McAllister said: ‘Now you’re bein’ downright insultin’. I never played at heroes in my life an’ you know it.’
Sam smiled.
‘There was the time you winkled me out of a sheriff’s posse in the brush country.’
McAllister got mad.
‘Now you’re bein’ sentimental,’ he snarled. ‘Talk sensible. I’m more Indian ’an you. I can walk into that basin any time I want and nobody’ll see me. You couldn’t make a yard. Carlita, talk some sense into this damn-fool man of yourn.’
Carlita spread her hands as if to say the woman wasn’t born who could talk sense into a man, least of all hers. So in the end, after some argument, they tossed for it and McAllister won. And then, being McAllister, when he’d won, he wished to God he had not, for he didn’t fancy walking into that basin with all those guns ready to blast holes in him. But he’d made his choice and he reckoned he’d have to go, so they reached around for a good place to hole up and ate a cold supper.
As soon as it was full dark, McAllister prepared to move out. He pulled off his boots and put on a pair of moccasins he carried always in his saddle-pockets. Sam, who was a reading man, said something about things that creep in the night, but it didn’t mean anything to McAllister. He checked that his gun was tied down in the holster, pulled his knife scabbard around so he could reach the hilt of the weapon easily and was ready to go.
Sam said: ‘Watch out for yourself, boy.’
‘Bank on it,’ McAllister told him.
In Spanish, Carlita told him: ‘I do not like you going there alone. That Rawley is worse than an animal.’
McAllister gave her a little grin.
‘Quit it,’ he said, ‘you’ll have ole Sam all riled up with jealousy.’
He walked away into the night, remembering them there together and thinking that he had seldom seen a man and a woman who looked better together, the fair man and the small dark woman, both fine people.
He walked north for a mile or more, keeping to high and difficult ground and making scarcely a sound, stopping to listen every now and then. No sound reached him but the mournful note of a distant lobo. He knew that he was getting near the basin and from here would have to be doubly watchful.
Within fifteen minutes, he sighted his first sentry. The man was on the move, but he didn’t hear him above the crash of the mills below. He peeked over the edge of the basin and saw many lights below. Men seemed to be on the move everywhere. A line of prisoners moved across his line of vision, moving slowly under the watchful eye of a guard. Two men stood outside the cabin in the light of a lamp and McAllister knew that one of them was Rawley.
McAllister was within twenty yards of the narrow trail down into the basin and he knew that if he were to use it, the guard would have to be silenced. He weighed the possibilities, knowing that though there were arguments in favor of the man dying, he was not the kind of man to agree to them. Yet a great many lives could depend upon his actions in the next few minutes.
He started working his way forward, not sure even then just what he intended to do, realizing that he would have to play it by ear. It was only when he was within a few yards of the man that he knew he meant to try and knock him out. He reached down and untied the thong that held his Remington in its holster, eased the weapon from leather and started to get cautiously to his feet. Then he advanced soft-footed as a cougar. Luck, however, was not with him. Suddenly, the earth seemed to fall away beneath his feet, he stumbled, rocks rattled noisily and the man whirled.
McAllister came down on one knee. His eye caught the gleam of metal in the starlight. The guard loosed off a shot as he brought the Remington to full cock. After that it was a matter of chain reaction. He fired almost point-blank into the man’s body. The fellow took a staggering pace backward and went down. McAllister didn’t wait for anything else; leaping the man’s prostrate body, he ran for the head of the narrow trail. This was a mistake, for, as he bounded down it, a shot came from behind and, turning, he saw the man above the rimrock, lying flat firing down at him. He snapped off another shot and ran on, but another shot winged after him and this was too close for comfort. The next he didn’t doubt would hit him. Better a live coward than a dead hero any day of the week, so he threw himself off the trail onto the rocks at the side. The landing was a hard one and lead smacked into stone near his head and sent him scrambling for a safer spot. Once there, he lay and cursed himself for the biggest damn fool in creation. Now he had a rifleman above him in a good vantage point.
