Kill McAllister by Matt Chisholm Page A

moving mass was about one-third of the way along a shallow valley on the brinks of which was enough cover for an ambush in the form of rocks and brush. Forster was elated. He laughed from pure joy. At last his luck had turned. It would be a push-over.
    â€œBring the men up fast, Dice,” he said. “I’ll stay here.”
    Grotten turned his mount and raced back the way he had come. Some of Forster’s excitement had touched him. He reached the men and urged them to a faster pace. They galloped up to Forster who at once began pointing to where he wanted the men to ride.The cattlemen would be riding into a trap from which there would be no escape.
    â€œAnd remember this, boys,” he said. “However well we do this, it won’t amount to a thing if any of those men get out of this alive. I want them all dead.”
    They nodded. This was something they understood. Tension touched them, the tension that comes to all men before violent action. It wasn’t fear, for they knew they had little to fear from the men in the valley below. It was the knowledge that within a short space of time they would be executioners of their fellow men.
    â€œAll right, boys,” Forster told them. “Get into position. And be sure nobody down there spots you before we get set. I’ll fire the first shot and I don’t want a peep out of anybody before I do. Is that understood?”
    That was understood. They turned their horses and rode away. Only Grotten stayed with his chief.
    â€œDice,” Forster said, “you get over to the west there and keep an eye on things. Don’t forget. Not a man must get away alive or we’re finished.”
    Grotten lifted a hand and rode away. Forster turned and rode along the eastern rim of the valley out of sight of the men below. He found cover about halfway along the valley and dismounted to tie his horse. He found that his heart was racing with excitement and that his hands were wet with sweat. Taking his rifle from the saddleboot, he crawled into the brush and looked over the valley below. The herd was about half past him, a good rifle shot away. He counted the hands and saw there was no more than seven of them. He grinned. Some must have got killed in the stampede back there. The outfit was certainly desperately short on men. He looked for the man who might be bossing the outfit. Only one man rode off to one side and that, strangely enough, was a Negro, as far as he could see at this distance. Forster levered a round into the breech of his rifle and decided that he would kill this man first. He snugged the butt of the weapon into his shoulder and took careful aim.

Chapter 10
    McAllister reckoned that he was in the Indian Nations, but he couldn’t be too sure. He wasn’t making good time and he was worried. The picture of Sam and the boys being ambushed was clear in his mind and all the time he rode he could see them being cut down and the cows run off. Physically, he wasn’t too good. Riding was hell and it didn’t seem to get any better as he went on. Every now and then he was forced to stop and rest from utter weakness. He despised himself for his inability to hit a good pace on the canelo. Just because of him some good men might be meeting their ends.
    It was afternoon when he came on the cabin. It was a simple log affair, erected in rough country, timber around and water near. There was a truck garden and a small pen with a couple of crowbait ponies in it. Several dirty and half-naked Indian children played around the door and a slatternly woman appeared when he rode up. She didn’t speak English and she didn’t seem to understand his sign language when he tried it on her. He would have ridden on, but a man appeared in ragged whiteman’s garb. He carried a single-shot rifle in his hands and seemed fairly friendly. He was, he told McAllister, an Osage. He had scouted against the Cheyenne in earlier years and spoke a little of