McAllister Makes War (3 page)

She hesitated again.

“He didn't like him. But that doesn't mean he hated him. Why, if you knew Will Drummond, you'd know that he wasn't capable of murder.”

“Everybody is capable of murder, Miss Penshurst. To either do it or hire somebody to do it.”

“Your suggestion is vile.”

“Why did Drummond hate Art?”

The question hung for a moment between them. She clenched and unclenched her hands.

“I won't admit he hated him.”

“Why did he dislike him, then?”

“I suppose - oh, I don't know. If you had known both men you'd have seen how different they were. They were opposites.”

McAllister said: “The opposite to Art would be something pretty unpleasant. He was straight and he was honest.”

“I know that. I didn't mean opposite in that way. I meant... it's not easy to say this, not with Art dead, but Will Drummond is a gentleman. He has nice manners, likes literature and the arts. Art wasn't like that. He was ... rough.”

“Art was the gentlest man I ever knew.”

“It was the way he lived ... with guns.”

McAllister held his temper.

“All right, ma'am,” he said, “you've said your piece and I get your drift. You want Art's killers caught and so do I. We agree. You go off to your sewing bee and leave the dirty work to men like me ... and Art.”

She gave him a look with some anguish in it then and he felt a little sorry he had said that, but not much.

“Very well,” she said softly. She looked as if she'd say some more, but she didn't; she turned on her heel and walked out onto the street. He went to the door and watched her angling across to the bank. He walked back into the office and found that the air was full of the smell of her. It was pretty nice. Art could have been crazy about that girl and so could Drummond. Men had been killed over a woman like that before now.

It was getting near to dark. Already in some of the buildings along Lincoln lamps were lit. McAllister sat outside the office smoking his pipe. He watched Jim Carson walking down the street from the hotel.

A wagon drew up, blocking his view of the bank entrance. Two cowhands rode past, giving him glances as they went. He was the law and if they were going to have fun in their own way they might be meeting up with him later.

Carson came up and said: “All quiet?”

“All quiet.”

They walked into the office together.

“Going to make a start on finding Art's killer tonight,” Carson said.

“Where do you start?” McAllister asked.

Carson buckled on his gun. Took a bottle from a drawer, offered McAllister a drink, was refused and took one himself.

“The Darcy boys is as good a start as any.”

“Fred's tough.”

“Don't I know it.”

They both swung around as a dull explosion came to their
ears. McAllister jumped for the door with Carson close behind him. A shot came from the direction of the bank. Carson pushed McAllister forward and ran onto the street, gun in hand. At once a rifle opened fire from the opposite side of the street, lead hummed past them both and a window of the office collapsed with a crash of broken glass. They both turned and dove back into the office, knowing they couldn't survive out there. Carson got to a window and stared out across the street.

“They're cleanin' out the bank,” he said needlessly.

McAllister said: “Get yourself a rifle and cut down anybody that comes out of there. I'm goin' around the rear.”

He found his Henry, checked the loads and went out of the rear door of the office. He turned right, ran along the back of the buildings and went on along an alleyway between two stores that brought him out opposite the bank. At once he was shot at and was driven further back down the alley. Whoever was pulling this job were surely well-organised. They had all points covered.

He could see now that the light wagon in front of the bank was turned on its side and guessed that at least one marksman was hiding behind it. He could see no one moving about inside the bank. There was nothing to shoot at. From up the street there came shouts. From the office came the sound of shots. Carson was doing his best. The answering fire McAllister saw came from the roof of the bank. He waited, knowing that soon or late a man would have to show himself.

After a few minutes, he heard a shrill whistle.

A man burst suddenly from behind the upturned wagon and started for the alleyway at the side of the bank. The Henry's butt was in McAllister's shoulder, he aimed hastily and fired. The shot hit the man and drove him running against the wall of a building. But he went on and was quickly lost to view.

McAllister ran out of the alleyway.

