Read Online Blood on Mcallister by Matt Chisholm - Free Book Online Page A

outside,
he thought.
Four of ‘em. Three’ll hold me while Mr. Brenell has his fun. Like hell.
    The funny thing was, Brenell had to be in one piece to fight Billy Gage. Too bad.
    Outside, he leaned against the upright of the sidewalk with which the saloon was graced. Brenell came through the doors, stood looking at him for a moment, puffing on his smoke. Then he stepped forward to allow the others to come out. He threw his smoke into the dust.
    â€˜I don’t like your attitude, drifter,’ he said.
    McAllister said: ‘I don’t like your face, the way you wear your clothes, I don’t like your tied-down gun, I don’t like the way you think you own the world, I don’t like you having men to back you when you bully your way around. There ain’t nothin’ I like about you. I reckon you an’ your old man are just bags of wind. I aim to bust you.’
    The light of battle came into the wild eyes.
    â€˜You think I couldn’t take you?’ Brenell asked.
    â€˜You couldn’t take a candy from a kid.’
    The hand snapped down to the gun-butt. McAllister hadn’t reckoned on that. He knew the boy was a bully; he hadn’t reckoned him on being a killer. His own attitudechanged at once. He was suddenly cold, his mind clicking like a machine, calculating, placing each man, thinking of his next move. It all happened in the batting of an eye.
    A grin flicked across Brenell’s face. It was a grin of pure rage.
    â€˜I’m goin’ to teach you,’ he said and he could scarcely get the words out. ‘I’m goin’ to teach you an’ you’re goin’ to stay teached.’
    Old Chad McAllister had once said, during the few years of McAllister’s education: ‘Son, if a feller’s aimin’ to get hit, oblige him fast afore he hits you.’
    As usual, the old man was right.
    McAllister hit Brenell.
    He hit him in the belly with all the strength in him just above the buckle. Brenell jack-knifed. As one of the men jumped forward, McAllister brought over his left, landed his knuckles on the side of Brenell’s head and drove him into this man. They fell through the door of the saloon and landed in a heap.
    The two other men, stunned for a second by the abrupt violence of this action, now moved. One of them aimed a kick at McAllister. The boot toe caught him as he rammed forward and it landed on the wound that had been dealt him by Harry Shultz. In his imagination he saw the wound burst open and it was like a moment of truth. He knew he was a damned fool for doing this. Why couldn’t he back down and beat a retreat like other men?
    The kick sent him reeling against the wall of the saloon and there the fourth man caught him, pounding a fist into his ribs and chopping down with the other fist in the back of McAllister’s head. The big man came down to one knee, dazed and confused. The other man came close and joined the other. They took turns hitting him like two hammermen driving in a drill.
    He came to his feet with his head down, got it into one man’s belly and bore him backward. The man was breathless from the hard contact with McAllister’s head; landing on his back with McAllister’s weight on top of him nearly knocked him out. He rolled away from under and tried to get to his feet, but McAllister hurled himself forward in a flying tackle and put him back in the dust again.
    The other man bounded from the sidewalk and landed on McAllister’s back. Or that what his intention. McAllister heard him coming and sidestepped in time. The man landed on his face in the dust, McAllister dropped on the small of his back with both knees. The man screamed.
    McAllister turned.
    Clem Brenell and Griff came out of the saloon. In the lamplight, they both looked like hell.
    Brenell was howling: ‘I’m goin’ to kill him, kill him, kill him kill him kill him.’
    Griff drew his gun.
    McAllister stopped and went