And they had heard the shots from down below above the crash of the mills. Men were running and pointing.
He gave up the idea of using the trail altogether. Putting his gun away so that he could use both hands for climbing, he worked his way along the rocky side of the basin toward the north. Men were climbing up the trail. More were running along the flat parallel to the route he had taken. By God, it looked as if they would have him. He started to sweat in earnest now and wished he hadn’t won the toss. When, he demanded of himself, would he grow old enough not to get himself into situations like this. He stopped crawling and started to punch empties out of his gun. He would want the I emington full for what lay ahead of him.
His instinct was to climb the wall of the basin, reach rimrock and hightail out of there. But when he thought about it, it didn’t seem such a good idea. That was what they would expect him to do. His old man had always said: ‘Son, if’n you don’t know what to do – charge. The other feller looks awful surprised.’ Well, maybe he wouldn’t charge, but he’d do the next best thing. He’d go toward them.
He kept the Remington in his right hand and began slowly to edge his way down the face of the wall, using every bit of available cover there. They couldn’t see him from below, of that he was sure, but the fellow on the rimrock could see him and so could the men on the trail. Mind you, they couldn’t see him clearly. He would be no more than a shifting shadow to them, but they were pouring shot in his direction. Enough to make him feel that any second now he would feel the lethal burn of lead.
He got down low among the rocks and peered down below. There were three men waiting for him with rifles. It looked like his old man had been wrong. He should have climbed the basin wall and got out while he was still breathing.
He started to crawl forward with the greatest caution, hugging the ground closer than a snake’s belly. He could hear the men pounding their way up the steep trail, shouting. Pretty soon they would be above him and pouring fire down on him. So he had to settle this one way or the other pretty damn quick.
Now when a man is in a situation like that, he has to use what few talents God has given him. McAllister could draw a gun fast, though he wasn’t the fastest by any means. The gun fights he had been in during his short life had been won through his extraordinary talent for taking long shots with a revolver. The fast draw is a short range man, the fanner even shorter, and McAllister had won because he possessed a talent they did not. He also knew his gun – which was half the battle. He didn’t think when he used it; it was an extension of himself. So now, he raised himself with some care, rested his wrist on a rock in front of him, gripped his wrist with his left hand in a grip of iron and took careful aim on the man below him and to his right. The shot was the most difficult a pistoleer could choose. The range was long and he was shooting at a target well below him. He had taken some long shots in his time, but never one as long as this.
He fired.
His target, staggering backward, dropped his rifle and sat down.
McAllister didn’t wait to see the result of his shot, but, in the instant that he triggered, hurled himself to the right just as the other two men slapped their rifle butts into their shoulders and started firing. The air about him was filled with flying lead, slugs hit rock and whined into the night sky. When the deafening noise of the shooting stopped, he was ten yards away from the spot they were shooting at and still going. The two riflemen, as though with a single thought, both ran forward and dro
pped into the cover of the rocks, their fear of the gun above them greater than their desire to kill the gunman. But that would last only a moment if they were worth their salt. If they were fighting men, they would quickly recover and start a search for their attacker. The shot man was yelling that he was killed and for God’s sake wouldn’t somebody come and stop him bleeding. Nobody went.
Twenty yards from the spot where he had made his shot, McAllister came to a stop. There were men on the rimrock above him now, shouting down to the men below to pinpoint their target for them. These two yelled back that they couldn’t see the bastard. McAllister lay still. He stayed still until he heard the men above starting to beat down through the rocks, then he knew it was time he wasn’t there. Once more, he started to crawl north.
After he had gone a good way, he looked up and saw that the men above him had strung out and were past him to the north. If he didn’t think of something smart soon, he’d be corraled and that would be the end of him.
