Gunsmoke for McAllister by Matt Chisholm Read Free Book Online Page A

be conveying his prisoners from jail in town to work the gold in these hills. But that was what it looked like.
    He knew then that Sam could be down there.
    Slow rage burned in him.
    He stayed where he was, watching. A man came out of the house with the chimney and with him, as he saw from the flutter of the skirt, was a woman. He reached into his pocket for his glasses and put them on the pair.
    The man was the sheriff, the girl was the one who had been in the cage with the other prisoners. As he watched, the man put an arm around her and she laid her dark head on his shoulder. He swung the glasses and put them on the men with the tip-truck. Yes, one of them was the cowhand, Chalk White. One of the others was a Mexican he had seen in the cage.
    He ran the glasses over every man there, but he couldn’t see Sam. But he’d bet his last dollar that his friend was somewhere down there. He had to be.
    He put the glasses on the sheriff again.
    I don’t even know the so-and-so’s name
, he thought curiously. And he wondered how he was going to check if Sam was down there. There was always the possibility of the mine shaft. Sam might be down there on the face with pick and shovel.
    He put the glasses away and backed out of there, working his way back to his horse, thinking, reckoning that he must hide out for the rest of the day and get down there into the basin under cover of dark. He put his foot into the stirrup-iron and went to heave himself into the saddle.
    A voice said: ‘Hold it.’
    He froze.
    There came the soft shuffle of moccasins in the dust and a man came up close to him. He glanced back over his shoulder and saw the dark and lank hair on either side of it, the sweat band around the forehead. Black reptiles eyes stared into his. He reckoned the man was a halfbreed Apache.
    In the next instant his right leg was kicked from under him and he measured his length in the dust. The man’s hard toe struck him in the side of the head. McAllister kept his senses, but he went still, feigning unconsciousness. He felt the man’s hand lift the Remington from its sheath.
    Dazed, but enraged, McAllister opened his eyes slightly and saw that the man was stuffing the Remington away in his belt. For a second the man’s attention was off him. He twisted as fast as he could, gripped the man with hands of iron around each ankle and heaved. The fellow pitched backward and hit the ground on his shoulders. McAllister launched himself through the air, landing both knees in the man’s belly. The stench of unwashed flesh filled his nostrils. The man squirmed beneath him. McAllister hit him full in the face with his clenched fist. For a moment, the man went limp, then suddenly exploded into violence.
    McAllister was thrown clear of him, rolled and came to his feet. The man had dropped his gun and now made a dive for it. McAllister kicked at the extended wrist and the weapon spun harmlessly away as he got a grip on it. The big man charged, seeing the man’s hand snap down on the butt of the Remington. The full weight of McAllister’s charging body hit the man as the weapon came free and the man went down again. He somersaulted and came up on his feet in one movement, but McAllister was still moving. As the gun came up in line with his body, his right hand batted it aside and his left swung across to a punch that lifted the man from his feet. As he did so, the gun went off and the shot echoed through the hills.
    McAllister cursed foully and efficiently. That should bring the whole nest of villains down on him.
    He moved fast.
    Picking up the fallen Remington, he thrust it into the holster at his hip. Next he whipped the sweat rag off the head of the unconscious man and quickly bound his hands. That done, he tore off the belt and fastened his ankles. Then he ripped the shirt and stuffed a large quantity of it into the man’s mouth. He dragged him into the rocks and ran to the canelo. Vaulting into the