McAllister Makes War (16 page)

McAllister walked warily. He knew that this night could be the night and it wasn't a comfortable feeling. He kept to the shadows and away from the light. He kept his eyes turned away from the lights, too, so they would be better in the darkness. Turning right at the interesection, he walked down Garrett to the Penshurst house. There were quite a few people about still and he thought that there were too many people for it to happen here.

The Penshurst door was opened by the daughter. Her eyes came wide at the sight of him. She didn't like him and he didn't take to being disliked by so beautiful a woman.

“Evenin', ma'am,” he said, touching the brim of his hat. “Is your father to home.”

She hesitated.

“He's here, but I don't know if he'll see anybody.”

“Tell him I've come to see about the gun,” he said.

“The gun?”

“He'll know what you're talkin' about.”

She left him standing at the door and went into the parlor. Her father was sitting in an armchair reading a paper.

“Who is it, my dear?”

“McAllister, the marshal.”

She didn't miss his start of alarm.

“What does he want?”

“He says he's come to see about the gun.”

“The gun?”

The man was alarmed and couldn't hide the fact.

“What gun's he talking about?”

“Somebody passed Marve Little a gun before he escaped from jail. He brought it over to the bank this morning and asked Will and I if we could identify it.”

“And could you?”

“No. No, we could ... I...”

“What, father?”

“At first I thought it was that pocket Colt of Will's.”

“Why, that's ridiculous.”

“I know. There are many such guns around. Well, show the marshal in. Let us get it over with.”

She looked at her father doubtfully for a moment, then went to ask the marshal in. He seemed huge as he loomed into the small room. He towered over her father and his voice seemed to boom softly. She was conscious of the aggressive maleness of the man and was a little angry with herself because of it She didn't like the man. He stood for everything she hated.

Her father was nervous. He rose from his chair and shook hands, not knowing what to say, waving a hand for McAllister to sit down.

“Shall I leave you?” Emily asked.

“No,” McAllister said. “Please stay, ma'am. You may be able to help.”

“Now, marshal,” Penshurst said. “What can I... how can I help you.”

“That gun I showed you at the bank this morning, Mr. Penshurst. You said you'd never seen it before.”

“That was true, I had not. Never.”

McAllister let that statement hang in the air for a moment.

Finally, he said: “But you hesitated. Why?”

The banker stared at him wordlessly for a moment.

The girl said: “Are you doubting my father's word, sir?”

Penshurst waved her to silence. McAllister said: “What makes you think I doubt his word?”

“Your manner.”

“I apologise for it. I don't mean to doubt his word, though I may doubt his memory. There's more than one gun of that pattern in this town and I wondered how he could be so sure he hadn't seen that one before.”

“I don't think I like-”

Penshurst said: “That's all right, my dear. I can handle this.” He turned to McAllister - “As you said, marshal, there are several guns of that kind in town and I wanted to be sure.”

“But you weren't sure.”

“Not at first.”

“Were you sure when I left? Are you sure now?”

“Er-I-reasonably.”

“Reasonably isn't good enough, Mr. Penshurst. If you think you've seen this gun before I want you to say so.” He took the gun from his pocket and held it up for them to see. Glancing up at the girl he saw the look on her face.

“I - I know a gun like it,” the banker said.

McAllister turned to the girl.

“An' you, ma'am,” he said. “Do you know a gun like it?”

Her eyes said 'yes' but out loud, she said: “No. No, I never saw it before.”

McAllister said to the banker: “The gun you know like it, who owns it?”

The banker was white to the lips. He looked at his daughter and didn't find any help there.

“You're putting me in a very embarrassing position, marshal,” he said.

“Murder's embarrassing too.”

“Murder?”

It was the daughter who spoke.

McAllister said: “Let's see what we have. Fred Darcy tried to leave town. Somebody shot him with a thirty-eight gun.”

“There are folks who say that you killed him, marshal,” Emily said.

