McAllister 7

  The Home of Great Western Fiction!

  McAllister had finally struck it lucky.

  Gold is where you find it. Nobody knew where old Whiskey Joe had found his. But there were a good many hard-cases who wanted to know. And they were ready to go to any lengths to get their hands on it.

  McAllister intended to stop them...

  They knew that McAllister was tough, capable and incorruptible. They also knew that many men before had tried to kill him. But he was only one man, and some day his luck had to run out – hadn’t it?

  McALLISTER 7:

  McALLISTER—FIRE-BRAND

  By Matt Chisholm

  First published by Hamlyn Books in 1981

  Copyright © 1981, 2017 by Matt Chisholm

  First Edition: June 2017

  Names, characters and incidents in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information or storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law.

  This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book

  Series Editor: Mike Stotter

  Text © Piccadilly Publishing

  Published by Arrangement with the Author’s Agent.

  Chapter One

  The town of Black Horse, you might say, was the heart of the Black Horse country. If you said that, you would have to admit that Tully’s back room was the heart of Black Horse town.

  Tully’s, of course, was a saloon and a not too salubrious one at that. Through the years it had many a name painted over its shabby porticos – The Last Chance, the Golden Nugget, Lucky Lady, and so on and so forth. No matter what was up there, everybody still went on calling it just plain Tully’s.

  That was because Mark Tully was a character.

  Some of the old-timers could still remember the rakehelly days of Mark’s youth when, though he had never been what you might call downright evil, he was pretty wild. But it was not his wildness which made him so formidable, it was his skill with guns. Men said, no matter where he carried a gun, he could always produce it twice as fast as any other man alive. And once he had produced it, he showed his skill of hitting a target without appearing to take any kind of aim.

  Now Mark was in his middle years and had put behind him any thought of wild adventure, contenting himself with occasionally allowing himself to be sworn in as a member of a sheriff’s posse.

  The sheriff in question was Remington McAllister, another stalwart of the circle which met in Tully’s back room of a Saturday night. Well, that was where they met in the winter, because there the stove glowed warm and held off the bitter cold of these northern climes. Come summer, the cronies would sit on the sidewalk outside the saloon, pipes, cigarettes and cigars loading the night air with their pungent aromas. Some ultra-respectable citizens (or their wives) had complained of this public display of the consumption of hard liquor, but certainly nothing was done about it while McAllister reigned in the sheriff’s office.

  These friends honored me from time to time with inclusion within their circle, and I have to admit that I received more entertainment there in an hour than I had of a theatre in a whole evening. The stories were tall, the lies enormous and the talk often ploughed a deep furrow. There was a bit of everything at Tully’s. I suppose the highlight of any evening was when Tully and McAllister began: ‘Say, Mark, do you remember when...?’ Or ‘McAllister, did you know that little rooster down in Live Oak County...?’ And then the flow of talk would come. Oldsters would sit back to listen and laugh; the youngsters held their tongues to learn. Tully and McAllister, men said, had seen it all.

  Some of the stories were told more than once. Maybe there would be a newcomer in the group who had not had the opportunity of hearing some classic of the sageland sagas. In which case, the storyteller would say: ‘If you fellows can stand it just one more time around …’ and then he would be off.

  One night, Lon McKenna the mayor, who ran the livery stable on Main, said: ‘Young Jasper here didn’t ever hear the story of how you eeloped with Mark’s gal, Rem. Do you think you could oblige?’

  This involved a story concerning Mark Tully and Remington McAllister in equal parts, so they usually told it, taking turn and turn-about, and they used to vie with each other on the amount of laughter they could evoke. It usually lasted about an hour and ended with men begging them to stop or they would suffer a busted gut. You could call it a bawdy story, though obscene might be a better word, and it entailed McAllister carrying off the girl’s mother in error. There followed, indeed, a whole comedy of errors, in which the stolen woman fell madly in love with McAllister, who nearly got himself shot by the irate husband for stealing his wife. The whole was related by two men who were past masters in the art of maintaining a poker face.

