McAllister 7 Page 5

  ‘It’s a fact and we have to face it.’

  Stevenson said: ‘J. Howard, let me think about this. Just give me a minute. No more.’

  ‘Go ahead.’

  The tall man rose and walked to the window and gazed up and down Main, much as Lindholm did when he stood there. The banker watched the man, noting the excellent cut of the pale grey clawhammer coat, the first-class hang of the matching pants. Elegant was the word.

  Finally, Stevenson turned from the window. He returned to his seat and carelessly threw one leg over the other, showing off the fine Mexican boots under the pants’ cuffs.

  ‘J. Howard,’ he said, ‘there’s a whole lot more in this than the gold we have and the gold you have here in this office. Let’s play this as calmly as we know how. Let’s string McAllister along. No matter if we lose a little gold in the short term. I suggest that you ship real gold out with McAllister and that it gets through safely to Caspar, to Chicago, wherever it’s intended. Then you make a dummy run which we may or may not stop. But certainly, when you send the next genuine consignment, we grab it. Not on the trail, but in Caspar itself.’

  Lindholm gazed at him with admiration and sincere pleasure.

  ‘Stevenson,’ he said, ‘you’re a man after my own heart. It was a happy day when we agreed to do business together.’

  ‘Nice to hear it.’

  Chapter Eight

  Small communities need few policemen not so much because they are small, but because every man is his own policeman. A stranger stands out like a sore thumb, as you might say. Equally, if a local man commits a crime, somebody is bound to recognize him.

  So it was that McAllister knew that there were two strangers in town and had been since the day after the stage hold-up. He knew their names and where they were staying. One was Henry Holst Stevenson and he was staying, as might be expected, at the Grand Union Hotel. The other was a man named Madders, who paid rent on a nightly bed at Ma Shane’s on the new-grown street of Mullaly, which ran parallel to and a block west of Morrow. It already had a shabby and shady look about it. Here was the street where the deadfalls naturally found themselves. If the area went on growing, the town committee men said, they would be hiring themselves a policeman. Madders had drifted into the respectable part of town to take a drink or three at Tully’s. No connection between Stevenson and Madders had been noticed by anybody.

  From his observation point at his office window, McAllister saw Stevenson go into the bank. A short while later, he saw the man at the window of Lindholm’s office, looking up and down the street much as the banker did. McAllister did not miss the fact that Ham Stoppard vacated the office while Stevenson was there.

  Charlie Stellino walked into the office and McAllister said: ‘You must of known I wanted to see you.’

  Charlie said: ‘I must of known your whiskey, while being fit for nothing, is a sight better than the rot-gut sold by our friend Tully. Produce it, McAllister, before you get a single civil word from me.’

  McAllister opened a drawer and produced a bottle. While Charlie made it gurgle its sweet tune, McAllister said: ‘I need a deputy for a while.’

  The melody stopped. Stellino eyed him balefully and without affection. ‘Do you no damn good looking at me.’

  ‘Pays one-twenty a month.’

  ‘I’m your man.’

  ‘You ride shotgun on the stage with me tomorrow.’

  ‘I reject the badge. I spurn one-twenty a month. Who likes to get shot at?’

  McAllister said: ‘You’re already committed. Too late to draw back.’

  Charlie took a long pull and McAllister took the bottle from him, saying: ‘One more pull at that and it’ll be deducted from your wages.’

  Charlie sat down and stared at McAllister. ‘I ain’t deef you know. I heard about the hold-up. That time they killed a horse. A man that can do a dirty low-down thing like killing a horse ain’t going to stop at knocking off a man. Or can you tell me different?’

  ‘A whole lot different. Five’ll get you ten there won’t be any hold-up.’

  Charlie sat quietly there, thinking. He looked like a half-starved piece of human flotsam at the best of times. Thinking, he looked forlorn as well. Finally, he said: ‘How much of this gold is to go out, Rem?’

  ‘I ain’t too sure. More than two shipments, I’d say.’

  ‘Whose is it, or ain’t I supposed to know?’

  ‘You’re not supposed to know, but it’s Whiskey Joe’s.’

