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Allister (Part 2)
- -6--
The night was silent and cool. McCormick looked around. The moonlight gave the town an almost ghostly appearance, but at least he could see a little. The windowless jail had had no light at all. He stood still, just surveying his surroundings and then walked west toward the livery stable. He passed the general store, but didn't bother trying to look through the windows. They were all dark so no candles were burning. The livery stable was facing east so he walked straight inside, keeping the noise down as much as possible. There was one horse inside and it was the sheriff's.
He must be in town, McCormick thought.
He turned around and walked back outside into the street. He knew there wasn't anything of any interest inside the general store so instead of wasting his time checking it, he crossed the street and entered the saloon. It was empty as he had expected it would be. It was probably close to three o'clock in the morning, he figured. Some of the moonlight filtered through the windows and through the entrance so McCormick had no trouble finding the stairs that led up to the hotel. He ascended carefully, with his feet spread out so that he was only walking on the edges of each step where they had been nailed so that maybe they wouldn't squeak under his weight. They didn't and there weren't many steps anyway, so he was on the second floor within a few seconds. There was a long corridor before him with several green doors on either side. He didn't really know where to start. There wasn't as much light upstairs as there had been in the saloon below and he could only see the three doors closest to the stairs. He could always kick the doors in, but he didn't want to do that for fear of alerting the denizens therein.
He stood for a moment, pondering the few options he had. There were no candles burning in any of the rooms as far as he could tell. No light flickered beneath any of the doors. He stepped to the closest door and pressed his ear against it. Silence. He tried the door knob. It turned without resistance. McCormick figured it was also new. Everything in the town save for the buildings themselves seemed to be new. He pushed the door open and peered in, gun drawn. The room was empty. Moonlight shone through the room's window and in its pallid glow he could see a bed, neatly turned down, a night stand with a lantern on top, and a water basin. He went inside and closed the door behind him. It was a nice room. It would have certainly been outside of his price range. He looked underneath the bed and found nothing. Just as immaculate as the rest of the room. He focused his attention on the nightstand. It was expensive. Probably made of cherry or walnut. It was hard to tell in the dim light. He opened the top drawer and found a stack of bonds. He pocketed them. He couldn't read them in the dark so he decided to wait until daybreak. The second and final drawer was deeper than the first had been and was much more interesting. Bills had been stacked to the brim throughout. A lot of big bills with a few fives and ones, but there were hundreds and fifties, mostly. He took as much as he could fit in his pockets as a sort of compensation for being jailed for no good reason and then crawled out through the window and onto the roof. He made his way across the length of the building, peeping in windows. None of the rooms on the northern side of the hotel were occupied. He climbed around to the southern side and did exactly as he had done on the other side, creeping along and looking through the windows. The southern side was the same as the northern side: deserted. He put his pistol back in its holster and got down on his knees. He was about fifteen feet from the ground but he had survived higher falls. He was six feet six inches tall himself so he could expect to knock that much off the fall at least.
He found a grip on the edge of the roof and lowered himself down. He dangled there for a moment, finding his nerve, and then he dropped. The landing wasn't as graceful as he would have hoped for, but he only scratched himself a bit. He had had worse in his days. He clambered back to his feet and looked around to make sure no one saw him fall although he knew no one had. The town was dead. It occurred to him that Katherine Monroe might have seen him, but he doubted it. She seemed uptight and high strung so he figured that if she had have seen him on the roof of the hotel, she would have probably shot at him without hesitation. Even with the full moon, it was too dark to recognize anyone from a distance.
McCormick stood still, wiped the sweat from his brow. He was stumped. He wouldn't admit it to a soul, but it was the truth. Where had everyone gone?
And then a gunshot shattered the silence and McCormick felt a bullet graze his thigh. He gripped the wound with one hand and drew one of his pistols with the other. He didn't know where the shot had came from or who had fired it.
Monroe?
--7--
It wasn't Monroe. Another shot rang out, but missed him though only by a bit. McCormick hit the dirt and crawled beneath the saloon's back stoop. He knew where the shots were coming from now. Or at least he was aware of the general direction. Someone was shooting at him from the west somewhere. There were no buildings to hide behind in that direction, no cover. McCormick was confident that if he could just see the shooter, that he would be able to hit him despite the darkness.
And he got his wish. Up ahead from where McCormick was lying, about twenty yards west of the inn, McCormick saw a shadow moving around. He strained his eyes. He didn't want to shoot Monroe. She was probably just scared. But once he realized that the shooter wasn't wearing a dress, he opened fire.