  By the time they were through and everyone lay about in their chairs wiping their eyes and holding their aching sides, men were declaring that it was the best they had ever heard it told. It was the spring of the year and this was the first night in which the circle had met in the open. Doc Robertson, as usual, was the first to make his apologies and retire. He had an early call, he said.

  Colonel Ralph English, who owned the Grand Union Hotel, which he had won a few years before on the turn of a card, declared that it was time he got his beauty sleep. Lennie Wallach, who owned and ran the local newspaper, said he must go and put his paper to bed. McAllister said: ‘Hold up, I’m coming your way, boys.’ Thus Doc Robertson, Lennie Wallach and McAllister strolled down the middle of Main together in the bright moonlight, followed by the shouted farewells of their comfortably lubricated friends.

  George Robertson said: ‘As good an evening as ever I remember.’

  Wallach said: ‘I have not laughed so much before in all my life.’

  McAllister said: ‘That boy, Jasper-the one we told the story for – did either of you see him before?’

  No, they said, not ever. Why did McAllister ask?

  ‘Did you catch his last name?’

  No, they said, they did not. Now he had their curiosity aroused. Again they wanted to know why he asked. McAllister’s answer to that was simple – he did not know. They strolled on. They parted at the intersection between Main and Morrow.

  Doc Robertson said: ‘Bertha told me to offer you a bed for the night, Rem.’

  ‘No, thanks all the same, George. I’ll get back.’

  Wallach said: ‘Well, I’ll say goodnight, boys. So long.’

  They said ‘So long, Lennie,’ and the Jewish newspaperman walked away to his office. They could see the light burning in his window and the figure of his daughter, Debbie, bent over some task. The town was quiet. Scarcely anybody was out on the streets.

  McAllister said: ‘Bring Bertha out to see the horses, George. Have a meal.’

  ‘Tuesday evening?’

  ‘Fine.’

  They lifted their hands to each other, as old friends will, and McAllister turned towards McKenna’s livery. It occupied half a block on Main, consisting of a large stable and two extensive corrals. The mayor traded in horses, hired horses out and was now extending himself into general freighting. McKenna would be a big man one day.

  As McAllister walked down the silent street and approached the main gate of the livery, he heard footsteps on the sidewalk behind him. Turning, he recognized the dim figure of the mayor himself. When he saw McAllister waiting, McKenna quickened his pace. He was a garrulous, friendly little man. To have been made mayor of Black Horse was the highest peak of his life.

  ‘That was one great evening, Rem,’ he said, c
huckling. ‘I guess I could hear that yarn a hundred times and not tire of it.’

  ‘Who was that boy, Jasper, we told it for?’ McAllister asked.

  ‘Don’t rightly know. Somebody’s nephew, wasn’t he?’

  Then they were walking through the gateway and were in the yard of the livery. Tommy Shultz, McKenna’s boy, was asleep in the hay. The mayor went to rouse him to get McAllister’s horse, but the big man stopped him.

  ‘I can still saddle a horse, Lon.’

  McKenna gave him a hand saddling his canelo gelding, Oscar, and a moment later McAllister was aboard and telling the mayor goodnight. He took the horse at a steady walk through town, so as not to waken early sleepers, and did not lift it into a faster pace until he had crossed the creek by the lumber bridge and was out on to the plain beyond.

  He followed the valley road as it swung towards the creek and, before it reached the creek, he turned away from it and started across his own land. There was a light breeze blowing along the valley and it was pleasantly refreshing on his face.

  He rode with the quiet satisfaction of a man who has passed a few hours in the company of friends, tired after a long day and ready for his bed. As he came near the corrals, he heard a couple of his horses whinny a welcome. Oscar rumbled a reply. Drawing rein at the corral gate as the stud horse, Caesar, came and poked his great head over the gate rail at him.

