McAllister Justice (5 page)

“Did you find out who got the gun?”

“Nope. Not even O'Grady got it.”

“What does that mean?”

“O'Grady never picked it up. He was so drunk he forgot it. Left it lyin' on a table in the saloon.”

So they were no further. The only clue that McAllister had come on was useless. There was not even anybody he could beat the truth out of. He told Sime to get some sleep. The crowd in the cells started raising a little hell and he went and told them he'd beat their ears off if they didn't quit the racket and they knew he was telling the exact truth. His mood was growing steadily meaner by the minute now. They stopped and he went back to the desk to doze fitfully till dawn.

Just as the sun started to peek weakly through the dust of the windows, Jenny Mann brought him piping hot coffee, syrup-sweet as he liked it. She looked as lovely and fresh as she had the evening before.

“Thanks. How's Diblon?”

“The fever's passed, I think. That was my main concern.” She returned to her charge and McAllister heard him muttering softly to her. He sat in his chair, easing aching buttocks and envying Sime his peaceful sleep on the floor. He nursed black dawn-thoughts till the coffee was finished, then kicked Sime awake and told him he was going down-town for a shave. He found a good barber, one that would give him credit, and enjoyed the luxury of a shave and hot towels. When he hit the street again and headed back to his office, he could drag a smile up from some place. Sime was eating a breakfast of ham and eggs and refused to divulge the secret of how he had managed to raise such rations in this hungry town.

“Just put it down to political influence, Rem,” he said.

“Miss Mann in there still?”

“Gone to see her sister. I have to keep my ear cocked should Joe want for somethin'.”

McAllister looked in on the wounded man and found
him quiet, apparently sleeping normally. The prisoners started yelling that they were hungry and demanding to know if the town planned to starve them to death. McAllister went to the cells and told them the town planned no such thing. It was going to try them, fine them and release them pretty damned quick. If they wanted to pay a double fine, they could go ahead and raise hell. That would suit McAllister nicely. They shut up. McAllister returned to the office to find that Sime had magnanimously saved him a few scraps for his breakfast. He ate them and drank the remainder of the coffee in the pot. After Jenny Mann's it tasted like trail dust.

Out on the street, the day-time town was coming to life. Teams of ranch and farm horses dragged their wagons through the mud, a rider splashed by; the stage started on its bi-weekly run into Deadwood. The butcher on the opposite side of the street took his shutters down and beamed fatly on a good world that provided him with fantastic prices for beef. McAllister reckoned he looked Pennsylvania Dutch.

He sighted Jenny Mann hovering on the sidewalk over the way, not wanting to venture into the mud. The butcher came forward and offered his leering help and she shook her head. McAllister waded across to her, grinned and thought she really was just about the prettiest little thing in women-folk. Standing ankle-deep in the mud, he touched his hat, reached for her and lifted her from her feet without a word. She gave a little scream of surprise, put one arm around his neck and the other on his chest.

“My,” she said, giving him the full benefit of her eyes as the warmth of her full little body seeped into his own. “You quite took my breath away, Mr. McAllister, I do declare.”

“Took mine away soon's I laid eyes on you-all, ma'am.”

She showed mock annoyance and said: “If we weren't right in the middle of the street, sir, I'd say put me down this instant.”

“An' me prayin' a miracle could happen and this street would turn out to be a mile wide.” He gave her waist a small
squeeze and her arm tightened around his neck and she smacked his chest in ladylike anger.

“You do go on so.”

“As far as I dare, ma'am.”

She turned her head away. He reckoned that was to hide a pleased smile.

When he reached the sidewalk in front of the office, he took his time getting out of the mud. In fact, it seemed he would never make it. She insisted that he hurry, her patient was waiting. He said, sure, if she said so, but she must let him know when she wanted to re-cross to the store. She said that she agreed, but only under duress. “I'm really quite distressed,” she ended. “What will folks think?”

“Me, too, ma'am,” McAllister informed her and deposited her gently on the boards. She straightened her skirts, patted her hair and, with heightened color, went through the office so fast that Sime wanted to know what the stampede was in aid of. McAllister walked in and Sime said it was hell playing second-fiddle to a goddam Casanova.