He popped off six shots. The first, second, and fifth missed. The rest didn't. The shadowy figure fell to the ground and silence returned to Allister. McCormick crawled out from beneath the stoop and struggled to his feet. His leg was burning a little where the bullet had grazed it, but he would live. He figured the man he had just shot was the man who had escaped from the jail. He stumbled across the way and stooped down next to the man. McCormick didn't recognize him. He searched his pockets and found a flask of whiskey, nine dollars in silver, and a few extra bullets. He took the money and the whiskey and left the bullets. He left the man lying dead on the ground and went back to the jail. It felt to him that maybe dawn was just a couple hours away. He found the sheriff's chair in the darkness and sat down to wait.
--8--
McCormick was shocked to find that the man who he had locked up in Monroe's cell was the sheriff of Allister. He had recognized him at dawn's first light. The sheriff was still unconscious which suited McCormick in a way and annoyed him in another. He didn't really want to be bothered with the lawman, but at the same time he wanted to know exactly what was happening.
It was well into the day before the sheriff finally came to. He grumbled around and caressed his head and then grumbled some more. McCormick stood and walked over to the cell to greet him.
"Get up, you son of a bitch," he said. He rattled the bars and the sheriff looked up. He didn't seem to know where he was for a moment and then the realization struck.
"Ya can't lock me up, McCormick," he mumbled. "I'm a officer of the law."
"You're nothin' of the sort," McCormick said. "You're a piece of shit is what you are."
The sheriff lifted himself up onto the bunk and glared at McCormick. His hair was matted with congealed blood. "Ya could find yourself on the end of a rope for what ya did to me."
"What 'bout what you done to Ms. Monroe?"
"She was a whore," the sheriff said. "She's used to it."
"Nobody's used to bein' molested," McCormick said. "I oughtta kill you."
"Ya do that, McCormick. See where it gets ya."
"I want you to tell me what kinda racket you folks have goin' on here," McCormick said.
"I ain't tellin' ya nothin'."
"Listen here, boy," McCormick said. "I found a great deal of money over there in one of your hotel rooms. And I found these bonds over there too."
He pulled the bonds from his pockets and showed them to the sheriff. He looked down at them and perused the text for the first time.
"Looks like most of these are for farm land and stuff of that nature," he said. "And as far as I can tell, there ain't no farm land anywhere close to here."
"What we do in our town ain't none of your damn business," the sheriff said.
"It's my business why I got locked up though and I think that my bein' arrested had somethin' to do with all that money and these bonds."
The sheriff ignored him.
"You gonna talk to me, boy?"
The sheriff looked up at him with full blown hatred in his eyes. "I ain't no boy and I ain't tellin' you a damned thing."
McCormick nodded and pulled his second pistol from its holster and fired once, sending a bullet through the sheriff's left knee. The young lawman shrieked with agony and grabbed his leg with both hands. He rolled around on the bunk screaming and crying.
"If you wanna keep that other knee, I'd advise tellin' me what I want to know," McCormick said.
"Go to hell," the sheriff sobbed.
McCormick shook his head and fired a second shot into the sheriff's other knee. The sheriff reeled with pain and cried out.
"Talk," McCormick ordered. "Or I'll take out your elbows next."
The sheriff didn't respond. He just cried and groped at his wounds.
"Alright then," McCormick said. He raised his pistol again and took aim.
"Wait! Wait! " the sheriff said. "I ain't no sheriff."
"I figured that," McCormick said. "Where'd all that money come from?"
"Some of it come from a couple banks up north and some come from the railroad. There's more in some of the other rooms too."
"What 'bout the bonds?"
The sheriff hesitated, cried.
"I ain't playin' with you," McCormick said. "I'll take out your elbows."
The sheriff sniffed. "We conned a bunch of sod busters into givin' 'em to us."
"Who's us?"
"Me, Herschel--everybody here."
"I've only seen you, Herschel, and the bartender apart from Ms. Monroe and I don't reckon she's in with your opeation," McCormick said.
"There's more of us. Out stakin' banks out."
"What 'bout this town?"
"What 'bout it?"
"Everything's new except for the buildin's. I expect they've been here awhile."
"This here was a ghost town when we rode in and we figured it'd be a good cover. So we used some of the take and bought a bunch of stuff and done some work. Made it look the best we could. Right here in the heart of Kansas, it was a good place to base."
McCormick shook his head, disgusted. "And so you arrested me so I wouldn't catch on," he said.
The sheriff nodded and rocked back and forth crying and holding his legs. He was bleeding profusely.
"Alright," McCormick said. "Where's ever'body else?"
"I don't know," the sheriff said.
"Horseshit."
"I don't."
McCormick fired a shot into the sheriff's right elbow.
