McAllister Makes War (21 page)

But did it?

He wasn't finished yet.

Where was the woman? Where was his housekeeper?

He went into the hall and called her. There was no reply. He rushed into the kitchen. The lamp was burning, but she wasn't there. He stormed upstairs calling her name, tore open her door and found himself in darkness. He struck a match and saw that the bed had not been slept in. He looked around. Her small personal things were missing from the top of her bureau. His heart swooped in his chest. She'd run out on him.

Running downstairs, he burst into his office.

Darkness.

He fetched the lamp from the kitchen, muttering furiously to himself. Back in the office, the safe in the corner gaped open.

“The bitch ... the dirty treacherous bitch ...”

That she could have done this to him. She was the last person on earth ... By God, he'd kill her.

But this hadn't finished him. He kept his money scattered. There was some in the safe in the saloon; the bulk of it lay in the bank. And in the bank was money belonging to the town. He'd clean this damned place out before he was done. This town would remember him for a long time to come. He wanted McAllister dead before he went, but first things first. He had to get away with his money. He had to make a fresh start somewhere-Oregon, California, maybe Mexico. All he wanted was money and fast horses.

He found his saddlebags and stuffed into it a change of shirt and underclothing. The Spencer carbine, a pocketful of shells, load the belt gun and he was ready. He felt steadier now he had made up his mind. He would start somewhere else, with capital, change his name. Six months would see him re-established, cutting a figure. The West gave a man a chance to grow quickly.

He hurried from the house.

At the livery, he told the owner: “Saddle my black. Put a lead line on the sorrel.”

“Takin' a trip, Mr. Drummond?”

“Yes. Taking a trip.”

“Mighty funny time of night to start out.”

Drummond hurried away without answering. He needed speed. The man could talk all he wanted after he was gone. He entered the saloon by the rear entrance and went straight to his office. Here he took a heavy dose of whiskey on board and that helped to steady him some more. Locking the door, he opened the safe and started stuffing money into the saddlebags. That done, he tied up the bags and slung them over his shoulder. His legs were shaking now and he sat down.

Where was McAllister? Was he hunting the town for him?

A knock fell on the door.

He picked up the Spencer and said: “Yes.”

“Mr. Drummond?”

“Yes.”

“It's Lem, Mr. Drummond.”

He put down the carbine and opened the door. The bartender stood there blinking at him.

“What is it?” He tried to make his voice sound natural.

“The marshal was here asking for you.”

“McAllister?”

“Yeah.”

“What did you tell him?”

“I ain't seen you all evenin'.”

“Good. Lem, I want you to look after things around here. I'm going on a trip for a couple of days.”

“Sure, Mr. Drummond.”

“Get back to the bar then.”

The man turned away. Drummond hurried. He picked up the carbine and hurried out of the rear of the building, down the alley and quickly across Main to the livery, eyes watchful for a big man. His horses were ready and the liveryman watched him curiously as he mounted. He rode away without a word, going out of the north gate of the corral, avoiding the street. Through the backlots to the creek he went, followed the stream south and came to the bank from the rear. Tying his animals to some brush there, he let himself into the bank by the rear door and went straight into his office. He lit a lamp and kept it low. Opening the safe, he started filling the empty saddlebag. When he thought about Penshurst's face when he discovered this in the morning, he chuckled to himself. The old fool would die of shock.

He fastened the saddlebag and straightened up. Nearly clear. Blow out the lamp, feel your way to the door and there were the horses standing waiting in the moonlight. He'd almost made it.

He ran to the horses and slung the saddlebags behind the cantle of the saddle, tied them down and patted them with satisfaction. He had a fortune there.

Stepping into the saddle and picking up the lines, he touched the horse with iron and started at a trot down the incline to the creek. At last he was safe.

