McAllister Justice (10 page)

His heart nearly stopped beating when a gun roared and something struck him hard in the left shoulder and knocked him onto his back. Terror and pain drove him to his feet instantly and he jumped for the window, folding his arms around his head and diving headlong at the glass. Wood and glass shattered under the driving impact of his heavy body. His body hit the shingles broadside on and he rolled rapidly. For one terrifying instant he thought he would pitch onto the street, but before he had gone far his body was brought up hard by something that cracked and groaned under his weight. The false front of the saloon had saved his life.

Fear still drove him. He scrambled to hands and knees, found that he still clutched his pistol in his left hand and thrust it away into leather. He crawled along behind the false front and reached the end of the roof and nearly fell into the alleyway. Behind him he heard a gun go off, but the sound was distant and he knew that the bullet was not meant for him. He turned himself around, backed over the edge of the roof, hung for a second by his hands and dropped.

Above him, the scene played itself out. McAllister, knowing that his quarry was escaping through the window, forgot all danger in the urgency of the moment and charged like a crazy man from Paston's parlour office into the bedroom beyond.

At the same moment Paston, who lay on one side, at the further end of the room with his arm around the girl, snapped his hand down onto the butt of the gun which he had dropped purposely near. His movement was clumsy in the dark and he thought at first as he swept the weapon up that McAllister was moving too fast to be hit. He fired instinctively as the girl threw herself on him screaming: “No – no”

He cursed her obscenely as he saw McAllister's faint silhouette pitch forward under the drive of the heavy bullet.
He struggled to get to his feet, but Jenny clung to him, screaming, and prevented him. He heard the crash of McAllister's fall and his heart leapt triumphantly. Already, as he smashed the girl from him, his mind was working fast. If McAllister wasn't dead, finish him. Get rid of the body in some back-alley far from here. Say the sound of shooting was him fighting it out with Dix.

Running forward, cocking the gun as^ he went, he collided with the table, clutched blindly and went down, turning the table over with a crash. He heard feet pounding on the stairs. Rearing to his feet and knowing that he had hurt his right leg badly, he charged toward the bedroom door.

As the flash of a gun blinded him, he knew that he had made his big mistake. He did not know if he was hit or not. But he was staggering backward, firing, tripping on something on the floor and going down.

As the shot from Paston tore into his left shoulder, McAllister was thrown over and around onto the bed. He rolled and landed untidily and hard on the floor. He was bemused and shocked, but still the only object in his mind was to get to the man he had hunted for so long. He heard Paston's noisy charge across the larger room, heard him go down and come on again and fired as soon as his bootheels sounded in the doorway. Without waiting to see the result of his shot, he went to the window, cleared it of glass with his gun-barrel and threw a leg over the sill. He was dimly aware that the woman was still screaming.

As soon as he was out of the window, he saw Dix go over the edge of the roof and heard the thud of his landing below. At the same moment, he lost his footing and slid till he was caught by the false front.

He gave himself a second to think.

If Dix had been visiting Paston and was prepared for an unseen getaway, his horse would be at the rear end of the alley. He thrust his gun away, reached up for the window and hauled himself back in again. Leaping across the bedroom, he ran into the office and collided with a man in the dark. They grappled
and the man slugged him once in the belly and tried to knee him in the crotch. McAllister stepped clear of him and hit him with his right first in the belly, then swung for the spot where he guessed the sagging head would be. Luck was with him and he reckoned he landed on the temple. As he jumped for the corridor, he heard the fellow fall and bring wood and china down with him.

The door was blocked by figures.

He didn't break pace, but charged full into them. There was no time for them to evade him and he hit them with his full weight, cleaving through them, trampling one under foot as he went. As he swung right, he faced another man, and his eye caught the gleam of metal. He swept his gun from leather and drove it into the man's face. The man clutched at him. He batted the arms aside, caught hold of the man's clothing with his left hand and swung him for the head of the stairs. He hit the bannisters and went through them as though they were made of matchwood. McAllister never heard him land because he was on his way to the side door, fumbling shells from his belt.

