McAllister Makes War (4 page)

“Mr. McAllister, we haven't met. I believe you're the new town marshal.” He extended a hand and they shook. Drummond's handshake was firm.

“I'm just moseying around town asking questions, Mr. Drummond.”

“What about?”

“Art Malloy's death.”

“I should have guessed. A terrible thing.”

“You didn't like Art.”

“I–” The direct statement had taken the wind out of his sails. “I imagine there were plenty of people who didn't like him.”

“But not as much as you.”

The directness of that statement seemed to take him aback too.

“Whatever makes you say that?”

“You had good personal reasons for not liking him. I'd put it stronger than that. I suggest you hated him.”

Drummond's face flushed with anger.

“See here, you can't come here and talk this way on my own doorstep. I have guests. You don't know this town and I am willing to make allowances for your ignorance. Maybe you don't know that I'm a man of some standing here.”

McAllister said: “I don't give a monkey's damn if'n you're the emperor of China. All I know is you hated Art and you'd of liked to see him dead.”

“Nothing could be further from the truth. I didn't like the man, but that doesn't mean that I hated him and wanted him dead.”

“Mr. Drummond, I've seen the lady.”

“What lady?”

“The one who was the reason for you hating Art.”

For a moment it looked as if Drummond couldn't believe his ears. Then he shouted: “Why, you -” and looked to be about to strike McAllister.

McAllister said with a quick grin: “Lay a finger on me and I'll take you in, boy.”

That stopped Drummond. McAllister was satisfied – he had gotten to the man's elemental self straight off.

“McAllister,” Drummond said through his teeth, “if I ever hear you mention that lady's name, I'll–”

“Come after me with a shotgun from behind?”

Drummond went white. He stared at McAllister for a moment, seemed to collect himself a little and said: “Are you accusing me of killing Malloy, McAllister?”

“Whatever gave you that idea?” McAllister asked. “I'm just asking around.”

“McAllister, there were plenty of men who wanted Malloy dead. Search among the riffraff of this town, not among the respectable. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'll return to my guests.”

“Sure, I'll excuse you.”

McAllister strolled down the path and went out of the gateway. When he looked back, Drummond was still staring at him from the open doorway.

It was a fine night. McAllister strolled along Garrett, reached the intersection and went west along Main. At the end of Main was a blacksmith's shop. McAllister stooped at the doorway and went in. The smith was busy at the anvil beating out shoes for a good sorrel horse that stood there. At the bellows was a boy. The smith was a giant of a man, all bulging muscles, sweat and tangled hair. McAllister waited patiently until the man had finished and fitted the shoe. The boy led the horse out into the yard.

McAllister said: “McAllister, deputy-marshal.”

“Clem Malloy.”

McAllister raised his eyebrows. “Didn't know Art had a brother.”

“Cousin.”

“Know who killed him?”

“Wish to God I did.”

“Clem, where was you at when the bank was raided today?”

“Right here.”

McAllister went on: “How long were you here after the raid?”

“All morning.”

“Any riders come in from the west, hour-two hours after the raid?”

The giant frowned. Finally, he said: “Yeah. Two-three horsebackers come in Usual farm wagons too.”

“The horsebackers - did they come in together or separately?”

“Separately.”

“Know 'em?”

Again the frown. “One of 'em Feller called Ranshaw. Don't recollect his other name.”

“Thanks, Clem.”

“You goin' to get Art's killer, McAllister.”

“Do my best.”

“Anything I can do to help. You call on me.”

“I'll do that.”

McAllister walked out onto the street, feeling that he had an ally there.
Ranshaw,
he thought - it could be a lead. There was just a faint chance. The fact that a horseman had ridden into town from the west while the raiders had disappeared into the east could mean nothing at all, but he was riding one of his hunches.