  Charlie whistled. Slightly off-key. He said: ‘So the old coot finally pulled it off.’

  ‘Bought a new house down the far end of Morrow. Looks right out over the valley. Got a pretty niece come in from Chicago to look out for him.’

  ‘Ain’t that something, now?’ Charlie said in wonder.

  ‘I have a feeling in my water,’ McAllister said, ‘that somebody’s aiming to clean Joe out. I aim it shouldn’t happen.’

  ‘I aim it shouldn’t happen just so long as I’m paid enough. I ain’t a rich, horse-raising son-of-a-bitch money don’t matter to. I’m just a poor and honest cowman—’

  ‘This is Remington you’re talking to, for God’s sake,’ said McAllister.

  ‘Oh, yeah. I plumb forgot.’ He rose. ‘I have a notion to go visit with old Joe. Long time no see. Best look this niece over. Cowboys sure knock them city gals right off their pretty feet.’

  ‘You do that,’ said McAllister, who believed that beauty should be shared.

  Chapter Nine

  The following day, when the stage left Black Horse, it did so without paying passengers. This was by courtesy of Josiah Ramage, who compensated the stage company accordingly. Horry Wanlace, maintaining stoutly that if any member of this organization was going to risk his neck it was going to be him, was up there on the box holding the ribbons. The messenger was McAllister. Inside the vehicle rode Charlie Stellino and Ham Stoppard. To say that they were armed to the teeth and loaded for bear would be to indulge in understatement.

  The strong box was not packed into the boot, but placed on the rear seat of the vehicle.

  All they had to fear, McAllister said, was that once again the robbers would kill a horse from cover so that the stage was immobilized at the start of the operation. ‘And’, as he said, ‘there ain’t much anybody can do about that.’

  ‘Except,’ Charlie said, ‘keep our eyes skinned and knock anybody over that looks like shooting in our direction.’

  ‘That,’ McAllister agreed, ‘is a possibility, but if you kill some innocent standing beside the trail and minding his own business, you’re on your own and it ain’t any of the county’s responsibility.’

  ‘I have a feeling,’ said Ham Stoppard, ‘that we won’t be stopped this time.’

  ‘I have a feeling,’ said McAllister, ‘that you’re right. Which is a state of affairs that suits me down to the ground.’

  ‘Me too also,’ said Charlie, ‘I was not cut out to be a goddamn hero.’

  Ham swallowed a few times and said: ‘Ditto.’ They looked at him in astonishment. For him, it was quite witty.

  They climbed onto the stage and there was quite a crowd to see them off, notwithstanding the earliness of the hour, for they were starting some two hours before the scheduled time. J. Howard Lindholm danced on his toes, wished them luck and said that he could only wish he were going with them.

  ‘Plenty of room inside, Mr Lindholm,’ said Ham, and nobody knew if this was further wit or if he was being serious. Horry cracked his whip and cried out to his half broken crew of unruly mustangs, and they once again raggedly hit their collars. They went out of town in some style, however, with Horry taking risks he would not have contemplated with paying passengers inside. They hit the bridge with about one inch to spare on the offside and hit the slope beyond at a full gallop. Lindholm was heard to say: ‘If those boys can’t get through, nobody can.’

  There was, of course, no hold-up. There was, though, a stop on the road, as chance would have it, almost on th
e exact spot where it had been halted by the road-agents before. This alarmed Ham Stoppard, who looked around under some emotion, searching for a target to shoot at.

  McAllister jumped down from beside the driver and opened the stage door.

  ‘All right,’ he said, ‘Ham, open up that strong box.’

  ‘W-what?’ cried Ham, scandalized and incredulous. ‘Not on your life, sheriff. I’ll defend—’

  Charlie said: ‘Nobody ain’t robbing you, Ham. You do have a key, don’t you?’

  ‘Sure I have a key, but you don’t find me opening it.’

  McAllister said: ‘Ham, all we want to know is if we’re really carrying gold. Me and Charlie are kind of funny that way. We hate to be killed for a few sacks of sand.’

  ‘Sand?’

  ‘Sand.’

  Ham thought about that. They could see their reasoning seeping through to his understanding.

