They overtook Charlie Stellino and his travois and wounded man on the way back to town. By the time they rode down Main Street, the race had been over a good few hours and dusk was settling in. McAllister was tired to the bone. The string of prisoners gathered a crowd. Questions were shouted. When they were answered, several men went looking for ropes. What followed was so ridiculously easy that McAllister could hardly believe it was true. The strangest thing of all was that he had almost forgotten the race. He had the problem of how to contain the prisoners. The one cell behind his office was certainly not big enough. He produced every handcuff owned by the county and clipped five of them to the sidewalk rail. The rest were tied with reatas and an armed guard was put over them.
That done, McAllister walked to the Grand Union Hotel. Mose Copley walked behind him with his shotgun. Mark Tully appeared with his pistol in hand. He looked grim and all set for business. He just asked one question: ‘Who is it?’ McAllister reeled off the names, and Mark nodded and said: ‘Let’s get it over with.’
McAllister said: ‘It could be damned rough, Mark.’
The saloonman hawked and spat into the dust and said: ‘Rougher the better.’
They walked into the hotel, and their way was barred by Colonel Ralph English. His dining room was full of distinguished guests and it was not right that armed men should -
McAllister said: ‘Colonel, you get out of our road or you’ll join your distinguished guests in jail charged with murder.’ He unlimbered his old worn Remington forty-four and walked into the dining room. Mose Copley and Mark Tully went in behind him and fanned out to left and right. Seated at the nearest table were Mittelhouse, Rosa Claythorn and May Harris. When Rosa saw McAllister, her face lit up brightly, a fact which was not missed by Mittelhouse.
McAllister’s voice roared out: ‘Gentlemen.’
There was immediate silence and heads turned.
‘I have to inform you that organized murder has been attempted on a large scale in Black Horse County. I am arresting the following men and they will come with me charged with murder and various lesser crimes. You will stand up and walk towards me with your hands held above your heads.’
Harvey Emmett was on his feet. ‘McAllister, how dare you – ’
‘You’re the first on the list. Harvey Emmett, Glub Groos, Lytton Wayne, Harold Shulz, Martin Gruber. That’ll do for now.’
Somebody said: ‘I want a lawyer.’
McAllister said: ‘After what we saw today, I’d say you needed a preacher more.’
Somebody near him clapped their hands briefly. McAllister turned his head and saw that it was May Harris. He gave her his best smile.
He said to Tully: ‘Where the hell do we put ’em, Mark?
‘I have an empty storeroom. They should fit nice and tight in there.’
‘Let’s go then.’
Glub Groos pushed himself forward, chin thrust out, small eyes fierce. He looked down at McAllister and said: ‘I have twenty riders in town, McAllister. You won’t get ten yards outside this building.’
McAllister pushed the muzzle of his gun into Glub’s considerable midriff and said: ‘One shot fired, Glub, and the second hits you. And remember there’re a lot of nesters and townsfolk out there with lynch ropes in their hands. You’re going to need us to get to jail alive.’
After that, the ranchers bunched together in a rather crestfallen group. They then learned that McAllister was not quite through. He said: ‘Landon Chalmers.’
The banker rose at his table with a puzzled frown on his face, as if he too expected to be arrested. ‘What is it?’
‘You aim to foreclose on these men tomorrow.’ Chalmer’s face was worth seeing. Every rancher bunched there turned on him in a kind of amazed fury. ‘I’ll inform you publicly here and now that these men have systematically held public domain and prevented legal settlement on it. Just bear that in mind when you collect their herds and lay claim to any land.’
Chalmers, scarlet-faced, sat down without a word. One of the ranchers shouted, ‘Traitor’, and tried to get across the room at him. But a foot tripped him and he went down noisily. After that, they came along as mild as lambs.
As soon as they were out on the streets and a few hundred nesters were there cheering them, a lank dark figure fought its way through the crowd and ran to McAllister.
‘Boss,’ Lige cried out, ‘Caesar’s hurt bad.’
That brought McAllister up with a jolt. Mark Tully saw the distress and lost look on his face and said quickly: ‘Go ahead, Rem. It’s all over here bar the shouting. I can ride herd on this bunch.’
McAllister followed Lige through the crowd. In a couple of minutes, he was entering Lon McKenna’s livery yard. Lige ran ahead of him into a barn and there stood McAllister’s stallion. Caesar.
McAllister reached for a hanging lamp and held it high, running his eyes over his horse. ‘Where?’ he said.
Lige pointed to the off foreleg. McAllister leaned close and saw to his astonishment that a deep gash about a foot long on the upper part of the leg had been neatly sewn.
‘Who did that?’
‘I did.’
‘You sewed it?’
‘No. Doc Robertson sewed it. I done it. It was my fault, boss. Ole Caesar, he was going real good over that rough stuff on the short-cut on the downhill run to Wild Horse Point. I pushed him too hard, Miz Rem. You going to fire me?’
‘I’ll think about it. How did Doc think Caesar would make out?’
‘He reckoned there was a good chance.’
‘All right,’ said McAllister. ‘You ain’t fired.’ He did not look at Lige. That was more than he could do. So he turned for the open doorway of the bam. When he reached there, he turned around and said: ‘By the way, Lige, who won the race?’
Lige, who seemed to have damp eyes, looked faintly surprised.
‘We did, of course, boss,’ he said.