McAllister Makes War (7 page)

Carson heard horses outside on the street. He walked to the door and looked out. McAllister was in the act of dismounting from his canelo. In his hand he held the lead rope of a chunky-looking dun.

Carson said: “Where do you think you're goin'?”

“After Marve Little.”

“Are you hell?”

“I am hell.”

“I don't remember giving an order.”

“That's because you never gave it. I'm doin' you the courtesy of stoppin' by an' tellin' you, ain't I? An' me in a hurry too.”

“Just stop to think, Rem. You can't catch Marve. He's an hour ahead and he has real classy horseflesh.”

McAllister grinned maddeningly.

“They'll be run belly-deep into the ground while my canelo's still steppin' proud. If Marve knew my horse's kind he'd turn around an' give hisself up.”

“All right,” Carson said in disgust. “So you have a fancy horse. Maybe the town needs you here.”

“Hire yourself another deputy. I'll resign till I hit town again. Use your head, man-Frank dies an' all we have is Evans. We want every man in this outfit we can get. They couldn't kill one prisoner. You think they're goin' to have a chance with two or even three?”

“They could raid the jail while you're gone.”

“Fort up and hold out till I get back. This won't take a couple of days.”

Carson went red in the face.

“You get in that saddle an' you're fired.”

McAllister said: “You almost sound as if you mean that.”

“I
do
mean it.”

“You're just worried that nasty Marve'll shoot holes in me. You really care, marshal.”

Carson became incoherent. McAllister mounted and Carson stamped his feet, yelling: “You're fired.”

“I was never fired by a nicer feller.”

McAllister turned the canelo toward the creek and set it off down the street at a lope, the dun following briskly behind, Carson swore on for a full minute before he stomped furiously back into his office. The Texas cowhand behind bars said: “What happened, marshal? You look kinda mad.”

“You want your teeth knocked in?” Carson demanded.

“No, siree.”

“Then don't talk. Don't even breathe loud.”

* * *

McAllister crossed the creek and turned south, cutting a little west until he struck the sign left by Marve Little. Not long
after he lost the sign among the mass of cattle tracks there. He was irritated by this because he knew that it might be hours before he picked up Marve's sign again. But he kept on going. Luck was with him and he saw, when he picked up the sign again, that Marve must be traveling in an almost dead straight line. But Marve had the advantage and McAllister knew it. McAllister would have to stop when it grew dark, because sign couldn't be followed when you couldn't see it. Marve would keep on going. Mile after mile would be eaten up as the man ahead switched from one horse to another. There wasn't much going in McAllister's favor. He wanted some luck.

He rode hard, letting the willing canelo make its own brisk pace. The animal loved to run. The chunky dun, riderless, kept up well. Around noon, McAllister switched the saddle to the back of the dun and tried it out. The man in the livery had sworn the animal was a stayer and McAllister's eyes told him the same thing. As soon as McAllister was up the animal hit a fast long trot and kept to it till mid-afternoon when McAllister transferred himself back to the canelo again. By now he was sure that he had a good horse in the dun. His chances of catching Marve were better, but not good. The man had two thoroughbreds with him. McAllister could only hope that they didn't possess the endless bottom that his two horses with their mustang ancestry had.

The flatness of the country started to disappear. It started to roll. It was still possible at times to see a great distance, but there was low land between the ridges that were out of sight. A pursuer could never be too sure that the pursued was not over the next ridge, waiting.

McAllister pressed on hard till dark. He stopped then for two reasons. One, because he couldn't see Marve's tracks any more. Two, because he heard the whinny of a horse. He halted, groundhitched his two horses, took out the Henry and went cautiously up the next ridge.

* * *

Jim Carson was nervous and he had every right to be. He was no coward, but he knew real danger when he saw it. McAllister had shown lack of responsibility and an indifference to danger that angered the marshal. But he knew that his firing of the man was meaningless. He needed McAllister and he had never needed a man more.

So Carson sat at his desk and worried.

