McAllister Makes War (10 page)

It was years since he had prayed, but now he whispered:
Please God let him live.

At last he came to the rear of the Golden Fleece and laid Johnny down on the edge of the loading platform. He knew the rear door would be locked. Bolted on the inside. Bob Brody, his man, would either be asleep or out front finding out about the shooting. God knew it had been loud enough to wake the dead. He threw his weight against the door. It cracked loudly. He backed and hurled himself against it again. This time it flew open.

He hurried inside, groped his way down the long passage and found the door to the office. In there he lit a lamp, then half-ran back to Johnny. He carried his brother into the office and lay him on the couch there.

The young man was an appalling sight. He had taken both blasts of the shotgun. Half his face seemed to have been taken away and his chest was torn open in places to the bone. But there was so much blood that Fred couldn't assess the full damage.

“My God,” he said and stood helplessly for the moment, not knowing where to start.

The doctor! He must have the doctor.

He turned to the door. The thought struck him that Johnny might bleed to death while he was fetching the man. Johnny groaned.

“Fred.”

He turned back to his brother, falling on his knees beside him.

“Hold on, kid,” he said, “I'll fix you good.”

The boy's eyes were open, staring at Fred in a kind of fixed horror.

“I'm finished.”

“You're talking crazy.”

Fred was on his feet, rushing from the room to the kitchen where he found towels and hot water. He hurried back into the office, dropped a towel in the water and started to wipe the blood from Johnny's face. As fast as he wiped it away, more came in its place. He grew desperate. More blood was seeping steadily from the boy's torso.

“Christ Almighty,” he said out loud, “what do I do?”

He was panicking. For Johnny's sake he had to stay calm. Johnny was trying to sit up, a fixed look on his ghastly face.

“Fred ...”

The sound was a faint, breathless scream.

Fred caught his brother by the hand. For a second, Johnny's grip was like a vice. Suddenly, it relaxed. Johnny fell back against the couch and a high whine of sound came bubbling from his lips.

“Johnny...”

He knew that his brother was dead.

He did not know how long he stayed there by the couch on one knee, staring wordlessly at his brother's face. His mind flicked back over the past, their early years together, the way he had always protected Johnny, saved him from the results of his scrapes. Protecting Johnny had become a part of life.

Suddenly, he felt a cramping in his limbs. He stood up and found that he was stiff and cold. He started to shake. Death had never affected him before. He had seen men die before and had killed some of them. Now the full import of death came home to him.

He turned and walked to the table. The bottle and two glasses still stood there. Johnny had drunk from one of the glasses not an hour before. An hour ago he had been alive, excited at the prospect of one of his larks. Fred poured himself a stiff drink and tossed it off. He felt a little better, so he took another.

He stood thinking.

Who had killed Johnny?

He thought back over the scene of carnage in the marshal's office, tried to thread his way through that violent deadly minute of time in which men had died. He remembered the big man going down ... the man on the cot had thrown himself on the floor and picked up the shotgun. Fred screwed up his eyes, thinking, straining his mind.

Suddenly, he opened his eyes.

That man had been Frank Little.

The bitter irony of it came home to him. Johnny could have been the man to kill Frank, the man who had killed him. They would never have managed to break into the office. Frank would have to have been killed.

Had he been killed?

Fred looked across at his brother. The sight of him lying there torn and bloody was horribly obscene. Fred walked up the stairs with the lamp in his hand, fetched a blanket from
Johnny's room, returned with it and covered his brother. Something eased in his mind, now the boy was out of sight. He gave himself another drink. His hands were still shaking and he could not rid himself of the cold that seemed to penetrate to his very bones. He took out his gun, cleaned it and reloaded. He put on a jacket, turned the lamp low and went out of the front door of the saloon.

Outside on the street, the town seemed as busy as daytime. He looked down the street and saw a great gathering of people around the marshal's office. The buzz of their talk reached him. He went toward them.

