Trail of McAllister (A Rem McAllister Western)

By Matt Chisholm

When McAllister caught the killer Joe Lessing and got him put in the pen for life, Joe’s gang swore vengeance. They set out to hunt McAllister down, tracking him night and day through the wild desert of Arizona.
They were a real wild bunch, tough, ruthless and hell-bent on feeding Rem McAllister enough lead to make him stay down for good. But, even with odds of six to one, they found McAllister a real hard man to bushwhack ...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Piccadilly
• Release date: Feb 25, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215300756

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

Chapter One

THERE WAS LITTLE shade on the stoop and the men sitting there sweated, swiping at the hies ineffectually with tired hands. They drank a little and they sweated some more. The light dust blew up in small gusts, hiding the trail they were watching.

They could hear the Mexican woman clattering the dishes inside the crumbling adobe house, singing nasally to herself. In the corral, the horses stood with heads down, their tails swishing to keep off the flies, their muscles twitching to rid them of the same persistent nuisances.

Charlie Roberts had the sharpest eyes. He lolled back against an upright, bottle in hand. He was the first to see the slowly moving dot through the trailing dust.

‘Rider comin’,’ he said.

He was a tall, lank man with a knobbly and unmoving face. He could throw a knife as fast as another man could draw and fire a gun; he could draw and fire a gun accurately faster than most men could lift an eyebrow. He hadn’t shaved in a week and he hadn’t washed in a longer time than that. He smelled like a cross between a horse and an Indian.

The others stirred. Roy Manning stood up to see the better. Roy was growing a little stout with the years now. He dressed in crumpled store clothes, but his boots and hat belonged to a cowman. He had a reputation from the Border up into Canada. His white shirt hadn’t touched water in a long time. His beefy jowls were so unshaven that his heavy black and gray mustache was scarcely noticeable. He had small eyes that shifted away from you when you looked at them.

‘Could be Johnny,’ he said. His voice had a strange gravelly tone to it. He was a pig with women and he ate and drank too much. Even Charlie Roberts regarded him with distaste.

The other two men were the Ransome brothers, Job and Aaron. They were quiet men, nothing much to place them apart from other men, not in their appearance, at any rate. They could disappear into a crowd without any trouble at all. They were typical thirty-and-found cowhands, dressed in faded Levis, faded blue checked shirts and scuffed boots. They chewed plug in unison. When Job spat, Aaron spat. That was the way they lived; what Job did, Aaron did. Where Job led, Aaron followed. They weren’t too bright, but they had a lot of animal cunning. And they were dangerous.

Slowly, the oncoming rider came into view, loping his horse easily through the heat. They knew even at a distance that man and beast were tired. They had come a good way in the heat.

Johnny Miles rode to the corral, giving no sign that he saw them there. He unsaddled the bay gelding, threw it into the corral with the other horses, put his saddle and bridle on the top rail of the corral and walked toward the house.

He was a man of no more than medium height, he was dust-and sweat-caked, his once fine clothes were shabby and dusty, but nothing could conceal the presence of the man. As he walked toward them, every man there felt him come. They knew that whatever they were good at, he was better. If they owed loyalty to Joe Lessing, he gave more.

He halted and looked at them for a moment. He didn’t have to speak. Charlie Roberts handed him the bottle. He carefully wiped the mouth and drank deep. He sighed with satisfaction and handed it back.

‘I killed him,’ he said.

They showed surprise.

‘Killed him?’ Roy said.

‘I said so. I shot him and he went over into the canyon.’

Roy couldn’t believe it.

‘You killed McAllister?’ he said.

Johnny Miles walked past him into the house.

They knew that Miles didn’t have to boast, therefore he didn’t often lie. If he said he’d killed McAllister, that was what he had done. Just the same …

Roy Manning turned and followed him into the house. It consisted of one very large room with a kitchen off it. The place looked fit for hogs. The men weren’t interested in being clean and tidy, the Mexican woman had given up shortly after they arrived here. She was standing in the doorless opening between the big room and the kitchen, watching Johnny. She adored Johnny. Women often did, mainly because he didn’t give a damn for them. She was about twenty years of age, handsome in face and body, holding on tight to the beauty she now possessed and which would be snatched away from her shortly by the life she lived in a hard land.

Johnny ignored her, threw himself down on one of the four rope beds that were ranged around the edge of the room.

‘I can’t hardly believe it,’ Roy said.