No shot came from the direction of the bank. He crossed the street to the mouth of the alley running alongside the bank. From the other end of the alley came shouts; his eye caught a flurry of movement, men moving around, horses turning. Several shots came in his direction and he flung himself flat on the ground. Feet pounded behind him and Carson arrived. Shots drove him away from the mouth of the alley to shelter behind the bank itself.

The shooting stopped and horses' hoofs pounded. McAllister lurched to his feet. He needed a horse and quick. Full darkness
would be here in a moment and the robbers would get clear under its cover. He turned and ran for the saloon. There were several men outside it now.

“I want a horse,” McAllister shouted.

They merely stared at him. Carson came up, panting.

“Take any horse you want,” he cried. He untied a sorrel and a man came forward hastily.

“Get your hands off my horse,” he bellowed.

“The city's requisitioning it,” Carson told him,

“The city'll pay if any harm comes to him.”

McAllister turned to a chunky bay, tunied it and vaulted into the saddle. As he turned away from the hitching rail, a man yelled for him to stop. He raked home the spurs and the animal hit a flat run down the street. Carson was close behind him. A moment later they ran neck and neck out of the town onto the eastering road.

“There they go,” Carson cried.

McAllister saw a dark bunch of horsemen going fast over the first ridge.

They came to the creek and splashed into it, sending up a cloud of wild spray. The horses came out dripping on the further side and climbed the bank, the two riders spurring them as they went.

As they came into view of the plain above, McAllister thought he heard a distant shot over the sound of the horses' hoofs. The bay seemed to take a leap in the air. When it came down it landed on legs of paper and McAllister scarcely had time to kick his feet from the stirrup-irons and jump clear. He picked himself up and the horse lay screaming and kicking. McAllister ducked under several shots that came his way, shot the horse through the head and got down behind it.

Carson had reined around and was pounding back to McAllister. To go further along the road was impossible. His horse halted and he jumped from the saddle to join McAllister. They peered along the road but there was little they could see. It was almost full dark now. The bank-raiders had carefully chosen their time to make their attack. The two lawmen heard the distant and dying sound of hoof-beats, but McAllister reckoned there were still at least two men guarding the road.

Full dark swooped down on them.

McAllister said: “We ain't doin' no good here. Let's get back to town.”

They stood up. Nothing happened. McAllister fought the
saddle and bridle off the dead horse and Carson said: “You would have to get that horse shot. Now there'll be hell to pay when we get back to town.”

“What was I supposed to do,” McAllister wanted to know, “let those jaspers get away?”

Carson laughed ruefully.

“They did that any road. No, I know this town. Likely you'll pay for the nag out of your own pocket.”

McAllister said something choicely obscene. They both climbed onto the sorrel and, laden with the saddle, they headed back for town. They felt a mite foolish.

*    *    *

An hour later, they returned to their office. A fair amount had happened in that hour – the mayor had said the town would pay for the horse when McAllister threatened to resign; the banker, Penshurst, a fussy little man had wept and declared that he was ruined. The robbers had got clean away with twenty thousand dollars in gold. The two marshals made coffee, laced it strongly with whiskey and sat at their desks sipping it.

Carson said: “This is a damned good start. Art killed dead and now the bank raided. Maybe there's a jinx on our partnership.”

“Ever have a hunch?” McAllister asked.

“Plenty.”

“I have a hunch Art being killed and this raid are connected.”

Carson lit a stogie and puffed.

“I can't see that,” he said.

“Nor can I,” McAllister agreed, “but that's my hunch. There's a little reason behind it when you look at it. This town was afraid of Art. More afraid than of you an' me. Would anybody have dared make that raid if Art was alive?”

“Makes sense,” Carson had to agree.

“I reckon if'n you find those raiders you'll find Art's killers.”

Carson stood up.

“I'll patrol around a bit an' try to make the town afraid of
me,
” he said.

McAllister said: “I'll stick around for another couple of hours, then I'll hit the hay. Leave the Darcys to me, will you, Jim?”

Carson looked at him for a moment.

“Sure,” he said. “But they're poison.”

He went out.