“Emily!” her father protested.

“Sure,” McAllister said easily. “That's how it was meant to look. All right, Fred was killed with a thirty-eight. Nothing really unusual in that. Now Marve Little is passed a thirty-eight
and he breaks out of jail with it. He's stopped by Will Drummond and killed.”

“What are you tryin' to imply?” the girl demanded.

“Why, ma'am,” McAllister said innocently, “I ain't tryin' to imply anythin'. I'm just thinking my thoughts out loud like. Aw, yes, there's another fact that's real interestin'. Not long before Fred Darcy got himself shot with this thirty-eight, his saloon was bought from him by a man who once owned a thirty-eight, I'll bet.”

“Who?” asked the banker.

“Will Drummond.”

“What?” Father and daughter shouted the question together.

“Wasn't it Drummond who you thought owned that thirty-eight, Mr. Penshurst?”

The banker didn't look at him.

“Well, yes. Will did own a gun like that. But that signifies nothing. The purest coincidence I feel sure.”

The girl almost screamed: “This is ridiculous. You've picked on one of the most important men in town... you're jealous ... you came into town without a cent to your name. You're nothing but a gunman and you dare to stand there and –”

“Emily!”

“This man goes around bullying –”

“Emily, you will be silent. Now, Mr. McAllister, your allegations I'm sure are quite unfounded.”

McAllister stood up and towered over them both.

“I'm not makin' any allegations, sir. I'm just stringin' the facts together. They don't add up, but they will. All I want is for you to be sure this isn't the gun Will Drummond owns.”

Penshurst waved his hands.

“Will gave a perfectly acceptable explanation, even if it is the same gun. He lost it some time ago. It could be the same gun, but it now has no connection with Will Drummond.”

“Now are you satisfied?” the girl demanded.

“Ma'm,” McAllister said, looking her straight in the eyes,

“I shan't be satisfied till I find the man who killed my friend and yours - Art Malloy.”

She dropped her eyes; her face was white.

“I'll show you to the door,” she said.

When they were at the door, McAllister turned and said: “It don't give me no pleasure, ma'am, that I'm bringin' grief to a woman as beautiful as you.”

She laid a hand on his arm.

“You were a real friend of Art's?” she said.

“Yes, ma'am. Only reason I took the badge.”

“If you find the man who killed him, I'll be satisfied. I loved him, Mr. McAllister.”

“Yes, ma'am. I know that.”

“And you suspect Will Drummond, however crazy it may sound,” she said in what was almost a whisper.

“Just a hunch,” he said. “I'm part Indian, ma'am, an' I run on hunches. They take the place of brains.”

He turned and walked away.

She stayed where she was staring after him for a moment, her eyes troubled. Her world seemed to be collapsing about her. Could the craziness of this Texas gunfighter be founded on the truth? Was it just possible that the gentle Will Drummond had gunned down Art and Darcy and then cold-blooded planned Marve Little's escape so that he could kill him? It couldn't be. But there was doubt in her mind now and she was honest enough to recognise the fact.

She closed the door and walked back into the parlor.

Her father said: “It can't be possible what the marshal said.”

“He didn't say anything, father,” the girl told him. “Don't worry. He's only doing his duty and clutching at straws. It'll blow over. We know that Will would never be mixed up in anything criminal.”

“No,” Penshurst said, “of course, you're right.” But she knew that there was doubt in his mind too. The sight of the gun had unnerved him.

“You go on up to bed, father,” she said. “I'll read awhile.” She sat down and picked up her book. He got to his feet and she thought how old he looked. Placing a hand on her shoulder, he said: “Don't worry, daughter. It'll blow over. Will couldn't possibly be what McAllister suggests he is. A man couldn't fool the pair of us for so long.”

She patted his hand.

