McAllister

By Matt Chisholm

Rem McAllister took the job reluctantly. He was to lead an army mule-train laden with gold across the desert from Mesquite Springs - and he knew that with Clancy and the ruthless Franchon Gang on the rampage, and Gaton and his Apaches out for white scalps, there wasn't
much chance of its getting through.

So when the mule-train was bushwhacked, the army escort massacred, the gold stolen and he himself wounded, McAllister wasn't really surprised. Just good and mad. And out for bullet-fast revenge.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bloomsbury Publishing
• Release date: Sep 28, 2011
• ISBN: 9781448203383

Matt Chisholm

Peter Christopher Watts was born in London, England in 1919 and died on Nov. 30, 1983. He was educated in art schools in England, then served with the British Amy in Burma from 1940 to 1946.Peter Watts, the author of more than 150 novels, is better known by his pen names of "Matt Chisholm" and "Cy James". He published his first western novel under the Matt Chisholm name in 1958 (Halfbreed). He began writing the "McAllister" series in 1963 with The Hard Men, and that series ran to 35 novels. He followed that up with the "Storm" series. And used the Cy James name for his "Spur" series.Under his own name, Peter Watts wrote Out of Yesterday, The Long Night Through, and Scream and Shout. He wrote both fiction and nonfiction books, including the very useful nonfiction reference work, A Dictionary of the Old West (Knopf, 1977).

Book preview

1

Mcallister Took one last look at the country, saw the light powdering of dust on the still air ten miles away under the giant sierras, checked there was not a sign of life on the endless plain and turned down the grade into town.

Town?

Well, it was Mesquite Springs, a huddle of buildings that existed precariously on the edge of the desert. Its name showed its only virtue in a barren and desolate land—it had water. That being so, it was the meeting place of men and roads. The men came from all over—birds of passage, a few from out of the desert seeking the sound of human voices and the sight of human faces. There were a few soldiers here, a few miners, a few ranchers, their hands and womenfolk come in to find a doubtful protection from the handful of wild Apaches who had sought to regain some of their long-lost freedom. There were a few mule-skinners and large hirsute drivers of the ox-trains that had been able to bring their merchandise this far and no further. There was an apparently limitless supply of drink here and a rapidly diminishing stock of food.

The roads came, one from Mexico in the south, one from New Mexico in the east, one from the north-east and the towering sierras. They were more rutted trails than roads, the traditional passage of man, beast and wagon through the arid wilderness. To the west, there was a fourth, but it was rarely used and showed as no more than a faint line that was quickly lost in the limitless space. Along it came an occasional supply wagon from a ranch or a six-man patrol from Fort Craddock, four days hard march away.

By the time McAllister’s long, slowly-strolling legs had brought him into what was ironically called Main, the sudden dusk of Arizona had fallen and hidden the man-made ugliness from him. The lights came on in the cantina and someone was playing the tuneless piano in the Southern Belle, By the crumbling walls of the old corral, a Mexican softly strummed a melody from old Chihuahua. A man cursed a woman in Spanish and she spat back her contempt. Mcallister wished he were back on the trail, Indians or no Indians. He had had enough of being crowded here cheek by jowl with humans.

As he tramped across Main toward the saloon, he knew that there was more than a desire for the open spaces that prompted him to be gone. He was broke and his mules were eating their heads off at great loss to himself right there in that corral.

He was about to push open the door of the Belle when the soft pad of horses’ feet in the dust and the soft jingle of bridle chains stopped him.

Six horsemen walked their tired mounts slowly toward him. Their figures were no more than uncertain shapes in the dusk, but he knew they were soldiers. A hoarse voice bawled Halt! and they shuffled to a standstill. Mcallister turned and walked into the saloon.

Joe at the bar nodded—Evenin’, Mr. McAllister.

That set the tone that Mcallister was used to. Men called him ‘mister’. He looked no better than a saddle-tramp and a week’s beard sprouted from his lean jowl, but men called him ‘mister’.