The
Golden Fleece,
McAllister thought.
If he's hightailing out of here he'll go there.
He remembered the big safe in the corner of the saloon's office. Shouldering his way through the crowded saloon, he went up to the bar and said: “Seen Drummond?” The man told him ‘no', he hadn't seen him all evening. Just the same, McAllister went into the office and looked there. Not finding the man, he next thought of the livery.
No,
he thought,
it'll be the bank for sure. If he's running he'll need cash.
He hurried to the bank and tried both doors, but they were both locked. He
headed for the livery. He knew Drummond's horses so he didn't need to ask questions. He checked the animals under the liveryman's curious gaze and found the ones he wanted. As he walked onto the street again, he wondered if he wasn't wrong about Drummond. Maybe the man wasn't planning to run. Maybe' he was still around town set on killing McAllister. He started to go more cautiously.

Where in hell did he try now?

The house.

He hurried to Garrett, turned down it and reached the neat well-kept house. A light burned in a front window. He drew his gun and went in. The door to his right was open, a light burned beyond it. He listened carefully, then stepped into the room. His eyes fell on the open safe, papers strewn all over. Was this a trap? Was the man waiting somewhere in the darkness with a gun in his hand?

He searched the house from top to bottom and found nothing. He started to worry, he was losing valuable time. Outside the house, he broke into a run, thinking as he pounded down the street: Where to now? The saloon was the nearest spot where the man would be certain to go. Hell, he could go on like this all night with him and Drummond going around in circles.

But this time at the saloon at least he had evidence that the man had been there before him. The safe gaped open like the one in the house.

McAllister let rip an obscenity.

He rushed out onto the street, angled across it for the livery, people stopping to stare at the big man pounding along late at night, wondering what his rapid comings and goings meant. At the livery, the man said: “Sure, Drummond was here, marshal. Took both his horses. Went out through the corral.”

McAllister went still, thinking, knowing he couldn't track the animals in this light.

Had Drummond headed straight out due north?

His mind switched. Had Drummond visited the bank? If the man was running and he was, McAllister knew for sure, then he would clean out the bank first. So maybe he headed through the backlots down to the creek trail and so around to the bank. McAllister ran into the barn, untied his
canelo
and vaulted onto its bare back. He went out of there on the run, liveryman staring, bug-eyed. Swinging left on the street, he went at a flat run down Main, circled the bank, brought the pony to a sliding halt, leapt from its back and ran for the rear of the bank. A light burned
there. The rear door was wide. His right hand plucked out the Remington.

A sound caught his ears. He cocked his head and listened.

Horses running beyond the creek. Could be Drummond.

He looked in through the window of the bank, saw the office was empty and the safe was open.

Turning, he dashed for the
canelo.
The animal was on the move even before his backside slapped down on it; it headed down the grade and splashed into the ford. It fought its way through the water, bounded through the shallows and heaved itself up the bank on the further side.

I
always thought my horse faster than Drummond's black gelding,
he thought.
Now we'll see.

The canelo was stretched out now, head down and ears back, mouthing air into its great lungs, pulling away distance under its flying feet. McAllister called to it and it strained. In the moonlight ahead of him, McAllister glimpsed the moving blur that was a man and horse.

They rode thus for around ten minutes, the distance slowly growing less between them. McAllister knew that the man would scare any minute now and would do something about it.

Almost with the thought, the man ahead halted. McAllister didn't hear the crack of the rifle, but he heard the whine of the bullet. He turned the
canelo
right, slipped from its back and hit dirt running. He covered a dozen yards and dropped flat. He was well within rifle range, but he knew that he was out of sight in the buffalo grass if he kept his head down.

He took off his hat and raised his head. The man stood some fifty yards away, his horses near at hand, searching for McAllister in the cold light of the moon.

He'd take him alive, McAllister promised himself. This man was going back to stand trial, never mind him having a rifle while McAllister only had his belt-gun. There were more ways of killing a coyote than strangling it.

He started worming forward.

The man was calling -

“McAllister ... McAllister ...”

The
canelo
whickered and one of Drummond's horses answered it. McAllister kept going.