One or two men turned to look at him. It dawned on him in a dreamlike way that they had no idea that he had taken part in the shooting. But now they were staring as he came into the brightness of the lamplight, nudging and pointing. He shouldered his way through them, came to the door of the office and found the place full of more men. The air was filled with the stench of cordite; the place was bright with the light of several lamps. The young doctor was busy in the corner bent over a man on the floor. Fred went and looked over his shoulder and saw that the man was Jim Carson, the marshal. It looked like he had been hit in the head and the upper part of the body. His eyes were closed.

Fred turned. A big man was sitting on the floor with his back against the wall. Pat O'Doran. His deputy's badge glittered on his chest. It was buckled where it had been hit by a bullet. Some bloody rag adorned the man's head. More was bound around one hand. He looked like a man deep in shock. How the two men had been able to live through the storm of lead was a puzzle to the Texan. He turned across the room to find a still form lying under a blanket. Bending he lifted back a corner and stared down into Frank Little's face. All the tough bitterness seemed to have been erased from it. It was battered and calm in the lamplight, untouched.

Disappointment touched Fred. He could not now kill the man who had killed Johnny. But at least Frank was dead and that was a reason for some satisfaction.

He replaced the corner of the blanket and looked up. The grilled door of the cell was open. Inside, one man lay on the floor and another on a cot. There were two men attending to the one on the cot. Fred stepped inside. The man on the cot, he didn't know. He was alive and they had put a bandage around the upper part of his left arm. Fred looked at the man on
the floor. Burt Evans. One leg drawn up, an arm twisted grotesquely under him, his face contorted with pain and fear. He was dead.

Fred Darcy's mind started to come out of its frozen state and to function. So far so good. The two witnesses were dead. One of the men bent over the cot turned his head and saw him.

“Hello, Fred. My God, look at you.”

Fred looked down at himself and saw that the whole of the front of his clothing was soaked with blood. Johnny's blood. For a moment, he was speechless. This could put a rope around his neck, he knew.

He said: “I lifted one of 'em. What a night. I never saw so much blood.”

“Butchery,” the man said. “This was the work of madmen.”

“Sure,” Fred said, “only madmen could do a thing like this.”

He turned back into the office and almost walked into Touch, the mayor. The man was wringing his hands. What would the outside world think of this? The town's name had been good while Malloy had been alive. Fred patted him sympathetically on the shoulder and went on. He stumbled out onto the street and walked through the crowd. He never remembered going back to his own place, for he was trying to think clearly. He stood for a moment in the vast emptiness of the bar. He was steadier now. Seeing Frank Little dead there had somehow steadied him. He heard a movement behind him and, turning, saw a man silhouetted against the light of the street. His right hand flashed down to his gun. The sound of it cocking was clear in the stillness of the room.

“Who's this?” he demanded.

“Drummond.”

“You nearly got yourself killed.”

The man came forward.

“Here's the most Godawful mess,” Drummond said.

“Evans and Little're dead,” Fred said.

“I know. Were any of you seen?”

“I don't think so. Come through into the office.” Fred uncocked the gun and put it away, leading the way through the darkness down the passageway and into the office. Drummond stopped in the doorway, staring at the blanket-shrouded figure on the couch.

“Who's that?” he demanded.

Fred poured himself a drink and said: “Take a look.”

Drummond stepped forward and lifted back a corner of the
blanket. He exclaimed in horror when he saw Johnny's ruined face.

“God in heaven!”

He turned wild eyes on Darcy who looked at him woodenly.

“Frank did it before we got him.”

“I'm sorry, Fred,” Drummond said. “I can't say how sorry.”

“A risk we all took,” Fred said. “The kid's luck was against him.”

For the first time, Drummond saw the blood on Fred's clothes.

“Look at you, man. You're all covered in blood. Change your clothes and burn those before somebody sees you.”

“The whole town's seen me.”

“What?”

“I went down there and had a look around.”

“You must have been out of your mind.”

