Tough to Kill
Authors: Matt Chisholm
Matt Chisholm
1
McShannon stayed still in the darkness, measuring the distance to his horse in his mind's eye.
He could see the men between himself and the lights of the house, searching for him and he cursed the fact that he had come without a gun. But who went courting with a gun strapped to his waist?
Cautiously, he started to move backward, then turned and started to slip through the dark, planning to circle and come to the bay from the east. And as he went, he wondered what had gone wrong, how Markham had known that he would be here. He was sure that a trap had been set for him. The hound-dogs had been set on the wolf who dared to get near the rich man's fold.
But he didn't know any real fear then, only a kind of apprehension. Men might laugh at McShannon being caught sniffing around a Markham girl. That was because he didn't know Markham. If he had asked McAllister, the older man would have told him. To risk sparking a Markham girl was to risk more than ridicule. Down in Texas, so the stories went, men had died for it. Now Markham was up here in the north and he had brought a big bit of wild Texas with him. The sheriff might be the law in the rest of the county, but up here on Markham land, Markham was the law.
A shadow moved suddenly in front of McShannon and he sidestepped instinctively to evade it. A man exclaimed and there was a rush of violent movement. Something struck McShannon hard on the left shoulder and he cried out with the surprise and pain of it. He stumbled to one knee and instinctively his right hand went back for the gun butt that wasn't there.
“Got you, you bastard,” a man panted.
McShannon dove forward low, his arms encircling the man's legs and tearing him from his feet. The fellow yelled as he went down. McShannon vaulted forward and brought both his knees down hard on the stomach beneath him. The man's breath came out of him with a sound like a groaning
organ. McShannon heaved to his feet, tried to run, but a hand came out of the darkness and grabbed an ankle, bringing him down hard to the ground. He landed painfully, ripped off an appropriately obscene oath that would have curled the hair of Markham's fair daughter and rolled clear of the other.
He knew then that he had a tough one here, for they both came to their feet in the same instant. McShannon's eye caught a dull gleam and he knew that the man had a gun in his hand.
The weapon thundered out and something plucked viciously at McShannon's sleeve. Fear swooped through him then, and he knew that the only thing that would save him was a charge before the man could cock and fire again.
McShannon launched himself at the shadowy figure before him, smashing out with a fist and finding flesh-covered bone. The man reared away into the dark, his breath heaving in with shock and pain. By the sound of it, he collided with a tree trunk. There was a sickening thud and McShannon did not wait for more. He turned and bolted. He knew that the fight had been heard by the men near the house and that they were coming on the run. McShannon knew that the best place for him was on the back of the bay headed down valley at a flat run.
He went full tilt into the trunk of a tree and nearly knocked himself out. He sat down feeling that his skull had been shattered. Dully, he was aware of shouts from behind. He got groggily to his feet and rested a hand against the tree.
A gun cracked sharply and bark was blasted into his face. His senses returned to him with remarkable rapidity. Ducking around the tree, he set off once more, knowing that the hounds were no more than a few jumps behind him. He knew that it was hopeless now to circle to reach the bay. He didn't need the horse any more, he wanted a deep hole he could get into and pull in after him. Those hombres back there meant business and were as willing to put lead into him as break his jaw.
Running was awkward on his high cowman's heels, but he was hitting a pretty pace when he stepped out into space and felt himself falling. The gully must have been a good twenty feet deep and it was a miracle that he didn't break a leg or his neck. When the men found him, he was on his hands and knees making noises like a dying calf. They hoisted him to
his feet and one of the braver ones knocked him down again. Being McShannon he came back onto his feet and started hitting out blindly at them. They tripped him and gave him the boot. One tried to rip him with his spurs but McShannon caught him by the foot and put him on his face.
Maybe they would have killed him then and there, but one of them said that Mr. Markham had better see him before they killed him.
The remark seeped through into McShannons' brain.
Kill him?
He had only been sparking a man's daughter. He hadn't shot her or raped her. He hadn't even got to have a word with her.
Somebody dropped a rawhide noose around his neck and they dragged him out of the gully so that he was more than half-strangled by the time he was on level ground among the trees. He wasn't in a fit state to count heads very accurately, but he reckoned a half-dozen men dragged him all the way to the house and pitched him into the dust of the yard. He tried to sit up and somebody kicked him in the head. He retched noisily.
After a while, a voice said: “Get on your feet, boy.”
He got to his feet then not so much because he had been ordered to, but because he didn't like to admit that he could not. He gained his feet and stood there swaying, trying to focus his reluctant eyes.
The yard seemed full of men. A man larger and taller than the rest stood in front of him.
“Anybody know who he is?” this man asked.
“He's McShannon from Little Creek,” a man said.
“McShannon, huh? From Little Creek,” the big man said. “You shouldn't have crossed the creek, McShannon, should you?”
