Free Gunsmoke for McAllister by Matt Chisholm Page B

escort through the Indian country.
    A hand touched his arm.
    It was Sam.
    Watching the guards, Sam said in a whisper, scarcely moving his lips: ‘This is our chance. Rawley’s goin’. Tonight.’
    McAllister couldn’t hide his astonishment. He saw himself trying to escape with a man almost too weak to stand.
    â€˜You mean it, Sam? You think –?’
    â€˜Watch me. Take your lead from me.’
    The guards were getting them on their feet; Rawley was cantering across the basin with his cohorts. The prisoners shuffled clanking their chains into the tunnel and then they were at their painful toil again, clearing the rubble from the explosions. As the trucks were rolled out the mills started up, crashing out their message of riches to the hills.
    The minutes marched slowly into hours; they seemed to toil through an eternity of time in the dim lamplight of the mine, sweating, fighting the terrible weariness of their pain-wracked bodies, lashed or kicked if they rested too long. McAllister watched Sam when he was able, trying to assess his friend’s strength and could only come to the opinion that the man was so weak that he wouldn’t have got a mile if he had managed to escape. Sam must have been unaware of this – he had sounded so confident when he had spoken about getting away.
    There came a time when the guards gave half the men a rest while the remainder worked on. Of the three guards, one was escorting a small party with a tip-truck outside. One was watching the resting men, while the third kept his eyes on the men shovelling the ore into an empty truck.
    Sam said softly: ‘Now’s the time.’
    McAllister glanced at him in alarm. He couldn’t mean it. Sam couldn’t expect to jump an armed guard in his weak state. But he took a close look at Sam’s face in the lamplight and he saw an iron determination there that he hadn’t seen before. Maybe … he didn’t know. But what he did know was that if Sam was going to make a try, he, McAllister, would have to go along with him.
    Sam said: ‘The other boys know what to do. Follow my lead.’
    So Sam had set this up. McAllister felt his aching muscles brace. The guard nearest him was lighting a smoke. Sam picked up a piece of ore, drew a deep breath and threw it with all his strength. Even as he threw, McAllister had launched himself forward. He heard the ore strike the man in the face. A fraction of a second later, his right shoulder crashed into the man’s legs and the fellow hit the side of the mine as if he had been pole-axed. As he picked himself up from the ground, McAllister saw Sam scoop up the rifle. He whirled. The other guard was floundering on the ground with a couple of prisoners striking him with their shovels.
    McAllister jumped forward and snatched up this man’s rifle. A Mexican grabbed his revolver. McAllister stuffed his pockets with ammunition from the fallen guard and then inspected the two fallen men closely. The man who had been hit with the shovels was dead; the man whom Sam had felled was still breathing. He tore this fellow’s shirt to shreds, bound his wrists and stuffed some cloth into his mouth. Then, with his bandanna, he tightly bound the man’s feet after he had removed the boots. They looked about his size. With a peggin string he tied them together and slung them around his neck.
    â€˜Start work, boys,’ Sam said.
    They obeyed him without a word. Sam took off the dead man’s boots. McAllister found that he was shaking violently.
    He heard a sound: the rumbling of iron wheels on rail. The voice of the returning guard boomed down the tunnel. Understanding what needed to be done, he and Sam took up their positions on either side of the mouth of the tunnel. The other prisoners did not give them a glance.
    The others seemed to take an age returning. McAllister hoped to God that they could down this third guard without a shot being fired. One shot and