Tough to Kill (8 page)

Then, suddenly, as he groped in the dust for his rifle, the yard was full of horses and he knew that the saddle-stock was out, too. He was nearly run into the ground by a galloping horse. He cursed hysterically.

Commotion broke out from either bunkhouse and men seemed to be jammed in the doorways while others struggled on the ground.

He found his rifle and made an unsuccessful grab at a horse. Raging speechlessly, he tramped across the yard to the nearest bunkhouse. Men were in the doorway, getting to their feet, shaken and angry.

“What in hell're you fools playin' at?” Markham roared.

A man said: “Somebody tied a rope across the door.”

“While you dim-witted sonsabitches're lyin' stinkin' in your bunks my best horses have been run off. Where's Foley?”

Foley came forward brushing dust off him. He was hatless - an unusual condition for the straw-boss who was never seen without his hat.

“Here,” he said.

“Saddle up and get after them horses.”

“What on? That was the remuda just went past you.”

Markham danced in his rage.

“Don't answer me back, Foley, or I'll knock your teeth down your throat. I want my horses back.”

The men started to show interest. They had never heard Foley spoken to in that way.

“Ain't no sense in goin' after 'em till daylight, any road,” Foley said.

“Nownownownow,” Markham howled. “Them horses're delicate. They could come to harm runnin' in the dark.”

Foley turned to the men and said in a weary voice: “Get your ropes, boys, and see if'n you can ketch up any of the remuda. There wasn't nobody spookin'
them
. Maybe they ain't gone too far.”

The men moved off to find their ropes with Markham screaming for them to hurry.

The two thoroughbreds were covered in sweat and lather when they slithered to a stop and McAllister and McShannon slipped from their backs. The two men slapped their rumps with their hats and whopped them on into the night. They pounded away into the darkness. As the sound of their hoofs faded, both men listened. Neither heard any pursuit. They untied their horses and swung into their saddles.

McShannon said: “You're on your own, daddy. I'm off to spark the beautiful and desirable Alvina.”

McAllister said: “You're crazy.”

“Ain't I?” was McShannon's response as he turned his horse and circled off through the darkness into the east. McAllister shook his head sadly and set off south. He had better lay a trail for the pursuit to follow in the dawn.

McShannon circled far to the east under the bright eyes of the stars, but he did not think of them because he was thinking of the bright eyes of honey-blonde Alvina Markham. He felt quite a fellow riding through the night, knowing that he and McAllister had counted coup on the biggest man in the land
and, so far, had got off scot free. He swung around in a large half-circle and started to head into toward the Box M headquarters from the east and reckoned he was a crazy fool to be riding back into trouble this way, he didn't give a damn. Ten minutes in Alvina's company and the danger would be paid for, just as the beating and the burning out would be paid for.

Ever since the dance in town, ever since he had touched her hand in the square, she had been the only woman for him. And he'd be damned if he stopped till he got her. Ten thousand Markham's and their power would not stop him.

He halted his heaving horse and dismounted. He loosened the girth after he had tied the animal He wondered briefly if he would reach it again in one piece. But the thought was only brief. He was young and he had a woman in his blood.

He started on the walk to the house. This time he kept his gun on him. If his courting was interrupted this time the man who did it would get lead in his brisket.

In twenty minutes, he saw the lights of the house. He stole around the edge of the corral from which he had so short a while before lifted twenty good horses. There were riders in the yard in the process of mounting and that told McShannon that Markham's riders had caught up with some of the cowponies. Certainly they hadn't got near any of the racing stock. He lay down and waited till they had ridden out. He reckoned there were about six of them.

The lights in the upper part of the house went out one by one. Those on the first floor went off till only one was left and McShannon guessed that was Markham's.

He rose to his feet and passed along the east side of the corral and walked silently around to the rear of the house. He didn't hesitate. Hitching his gun around over his buttocks, he grasped an upright of the stoop and started up. He climbed as quickly and surely as a monkey, reached the upper gallery then ran clear around the house and stepped over the rail. He paused a moment, listening to his heart beating with excitement. Not excitement engendered by the danger he was in, but through the coming meeting with the girl.