  ‘I can see what you mean, fellers,’ he said, ‘but I don’t know… Heck, I’m a servant of the bank and all that.’

  McAllister said impatiently: ‘We don’t aim to stand around here all day, Ham, just in case there’s bandits about. So go ahead and open it or we’ll open it for you.’

  ‘If you’re that determined …’ He searched in his pocket and produced a key. A moment later, the lid of the strongbox swung back and the tightly packed pokes were revealed to them.

  ‘Open one up, Charlie,’ McAllister said.

  Charlie picked up a poke and untied the whang that held it closed. He took a pinch of dust between finger and thumb and placed it in McAllister’s palm.

  ‘That’s gold, all right,’ McAllister said. He put the dust back in the poke and Charlie tied it tight.

  When the strong box was locked again, Ham Stoppard said a little testily: ‘I hope you’re satisfied now.’ They were, and the stage got on the move again.

  ‘Maybe,’ said McAllister to Horry, ‘there’s going to be a hold-up after all.’

  ‘That’s what I’m thinking,’ said Horry.

  But there was not. They were in Caspar by nightfall and handed their treasure over to the express company which would take it on to Chicago. They all had a pleasant evening in Caspar. They even got Ham Stoppard a little drunk, which they found mildly amusing. Charlie had a run-in with a local boy, an encounter which was followed pretty closely by another with the local law. McAllister was forced to dump him in a horse trough (full of water) before he could convince him that he himself was representing the law now and should behave accordingly. Horry Wanlace witnessed all this with expressions of the greatest delight, declaring that he had not had such a good time since he buried his old man.

  They returned to Black Horse the following day in good spirits, liking the knowledge that they were unharmed by bandit bullets and had delivered their gold safely. I forget Ham Stoppard – he was not in good spirits, because he was somewhat hungover and looked it. Charlie told him that he was paying the penalty for leading a virtuous and sober life. If he was a boozer, he would not be suffering. Ham showed fight, but he cancelled the idea when he discovered that the top of his head flapped unaccountably when he clenched his fists.

  McAllister returned to his town with the feeling that the next run to Caspar would be to guard a consignment of sand. He wondered if Ham would report to his boss that the strong box had been opened and the contents inspected on the trail. He would probably never know. Certainly nothing was said about the matter.

  There followed a week of nothing much happening. McAllister asked Charlie to ride the country to make a few discreet inquiries for him, but beyond that he bided his time. He worked a few days with his horses and paid court in a leisurely fashion on Miss Allison Disart. So did half the male population of the town below the age of eighty. Poor old Whiskey Joe’s quiet life did not seem to be materializing. There were booted feet sounding on his back porch all hours of daylight. ‘I never knew I was so damn popular,’ he said. ‘Sure is a comfort to have Ally here to entertain my guests.’ Even Ham Stoppard came calling when he recovered from his hangover. He was the only one bold enough to bring flowers. Allison Disart blossomed under such treatment. Mark Tully, who should have known better, came calling, bringing with him a bottle of the finest rye for old Joe, which put him to the head of the queue, so far as Joe was concerned.

  McAllister used some of Joe’s money to have the Pinkertons make some enquiries for him in Chicago. He was getting the feeling that the men who held up the stage and took the first consignment of gold were not here-today-and gone-tomorrow kind of fellows. They were not a disease to be treated lightly, but a plague which had to be wiped out. If Black Horse country was to get a name for being an easy touch for thieves, a single simple hick sheriff was not going to be enough to hold the lid down on this neck of the woods. And he wanted to get back to his horses and forget about chasing badmen as if it was fun. A fellow could get himself hurt mortally doing that, and McAllister had heard enough bullets pass his left ear to last him the rest of his life.

  He paid a visit to Black Ella who ran a few girls in pitiful shanties to the west of town. Ella was one of those souls who had forgotten how to eat, but survived somehow on a straight diet of rot-gut. She was not a whore with a heart of gold, but a madam who knew which side of her slice of bread bore the butter. She believed in collaborating with the law just so long as that did not interfere with business. There had been, she said, her little eyes snapping, no more than a few strangers among her clients in the last few weeks. Her custom was made up mostly of regulars and she wasn’t going to name no names. That wasn’t the way she ran her business. No gentleman wanted his wife to get to hear he was screwing outside the home. She described the few strangers. She gave good descriptions, because little eyes missed nothing. McAllister departed slightly wiser than when he had arrived, but not much.

