Tough to Kill (14 page)

Gibson's eyebrows went up further.

“For God's sake, man.”

“You can't refuse me.”

“Aw, all right. I'll put your name down.”

“An', McShannon's.”

“His too.”

“An'Jack Owen.”

“The whole damn crew of you?”

“An' young Sarie.”

The sheriff exploded. He stood up and banged his fist on the desk-top.

“You outa your head? A kid like that can't ride in this race.”

“You got a rule that says that?”

“It'd be murder. Hell, just think…”

“Sarie rides.”

“It's on your head. I don't take no responsibility.”

“You don't have to.” McAllister turned toward the door. When he reached it, the lawman called his name and he turned back.

“Please keep outa trouble, Rem.”

“I won't make any, George. But if anybody wants it, he's got it.” McAllister went out onto the street and closed the door behind him. The sheriff sat down and wiped his face with a handkerchief. Not for the first time in his life he wished he were a store-keeper or a cattleman or anything other than a sheriff.

McAllister walked along the crowded sidewalk, avoiding pedestrians, eyes wary, and he thought about George Gibson, wondering if the man under the pressure of the circumstances had undergone a change. Had he ceased to walk the middle of the road and gone over to Markham's side. Nobody could blame him for doing that. Markham was a powerful man and he had a small army at his command. The sheriff might read it that only by siding Markham could he prevent bloodshed on an unprecedented scale. Gibson must know, for he was no fool, that men like McAllister and McShannon would not go down without a fight and if offered the fight would not sidestep it.

As he stepped off the sidewalk and crossed the intersection between Main and Carson, McAllister spotted the Markham
rider, Ransome. The man saw him and spoke quickly to his two companions. When McAllister looked again, they were gone. McAllister felt uneasiness start in the region of his spine.

At the north end of Carson, he found the judge's house.

The judge was at home, a white-haired resolute old character who had been administering law for twenty years on a lawless frontier. His wife showed McAllister in to the book-lined room. The old man was a great reader. He looked up over his glasses as the big man entered.

“Ah, Mr. McAllister.”

“Judge Maxwell.”

A white hand waved McAllister to a chair.

“What can I do for you?”

“You in the mood for marryin', judge?”

“That was my wife who showed you in.”

The judge thought that was very funny and he cackled for a short while. McAllister smiled politely.

“I want to get married in the mornin'.”

“And who is the unfortunate woman to be marrying a wild man like you?”

“Carlotta Markham.”

The judge looked faintly stunned.

“I'd heard rumors, of course,” he said. “I gather she does not have her brother's permission.”

“She's over age.”

“It looksa like I'll have to perform the ceremony, then. You realise the consequences, of course.” McAllister nodded.

He said: “There wouldn't be so many consequences maybe if you was to come out to my camp and do it out of town.”

The judge thought about that. He declared that it made sense. McAllister asked him if he could make it out to the camp by dawn.

“I have a tight schedule tomorrow,” McAllister said. “I have to get married, win the race and clear out of the valley in short time.”

The judge saw that. Wouldn't it be wiser if he just got married, forgot all about the race and cleared out as quickly as possible.

McAllister asked: “What would you do in my boots, judge?”

The old man grinned toothlessly.

“I'd say Carlotta was worth any amount of trouble, the
race is open to all comers and to hell with Markham. But that don't mean that I won't come down hard on you, McAllister, if there's gunplay in this town. I won't stand for it and you remember that.”

McAllister said: “I hope you tell Markham that.”

“I've done it already.” The old waved a hand in dismissal and McAllister let himself out.

The traffic was thinner here than on Main. The saloons were fewer and it was quieter, McAllister stopped and thought for a moment, chosing between the safety of the crowds on Main and the comparative safety of the darkness on the back lots. He decided on the darkness. Markham could have twenty men on Main. He wanted to stay whole till he was married and the race was run.

He crossed Carson and, after a quick look around, entered a narrow alleyway between the bank and a hardware store. For a moment he was blinded after the lights of the street. He shut his eyes for a moment and opened them again. His vision had increased and he went slowly forward. He reached the end of the alleyway and found himself on the backlots. Here was an assortment of trash, a wagon that belonged to the store and a hundred yards to his left the brush that ran down to the edge of the creek. He started to walk across the open space, stumbling occasionally on trash that lay in his way.

The shot that came from behind him took him entirely by surprise. It missed him, but it came too close for comfort. He spun, dropped to one knee and drew the Remington from leather, all in one movement.

He could see nothing beyond a street light at the other end of the alleyway and the dark blur of the buildings on either side of it. He thought he heard hurried movement behind him, but he couldn't be sure because his ears were full of the sounds of the town. His position felt uncomfortably vulnerable because he didn't know how visible he was to the man who had fired the shot.

He waited, expecting a second shot and hoping that he could snap a return at the muzzle-flame. But there was none. No movement that he could discern.

He waited long enough to think, to suspect that he was being suckered. Already the shot and his waiting here had taken time. In that time men could have moved around
behind him, or all around him. Whichever way he moved now he could be walking into a trap. Too late to realise that he would possibly have been safer on Main. The man near the alleyway was there to prevent him going back the way he had come. Somewhere, behind him in the darkness, there were other men waiting for him.

Standing up slowly, he waited again, listening, trying to pierce the darkness with his eyes. He could see a little better now as his eyes became accustomed to the gloom, but he couldn't see enough. Still no shot came.

He had the feeling that there was one man in front of him and more behind, which meant that he was safer going back to the alleyway. This he decided to do. But how? If he was visible to the man in front of him, if he were touched by the light from the street lamp he could be dead as soon as he had taken a pace. Therefore, he had to go to the right or left. Left meant the rear of the buildings on Main. Right meant the brush. The buildings could offer him better protection against lead.

