Tough to Kill (7 page)

“How can it be?”

“There's only one way a beautiful women can wipe any debt out.” McAllister ground-hitched his horse and walked around to the side of the buggy. The woman looked alarmed.

“Mr. McAllister, what do you mean?”

“It won't kill you an' it will wipe out any debt you owe me.”

“Mr. McAllister, you come near me and I'll scream. The whole town will hear.” He put a foot on the buggy step. “You know how men act when a woman has been molested in this part of the country.”

McAllister went still.

“I ain't about to molest you, ma'am,” he said. “The debt can only be paid if'n you molest me.”

The blush started in her white neck and ran swiftly to reach her black hair.

“You're impertinent and coarse.”

“I'm a man and you're a woman and nothin' much else matters.” He took his foot off the step and turned toward his horses.

She said: “It's in broad daylight on the open trail.”

“I ain't ashamed to be seen a-kissin' you. I'd be proud.”

“But what about me?”

“They'd say Markham's sister was human after all.” He turned and smiled at her. “She is human, ain't she?”

In a low voice, she said: “She's human.”

“Prove it.”

She tied the reins with a slow and deliberate movement, stepped down from the buggy and came toward him. When
she stood in front of him, he saw that she was taller than he thought. She lifted her eyes to him and he saw that at close quarters her eyes were unbelievably lovely. She was breathing quickly; her breasts moved and the movement made the blood pound in his temples. She stood on tiptoe, put her hands behind his neck and pulled his head down to hers.

The lips she placed on his were soft and cool like the petal of a spring flower. He expected passion to overtake him, but instead he experienced an overpowering tenderness toward her. Surprised, he thought:
My God, this must be the real thing
.

He didn't press his luck. As soon as her mouth relaxed under his and when her hands tightened behind his neck, he released her grip on him and held her off. She looked at him in a defiant, frightened way, he smiled at her.

“Well,” she said, “does that prove I'm human?”

“It proves the Markham girls pay their family debts. This'll prove if you're human.”

He put his arms around her and pulled her gently to him. For a brief moment, she resisted him, then as his pressure continued, she at first relaxed against him and then, as his mouth swooped to hers and demanded more of her, her whole body arched to meet his.

For a while, they both lost all sense of time. When they came apart, they were panting unashamedly. For a moment, she was silent, then she showed anger.

“Well,” she snapped, “are you satisfied? What have I proven now?”

“That you're not only human, you're a wonderful woman.”

“Now you despise me.”

“Now I admire you more than ever.”

“You think I'm a woman who would let any man kiss her.”

“I think if another man so much as looked at you I'd nail his hide to the barn door.”

“You think I'm cheap - ”

McAllister said: “Would you marry me?”

That stopped her. She gazed at him out of wide eyes.

“You don't mean that.”

“What's the matter with you, woman? Don't you believe any good of yourself?”

She turned away. In a low voice, she said: “I didn't mean to start anything like this. You could get yourself killed.”

“Your brother.”

“And Foley. He's wanted me for years. Ever since we were down in Texas, he's wanted me. He's a dangerous man. You think because you made a fool of him the other day he doesn't amount to much. But he could kill you. I know what he's capable of.”

He took her by the arms and turned her.

“This doesn't have anything to do with Foley or your brother or anybody but you an' me,” he told her gently. “I'm courtin' you an' that's all that matters.”

Her eyes were bright when she raised them to his.

“I believe you mean that.”

“Believe it like you never believed anything before. Just tell me I have a chance.”

She touched his face gently with her fingertips.

“You have a chance,” she whispered.

He kissed resoundingly. He laughed. He felt good. He felt ten years younger, like a green kid and he liked that.

“When will I see you again?” he asked.

“It's too risky.”

“Do you ride?”

“Sometimes.”

