McAllister by Matt Chisholm Page B

he had cut the White Eye scout’s throat instead of accepting his hand.
    The sentry in the rocks called again and Gato answered: “Let him come,” and signed for his son to leave him, telling him he had done well.
    The young man gave him a shy grin and walked away into the darkness. His place was taken by a small man past his best years. Yet still he had the reputation for having the sharpest eyes of his people. He was also noted for being a great thief. He wore a Mexican hat and an old army coat. His weapons were a breech-loading single-shot carbine and a butcher’s knife. He grinned toothlessly as he squatted by his leader’s side.
    â€œWell?’
    â€œThey are four smokes by the single-tree-water. A White Eye from the wagon-train followed Falling Deer, but it wasnot he who killed our brother. That was these people at the water.”
    â€œI know that.”
    â€œBut what you do not know is that this White Eye from the wagon-train killed two of these other whitemen.”
    Gato looked interested. He smiled and nodded to himself.
    â€œThis is very good.” His men and his horses could rest for a few days. These White Eyes would clash again. Let them hurt each other before the Apache struck.
    â€œYou have done well,” he told the veteran warrior. “When you have eaten and rested, you will watch the ranch. If the train leaves, return and tell me. Do not go near to the train or the ranch.”
    The scout saluted him and, rising, slipped silently into the darkness.

8
    Clover Eyed the handsome Southerner warily. Sure, Clover was the big man around here or anywhere else he liked to go, but Franchon was deadlier than a rattlesnake. Only one other man in the world Clover feared and that was that old toad Carmody. His reason for his wariness of Franchon was obvious—the gunman was fast, faster than Clover or any one of his men, and he was totally reckless. He would kill a man knowing that in the act he could get himself killed. So when Franchon sneered at him now, although Clover knew his men were near and listening, he made no move. Carmody was another dish of beans altogether. Physically, Clover feared him not at all. It was something else about the fat man that brought obedience from the man who had inspired more wanted posters than any other man west of Kansas City.
    Clover was watching Franchon’s right hand and its proximity to his gun-butt when he noticed that the handle was cased by wood. That gave him a clue.
    â€œWhat happened to the famous ivory-handled gun, Franchon?” he asked.
    â€œI lost it.”
    â€œThat looks like an army model.”
    â€œIt is.”
    That didn’t prove anything, but it gave Clover the idea that Franchon had been disarmed and had made his escape from the ranch. He had an uneasy feeling that the gunman had killed a soldier. There’d be hell to pay if that were true.
    â€œTell me—how come you left the train? On foot?”
    â€œYou’re asking a lot of questions, Clover?”
    â€œLook—Carmody says you’ll stay with the train. But you don’t. Am I suppose to just take that without a word? I don’t like it. This thing was carefully planned.”
    Franchon stared at him, his pale eyes glittering in the lamplight. He looked as cold as a reptile.
    â€œI’m not one of your men, Clover. I judged it best to leave the train and that’s the end of it. I’m here to look after Mr. Carmody’s personal interests. You and I have to get along till this chore’s done. Leave it at that.”
    Clover gave it a little thought, then said—
    â€œAll right. But stay close, Franchon. My boys’re jumpy and there’s Indians breathing down our necks. This may not be easy.”
    Franchon smiled coldly.
    â€œAll we have to do is take a couple of bags of gold from four soldiers and a few mule-skinners.”
    â€œI’ve lost two men.”
    â€œAnd have eight