Johnny said: ‘Take my boots off.’

The Mexican woman sprang forward as if she were on springs. She backed onto an outstretched foot, raised her skirts high and gripped the boot. Johnny pushed her away with the other foot. Then they repeated the operation. She stood looking down at him, wiping the dust from the boots off her hands onto her red skirt. Johnny gave her a hard look and she walked out into the kitchen.

‘I mean,’ said Roy, ‘he comes after us in Wyoming. He played hell with us. I never saw a man like him in my life. We been huntin’ him all over. We never got nowhere. Now, you come in and say you killed him. Just like that.’

‘You think I’m lyin’?’ Johnny asked softly.

‘You know I didn’t say that,’ Roy said.

Johnny picked the dust out of his nose with his little finger. He unbuckled his gun belt and pulled the belt free of his body. He smiled.

‘I shot him with my carbine at a range of fifty yards,’ he said. ‘He went over the rim of the canyon and that fancy horse of his went with him.’

‘Did you check?’

‘Sure, I checked. I saw him in the water. He didn’t strike out. He didn’t do nothin’.’

‘Just the same …’

He turned to find that the Ransome brothers had come quietly in and had been listening. They sat on the edge of a bed, side by side, their eyes mild. They looked as inoffensive as two sheep.

Job said: ‘It wouldn’t do harm to go see. Would it?’

Johnny raised himself on an elbow and stared at him. He tried to hide the fact, but he was a little mad.

‘Go ahead,’ he said. ‘Check all you want. I done all the ridin’ in the heat I want. What do you expect to find when you get there? The river took him. What my bullet didn’t do, the rocks’ll do.’

Job said steadily: ‘I’ll tell you what we’ll find. If he’s alive, we’ll find sign. You know McAllister’s luck. Sure, he makes his own like any other man, but he makes a helluva lot of it. I gotta see him lyin’ there, not breathin’.’

Johnny sighed and lay down.

Roy asked: ‘You gain’ now?’

‘Not in this heat,’ Job told him. ‘We’ll ride at dark and come to the canyon around dawn.’

Aaron said, looking at his brother with pride: ‘You done right, Job.’

Job nodded, sure of his own wisdom.

Charlie Roberts darkened the door. Roy told him what they aimed to do and he said he’d go along. They all lay down on the beds, the two brothers on the same one and soon their snores and the sound of the Mexican woman in the kitchen were the only sounds in the place. That and the buzz of flies. There were always the flies.

Job was the first to wake. He came, as was his habit, straight from deep sleep to full consciousness. As though from some unheard signal, Aaron rose too. Job called to the woman, demanding food. She brought in full plates and laid them on the rickety table that stood in the center of the room. The clatter of plates woke Charlie Roberts and he rolled off the bed and took three strides to the table. Straight off, he was filling his mouth. Roy woke and joined them, heavy with sleep, his face ill-tempered. Johnny Miles didn’t stir. He gave no sign of waking when they went belching out to the corral to catch up their horses.

Every man there might look run down, but that was something their horses were not. They were the best that money could buy. Or rather that men could steal. Every one of them had been chosen for their lines, speed and stamina. There had been some sad losses in the horse country the day they were lifted. The men saddled without hurry, stepped into the saddle and drifted south. Dark had not fully fallen, but it would be only a matter of minutes before it did.

Job voiced the opinion of them all when he said: ‘I jest can’t git it into my head that McAllister’s daid. No, sir, I jest natcherly can’t.’

Chapter Two

THE FINE SORREL horse was running full out, savoring its action with the same elation that the girl on its back experienced, reaching out for the ground, its hard hoofs drumming a full rapid note. The girl’s golden hair whipped out behind her in the wind of her speed. She rode with an ease that only comes to those who have been in the saddle from their early years.

She had crossed the flat many times before and knew every yard of it; she knew exactly where to start slowing the sorrel’s pace. It ran up a low ridge, straining a little against the gradient, then she turned it west and brought it down to an easy lope. The canyon was now on her left, still almost invisible to anyone who did not know it was there. Every time she rode this way, she thought of the men and horses that must have gone over the edge.

She let the horse run about two miles west and then angled into the south and came down onto lower ground by easy stages until, turning again, she came around to the start of the canyon and heard the rush of the river. Each time she came here, she knew fresh surprise that there could be water in such quantity in the heart of the desert. Suddenly, the air was moist and, as she rode deep into the canyon, the air became dank and a chill touched her as the high walls hid the sun from her view. She loved to come here where the terrific heat of the sun was cut off. Now she could feel a fresh breeze on her face.

