Kill McAllister (4 page)

“Make it today.”

“Hell, the loads for today are all in the pens. Those cows you brought in yesterday are still out on the holding ground.”

“Holst,” Forster told him, “you get those cows out today or there's liable to be trouble.”

“You told me they were clean.”

“At the price you paid for 'em?”

Holst's heavy face went thoughtful. He never missed a chance to squeeze a man.

“You mean I'm taking a risk you didn't tell me of. I haven't paid you yet, Forster. They're still your cows.”

Forster started to sweat and it showed. He stood there shaking with rage and hating this man, knowing that he was in his power.

“Now,” he said, “let's play this easy, Holst. You an' me will be doin' business in the future.”

“Not if there's risk.”

“I tell you, if you get those cows out of here today there's no risk.”

“I have only your word for that. I'm afraid this affects the price, Forster.”

The big man looked at the dealer like a man petrified.

“How much?” he demanded, his voice shaking.

“Dollar a head.”

“Your last price was robbery. This is murder.”

Holst's face was hard. It usually was when he sighted a good profit.

“Take it or leave it.”

Forster lost his temper. His pride and his need knocked him off-balance.

He raised his voice. “I'll leave it,” he said and went to step into the saddle.

Holst caught him by the arm.

“Don't be hasty,” he said.

“Go to hell. I'd rather run them back onto the plains than sell at that price.”

Holst said: “Knock off fifty cents and call it a deal.”

Forster turned.

“All right,” he said.

Holst said: “I can hold this train for an hour. How soon can you start loading?”

“I'll have cows here in that time.”

Forster vaulted into the saddle, spun the bay around and raked home the spurs. He went around the pens as if all the devils in hell were after him and covered the mile to the holding ground in record time. He heaved his panting and foam-flecked horse up at the cow-camp and leapt from the saddle. Several men, rising from their blankets, eyed him sleepily.

“Saddle up, boys,” he shouted. “We're loading these cows now.”

A big Kansas man came forward, buckling on a gun.

“What's the hurry, Link?” he demanded surlily.

“I'll tell you what the hurry is,” Forster snapped back at him, “—Charlie and Sol got shot up. The Struthers outfit's on our trail. If those cows aren't out of here in an hour we'll all end up in jail.”

They moved.

Under Forster's orders, they cut the cattle out in fifties and started them down toward the loading pens. Some of his urgency entered the hands and they worked with a will. They didn't know what was wrong, but they had never seen their leader so taken with the urgency of the situation and some of his anxiety rubbed off on them. Within the hour they were crowding the cattle into the wagons.

So this is Combville, Kansas
, McAllister thought as he topped the last rise and viewed the vista spread out before him. As far as he could see, or so it seemed, there were the dark herds of cattle, the animals small in the distance like crawling insects. This must be a bumper year for the Texas cattle trade. The Struthers herd must be one of the last up the trail. It didn't seem that there were enough cows in the whole of Texas to people this great plain this way.

Right in the center of the endless herds was the town of Combville. Beg it's pardon, the city of Combville. This was where the Texas farmboys-turned-cowboys came to see the elephant, to drink away their hard-won wages, to have their first woman maybe, to land in jail for a night, to run head on into northern law that did not like them. This was where the wild and the woolly came to sow its wild oats and ran into what passed for civilisation. The last time McAllister had passed this way the last of the buffalo had been here, no town existed. There had been two or three farmsteads on the flat to break the monotony of the endless grass.

Slowly, he rode his tired horse down from the rise and headed for the town. Soon he was riding past the noisome loading pens, seeing the cattle being thrust forceably into the cramped quarters of their transportation. The sight quietly disgusted him. This was not a side of the cattle trade that he liked. As he went his eyes took in the many brands on the hides of the cows he passed. He did not see the Struthers Circle S. A locomotive snorted and frightened the canelo which had never seen one before. It skittered a little.

They came to a creek and forded it. The canelo stopped to slake its thirst. McAllister sat the horse in the middle of the stream and was overcome by a feeling of foreboding. It was his old instinct playing him tricks, maybe, but he had learned to take notice of it. Before the horse had overfilled with water, he urged it from the water and climbed the bank to the town.

He entered a dusted rutted street that could have been the Main Street of any cowtown with a railroad depot. It was wide and
flanked on either hand by timber buildings, some houses, some stores and some saloons, but most of it constructed of green lumber already warping in the sun and wind. On the left was a stark brick building that he noted was the bank. There were a good many people about, a buggy or two, a heavy wagon lumbered by him drawn by six horses. The saloons were doing good business. He noted The Longhorns and the Golden Fleece. To his right was the marshal's office, a clapboard construction with the barred windows of a jail showing at its side. Further on down the block he came to a livery stable and corral. He turned in at the open gate and found an old man sitting on an upturned bucket at the barn door.

McAllister dismounted stiffly and said: “Howdy, pop.”

The old man grunted, got up and said: “Dollar a day.” Then he eyed the canelo and sucked his loose lips in appreciation of a fine horse.

“Don't see many of these around,” he said.

McAllister paid him a dollar and walked back onto the street. Now he was here he was undecided what his first move should be. He wanted a bath and a good meal, he wanted to wash the dust of the trail from his throat. The marshal's sign swinging in the wind decided that he would postpone enjoying any of these. He turned left and walked toward the lawman's office.

When he entered the office he saw a small man sitting behind a large desk with a pen in his hand. His hat was on the desk at his side and his head was revealed as not being over-endowed with hair. The man's mustache was so large and black that it made an otherwise strong chin look weak. McAllister reckoned he was aged about thirty. He was one of those wiry men who never look as though they amount to much, but who keep going when the big ones have faltered. His eyes were pale and sleepy, but McAllister was not deceived.

“Howdy,” said McAllister.