"God!! They're out on a job!"
"When will they be back in town?"
"'Round three this evenin'."
McCormick nodded. "Alright." And then he popped a fourth shot off, hitting the sheriff directly in the forehead. The lawman reeled and fell backward, what remained of his head smashing into the wall behind him. McCormick stood still, glaring into the dead man's vacant eyes and then turned away.
He found some more bullets in the desk and reloaded his weapons, took a shot of whiskey from the stolen flask, and then left the jail.
--9--
The rest of Allister's crooked inhabitants arrived earlier than the sheriff had predicted. Much earlier. McCormick had only been sitting outside the jail for twenty minutes or so before he saw them riding in from the west. He counted eight men, two of whom he recognized. One was Herschel and the other was the bartender. He ducked around to the side of the jail and waited. He could hear the hoofbeats draw closer and then they stopped.
Prob'ly at the livery stable, McCormick thought.
He peeked around the corner of the jail. Herschel dismounted and barked some orders at the other seven men and then started walking toward the jail.
There were eight men and McCormick had twelve fresh rounds between the two of his pistols. He liked the odds. But of course he wasn't one to underestimate anyone. He knew the men were armed and they definitely had more rounds amongst the lot of them than he had. Plus, he was all alone. He would have to be careful. He waited until Herschel made it inside the jail and the other men had disappeared from view before he emerged from around the corner. He stepped inside the jail and closed the door. Herschel turned around and faced him. He had found the sheriff.
McCormick didn't hesitate. That's how many men were killed. They paused for just maybe a second, but it was often a second too long. He pulled one of his pistols and fired on the shop keeper, sending one bullet through his chest and another through his gut. Herschel stumbled backwards over the sheriff's desk and then fell dead to the floor.
McCormick kept his eyes on the shop keeper just long enough to ascertain he was dead and then he turned back around to face the door. He knew the others would have had to have heard the shots. And, as he had expected, they ran to investigate. Two of the seven that remained, barged through the jail's only door and McCormick put a round in both of their foreheads. They fell back outside and into the street.
Four rounds spent, eight left, five men still standin', McCormick thought.
He didn't expect anyone else to come through the jail's door. They hadn't escaped with so much stolen loot by being stupid. Only two at a time could fit through the jail's entrance, so their numbers no longer mattered. McCormick could kill them all without even breaking a sweat.
He flanked to the left and pushed the door closed. He then pushed the sheriff's desk up against it and waited.
--10--
Nothing happened for a several minutes. McCormick figured the other five men were outside someplace trying to think of some way to kill him. But he wasn't worried about it. There weren't any windows and there was only one door so a sneak attack was impossible. And then finally he heard a voice. It was coarse and deep.
"May as well come out, McCormick," it said. "Ain't no place else to go."
McCormick assumed that the sheriff had probably told everyone in the gang about him.
"Nah," McCormick shouted back. "I reckon I'll just stay right here. But you're more than welcome to come on in and visit if you feel so inclined."
He heard the man with the course voice chuckle. "You've got a big mouth, McCormick," it said.
"Not no bigger than yours, I don't guess."
"I'll tell you what's gonna happen," the voice said. "You can either come on out now or we'll burn the place down around you. Your choice."
"I reckon you might as well go on and set the fire then," McCormick replied.
"Suit yourself."
And then all went quiet. About six minutes later, McCormick could hear some activity on the other side of the jailhouse walls. And then he could smell smoke. It didn't surprise him. He hadn't thought the man was bluffing. It hadn't even crossed his mind.
Smoke began to billow inward and then the flames were visible. McCormick pulled up his shirt tail over his nose and mouth to filter the air and took one of his pistols in the other hand.
He lined himself up across from the eastern wall, now weakened by the flames, hesitated, ran, and then dove straight through it. His coat caught fire on the way through but when he hit the ground outside and rolled, it went out without causing any serious injury. Several shots were fired, but none of them hit him. He was too low and was moving too fast. He rolled back onto his feet and ducked behind the burning jail and ducked low and ran across the gap that separated the jail from the general store. The men shot at him, but hit nothing but his hat. He paid it no attention and kept running. He pressed his back up against the store and pulled his other gun. He was in a bad position. He only had two rounds left in one of his pistols. He expected the men to split up and flank around either side of the general store, but they never did.
The jail was fully engulfed now, it's heat causing beads of sweat to pop up on McCormick's forehead. They trickled downward and into his eyes. The wind was westbound which was also bad. It would cause the flames to spread across to the store and if McCormick didn't make a move by the time that happened, he would die. That realization in and of itself sent adrenaline pumping through his veins and he crept west, his back against the wall, and then ran out and past the store, firing shots in the mens' direction as he fled across the street. He knew for sure he hit two of them because he saw them fall, but he also took a bullet to the arm himself. He took cover beside the saloon, hoping the two men he had hit were dead.
