Free McAllister Justice by Matt Chisholm Page A

learn?”
    â€œMcAllister’s looking for a man with his thumb missing and his face scarred. My woman’s intuition tells me that’s why he came to Malcolm.”
    â€œFennimore?”
    â€œNo. He’s seen Fennimore.”
    â€œIf it’s not Fennimore, there’s only one man it can be.”
    She looked puzzled and would have asked a question, but the big man said quickly: “Get back to your post, honey. Don’t miss anything.”
    She came close to him and there was a simmering anger inher tone when she spoke. “Do you use all your women like this?”
    He touched her cheek with his finger-tips and said half-tenderly: “No, you’re the only one. I can trust you.”
    He kissed her, unlocked the door, saw the corridor was empty and stood aside for her. He showed irritation when she did not go at once, but said: “When are you going to finish up here?”
    â€œLet the fortune finders get to the main gold hills, I’ll clean up, then we can live in style. You’ll be the envy of every lady in the land.”
    â€œJust for the moment,” she said bitterly, “you mean that.”
    He grinned. She stepped past him and hurried down the corridor to the side door. He waited for it to close behind her before he strode the half-dozen paces to another door and tapped on it.
    Footsteps sounded and a voice asked: “Who is this?”
    â€œPaston.”
    A bolt was withdrawn, the door was opened suddenly and Paston stared into the forty-five caliber muzzle of a Colt.
    â€œPut that damned gun up,” Paston ordered and went in.
    The man said: “My old grandpappy always said ‘Never open a door without a gun in your hand and you won’t go far wrong’.”
    â€œOne day your grandpappy’ll lose his grandson through him’ doin’ that.”
    The room was lighted dimly by one lamp turned low. The place was sparsely furnished and mostly filled by two cot beds. On one of these a man lay with a bloody arm in a sling. The man with the gun re-locked the door and Paston asked: “Where’s Dix?”
    The man on the bed said: “Up at the creek cabin.”
    â€œWhy there?”
    â€œYou said for him not to come into town.”
    Paston nodded and told the man with the gun to open the door. The man obeyed and he went down the corridor and out the side door. At the bottom of the steps he turned left and walked rapidly down the alleyway to a barn behind the saloon. Here he saddled his sorrel horse, mounted and rode out oftown through the backlots, picking his way through the trash thrown there. He rode steadily north-west until he came within sound of the creek, then he turned and angled west till he hit a bunch of cottonwoods. The eeriness of the scene impressed him. The wind was lifted and shifting black clouds across a watery moon. It sang morosely through the foliage. He came to a gully and dismounted to lead his horse across it, wading through a foot of water at the bottom and scrambling awkwardly up the further side. By the time he remounted and lifted the sorrel to a trot, he was sweating.
    He located the cabin by a chink of light and halted his animal. Upon his shrill whistle, the chink of light disappeared. An answering whistle came after a pause of a couple of minutes and he heeled the animal forward at a walk. As he sighted the dark shape of the small dwelling, a voice called out of the murk: “Hold it there.”
    The sorrel stopped and Paston called: “It’s Paston.”
    â€œAnybody with you?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œCome ahead.”
    Paston dismounted and led the animal forward. A man stepped forward and took the line from his hand saying: “I’ll put up the nag. Go on in.”
    He felt his way up the rickety steps onto the stoop and pushed open the door. The lamp was low and he could see little. He reached for it and turned it up. A man was standing with his back to the further