Tough to Kill by Matt Chisholm Page A

flat.
    Foley got to his feet. His face was covered in sweat and dirt. He looked at McAllister as if Apache torture would have been too good for him. He looked also as if he were choking.
    â€œChrist!” he said through his teeth. “McAllister luck.”
    McAllister said: “I ought to kill you for what you pulled, Foley. I seem to be takin’ an awful lot from you lately.”
    â€œShoot an’ be damned,” Foley said softly. “I’ve taken more from you than I can stomach.”
    McAllister said: “A low-down bastard like you don’t have no right to have guts too.”
    A voice to McAllister’s right said: “Drop the iron, Mack, or I drop you.”
    McAllister turned his head and saw the other man standing not a dozen paces off with a gun in his hand. He felt suddenly depressed. Chasing women must have taken the smartness out of him. When he had Foley in his sights, he had clean forgotten the other man.
    â€œDrop me,” he said, “an’ I’ll drop Foley.”
    It was a bluff. He knew it and the man with the gun knew it.
    He said: “Not with a bullet through your head.”
    â€œAll right,” McAllister said. “It’s your play.” He dropped the Remington and felt a further depression hit him because he had dropped a fine clean gun into the dust.
    Foley gave a lopside smile.
    â€œI think I owe you one, Rem,” he said. He walked up to McAllister drew back his fist and let it go. McAllister moved his head to one side, the fist passed close by his face and he butted Foley right on the nose. The man’s face was alreadybloody from the bullet from McAllister’s gun that had grazed his cheek. To this was now added blood from his nose. His eyes watered and he stared at McAllister unbelievingly.
    The man with the gun said: “Stay still or I’ll drop you.”
    McAllister said: “Try again, Foley, you ain’t doin’ so good. Maybe you ought to hog-tie me before you do it.”
    Foley stooped and picked up McAllister’s gun. His own lay several yards away in the grass. He made a backhanded swipe at McAllister with the barrel and brought the foresight across his face. The big man cursed and fell back a pace. Foley grinned.
    â€œHow’d you like that, Rem?” he asked. He turned to the other man. “Get your rope, Ransome.”
    The other man went to his fallen horse and took the rope from the saddle.
    Foley said: “There’s timber a-plenty up yonder for hangin’ a man.”
    McAllister gave him a close look and saw that he meant it. Like master like man. Markham was a hanging man and so was his straw-boss. They had pulled in the same harness for years.
    McAllister said, without thinking that he could do himself any good: “There’s law in this country now, Foley. You’d never get away with it.”
    Foley grinned unpleasantly and said. “For me, the old ways are the best ways. In the old days we hung coyotes like you that molested women.”
    Ransome flicked his rope and the noose fell over McAllister’s head and tightened around his neck. The first real flutter of fear went through him. The two men were looking at him with savage pleasure.
    Foley jerked his head toward the shelf and Ransome pulled on the rope, forcing McAllister to walk forward. A cool feminine voice spoke.
    â€œDrop that gun, Foley.”
    They all stopped and turned their heads. McAllister was no less surprised than the other two. Carlotta Markham stepped out of the cover of some brush with a small lady’s pistol held steadily in her right hand. As she spoke, she cocked it. Never had a sound seemed more like pure poetry in McAllister’s ears. Never had the sight of a woman been morewelcome. She was flushed and her eyes were bright and she looked as resolute as a man.
    When Foley got over the initial shock, he said: “Quit foolin’, Miss Charlie, an’ put that gun