Eight rounds spent, four left, three men still standin', he thought to himself.
He suddenly realized that his odds didn't look so good anymore.
Should have took them bullets off that guy.
--11--
The shot McCormick had taken to the arm hadn't really hurt at first. It had just stung a bit. But now it felt like his entire arm was ablaze. It was hurting terribly, but McCormick had never been one to surrender without a fight. He crept behind the saloon and dropped down and rolled beneath the stoop where he had taken refuge earlier that morning. He didn't know which way to face so he positioned himself perpendicular the building so he could turn his head left and right and see both corners.
He could hear nothing but the crackling sound of burning wood. It was a silence that he didn't like. The other three men could be anywhere assuming that three men were all that remained. He might have just wounded one or maybe even both of the men he had shot while running across the street, but either way he hoped that they were out of action. He was pretty sure that one of them had gotten a bullet in the gut, but he didn't know about the other one.
Nothing happened for a long time. It was quiet. And then McCormick caught a glimpse of one of the men coming around the eastern corner of the saloon. He waited patiently until the man was clearly visible. It was the bartender. And he didn't see McCormick.
McCormick took careful aim and then shot him through the side of the head. The bartender fell dead. McCormick looked westward, but didn't see anyone.
Three rounds left, he thought.
And then another shot rang out from somewhere in front of the saloon.
And then another.
And then another.
Monroe, he thought.
He checked east and west and then rolled out from beneath the stoop. He stayed low and moved east to where the bartender laid. McCormick checked his weapon and emptied it and reloaded his own with the stolen bullets. There were five of them. He put three rounds in his second pistol and put the last two in his other one.
Eight rounds now, he thought. Eight rounds.
He peeked around the corner and saw one man dead on the ground and two still standing, facing the west. He raised his pistol and popped two shots off. One hit the man closest to him in the ribs and he wilted. The other missed. The one remaining man turned and fired in McCormick's direction, but missed. McCormick was too fast for him. He pulled himself back around the corner just as the bullet passed through the area where his head had been.
And then another shot was fired from somewhere in the west and McCormick peeked around the corner just in time to see the last man drop. He wasn't dead though so McCormick fired a shot through his eye to finish him.
He moved around the corner and crept along the side of the saloon. He didn't want to take any chances. He held a tight grip on his pistol and then stepped out into the street. One shot was fired at him and he dove back behind the building. He knew that none of the eight had survived because he had saw the two he had shot on his way across the street dead on the ground.
"Ms. Monroe," he called out. "Hold your fire. It's me--McCormick."
He peeked around the corner from a sitting position.
"You hear me?"
"Yeah, I hear you," Monroe called back.
"You gonna stop shootin' at me?"
"I ain't gonna shoot you," she replied.
He stood up and walked out into the street. Monroe stepped out from the livery stable and they just stood there for a long while, looking each other over. The general store was burning now, the flames licking the the heavens.
Monroe took a few steps toward McCormick and he took a few toward her.
"There's a bunch of money up there in the inn, I hear," he said. "It's stole, but I don't reckon nobody else would know it if we didn't tell 'em. We can take it and split it."
Monroe paused a beat. "You ain't the kinda of man who'd tell the law on me are you," she asked.
"If I was that kind of a man, don't you think I would've told on you when you stole my money up the road there?"
She paused again and considered his words. She nodded. "Alright," she said. "But we'd better hurry 'fore somebody sees all the smoke and comes along."
--12--
They found five thousand six hundred dollars in the hotel--two thousand eight hundred and one dollars for Monroe and the same for McCormick in addition to the six hundred fifty dollars McCormick had taken from the hotel room earlier that morning. They also divided the take the townspeople had rode in with earlier that day. By the time they had finished looting the hotel and searching the dead mens' pockets, the jail had burned to the ground, the general store was blazing, and the fire had spread to the livery stable.
"There's a couple horses tied out back o' the saloon here," Monroe said. "I guess you can have one of 'em. I won't be needin' 'em both."
"I'm grateful to you, ma'am," McCormick said. "Thank you."
"You too," she said.
They stood quietly, watching the buildings burn.
"You gonna be okay," Monroe asked, nodding toward McCormick's wounded arm.
"I've had worse," he said and smiled.
She smiled back and they circled around the saloon, mounted their horses and went their separate ways without speaking another word, McCormick heading west into the sunset and Monroe riding east toward the encroaching darkness.
