‘YOU DIDN’T HAVE to tell me,’ McAllister said.
Prescott looked around. There was a jerkiness to the movement that made McAllister suspect that there was alarm in the man, as if he were looking for a way out.
‘I know them bastards,’ Prescott said. ‘They’re going to brace us.’
‘Likely,’ said McAllister. He didn’t like sitting his horse there, showing the men above that he was undecided. Never show an enemy a weakness. The Jeffords weren’t his enemies yet, but there was a possibility they soon would be. A man should either duck out of trouble, slyly detour to it or go straight at it. He should never show indecision.
He started his horse up the saddle.
‘Hey, hold up,’ Prescott said. There was urgency in his voice. McAllister didn’t say anything, but went on. Prescott was a man accustomed to having his own way. Then so was he. He heard Prescott following on behind. He halted within long pistol-shot of the three riders and halted. He liked a long pistol-shot—it was his strong point. Most men didn’t. The three men were on fair horses. Nothing too special, but better mounts than the average cowhand rode. They were down at heel and he’d take a wager their gear was mended with rawhide. They carried carbines on their saddles and each man had a belt-gun at his hip.
Prescott bawled: ‘You boys get outa my road.’
One of the men said: ‘This ain’t your road, Prescott. This is ourn. We warned you not to come over on our range.’
Prescott blurted out: ‘I was after stolen horses, Jeffords. I found ’em. You took ’em. You owe me and you’re going to pay.’
McAllister didn’t think that was wise talk when the odds were against you. He thought maybe he’d better say something, else affairs would rapidly come to a climax.
‘Men,’ he said, ‘we don’t want trouble. Just ride on by us quiet-like.’
‘Who’s this?’ one of the men above demanded.
‘The name’s McAllister.’
The three men looked at each other. They were wondering if it was the McAllister they’d heard tell of, only they weren’t going to admit it. But the name might stop them. A reputation had its good points. It could start trouble, but it could stop it, too.
The short silence ended by one of the Jeffords shouting: ‘You accused us of stealing horses, Prescott. Nobody ain’t goin’ to get away with that.’
McAllister said: ‘Boys, I trailed the horses over yonder. Maybe they were headed for your place and maybe they weren’t. Prescott was upset—that was understandable.’
Prescott didn’t say anything. McAllister could almost smell his fear. This was the man who was going to boldly ride in and brace the thieves in their home. It didn’t add up. Or maybe he wasn’t going to brace them. A man could do a lot of damage from cover with a Spencer.
A Jeffords said: ‘He’s the big man around here. Anybody he don’t cotton to is a horse-thief. He’s call us that once too often.’
‘Boys,’ said McAllister, ‘I want to ride by and I intend to.’
‘You ain’t ridin’ no place, mister. Not till we tell you so.’
McAllister raised his voice just enough for it to carry clearly—‘Anybody tries to stop me. I’ll blow his fool head off.’
He let that sink in and then he got the canelo in motion. He felt Prescott hesitate behind him. Then he heard the sound of the horse following him. He came slowly up to the men and now he could see their faces clearly. They were all out of the same mold, all lean hard men, men who had suffered hardship, men who had never made much out of life. They didn’t expect much from life and they didn’t get much, only what they could take and their capacity for taking was small. He saw also that they were violent men who paid back the world for what it hadn’t given them. They would fight any way they could to win, there were no rules in their way of fighting. The only law they knew was the law of survival. Danger might limit their action and they could be cautious, but none of them was a coward.
They watched McAllister and Prescott like hungry wolves. Violence wasn’t far off, McAllister could feel them breathing it.
He came abreast of them. They were on his left. His right hand hung ready to draw and fire across his body. They turned their heads to watch him, then they slowly turned their horses so that they wouldn’t have to take their eyes off him. With his back to them, the muscles of his back crept with apprehension. If there was an atom of rashness in any one of them, this narrow trail could become a bloody shambles in seconds.
He went slowly down the other side of the saddle, the sound of Prescott’s horse behind him. He didn’t look back until he was a quarter mile from them. When he did turn around in the saddle, they were sitting their horses, motionless, watching him.