  It was then that McAllister heard the horse running in the night, going along the valley road. He wondered who that might be – somebody late from drinking in town? Mentally, he ticked off the names of men who lived down the valley and those he had known to be in town. There had been two. Keogh, who had left in the middle of the evening, and Duval, who had left shortly before himself. He heard the horse break pace as it turned down the road to the creek and then listened to the hoofbeats going north down the valley. Reckless riding for a man travelling at night, even if he knew the road.

  He threw Oscar into the corral and, hearing the music of Mose Copley in the smithy, he turned his feet in that direction. Mose was making a fancy gate for Lisle Manning across the valley. Lisle had made a pile of money in cattle and he was spending accordingly, making his ranch-house into a mansion. Local folks were rather proud of it, the first great house in their country. They were proud of Lisle too, because he was a good cattleman and spent freely in town.

  Mose grinned briefly as McAllister entered. He was medium-sized, but he packed a lot of strength and stamina in his hard body. His sweating flesh glistened black in the firelight. He worked for five minutes, completing what he had on hand, then laid aside his tools to discuss the day with his boss. His boy Lige was McAllister’s solitary hired hand, a gangling boy in his teens, born to handle and understand horses. The Copleys had their cabin on the far side of the creek. Mose’s wife Bella kept McAllister’s house clean and cooked his meals. All in all, it was a good arrangement.

  Mose said: ‘You hear that man putting his horse along the valley top speed?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Wonder who that can be.’

  ‘Either he has urgent business or he’s a damn fool to ride that way at night.’

  And that was all they said about it that night. They discussed the limp one of the younger mares was showing, agreed that Caesar should take a rest after a number of mares had been put to him and agreed that the grass on the east side of the creek had never been better for hay. They would cut a bumper crop that year. McAllister told Mose goodnight and went to his bunk. He woke once in the night to hear a rider on the valley road again. This time he was going back towards town. McAllister wondered if it was the same man. Ordinarily, McAllister was a man who strictly minded his own business. But when you are county sheriff, you are paid to mind everybody else’s. However, he dismissed the matter from his mind and turned over to go to sleep again. If he had not, there might not be any story to tell.

  Chapter Two

  Wanlace & Co it said above the stage station. Under the control of Horry Wanlace, they ran a there-and-back coach run between the Black Horse country and the town of Caspar, Wyoming. It did the trip twice a week, carrying passengers, light goods and United States mail. It was a small outfit, but efficient, and it was starting to make money. Wanlace had ambitions and once a week tried to buy the mayor’s freighting business from him. Together, they would be a good economic proposition. Maybe, Lon McKenna suggested, they should become partners; but Horry would have none of that. He liked to work alone.

  It was Horry’s boast that his little line had never been late, never lost a passenger and never been stopped successfully by a road agent. Some damn fool had tried to do it the year before, but he had been a bungler. Just as he was shouting: “Throw down the strong box,” he had tripped and shot himself in the foot. Horry had brought him in for medical treatment at the hands of Doc Robertson. An amused magistrate had fined him fifty dollars. When the man confessed that his worldly wealth consisted of his horse and saddle and that he did not have two cents to rub together (else why should he be crazy enough to rob a stage?) the same magistrate ordered horse and saddle sold to pay the fine. The erstwhile road agent now served the community as a swamper in Mark Tully’s saloon.

  This morning, as the stage waited for passengers and load outside the stage line office on Morrow, there came Ham Stoppard, the teller at the bank, to tell Horry Wanlace to hold his horses because there was a strong box being sent by the bank to Caspar and beyond. The passengers climbed aboard and Horry, who was driving the team himself that day, started to make impatient sounds. However, as starting time was reached, Ham Stoppard and another sweating man bore a strong box between them and heaved it aboard under the stern supervision of the banker himself, J. Howard Lindholm. ‘Now, Horry,’ he told the stage owner, ‘you take good care of that. I hold you personally responsible, hear?’

