Tough to Kill (3 page)

“Who're you?”

Even the voice was like a bull-frog's croak.

“McAllister. Remington McAllister.”

McAllister smiled disarmingly as if he were greeting a normal human being.

“Who asked you dismount?”

McAllister laughed.

“Whoever heard of a man courtin' from the saddle.”

That stopped Markham the same as a four foot thick adobe wall. He pulled up short and his frog mouth came open.

“What?”

“You maybe think I'm past the courtin' age an' that's where you'd be plumb wrong, Markham. A man's as old as he feels, as the sayin' goes. An' I feel real skittish. So like any other stud, I come where the fillies is at.”

For a moment, Markham was speechless. He pointed at McAllister and his hand shook. The shaking reached down through his frame and he trembled with rage from head to foot.

“See here - ” he managed to whisper hoarsely. “See here, you … by Gawd, I never … A feller came like you to this very house last night. I taught him good. He won't be courtin' no respectable man's daughter for a long time, I reckon.”

“I saw him,” McAllister said, his manner sobering. “But he came at night when your men're here. An' he came without a gun. Your men ain't here, Markham, an' I have a gun.”

“My daughter - ”

“Who said anythin' about your daughter, man. I come a-courtin' of your sister, Miss Carlotta.”

“My sister!” Markham's rage seemed to burst, it flooded him, he drowned in it, speechless.

“Ain't she the fine upstandin' gal with hair like a raven's wing and figure to put shame to angels? Ain't she the gal with the eyes that could blind a man to all other women? Ain't she the- ”

Sound burst from Markham. It came out in a roar of words that blurred one into the other.

“Get outa here … Get outa here, you Goddam no-good saddle-tramp, you pulin' Yankee trash.”

McAllister leaned forward and prodded him in his massive chest with a long, hard brown forefinger.

“My daddy,” he said, “fought at San Jacinto with Sam Houston and my mother was either a Cheyenne princess or a Mexican lady, depends on which way my daddy told the tale. But I ain't no Yankee. Now, you look like you're goin' to take your mad out on my hide so let me tell you, fat man, I have a Spencer in the barn and a Henry over by the corral yonder and they're both lookin' kinda belligerent at your ahirtbuttons. So you raise a finger an' you're daid.”

Markham started. His small eyes darted from the barn to the corner of the corral. He saw the glint of rifle-barrels in the sun. The sight seemed to have a steadying effect on him. He sobered suddenly as if he had switched off his range with the turn of a knob.

“What kind of a fool are you, McAllister,” he said, “to think that you can get away with a thing like this?”

“I ain't any kind of a fool,” McAllister said. “It was a young fool who came here last night and you had nearly beat to death. I got it worked out all along the line. This is war. You laid a hand on a friend of mine, so you laid a hand on me. I'll pay you, Markham, every way I know how. But that's in the future. Right now, I'll pay my respects to Miss Carlotta. You get her down here real fast. Love's mighty impatient.”

Markham changed his tone again.

“What kind of a man are you?” he asked. “You can't drag a respectable woman into this kind of thing. My sister has been raised gentle.”

“I ain't draggin' her into nothin',” McAllister said, “except a bit of real old-time courtin'. All open and above-board in front of lovin' brother. Call her.”

Markham sneered.

“You're pretty brave with two rifles over yonder and a gun on your hip.”

McAllister smiled.

“You'll find me pretty brave in my birthday suit,” he said modestly. He turned and shouted: “Hold your fire, boys, me an' the cattle king're goin' to embrace.”

He took out his Remington pistol and laid it on the stoop.

“Now,” he said.

“You still have your knife.”

McAllister drew his knife and with a flick of his wrist sent it spinning to stick in the plank at Markham's feet. The rancher moved with a speed incredible for his size. His hand grasped the hilt of the knife. The toe of McAllister's boot caught the massive hand and sent the knife spinning. Markham came erect, his face dark with blood. He wasn't a bullfrog now - he was a bull. He launched himself from the stoop onto McAllister with a roar,

McAllister's movement now was a thing of pure beauty. He fell back under the rancher's hurtling weight, landed on his shoulders, kicked with his feet, somersaulted, came onto his feet and turned all in one movement. Markham hit the dust of the yard on his back and the wind went out of him with the sound of the bass notes of the organ. He climbed slowly to his feet and showed that he was a shaken man.