“Of course not,” she said. He bent and kissed her on the forehead. When he had left the room, she sat staring at the page of the book without seeing it. She knew that she couldn't bear to sit still, not while she had so much on her mind, not while her head was so full of unanswered questions. She had to see Will and now. Staying where she was for nearly fifteen minutes, she listened to her father's movements above. Then she fetched a cloak and shawl from her room and let herself out of the rear
of her house. She knew that she was sick with fright, but she knew that she must go through with it. She owed it to Art Malloy and to herself.

The woman opened the door. Drummond was at his desk, a drink at his elbow.

“There's a man here,” she said in her deep voice. “Says his name's Ricketts.”

“Did he come by the rear door?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Show him in.”

A few minutes later, Ricketts entered.

It was the first time Drummond had ever seen him and he looked him over carefully.

In appearance, he was the most unremarkable man possible, the kind who could stand unnoticed in a crowd, a man who mingled without effort with any background. A store clerk, you would say: pale eyes that looked upon the world mildly; a drooping mustache of indeterminate color; a rather weak chin. Drummond looked at his hands and saw that they were white and soft. Ricketts was not a man who favored physical labor; he was a man of skills and he lived by them. He wore a simple suit of brown, the pants pushed into high boots. On his head was a wide-brimmed hat set straight. There was no gun in sight. At once, Drummond feared that he was mistaken in his man.

“Mr. Drummond?”

“Yes. Are you Ricketts?”

“That's correct!” The voice was quiet and hesitant.

“Sit down.”

The man in brown sat down primly, well-forward in the chair, knees together like a prim schoolmarm; he put his hands on his knees and sat staring at them.

“Drink?”

“No, thanks. Never touch the stuff.”

Drummond poured himself one and offered the man a cigar. Ricketts shook his head – “Thanks, no. I don't smoke.” Drummond wanted to ask: “Do you go with women?” but he
refrained. He stood looking down at the man, puzzled and a little worried.

“You know why I wanted to see you?” he asked.

The eyes flicked up at him briefly and down again.

“Men only want to see me for one thing, Mr. Drummond. They want a man killed. That's my job.” The same gentle tone. Drummond came to the conclusion that the man was stark mad.

“I want a man killed. And I want him killed quickly.”

“Is he here in town?”

“Yes.”

“Give me his name and I'll name my price.”

“Price first.”

“Very well. My usual charge is five hundred dollars.”

That shook Drummond. He hadn't thought of anything like that price.

“That's high,” he said.

The eyes flicked up and down again.

“How much do you usually pay for a killing?”

“One fifty on agreement. The same after the job is done.”

“That's not a good craftsman's pay, Mr. Drummond, and I imagine you know it. I'll work for five hundred if it's a normal straightforward killing.”

“I'll go to four hundred and no more,” Drummond said.

“I haven't made myself sufficiently clear,” Ricketts said.

“My price is five hundred. I never haggle. If you don't like the price, I suggest you hire yourself another man.”

Drummond knew he'd met his match.

“Very well,” he said. “I'll pay five hundred.”

Ricketts raised his eyes and lowered them again.

“Who's the man?”

“McAllister.”

“The marshal?”

“Yes.”

The eyes were raised and this time they fixed themselves on Drummond's.

“Mr. Drummond, you haven't been altogether fair to me,” the gunman said. “Nobody could call killing McAllister a normal straightforward killing.”

“A bullet stops him like it does any other man.”

“I know McAllister and I've seen him work. He's liable to shoot back. This will cost you seven hundred.”

Drummond ground his teeth together. He was so angry that he could have hit the mild man in brown.

“Are you afraid of being shot at?” he demanded.

The man said with the same mildness: “I'm not afraid of anything, Mr. Drummond. Do you accept the price or not?”

Drummond walked to the other side of the room, knowing the man had him. He had to have McAllister dead and quick. He didn't want to face the man himself.

A tap came at the door.

“Come”

The housekeeper entered, her face heavy and impassive.

“Miss Penshurst is here to see you.”

Drummond was startled. What in heaven's name could Emily want this time of night.