  Horry was cheerful enough about it. ‘Dismiss your fears, J. Howard,’ he said, ‘this line has an impeccable record of safe-delivery. It shall reach Caspar safe and sound, my solemn word on it.’

  ‘Just to be sure,’ J. Howard declared, ‘the bank’s man, Hammond Stoppard, shall ride inside, armed and ready. Is that not so, Hammond?’

  Hammond swallowed a couple of times – he was renowned for hating the sight and sound of guns – and agreed that he was as ready as he would ever be. He climbed inside the coach. Horry and his messenger, Wally Hunt, secured the strong box in the boot, tied down the tarpaulin over it and climbed aboard. Horry did his imitation of the classic stage driver, cracking his whip and shouting. His six half broken mustangs, having kicked and bitten each other without fear or favor a few times, finally agreed to hit their collars and raggedly pulled the stage out of town. By the time it reached the bridge over the creek, it was going a fair old pace and Horry was quite proud of it. It slowed a little for the steep grade up from the creek, but once it was on the valley road, it rocked along at a pace which was enough to turn any passenger’s hair grey; and that in Horry’s opinion, was the way in which every good stage driver drove.

  ‘We are fifty seconds behind schedule,’ he told Wally Hunt. ‘Lateness ain’t a thing I admire.’

  ‘You would think,’ Hunt said primly, ‘that a banking man would know better.’

  ‘Yes, indeedy,’ said Horry.

  They turned off the creek road on to the hill road to cross the valley on two wheels. Horry gave a piercing yell as they went round. One of the passengers turned to his companions and said dispassionately: ‘Crazy bastard, what does he think he is, huh?’ He was a well-to-do cattleman from the south end of the valley, stout-bellied now and doing most of his work from a buggy instead of a horse’s back. Beside him sat a drummer in ladies’ wear, heading back for Caspar and the bright lights beyond. He had travelled so extensively in stages that there was not a driver on the continent who could raise the smallest twinge of fear in him. He said: ‘One thing I’ll say for old Horry, he always gets you there on time.’

  ‘Alive?’ said the rancher.


  The third occupant of the coach was the young man McAllister had noticed at Tully’s the night before – the one somebody thought was somebody’s nephew. Ham Stoppard, the bank teller, asked him sociably: ‘Going beyond Caspar, sir?’

  The young man smiled brightly and said: ‘Chicago.’

  The drummer said: ‘What’s your line, sir? If a man may ask.’

  ‘Sure,’ said the young man affably, ‘I’m a journalist. I have been doing a number of pieces on the Wild West.’

  The rancher chuckled at that. ‘Ain’t that just like a goddam easterner?’ he demanded. ‘No offence, young feller. Wild West! Hell, there ain’t nothing wild left about the West, boy. We’re a sight more peaceable than the east. I’d rather walk across this territory any day of the week than cross a street in Chicago.’

  The young man said: ‘You could well be right, sir. But a man has to make a living, and if the readers say the West has to be wild, that’s the way I make it.’ He seemed remarkably unashamed.

  Ham Stoppard laughed. ‘If we had known,’ he said, ‘we would have had some of the boys fix a shoot-out in town for you. They would have liked that. I saw them do it once for one of those dime novelists and they sure had a lot of fun.’

  The rancher entered into the spirit of the thing and said: ‘Or we could have had an Indian attack. I reckon that would of gone down well, huh?’

  The drummer suggested: ‘Or a stage hold-up. That would have been capital.’

  ‘Yes,’ said the newspaperman, ‘a hold-up would have been really something.’

  ‘Too late now,’ said the drummer regretfully.

  Archly, the rancher said: ‘We ain’t at Caspar yet, boys.’ And they all laughed and crossed their fingers.

  The stage was stopped almost exactly halfway between Black Horse and Caspar. The hold-up men had picked a pretty spot just at the top of a steep gradient in the road before a bend, where the team would naturally be moving at no more than a walking pace.