McAllister Makes War (17 page)

“Can't you see I'm busy, woman, I can't see her now.”

“I put her in the parlor. You'd best see her.”

“She'll have to wait.”

“She'll wait.”

The woman withdrew, closing the door behind her. Drummond turned to the gunman.

“You'll have to go now. I have a visitor.”

Ricketts stood up, his hands at his side, his attitude meek and submissive again,

“Do you want me to do the job?”

“Yes, I suppose so. Yes. But you must do it soon. It that understood?”

The man nodded.

“I'll do it tonight when he does his rounds. That'll be half in advance.”

Drummond protested.

“I don't keep that much money in the house.”

“How much do you have?”

“A couple of hundred.” He couldn't risk more. McAllister might manage to kill the man and the money would be lost.

“I'll accept that.”

Drummond went to his desk, unlocked a drawer and drew out a bundle of notes. He handed them to Ricketts who carefully and laboriously counted them. Satisfied, he thrust them into a pocket. Drummond fumed.

Ricketts said: “The woman who let me in–is she to be trusted?”

“Yes.”

“She won't talk?”

“No. Not a chance.”

“Right. There's nothing more to be said. I'll have your man
dead by dawn. You don't know me. You never spoke to me or saw me before in your life.”

“That's understood.”

The pale eyes flicked up to Drummond's face for a second and then the man was gone. For a moment, Drummond was overcome by an unusual physical weakness. He leaned against the table and placed a hand on his forehead. If anybody could kill McAllister that cold man would.

He pulled himself together and walked into the parlor where Emily Penshurst awaited him. She turned toward him as he entered in the room and he knew at once from the expression on her face that something was wrong.

“My darling,” he said and opened his arms to her.

She stayed where she was, staring at him. Going up to her, he put an arm around her shoulder and kissed her affectionately on a cheek.

“You look upset,” he told her. “Come, tell me and we'll straighten it out.”

“McAllister just came to our house,” she told him.

He looked surprised, but he didn't show the alarm that arose in him.

“Whatever could he want?”

“He brought that wretched gun.”

“What gun?”

“The one he showed you and father today at the bank. The gun that was taken from Marve Little's body. Somebody passed it to him in the jail.”

He put a puzzled look on his face. He held her at arm's length and looked fondly into her face.

“But how can that possibly concern you, my dear?” he asked.

“He brandished that awful gun under our noses and practically accused us of knowing that it was yours.”

“Mine? But this is absolutely ridiculous.” He folded her into his arms again and hugged her close. “You're not to give it another thought, darling. The gun isn't mine and I think the marshal knows that. He's just desperate to find somebody to accuse for the shootings and doesn't know which way to turn. Go home, forget about it.”

“But he hinted...”

“What did he hint?”

“That you killed Fred Darcy and arranged for Marve Little to escape so that you could kill him. I'm frightened, Will.”

“No need for you to be frightened at all, honey,” he told her.

“I'm not worried in the slightest. There's nothing to worry about.”

“There is, Will.”

He showed surprise again.

“How do you mean?”

“That gun was yours.”

He fell back from her.

“What?” he whispered.

“The gun was yours,” she said determinedly, watching him levelly. “I remember the scratch near the handle.”

“You're not making sense,” he said. “And even if it was mine, it doesn't mean a thing. I lost it months ago. I told your father.”

“You told him today. Not months ago.”

“Look, honey, you're overwrought. You're not making sense. What kind of a fool would a man in my position be to commit the killings you're accusing me of?”

“I'm not accusing you of anything, Will. I'm merely saying you lied about the gun.”

“Look, just what're you trying to do? You owe me some loyalty.”

“I'm trying to find the man who killed Art Malloy.”

That was like a slap in the face to him. He stared at her as if he couldn't believe what he was hearing.

“So that old ghost walks again,” he said.

“He's walked since he was killed.”

He got a grip on himself with an effort. He knew that he must be alone to think. Crazily the thought that he should kill this girl came into his head, but he dismissed it. Not from any softness of heart, but because it would not have been safe to do so.

“Believe me,” he said, “the gun was not mine. You're mistaken. I give you my sacred word on that. Now go home and get a good night's sleep and you'll see things differently.”

Suddenly, she seemed at a loss. She seemed to look at him one moment as if she were afraid of him, the next as if she despised him.

“Think about what I've said,” she told him. “Think carefully. If you're lying about the gun, I shall find out.”

“Emily,” he said, “all I know is I love you. We're going to be married and nothing'll stop us. No woman has ever meant as much to me. Remember that. Nothing else matters.”

She gave him a long unfathomable look and walked out of the house. He went to the door and watched her as she walked down
the street. When he closed the door and turned, he found the housekeeper there.

“I heard every word,” she said. “Our time here's getting short.”

“Don't you believe it,” he said. “We'll stay just as long as I choose.”

“Then you'll stay alone.”

“What do you mean?”

“They're closing in on us. Get out while the going's good.”

“I've got too much tied up in this town.”

She snapped: “There's not enough here to hang for,” and turned back into her kitchen.

It wasn't true, he thought. He wasn't finished here. There just wasn't enough evidence against him. Good God, there was no evidence at all. Just the gun and that didn't amount to anything. With McAllister dead, everything would be all right.

* * *

Ricketts entered a small hotel off Main, mounted to the floor above and tapped four times on a door. It opened and he stepped inside. The man who had let him in closed the door and propped a chair back under the handle. Ricketts sat on one of the two beds in the almost bare room and took off his hat, revealing the fact that he was almost totally bald.

The other man sat on the other bed and said: “Well?”