On silent feet he crossed the gallery and scratched on a window pane.

Waiting, he thought he heard the sound of whispers from inside the room. Instantly suspicious, he hitched his gun
around to his hip and loosened it in its holster. He wasn't going to be caught napping this time.

The curtain moved.

He put his face close to the glass and there within inches of his own face was that of Alvina. He watched alarm and delight appear on it. Her hand came up to release the catch. As quietly as possible he raised the window. A titter came from the darkness. He reached out a hand and Alvina's grasped it.

“Who's with you?” he demanded.

“If s only Lucy.”

He stepped through the window and knew the exciting scent of a woman's bedroom. There were two girls close on either side of him, whispering.

“One at a time,” he said.

Lucy's voice came from the darkness.

“Is Mr. Owen with you?” she demanded.

He grinned. “This is a one man mission,” he told her. “Mr. Owen is mindin' the horses somewhere back in the hills.”

“Oh,” she said in disappointment.

“But he will be coming to see you before long for sure,” McShannon told her.

“Lucy,” Alvina said pointedly, “shouldn't you be getting some sleep.”

“You mean go and leave you alone with a man in your room?”

Alvina said fiercely: “All right, I'll see I play chaperone when Mr. Owen comes calling.”

Lucy drew in a sharp breath.

“Very well,” she said. “But nice girls don't receive men in their rooms at night in their night clothes.”

McShannon hadn't thought of the implications. He had thought only in general and warm terms of seeing Alvina. Now he realised with a pleasurable shock that she was standing within inches of him wearing nothing but her nightdress. With the aid of providence, this would prove an evening to remember.

Lucy said goodnight and departed, leaving behind her the impression that Alvina should be ashamed of herself. McShannon struck a match, found a chair and carried it to the door and jammed it under the handle. The match went
out and he was left in even deeper darkness.

“Alvina,” he said, “where you at?”

“I'm sitting on the bed,”

“I -er- shucks.”

“Come and sit down, Mr. McShannon.”

“I - well - ain't that kinda… ?”

“Mr. McShannon, I know you to be an honorable man. I'm sure I wouldn't be compromised if you sat beside me and put your arm around me just as you did at the dance that night. I'm cold.”

He tiptoed across the room and felt his way to the bed. He knew that he had reached the right spot when his hand found a soft breast. He gasped and broke into a sweat.

“Ma'am …” The bed creaked suggestively as he sat on it.

“You may call me Alvina under the circumstances. Your arm isn't around me.”

He put his arm around her. The sensation he gained from the movement was more intoxicating than a large shot of rye. For a while, as they talked together in whispers, to sit there with his arm around Alvina Markham was the attainment of his desire. Nothing more could have been wished for by man. But as time passed and the warmth of her body seeped through to his and her head came to rest on his shoulder, human nature being what it was, thoughts of throwing her down upon the bed, breathing words of passionate love through her parted lips came to McShannon. However, self-confident man though he was at facing other men, or fighting Indians, riding wild horses and roping cows, running at the head of stampeding cattle, just to mention a few incidents that were a part of his life, he had no more idea of bringing this scene to its natural culmination than he had of how to fly.

It was, as is perhaps more often the case than a man cares to admit and certainly a woman never would, the lady who took the initiative.

“Mr. McShannon, I'm tired sitting here and not at all comfortable,” she said. She lay down and somehow his arm became caught between her own and her body and McShannon was compelled to lie down with her. He turned his head to protest in a whisper when he found his mouth on hers in the darkness. There wasn't even time to say: “Aw, shucks.” She had him. Their arms went around each other, their bodies
rolled close together and their mouths devoured each other in the sweetest meal in life.

When he came up for air, McShannon managed to say: “Shucks, ma'am.”

“The name's Alvina.”

“Alvina,” he said.

