McAllister Makes War (9 page)

Swinging down from the ridge, he hit the flat and the big black extended itself, crossed the flat in record time and strained up the ridge in front of it.

As soon as they topped the rise, Marve sighted them and pulled his horse to a halt. The distance between the two men was about two hundred yards. One glance even at that distance was enough to tell McAllister that Marve's horse was bushed. There was a limit to what even a good horse could do.

McAllister turned straight toward Marve and sent the black along the rounded and wide crest of the ridge, wanting to get as
close as he could before the shooting, if any, started. Marve at once swung down from his horse, ripped his rifle from the boot and took cover behind the animal, resting the rifle-barrel across the saddle.

McAllister wasn't crazy. Unless he had to, he wasn't charging down that rifle barrel. If he did, he or the black were dead. He pulled the now heaving animal to a halt, slid from the saddle and pulled out the Henry. He moved away from the black because he didn't want the animal hit. He jacked a shell into the breech and he and Marve stared at each other for a moment.

“I'm takin' you back, Marve,” he called.

“Frank...” Marve shouted back. “How about Frank? Did you kill him?”

“Frank's alive,” McAllister shouted back. “And maybe talkin' by now.”

“Not Frank,” Marve replied. “Come an' get me, McAllister.”

Like hell I do,
McAllister thought. All he could see of the man was his head and shoulders and the lower part of his legs. Not much of a target.

He raised his rifle and snapped off a shot, knowing that he was shooting high for fear of killing the horse. He hated to kill a horse. He knew he was a damned fool, but he couldn't do anything about it. His old man had been the same way. He fired but he moved as he did so, throwing himself to one side and down the slope of the ridge. He rolled, hit brush and heard two shots come from Marve. They didn't come too near, for which he was duly thankful.

He looked around. The land was pretty broken here. It was a damp bottom with a glisten of water showing through the brush to his right. Here and there were a few stunted trees. He wished he had stayed nearer the black. Marve could get away, with him down here on foot. Also he might try to reach the black which was a mite fresher than his own animal. McAllister could see the black standing motionless above him, line dangling. Marve was now out of sight.

McAllister got to his feet and, crouched up, ran forward a dozen or so yards, flung himself down behind some brush and waited for a minute. He heard nothing. Getting to his feet again, he started slowly and cautiously up the ridge.

He heard the sound of a man running.

Heaving himself up and forward, McAllister charged to the top of the ridge and came out on its rounded shoulder. He spotted Marve at once, legging it toward the black.

McAllister halted and placed the butt of the Henry in his right shoulder.

“Hold it, Marve.”

The man ran on. As he came near the black, the horse pranced away from him. He grabbed for the line and missed. The black ran a few yards off, trumpeting. McAllister could hear Marve's shout of rage.

“Come on back, Marve,” McAllister called.

The man's reply was to pull his belt-gun from its holster, raise it for a careful aim and fire. It was a long shot for a pistol, but Marve didn't miss by more than inches. McAllister swore. He fired.

It was as if a giant hand had plucked Marve's right leg from under him. He toppled over and fell on his face. McAllister levered a fresh shot into his rifle. Marve heaved himself up on one elbow and fired a shot. It went wide.

McAllister shouted: “Throw it down or I'll kill you.”

Marve hesitated for a moment, then he tossed the gun wide. McAllister walked to the bay, not taking his eyes from the fallen man, and picked up the trailing line. He led the horse to Marve and looked down at him.

“You damn fool,” McAllister said. “No call for you to get shot.”

The stream of abuse that came from Marve indicated that McAllister's family had not had a birth certificate for a long time. Several generations, in fact.

“Any hidden guns, knives or anything else?” McAllister asked. Marve shook his head and sat up. He was holding his right calf and looking pretty green around the gills.

“I'll bleed to death,” he said.

McAllister told him: “Take your boot off and roll your pants up.” The man obeyed, his face twisted in shock and pain. McAllister leaned on his rifle, bending down and inspecting the wound. He had sent the bullet through the fleshy part of the leg. It had entered the front and gone out of the back. He said: “You'll live. But I don't see why you should.”