Through battered lips, McShannon said: “Up yours.”
He heard the big man draw in his breath with a hiss, saw the fist drawn back and tried to stride clear of the blow. But he was late by a hundred years. The stars shone brightly again and it felt as if his jaw had exploded. The shock and pain of the blow was so bad that he didn't feel himself hit the ground. This time, it took two men to set him up on his feet.
“Why'd you come here, McShannon?” the big man asked.
“You Markham?”
“That's my name.”
“We-al, Markham, I come to court your daughter Alvina. I don't seem too welcome tonight, so I'll try again tomorrow night.”
The big man hit him again. McShannon was so battered and numb that he felt little pain. This time when the two men put him on his feet, he crumpled in a heap. Markham had to bend over him and shout to get his message through.
“Don't cross the creek again, McShannon,” he told the prostrate man. Markham straightened up and beckoned to the men near him. “Take him across the creek and dump him. You don't have to do it gently.”
They threw him across a horse and tied him there. They seemed to be laughing a lot and he was glad that somebody was happy. They drove the horse at a trot and riding as he was wasn't comfortable because the saddlehorn kept striking his side with the motion of the horse and a stirrup iron kept hitting him in the face. He couldn't do much about it because they had tied him there.
After what seemed to be hours and after the blood had run to his head and he was no more than semi-conscious, the agony of the horse's motion stopped, the ropes about him were loosened and he landed on the ground in a heap. That got some happy laughs, too.
He heard them ride away. He didn't move as the sound of their going faded into the distance and he became gradually aware of the gentle sounds of the creek flowing by. He managed to get to his hands and knees and crawl to the edge of the water. The water was icy balm to his battered face and he drank voraciously.
That made him feel a little more human, but still he didn't feel too much like getting to his feet. However, after a while, thinking that if he was near the creek he must be near the house, he forced himself to his feet, swayed there a moment or two and began a tottering walk in the direction of the house.
It seemed that he walked for eternity and that he fell more times than he could count. He philosophised that there were many situations in life in which a man could find himself and would be better off dead and this was one of them. In his hard life as a frontier waif, a prisoner of the Kiowas, a wild horse hunter and a trail driver he had been thrown, buffaloed,
stomped, roped, whipped and shot, but he had never felt as bad as this. Maybe it was because humiliation had been thrown in with the violence. And all for a woman. All for his desire to see a lovely face he had no more than glimpsed in town one day for a fleeting moment. McAllister had told him that he didn't stand a chance with a girl like Alvina Markham, but he didn't listen. All he knew was that he hadn't seen too many white women in his life, and none as beautiful as this one.
He had heard of Markham, but never before seen the man. He had heard that he was a power in the land and jealously guarded his women, but he had never reckoned on being beaten near to death for wanting the sight of the daughter of the house. McAllister would crow and say: 1 told you so'. He would maybe laugh too.
He knew he was near the house when he walked into the corral fence. That knocked him down and he was a long time getting up. Then he felt his way around the corral and made it across the yard to the house. No lights showed. It was late now and everybody slept. He climbed the stoop, failed to miss the creaking board and opened the door. By now he was at the end of his strength and fell on his face. He must have passed out because the next thing he was aware of was a light shining in his eyes and the faces of McAllister and Jack Owen as they stared down at him. Beyond them he could see the frightened eyes of the kid, Sarie.
Quietly, McAllister said: “What happened to you, boy?”
At first, McShannon could only mumble, but finally he managed to say: “Walked into a barn door.”
Dryly, McAllister said: “It must of fought back awful hard.”
Jack said: “Somebody used a spur on him.”
“That same somebody,” McAllister added, “stomped him, kicked him in the head and tried to hang him with a rope.”
“For heavens sakes,” Sarie said sharply, “put him on his bunk. He looks like he might die. I never saw a man beat so bad.”
The two men lifted him by shoulders and legs and put him on his bunk. Sarie shooed them away from him and started pulling off his shirt. He tried to protest, but she carried on just the same, exclaiming when she saw the awful marks of the violence on his body. She bathed him with warm water and gently applied grease to his cuts and bruises. He didn't tell
her that he felt as if every bone in his body had been broken.
When she was through, McAllister said in that tone that even Sarie knew was to be obeyed: “All right, Sarie, you done fine. Now get to your bed.”
She went. McAllister and Jack stood and looked down at him. He couldn't meet their steady gaze.
“Well, son,” McAllister said. “Who did it?”
“Don't call me âson',” McShannon tried to snap.
“You might as well tell me now, because I'm goin' to get it out of you. Where'd you go tonight?”
“That's my business.”
Sarie said: “He was all spruced up.”
Jack said: “That means courtin'.”
McAllister grinned wickedly. “That means Alvina Markham,” he said.
McShannon tried to sit up and sank back with a groan.