Gunsmoke for McAllister

by Matt Chisholm

  Sam woke.

  He looked at McAllister as if he were surprised to see him. There was a sort of dazed look in his eyes.

  ‘Rem.’

  ‘Can you spare a man a drink.’ Without a word, Sam unslung the canteen and handed it to McAllister. ‘How long does this have to last?’

  ‘Water’s precious here. Once a day. Twice if you’re lucky.’

  McAllister took one mouthful, put the stopper back and handed the canteen to his friend. He left the tepid water in his mouth for several minutes and slowly swallowed it. He could have drunk the Pecos dry.

  They talked. McAllister told Sam what had happened to him since he had received Sam’s letter in El Paso. Sam told his story. He had written to McAllister because he had located silver in the hills. No, not here; about five miles to the east. While prospecting through the hills he had stumbled on this place by accident. Rawley and his men had come on him and taken him. Rawley? McAllister asked. Who was he? That was the sheriff’s name. Sam didn’t have any idea how long this mine had been here, but he reckoned it had been opened up after the Gato scare was at its height. He’d heard that a prospector had found it and had gone to Rawley for a stake. Rawley had killed him and moved in with his associates.

  ‘What I can’t make out,’ McAllister said, ‘is how he gets away with it. They must know down in Euly this is goin’ on.’

  ‘Not a whisper so far. At least that’s the way it seems. They’ve made no more than one shipment of gold. They took a pack train right through the sierra into New Mexico and claimed they’d found the gold in New Mexico. They’re gettin’ ready for one more shipment, so I’ve heard.’

  ‘Then what happens?’

  ‘They kill us all.’

  The words hung between them in the silence. It didn’t seem possible, but McAllister didn’t doubt that it was true. He had experienced Rawley at work.

  ‘The girl,’ he said. ‘When I saw her in the cage I thought she was one of us.’

  Sam smiled.

  ‘That’s Carlita. She’s my girl.’

  McAllister didn’t know what to say. He had seen the girl with the sheriff. She had spit in his face.

  ‘You know she’s here?’ he asked.

  Sam said: ‘Sure. She sent word by a cousin of hers, she’d come.’ McAllister looked away and Sam added: ‘I know what you’re thinkin’. You’re wrong. When we go out of here, she comes with us.’

  McAllister didn’t argue, but he had other ideas.

  He said instead: ‘I have a horse not far off. He’s tied. If we don’t get away soon, maybe he’ll get himself free and head for water. We need a horse.’

  Sam said: ‘Rem, you’re ail beat up. I ain’t no stronger’n a dogie. We couldn’t run a mile.’

  ‘What the hell’s gotten into you, man?’ McAllister demanded. ‘I didn’t never hear you talk this way before.’

  Sam said: ‘Maybe I’ve been hit once too much.’

  ‘Sam,’ McAllister said, ‘I come all this way for you an’ I ain’t goin’ without you. Git that into your fool head.’

  There was a hopeless look on Sam’s face.

  ‘It sounds wonderful,’ he said. ‘I dream of havin’ a gun and shootin’ my way outa here. I see Rawley’s face in front of me and I empty a gun into it.’

  McAllister laughed.

  ‘That bastard’s mine,’ he said and meant it.

  Sam wasn’t paying him any attention. He was looking north toward the larger of the two cabins. The girl stood at the door, her wide skirt moving in the light breeze. She looked toward them.

  ‘Good girl,’ he said softly. ‘I even thought about marryin’ her.’

  ‘A Mex?’

  ‘Look who’s talkin’.’

  McAllister took a good look at Sam and couldn’t believe that this was the same man he had ridden with. He looked as if he hadn’t eaten a good meal in months. His ribs showed through and his skin was burned almost black. His fair beard hung ragged from his jaw and in his eyes was a faraway dazed look. When he remembered the things he had seen Sam do, it didn’t seem possible. Well, he thought, he must get out of here before they did the same thing to him. If they could do it to a man like Sam they could do it to him. He had always rated Sam as his superior. He could ride, fight, drink and womanize like no man he had ever known. And now he was reduced to this – a shadow.

  A man shouted. McAllister turned his head. The guard to the south was on his feet, shouting and gesticulating.

  Sam said: ‘Waterin’ time. They water us like hosses, then they give us what they laughin’ly call bait.’