Marve twisted and kicked him in the face with his left foot. McAllister turned a somersault and dropped his rifle. He lay there for a second, feeling as if the whole of his face had been smashed in. Marve moved as quickly as his wounded leg would allow and dove for the discarded belt-gun. He got a hand on it and McAllister came uncertainly to his feet, jumping into the air and landing on Marve's back with both feet. It knocked the
wind out of the man, but it didn't stop him rolling and throwing McAllister clear. Nor did it stop him coming up with the gun in his hand, cocked. McAllister came to his hands and knees and stared into the dark and lethal eye of the gun.

It was surrender or move and McAllister was moving before the thought of surrender entered his head. He hurled himself to the right as the gun boomed. The lead plucked at his sleeve, then he was throwing himself at the man in front of him. Hastily, Marve fired again, but that did not stop McAllister's fist from crashing into his face. Marve went backward and hit with his shoulder. McAllister dropped both knees into the man's belly and the wind went out of him noisily. Marve made one more feeble effort and McAllister hit him in the face again.

Marve lay still.

His face was ruined, which, McAllister thought, was plain justice after all. His own face felt as if it was ruined for ever.

He took the fallen man's gun and shoved it under his belt. Then he staggered to the black, took down the canteen from the saddlehorn and took a drink. He washed his face in the tepid water and felt a little better. His legs felt as if they were made of rubber. He took a peggin string from a pocket and bound Marve's hands behind his back.

Then he tore up a shirt in his saddle-pocket and made a pad and bandage for the wound in the man's leg. Marve woke up while this was going on. He tried to kick McAllister who said: “Lie quiet or I'll bend a gun-barrel over your fool head.” After that he lay quiet. McAllister dragged him to his feet and heaved him into the black's saddle. He sat there, hunched up and in pain.

“It'll kill me to ride,” he protested.

“Too bad,” said McAllister. He mounted the other horse and led the way back to his own horses. He found them grazing peacefully. The canelo was glad to see him. He heaved Marve out of the saddle and left him lying on his back while he put Marve's saddle on the dun and his own on the canelo. After that, he was ready for the ride.

He wondered how Jim Carson was making out in town.

It was a puzzle to Fred Darcy to know how to get into the marshal's office and carry out Will Drummond's design. He had no doubt that the bar would be on the door. The windows, he
knew, were not barred, but the wooden shutters might be closed. If the windows were not shuttered, then he could get his work done all right. A burning torch thrown into the center of the office would light the place up and the shooting could be done through the windows. If the windows were shuttered, he would have to talk himself in at the door, but that meant giving away his identity.

So he was worried. His younger brother Johnny thought the whole thing was a lark. Which was Johnny all over. He could never see further than the end of his nose. But he was a handy man to take on a trip like this and no mistake. He was a sure shot and he had plenty of nerve.

The men gathered in the creekside shack. There were six of them beside the Darcy brothers. Fred knew all of them there and he didn't like the look of any of them much. It was the vicious-ness and violence that showed in their faces that put him off, for there was too much of both in his own nature for him to shy from them. It was the fact that he knew them and realised that they were not in his class. These were men who liked jobs that went their way all the time. They were hard enough when it came to shooting other men, but they would not welcome lead singing about their own ears. If it came to the push, it would be just him and Johnny. Even as he spoke to them, he wondered if it wouldn't be better for him and his brother to do the job on their own. But Drummond had willed that they take part in the raid and Darcy, often against his own nature, found himself falling in with Drummond's wishes.

When they were ready and assembled, he gave them their instructions. He gave them simply and firmly. If they did their job right, they'd be paid. If they pulled out at a crucial moment, the Darcys would kill them. Fred didn't mince matters. This was the kind of talk these men understood. They nodded. Fred wished he had Frank and Marve Little here. They were better than this trash. He smiled ironically to himself. It was Frank they were maybe going to kill. That was the way life went.

“Lead off in twos,” he said, “an' keep it quiet. Move in when you see me make the first move. It'll be like either way I described to you.”