He glanced at Prescott. The bounce had gone out of the man totally. He was sweating.
One of the Jeffords rose in his stirrups and yelled—
‘Come back this way again, Prescott, and we’ll kill you.’
McAllister rode on a ways, then said: ‘Bad blood between you?’
Prescott looked at his horse’s neck and muttered: ‘Plenty.’ Then louder, his voice full of venom: ‘The bastards … the lousy bastards. I’ll get ’em. I’ll finish ’em. I’ll wipe the whole damn tribe out.’ He pounded the saddle-horn with his right fist, beside himself.
McAllister didn’t say anything. He rode on. When he looked at Prescott again, the man had recovered himself somewhat. He looked at McAllister and laughed.
‘They scared the pants off me,’ he said. ‘You know that? They really scared the pants off me. You know why? Because they’re scared of me. A man ain’t never so dangerous as when he’s scared of you. There ain’t no reason in him then. A man thinking clearly now, he wouldn’t of done nothin’ back there. Just sat tight and played it nice an’ easy. But them boys was scared. Nothing like being boogered to make a man pull a gun. A couple of them, you, me—we could of all been dead.’
They lifted their horses to a trot, started to eat up the miles. Prescott looked a happy man again, a man on top of his world. He wagged his head from side to side and said with evident delight: ‘I’m sure goin’ to make them Jeffords pay. Yessir, no man scares me and talks about it afterward.’
By the time they reached home he was laughing and talking as if nothing had happened. They put their horses up in the corral and walked up to the house. Prescott slapped McAllister on the back and said: ‘Not a word to the little woman, now, Mack.’
McAllister liked being called Mack just about as much as he liked being slapped on the back. But he found that he still liked Prescott. There was something about the man.
Mrs. Prescott was in the house, working over her stove. Her face was flushed from the heat and McAllister thought she looked as pretty as a picture. He had thought that when he had seen her before, but he still couldn’t remember when that was. They washed up and the men came trooping in. Mrs. Prescott served them all with a smile for everybody. The talk was mostly of horses and McAllister sat filling his belly and listening with rare pleasure. After the meal, the two men and a boy thanked Mrs. Prescott nicely for a fine meal and then marched off to the bunkhouse. Prescott built a smoke and McAllister filled and fired his pipe. Mrs. Prescott washed the dishes and then got out some sewing. Joe got through shirts faster than anybody she’d ever known, she said. She had all the appearance, McAllister thought, of a completely contented woman. Yet he wondered…
When he’d finished his smoke, Prescott reckoned it was time they headed for town. They wouldn’t be late, he told his wife, and maybe if she was lucky maybe they’d be half sober. She laughed and slapped him fondly on the arm. The picture of the perfect couple, McAllister thought.
Prescott insisted that McAllister borrow one of his horses—he had been on the canelo all day and it was too good a horse to spoil. So McAllister roped a handy-looking bay and threw his hull on it. Prescott mounted a racy-looking sorrel and they loped into the north-west toward what was flatteringly called ‘town’.
This proved to be exactly what Prescott had said it was, a track with a couple of buildings on either side of it. And one of the buildings wasn’t much more than a soddy. The saloon was a two-storied building that incongruously pretended to be a fine house. It had been made of green lumber and its planks were warped so badly it looked like one good wind and the whole place would come down. In front of it, the damp earth had been churned to mud by hoofs, boots and wheels. Also in front of it was a warped contraption which passed as a boardwalk. It looked dangerous to walk on and a drunk would have been lucky to cross it without breaking a leg.
Prescott dismounted in the mud and tied his horse. There were several other animals at the hitching-rail.
He waved an airy hand.
‘It ain’t a palace,’ he said, ‘but it’s all we have.’
He climbed up the boardwalk with McAllister behind him, walked with grotesque care across the crazy planks and opened a door that was hung on rawhide hinges. They entered a large room where there were some dozen men, the smell of bad whiskey and a lot of smoke. The talk stopped when they entered, heads turned. One or two men greeted Prescott noisily, several turned their backs and pretended they hadn’t seen him.