“I may never see you again for a long time,” she said. “We may never have a chance of being like this together again.”

“Honey,” said McShannon trying to behave like a gentleman, but with his whole being trying violently to make him ungentlemanly, “we're going to do something you may feel awful sorry for later.”

“Then let me feel sorry later. I'm mighty glad for it now.”

She grasped him around the hips and held him tightly to her and they strove together as they tried to get closer than was physically possible.

“You mean that, girl?”

“Don't ask foolish questions,” she rebuked him. “We don't have too much time.”

That was a fact. Her arms came around his neck, her mouth was on his, open and their tongues met deliciously. His body seemed to melt into hers. This he knew was the moment of truth.

Footsteps sounded outside the door. Spurs crashed their music out.

“Carlotta,” a voice roared, “who in hell's in there with you?”

They heard Alvina's aunt reply indignantly.

McShannon sat up as though somebody had thrust an inch of cold steel in his rump.

“My father!” exclaimed Miss Alvina.

McShannon heaved himself off the bed and the springs gave out their strident music.

They heard Markham roar: “I heard a man's voice up here. God in heaven, it must of come from Alvina's room.” The boots and spurs crashed their way along the passageway. Great fists pounded on the door and Markham shouted: “Open up this Goddam door, girl.”

Alvina got off the bed and clutched McShannon's arm.

“What shall we do?”

“Let the old goat in an' I'll bust his head,” McShannon said.

“No, you must go. Out of the window quick,” she told him, pushing him toward that exit.

“I ain't running away from no bull-frog.”

“For my sake, Kiowa. Quickly. I beg you. Get away before you're seen or we shall never see each other again.”

There was some truth in that.

“Alvina, open this door. I can hear you. I know you have a man in there. Open it or I'll bust it down.”

A great weight was hurled against the door. It cracked resoundingly and the chair gave a little. McShannon bounded to the window and heaved it open. Alvina was by his side, pulling his head down and planting a last kiss on his lips.

When that was done, she said: “When shall I see you again?”

“You ride much?”

“Sometimes.”

“Know Indian Rock?”

“Surely.”

“See you there two days from now, around noon.” “I'll be there.”

Another kiss as the door nearly collapsed under Markham's blows and kicks. McShannon threw a leg over the sill.

“See you, honey,” he said.

The door came in with a resounding crack. Alvina turned in utter panic toward it, seeing her father's bulk silhouetted there. When she glanced back at the window, McShannon was gone. Markham roared: “There's a man in there.”

He picked up a lamp from the floor of the landing and rushed into the room. At once his eye slid from his cowering daughter to the open window. The curtain blew in with the light breeze. Markham slammed the lamp down on a table and went on to the window. Thrusting his head through the opening, he bellowed: “Come on back here.”

Something hard came out of the darkness and landed on the nose that McAllister had so badly damaged a short while before. Blinded with pain and thrown back by the violence of the blow, Markham fell back into the room. The house shook as he hit the planks.

Alvina screamed: “Daddy,” and rushed to him. When he tried to get to his feet, she forced him back again saying: “Don't move, daddy darling, you're too badly hurt to move.”

“Take your fool hands off'n me, girl.”

“Lie still.”

“Get away, damn you.”

He flung her aside, staggered to his feet with blood streaming down the front of his shirt and reached the window to see a shadowy figure going over the rail of the gallery. His hand slapped down onto the ivory butt of his Colts gun, ripped the weapon from leather and cocked and fired. The figure went suddenly from sight.

Alvina screamed and screamed and screamed, seeing in her mind her beloved McShannon lying dead on the ground of the yard shot by the hand of her own father. Carlotta and Lucy came running to her, their faces showing their alarm at the sound of the shot and the screams.

McShannon heard the bellow from the open window and, expecting a bullet to follow closely on its heels, vaulted recklessly over the rail into space. As he went over, the shot came, brushing carelessly through his hair and telling him that he had been within a fraction of an inch of death. In such a way did one have to pay for visiting the girl of one's dreams.