Almost opposite the blacksmith's was a gunsmith's. He crossed and went in. The gunsmith was a little man of middle years with a bald head and steel-rimmed spectacles. They exchanged greetings and McAllister asked him where he had been when the raid on the bank took place. The man replied that he had been at his home, a block away. When the shooting had started, he had run to see what it was all about. He had watched the raid from a safe distance, then, when the raiders rode off from the rear of the bank he had stood around talking with folks for awhile and come here to his shop.

“Anybody you know ride in from the west during the morning?' McAllister asked.

The little man looked a little surprised at the question, but he said quickly enough: “Sure, several.”

“Could you name 'em?”

“One was George Ranshaw. I remember him clearly. He spoke to me.”

“Could you name the others?”

“Sure. There was Johnny Dikes, Hat Palmer, Sven Carlson, Lew Goad and, let me see now, Burt Evans.”

“Any of those farmers?”

“Carlson and Goad.”

“Thanks.”

“You're welcome. You goin' to get the man that killed Art Malloy, marshal?”

“Sure.”

“Good man.” The little man adjusted his spectacles and added: “They don't come any better'n Art Malloy.”

McAllister strolled down Main, across the intersection and came on Jim Carson standing outside the Longhorns.

“You got trouble in there, Jim?”

“Fight, but it seems to of quietened down now.”

Just then a shot sounded.

McAllister said: “Here's your chance to impress the town.”

Carson gave him a look that carried some worry in it. But he wasn't scared. Art Malloy wouldn't have employed a deputy who scared easily. Carson shouldered his way into the saloon. McAllister waited where he was for a moment, heard Carson's voice and slipped inside when he knew that all eyes would be on Carson. The marshal was in the middle of the floor. Not far from him lay a man, one leg feebly kicking. Two bouncers hovered in the background, held back by the gun in the hand of a cowman who stood near the bar. Carson was telling this man to hand over his gun.

“I got friends here, lawman,” the drover was saying, “you get the hell outa here, crawl into your hole and pull it in after you.”

Carson hesitated to pull a gun while one pointed at his midriff.

“Quit acting like a fool,” he said. “I'm takin' you in.”

Several members of the crowd told him what he could do with himself. McAllister slipped his old Remington from its holster, stepped into the open to one side of the cowhand and said: “You're mutton, Texas.”

The boy gaped at him. Carson drew his gun. The boy's eyes shifted from one lawman to the other.

“It takes two of you,” he said bitterly.

McAllister stepped up to him and took his gun from his hand, stuffing it under his own belt. He took a look at the man on the ground and saw that he had been drilled clean between the eyes.

Carson asked: “What happened?”

A man nearby said: “The kid done what any other man would of done. This feller cut down on him. His gun was cocked afore the kid drew.”

“Any more witnesses?” Carson asked. There were several. “Walk down to my office and we'll put it down in writing. Lock the kid up, Rem. Charge him with being in possession of a firearm.”

They all trooped down to the office, the boy was locked in the cell which McAllister had been in so short a time before, the men gave their evidence and Carson wrote it down. It was an hour before only the two lawmen were left alone in the office.

McAllister and Carson took a drink.

“Jim, I have some names. Tell me what you can about them,” McAllister said.

“Shoot.”

“George Ranshaw.”

“No visible means of support, except cards and a gun. Do you?”

“Fine. Point him out to me later.”

“You're supposed to be off duty.”

“I'm working my way toward the men that raided the bank. And the men that killed Art Malloy.”

“You have a hunch?”

“That's about all I have. Johnny Dikes.”

“Works around the stock-pens. Young. Nice kid.”

“Why should he ride into town from the west of a morning?”

“Courtin' a girl out that away. Sees her any excuse he can.”

“Hat Palmer.”

“No good. Runs with the Darcy boys. Kansas man. I suspect he rides with the men raiding the Texas herds. He cut the throat of a man right here in town and got away with self-defense.”

“Burt Evans.”

“A bad hat, but a cut above the average. Fast with a gun. Has somethin' of a reputation. He's a dresser and he always seems to have money, though I never learned where he got it.” Carson looked at McAllister curiously. “You think these boys had somethin' to do with killing Art and carryin' out the raid.”