They moved off in twos, none of them wearing spurs, all of them with loaded guns in their holsters. Soon only the two brothers were left.

Fred looked at his hunter and saw it was four o'clock.

“How'd you feel?” he asked.

“Just fine,” the younger man replied. “I'd be even better if we didn't have that bunch along.”

Fred said: “I was thinking the same thing.”

They left the shack and walked through the brush that grew along the creek side. They angled right, went through timber and reached the backlots of the town. It was very dark and they had to walk with caution.

Fred halted and Johnny walked into him.

“This is it,” Fred said. “Got the torch?”

“Sure.”

For a second, both men were tensely silent, listening to the beats of their own hearts. Fred led the way forward silently, going along the side of the office and out onto the sidewalk. They walked on tiptoe. Fred paused for a moment, scanning the street, looking for any citizen who might be about, checking if any of the other men were showing themselves. Nothing moved.

Johnny felt in his pocket for a lucifer, found one and brought it out.

Fred went forward and at once saw a light burning low in the office. So the windows weren't shuttered. For the sake of coolness, the marshal had failed to take that precaution. Fred ran his eyes over the scene in front of him. He could not see much except a man lying on a cot to the right and a couple of forms laid out on the floor.

He lifted his Colt's gun from leather and whispered: “Strike a light.”

Johnny ran the lucifer over his butt and it failed to light.

He said: “Godammit,” softly like a prayer. He tried again. The match flared. He seemed to hesitate.

Fred's nerves were raw. He expected a shot at any moment.

“Get on,” he whispered urgently.

Johnny put the match to the torch and it flared at once. Fred went into action, striking at the glass of the window with the barrel of his gun again and again so that a gaping hole appeared. As soon as it was large enough, Johnny hurled the torch into the center of the office.

At once the waking startled men came into stark view.

A man stumbled from the floor, throwing aside a blanket. Fred fired at him. He made a big target and Fred couldn't miss at that range. The man was hurled back against the desk, dropping the shot-gun he held in one hand. Johnny drew his gun and, crouched down below the window, started firing into the room. Feet pounded across the street as the other men came up.
Fred dropped down by Johnny and caught sight of a man in the cell at the far end of the office. Fred thought he could hear him scream. He pumped three shots at him.

There was a man behind the desk, shooting. Johnny turned his gun on him.

The man on the cot rolled onto the floor and stretched out for the fallen shotgun. Fred fired at him and found that his gun was empty.

The other men had reached the window to the right and were smashing the glass in, firing into the horror of the office. The man behind the desk slid from sight. Fred got down against the wall of the office and hastily thumbed fresh shells into his gun. The noise was deafening and when he shouted to his brother, the words were as nothing.

The man on the floor lifted the shotgun, lined it up with a shadowy figure at the window and let fly with both barrels. Some of the lead that was smashing the office to pieces struck him. He dropped the shotgun and lay down. Now Frank Little was dying.

The blast from the shotgun lifted Johnny Darcy and drove him back onto the street. He fell in a boneless heap and lay moaning. Fred shoved his gun away into leather and leapt down from the sidewalk, falling on one knee beside his brother.

“Johnny ... Johnny ...”

The other men were running like frightened dogs.

“Stop,” Fred cried out. “Help me with him.”

They ran on.

There was a silence that was awesome after the deafening racket. Fred looked around desperately. A man was running down the street toward him. Somebody in the marshal's office was calling feebly for help.

For a moment, Fred panicked.

He heaved his gun from leather and fired two shots at the approaching man. The fellow veered to one side, appeared to trip on his feet and went down. There was movement further down the street.

He must get Johnny home. He must get him home and get a doctor to him. He could think of nothing else. He put his gun away and lifted his brother from the ground and started walking. He walked across the street and down the alleyway that ran alongside the bank. In his head a voice told him that you could do a thing like that at a time like this and get away with if the luck was with you. There were shouts from the street and the
sound of men running. He turned right and walked along the rear of the houses, stumbling on the trash, feeling Johnny's full weight now. He was a powerful man physically, but he was tiring rapidly. As he walked, he talked to Johnny, begging him to say something and show him that he was still alive.