The side door was unlocked. He managed to get one shell home and reached the top of the outside stairs.

Footsteps pounded toward the end of the alley. Dimly he made out a man, raised his gun and fired. The man ran on. He put his gun away, swung by his hands from the platform and dropped to the ground. He was vaguely aware that his left shoulder was not working properly, but the heat of the moment was too great for him to notice it much. He started running, drawing his gun again and fingering shells into the chambers.

When he reached the end of the alley, the gun was loaded in six chambers, but there was nobody to shoot at.

He glared around despairingly. To come so near. He could have wept in frustration and rage.

He stayed very still, praying, gun held ready.

Somewhere, not far off, a horse blew and he heard the rattle of bridle-chains. Leather creaked as a man forked a
horse. Hoofs pounded softly as a horse fidgeted and a man cursed softly. McAllister started to run in the direction of the sounds, cocking his gun and suddenly he saw the silhouette of a hatless man against the moonlit sky.

He fired on the run and instantly the man dropped out of sight, shouting at his horse. A quirt lashed hide and the animal sprang away, crashing its way through the trash of the vacant lot. McAllister fired again, shooting blind, praying that luck was with him, but the horse went on and he knew that he'd lost.

But his indomitable spirit would not accept defeat when victory had been so close. Turning, he ran back to the alley, stumbling in the dim light, heading for the street. As he ran around the corner, he saw the crowd gathering, brought by the shooting. A horse stood near, tied to a rail. He went toward it and found to his astonishment that he was walking very slowly like a man in a dream. As soon as he put a hand on the horse's tied line, a man appeared in front of him, saying: “Take your hands off'n that hoss.” Then the fellow saw the drawn gun and his eyes widened. Looking up at McAllister's face, took him back a pace.

“I'm borrowin' it,” the marshal told him.

It took him a long time to get his foot into the stirrup-iron and longer still to heave himself into the saddle. Men were gathering around, watching him. As soon as he hit leather, he raked home the spurs and the animal jumped, scattering them every which way and he was fighting to stay in the saddle, battling with a terrible weariness that came swooping over him. As he swerved into the alleyway, he nearly fell out of the saddle. He clutched the saddlehorn tightly and thought:
I have to stay aboard.
Fumbling his gun away, he clung to the coarse hair of the animal's mane and heard himself yelling hoarsely to get some more speed. Somewhere out there in the darkness was the man he wanted and he intended to come up with him.

Dimly, he was aware of rocketing out of the narrow way and plunging toward the thin timber line beyond, then riding
clear out onto the plain, bathed in the cold light of the moon and his befuddled mind asked him:
And where are you going?

All he knew was that he had to keep on riding till he came up with Dix.

He never knew how long he managed to stay in the saddle, but after a long time, he was aware that the horse had stopped and that it was raining. The next thing of which he was aware was that he was long on his back and that it was daylight. The rain had stopped and weak sunlight hurt his eyes. The horse stood near him, cropping the grass. All McAllister wanted to do was sleep.

He came to for a few minutes as they brought him back to town on a travois. He felt the jolts of the rough ground along his spine; a horse trumpeted and the moon rode in a watery sky. And all he could think was:
I didn't get Dix, but I'm still alive.

The next time he opened his eyes, he was lying on a bed made up on the floor and it was daylight again. He opened his eyes and looked across the room and there was Joe Diblon lying there watching him. Joe grinned and said: “So you decided to stay with us awhile.”

This puzzled McAllister until he tried moving and found that his left shoulder was a mass of pain. Funny, if he ever took on lead, it was always that same shoulder. Wonder he had any Goddam shoulder left. But that left his gunhand…

“How long have I been here?” he asked.

“Day here and a day out on the prairie,” Joe told him.

“Sonovabitch,” McAllister said.

At the sound of their voices, Jenny Mann and Sime came in. They looked down at him as if he had returned from the dead or something.

