McAllister said: ‘What am I supposed to do when a man comes at me with a gun? Kiss him?’ McAllister knew talking wouldn’t do him any good. It didn’t. The sheriff hit him in the throat with the edge of his hand. McAllister staggered back, choking. Instinctively, he started toward the man, but Carlos hit him with the club and knocked him across the room.
The sheriff said: ‘Get up and walk through that door.’
McAllister got to his feet, his head feeling as if it had been kicked by a Kentucky mule. The room seemed to whirl around him and his legs felt as if they wanted to fold under him. Carlos opened the door and gestured to him. He walked through the doorway, went down three stone steps and found himself in a large room built of adobe, so large that it could have been called a hall. In the centre of this was a big cage of iron bars. Four sides and a roof, all of iron bars. The light was dim in there, but he could make out some half-dozen figures crouched in the cage. Keys rattled, the sheriff passed him and opened a grated door in the cage. He gestured and McAllister stepped forward. When he stood on the threshold of the cage, Carlos hit him in the back of the neck with the club and he pitched forward. Dimly, he heard the door clang to behind him. Footsteps sounded, died away and a door closed. He heard himself groan and rolled over.
A face looked down at him. A Mexican face.
In Spanish he heard: ‘He is hurt.’
Another voice said: ‘What do you expect after Carlos has dealt with him?’
Soft hands touched him.
‘Pobrecito.’ That was a woman’s voice. A woman in here? He tried to sit up and failed. He opened his eyes and saw her – a young woman of his own age, dark hair falling about her face, shadowing her dark liquid eyes. ‘They have nearly killed him.’ Water trickled into his mouth. He drank thirstily. When at last he sat up he said: ‘Thanks’ and looked around him at them as they stood and knelt around him. Most of them were Mexicans, but one was an Anglo, a fellow a few years older than himself who had the looks of a cattleman.
McAllister said: ‘Howdy, folks. Name’s Rem McAllister.’
The cowhand said: ‘I heard of you. I’m Chalk White. What you here for, if a man can ask?’
McAllister said: ‘The sheriff tells me a man who jumped me an’ I killed was his deputy.’
‘Charlie Burrows?’ White asked and McAllister nodded. The cowhand whistled. A buzz of talk came from the Mexicans. They were stunned and impressed by die information.
McAllister looked at the girl. He reckoned being in jail couldn’t be all that bad with a lovely thing like her around. She smiled at him and for a moment he forgot Carlos’ club. She was dressed in a white blouse and a wide Mexican skirt of red worked handsomely with some sort of stitching around the hem. She looked good enough to eat.
The rest, he noticed, were all young men, most of them well-built. Maybe oldsters didn’t commit crimes in Euly. They introduced themselves to him politely, telling their names and their occupations. He noticed another thing now – most of them came from out of town. White was an itinerant rider looking for work. One of the Mexicans said he was there for pulling a knife on a deputy, another for being drunk, but the rest didn’t seem to know what they were there for. They put the fact of their arrest down to the incomprehensible whim of the Americanos. That meant gringo, but they were too polite to say so in front of McAllister and White.
‘Anybody tried getting outa here?’ McAllister asked.
White said: ‘Nobody could get through these bars. We tried diggin’ in the floor with our hands, but the bars go deep.’
‘In that case,’ McAllister said, ‘there ain’t nothin’ for us to do but sleep and wait for somethin’ to turn up.’
Without a word, he lay down on the ground, put his hat under his head, closed his eyes and apparently fell straight into a deep and untroubled sleep.
* * *
He woke to the sound of clanking chains.
He sat up and put his hat on. A man was bawling at the top of his voice: ‘Come on, out of it, you lousy gringoes. Off your butts.’ Somebody ran a stick along the bars of the cage and made a deafening racket. The Mexicans were all on their feet, standing mutely, staring at the burly men standing outside the cage in the lamplight. McAllister got to his feet and looked over the heads of the smaller Mexicans.