Allister's fire raged on.
The night was silent and cool. McCormick looked around. The moonlight gave the town an almost ghostly appearance, but at least he could see a little. The windowless jail had had no light at all. He stood still, just surveying his surroundings and then walked west toward the livery stable. He passed the general store, but didn't bother trying to look through the windows. They were all dark so no candles were burning. The livery stable was facing east so he walked straight inside, keeping the noise down as much as possible. There was one horse inside and it was the sheriff's.
He must be in town, McCormick thought.
He turned around and walked back outside into the street. He knew there wasn't anything of any interest inside the general store so instead of wasting his time checking it, he crossed the street and entered the saloon. It was empty as he had expected it would be. It was probably close to three o'clock in the morning, he figured. Some of the moonlight filtered through the windows and through the entrance so McCormick had no trouble finding the stairs that led up to the hotel. He ascended carefully, with his feet spread out so that he was only walking on the edges of each step where they had been nailed so that maybe they wouldn't squeak under his weight. They didn't and there weren't many steps anyway, so he was on the second floor within a few seconds. There was a long corridor before him with several green doors on either side. He didn't really know where to start. There wasn't as much light upstairs as there had been in the saloon below and he could only see the three doors closest to the stairs. He could always kick the doors in, but he didn't want to do that for fear of alerting the denizens therein.
He stood for a moment, pondering the few options he had. There were no candles burning in any of the rooms as far as he could tell. No light flickered beneath any of the doors. He stepped to the closest door and pressed his ear against it. Silence. He tried the door knob. It turned without resistance. McCormick figured it was also new. Everything in the town save for the buildings themselves seemed to be new. He pushed the door open and peered in, gun drawn. The room was empty. Moonlight shone through the room's window and in its pallid glow he could see a bed, neatly turned down, a night stand with a lantern on top, and a water basin. He went inside and closed the door behind him. It was a nice room. It would have certainly been outside of his price range. He looked underneath the bed and found nothing. Just as immaculate as the rest of the room. He focused his attention on the nightstand. It was expensive. Probably made of cherry or walnut. It was hard to tell in the dim light. He opened the top drawer and found a stack of bonds. He pocketed them. He couldn't read them in the dark so he decided to wait until daybreak. The second and final drawer was deeper than the first had been and was much more interesting. Bills had been stacked to the brim throughout. A lot of big bills with a few fives and ones, but there were hundreds and fifties, mostly. He took as much as he could fit in his pockets as a sort of compensation for being jailed for no good reason and then crawled out through the window and onto the roof. He made his way across the length of the building, peeping in windows. None of the rooms on the northern side of the hotel were occupied. He climbed around to the southern side and did exactly as he had done on the other side, creeping along and looking through the windows. The southern side was the same as the northern side: deserted. He put his pistol back in its holster and got down on his knees. He was about fifteen feet from the ground but he had survived higher falls. He was six feet six inches tall himself so he could expect to knock that much off the fall at least.
He found a grip on the edge of the roof and lowered himself down. He dangled there for a moment, finding his nerve, and then he dropped. The landing wasn't as graceful as he would have hoped for, but he only scratched himself a bit. He had had worse in his days. He clambered back to his feet and looked around to make sure no one saw him fall although he knew no one had. The town was dead. It occurred to him that Katherine Monroe might have seen him, but he doubted it. She seemed uptight and high strung so he figured that if she had have seen him on the roof of the hotel, she would have probably shot at him without hesitation. Even with the full moon, it was too dark to recognize anyone from a distance.
McCormick stood still, wiped the sweat from his brow. He was stumped. He wouldn't admit it to a soul, but it was the truth. Where had everyone gone?
And then a gunshot shattered the silence and McCormick felt a bullet graze his thigh. He gripped the wound with one hand and drew one of his pistols with the other. He didn't know where the shot had came from or who had fired it.
Monroe?
--7--
It wasn't Monroe. Another shot rang out, but missed him though only by a bit. McCormick hit the dirt and crawled beneath the saloon's back stoop. He knew where the shots were coming from now. Or at least he was aware of the general direction. Someone was shooting at him from the west somewhere. There were no buildings to hide behind in that direction, no cover. McCormick was confident that if he could just see the shooter, that he would be able to hit him despite the darkness.
And he got his wish. Up ahead from where McCormick was lying, about twenty yards west of the inn, McCormick saw a shadow moving around. He strained his eyes. He didn't want to shoot Monroe. She was probably just scared. But once he realized that the shooter wasn't wearing a dress, he opened fire.