  He called to the others. Some raised their heads and McAllister thought he had never seen men more hopeless. None of their eyes showed the slightest hope. Slowly, they heaved themselves to their feet. All except one man. He was a puny-looking Anglo, his flesh burned and purple from the sun.

  Sam went and shook him.

  ‘Billy, rise an’ shine, boy.’

  The man didn’t move.

  Sam lifted an eyelid with a thumb and turned to the others.

  ‘Another hole to dig,’ he said. The other men received the information without emotion. They started to straggle across the basin, their chains clinking. McAllister brought up the rear of the ragged and bent-backed column. The guard was bellowing for them to hurry it up.

  McAllister never learned where the water came from. It was there in the shade of the hut in large Mexican pitchers. The idea was for the prisoners to fill their canteens and fill themselves with as much water as they could hold. This might have to last them for some time, as Sam explained. A man never knew when he would get it next. The trouble was, when a man filled himself to capacity with water, he was too full to eat the slop that was offered him afterward. The guards liked this. It saved food. McAllister reasoned that a man should do his best. And he didn’t possess a canteen; he had left his on his horse. So he was going to fill up and then eat as much as he could. He had to get strong and he had to do it quickly.

  The men lifted the pitchers, carefully pouring water into their canteens under the watchful eye of the guard, who cursed them every now and then for spilling it. When it came to McAllister’s turn at a pitcher, it was all he could do to lift it while he drank. He drank his fill, pouring water into him until he thought it would run out of his ears. He drank till he was ready to vomit water. Then, exhausted by his efforts, he lowered the great pitcher to the ground.

  A Mexican, with chains only on his ankles, came out of the cabin carrying a bowl of food. As soon as it was placed on the ground, the prisoners fell on it like ravenous wolves. McAllister didn’t know the rules of the place and arrived at the bowl too late. By what he could see the food was old goat meat that had swum in cold and fatty liquid.

  He turned to the guard.

  ‘How about me?’ he asked.

  ‘You unlucky?’ the guard threw back his head and laughed. The Mexican who had brought the food out, grinned. McAllister picked up the bowl and threw it at the Mexican. He would have liked to throw it at the guard, but he had a feeling he would have been shot if he did. The Mexican screamed and jumped around in fury. The guard laughed again. The other prisoners turned on McAllister. Even Sam was mad.

  ‘You shouldn’t of done that, Rem,’ he said. He was shaking. He looked at the damp ground where the remainder of the meal was and looked like he could have wept. McAllister felt a little ashamed of himself. He reckoned he’d have to alter his character while he was here.

  He turned to the guard, a brutal-looking man that Rawley must have scraped up drunk from some saloon.

  ‘If I don’t eat, I can’t work,’ he said.

  ‘Don’t you fool yourse’f,’ the man growled. ‘We’ll make you work.’

  Sam came and shoved a piece of goat meat into McAllister’s hand. McAllister looked at his friend and knew this was the greatest sacrifice a man could make. He thrust it back.

  ‘I ain’t hungry,’ he said. ‘I’m sick to my stomach.’

  ‘Go a
head,’ Sam said, eyeing the meat.

  ‘Naw. Christ, it’d be a waste. I wouldn’t keep it down.’ He offered it again. Sam snatched it and wolfed it down in one. McAllister turned away. The sight made him want to weep.

  Next, they went and collected the dead man in the center of the basin and carried him to a spot on the east side of the place. The guard shouted for a comrade and another armed man came and escorted four of the prisoners to the corpse that lay at the tunnel. Sam and McAllister were among these. They toiled in the broiling sun, carrying the dead man by his arms and legs across the cauldron of the basin. They would have rested several times, but the guard wouldn’t allow that, but drove them on with blows and curses. When they reached what McAllister could see was a graveyard, they joined the others with pick and shovel. While they wielded these tools, the armed guard stood well back from them. The man had probably learned the lesson the hard way.

  By the time the two graves were dug, the dead men tumbled unceremoniously into them and the holes filled in, every man there was in a state of exhaustion. Most of them lay down on the ground, but the guard threatened them and one or two staggered to their feet. When the rest didn’t obey him, he fired a couple of shots into the dust near them and they slowly stood up. He marched them back to the cabin with the tools. Every step they took was a misery as the leg-irons rubbed on their sores. One or two of the men bent double while they walked to hold up the chains and minimize the agony of the chafing. McAllister’s feet were tender and the hot dust burned their soles.