Dust adhered to his face where he sweated. His small eyes snapped.

“I'm goin' to kill you,” he whispered. “I'm goin' to take you apart with my bare hands.”

“Save your breath, fat man,” McAllister told him.

McAllister hit him in the belly just above the belt-line and on his nose. The last seemed to break and a lot of blood came out of it. Markham grunted, but was undaunted. McAllister knew that he had opposed himself to a lot of man and that he had had a lot of luck. He grew wary. This man wasn't beaten yet.

Markham charged, pulled up short and drove a bootheel at McAllister's crotch. McAllister curved away from the foot, caught it and flung the rancher away from him. Markham came to his feet quickly and advanced with a show of caution. They measured each other and Markham flashed a fast right. It caught McAllister high on the head and staggered him. It was like being kicked by a large and powerful mule. He didn't like it. He managed to parry the left that followed it and countered with a right to the belly. Markham ignored the blow and used his knee.

It was like a giant hammer blow in McAllister's groin. He gasped from the pain of it and went down, doubled up, hugging himself. Markham swung a kick into his ribs and raised
a spurred foot for the tromping. McAllister rolled and came to one knee, his face contorted. Markham jumped in with both feet, caught him on the chest and smashed him to the ground. The rancher also lost his footing and went down, but got quickly to his feet and rushed in for the kill.

McAllister rolled over as if with great weariness and lifted his head. As Markham aimed another deadly kick, this time for the head, McAllister caught his ankle in a two handed grip. Rearing himself slowly to his feet, he put Markham on his back with a thud. Slowly, Markham climbed to his feet. Both men were slowed now, both badly punished.

Heavy-footed, the rancher paced toward McAllister and swung a right that sent a message ahead of it. McAllister blocked it with a wrist and smashed his left into the other's already injured face. Markham made a sobbing sound and fell back a pace. McAllister went after him like a man in a dream, pounding home blows slowly and mercilessly. Markham went before him until his heels touched the bottom step to the stoop and shook the whole house.

He tried to rise, but McAllister fell on him, took an ear in either hand and pounded his head several times on the planks beneath. Markham's eyes glazed over and he lay still.

For a moment, McAllister lay where he was on the vanquished man, gasping for breath, then, recovered a little, he staggered to his feet. He wiped his face on his bandanna and started to walk on weak legs toward the old well in the center of the yard.

A man called: “Hold it right there.”

He stopped and looked around. The blacksmith was still outside his shop and now there was a gun in his hand.

McShannon fired one shot from the corral corner where he lay hidden and the lead threw up a spout of dust at the blacksmith's feet.

“Drop it and back up,” McShannon shouted.

The blacksmith looked surprised, dropped his gun and walked back several paces till he was near the door of his shop. McAllister continued to the well, let down the bucket and drew it up full. When he had taken a long drink and bathed his sore face, he carried the water over to Markham and emptied it into his face.

The bull-frog made vain efforts to escape the deluge, moving his head heavily this way and that. Finally, the cold
water revived him enough for him to open his eyes. Very slowly and groaning a lot, he sat up.

“You bastard,” he said in a dead voice, “I'll kill you for this.”

McAllister wandered around till he found his hat. He knocked the dust from it and put it on his aching head.

“Call your sister,” he said. “Or I start all over.”

“No call to,” a cool voice said, “she's here.”

McAllister lifted his eyes and saw her. The sight of her stopped him. He had only glimpsed her in town at a distance. Seeing her here in the sunlight was another thing altogether.

He hadn't lied. She was perfection - the black shining hair, tied at the nape of her neck with a ribbon; the lightly tanned skin, the perfect nose with its light dusting of freckles; the dark eyes with their long curving lashes; the full breasts and hips swelling delightfully from a slender waist; the hands that moved like gentle poems. Here was beauty and character all wrapped up in one parcel.