He popped off six shots. The first, second, and fifth missed. The rest didn't. The shadowy figure fell to the ground and silence returned to Allister. McCormick crawled out from beneath the stoop and struggled to his feet. His leg was burning a little where the bullet had grazed it, but he would live. He figured the man he had just shot was the man who had escaped from the jail. He stumbled across the way and stooped down next to the man. McCormick didn't recognize him. He searched his pockets and found a flask of whiskey, nine dollars in silver, and a few extra bullets. He took the money and the whiskey and left the bullets. He left the man lying dead on the ground and went back to the jail. It felt to him that maybe dawn was just a couple hours away. He found the sheriff's chair in the darkness and sat down to wait.
--8--
McCormick was shocked to find that the man who he had locked up in Monroe's cell was the sheriff of Allister. He had recognized him at dawn's first light. The sheriff was still unconscious which suited McCormick in a way and annoyed him in another. He didn't really want to be bothered with the lawman, but at the same time he wanted to know exactly what was happening.
It was well into the day before the sheriff finally came to. He grumbled around and caressed his head and then grumbled some more. McCormick stood and walked over to the cell to greet him.
"Get up, you son of a bitch," he said. He rattled the bars and the sheriff looked up. He didn't seem to know where he was for a moment and then the realization struck.
"Ya can't lock me up, McCormick," he mumbled. "I'm a officer of the law."
"You're nothin' of the sort," McCormick said. "You're a piece of shit is what you are."
The sheriff lifted himself up onto the bunk and glared at McCormick. His hair was matted with congealed blood. "Ya could find yourself on the end of a rope for what ya did to me."
"What 'bout what you done to Ms. Monroe?"
"She was a whore," the sheriff said. "She's used to it."
"Nobody's used to bein' molested," McCormick said. "I oughtta kill you."
"Ya do that, McCormick. See where it gets ya."
"I want you to tell me what kinda racket you folks have goin' on here," McCormick said.
"I ain't tellin' ya nothin'."
"Listen here, boy," McCormick said. "I found a great deal of money over there in one of your hotel rooms. And I found these bonds over there too."
He pulled the bonds from his pockets and showed them to the sheriff. He looked down at them and perused the text for the first time.
"Looks like most of these are for farm land and stuff of that nature," he said. "And as far as I can tell, there ain't no farm land anywhere close to here."
"What we do in our town ain't none of your damn business," the sheriff said.
"It's my business why I got locked up though and I think that my bein' arrested had somethin' to do with all that money and these bonds."
The sheriff ignored him.
"You gonna talk to me, boy?"
The sheriff looked up at him with full blown hatred in his eyes. "I ain't no boy and I ain't tellin' you a damned thing."
McCormick nodded and pulled his second pistol from its holster and fired once, sending a bullet through the sheriff's left knee. The young lawman shrieked with agony and grabbed his leg with both hands. He rolled around on the bunk screaming and crying.
"If you wanna keep that other knee, I'd advise tellin' me what I want to know," McCormick said.
"Go to hell," the sheriff sobbed.
McCormick shook his head and fired a second shot into the sheriff's other knee. The sheriff reeled with pain and cried out.
"Talk," McCormick ordered. "Or I'll take out your elbows next."
The sheriff didn't respond. He just cried and groped at his wounds.
"Alright then," McCormick said. He raised his pistol again and took aim.
"Wait! Wait! " the sheriff said. "I ain't no sheriff."
"I figured that," McCormick said. "Where'd all that money come from?"
"Some of it come from a couple banks up north and some come from the railroad. There's more in some of the other rooms too."
"What 'bout the bonds?"
The sheriff hesitated, cried.
"I ain't playin' with you," McCormick said. "I'll take out your elbows."
The sheriff sniffed. "We conned a bunch of sod busters into givin' 'em to us."
"Who's us?"
"Me, Herschel--everybody here."
"I've only seen you, Herschel, and the bartender apart from Ms. Monroe and I don't reckon she's in with your opeation," McCormick said.
"There's more of us. Out stakin' banks out."
"What 'bout this town?"
"What 'bout it?"
"Everything's new except for the buildin's. I expect they've been here awhile."
"This here was a ghost town when we rode in and we figured it'd be a good cover. So we used some of the take and bought a bunch of stuff and done some work. Made it look the best we could. Right here in the heart of Kansas, it was a good place to base."
McCormick shook his head, disgusted. "And so you arrested me so I wouldn't catch on," he said.
The sheriff nodded and rocked back and forth crying and holding his legs. He was bleeding profusely.
"Alright," McCormick said. "Where's ever'body else?"
"I don't know," the sheriff said.
"Horseshit."
"I don't."
McCormick fired a shot into the sheriff's right elbow.
"God!! They're out on a job!"