The sheriff stood impassively in the lamplight. Carlos stood by with a shotgun in his hands. The shouting came from a big man with a fair beard with a law badge gleaming on his vest. He was aged about thirty and was built big as a house. In his hands he held a club. There was the same stamp on him as there had been on Charlie Burrows. The face was brutal, the eyes savage. The man was of limited intelligence and he was enjoying his power. Such men always triggered off rage in McAllister.
The grille door of the cage swung open and the first Mexican was ordered out. As soon as he was out, the door was clanged to again. McAllister watched interested, wondering why this visit should be made at night. The big fair man picked up something that clinked from the floor. The Mexican was ordered to stand still with his hands and legs wide. The next moment, his ankles were chained. Then his wrists. This puzzled McAllister. Sure, it wasn’t uncommon for men to be chained in Western jails, but it was usually reserved for dangerous criminals or for when men were being taken on a journey.
Another man was brought out of the cage and chained to the first. The big fair man sweated and swore, the sheriff looked on unemotionally. Just once he spoke, ‘Hurry it up, Rich – we don’t have all night.’ Chalk White was taken out. He objected and tried to make a fight of it, but he was clubbed into subjection by the massive Rich and in a moment was as securely in chains as the others, though prone on the ground. The prisoners were taken out till there was only the girl and McAllister left.
The door was opened.
‘You McAllister,’ the sheriff said. ‘Come on out.’
McAllister stepped forward. The sheriff was directly to his left, the prisoners were immediately in front of him with Carlos and the shotgun on the other side of them. The lamp hung above the prisoners. Rich was to his right with the club. McAllister knew that he could be dead in the next ten seconds.
‘Stand here,’ Rich said. ‘Legs apart.’
McAllister walked forward and obediently stood with his legs apart. Rich tucked the club under his left arm and knelt down on one knee.
Now.
McAllister hit him with his balled fist just behind the left ear. Rich fell against the bars with a crash. McAllister moved fast, springing at the lamp and throwing his whole weight through the bunched prisoners, ripping the lamp from its hook and smashing it down on the sheriff who was in the act of drawing his gun. The sheriff yelled in rage and alarm, the light went out and in the general panic and excitement, Carlos fired one barrel of the shotgun. McAllister didn’t stop, but turned toward the door leading to the office. He stumbled over somebody on the floor. It could have been a prisoner or the bearded deputy. Whoever it was got his belly trodden on. McAllister stumbled against the bars of the cage, heaved himself upright and ran as fast as he knew how. The shotgun went off again. Something stung McAllister’s back and he knew that some of the slugs had hit him. He kept on going. Wrenching the door open, he slammed it behind him, saw there was a bar and dropped it into place.
There was a single lamp burning in the office. Quickly his eyes searched the room. A gun lay on the desk. He jumped for it and found that it was his own. Scooping it up, he headed for the street. Somebody hurled themselves against the door to the cell, it shook badly, but the bar didn’t give. McAllister got the door to the street open.
A man stood there, eyes wide.
‘I – ’ he said and McAllister’s shoulder took him in the chest, bowling him from his feet.
A horse stood tied at the hitching rail. The canelo! He had some real luck after all. Ripping the line free of the rail, he vaulted into the saddle and raked home the spurs. The horse whirled, got its feet under it and ran. A gun was fired from the window of the jail bui
lding and a shot whistled past him. He bunched down over the horse’s neck and yelled it on. The animal didn’t need any second bidding. It took him out of town fast and he didn’t draw rein till he was out on the flats and he could see the moon riding high in a clear sky over the dark shoulders of the mountains. Then he stopped and listened.