He took a pace to the left.

Nothing happened.

The right hand that held the gun was sweating. He took the gun by the barrel in his left hand and carefully wiped the palm of his gun-hand on the leg of his pants. A slippery hand could cost him his life.

He took the gun again in his right hand and suddenly turned and started running at the dark shapes of the buildings. He had taken no more than two paces when the gun cracked. Something seemed to tear violently at the heel of a boot and he went down. He hit hard and awkwardly and, even as he did so, he heard the shouts of men on the backlots. In that confused moment, he couldn't place them, but he knew that they were between him and the brush and the creek. His only chance was Main.

Heaving himself to his feet, he charged on till his legs caught at something knee-high and he once more went over. This time he knew that he had run into a loading platform at the rear of a store. He had hurt one leg, but the danger of the moment gave him no opportunity to be conscious of the pain. Throwing himself, under the platform, he turned to face his attackers. The night seemed to be full of moving dark shapes. He snapped a shot and at once lead rained back
at him and he knew that he couldn't stay where he was. He started crawling and came to the edge of the platform and dove into the open.

He wanted to reach the street now. The dun was standing tied outside the sheriff's office. All he wanted was to fog it out of town and that meant reaching the horse.

He was spotted as soon as he came out of cover. A shout went up.

“I see him yonder.”

A shot was chopped in his direction. A bullet went
thunk
into the wood behind him. His head jerked this way and that as he sought out his attackers. A man made a sudden burst from cover, giving him only the fraction of a second for a shot. If he could cut one of them down, it might slow the rest and give him a chance to reach the street. He fired, but the light was too poor for shooting and he was confused between what was form and what was shadow. There was a stutter of fire in return and he lay flat under it, hearing it ripping into the wood of the buildings behind him. From inside there was a cry of alarm as a window crashed in.

He lurched to his feet, drove a shot at a shifting shadow and turned in flight, diving into the narrow space between the two buildings, heading desperately for the lights of the street.

Suddenly, the light was blotted out and he knew that there was a man in front of him. There was no time to stop. He charged on relentlessly, went full tilt into the man and found to his shock that he had come up against a man as heavy as himself. The impact stunned them both momentarily. Then instinctively, he felt rather than saw the man slam down at him with the gun barrel. Catching the man's wrist with his left hand, he butted with his head, brought up his knee sharply and heard the other's cry of anguish. The man staggered back. McAllister followed, swung the Remington and brought it down on the crown of his hat. The man sank from his view with a groan. McAllister stepped over him and ran from the street.

As he came out into the lights, it seemed that everybody on the street was looking at him. A man who knew him called his name; a man he didn't knew drew a gun and he guessed that he was a Markham rider.

McAllister hesitated. The moment was one of danger, but
he had been reared to be chary of firing guns with innocent people about. The other man fired. At once the street got on the move as men and women fought each other to get out of the line of fire. A woman screamed. A man went down and others stumbled over him. Suddenly, the line of fire was cleared.

The other man fired again in the second that McAllister thumbed the hammer of the Remington back and squeezed the trigger.

The man made a grotesque step sideways, turned and walked blindly into the rail of the sidewalk. He hung there for a moment and then fell into the dust. The horses tied nearby shied. McAllister didn't wait. He legged it past the wounded man and headed for the dun.

When he neared the sheriff's office, he came face to face with George Gibson and Arch Dolan. They both had guns in their hands.

George held up a hand and said: “Not so fast,” and eyed the gun in McAllister's hand.

“I can't get outa here fast enough,” McAllister told him.

“What happened?”

“Markham an' his crowd made a try for me.”

“You got proof it was Markham?”

“Sure,” McAllister snarled. “A half-dozen of 'em cut down on me in the dark and I asked them nice an' they said they was Markham's boys. Sometimes you make me sick, George.”

Gibson didn't like being talked to like that in front of a deputy and he showed it.

He said: “Put your gun away, McAllister. You an' me an' Arch here'll go along and sort this thing out.”

McAllister laughed unpleasantly. He went to the dun, slipped the line free of the tie-rail and stepped into the saddle. The Remington was still in his hand, a fact of which sheriff and deputy were well aware.

“You know where to find me if you want me,” McAllister said. “See you at the race tomorrow. An' I'll want more protection than you gave me tonight.”

He wheeled the dun and rode down the street. It wasn't a pleasant thing to do because he expected to feel lead between his shoulder blades every pace the dun took. Folk eyed him as he rode and one or two men who knew him shouted encouragement. He waved in return.

The bridge was reached without incident and then he lifted the dun to a trot, going briskly through the scattered camps and reaching his own. Carlotta at once ran to meet him. He got out of the saddle and she was in his arms,

“Are you all right?” she demanded

He looked surprised.

“Sure,” he said, “why shouldn't I be? Want to know somethin'?”

“What?”

“I'm goin' to make an honest woman of you in the mornin'.” He laughed at the expression of wonder on her face and added: “Judge's comin' out first thing in the mornin' to make us legal.”

Being a woman, she ran to tell the others. Sarie unexpectedly showed pleasure. She jumped up and hugged the older woman, saying: “An' high time too, the way you two been a-carryin' on.” Kiowa gave a wild Indian whoop of congratulations and went to search out a bottle in his saddlebags with which they could celebrate. Even Jack Owen came over from the horses to stammer his congratulations. They stood around and drank from the bottle, politely wiping the neck of the bottle before they passed it on. Then McAllister decided that it was late and they should all be in their beds. The girls and Jack turned in, but McAllister took McShannon aside. The younger man knew from the look on his partner's face what this meant.

“Trouble,” he said.

McAllister nodded. “They cut down on me in the dark.”

“Did you get any of 'em?”

“One for sure, but that don't help us none.”