Kill McAllister by Matt Chisholm Read Free Book Online Page A

the gloom.
    There were several men present. In fact, the place seemed full of men. His eyes settled on a man as tall as himself. The last time he had seen him, the man had been bearded and now he was clean-shaven, but he knew he would have recognised him twenty years from now in disguise. This was the man who had ridden into the trail camp before the herd had been spooked and Boss was killed.
    McAllister said: “So I finally caught up with you.”
    When the man spoke, he no longer attempted to disguise his cultured voice.
    â€œI think,” he said, “it’s I who have caught up with you.”
    â€œDoes it matter?” McAllister asked. “We’re here, face-to-face.”
    The man showed his large white teeth.
    â€œWhat matters,” the man said, “is that you’re out-numbered and have no gun, that we out-number you and all have guns. In fact, you could be mutton in a second flat.”
    â€œYou sure need some help when you do your dirty work,” McAllister remarked.
    â€œStrength is everything,” the man said, “and a man is a fool if he has it and doesn’t use it.”
    â€œWhat do you aim to do with your strength?” McAllister asked politely.
    â€œYou came here to kill me,” the man said. “In return I’m going to maim you. You’ll be out of commission for a good while. That suits my purpose.”
    â€œWhy not kill me?”
    â€œIn the good Malloy’s town? You must think me a fool.”
    McAllister shrugged.
    â€œYou’d best get on with it,” he said.
    Taking his time, Forster lit a cigar. He tossed aside the match and nodded to Grotten. That worthy stepped forward behind McAllister and struck him with his clenched fist in the neck. Or that was what he intended, but it seemed that McAllister either heard him coming or anticipated the move, because he stepped to one side, caught Grotten’s wrist as his giant fist grazed his neck and hurled him bodily across the shack. Grotten collided violently with his chief and bore him to the floor with a crash. Before anybody there could recover themselves enough to get into action, McAllister whirled and hurled himself at Sholto and Cowdrey who stood just inside the door. He smashed them both back against the door, crashed their heads together, hurled them aside and darted for the latch. But he did not move fast enough. Somebody caught him by the collar and dragged him back into the room, a fist was driven into his face, he stumbled around and a boot caught him in the thigh. Men hurled themselves on him, driving fists into his ribs and kicking his legs from under him.
    He hit the floor, rolled, caught a booted foot and reared to his feet with the foot in both hands. A man landed with a crash that brought the table down as worthless matchwood. McAllister leapt across the fallen man like an insane fury, came up against another, drove a fist into a belly and snapped a right up into the face above. The bone of the nose cracked like a pistol shot. A man went down on hands and knees, weeping and howling.
    McAllister was torn from his feet, he knew not how, hit the floor and was immediately kicked in the ribs. He was dimly aware that booted feet tramped all around him and that several men were bellowing instructions. He knew there was no hope for him, but the will to survive and to refuse defeat when he stared it in the face was strong in him. He tried rolling again, but he rolled into more boots. He was composed of a kind of numbed pain. His ribs felt as if they had been caved in and his head as if it had been shattered. Blindly he tried to get to his feet, trying to see the door, but seeing nothing but the brutal faces of the men around him.
    He threw himself forward and something hard struck him across the face, dazing him and knocking him backward. He heard himself hit the floor, but was incapable of feeling more pain. Again he regained his feet, stood swaying there, vaguely