Kill McAllister by Matt Chisholm Page B

want. “I’ll see you tomorrow morning. Plenty of sleep and we’ll have you out of bed in no time at all.”
    â€œHow long, doc?”
    â€œTwo-three weeks and you’ll be walking. A month and you’ll be as good as new.”
    â€œWanta bet?” McAllister snarled.
    The doctor gave him an uncertain grin, bade the maid goodnight and went out. The girl turned to McAllister and started tidying the bed without looking at him. He watched her closely, enjoying every second of it.
    â€œIt was worth gettin’ beat,” he said. She pursed her lips and continued with her work. “Honey, be all woman and find me a steak. I’ve gotta get back my strength an’ cow meat’s the only thing that’ll do it.”
    She stopped. She rested both hands on the bed and looked into his eyes. If he had been able to push his head forward, she was close enough to kiss. But he couldn’t, so he didn’t, though he was tempted to.
    â€œMr. McAllister, sir,” she said, “you’re not going to have a steak. You’re to lie there, eat slops and get well just like the doctor said.”
    â€œYou want to bet on it, miss?” he demanded.
    â€œIt wouldn’t be fair to bet on it,” she told him. “I’d be sure to win.”
    â€œI’m the stubbornest man in Texas.”
    â€œAnd I’m the stubbornest woman in Europe.”
    â€œAnd the prettiest.”
    She blushed. She left the bed and occupied herself about the room for a moment before she went out of the room, muttering something about getting him something to eat.
    He lay there for a moment, very still, forgetting the girl instantly, thinking about Boss dead there on the prairie, Sam and the crew somewhere south of here with the cows. The marshal had said there were no more herds to come in, but McAllister knew there was one. Somehow, he had to get word to Sam. But how? And would word be enough? Sam would want help. You couldn’t keep a herd intact and fight a bunch of Jayhawkers all at the same time.
    He thought:
McAllister, if’s just a matter of will. If you want to get off this bed hard enough, you can get off it
.
    He tried to sit up, but he was held where he was by a hot wall of pain. He grated his teeth together and the sweat leapt out on his forehead.
    â€œChrist!” he whispered. He fought vainly and felt like weeping in his helplessness.
    You were only kicked and hit
, he told himself,
you weren’t shot
.
    He lay back, thinking of Forster and hating him. He never knew he had that much hate in him. He pictured himself coming up with the man, gunning him down.
    All he had to do now, he thought, was keep his body stiff so that one of the broken ribs didn’t penetrate a lung. If he could get his legs over the side of the bed, the battle would be won. Slowly, using his hands on the bed, he turned himself on his backside and suddenly his legs were over the edge of the bed. As his heels touched the floor, pain flooded through him and for a moment he thought he’d faint with it. But he got a grip on himself, eased himself onto his elbows swore a couple of times, fought his way through the wall of agony and was suddenly sitting on the edge of the bed. He felt terrible. Where were his clothes?
    He could see his boots, worn and scuffed, but clean now, on the other side of the room. Pants and shirt were on a chair, washed and neatly folded. He looked down at himself and saw to his horror that he was stark naked. Where the hell were his long-johns? No cowman was dressed without them. He managed to drape a sheet around him with great difficulty and then, bracing every aching muscle in his body, he stood up.
    The room reeled, then it turned over a couple of times. He tried to reach out for support, failed to find it and the floor came up to meet him. The fall shook the house.
    The door burst open and the girl rushed in.
    â€œOh, no,” she cried and the next moment was on