Just then, the craziest idea possible came to him. The one fact that was in his favor was that the light was very poor. Nobody could be recognized at anything further than a few yards. He started down slope again, working his way toward some giant boulders that were scattered in the general direction of the cabin. Crawling as fast and as flat as he knew how, he reached these and knowing that he would be lost against their massive blurred outline, he stood up and started walking. He went west along the line of the boulders, gun in hand, ready to shoot down anybody he came on. In this way he came within thirty yards of the cabin itself. Maybe he had worked himself ultimately into worse danger, but for the moment he was safer than he had been and, after all, his plan had been to get into the basin and play hell with Rawley and his men. Now was his chance. But back there with Sam and Carlita, it had seemed a good idea. Now it seemed a particularly foolish one. He didn’t feel heroic at all. He had only one wish and that was to be a thousand miles from here with a pretty girl by his side and a drink in front of him.
In for a cent, in for a dollar, he thought. While he was acting crazy, he might as well go the whole hog. He strolled with as natural an air as possible around the north of the cabin, turned around the west side of it and came to the door. This was open and there was a lamp burning inside. Gun in hand, he entered. The only man there lay in a bunk, his eyes fixed on McAllister. When he saw who it was, he looked sick with fear. And, thought McAllister, so he should.
‘What’s wrong with you?’ McAllister asked.
The man licked his dry lips and said: ‘The girl shot me in the back.’
‘Good girl, ain’t she?’ McAllister said conversationally. There wasn’t much time, but he told himself he mustn’t get flustered. ‘Got a gun?’
‘No,’ came the reply.
McAllister searched in the blankets and found a Colt forty-four. He threw this across the cabin and said: ‘A short trip for you, friend.’
Rich protested, he almost screamed his complaint, but McAllister told him he’d bend the barrel of the Remington over his head if he made a sound and that quietened him. He put the gun away, whisked the blankets off the wounded man, hefted him and carried him outside. There was a man by the crusher who looked at him curiously, but McAllister knew that he couldn’t see him clearly enough to recognize him. To his surprise, McAllister found that he was extraordinarily calm. He laid Rich on the ground and said: ‘You shout an’ I’ll blow your fool head off. Stay still and you can get outa this alive.’
He walked back into the cabin, blew the lamp out, emptied the coal oil in it over the furniture and set a match to it. It flared nicely. He set the blankets alight. A shout came from outside. He walked out of the cabin, shouting: ‘The cabin’s on fire.’ The man by the mill came running toward him. When he was near McAllister he yelled: ‘Go put that fire out, you Goddamn fool.’ In that moment, he had his first doubt about McAllister’s identity and stopped dead. McAllister drew the Remington and said: ‘Hold it right there.’
The man held it, frozen to immobility. McAllister walked around him and hit him with the barrel of the Remington. He didn’t catch the man when he fell, for he felt no tenderness for men who worked men like slaves. Putting the Remington away, he lifted the man’s rifle, took his bandolier of ammunition and slung it over a shoulder. That made him feel a little better. Now was the time to get to work in real earnest.
More men had spotted the fire. Feet pounded from the direction of the tunnel, a man ran from the east of the basin. McAllister looked around quickly, wondering what his best move should be. The feeling of calmness stayed with him. He knew there were some men working the mills, but he couldn’t see them. They could be a danger to him. He jammed the rifle butt into his right shoulder and fired two shots at the man coming from the tunnel. The fellow threw himself down on the ground and returned the fire. The man coming from the east, flung himself down and fired also, so that the other man yelled out in alarm, afraid that he would be hit by a comrade’s bullets. McAllister didn’t think there was any profit in staying where he was, and ran into cover of the mills. The crush mill, behind which he now hid, was still pounding away.
A man came slowly into the starlight, not a dozen yards from him, stumbled and went down. McAllister ran toward him and, when he was close enough, saw that he was a prisoner in chains. He reached in his pocket and drew out the key. The man cowered away from him as he approached, as if expecting to be struck, but McAllister spoke to him reassuringly in English and Spanish.
