McAllister Makes War (8 page)

The marshal threw up his hands.

“Believe what you want,” he said. “It's all the same to me. Let's have a drink, Pat.”

He found a bottle. He poured for Pat and himself. They drank. Frank Little closed his eyes and slept. He didn't seem to have a care in the world. Evans went and lay on his bed. The Texas cowhand built cigarettes and smoked them endlessly. He coughed occasionally. The day dragged on. Finally, Carson said: “We should try an' get some sleep. Maybe we won't get any tonight.”

He got some blankets and made up a rough bed behind the desk. Pat knew that he didn't mean to leave the office till he had the prisoners off his hands. Pat didn't want to sleep - he was a man who needed little. So Carson lay down and was soon off, while Pat sat outside on a chair, tilted back, shotgun in hand and pipe in mouth. People glanced at him curiously as they passed. He smiled and nodded to them pleasantly.

Tonight, he thought, would be the time. If something was going to be done it would be done under cover of darkness. He had a feeling that he was going to earn his money.

Around the start of darkness that day, two significant things happened to help the drama on its way.

One, McAllister crept up the nearest ridge and spotted a horse grazing placidly on the buffalo grass. It was a fine thoroughbred black and McAllister reckoned it could belong only to Frank Little.

It could be the bait of a trap, of course. But he thought not, unless the horse was sound. Then it was a trap. But he wasn't
going to inspect the horse till he was sure there was no trap. With the Henry held at the ready, he circled the spot, keeping under cover of the ridges, not hurrying, knowing that hurry had killed many a good man.

It was the best part of an hour before he was pretty sure that there was no trap. He approached the black. The animal lifted its head and watched him. As soon as he got near, the black sidestepped and tried to run. The trailing rein made him stumble. McAllister pounced on the line and held it. At once, the animal stood. McAllister looked it over. It was saddled and bridled and, though it had been run hard, looked in good condition. He lifted the forefeet one at a time and inspected them. Nothing was amiss. But when he inspected the off hind foot, he found the loose shoe. So Marve had left the horse because of a loose shoe. McAllister let the foot drop.

He stood and thought awhile.

Marve now had one horse. He might ride on all night. He might rest and save his horse. If he knew what he was at, he would rest. McAllister might catch him tomorrow.

He went back and fetched his own two horses and brought them to the black. The canelo didn't like the look of the black and went for it. McAllister staked them far apart. There wasn't much wood around, but he managed to build a small fire and by its light, he worked on the black's shoe. By the time he finished, he reckoned it would last a day or two. Then he thought some more. If Marve couldn't find time to repair the shoe, he must be in an almighty hurry. In such a hurry that he most likely hadn't stopped to rest the night. On thinking further, McAllister reckoned that the shoe had come loose with a couple of hours of daylight to go. That then could have been the reason for Marve pushing on. He wanted to get as far as he could go in daylight. Tomorrow might see him caught after all.

The following day, McAllister was in the saddle by first light. He had three horses now and he ran harder than ever. The pace might be hard on the man, but the three fine horses took little heed of it. The black, he had to admit, was every bit as much horse as the canelo was so far as speed was concerned, but he doubted it had the staying power. He reckoned if he didn't run Marve down that day, he didn't know horses.

He rode right through the day without a stop, never pausing at noon, except to switch the saddle from the canelo to the dun. An hour later, he switched to the black and stepped the pace up a mite. The big horse liked to run and he surely ran it. Then, late
in the afternoon, he spotted the lone figure ahead of him. He knew then unless darkness saved Marve, he would have him.

* * *

The other significant thing that happened that first night was that Drummond went to see Fred Darcy. That in itself was significant. It had never happened before.

He found the two Darcys in their office drinking whiskey. They were startled at the sight of him.

“What happened?” Fred demanded, jumping to his feet.

Drummond said coldly: “You ask what happened when Evans is down at the jail with Frank Little alongside him? If one of them talks we could all hang.”

Johnny went pale.

“Is that right, Frank tried to kill McAllister?”