The bar was facing the door. They walked up to it and Prescott ordered whiskey and beer. The bartender was a big man with the look of a bull about him. He was, Prescott explained when he introduced them, the blacksmith. He shoed horses during the day and dispensed poison at night. The man was very bald, his face was like that of a good-natured bull and his chest was as wide and round as a barrel. He moved lightly on the balls of his feet like an athlete. He said he was pleased to know McAllister and the hand he offered across the counter had a grip like a vise. McAllister made a note never to pick a quarrel with him.
They drank their whiskey, chased it down with the beer and stood while the liquor took effect. Then McAllister ordered the same again. The whiskey was terrible and the beer was worse, but a man had to be thankful for what he could get. One or two other men joined them. McAllister was introduced, but, as usual, he didn’t catch the men’s names. There was a lot of kidding and the men seemed to like Joe Prescott. McAllister gathered they were cattle men. They liked Prescott, they approved of him and respected him. McAllister stood back and listened to it all going on, completing his picture of the man.
The beer started to affect his bladder. He said he’d take a walk outside to irrigate the prairie. There were one or two crude sallies and he walked out. He was enjoying himself. It was some time since he had savored the company of men. The talk did him good. He walked away from the house a ways, relieved himself and started back. It was full dark now and the stars were bright above. A fine night. There were several more horses at the hitch-rail. Only as he climbed onto the sidewalk did he see the three men that stood between him and the door.
‘Evenin’, McAllister,’ one said, and he knew they were the Jeffords.
He knew from the tone and the way they were holding themselves for what was to come. He stood and looked up at them, wondering in what form it would come. Would it be a boot, a knife or a gun?
‘Evenin’,’ he said.
They didn’t move and they didn’t speak, they were like three steel springs waiting to be loosed. He could feel the tension in the air like a tangible thing.
‘Ain’t got your new friend with you,’ said one.
‘No, reckon not.’
‘Pity. You need him awful bad right now.’
‘What makes you think I need him? There’s only three of you.’
One of them laughed through his nose. It wasn’t a pleasant sound. The one in the center took a short step forward and kicked out with his right foot. McAllister caught it in both hands, half-turned and heaved the man clear of the high boardwalk into the mud below. He hit hard and he slithered a yard before he came to a stop. One of the other men launched himself through the air. McAllister jumped out of the way and whirled to meet the third man as he came off the sidewalk. The fellow did it badly. His hands were straight out in front of him and he drove for McAllister’s throat. McAllister ducked under the arms, came up with his shoulder in the man’s belly and hurled him over his back. Then he turned sharply, for the second man was coming at him.
McAllister wondered how long it would last. No one man was as strong as three and no matter how fast and determined he was it would need a miracle for him to come out of this whole or even alive.
The second man knew something about hand-to-hand fighting. He showed this by the way he squared up to McAllister and feinted with his left. The right came over with a commendable speed, McAllister rode back from it and kicked the man in the knee. The fellow doubled up with the pain of it and McAllister lifted him from his feet with a haymaker to the jaw. It hurt his hand and must have hurt the man’s jaw. The fellow fell on his back.
The man who had landed face foremost in the mud was now on his feet, swearing and wiping muck out of his eyes and spitting it out of his mouth. The brother who had gone over McAllister’s shoulder was getting to his feet looking a sorry sight. But there was fight in the pair of them yet. One of them gave a yell and they both charged in concert.
McAllister didn’t like the look of them at all. He danced to the right and charged into the man nearest him, managing to get a foot behind his opponent’s and barge his shoulder into his chest. The man gasped and fell. The other fellow hit McAllister behind the ear with his clenched fist and drove the big man to his knees. He stayed there long enough to be kicked in the side and put into the mud. He got a mouthful of it, was put off by the taste and spat it out. On his hands and knees he received another kick that felt as if it had broken several ribs.
At that moment, the door of the saloon opened and a man came out. He peered into the gloom,
‘That you down yonder, Mack?’ he demanded.
‘None other,’ McAllister said.