"When will they be back in town?"
"'Round three this evenin'."
McCormick nodded. "Alright." And then he popped a fourth shot off, hitting the sheriff directly in the forehead. The lawman reeled and fell backward, what remained of his head smashing into the wall behind him. McCormick stood still, glaring into the dead man's vacant eyes and then turned away.
He found some more bullets in the desk and reloaded his weapons, took a shot of whiskey from the stolen flask, and then left the jail.
--9--
The rest of Allister's crooked inhabitants arrived earlier than the sheriff had predicted. Much earlier. McCormick had only been sitting outside the jail for twenty minutes or so before he saw them riding in from the west. He counted eight men, two of whom he recognized. One was Herschel and the other was the bartender. He ducked around to the side of the jail and waited. He could hear the hoofbeats draw closer and then they stopped.
Prob'ly at the livery stable, McCormick thought.
He peeked around the corner of the jail. Herschel dismounted and barked some orders at the other seven men and then started walking toward the jail.
There were eight men and McCormick had twelve fresh rounds between the two of his pistols. He liked the odds. But of course he wasn't one to underestimate anyone. He knew the men were armed and they definitely had more rounds amongst the lot of them than he had. Plus, he was all alone. He would have to be careful. He waited until Herschel made it inside the jail and the other men had disappeared from view before he emerged from around the corner. He stepped inside the jail and closed the door. Herschel turned around and faced him. He had found the sheriff.
McCormick didn't hesitate. That's how many men were killed. They paused for just maybe a second, but it was often a second too long. He pulled one of his pistols and fired on the shop keeper, sending one bullet through his chest and another through his gut. Herschel stumbled backwards over the sheriff's desk and then fell dead to the floor.
McCormick kept his eyes on the shop keeper just long enough to ascertain he was dead and then he turned back around to face the door. He knew the others would have had to have heard the shots. And, as he had expected, they ran to investigate. Two of the seven that remained, barged through the jail's only door and McCormick put a round in both of their foreheads. They fell back outside and into the street.
Four rounds spent, eight left, five men still standin', McCormick thought.
He didn't expect anyone else to come through the jail's door. They hadn't escaped with so much stolen loot by being stupid. Only two at a time could fit through the jail's entrance, so their numbers no longer mattered. McCormick could kill them all without even breaking a sweat.
He flanked to the left and pushed the door closed. He then pushed the sheriff's desk up against it and waited.
--10--
Nothing happened for a several minutes. McCormick figured the other five men were outside someplace trying to think of some way to kill him. But he wasn't worried about it. There weren't any windows and there was only one door so a sneak attack was impossible. And then finally he heard a voice. It was coarse and deep.
"May as well come out, McCormick," it said. "Ain't no place else to go."
McCormick assumed that the sheriff had probably told everyone in the gang about him.
"Nah," McCormick shouted back. "I reckon I'll just stay right here. But you're more than welcome to come on in and visit if you feel so inclined."
He heard the man with the course voice chuckle. "You've got a big mouth, McCormick," it said.
"Not no bigger than yours, I don't guess."
"I'll tell you what's gonna happen," the voice said. "You can either come on out now or we'll burn the place down around you. Your choice."
"I reckon you might as well go on and set the fire then," McCormick replied.
"Suit yourself."
And then all went quiet. About six minutes later, McCormick could hear some activity on the other side of the jailhouse walls. And then he could smell smoke. It didn't surprise him. He hadn't thought the man was bluffing. It hadn't even crossed his mind.
Smoke began to billow inward and then the flames were visible. McCormick pulled up his shirt tail over his nose and mouth to filter the air and took one of his pistols in the other hand.
He lined himself up across from the eastern wall, now weakened by the flames, hesitated, ran, and then dove straight through it. His coat caught fire on the way through but when he hit the ground outside and rolled, it went out without causing any serious injury. Several shots were fired, but none of them hit him. He was too low and was moving too fast. He rolled back onto his feet and ducked behind the burning jail and ducked low and ran across the gap that separated the jail from the general store. The men shot at him, but hit nothing but his hat. He paid it no attention and kept running. He pressed his back up against the store and pulled his other gun. He was in a bad position. He only had two rounds left in one of his pistols. He expected the men to split up and flank around either side of the general store, but they never did.
The jail was fully engulfed now, it's heat causing beads of sweat to pop up on McCormick's forehead. They trickled downward and into his eyes. The wind was westbound which was also bad. It would cause the flames to spread across to the store and if McCormick didn't make a move by the time that happened, he would die. That realization in and of itself sent adrenaline pumping through his veins and he crept west, his back against the wall, and then ran out and past the store, firing shots in the mens' direction as he fled across the street. He knew for sure he hit two of them because he saw them fall, but he also took a bullet to the arm himself. He took cover beside the saloon, hoping the two men he had hit were dead.