“And Evans,” Drummond told him. “Evans is our weak link. They can tear Frank to pieces, but he'll never talk.”

Fred said: “I ain't met the man who won't talk soon or late.”

“Well, they're got to be stopped,” Drummond said. They looked at him. They had never seen their cool chief so disturbed. It rattled them to see him so. “We've either got to get them out of there or kill them. I don't mind much which.”

“Have you got the men to do it?” Fred wanted to know.

“I've got men.” He walked to the table and poured himself a whiskey. He drank it off before he resumed. “Fred, I need somebody smart to lead them.”

Fred Darcy twisted his full face in a wry grin.

“That means me.”

“That means you.”

“That means bracing McAllister.” Fred didn't hide the fact that he didn't like that.

“He's out of town and liable to stay out for some time. He's after Marve and Marve has two very good horses with him. He'll take some catching. What I want done I want done tonight.”

“Tonight?” Fred looked a mite startled.

“If Evans hasn't cracked already, he soon will. We have to stop him quickly.”

Johnny said eagerly: “Don't you give it another thought, Drummond. Me and Fred'll stop him.”

Fred growled: “You stay out of this.”

“Like hell I do.”

“Now you listen to me, Johnny ...”

Drummond said: “Let him go along, Fred. He's good with a gun.”

Fred had been protecting his wild younger brother for years. It was said that he had saved him from hanging on more than one occasion.

They sat at the table and drank some more whiskey. Drummond talked. He explained the set-up down at the jail. The marshal and one deputy were the only guards. Two men only needed two bullets. Who was the deputy now McAllister was out of town? Pat O'Doran. That made the brothers laugh. One simple fighting Irishman. They'd settle his hash. This would give Johnny an added incentive because once O'Doran had boxed his ears as if he were a kid. They must make their raid in the early hours; surprise must be on their side. They must be ruthless and quick. If they could get Frank out of there alive, they were to do so. If not, they were to kill him. Fred demanded to know what they would get out of it. Drummond showed some anger. What did they expect? If Evans or Frank talked, they'd hang. Wasn't that enough incentive. They argued. Drummond relented and named a sum. It wasn't as much as the Darcys wanted. They reached a compromise which was the sum Drummond had first thought of. He departed and left two shaken men behind him. When he reached the backlots, he smiled to himself with satisfaction. It had seemed a short while ago that things were starting to go against him. He didn't like that. Now he saw that even in a temporary defeat he could derive some profit. He would have the Darcys on the run tomorrow. He would take over the goldmine of the Golden Fleece at a knockdown price.

He crossed the backlot, smiling. The bank was as good as his. He had put that pompous fool Penshurst on his feet again, but it was him who was propping the man up. The daughter was falling like ripe fruit into his hands. He would make his stake here, then he would return to the East where he could live a cultured and respectable life. Emily would like that. She was just what he wanted. She would be dependent on him, but she would be a beautiful decoration to his life. Other men would envy him for her; she would fit into any society. Yes, he was on the way.

He let himself in the kitchen of his house and his housekeeper looked up from her sewing.

“How did it go?”

“The Darcys'U do it?”

“Let's hope they make a real job of it this time and don't bungle it like those Littles did.”

“You should have been born a man, Clarissa,' Drummond said.

“I'm a better man than you'll ever be,” she snapped. He hurried from the room, wondering why he didn't cut adrift from the woman.

* * *

Emily Penshurst sat reading a book. Her father stood at the window of the house he could no longer afford and looked over Garrett. He wondered how his daughter could so cut herself off from what he regarded as his personal tragedy. She went about her life calmly, almost gaily, as if nothing had happened. He turned his head to watch her.

She reminded him of her mother, dead these ten years. Sarah had been a clear-headed woman, always the driving force in the family. But he hadn't done so badly on his own. He had built up a tight little bank here, he had been respected and liked. He wondered if he would ever be able to climb back. It was his own esteem he wanted to reach again. Now he was nothing more than Will Drummond's clerk.