“You know Squaw Canyon?” She nodded. “Meet me there mid-morning three days from now.” She nodded again eagerly. He walked her back to the buggy and helped her in. She leaned down and kissed him, taking his face between two cool hands to do so. He didn't speak again, but walked to his horse, gathered up the trailing line and stepped into the saddle. Lifting a hand in farewell, he rode past her. She watched him go, smiling to herself, scared at what she had done, but knowing that she had never felt happier in her life. She watched him out of sight over the brow of the rise, then gathered up her own lines and drove on into town.

McShannon, his face ruddy in the firelight, asked: “Do you have a plan?”

McAllister said: “Sure.”

“What is it?”

“Win that race and play hell with Markham. He pays for our house and he goes on payin' till he cries quits.”

Jack Owen said: “I don't call that a plan. It's a dream.”

“That's all you'll get out of me. Kiowa, get your horse saddled and let's get outa here.”

Jack said: “Ain't I comin'?”

“You stay here and get them horses in trim. We'll be back in a day or two.”

Sarie said: “You two jaspers goin' courtin' again?”

McAllister laughed.

“Might do a little on the side,” he told her.

Jack snarled: “That ain't fair. Don't I get a chance?”

McAllister stood up and went off into the darkness to catch up his horse, saying: “Don't be too eager, sonny, eagerness never got a man anywhere with a woman.” McShannon followed him. They caught up their horses, saddled and bridled them, shoved their saddle-guns in the boots and got aboard. McShannon felt the excitement rise in him. He knew that there was action in the offing. He knew the signs with McAllister. They walked their horses past the fire, Jack and Sarie stared at them belligerently as they passed into the night.

They rode a mile in silence, coming down into a canyon and heading north, going at a steady trot when they reached the flat. The stars were bright, but there was no moon as yet.

McShannon, who was riding in the rear, pulled up alongside McAllister and asked: “Where we goin'?”

“Markham's. Where else?”

McShannon thought and swallowed hard.

“There could be shootin',” he said.

“We ain't lookin' for shootin'.”

“What are we lookin' for?”

“Horses.”

“Hell, we ain't liftin' horses.

“We ain't. We just goin' to scatter all them lovely racers over the prairie. Them thoroughbreds spook easy. It'll take Markham a coupla days to catch 'em.”

McShannon chuckled.

“He'll sure be mad. Is that all we're goin' to do? Ain't we goin' to burn his barn or somethin'?”

“Not this trip.”

“Seems a long ride for a little trouble.”

“I'm doin' a little courtin' while I'm that way.”

“You made arrangements?”

“Yeah.”

“You dirty sidewinder. You're courtin' your gal an' I'm ridin' back into the hills on my lonesome.”

“That's up to you, ain't it? Your gal's in the house there. All you have to do is go talk with her.”

McShannon choked. He let his horse slacken pace and fell back to the rear again to enjoy his seething hate for his partner. There was silence between them for the next hour. They came out of the canyon country and climbed the slow swell of the Markham range, hearing their horse's hoofs swishing though the lush grass. They stopped at a creek to let their horses blow and drink. They rode on until they reached timber.

McAllister said: “We walk from here.”

They stepped down and led their horses forward. The night was still and silent. McShannon was laughing inside, thinking of what they were going to do to Markham and how he would spark the man's daughter when it was all done. McAllister wasn't laughing anywhere. It wasn't a joke to him. He didn't like big men who rode roughshod over smaller men, who dominated their worlds. The only big man he had ever met and admired was Kit Carson whom his father had known in the old days. Funny, though - Kit had been a tiny man physically. But he had been big in everything else. For pure courage and character nobody could ever have beaten Kit. But he had never bullied in his life. Why, McAllister asked himself, was it that only second-rate men got to the top? He smiled to himself wryly in the darkness. Up ahead was one man on a
pinnacle who was going to tumble. Powerful men were not the only ones with pride.

He stopped and said: “Get your boots off. From here on in we pussyfoot.”

