McAllister Makes War by Matt Chisholm Page B

do nothin’.”
    Feet pounded in the alleyway. A shot winged by. Marve ripped his handgun from leather and fired a couple of shots. His bay was dancing this way and that.
    â€œRun,” Frank howled. He tried to raise himself from theground, but it was as though he were pinned there by a giant stake through his shoulder.
    It’s caught up with me at last,
he thought.
    Marve gave him a last desperate look, neck-reined the bay around and went off in a cloud of dust. Booted feet pounded up. Frank tried to draw his gun, but a voice said: “Leave it.”
    The man reached down, drew the gun and tossed it aside. Frank saw that it was McAllister. He heard the beat of Marve’s retreat going away into distance. He should do all right with two fast horses. The law would never catch up with him.
    Another man ran up. This was Carson the marshal.
    McAllister said: “One down an’ one to go.”
    â€œWhere you hit, Frank?” Carson asked.
    â€œIn the back,” Frank said. “The only way you could do it, McAllister.”
    The deputy pursed his lips, but didn’t answer.
    â€œI’ll get some men to carry him down to the doc’s,” he said. He walked away down the alleyway.
    Carson said: “We’ll patch you up, then we’ll have a little pow-wow, Frank.”
    Frank grinned a little.
    â€œYou know where’ll that’ll get you.”
    â€œI’m goin’ to get you on the end of a rope, Frank, an’ you know that.”
    â€œBut you won’t get Marve. He’s got two of the fastest horses in Kansas,” Frank said. That pleased Frank. He didn’t care much what happened to himself now. He was a fatalist. When a man’s time came, he went and there wasn’t much he could do about it. He waited patiently for the men to come to carry him to the doctor’s and wondered idly if he would bleed to death before they got him there. It would save a whole lot of trouble if he did.

Chapter Six
    Carson heard horses outside on the street. He walked to the door and looked out. McAllister was in the act of dismounting from his canelo. In his hand he held the lead rope of a chunky-looking dun.
    Carson said: “Where do you think you’re goin’?”
    â€œAfter Marve Little.”
    â€œAre you hell?”
    â€œI am hell.”
    â€œI don’t remember giving an order.”
    â€œThat’s because you never gave it. I’m doin’ you the courtesy of stoppin’ by an’ tellin’ you, ain’t I? An’ me in a hurry too.”
    â€œJust stop to think, Rem. You can’t catch Marve. He’s an hour ahead and he has real classy horseflesh.”
    McAllister grinned maddeningly.
    â€œThey’ll be run belly-deep into the ground while my canelo’s still steppin’ proud. If Marve knew my horse’s kind he’d turn around an’ give hisself up.”
    â€œAll right,” Carson said in disgust. “So you have a fancy horse. Maybe the town needs you here.”
    â€œHire yourself another deputy. I’ll resign till I hit town again. Use your head, man-Frank dies an’ all we have is Evans. We want every man in this outfit we can get. They couldn’t kill one prisoner. You think they’re goin’ to have a chance with two or even three?”
    â€œThey could raid the jail while you’re gone.”
    â€œFort up and hold out till I get back. This won’t take a couple of days.”
    Carson went red in the face.
    â€œYou get in that saddle an’ you’re fired.”
    McAllister said: “You almost sound as if you mean that.”
    â€œI
do
mean it.”
    â€œYou’re just worried that nasty Marve’ll shoot holes in me. You really care, marshal.”
    Carson became incoherent. McAllister mounted and Carson stamped his feet, yelling: “You’re fired.”
    â€œI was never fired by a nicer feller.”
    McAllister turned the