The men standing around with glasses in their hands greeted him non-commitally, but politely. As in most Western saloons of this kind, patrons were expected to stand. There were no chairs or tables. Without being requested, McAllister’s beer was slid to his hand and he lifted it and drained it with one movement. That cleared the dust of the day. He filled his pipe and lit it.

Through the smoke, he watched a man enter. A soldier. Officer’s epaulettes on his shoulders, showing dully against the faded blue of the shirt. Mcallister knew most of the officers at Fort Craddock, but there were a great many strange ones in the country now the old General was out in force against the Apache. This man was a stranger. And, almost immediately he started across the floor, he showed himself to be a foreigner as well. No native-born American had that clipped military pace. Not even a West Pointer.

He greeted the company as he came and showed that he was a Dutchman by his accent. But his eyes were not looking at anything except the beer ahead of him and, knowing the easterly trail he must have come in by, nobody blamed him.

Beer and whiskey, he ordered. He caught himself up, remembering the etiquette of the country and turning to the man nearest him, who was McAllister, said: Join me, sir.

Mcallister nodded solemnly.

Civil of you, he said. Joe slid another beer in his direction.

As soon as the whiskey was in front of him, the soldier raised the glass briefly to Mcallister and threw the contents down his throat. Slamming the empty glass on the bar, he lifted the schooner of beer and put half of that away. He held his breath for the count of two, gasped a little as Joe’s poison hit bottom and sighed.

Now, I’m nearly human.

Mcallister thought he should make a little polite conversation, though he did not care if this soldier had been to hell and back.

Come a long way?

The tall and, underneath the dust, handsome soldier, leaned on the bar.

From Fort Craddock. In a day and a half.

The men standing around heard that. Either the man was boasting or he and his men had done a memorable ride.

A hired hand from out Bitter Springs way chuckled and said: Your horses daid or alive?

The soldier pulled a wry face.

They will be of no use to the army any more. I am hoping I can get remounts here.

Sure, Mcallister told him. The place is full of ’em. Take your pick from the corral in the morning.

He didn’t tell the soldier that any man in the town would welcome parting company with any spare saddle-stock. Cooped up in this place a horse was nothing more than a useless liability. How the army got stung was none of his business. He might even be able to unload some of his own animals at fancy prices. He was more than broke; he was desperate.

Perhaps you can help me, the soldier said. I’m looking for a man named McAllister—Rem McAllister.

Mcallister was surprised.

That’s me.

"Then you are the man!"

The conversation had the company’s interest. They fell silent and listened.

What man?

The officer finished his beer and Mcallister signed to Joe for another.

I don’t have to tell you that the trail between here and the fort is virtually closed. Only three days ago, Gato and a dozen of his braves were sighted as near as Bitter Springs. Twice the horse herd at Craddock has been raided and no more than half the men are mounted.

A murmur went round those present. Between Mesquite Springs and the mountains and clean over the line into New Mexico the country swarmed with troops, yet Gato could raid an army horse herd as near as Craddock.

What do we keep the army for? a man said and spoke for them all.

What has this to do with me? Mcallister asked.

The beers came. The officer and he drank. Wiping his dusty moustache, the soldier said—

We need supplies and we need them now. If you have the wagons and the stock you will carry them for us.

Now wait a minute—

And what is more, the commanding officer ordered me to arrest you if you do not comply with my wishes.

Mcallister ripped out a curse that threatened to curdle the beer at his elbow.

Bill Browning … he said that?

The soldier smiled.

He said that.

You couldn’t arrest me. I haven’t done anything.

The soldier grinned broadly.

Colonel Browning chose me for this difficult mission because I am the most ingenious of his officers. On the trail, I have thought up ten good reasons for arresting you. And they will all hold water.

Mcallister finished his beer, thinking. This chore could put him financially on his feet. Carrying army supplies did not pay all that well, but half a loaf was better than none. All the goods he carried did not have to belong to the army.

