McAllister Rides by Matt Chisholm Read Free Book Online Page B

down as they were. They halted and lifted their hands in greeting. McAllister knew they were scouts for the other party.
    â€œHowdy,” the white man said. The Indian eyed McAllister steadily, his face impassive. He was a handsome man of middle years, dressed in white man’s garb and with a good repeating rifle across the saddlebow.
    â€œHowdy,” McAllister returned. “I didn’t look for so much company way out here.”
    â€œLikewise,” said the man. “Who’re you an’ what’re you doin’ here?”
    The question was blunt and McAllister didn’t know that he liked it.
    â€œRemington McAllister,” he said. “I’m out here for my health.”
    The man smiled.
    â€œTell that to the captain,” he said. “He’ll laugh like hell. He likes a good laugh does the captain.”
    â€œWho is he?”
    â€œNewby.”
    McAllister nodded. He knew Newby who had known McAllister’s father. He was an old hand and tough. He hated Indians and it was his pleasure to hunt them. The only good Indian was a dead one. Newby had seen too many frontier raids to think any different. They were vermin to be exterminated. Ten years on and off he had been leading raids against them. Men said it was his ambition to kill Iron Hand personally.
    â€œKetch up your animals,” the ranger said. “We’ll go see the captain.”
    McAllister knew that he was virtually a prisoner. There was no bucking these two. He went and packed his gear and loaded the mule. When he led the animals out into the open the two men eyed his pack with interest. He mounted and they rode toward the body of horsemen.
    The main body of rangers halted. McAllister rode up to them and dismounted. Newby stepped down and walked toward him. He was much as McAllister remembered him although they hadn’t seen each other in several years. Newby was still tall and gaunt with watchful blue eyes, faded from the sun and deep in his head. His tawny beard was now heavily flecked with gray. He wore a hogleg that looked a yard long at his right hip and carried a light repeating carbine in his hand. His faded gray shirt was black with sweat and his gun-barrel chaps over serge pants were scarred and torn. He looked tired, but McAllister knew this was misleading, he always looked tired.
    â€œHello, Rem,” he said. “Long time no see.”
    â€œHowdy, captain.”
    â€œSeems like I allus has McAllisters in my hair. If’n it ain’tthe old dog-wolf it’s the pup.” Newby scratched his bearded chin.
    McAllister said: “I ain’t in your hair, captain. I’m just riding, minding my own business.
    The other men watched, showing no interest, some jaws moving on chews. McAllister ran his eyes over them and reckoned he had never seen a tougher crew. He didn’t doubt that any Indian they spotted would be shot on sight.
    â€œDo tell,” Newby said. “A McAllister that minds his own business. That’s something new.”
    He moved his chew-plug to the other cheek and spat.
    â€œWhat do you want to know?”
    Newby cocked his head and squinted one eye.
    â€œGo ahead, son,” he said, “tell the old man what you’re doin’here an’ no foolin’.”
    Men started to dismount and stretch their legs. They could see their commander was in no hurry.
    â€œI’m locating a captive.”
    â€œOn your lonesome?”
    â€œYep.”
    â€œYou’re as crazy as your old man.”
    â€œAin’t I?”
    â€œWho’s the captive?”
    â€œMrs. Bourn.”
    â€œI heard about her. One reason why we’re here. That an’ the kid ’at got hisself killed.” The captain thought a little. “You don’t stand a snowball’s chance in hell. You know that?”
    â€œReckon.”
    â€œTell you what, son. You camp with us tonight. We’ll talk a mite.”
    The captain turned to his