“Put a gun-belt around that burstin' belly of yours,” McAllister told him, “and help me get that cawy of arch-criminals down to the judge.”

They buckled on their gun-belts, Sime chose himself a shotgun with all the care a woman takes to choose a hat and they opened up the cells and crowded the prisoners into the office.

McAllister said: “Let's do this nicely, boys. I don't want to put irons on any of you. Just walk ahead and mind your business. Court's in the Paradise saloon. We get this over like I plan it and you can be proppin' up the bar in an hour.”

One or two had the shakes from last night's drinking and these showed a wild-eyed gratitude and longing. He and Sime got them onto the street and herded them slowly through the mud. The mud was a Godsend. Nobody could move fast in that. Folks stopped on the sidewalk to watch the wretched procession and heads were nodded approvingly by the few regular towns-people. Loungers exchanged ribald remarks
with some of the prisoners and sauntered along with them to the saloon. There, McAllister found the judge and the mayor waiting for him. Sillitoe was immaculately dressed, but with mud nearly to his knees.

“Mr. McAllister,” he boomed, “you have a fine crop there.”

“Anything tricky, marshal?” the judge wanted to know.

“All tangling with a police officer in the pursuance of his duty. Two common assaults and one attempted murder - well, the little feller in the pink shirt tried to shoot a man at a hundred paces. Not a hope in hell of hittin' him. All ten dollar stuff.”

Sillitoe said:” Yessir, judge. Remember now - no committing to jail. The town needs money and can't go feeding idlers with food the price it is.”

The judge frowned. “The law does not make allowances for economics, Mr. Mayor,” he said coldly.

“It does in my town,” the mayor replied briskly.

That was too pointed for the judge and he choked on it. “I can't say I like that tone. This is blackmail.”

“Ain't it,” McAllister put in. “An' just to prove it - if there's a single prisoner in one of my cells come noon, you can find yourself a new marshal.”

The judge looked furious. And helpless. But his anger did some good. When the drunks, layabouts, and roisterers came up for trial, the fines were heavy. McAllister nodded with somber satisfaction. The budget was going to be balanced fine. Now he could knock this town into some sort of shape, get down to some real police work and find the man who had shot a marshal nearly to death.

Within the hour every one of the prisoners had been found guilty, had paid their fines and were at the bar having their first drinks bought by McAllister. He and Sime gave them ten minutes' conversation, wished them luck, shook hands all around and went back to work.

It was waiting for them on the street.

They were no sooner stepping carefully through the red mud when a four-horse vehicle limped into sight around the
bend, hit the mud and came to a tired standstill. McAllister saw that it was the stage minus two horses. The two marshals got up on the sidewalk and hurried to it.

It took one glance to see that it had been the main target in a shooting match. The leather curtains on one side had been cut to ribbons by close shots; the driver had a bullet lodged between his ribs; one passenger had been shot through the eye and was dying in a pool of blood on the floor. Blood attracts both flies and men, therefore the two species were flocking around.

McAllister and Sime were not gentle as they barged their way through the crowd. There was a kid with no seat to his pants in front and McAllister barked: “You. Get the doc. Dollar for you if you get him here fast. Tell him if'n he don't come right smart, I'll have him in jail. Got that?”

“Yessir,” the delighted boy yelped and dove through the close-packed citizenry.

Woolly Parsons, the driver, a young-old man of thirty with the flaxen hair of a Swede farm-boy, was leaning against the offside wheeler, holding his side. He was caked with blood and mud and looked terrible.

“Two of you men take Woolly to my office. Have Miss Mann take a look at him. Gently, now. I'll talk with you later, Woolly.”

“Strong-box is still in the boot,” Parsons said through clenched teeth. “I made a run for it. I reckon I was a damn fool.”

“No,” McAllister told him with a pat on the shoulder. “You're a good man, I'd say.”

“I can't leave the box till the agent gets here.”