Eight rounds spent, four left, three men still standin', he thought to himself.
He suddenly realized that his odds didn't look so good anymore.
Should have took them bullets off that guy.
--11--
The shot McCormick had taken to the arm hadn't really hurt at first. It had just stung a bit. But now it felt like his entire arm was ablaze. It was hurting terribly, but McCormick had never been one to surrender without a fight. He crept behind the saloon and dropped down and rolled beneath the stoop where he had taken refuge earlier that morning. He didn't know which way to face so he positioned himself perpendicular the building so he could turn his head left and right and see both corners.
He could hear nothing but the crackling sound of burning wood. It was a silence that he didn't like. The other three men could be anywhere assuming that three men were all that remained. He might have just wounded one or maybe even both of the men he had shot while running across the street, but either way he hoped that they were out of action. He was pretty sure that one of them had gotten a bullet in the gut, but he didn't know about the other one.
Nothing happened for a long time. It was quiet. And then McCormick caught a glimpse of one of the men coming around the eastern corner of the saloon. He waited patiently until the man was clearly visible. It was the bartender. And he didn't see McCormick.
McCormick took careful aim and then shot him through the side of the head. The bartender fell dead. McCormick looked westward, but didn't see anyone.
Three rounds left, he thought.
And then another shot rang out from somewhere in front of the saloon.
And then another.
And then another.
Monroe, he thought.
He checked east and west and then rolled out from beneath the stoop. He stayed low and moved east to where the bartender laid. McCormick checked his weapon and emptied it and reloaded his own with the stolen bullets. There were five of them. He put three rounds in his second pistol and put the last two in his other one.
Eight rounds now, he thought. Eight rounds.
He peeked around the corner and saw one man dead on the ground and two still standing, facing the west. He raised his pistol and popped two shots off. One hit the man closest to him in the ribs and he wilted. The other missed. The one remaining man turned and fired in McCormick's direction, but missed. McCormick was too fast for him. He pulled himself back around the corner just as the bullet passed through the area where his head had been.
And then another shot was fired from somewhere in the west and McCormick peeked around the corner just in time to see the last man drop. He wasn't dead though so McCormick fired a shot through his eye to finish him.
He moved around the corner and crept along the side of the saloon. He didn't want to take any chances. He held a tight grip on his pistol and then stepped out into the street. One shot was fired at him and he dove back behind the building. He knew that none of the eight had survived because he had saw the two he had shot on his way across the street dead on the ground.
"Ms. Monroe," he called out. "Hold your fire. It's me--McCormick."
He peeked around the corner from a sitting position.
"You hear me?"
"Yeah, I hear you," Monroe called back.
"You gonna stop shootin' at me?"
"I ain't gonna shoot you," she replied.
He stood up and walked out into the street. Monroe stepped out from the livery stable and they just stood there for a long while, looking each other over. The general store was burning now, the flames licking the the heavens.
Monroe took a few steps toward McCormick and he took a few toward her.
"There's a bunch of money up there in the inn, I hear," he said. "It's stole, but I don't reckon nobody else would know it if we didn't tell 'em. We can take it and split it."
Monroe paused a beat. "You ain't the kinda of man who'd tell the law on me are you," she asked.
"If I was that kind of a man, don't you think I would've told on you when you stole my money up the road there?"
She paused again and considered his words. She nodded. "Alright," she said. "But we'd better hurry 'fore somebody sees all the smoke and comes along."
--12--
They found five thousand six hundred dollars in the hotel--two thousand eight hundred and one dollars for Monroe and the same for McCormick in addition to the six hundred fifty dollars McCormick had taken from the hotel room earlier that morning. They also divided the take the townspeople had rode in with earlier that day. By the time they had finished looting the hotel and searching the dead mens' pockets, the jail had burned to the ground, the general store was blazing, and the fire had spread to the livery stable.
"There's a couple horses tied out back o' the saloon here," Monroe said. "I guess you can have one of 'em. I won't be needin' 'em both."
"I'm grateful to you, ma'am," McCormick said. "Thank you."
"You too," she said.
They stood quietly, watching the buildings burn.
"You gonna be okay," Monroe asked, nodding toward McCormick's wounded arm.
"I've had worse," he said and smiled.
She smiled back and they circled around the saloon, mounted their horses and went their separate ways without speaking another word, McCormick heading west into the sunset and Monroe riding east toward the encroaching darkness.
Allister's fire raged on.
