McAllister Makes War by Matt Chisholm Page A

again.
    There was a man on the opposite side of the street watching him. Frank ignored him. In a couple of shakes it would all be over.
    The prisoner and escort were now almost opposite the saloon. The crowd had thickened. There were several people near Frank, but they were pushing forward toward the saloon. A buggy was stopped, by the people in the center of the street. The driver stood up to see better.
    Frank started to get desperate.
    Call it off,
said a voice in his head.
    But he wasn’t a man easily beaten. The buggy was within a dozen paces of the alleyway. The thought was no sooner in his head, than Frank acted. He ran forward, climbed over the rear of the buggy and instantly had a clear view of his target.
    The owner of the buggy turned and bawled out: “What the hell do you reckon you’re doin’?”
    â€œI’m doin’ no harm, mister,” Frank said. “Just gettin’ a better look.”
    â€œYou have the most infernal nerve, sir.”
    Carson had mounted the sidewalk. McAllister was pushing Evans forward. The target was pretty good. Evans was in view from the waist upward.
    Frank said quietly: “Stay very still, mister, or you get some lead up your butt.”
    The man froze.
    Frank raised the rifle.
    McAllister was turning, looking down the street over the heads of the people. Frank sighted on Evans.
    McAllister was galvanised into violent action. He seemed to turn and hurl Evans from his feet and throw himself down even as Frank fired.
    A man beyond Evans threw up his hands and staggered back.
    Frank knew that he had to move fast or it would be his last move. He would have tried for McAllister but the deputy was out of sight. Frank bounded over the side of the buggy and landed flat-footed. A man barred his path, too frightened to move. Frank headed straight for him, throwing him to one side.
    A man yelled.
    Frank reached the mouth of the alleyway and started down it.
    He was an active man and he could move fast. He had never moved faster in his life than he did now. He could see Marve in bright sunlight at the end of the dark passage. It seemed as if he ran down that dark and narrow way forever. The horses were jigging about all over and Marve was having his hands full in holding them.
    Marve was moving the animals around so that the black would be handy for Frank to mount. Frank strained to greater effort; his lungs felt as if they would burst. He could hear the air heaving in his chest.
    Oh, God,
he thought,
I’ll never make it before somebody shoots.
    But suddenly the black was right in front of him. He tried to vault into the saddle as he had done so many times before but his legs wouldn’t obey him now and he fell heavily against the horse’s flank.
    Marve was shouting.
    Frank got his left foot in the stirrup-iron and heaved himself astride. The loose line was in his hand and the black had taken the jump before he was in the saddle. Marve was spurring away. Without getting his right foot in the iron, Frank hit the black with steel. Marve was already across the vacant lot and was almost to the brush beyond.
    Something struck Frank a terrible blow in the back, jarring him forward against the saddlehorn. He grasped the horn with one hand and dropped the rifle. The horse’s forward jump that would have become a flat run turned abruptly into a wild pitch. Frank’s right hand grasped the coarse mane and he clung on for dear life, hitting the animal with the spurs again, shouting: “Get on, you bastard, get on.”
    The animal seemed to go crazy at the vicious touch of steel and swerved suddenly. Frank jerked in the saddle as helplessly as a rag-doll, held for a brief moment, then was hurled loosely from the saddle.
    He hit the ground hard on his back and lay there with all the wind knocked out of him.
    Marve came pounding back.
    â€œGet on,” Frank screamed.
    â€œYou hit?”
    â€œI’m a goner. Run for it, you fool. You can’t