A small man with a large mustache pushed his way through the crowd. At the sight of the wounded driver, he cried: “My God, Parsons, what happened?”

“Feller put a slug atween my ribs, neat as all get out.”

“And the gold?”

“In the boot.”

The agent leaned against a wheel, a beatific smile on his face. McAllister told the men to go ahead with the driver and they bore him away. The marshal turned to the agent and said: “Do you have a couple more horses?”

The man looked surprised and said: “Sure.”

“Right. Get 'em hitched an' I'll take your stage through.”

The man looked aghast. “Impossible! Not after this.”

“Tell me a better time. Nobody'll expect it.”

“It's unthinkable.”

“Why?”

“I don't know you. There's a fortune in gold on that stage.”

“Do you have a telegraph in your office?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Send a wire to Mot Boothby at headquarters and ask him about me. Remington McAllister's the name.”

“I heard of you. But how do I know you're him?”

McAllister turned to his deputy. “Am I Rem McAllister?”

Sime grinned. “Wa-al, now you come to mention it, I ain't too sure about that. You ain't a mite like the Rem I knowed when I was a kid.”

“Goddam you, Sime, will you –”

“Mister,” Sime told the agent. “You wire Mot an' ask him if McAllister can handle a stage and can be trusted. I'd like to hear his answer.”

The man was flustered. “This is very irregular.” But they got the stage and the agent to the office after the dying man had been carried into a nearby saloon to die. The agent, whose name proved to be Saxby Dolan, wired his headquarters in Nebraska. Till that moment, he had thought the telegraph a cold and unemotional thing. The reply he received agitated him considerably. He came to Sime and McAllister a disillusioned man.

“Mr. Boothby was – er – somewhat emphatic. Quite downright. I am to give you all the assistance you want. He also said I was to pay you for the trip.”

McAllister beamed. “One hundred dollars,” he said quickly and watched the other's face. It showed horror.

“Out of the question.”

“Eighty.”

“Not to be considered.”

“Seventy-five and that's my last offer.”

“Fifty and that's my only one.”

McAllister slapped him heartily on the back and nearly put him on his face. “You just lost yourself a driver and guard,” he said and headed for the door.

Sime said: “Hold on, pard.”

Dolan chirped: “Don't be precipitous.”

McAllister halted and turned. “Do I hear seventy-five?”

Dolan said: “I guess so,” and looked like a man who has just cut his own throat. McAllister walked back into the room, all affability. Now he wanted to send a wire to the territorial capital, to the federal marshal. Dolan asked what the message was. McAllister wrote it out for him.

“Hank. Am now marshal of Malcolm City. Laugh when you call it a city. You could do with a deputy federal marshal in this neck of the woods. How about me?

Remington McAllister.”

“You don't need all those words,” Dolan complained.

“Send it like it is, Dolan. I'll have the reply in my office, if you'll oblige.” He left with Sime trailing behind after he had asked Dolan one question: “Only one passenger on the stage?”

The agent went white. His hand touched the tiny mouth hidden under the wealth of mustache. “Merciful heavens … no!”

“How many?”

“Two.”

“One's nigh dead. Where's the other?”

“I – I don't know.”

“Who was he and what did he look like?”

Dolan was no fool and he used his small eyes to advantage. The name of the man had been Samson L. Crick and he had claimed to be from Wesley Falls, Missouri. Big fellow.
Dressed like a cattleman; down-at-heel, wore a gun on his right side. Blanket coat out at elbow. Brown hair, mustache. Unshaven chin. Paid for his fare in old paper money. McAllister threw in some more questions and the little man gave him the answers like a machine. Aged about thirty. Thumb missing on his right hand. That meant he was a dally-roper most likely.

Any distinguishing marks?

Yes, a white scar on his left cheek.

McAllister thanked Dolan and God for observant men. He also knew that he hadn't wasted his time coming to this town. The tension that came on him at this moment, as he realized that his year's hunt might at last be drawing to a close, was so strong that he felt dizzy. Neither of the other men noticed his overpowering emotion. He smiled and they saw only the smile.