Frank Little was at the doctor's house wounded. And Carson needed Frank alive. He might die of his wounds, he might be killed in the same way as he had tried to kill Burt Evans.

Evans was another worry. He was in the cell with the Texas cowhand, but how long would he stay there? There was menace in this town and it was doubly worrying because Carson had no idea from whence the menace came. He ran his mind over names again and again, trying to guess at the men who were big enough and dangerous enough to run a business like this. More and more, as he thought, he came to agree with McAllister's hunch that Malloy's killing and the bank robbery were tied in together. He couldn't prove it, but it was a feeling he had.

His main trouble was that he wanted to be in two places at once. He needed to keep an eye on the jail and he should be with Frank Little.

Mid-morning, the mayor came fussing in. Homer Touch was something of a laugh, but he was no fool. He knew that trouble was brewing and he knew you couldn't fight trouble without the expenditure of money. Money was the mayor's weapon. It could buy guns and it could buy men. He understood at once when Carson put his case to him. Carson glossed over McAllister's departure and said that it was unavoidable and necessary. Touch didn't quite agree with that, but he went along with the marshal.

“Mr. Carson, you need help,” he said. “The town isn't made of money, but I daresay it would run to a special deputy. Say, till McAllister gets back. Or things look more settled. We'll consult each day. Hire a man at a rate of fifteen dollars a week. You know a good man?”

“I know a good man. But whether I can get him or not is another matter.”

The mayor departed fussily.

Carson stepped onto the sidewalk, spotted a small boy and whistled him. The youngster came running.

“You know Pat O'Doran, son?”

“Sure, marshal.”

“Is he in town?”

“Lappin' it up in the Golden Fleece.”

Carson flipped a coin and the boy caught if deftly.

“Go fetch him for me.”

The kid sped off.

Five minutes later, O'Doran's bulk heaved itself into the office.

“Sit down, Pat.”

The giant Irishman punished an inoffensive chair. It groaned.

“You look worried as hell, man,” he said.

Carson said: “Would you like a rest from railroad work for a few days?”

“I'd be takin' my rest over at the Golden Fleece right this very minute if you hadn't sent for me.”

“Can you use a shot-gun?”

Pat laughed.

“I used to shoot a red coat for breakfast every day back in the old country,” he said. “You're askin' a whole lot of mighty strange questions, Jim, and I suspect where they're leadin' us.”

“Rem and I want help, Pat. An' we want it bad. Would you swear in as a special deputy for a few days.”

Pat slapped his massive thigh and roared.

“Pat O'Doran a polisman. I never thought I'd live to see the day ... my dear old father would turn over in his grave. My sainted mother'd have forty fits, she would.”

“Will you do it?”

“Sure, I'll do it. Anythin' to help two old friends out.”

Carson swore him in. Evans and the Texas cowhand were interested spectators. The marshal gave his new deputy a badge, a shotgun and a pocketful of shells. The Irishman was as pleased with the weapon as a child with a new toy.

“What do I do first?” he demanded.

“Frank Little is wounded at the doctor's place. I want him down here where I can keep an eye on him.” He explained the whole situation to O'Doran. When he finished, Pat said: “By the Holy Mother and all the saints! You need me, Jim boy.” He laughed, he looked like he would break into song. “This is better than railroading any day of the week.” He agreed that he would go and get Frank Little himself. Sure, carrying the man down here would be no trouble at all.

“You'll need the greener,” Carson told him. “Go borrow Altmeyer's buggy. I'll cover you from the other side of the street. I can see the doctor's and this place from there.”