He heard nothing. He sent the canelo on again, let it run at a more sober pace for a mile or more then stopped again to listen. Now he could hear the pursuit, but at that distance he couldn’t make out how many horses were involved. He thought it might be a good idea to stay where he was and bank on them going past him, but he thought he had left too clear a trail in the moonlight to risk that, so he quartered east, searching for the river and fifteen minutes later found it. He rode down into the shallows and allowed the canelo a little water, for the animal had stood drink-less for many hot hours outside the sheriff’s office. He scooped some handfuls of water into his own mouth and turned north, keeping to the shallows of the west side of the stream and trotting his horse at a brisk pace. He went about a quarter mile this way, turned into the stream and started across. In a moment, he was in swimming depth. The canelo swam strongly, breasting the current and soon touched bottom. McAllister didn’t allow it to wade ashore, but once more kept it to the shallows until he found what he was looking for. This was a long gravel beach. Now he left the water and swung down from the saddle. This was something that would have to be done carefully. He led the horse for about twenty yards, found rock and moved across it, leading the horse with supreme caution to see that it left no marks in the damp sand between the rocks. When the rock petered out, he mounted and rode on north-east, angling toward the hills.
In his head he carried a map of the country as drawn for him by Sam Spur and he knew that he was headed roughly in the direction of Sam’s place. Maybe this didn’t seem wise, but he reckoned he would play hell with the sign-readers behind before he was finished. Any road, he was out of supplies and he needed to eat as much as any man. More.
By midnight, he left the poor grassland through which he had been riding and came onto desert. Here the giant cactus reared their ghostly heads in the moonlight. A dozen men could have stood among them unperceived. Luck again was with him and within the hour he hit the malpais that he knew was ahead of him somewhere. He smiled to himself. It would take them a day or more to find where he had left the rock country behind him. As he approached it, lying like a dark flat mass across his line of advance, he angled suddenly right and moved a couple of hundred yards at a shallow angle to the rock. Dismounting, he led the horse onto the rock and left it ground-hitched, praying that it would stand. Taking his blanket from the rear of his saddle, he walked back along his tracks, then, when he reached the spot where he had angled off from his line of travel, he walked backward working over his sign with the blanket. He took his time and did a good job, though he knew an Indian could have followed him with no trouble. However, he thought the light wind that was picking up from the north would add the finishing touches to his work.
When he reached rock, he rolled the blanket, fastened it to the saddle and remounted. Now he angled north again, riding the horse carefully on the treacherous stone, every now and then dismounting to lead it over a particularly bad piece.
Dawn found him at the northern extremity of the malpais. Here a mass of stone reared its jagged head to the clear blue sky. He ground-hitched the canelo and climbed to the peak with his glasses in his hand, giving the country a careful inspection, taking his time. Dust stirred to the south, but after a long and careful look, he decided it was most likely broomtails. Half-satisfied, he climbed down and mounted the canelo.
Man and beast were tired now and he hoped that soon he would come on water.
There was a stretch of sand ahead of them now, on the further side of which was a jumble of rocks. This he crossed on horseback. Then he left the horse again and patiently wiped out his sign. That done, he remounted and rode across the rock into the foothills. The sun was mounting the heavens fast and it was growing hot. The sweat was starting to run down his big body.
The foothills hereabouts were a wild jumble of boulders, little brush and no trees. They started to climb, came through scattered brush and timber and then, suddenly, the canelo got busy with his ears.
McAllister halted, at once wary and distrustful. But the horse wanted to go forward and he let it. The canelo took him to water unerringly, whinnying with pleasure. It was an ojo, literally an eye of water among the rocks thrusting itself crystal pure up through a bed of gravel. Horse and man drank thankfully together. McAllister drank all he could hold, but he didn’t allow the horse the dangerous luxury. He batted the reluctant animal’s head away and filled his canteen. Mounting, he went on.
The country grew more pleasant as they climbed, the air was cooler and here and there was grass. McAllister halted, off-saddled and gave the canelo an hour on the grass. He stretched his legs, knowing that he needed sleep, but not allowing it to himself. It was while he was strolling that he found the sign. He came on a steep narrow trail and it was marked with fresh horse-droppings. He saw at once that several animals had passed that way and at first thought he might have come on the tracks of some mustangs, but on climbing a little he found a spot where they had halted. Here were the tracks of men wearing moccasins. The horse sign was a jumble of marks, but he thought that more than a half-dozen riders had passed that way no more than a couple of hours ago.