The man gave a shrill rebel yell and launched himself off the boardwalk. The man McAllister had knocked down with a blow to the jaw was getting to his feet when Joe Prescott charged into him. They both went headlong.
McAllister got slowly to his feet and hit the nearest man to him. The man staggered back and launched himself. Suddenly the one man was two and McAllister was hard put to defend himself. He backed up.
More men were coming out of the saloon.
By this time McAllister wasn’t very clear about what was happening. Some of the men who piled off the sidewalk seemed to be on his side, some seemed to be against him. There were even some who didn’t know whose side they were on and, what was more, didn’t care.
It seemed to go on for a long time. What the Jeffords intended for the vicious beating of one man had somehow turned into a load of fun for everybody. All he knew was that at the end of it, he was still on his feet and he had knocked two Jeffords unconscious. It seemed that they had friends and these friends dragged them away, he knew not where. He didn’t care. All he wanted was a drink. The Jeffords may not have given him the beating they intended, but he felt he’d taken a beating just the same.
Joe Prescott came up and slapped him on the back repeatedly. McAllister brushed him off. Prescott was a happy man. He enjoyed a good fight and he said so. Over and over again. They went back into the saloon arm in arm and found the blacksmith behind the bar as if nothing had happened. Men came in behind them, shouting for drinks. The blacksmith got busy. Apparently it was the tradition in these parts for the victors of a fight to retire to the saloon while the defeated slunk away. The victors in this case downed several beers and several whiskeys and they began to feel a little better.
‘By God,’ Prescott shouted, ‘that was a hell of a fight. A real lulu. We showed ’em, Mack. I been wanting to do that to them Jeffords for a mighty long time.’
‘You certainly timed your arrival right,’ McAllister said.
‘You know what, boy? They’d of killed you if I didn’t of come out when I did. They’d of killed you. They’re a real mean bunch them Jeffords.’ He laughed and slapped the bar, he clapped all the men around him on the back, roaring with laughter. They seemed to like him. They laughed with him and clapped him on the back too.
McAllister thought they were all crazy. He had grown out of fighting for the love of it a couple of months back. Now he only fought when he had to. Some people never grew up.
Prescott was shouting: ‘You fight a real mean fight, Mack. Hell, you do that. You laid them two boys out good. I saw you. One punch each and they was down. By Christ, we shown them Jeffords.’
They were pretty drunk when they walked out and got on their horses. But not too drunk to ride. They’d have to be unconscious to do that. The other men came out of the saloon and bawled their farewells. They waved back drunkenly and trotted their horses away into the night. As he rode, McAllister contrasted the Prescott who had shaken with fear under the threat of the Jeffords earlier in the day and the man who had waded into the fist-fight with joy a short while before. There was no telling with men.
Halfway home, they sobered.
It was the shots that did it. Several bullets within a foot or two of his head was enough to sober anybody. They came from some brush and they came fast. Neither McAllister nor Prescott stayed around long. They turned tail and ran. After they thought they were well out of range, they stopped and conferred. Neither liked the idea of trying to tackle a marksman in the dark. They decided to make a detour and this was what they did. They rode a wide circle and headed home.
When they dismounted outside the house, McAllister reckoned they’d had quite a day. Things certainly happened around Joe Prescott.
They dismounted stiffly, unsaddled and threw their horses into the corral.
‘Quite a night,’ Prescott said.
They washed up at the pump, savoring the cold water on their cuts and bruises. The door of the house opened and Mrs. Prescott called: ‘That you, Joe?’
‘Sure, it’s me, honey. I’ll be in in a minute.’
‘Have a good time?’
‘Yeah, we had a whale of a time.’
She went in and left the door open. The shaft of light bisected the yard. It caught Prescott. McAllister took a look at him. The man looked sublimely happy.
‘Not a word about this to the little woman,’ Prescott said. ‘She worries.’
McAllister said goodnight and walked to the bunkhouse. The place was in darkness and he felt his way to his bunk in the dark. He lay on his back and thought a little before he went off to sleep. He thought mostly about Prescott, but he spared some thought too for his wife.