He thought about Drummond. The man's manner had changed toward him in the last few days. Some of the politeness had gone. His attentions to Emily had become more obvious. At times it had been downright embarrassing. But he, Penshurst, had not dared to say anything. He knew why. It was not because he was now in Drummond's power, but because he wanted to see the girl married to the man. He wanted Emily's future to be secure.

How much did he trust Drummond? With money; with his daughter. Unease stirred in Penshurst. He did not know on which count.

He turned.

“I think we should talk, daughter,” he said. He tried to make his voice gentle, but he could hear the strain in it.

At once, she looked up, smiling.

“Of course,” she said. “Talk by all means, papa.”

“About you.”

“Me?” She sounded faintly surprised.

“You and Will.”

“Oh, papa, do we have to?” She looked modestly flustered, but Penshurst wasn't taken in for a moment. Emily had been adept at being modestly flustered from the age of ten.

“How serious is it between you two?” he demanded.

“Do we have to be so blunt?” She looked just the slightest
bit cross. She did it very prettily.

“Yes, I'm afraid we do,” he said. “The situation is–ah–calls for bluntness. Frankly, the sooner I see you settled the better. Has Will said anything to lead you to believe ...”

“Do you mean has he proposed, papa?”

“That's what I mean.”

“Not in so many words.”

“But he has hinted?”

“Well,” she cast down her eyes and blushed, “he's very ardent. Nobody could complain about Will's ardor. He's attentive. If he didn't mean to propose to me one day, his behavior is peculiar to say the least.”

“This is no time for joking, miss.”

“I'm not joking. Indeed, I take the matter seriously. My future is at stake after all.”

“Emily,” he said, “he must ask you soon. Very soon. I cannot provide for you in the way you have been accustomed. I am penniless now. We must face that fact. I want you settled, child, then I can rest easy.” He waited, watching her face. She did not look up at him. At last he said: “May I enquire your feelings for him?”

She looked at him now, surprised.

“Why, I have him in the highest regard.”

“Do you love him?”

For a moment, he penetrated through the armor of her performance. She looked at him, her lips slightly parted and he saw objectively how beautiful a woman she was. She seemed dismayed at his question.

“Do I have to answer that, father?”

“No, my child, not if it distresses you,” he told her. “But selfish as I may be, I would not wish you married to a man you couldn't love.”

“I've put love away,” she said in a voice so low he could scarcely hear her.

“Why?” he asked gently.

“I'd rather not say.”

He looked out onto the street again, not seeing the traffic in the lamplight.

“Was it the marshal?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said simply.

“I'd rather thought so,” he told her. He turned and put a hand on her shoulder. For a moment there was real tenderness between father and daughter, an emotion that had not been
expressed between them for a long time. She reached up and laid her hand on his.

“I don't want you to marry Will for me,” he said. “We'll manage without that if you wish. It's just that I want to know you'll be settled in the future.”

“I know,” she assured him.

“Promise you won't do anything against your own wishes for my sake.”

“I promise. But don't worry about me, papa. Something in me died when Art Malloy died. Feelings don't matter too much to me any more.”

“Is there something about Will that worries you?” he asked.

“Nothing.”

“Are you telling me the truth?”

“Yes, papa.”

And he had to be satisfied with that.

* * *

McAllister couldn't see the figure ahead of him clearly because the distance was so great, but he didn't doubt that it was Marve Little. No sooner did he sight him than he swung to the west into the cover of the nearest ridge, angled south-west for a while and then angled south-east relying on his superior speed to carry out the plan he had in mind. It was simple enough: get ahead or alongside his quarry and start from there.

He was mounted on the black now, the horse was fast and he urged it on to its utmost with voice, spur and quirt, not hurting it, but demanding its best. The big horse responded nobly as he knew it would. They ran for something like three miles, topped a ridge and sighted their quarry slightly to their rear, running along the next ridge. McAllister at once dropped his lead lines and left the canelo and dun to their own devices, relying on the canelo's good sense and the dropped lines to hold them. He now swung east and headed to cut Marve off.