For a moment, he stumbled over his words like a schoolboy.

Markham got to his feet shakily.

“Get in the house,” he said.

“Bob,” she said, “I don't think you're in command of this situation at the moment. I think Mr. McAllister is. So perhaps we should do as he says.”

Markham slaughtered McAllister with his eyes and said: “I've spent my life keeping saddle-bums like this away from you, Charlie.”

She smiled.

“And made my life much duller for it. I don't think that I should come to much harm with a man of this kind. What do you think, Mr. McAllister?”

“Er - ma'am? Why, like your brother here says I maybe am a little on the rough side, ma'am, Miss Carlotta. But I have my manners an' I ain't never struck a lady - except when I was drunk, or real mad, or she deserved it.” Their eyes met and hers twinkled as if to confirm that there was a small conspiracy between them against her brother. “But I reckon there comes a time to every man when he has to reform. Maybe with the help of a good woman - ”

“But how, Mr. McAllister, do you know I'm a good woman?”

“Ma'am, with a brother like yourn you don't have no choice.”

Her lips twitched in a smile.

“So you came here to pay court to me, knowing what kind of a reception you'd get?”

“Yes, ma'am. But I have two riflemen posted out yonder to make sure I don't come to no harm.”

She laughed outright and Markham went purple with rage.

“You seem to have come to a little harm.”

“Not as much as the other fellow.”

Markham shouted: “Will you get the hell outa here?”

As if the other hadn't spoken, McAllister asked: “So I'm formally askin' for your permission, ma'am, to pay court to you-all.”

“Over my dead body,” Markham bellowed.

“I hope it don't come to that,” McAllister said.

“I shall have to think about it,” the lady said. “Perhaps we could continue this conversation some other time.”

“Surely, ma'am. It is kinda crowded here.”

McAllister picked up his gun and his knife and sheathed them both. When he straightened up, he saw that Carlotta had been joined by two other girls. One he recognised as Alvina, the light of McShannon's life. The other, he guessed was Lucy, Markham's younger daughter. Alvina was a honey blonde, all blue-eyed, sweet and southern; Lucy, was a redhead, all dimples and blushes. It only needed Jack Owen to fall for that one and the three happy bachelors were all sunk.

Markham roared: “You girls get in the house this minute.”

Alvina said: “We only came out to see what all the ruckus was about, papa.”

“Get back in, hear?”

Lucy said: ‘Papa, you look awful hurt. We only came to see if you wanted any help.”

McAllister heard a whinnying noise from the direction of the barn and, turning his head, saw Jack Owen standing there like a moon-struck calf, staring at Lucy. McAllister groaned inwardly. That made every damned one of the trio struck on a Markham woman. It was time they rode out and thought about what they were getting themselves into.

A sound like a moan came from his other side. He looked that way and saw McShannon standing all battered and war-struck with a silly grin on his face, his eyes fixed on Alvina.
A whole lot of use the pair of them would be if real trouble started now.

“What're you doin' here?” McAllister demanded. “I told you to stay at your posts.”

McShannon, not taking his eyes from Alvina, said: “Same as you, Mack. Courtin'.”

Markham, beside himself, pointed his again quavering finger at McShannon.

“That was the no-good saddle tramp I give his comeuppance last night. I said then if he ever come back here again I'd hang him.”

“Papa, how can you talk that way?” Alvina said. “Why, you mean this nice young man came here last night and you were rough with him.”

“He wasn't rough enough to keep me from callin' on you-all, Miss Alvina. No, sir, ma'am,” McShannon said gallantly. He looked at Markham and gave him a lopsided grin, “You surely don't shape up too well on your lonesome, Markham. Though you do pretty well with a dozen or so fellers to help you.”

Lucy asked: “And who is this gentleman?” She looked at Jack and Jack looked at her.

McAllister said: “That's Jack Owen, ma'am. After you've known him maybe a year or two he'll search around some an' find some words to speak to you.”

“I got words,” Jack said indignantly, “but I just don't throw 'em around regardless. Proud to know you, ma'am, Miss Lucy.”