He admitted to himself that he felt alarmed. It would have been foolish to feel anything different. He knew that he was on the edge of Gato’s country and that the chances were that the Indians had belonged to his band. These most likely were the Indians who were mentioned in Sam Spur’s letter.
Gato was a veteran Apache of unknown origin. Some tales had it that he was a Mescalero broken away from his people; others that he was a Chiricahua who had gone bronco and gathered around him outcasts from other tribes. It didn’t matter which was true. All that mattered was that Gato came and went as he wished between the United States and Mexico, taking what he took a fancy to, whether it was cattle, sheep or women and children. For years now he had defied the efforts of the army to bring him to subjection and each year of his freedom had seen his strength increase. He had raided deep into Mexico and had killed men on the outskirts of Tucson itself. No ranch was safe from him and many men had left their range to escape his ferocity. He was the terror of all but the strongest parties of gold and silver miners in the hills and many a lone prospector had lost his life under an Apache blade.
So when McAllister thought of Gato, he thought of cut throats, of being emasculated and being burned upside down over a slow fire. The man had a macabre sense of humor and he didn’t like white men. After he had passed that way, white men had been found with their testicles in their mouths and their eyes gouged out. To fall into Gato’s hands was something one wouldn’t wish on one’s worst enemy.
The surprising fact about the renegade chief was that although he was so widely feared he had very few warriors at his command. It was said by the few men who had actually set eyes on the band that there were more women and children in it than fighting men.
McAllister made his way back to his horse, saddled up and moved out. He at once left the trail followed by the Indians, knowing that they would be watching their back-trail and feeling that he was too young to die yet. He drifted north-east, doubly watchful now, his rifle across his saddlebow.
A short while after, he was surprised to see smoke. He made his way toward it and came to a pleasant spot – green sward of grass cut by the clear waters of a stream, shaded by quaking aspens, a veritable little paradise. And there, nestling among the green, was a small cabin.
He halted when he saw the sign in the grass that told him that horses had been this way recently. He followed the sign to the water’s edge and saw that the ponies were unshod. Which could mean that the Indians he had nearly come on earlier had been this way. He inspected the cabin. There w
as no sign of Indians now, but that didn’t mean they weren’t somewhere around.
As he watched, a man walked out of the cabin, spotted him and raised a hand in salute. Wary and sharp-eyed, McAllister rode slowly toward him.
The man was in his early fifties, beard shot with gray, face and body honed down to muscle and bone. His gaze was untroubled and direct. He was unarmed.
McAllister halted the canelo and the man’s eyes went admiringly to the animal.
‘Howdy,’ he said.
‘Howdy,’ McAllister said, ‘name’s Rem McAllister.’
‘Pete Jenkins, ’light.’
McAllister said: ‘You had visitors a while back. They gone?’
The man smiled: ‘You don’t miss much. Sure, they went and they won’t be back for a while.’
McAllister stepped down and they shook.
‘You et?’ Jenkins asked.
‘No.’
‘Come on in.’
McAllister said: ‘I’ll tend to my horse an’ be right in.’ He unsaddled the canelo and let it roll. When he went inside the cabin, the horse was contentedly cropping the grass.
The smell of the frying steak hit him as soon as he entered and it made the juices of his stomach go crazy. The cabin was sparsely furnished – a bunk, a table, two chairs, a stove and not much else except for some rough shelves and some hooks in the wall.
Jenkins was at the stove, busy with the steaks.
McAllister asked the question uppermost in his mind.
‘Ain’t you afraid of Indians?’
The man turned to him with a little smile.
‘I’d be crazy to say I wasn’t afraid of Indians. They scare the hell outa me. You mean am I scared of Gato?’ McAllister nodded. ‘Sure. But I like it here. An’ Gato leaves me alone. We both mind our own business. I’ve been here a long time. Before Gato came. We get along. I set his son’s leg when it was broke once. He ain’t forgotten that. Funny thing, his people don’t even steal from me. The old bastard can’t be all bad.’
Gunsmoke for McAllister Page 2