The man was on the move now, searching through the grass, rifle held ready.

McAllister lifted the Remington from leather, still and waiting now, ready for when the man came within range.

Nearer ... forty paces ... calling McAllister's name again, threatening to kill him. McAllister stayed still. Thirty paces ... the man wandered a little to the right, starting to circle, turning abruptly every now and then. The
canelo,
not liking the man's approach, moved slowly off through the grass and started feeding.

“I'm going to kill you, McAllister.”

Thirty paces ... McAllister was tempted to try a shot, but he resisted the temptation. He was going to take this one alive. That was what he was getting paid for, to bring men in for trial.

Twenty paces. McAllister found himself holding his breath. The man must spot him any minute now. He braced one leg under him ready to spring to his feet.

The man changed direction again and came directly toward the man in the grass.

Suddenly, he stopped, seeming to stare straight at McAllister. The carbine butt slammed into his shoulder. McAllister moved, gaining his feet and moved abruptly off to the right. The rifle slammed and the bullet tore past McAllister, missing him by no more than inches. He changed direction and charged. Drummond levered frantically. McAllister yelled like a Comanche, dodged to the left, changed course and came on again. The rifle seemed to go off almost in his face and he felt the scorching blast of the muzzle flash on his cheek. Then his whole weight crashed into the man.

Both men went down hard.

McAllister reared to his feet and turned. Drummond had dropped the Spencer. His right hand moved and a gun appeared in it. McAllister was surprised by the man's speed. He lashed out with a foot and kicked the gun out of the man's hand. Drummond screamed with the pain of it, scrambled quickly to his feet and rushed on McAllister furiously. McAllister hit him in the belly. He backed up, yelling foully.

McAllister Said: “Stay still or I'll crack your head for you.”

The man's answer was to charge insanely.

McAllister stepped to one side, caught him by the front of his clothes and flung him as hard and far as he could. Which was considerable. The man tripped and went down. He made a high keening noise as the wind went out of him. McAllister holstered the Remington, went up to Drummond, took him by the scruff of the neck and dragged him across the prairie to the horses and dumped him. He made a strangling noise and started to retch. McAllister whistled to his horse and the animal came trotting up.

There was a rope on Drummond's saddle. McAllister tied his hands tight in front of him and lashed the rope to the saddlehorn. Then he mounted the black and rode back toward town. He didn't hurry because it was as much as Drummond could do to stay on his feet.

At his yell, Pat came out of the office. The Irishman looked at what McAllister had on the end of his rope and said: “What the divil've you got there, man?”

“A skunk,” McAllister said, “put him in his cage.”

Pat took the rope and led Drummond into the office. As he went past McAllister, Drummond spat. McAllister took the horses back to the livery and told the man there that Drummond wouldn't need the horses any more.

“He ain't goin' nowhere.”

He walked along Main to Garrett and turned down it. The woman brought in to tend Emily answered his knock.

“How's she doin'?” he asked.

“Pretty good, marshal.”

He went up and tiptoed into the room. Her eyes were closed, but when he had stood by the side of the bed for a minute, she opened her eyes, looked straight at him and smiled.

“Did you attend to your business?” she asked.

“Sure did.”

“Is all your business here attended to, Rem?”

“Most all, honey.”

“Does that mean you'll be moving on?”

“Not till I walk you to the creek in the moonlight again.”

She reached out and touched his hand.

“Where's your sling?” she asked.

He laughed.

“Whatya know? I plumb forgot about it.”

“What're you going to do now?”

“Right now I'm goin' to eat a man-size steak,” he said.

“Lovin' an' fightin' sure do make me hungry.”

“You,” she said and he bent and kissed her.

This electronic edition published in 2011 by Bloomsbury Reader
Bloomsbury Reader is a division of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc, 50 Bedford Square, London
WC1B 3DP
Copyright © P. C. Watts 1969
First published by Panther Books
The moral right of author has been asserted
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ISBN: 9781448207480
eISBN: 9781448207176
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