He was a little man, as nondescript as Ricketts, with watery eyes and a red nose. His hands shook a little and he had a disturbing habit of continually hitching his right shoulder forward as if his coat hung uncomfortably. He was wanted in various States for various crimes among which were child molestation, rape and murder. He had killed two men with a butcher's knife, one with a shotgun and had strangled a woman with a scarf. It gave him pleasure to be paid for committing crimes which to him were a pleasure in themselves. He was not intelligent enough to know pity, but possessed an active animal cunning that had permitted him to live under very trying circumstances. He feared Ricketts whom he regarded as being something of an aristocrat in their gruesome trade.

“He was a little difficult,” Ricketts said, “but he saw it my way in the end. There'll be a hundred in this for you, Strip, if you do your part well.”

“Bank on it,” Strip said. “Who's the party needs killin'?”

Ricketts drew his breath in.

“McAllister,” he said.

The watery eyes looked startled for a moment. Then Strip started to giggle.

“Dangerous, killin' a lawman,” he said. “But, hell, that bastard needs killin'.”

“We do it tonight. Now.”

Strip's voice was shrill -

“Now?”

Ricketts nodded. He rose from the bed and started to get ready. He pulled an old and battered case from under the bed and opened it. From it he took a Colt's revolver in beautiful condition, loaded it and stuffed it in the top of his pants. When he had filled a pocket with spare shells which he felt sure he would not need, he took his second weapon from the case. This was a sawnoff shotgun, also in good condition. Meanwhile, Strip also prepared himself. First, he put on a long overcoat which he left unbuttoned, then he pulled a similar case from under his own bed and from it produced another shortened shotgun. He patted this with affection, loaded it and placed it in a long pocket inside the flap of the overcoat. Ricketts left his shotgun on the bed and donned an overcoat. There was a hole through from the pocket to the inside of the garment. He stuck his hand through this and held the shotgun under cover that way.

The two men grinned at each other wolfishly, pleased with themselves.

“Where's McAllister now?” Strip wanted to know.

“On the streets. All we have to do is to find him.”

“Good. Let's go. Christ, I feel good, Dye.”

“Me too.”

“There jest ain't nothin' like it.”

They left their room and went out of the hotel by the side entrance into a dark alleyway.

Ricketts halted outside the Great Western Emporium. He was in deep shadow. Over the way and at an angle to him, a lamp burned outside a saloon. This was the Lively Lady and it was booming. A piano clanged out a tune, voices were raised in
raucous disharmony. A man came violently out of the swing doors, staggered across the sidewalk and untied his horse. He leaned against the animal for a moment, then mounted uncertainly. The animal turned slowly, the man raked home the spurs and went careering crazily down the street, giving a wild rebel yell as he went. The few passersby did not turn to watch him go. It was a commonplace to see a shrieking cowhand riding wildly through the streets at that time of night.

A buckboard, drawn by two half-wild mustangs, went quickly down the street.

Strip was on the other side of the street, caught by the lamplight.

Ricketts drifted across the street, got near Strip and said: “Use the shadows, you dumb fool.”

Strip muttered something and moved to an alleyway. Ricketts drifted back across the street, went slowly down the sidewalk until he reached the alleyway at the side of a hotel. Here was a large water barrel. He got behind it. He did not have a complete view of the street from here, but he had enough and it was safe. Ricketts was no coward, but he liked to be safe. If McAllister passed now they could catch him in a murderous cross-fire.

A man and woman passed, talking in low voices.

A big man left the sidewalk at the entrance of the alley, crossed it and mounted the sidewalk on the other side. He carried either a rifle or a shotgun and Ricketts knew that this was the big Irish deputy. The gunman didn't like this, but he reckoned that McAllister and O'Doran would not be patrolling the same place at the same time. He worried a little that McAllister had returned to the office. Ricketts toyed with the idea of going to the office and catching him there. He put off making a decision. He'd give the marshal another hour. If he did not come by then, he would head for the office.

As he waited, the people on the street grew less, though the noise from the saloon seemed to increase. The Golden Fleece was to his right and over the way at an angle to him was the Lively Lady. He reckoned that McAllister would be checking on both saloons before the night was done.

After he had stayed still for something like thirty minutes, he heard the shrill sound of a dog. Anybody else than Ricketts hearing it would think the animal had been kicked, but Ricketts knew it for Strip's favorite signal. Their man was coming. Ricketts edged out from his deep shadow and peered up the street. Nothing moved. He glanced across at the Lively Lady and
saw a tall man standing silhouetted against the light of the large window. This he knew to be McAllister.

He took the sawn-off shotgun from under the skirt of his overcoat and placed a thumb on a hammer. The distance was too great for a scattergun and he prayed that his target would move in his direction.

McAllister stayed still for some time, then moved toward the center of the street. Ricketts licked his dry lips. McAllister changed direction and started walking directly toward him. Ricketts slipped back into the shadows, cocking the weapon as he did so. The lawman would cross the mouth of the alleyway and Ricketts would let him have both barrels at close range. The shot should cut him in half. A good clean job and nobody could be in doubt as to its result. You wouldn't have to check if McAllister was dead. He'd be deader than last week's mutton. Strip would fire from the other side of the street. Ricketts had never been surer of himself. This was the kind of neat job he liked to do. He planned to fire and hightail it down the alleyway and straight back to his hotel room. Nobody would be the wiser,

McAllister was thirty yards away and coming on steadily.

* * *

McAllister halted.

The street was without movement. The noise of the two saloons almost deafened him.

He thought:
The time and the place to cut down on me.
He had thought the same thought a dozen times during his patrol of the town and he knew he might well think it another dozen times before he was through.

He hefted the greener and went on.

There was an alleyway to his right; another to his left. He could be in a crossfire. His eyes flicked left and right, catching no telltale glimmer of light on metal. But his nerves were taut.

Suddenly a stentorian bellow -

“Down, Rem.”