  A shout came from across the basin. Men were filing out of the tunnel, slowly and wearily. As he watched, McAllister saw a man go down and get kicked to his feet by the guards.

  Tonight, he thought. Tonight I have to get out of here and Sam comes with me.

  He looked at his friend ahead of him in the column, lurching like a drunken man, Sam who had walked straight and ridden tall in the saddle.

  They reached the tunnel-mouth and went sun-blinded into the gloom. Twice McAllister stumbled into the wall on bends, once he stumbled over Sam in front of him and they both went down. The guard behind them shouted at them and slammed a rifle butt into McAllister’s back.

  Then they were at the gold face and picking up their tools. They toiled like old sick men for an hour, two guards demanding they increase their speed, until Rawley appeared with Rich. McAllister leaned weakly against the face and looked at the man, well-fed and plump, bright–eyed and alert and he never knew when he had hated a man more.

  The sheriff inspected the face and declared that it was time for blasting. He detailed McAllister to use the sledge-hammer and Sam to hold the drill, then showed them where he wanted the drill holes. As McAllister picked up the sledge, the man stepped back out of reach.

  It was hell knocking those holes in the granite-hard wall. McAllister thought he would never last out, but he did. He was surprised to find that he had worked out much of the stiffness of his body. It was still sore, but he was moving with greater ease. When the holes were to Rawley’s liking, a man came with the explosive and the holes were plugged. The prisoners were driven out into the open. Clear of the tunnel mouth, several men at once slumped to the ground and fell asleep. When the explosive blew, Rawley and Rich went in to look at the result. The sheriff seemed satisfied when he came out and gave the guards orders to get the men to work. He shouted for his horse. A Mexican came running and the sheriff stepped into the saddle. McAllister then saw several other mounted men. The sheriff’s 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.

  ‘You mean it, Sam? You think –?’

  ‘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.

  ‘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 they would have the whole hornet’s nest about their heads. The rumbling wheels came closer. They could hear the clinking of the chains. The guard was bellowing for them to get a move on.

  The truck with the prisoners pushing it passed the waiting men. They halted and looked neither to right nor left. McAllister raised the rifle. The guard walked into the lamplight.

  He and Sam struck together. The man didn’t stand a chance. He fell where he stood, dropping like a stone. In a second, men pounced on him wordlessly – boots, hats, weapons were purloined. Then they stood panting, unable to believe that so far they had been successful.

  One of the Mexicans said: ‘Por Dios.’

  Suddenly thirsty, they started sipping water from their canteens.

>   In Spanish, Sam said: ‘Go quietly to the mouth of the tunnel and wait. My friend and I will go fetch the keys.’

  One of the prisoners wished for God to go with him.

  McAllister and Sam started along the tunnel. When they reached the mouth, Sam stopped and said: ‘This is the worst part. I don’t know how many men are in the cabin.’

  McAllister said: ‘Let’s go see.’

  They went on.

  They had to walk with enormous care, stooping to hold their leg irons with their left hands to stop the chains rattling, their rifles gripped in their right hands.

  Halfway to the cabin, a voice sang out to their right: ‘Who’s this?’

  They stopped.

  ‘Aw, no,’ Sam whispered.

  ‘Two prisoners,’ McAllister called.

  ‘Where the hell do you think you’re goin’?’

  McAllister swallowed hard and said: ‘The guard told us to go to the cabin. Rich wants us.’

  The man came toward them, saying: ‘Nobody ain’t allowed to walk around with no guard.’ McAllister reckoned another half-dozen paces and the man would see they carried rifles. He dropped his leg-irons and took a grip on the rifle with both hands.

  The man realised something was wrong at once. He stopped and gave a high-pitched sound of alarm, snapping up his rifle.

  McAllister and Sam levered and fired as one man and the fellow was blasted backward. They both moved quickly now without stopping to see what damage they had done. Turning, ignoring the noise they made, they ran as fast as their chains would allow toward the cabin. They hadn’t taken a half-dozen paces when the door of the cabin slammed open and a man stood there silhouetted against the lamplight within. They both halted and raised their weapons, but before they could shoot a shot came from within the cabin and the man staggered forward. The next moment, they were stepping across his body and were inside the cabin. The girl, Carlita, stood there with a smoking revolver in her hand. She looked scared as a rabbit, but at the sight of Sam, she brightened.