McAllister checked the old Remington, stood thinking for a
moment and followed him onto the street. He walked along to the Golden Fleece and entered. The place was full to bursting point, the din was deafening and it looked like business had never been better. He found the two Darcys together at the bar, drinking whiskey.

Johnny Darcy was smaller than his brother, but very like him with the same deceptive sober air. Both brothers greeted McAllister effusively, clapped him on the back and declared that he must drink with them. He accepted. They drank, they talked of old times in Texas, McAllister heard again how the brothers Darcy were coming up in the world and were making money. Finally, McAllister said: “Somewhere I can talk to you two boys in private?”

“Sure,” said Fred, “come on into the office.”

They pushed their way through the crowd to a side room, full of plush chairs, a rolltop desk and scattered papers.

“Have another drink, Rem,” Johnny said.

“Not now, Johnny, thanks.”

They turned and faced him, both alert to his change of tone.

“What's eatin' you, Rem?” Fred demanded.

McAllister said: “When something pretty rough happened in this town, Art Malloy always used to pay you two a visit.”

Johnny said: “Art was a Yankee and he didn't like us Texans.”

Fred laughed.

“But you don't feel like that, Rem boy. You're one of us.”

“I'm a marshal of this town, Fred, and two pretty rough things have happened. One Art's been shot and two the bank's been raided. So I'm payin' you two a visit.”

They looked aghast.

“You can't mean it,” Fred exclaimed.

“I don't mean nothin' - yet. I'm just askin' questions.”

“What questions?”

“Did you have anything to do with either?”

Fred spread his hands. “Does it make sense, Rem. Hell, we've all the money in the world. An' Art wasn't doin' us no harm.”

“You had a run in a short time back.”

“Didn't mean a thing, Rem,” said Johnny. “Not a damn thing.”

McAllister used a moment of silence, while the two men eyed him. Finally, the marshal said: “I recognised the man that shot Art.”

That shook them.

“Who was it?” Fred demanded.

“A man you used to run with way back.”

“Who was it?”

“You sure you don't know, Fred?”

“I'd swear it on a stack of Bibles.”

“It was Frank Little.”

Both men looked amazed and Fred whispered: “Ace Reno!”

Johnny said: “Frank could be bought for a dollar. You think we hired him?”

“It's a possibility.”

Anger touched the elder brother now.

“We don't have to stand this kind of talk from you or any other man, McAllister,” he shouted.

McAllister smiled.

“I'll be around again, Fred, an' I'll be askin' more questions. You two boys had best get your stories straight.”

He turned to the door and walked out. As he went through the doorway the muscles in his back crept a little when he thought of what the Darcys were capable of.

He elbowed his way through the crowded saloon and was glad to breath the fresh air of the street. That left Fritz Commer of the Longhorns, Will Drummond and Wild Jack Little's brothers.

He stopped a passerby.

“You know a man named Will Drummond?”

“Who don't?”

“Where does he live?”

“Last house of the last block on Garrett.”

“Thanks.”

He walked down. Lincoln. It was busy with evening strollers. It was a warm pleasant evening. He turned down Garrett not hurrying and at last came to a pleasant house set among trees and with a white picket fence surrounding it. He opened the gate and stepped into a front yard which was fragrant with flowers. The light of lamps showed in the windows. He rapped on the front door with his quirt butt. A moment later it was opened by a middle-aged woman with a stern face.

“Mr. Drummond?”

“Well, sir, he's entertaining at the moment.”

“I'd like a minute of his time if he can spare it.”

Her eyes were on his badge.

“Who shall I say?”

“McAllister - town marshal.”

She hesitated, not knowing whether to invite him in or not. She apparently decided not, for she went into the house leaving him standing there. A moment later, a man several years older than McAllister appeared. He wore a good brown suit, highly polished shoes and a neat necktie. His hair was sleek and there was an altogether gentleness about him. Though he gave the impression of some strength. There might be gentleness there, but there was no weakness. His features were good, the hair fair, the mustache had the fullness that was then fashionable. So this gentleman had been Art's rival. No wonder poor old Art had been in trouble. This kind of man would appeal to a woman like Emily Penshurst.