They ground-hitched their horses and heaved off their boots and put on the moccasins they took from their saddlebags. They sighed with relief when they had them on and went forward silent as Indians. They moved forward for maybe a half-hour before McShannon, all of whose senses were acute, stopped and said softly: “House up ahead. I can hear the creek.”

McAllister stopped and listened. He could hear nothing. They went on a little further and he saw the glimmer of a light.

“Somebody still up,” he said. “Must be Markham.”

They tied their horses in a motte of trees. McAllister unbuckled his gun-belt and hung it over the apple. McShannon hesitated a moment, then followed suit. That left them armed only with their knives. McAllister took down his rope and several shorter lengths of rope he had on his saddle. Then they moved off.

McAllister led the way through the starlight till they reached the eastern end of the main corral. Here, he knew, were the horses Markham set such great store by. In the corral on the other side of the house were the ordinary saddle stock.

“Boy,” he said, “you stay here and let these horses get used to you bein' around. We'll catch up a pair of 'em by an' by. You hear a ruckus over by the house, you mount up, ride to our horses, get your own and vamoose. Don't wait around for me.”

McShannon knew better than to ask what McAllister planned to do.

McAllister slapped him lightly on the shoulder and walked off into the night. He went quietly around the first bunkhouse, reached the door and went to one knee. One short length of rope he stretched and tied across the door about six inches from the ground. Then he went around the edge of the yard, keeping to the shadows, and tied a second rope across the entrance to the stoop. That done, he went around to the other side of the yard where the second bunkhouse stood and tied a third rope across the doorway. Satisfied, he walked to the corral that held the saddle stock and pulled out the gate poles.

He walked back to McShannon and said: “Get in there an' catch yourself a horse.”

McShannon climbed the fence and built a noose with his rope. The whole place was still silent. McAllister, knowing that the gate was over by the bunkhouse, decided that it was too risky to let the horses out that way. He drew his knife and cut the rawhide thongs that helped keep the fence together. The rawhide gave easily under the razor-sharp blade, he lifted the posts down and worked his way along the fence, repeating the operation. When about twenty feet of fence was down, he walked into the corral.

The horses were starting to get lively. Dimly, he could see McShannon dabbing his rope on his chosen mount. The rest of the animals started to run. McAllister built a noose as they pounded toward him. Dust rose and teased his nostrils. A dark animal swung around near him, he flicked out his noose over its head and choked it down violently. There was no time for finesse. The rest of the remuda swept past him making a noise like thunder. It would be a matter of seconds before the bunk-houses and the house erupted. He ran down his taut rope, got a grip on the horse's coarse mane and vaulted aboard. The animal exploded, crowhopping violently across the hard ground of the corral. McAllister kicked it in the slats with his heels and yelled defiance to the night. McShannon followed suit.

The remuda went around the corral once, then discovered the wide break in the fence. With tossing manes, they took off into the night with two yelling demons after them.

Markham couldn't sleep. He had prowled his office since before midnight and had killed a bottle of whiskey in the process. It was a habit that was becoming more common with him. This inability to sleep puzzled and infuriated him. Men might obey him docilely, but sleep defied him. The night was
cold, but he felt nothing of it, soaked as he was with liquor. Finally, he dropped into his chair at his desk and started to doze.

He came awake abruptly when he heard the horses running. Starting, he got unsteadily to his feet and listened. To his horror, he realised that it was his prize animals that were on the move.

He hurled his chair away from him and rushed to the rifle-rack on the wall, took down his new Winchester repeater and pounded out of the room. As he reached the stoop, he heard a blood-chilling scream from the east corral and knew it for what it was - a Kiowa battle-cry. Another followed it. He responded by bawling for his men to turn out. He crossed the stoop in one bound and it seemed that his feet were torn from under him. The Winchester went off with a crash and he landed hard on his head.

Lying half-stunned in the dust of the yard, he heard the bunkhouses come awake. He also heard his treasured thoroughbreds thundering away into the night. It was like a horrible dream.