  He had confirmed that there were two strangers in town who might be able to help him in his enquiries. And there appeared to be no connection between the two of them. However, they had in common the habit of leaving town frequently and returning.

  He decided to tread very carefully in his investigation of both of them. He could not, for example, go to Colonel English, who owned the Grand Union, and ply him with questions about Stevenson. The colonel was not what you might call a McAllister-lover. In any case, he suffered severely from a running off at the mouth.

  As the day for the third run with a consignment from the bank for Caspar approached, McAllister kept a sharp eye on the Grand Union. The rooming house where the man Madders was staying could be seen from Whiskey Joe’s new house and McAllister enlisted Joe to watch its front with a glass. So he was able to learn that Madders had left town the night before the stage run, and that Stevenson had ridden south soon after dawn. With something like confidence, McAllister told Charlie Stellino, as they prepared for the trail in the office: ‘They’ll stop the stage today, Charlie.’

  Charlie looked a little sick, knowing that there would be lead flying and that he would have to put up a fight for his pay.

  ‘Oh, God,’ he said, ‘here we go.’

  ‘No,’ said McAllister ‘you don’t go anywhere. You stay here. I want to know when Stevenson and Madders get back to town. And I want anything on them you can find out without asking questions. I don’t want them suspicious.’

  Charlie said: ‘You really mean it?’

  ‘I mean it.’

  ‘Hallelujah!’ Charlie cried with fervor.

  McAllister walked over to the bank and found Lindholm and Ham Stoppard locking the strong box. As he walked into the office, he heard old Horry Wanlace bringing the stage along the street.

  McAllister said: ‘Lindholm, do you reckon the stage’ll be stopped today?’

  Lindholm said: ‘Now you ask me, Sheriff, no I do not. I think the robbers were satisfied with what they got from the first robbery.’

  McAllister said: ‘Is that sand or gold in there?’ Lindholm looked shocked. ‘Gold, of course.’

  ‘All rig
ht, let’s get it on board.’

  When the stage was loaded and ready to move, Lindholm said to Ham: ‘Now, Ham, no drinking this time, mind.’

  ‘No, Mr Lindholm.’ Ham climbed into the stage. There were two or three local men inside already. McAllister swung himself up beside Horry and the whip cracked.

  Nothing happened on the first part of the journey, but, as the stage slowed to a walk to climb the rise where the first hold-up had taken place, McAllister told Horry that he could see riders in the timber above them.

  ‘Horry,’ he said, ‘when you get near the top and should be at your slowest, can you lay on the whip and put the horses at a dead run?’

  ‘Sure. The horses ain’t going to like it, but I don’t suppose they get a lot of fun out of pulling a stage, anyway.’

  When the horses had reduced their pace to their slowest walk, all of them straining forward in their collars, McAllister lifted his Henry and started firing into the trees and rocks on either side of the trail. At the same moment, Horry gave a shrill cry and laid on the whip. For a second, it seemed that his efforts would have no effect, but suddenly the stage lurched forward and bounded over the crest of the hill. It was halfway down by the time the riders were down out of timber and racing their mounts along the road. McAllister fired back at them, and they did not hold their pursuit for more than a half-minute before they pulled off the road and disappeared. By this time, the half-broken team had bolted, and they ran for a mile before Horry could pull them down to a steady trot.

  ‘By God,’ said Horry,’ that there was a piece of smart action if ever I saw it.’ Inside the stage, the local men were cheering. Ham Stoppard put head and shoulders out of a window to yell up at McAllister: ‘That sure showed ’em, Sheriff.’

  ‘Yes,’ McAllister bawled back, ‘and all for a box of goddam sand.’

  ‘Beg pardon,’ said Ham.

  ‘By golly,’ said one of the local men to the other, ‘we’ll have something to tell the folks about when we get back.’

  ‘Sure will,’ replied the other.