McAllister Makes War by Matt Chisholm

bring ’em right out on the street,” he said. Frank shook his head.
    â€œCould be lead flyin’,” he said. “They might get hit.” He walked to the head of the alleyway running between the buildings and leading to the street. Here to his right was the rear of the hotel. The way was clearer here. They could run directly south from here. That might be better all around. “Bring ’em over here,” he called.
    Marve scooped up the black’s dragging line and rode his superb bay over to where Frank stood. The elder brother heaved his rifle from the boot on the saddle, checked it and said: “Keno.”
    â€œLuck,” Marve said and Frank walked away down the alley.
    There was a water-butt almost on the street and Frank took his station here, buried in deep sun-shadow. He was slightly put-off to realise that the sun was against him here. A man coming down the street would have an advantage over him in this position. He cursed himself for not having thought of that before. He thought. He would take the risk of letting the prisoner and guard go past him. He’d catch Evans just as he was going into the Golden Fleece. It would be a slightly longer shot, but it was still an easy one for him.
    He put his rifle behind the butt and rolled himself a smoke. Striking a lucifer on the scat of his pants, he puffed calmly. Hewas a little tense, he discovered, but not unduly excited. There was real risk in this, he didn’t deny, but he was a man almost without nerves. Odds didn’t throw him, because he had supreme confidence in the speed of his own reactions. He didn’t doubt that, all things being equal, he could kill prisoner and a guard with two shots. Then he’d leg it down the alley and away. The hard ride to El Paso, dodging the law and Indians all the way, keeping out of the sight of any living soul except when they obtained the necessary supplies. Then over the Border. They’d have a lot of fun in Mexico, him and Marve. They’d have money in their pockets.
    He finished the smoke, dropped it and ground it out under his heel.
    Folks were turning and looking up the street.
    He put out his hand and touched the barrel of the rifle. The time was near.
    The corner of the building to his right, obscured his view of the street and he didn’t want to show himself by stepping forward for a clearer view. So he waited. A half-minute passed before Carson, the marshal, came into view. The man looked like he had troubles. He bore a six-shooter on his right hip and a greener in his hands held across his body, ready for action. Frank grinned wolfishly. That wouldn’t do him much good at the range he would start shooting.
    Evans came into view, walking a good half-dozen paces behind the marshal. Behind him loomed McAllister’s tall figure. Frank cursed. Trust that sonovabitch to be close in that way. Unless Frank got Evans at just the right angle, it would be terribly difficult to make the shot. He might be forced to cut McAllister down first. The prisoner and his escort had to walk across the head of the alley, go a hundred paces to Frank’s left before they turned into the Golden Fleece. As the line of men came broadside on to Frank, that was the moment for the gunman to shoot. The only time. McAllister being so close cut down the time available considerably. Now, if a townsman got in the way, the shot could prove impossible.
    The three men were passing the alleyway. Frank pressed himself back. It seemed that McAllister’s eyes were flicking everywhere. Frank wiped the palms of his hands carefully on the leg of his pants.
    McAllister was past now. Frank stayed back where he was for the count of six, unseen and able to see. Then he edged forward, the gun held out of sight. McAllister was turning,facing back Frank’s way. The gunman pulled himself back into cover. He found that he had started to sweat. He cursed the deputy. God damn ...
    He peeked out