“Howdy.”

“You the marshal?”

“Yeah.”

A Yankee. Which was what McAllister expected in a town like this.

“Name's Remington McAllister.”

“Art Malloy.” The little man extended a bony hand across the desk and they shook. The hand McAllister gripped was like rawhide. “Any kin to Chadwick McAllister?”

“Son.”

“Interestin'. Seat.”

McAllister took a couple of books and a quirt from a chair and sat. The little man peered at him for a moment, laid down his pen with the patient air of a man who has been interrupted in a distasteful task and said: “What can I do for you?”

McAllister said: “I come up the trail with a herd from the Brasa da. We come through the Nations and got stopped this side of the Kansas line by a bunch of Jayhawkers.”

“Knew your daddy way back,” the little man said. “Go ahead.”

“They jumped us one night. Killed our boss.”

“Who owned the herd?”

“Colonel Struthers.”

The marshal nodded. He'd heard of the colonel. Who hadn't?

“I come ahead looking for the man who led them.”

McAllister thought he saw a smile flicker for a brief moment beneath that gigantic mustache, but he could have been mistaken.

“Well, that's layin' it on the line,” the little man said. “You know what this man looks like?”

“Sure. He's tall, over six feet. Fair hair and beard. Maybe a little red. He tried to talk rough, but I reckon he was an educated man.”

“That could be a number of men, couldn't it?”

“I reckon. But add this – on his third right hand finger, he wore a gold ring. On his right hand, back of it, he had a tattoo mark. His nose was broke in a fight.”

This time the grin showed.

“You sure took a good look at this man, friend.”

“He rid into our camp with a dozen men, the night before he raided us and tried to con us out of some cows. I saw him pretty close in bright firelight.”

“So you aren't certain it was him raided your herd?”

“You think there was two bunches of cow-thieves after our cows?”

“I don't think anything. I'm a lawman. I'm listening to you to see how much proof you have.”

“You don't reckon I've gotten much.”

“Not much.”

“So there ain't anythin' you can do for me.”

“Not at the moment.”

“Then I'm wastin' my time.”

“You've not wasted anythin'. What makes you think he's in my town?”

“I trailed the cattle as far as the holding ground.”

“That still doesn't prove much.”

McAllister rose.

“If I find him,” he said, a little of the disgust he felt showing in his voice, “if he's still alive, I'll give him to you on a plate.”

He walked to the door until the marshal said: “McAllister.” He turned. The little man said: “Just remember I'm the law in this town and I don't allow anybody to take it into their own hands.”

“I'll try an' remember that.”

“An' don't forget to park your gun at the nearest saloon.”

McAllister made a sound of disgust and walked out. Maybe he hadn't wasted his time. He felt sure Malloy knew the man he had described. He chose a saloon called The Happy Home and drank two beers fast and after that he felt a little better. Then he found a barber shop, took a bath, a shave and a haircut. After that he cared for the inner man at a small café run by a man who could cook. He was waited on by a pretty girl with a heavy Swedish accent which added piquancy to the meal. After that he strolled down the street and turned into the next. Here he found a hotel and took a room. This overlooked the street. He put a chair under the door-handle and lay on the bed for a half-hour, thinking. He got up annoyed with himself. All he was fit for was nursing cows. He clapped his hat on his head and hurried down the street. Turning into Main he headed for the stock yards.

These were so extensive that he would have saved himself a needless journey if he hadn't come. But he asked around just the same, questioning the hired men if they had seen any Circle S stock in the last couple of days. They all denied that they had and after a while he wandered back into town.

* * *

Holst spoke to his foreman.

“Hank, take over. I have to go into town.” He caught up his saddler, saddled it and rode quickly into town, passing McAllister on the way. When he reached the hotel, he dismounted hurriedly and ran up the stairs. In the front room, he found Forster stretched out on the bed. The big man greeted him with a wide smile.

“What brings you here in such a hurry, Holst?” he asked.

“The trouble you were expecting's in town,” the dealer told him. That took the smile from his face. He threw his legs over the side of the bed.

“What's this?”

“Tall dark fellow down at the pens asking about Circle S stock.”

“Who is he?”

“How should I know?”

“Where'd he go?”

“Last I saw of him he was walking back into town from the pens.”

“And you came by horse?”

“Yes,” said Holst.

Forster reached for his hat and slapped it on.

“Come on,” he said, “point him out to me.”

Together they went down the stairs onto the street. They walked along the sidewalk a way until Holst said: “Here he comes now.”

Forster ducked inside the nearest store doorway and Holst joined him. Forster saw a tall dark man walking along the ruts of the street.

“I've never seen him before,” he said.

“That's the one,” Holst insisted. “Well, I did what I came for, now I'll get back to work.”

“Thanks, Holst.”

“Don't thank me, Forster. While you're of value to me I'll help.” He left the store and walked along the sidewalk back to his horse. Forster stayed where he was until the tall dark man had gone by, then he followed him cautiously. The man strode down Lincoln, not once looking back, and turned right at the intersection into Garrett. Here he entered a cheap hotel. Forster waited a while, then he too entered and asked the clerk at the desk the name of the man who had just gone in. The clerk who knew Forster gave the name readily. Remington McAllister. It meant nothing to Forster. He turned back onto the street.

* * *

Marshal Art Malloy sat in his office thinking of the young man who had been in to see him. He liked the look of him. Reminded him a lot of the father Chad though this one was taller. He hadn't looked like a man who would wait for the law to do what he thought he ought to do himself. Malloy was going to have trouble with
that young man unless he got to the man he wanted himself first.

He ran his mind over McAllister's description of the man several times and each time came up with the same name. When Jim Carson his deputy came in he gave him the description and asked him what name he would put to it.

“Link Forster,” he said.