The Irishman hurried away, bearing his badge and the shotgun proudly. Carson was pleased. He knew that he had a man there who would never back down. He chose a carbine from the rack and crossed the street to stand near the bank. Penshurst was outside, his hands in his pockets. Carson nodded, but it was as if the banker didn't see him. Carson didn't blame him He wouldn't be seeing much if he were a ruined man. He watched
Pat bring the buggy up to the doctor's house and go inside. The doctor would protest, but he knew that he was holding dynamite while he held Frank. Ten minutes later, Pat came out, holding the tall man easily in his arms. He set him down gently in the bed of the buggy, then he had a good look around. So did Carson. He doubted anything would happen now, but you never knew. He put his thumb into the lever of the carbine, ready to jerk a shell into the breech. Pat was climbing onto the buggy's seat, picking up the shotgun and placing it across his knees. People had stopped to look. Even Penshurst was now paying attention. Pat had the lines in his hands and the horses were on the move, walking up the street. Carson watched the street, running his eyes over the houses, inspecting every watcher in every window. A curtain fluttered. The Darcy brothers were outside the Golden Fleece.

I wonder how much you boys know,
Carson thought.

The buggy at last drew up outside the office. Carson crossed the street and stood around while Pat carried the wounded man into the office. He laid Frank on the pallet bed they had prepared. There was no room in the cell so Frank would have to stay in the office itself.

The gunman looked pale. His dark and fevered eyes watched their every move.

“You could of killed me, movin' me that way,” he said.

“Sure,” Carson said and covered him with a couple of blankets.

“I reckon you don't have any right to treat a wounded man this way,” Frank said.

“I don't want you killed the way you tried to kill Evans,” Carson said. “I want you killed in the law's good time.”

Evans at the grill said: “What do you mean? He tried to kill me? You're crazy. Frank would never try to kill me. He's a friend. What're you tryin' to pull?”

“I know what they're trying' to pull, Burt,” Frank said. “But it won't do them any good.”

“Sure I'm tryin' to pull something',” Carson said. “I want to scare you into talkin', Evans. An' that's what I'm goin' to do. You're goin' to scare like you never scared before. Because you've got somethin' to be scared of. Marve and Frank was hired to cut you down. McAllister got Frank and Marve got away. He won't get far because McAllister's gone after him.”

Frank said: “He don't stand a chance. Marve'll be in Mexico before McAllister reaches the New Mexico line.”

“Want to bet on it?”

“Sure.”

“Ten dollars says you wrong.”

“Done.”

Evans said: “It's a lie. Say it's a lie, Frank.”

“It's a lie.”

Evans had a hold of the bars and he was sweating. His hair was all over his face and his eyes were wild.

“Why would the boss want me dead?” he demanded.

“What boss?” Carson asked.

“He's ravin',” Frank said. “You kicked a scare into him, Carson. The way he is, he'll say anythin'.”

“He's goin' to say plenty by the time I'm through with him,” Carson said. “If he don't, you will.”

“Me? You should know better.”

Pat pled: “Let me work on that Evans a little, Jim. I'll make him sing like a bird.”

“No call,” said Carson. “He'll sing our tune before the day's out. He'll have to if he wants to save his neck. If he don't he'll hang.”

“Hang?” Evans almost screamed. “Hang? You can't hang me. I'm here for carrying a gun and assaulting a peace officer. You can't hang a man for that.”

Carson walked to the bars.

“I can hang a man for robbery under arms and murder.”

“Murder?” Evans frankly screamed this time. “Who said anything about murder?”

“I did.”

“Who did I murder?”

“Art Malloy.”

There was a short and stunned silence.

Evans said: “I didn't kill Malloy. Why should I want to kill Malloy? I didn't have a reason even.”

“Your orders were your reason.”

“What orders? I never took orders from anybody.”

Carson said: “I don't want to discuss it with you, Evans. You stay in there and sweat and you think. Think what it'll be like when you feel the rope around your neck.”

Frank was grinning.

“You got him scared all right, Carson,” he said.

Carson walked across the office and looked down at the wounded man.

“You don't have too much to grin about, Frank,” he said.
“You're in the same position. It's risky having you alive now. And you failed to kill Evans.”

“Who said I was tryin' to kill Evans?”

“You mean you have the nerve to deny it?”

“I was tryin' to kill you an' McAllister and you know it.”

From the cell, Evans shouted: “I heard that. He wasn't trying to kill me. He was trying to kill you and McAllister. He just made a liar out of you, Carson.”