Tough to Kill (15 page)

“Hell… an' we have the women along.”

“If somethin' don't happen tonight, we may pull it off. Markham can't be fool enough to try anythin' tomorrow with the sheriff and the judge around. Boy, we have to win that damn race and fog outa here like nobody's business.”

“If only we could do it without Sarie and Carlotta along.”

McAllister frowned. “I thought about that, but knowin' the pair of 'em, I'd say it can't be done. Best thing is not to let 'em know the shootin's started. It'll only worry 'em. Don't tell Jack either or he'll take his fool horses an' git.”

McShannon chuckled.

“Mum's the word,” he said. He turned in and McAllister found his rifle and mounted guard over the horses. He wasn't only worried about Markham, he had the Kiowas in mind, for they were inveterate horse-thieves.

The old judge smiled and shivered in the cold air of the early morning.

“Well, it's all done, folks,” he said. “Carlotta, you made this hellion a respectable man. Well, as near as he'll ever get to being one.”

Carlotta hung oh the arm of her new husband and smiled up at him. The judge told himself they made a damned handsome couple. He liked a married couple that had fire in them and these two certainly had that.

A ragged cheer went up from the watching crowd. You can't keep a wedding secret even in the cold light of dawn. There were maybe a couple of hundred people there - Indians, cowhands, farmers, a drummer or two. Jugs were produced miraculously from nowhere and were passed from hand to hand. The bridegroom had to drink, McShannon and the coughing spluttering Jack Owen had to drink. Then the judge shook McAllister by the hand, kissed the bride to another cheer and tottered off to his waiting buggy. The crowd shouted encouragement and ribald remarks to McAllister, who stood abashed and grinning foolishly and then scattered.

“From now on,” McAllister told his little company, “we stick together.”

Carlotta said: “You really think my brother'll make trouble? I don't think so, Rem. He's wiped me from his mind.”

McShannon said: “He ain't wiped me.”

And Jack Owen said: “Nor me.”

McAllister said: “Saddle up and let's get into town.”

*

Markham was in his element. He liked power and he liked admiration. This morning's events gave him both. It was his day. He was putting up the money for the race, one of his four thoroughbreds that had been entered would win it. He had taken several good side bets on Starlight, the black, and already he was rubbing his hands. Not that he needed the money, but he liked to win.

He was the great man come to town and the town was conscious that here in its midst was the one man that could buy the whole place out lock, stock and barrel several times over and not notice the difference. It was no more than a quarter of a mile from his hotel to the starting point, but he disdained to walk, as any good cattleman would, and rode there on his fine quarter horse, several of his foremen and riders grouped around him, four men leading the chosen racers. Tagging along and seemingly taking enormous pleasure in the honor done them were the mayor, several councilmen and the sheriff. Heads turned to watch them as they went. Then the whole town seemed to move in the direction of the starting point. Pedestrians, riders, buggies, buckboards, wagons, they all choked Main and turned into Carson and headed out onto the plain.

As the people came out of town, a wonderful sight met their eyes, for it seemed that the whole hillside above them was on the move as the folks from the encampment up there moved out with the same purpose: farmers, cowmen, horse-wranglers, Indians, they all moved in a colorful mass to the race.

Markham himself had for once changed out of his rough and worn range garb and clothed himself in an ill-fitting store suit of funereal black. On his head was balanced, rather painfully it seemed, a brown derby. The legs of his pants were thrust into brown, hand-tooled half-boots which would have cost a considerable part of a rannies year's wages.

When he reached the starting point, chatting idly with the men around him, nodding to folk here and there in the crowd, occasionally raising his hat to a lady, this morning all benign and pleasant, he saw that the judge was already there sitting quietly in his buggy with his fat Dutch wife by his side. Markham raised his hat and bowed to the lady, nodded and smiled pleasantly to the judge.

“Mornin', judge.”

“Morning, Markham.”

The old man was there to judge the start and finish of the race. From the start it had been inconceivable that anybody else could have done the job. The sheriff, as chief organiser of the race, got down from his horse and bustled forward, papers in hand. He took up a position by the judge's buggy and started leafing through his papers. He gave a sign to Jed Smith, the blacksmith and famous for his loud voice, and Jed shouted for starters to gather around or the race would start without them. Markham stepped down from the saddle and handed the lines to a nearby rider. He spotted Alvina and Lucy with some other girls of their own ages mounted on a wagon and waved cheerily to them. Never having seen him do anything like that before, they were too astonished to wave back.