It’ll cost you something, he said.

The army pays regulation prices.

When?

On arrival.

Mcallister decided—I’ll do it. How many wagons will you need?

Two.

That suited Mcallister fine. All he had to do now was to rustle up some money someplace to finance his own goods. That wasn’t going to be easy.

‘Will dawn tomorrow be too early for you," he asked.

The officer said: That’ll be too late for me. We move out at midnight tonight.

2

As Mcallister tramped down Main toward the corral, he decided that the officer was in an all-fire hurry. The situation at the fort might be bad, but could it warrant this haste?

The traffic was heavy on the street with the population of the outlying districts crowded into town. Men’s nerves were on edge and many of them were now homeless, so that meant they drank. Knife fights and gun-play were commonplace after dark. Here you didn’t find the wild exuberance of the trail-drovers, but the viciousness of the alleyway cut-throat and the saloon bravo. Even as Mcallister passed he saw a knot of men gathering like flies around blood about the body of a man who had been killed in a saloon fight. He passed Hank Turl, the town marshal and one of his policemen hurrying to the scene, swinging their cudgels.

Mcallister called: Self-defence, Hank, by way of a pleasantry.

Yeah, the marshal retorted, I reckon.

Mcallister reached the corral and hammered on its high gates. From within a deep voice called in Spanish: Quien es?

McAllister.

There was a pause and the great gate swung as the rawhide hinges complained. They were solid jobs these frontier corrals and they had need to be. Mcallister walked through the opening between the eight foot adobe walls. They had been made in the old days when Apaches came here for what horses they wanted and even the Navajos had made their try when this far south.

The smell from José’s cook-pot flirted with his nose and he sniffed audibly. He would have liked to join the Navajo over a plate, but there wasn’t time for fooling now.

We’re moving out at midnight, he said. Eight mules to a wagon. Two wagons empty for army supplies. Load my stuff onto the other. He spoke better Spanish than the Indian. He should, his Old Man had taught him. Mcallister used to claim sometimes when drunk, that Rem’s mother had been a Mexican lady. At other times, he’d say she had been a Kiowa squaw.

Where do we go? José asked.

Fort Craddock.

He heard the big Navajo draw his breath through his teeth and he knew he didn’t like the idea any more than Mcallister did—not when he thought about the danger. Greener men than he might laugh at his fears, but he knew Apaches, what they could do and how much they liked doing it. José was no coward, but he wasn’t a fool either. Once his own people had been a part of the loose collection of Apache tribes and had been as wild. Now the sight of a Chiricahua or Tonto buck was enough to make his brown face turn gray.

His dismay brought out his bad English.

By damn—no good. Crad-dock no good. Much Apache sonofabitches.

Mcallister snorted.

You think I don’t know? Listen, José, we’re broke. We don’t have any choice.

The Spanish came back to the Navajo.

Surely we are poor. But we are alive. Let us be thankful.

I don’t have time to talk. You want out, you throw a saddle on that pinto of yours and make tracks north to your own people.

I stay here.

Yeah? And how long do you think a brave Navajo warrior is going to last in this den of iniquity? He punched the Indian in the chest to show there was no hard feelings. Get them mules lined out and quit shaking in your boots. We’ll have the army with us.

Soldiers?

Sure. Soldiers. A whole patrol of them.

How many?

Aw, around six-seven, I guess.

Two-three Apache laugh at them.

Mcallister swore and turned away, knowing that was nothing but the truth. He felt he had a lump of cold clay in his stomach when he thought about it, but he knew he had to go ahead. A man could not admit defeat. If he could turn this trick he could be solvent. He thought of his dream for the first time in weeks—the little horse ranch up north in Colorado. And maybe a good strong woman on the stoop to welcome him home. But who would want a man with a face like his? Dream about the ranch, Rem, and leave the woman out of it.

He reached Carmody’s and halted abruptly. He needed to swallow a