed hard enough, you can get off it
.

He tried to sit up, but he was held where he was by a hot wall of pain. He grated his teeth together and the sweat leapt out on his forehead.

“Christ!” he whispered. He fought vainly and felt like weeping in his helplessness.

You were only kicked and hit
, he told himself,
you weren't shot
.