People started to gather around the starting point and, as riders started to come forward, the two deputy-sheriffs with several helpers began to push the people back off the track. The first rider to call out his name to be ticked off by George Gibson was a hungry-looking mustanger mounted on a half-broken mustang. Markham eyed the grass-fed horse with some malicious satisfaction and smiled: “Crowbait.” His four horses would walk away from that one. Then a half-bred Nez Percé who had drifted down from the north country doing work around the ranches as a horse-breaker came up on a stout-looking Appaloosa with a thick neck, short legs and with bottom from there to eternity and Markham knew from his knowledge of horseflesh and some irritation that here was a stayer who would still be running fresh at the end of the race. Next came two sons of nearby ranchers mounted on cowponies that were mustang with a dash of quarter horse in them. They were no opposition. Then Markham's boy wrangler, Johnny Kelso, called his name from the back of Starflight and Markham glowed with pride as an admiring murmur went through the watching crowd. There followed a mixed raggle-taggle of Kiowas, Arapahoes and Cheyenne mounted on what looked to him as half-starved ponies that might be tough and have good wind but had no turn of speed.

One of the last to arrive, or so Markham thought, was a fine Spanish horse owned by Martin Burville, a wealthy rancher of the district. It was a sorrel with a white forefoot and was called Chief. On its back was a fight-weight wrangler.
Markham eyed this animal with some misgiving. There was opposition there.

He turned to the sheriff.

“That's the lot, Gibson,” he said.

George looked at him and said: “Four more an* here they come.” He turned to watch the approaching riders. Markham turned to follow his gaze and his mouth fell open. The first person he saw was his sister, Carlotta. Immediately behind her, mounted on a chunky dun was the man McAllister. Then came a slip of a girl mounted on a bad-tempered red stud that was already snapping at the geldings near it. Behind her came the rest of the gang: Kiowa McShannon on his sorrel and Jack Owen on his bay. Markham's hot eyes fell from the riders to the horses and he saw, though the horseflesh was nothing spectacular to look at, there was plenty of bottom there. The red stud had plenty of go in him and the dun McAllister was on would be a stayer. The sorrel and the bay were nothing to sneer at.

Markham snarled to Gibson: “You mean these outlaws're running in my race?”

“Yes indeedy,” affirmed the sheriff and there may have been the ghost of a smile around the corners of his mouth.

“They are not,” Markham roared.

The people nearby heard every word and gathered closer, interested.

“Their names're down,” the sheriff said.

“They do not run in my race,” Markham shouted.

Carlotta rode past him and ignored him. He glared at her impotently.

The sheriff turned his head and said: “Judge, Markham objects to McShannon, McAllister and young Sarie.”

“What?” howled Markham. “You mean that damn brat's runnin' in my race?”

“Her name's down.”

“None of 'em don't run.”

The judge pushed forward.

“Their names're down,” he declared, staring coldly at the angrily glaring Markham. “And they stay down.” “I'll cancel the race.”

The sheriff said: “I'm holdin' the stake money, Markham. An' I say it goes on.”

Markham bellowed: “This is robbery.”

The judge said with a little glimmer of a smile: “Reckon those horses of yours can't beat the stud, Markham.”

“My horses can beat anything on four legs in the West.”

“Folks'll think you got windy if you back out now.”

“You know damn well I ain't windy. My thoroughbreds're the fastest things alive.”

McAllister heard the last part of this talk as he maneuvered the dun into line. Beyond him, McShannon and Jack Owen were waving to Alvina and Lucy. Markham spotted Carlotta going in the direction of his daughters and he wanted to stop her. His attention was divided.

McAllister said loud so everybody could hear:. “You talk a good race, Markham. We got four horses here say you're all wind.”

Markham looked fit to be tied.

Foley bringing his gray thoroughbred into line, said softly through his teeth to McAllister: “Watch yourself, man, I'm goin' to stick closer'n skin to you.”