“I explained it away. Said I'd toted one of their wounded.”

But Drummond was shaken.

“You're suspect as it is. You shouldn't have taken the risk. You could get us all in trouble.”

Fred said: “I put off suspicion by goin' down there.”

“If you went down there, you must know the full score.”

“Evans and Frank dead. Carson looks damn nigh dead. O'Doran wounded.”

“And are you sure neither of them sighted you?”

“I can't be sure of anythin', can I? It was a risk we took.”

Drummond said: “Clean yourself up, man. I must get down there and show myself the responsible citizen I am. Again, I can't say how sorry I am about Johnny, I wouldn't have had it happen for all the world.”

“Sure,” Fred said.

“I'll get in touch later.”

“Sure.”

Drummond left. Fred stood hating him.

Drummond knew that he would not sleep that night. His mind was in a ferment. This was out of character and disturbed him. He stood at the window of his bedroom watching the
shadowy figures of the folks going home from the marshal's office He could hear the low murmur of their voices. Occasionally, a shout broke the quietness. Clarissa, his housekeeper, was asleep in the next room. Nothing would keep her from her sleep. Nothing worried her. She was the only human being he had ever known who couldn't be shaken by anything.

He had wanted Evans and Little dead. Once they were dead all his problems would be solved. But now they were dead other problems had appeared. Did nothing ever go smoothly. When had things started to go wrong with him? The answer to that was simple - the day McAllister pinned on that badge.

What, he asked himself, was so special about the man? Surely, he was nothing more than the usual Texas cowhand that came up the trail, something between a man and a horse. Then he remembered the stories he had heard about the man: how he was the son of the legendary Chad McAllister. That could mean something. Breeding could tell. The underlying viciousness of the man's character came to the surface-men had died who had stood in his way. McAllister could die too. He was no immortal. Drummond had made one try for him. The next would not fail. But who had he left now for such work except for Fred Darcy. And if Darcy did an open shooting he would have to leave town in a hurry.

Leave town in a hurry ...

Drummond's mind dwelled on that thought.

Darcy had put them all in jeopardy going down to the marshal's office as he had done with his clothes covered in blood. Already somebody might be suspicious. Maybe Darcy would be better out of town. But he had holdings in the town and would be hard to persuade to go. If Drummond could arrange for Darcy to kill McAllister and then run, Darcy would be under suspicion at once whether he did the killing secretly or not. And if he ran, who would own the Golden Fleece?

There was only one answer to that. Drummond.

The man's cupidity over-reached his caution. He started to plan. He could make Darcy run now and get the best witness against Drummond out of town or he could get him to run after killing McAllister. If he did the latter, Drummond might lose the saloon. It was quite a good idea to make Darcy panic now. He reckoned he could do it. The man was upset after the death of his brother. He was shaken to the core.

What of the men who had helped in the raid on the office? Let them stay quietly in the shack by the creek for a few days
and then drift out of the country in ones and twos. They could be a source of danger.

He wondered how long McAllister would be out of town. He was pretty confident that he would not catch Marve. There was no horseflesh in the country like that of the Littles. Marve was safely on his way to Mexico by now and there wouldn't be much money waiting at El Paso for him. But he wouldn't come back in a hurry to talk.

His affairs weren't as tidy as he would have liked, but he wasn't doing too badly, Drummond thought. He had his town property, the bank was as good as his and shortly the gold mine of the saloon would be in his hands. Yes, he would panic Fred tomorrow. He smiled to himself, pleased.

Dawn came with him still at his window, thinking. He heard Clarissa moving about and soon he smelled the delicious aroma of ham and eggs frying. He realised how hungry he was. He shaved and went down into the kitchen. He sat at the table and Clarissa put a cup of coffee in front of him.

“How did it go?” she asked.

He told her what had happened. He told her also of his thoughts in the dawn hours. She put ham and eggs in front of him and he started to eat; she sat opposite him and sipped coffee.