She slowed to a walk and allowed the horse to go into the shallows and drink, then she went on again until she saw the house sprawled out on the edge of the water, hugging the ground, dwarfed by the immensity of the high-rearing cliffs. The familiarity of the scene warmed her. It seemed that she had ridden this way since childhood to see the same things—the Indian ponies tied at the hitching posts, the big wheel of the mill turning, the horses coming to the corral fence to whistle their welcome, Gifford coming to the door with his shirt sleeves rolled up to smile and nod at her as if he strongly approved her existence. The horses came, their heads over the top rail, the Indians squatted in front of the house, a rider or two lolled and smoked and there, at the sound of her horse’s hoofs, was Gifford at the door—old-fashioned courteous John Gifford.

He came forward, limping slightly on the right leg, the leg that had been shattered at the knee before she was born. He smiled and showed the slight surprise he always showed—’Why, Miss Pilar, this is real nice.’

The cowhands, lolling there smoking, tipped their hats. The Indians stared stolidly. She slid from the saddle and one of the riders came forward politely to take her horse.

‘How are you, Mr. Gifford?’

‘Fine, just fine.’

It was hard to realize that the smiling, middle-aged man, his place in the world now assured, had once been a wanted man, one jump ahead of the law, the deaths of several men to his credit.

He led the way into the house, shouting: ‘Martha’ in a voice that rattled the shutters. The girl loved this room, the trading part of Gifford’s establishment—the long counter with its Navajo blankets piled high, the kegs of nails, gunpowder, jerky and what have you, unlabeled, their contents known only to the trader. Guns hung on the wall, hides were stacked in the corner, blankets were draped in colorful array and the whole bore a smell all of its own, a smell that took her back into her childhood when she had come here and listened to Gifford’s tales.

The only occupant of the large room at that moment was a tall Navajo, standing by the counter. He greeted the girl in bad Spanish and she replied proficiently in the same language. The man was dressed in a bright red polka-dotted shirt hanging loose almost to his knees. His pants had once belonged to a cavalry soldier and she didn’t doubt that the seat had been cut out. His loins were covered by a bright crimson cloth. In his broad belt he had stuck an old Dragoon pistol and in his left hand was a Remington single-shot carbine. On his head was a battered sombrero. His neck and his arms were decorated with beautifully-worked silver.

Gifford said: ‘I’ll attend to Juanito here, then I’ll give you my undivided attention.’

He bustled around the other side of the counter and a long argument with the Indian began. They were covering old ground. The Indian came here to trade, but trading to him was more than the exchanging of goods. It was a social occasion, a time for the niceties of argument. If Gifford didn’t argue, he wouldn’t come here with his blankets any more.

Just then a large woman with fair-gray hair pulled back tight from a high forehead came through an inner doorway and greeted the girl with delight.

‘Why, honey,’ she cried, ‘you’ve been neglecting us.’ They embraced. The older woman patted the younger one, held her at arms’ length to inspect her and declared that she was getting prettier every time she saw her. The girl liked that. She was used to it and she liked it.

‘Did you have breakfast?’ Mrs. Gifford demanded. No, the girl told her, she didn’t, she was counting on Martha to give her some. The big woman laughed and led the girl into the rear of the house. Here the sound of the great wheel was muffled, here was a sort of barbaric comfort. The room was large like the other, but here was the furniture that the Giffords treasured. The fine oak table which Martha waxed with such pride, the upright piano which she played so badly, a few pictures on the walls, more Navajo blankets, Gifford’s gun hanging in its blackened holster.

The women chatted at their ease as Mrs. Gifford bustled between the big room and the kitchen beyond, laying the table. She asked after the girl’s father and demanded to know how the horses were and if any of his wonderful little foals had been born recently. They chatted until Martha stopped suddenly and said: ‘Landsakes, I clean forgot. There was shooting here last night.’

‘Shooting?’ the girl exclaimed. ‘What happened?’

‘We don’t know. It must have been just before dusk. We were out in the yard enjoying the cool of the day when there was shooting up on the rimrock.’

‘Who was shot?’

‘That we don’t rightly know,’ Martha said. ‘But this morning a strange horse come into the yard. A dun and John found a bullet crease mark on