The red stallion tried attacking the gray and Sarie had her work cut out holding him. Foley and Markham howled their protest.

“That animal's wild,” Markham declared. “It shouldn't ought to be allowed to run.”

The sheriff said in a stern voice: “If you can't keep that horse in order, girl, pull him outa the line.”

The red tried nipping an Indian pony that came near and McAllister said: “Take him back a mite, Sarie.” He knew the stud would be better for a start free of the other horses. Sarie obeyed him and backed the red until it was a length behind the other horses. The sight seemed to please Markham. He looked over his shoulder and saw that Carlotta was talking to Alvina and Lucy. He would have something to say about that later. Right now he couldn't take his eyes off the horses.

Most of them were in line now. It wasn't much of a line, because the Indian ponies didn't like the whitemen's mounts and vice versa. There was a lot of biting and kicking going on. Every now and then a horse would break the line and pitch forward and its rider would fight it back into place again. The riders were sweating and nerves were starting to show.

The sheriff walked out in front and declared in a loud voice: “Boys …” A shout went up from the crowd. “Boys,” he began again, “an' Miss Sarah, I'm going to holler ready,
there will be a short pause then I'm going to shout ‘go' and drop my handkerchief. Got that?”

They all told him they got it and told him to get on with it. Another horse, a Cheyenne pony, broke line and had to be manhandled back again before the sheriff, moving back to one side, shouted: “Ready… Go.”

A loud cheer went up, a couple of shots were fired into the air and something like thirty horses gathered their hind legs under them and were quirted into flying starts, earth clods flew, a mass of horses and riders seemed for a moment to be jammed tightly together and then suddenly to burst asunder as the quick starters shot away from the slower animals.

Markham's Starlight crashed out like a meteor, immediately taking the lead by a length, its small rider crouched over its shoulders. Off to one side, the halfbreed on the Appaloosa took the attention of the watchers, head stretched, its rider beating it at once into a dead run. Then came Foley on the gray, then another Markham thoroughbred, a sorrel, then Burville's gelding and Jack Owen on his bay neck-and-neck with McShannon on his sorrel a half-length behind. After that there was a close bunch of Indians and cowhands, behind whom was McAllister on his dun, hanging back to let Sarie come up on the stud.

Red made a bad start as McAllister knew he would. He didn't like the presence of the other horses, but that didn't worry his young rider because she knew that he hated nothing more than having other horses in front of him. He acted up a little, pitched a couple of times, tried a sunfish, swerved to one side and then straightened out and made off after the other horses. McAllister heard Sarie sing out to him in her treble voice.

Her gear was unconventional. She herself was dressed like
a boy, which had brought comments from the crowd, and around her head to stop her hair getting in her eyes, was a silk scarf. The stud carried nothing more than a surcingle with light stirrups attached to it and a hackamore. Its mouth was free. Men who noted this declared that a kid that size could never have controlled that much horse with a Spanish bit in its mouth. With a hackamore, it would run away with her.

As the horses thundered across the stretch of flat through which the creek ran, Markham spotted Burville and rushed across to him to taunt him into making a reckless bet. Burville who was as proud of his horseflesh as Markham was of his, came to meet him.

McAllister carved a way with the dun between two Indian ponies, a scrawny pinto and a chunky little roan, and Red tucked in behind him. The dun was a running companion of his and he didn't like to see it getting away from him like that. Past the Indian ponies, McAllister threw a tight grin at Sarie over his shoulder. The child grinned back and the stallion started to edge up on the dun.

All the way along the creek, Starlight led the running, hitting an easy long pace, stretched out to swallow the ground beneath its neat feet, apparently not even trying yet. The Appaloosa was trying all right and it showed. The halfbreed rode with a grim set look on his face like a man who knows that victory has to be bitterly fought for. The Nez Percé horse was running well, but even before the field swept away from the creek and onto rougher ground, it was at its limit of speed. It was a good length to the rear of the leader and Foley on his gray was pressing him hard. Behind, knee to knee almost, came McShannon and Jack Owen fighting it out with the rest of the thoroughbreds in the race. Behind them came the bulk of the field made up of Indians and cowhands. These started to string out after the first mile and this gave McAllister and Sarie a chance to start moving up through them.