To Jenny, he said: “You nursed me?” She nodded. “Thanks.” They looked into each other's eyes and she knew that he was not going to mention that he had found her with Paston and Dix. She tried to convey her gratitude to him. To Sime he said: “How's the town?”

“All right. We put the fear of God into it and that's the way it's stayin'.”

Jenny Mann was on her knees beside him.

“Can I get you anything?”

“You sure can. A bottle of whiskey and something to eat.” She protested vigorously, but he drove her away and as soon
as she was gone, tried sitting up, but couldn't make it at all. He decided to wait for the whiskey. He asked Sime about George Paston. Had he been arrested? Sime looked surprised.

“Arrested?” he said. “Hell, he got himself nearly killed helping you with Dix.”

McAllister snarled horribly.

“If Paston's gotten lead in him, I put it there. Go get him an' bring him here. Now.”

Sime gave him a startled look and went out. Inside the half-hour he was back. By this time McAllister had eaten a meal and put away a half-bottle of whiskey. He looked better, but he still couldn't get on his feet.

“Well,” he asked Sime, “where's Paston?”

Jenny Mann looked frightened.

Sime said, looking incredulous: “He lit a shuck. Fennimore reckoned he went yesterday. He sold the saloon to Fennimore at a shake down price, saddled a horse, took along a spare and rid out.”

“Which way?”

“Deadwood.”

McAllister groaned and closed his eyes.

“Well, I mean,” Sime said, “how was I to know?”

McAllister opened his eyes. “You weren't. Friend George is a real smooth operator. Jenny, you go home an' get some rest. You done enough.”

“No,” she said. “I'll stay.”

“You'll go. If you have word from Paston or Dix, I want to know.”

She gave him a lost trembling look. Sime and Joe looked at each other, wondering what went on. She went out and McAllister said: “If I had six good men I could settle this.”

He rolled on one side, turning his back on the others and his face to the wall. He fought down the despair that engulfed him and thought about the situation. Maybe Paston was indeed headed for Deadwood, but he reckoned that his man would be headed for the gold-fields. The gold-fields that did not yet officially exist. The army was still trying to turn back
the miners as they headed into the hills, but it would take an army of more men than existed to stop small parties dribbling through. The Sioux would make their try at the miners, but they would come up against tough men, well armed and resolute. Indians and army together would not prevent the shovels and picks searching the earth for the yellow metal.

He would know if Paston and Dix were operating in that direction when tales came in of men being murdered for their gold. Paston, McAllister felt convinced, was nothing more than a semi-respectable front for an illegal organization. The way the stages had been knocked off systematically pointed to real organization. And Paston was the kind of man who could run a thing like that. Paston would want him dead for what he knew and what he could do; Dix wanted him dead to save his own skin. Every minute he lived from here on out was a danger.

He slept.

He stayed in the office for the next two days, reserving and testing his strength, while Sime did what he could to gather information in the saloons and on the streets of Malcolm. Only one piece of news did he bring in that shook McAllister and that was that the McMichael woman had pulled stakes and got out. Sime could not find out where she had gone.

Woolly Parsons was now back on the job of driving the stage and the company had sent in two shotguns guards from headquarters. The last run to Deadwood had been accomplished without trouble.

McAllister prepared to head out. He gave himself a trail ride, in spite of the protests of Joe, Sime and Jenny Mann and once more had his two horses prepared for the road. He would like to have taken Sime along with him, but he reckoned the town needed the Texan more than he did. Before he went, Jenny Mann caught him alone in the office.

“Before you go,” she said, “I'd like to speak to you.”

“Go ahead.”

She was hesitant. “You haven't mentioned it, but I know what you've done forme and I want you to know that I'm grateful.
I lost my head, I guess. I've gotten him out of my system now.”

“Good. Had any word from him?”

She looked him in the eyes and said: “No.”

“I want Paston,” he told her. “But I want Dix more.” He didn't miss her shudder.

“If I can ever make up for what I did…” she said.