“The raid. I know who did the killin'. Point these fellers out to me, Jim.”

Carson rose. “Sure, do it now. You want some help.”

“I'll tell you when I do.”

Carson walked to the door and turned. “You think they carried out the raid and returned to town? Rem, you could be gettin' yourself into a heap of trouble. Any one of those men would kill you for a dollar.”

“Maybe it would be a good thing if they tried. We'd nail 'em then.”

Carson smiled. “Rather you than me.”

They walked down the street to the Golden Fleece and shouldered their way inside. The place was as crowded as usual
at that time of the night. The noise was deafening, the air thick with smoke. They pushed their way through the crowd and reached the bar. Carson took a good look around.

“Burt Evans at the table there to the left. Tall man with sideboards and black mustache.”

McAllister looked at the man. He was in his early thirties, immaculately dressed in clawhammer coat and silk vest. His face was narrow and handsome. He was smiling and showing strong white teeth. McAllister summed him up as having plenty of sand, but of being vain. He wondered how quickly he would break. He reckoned he would soon find out.

“You want some help?” Carson asked.

“Just keep the others off'n my back,” McAllister said and stepped forward.

He went forward until he stood beside the man. Evans flicked him a glance and said: “I don't like anybody overlooking my cards, friend.”

“I'm not looking at your cards,” McAllister told him, “and I'm not your friend.”

The man laid his cards down and stared up at the tall man.

“Ah,” he exclaimed in cultured tones, “the new deputy, boys. What can I do for you, marshal?”

“Step down to the office for a word.”

“I'm busy right now and I have no secrets. Talk freely before these gentlemen.”

“Right. You ain't allowed to carry guns in this town and you have one.”

The man went rigid.

“Do you aim to take it from me?”

“That's the general idea.”

“Then I shall give it to you.”

The right hand flicked quick as the head of a spitting snake and a small vest-pocket gun appeared in it. The men at the table dove away, but the shot never came. McAllister's own right hand also moved, with speed and, clenched, it struck Evans in the side of the neck. Even as he fell sideways, McAllister's left hand crossed over and took the deadly little pistol from the man's hand. Evans went sideways and hit the floor hard. McAllister dropped the pistol into his pocket, kicked the chair aside and stood over the fallen man.

Carson, gun in hand, said: “Stand back and let the man have air, boys.” The whole place went still.

Holding his neck, his face grimacing with pain, Evans
staggered to his feet. He looked like a considerably shaken man.

McAllister said: “I'm arrestin' you for carrying concealed weapons and for assaultin' a peace officer. Comin' peaceable?”

With a strangled cry of rage, Evans launched himself at the deputy. That right hand of his moved again as he leapt and a short knife appeared in it. McAllister kicked the chair again and Evans fell over it. As he went down McAllister lifted a blow from his belt level, catching Evans on the side of the head. The man hit the planks and lay still. Somebody whistled their appreciation. McAllister took Evans by the collar of his fine coat and dragged him away from the table. Men made a way for him and McAllister dragged him through the door and out onto the sidewalk. By the time McAllister had tossed him onto the street, he had started to come around. The men who had followed them onto the sidewalk watched him get to his feet. Suddenly he looked frail and weak.

McAllister said: “Walk ahead of me to the jail. Make a break and I'll shoot you in the leg. I'd like'that.”

The man started to walk. His legs seemed to be made of paper. By the time they reached the jail the fresh air had helped to revive him. Inside the office, Evans took one look at the iron grill of the jail and wilted again.

“You're not going to lock me up,” he said, “nobody ever did that.”

“First time for everythin',” McAllister said. “Sit down before you fall down.”

The trail-driver came to the grill and watched them with interest.

Evans sat down.

McAllister said: “Why'd you ride in from west of town this mornin'?”

The man looked startled.

“What in hell does that have to do with me carrying a gun and assaulting a peace officer?”