‘Hold out your hands,’ he told him. The man obeyed. In a second, the man’s hands were free. The fellow stood there, rubbing his wrists and weeping. McAllister stooped and freed his ankles. The man started to mumble in incoherent Spanish. McAllister gripped him by the arm and pointed: ‘That way,’ he said. ‘Go out that way. Head south. Sam Spur will pick you up.’
The man stood hovering, hardly able to believe what was happening to him. McAllister gave him another shove and told him to get going. The fellow started off in a stumbling run and one of the riflemen cut down on his shadowy figure. They didn’t have any idea at whom they were shooting, which showed McAllister what state their nerves were in.
Men were shouting now, telling anybody who wanted to listen that the sonovabitch was down in the basin. The cabin was blazing merrily. McAllister didn’t know what to do next. He wasn’t in the most enviable position. The crashing of the stamp mill gave him inspiration. He was aware that he knew next to nothing about machinery, but he reckoned he could strike a blow if he stopped the equipment. He ran to it and found it being attended by two men whom he could see only dimly. How they managed to work in the semi-darkness, he never knew. He hoped they were men he had worked with in the mine and that they knew him.
‘McAllister,’ he shouted to them.
‘Chalk here,’ one bellowed back. It was Chalk White, the cowhand he had been in the cage with in Euly.
‘Let me git them irons off’n you, boy,’ McAllister told him and the man eagerly held out his hands. In a moment, his hands were free and he let out a wild Rebel yell. McAllister stooped, undoing the leg irons and saying: ‘Can you wreck this thing?’
‘You bet your life,’ White told him and, as soon as he was free, he picked up a sledge hammer and got to work like a titan. As McAllister turned to the other prisoner, he heard a clang, a rending of metal, a complaining groan from the machine and it stopped. White was making wild and jubilant noises.
‘I done it,’ he yelled, ‘I done it.’
McAllister caught hold of him and told him: ‘Head south. Go on, beat it. Sam’s down thataway.’ White didn’t seem to take it in and McAllister had to yell at him: ‘For Christ’s sake get outa here.’ The other man started in harsh Spanish, but McAllister bawled at him to get the hell out of there. White dragged the man by the arm. Something struck the machinery with a clang and sang away into the night. There came a fierce stutter of rifle fire and the Mexican fell with a cry. White stopped and bent over him. McAllister shouted for him to go on an
d started firing at the muzzle-flame he saw uncomfortably close and dodged behind the machinery. White started to run. He made a dozen yards and then went down. McAllister started to crawl from one mill to the other. He hadn’t gone far when a man loomed up in front of him. McAllister saw the pencil thin line of the rifle barrel and fired without thought.
As soon as the man was down, he rose to his feet and started running west toward the wall of the basin. Shots came after him. When he thought that darkness had swallowed him, he swerved to the right and headed for the tunnel. Near the tunnel, he dropped to the ground and lay still, watching and listening. The working mill came to a halt and there was a sudden and stunning silence throughout the basin. Men’s voices came from the mills. One was raised in a series of orders and McAllister thought he recognized Rawley’s tones.
There were men standing in the mouth of the tunnel, talking. They were frightened. McAllister was tempted to start shooting into them, but he did not.
Several men were walking toward the tunnel from the mills. The man in the lead was shouting: ‘Search the whole place. I want that man. I’ll roast the bastard over a slow fire. Get movin’ now. I want that man, hear?’
The men in the tunnel mouth hefted their rifles and moved out. Both groups mingled and then scattered out. McAllister knew that he was now in acute danger. He crawled a little further west and got into some rocks and, under their cover, slowly started to work his way toward the tunnel. Once an armed man came within a dozen yards of him and he lay still till the fellow moved on. He didn’t envy the searchers their job, expecting to be shot from the dark at any moment. It took him a long time to make it, but finally he reached the mouth of the tunnel and slipped inside. He was now in total darkness and almost at once barged into a tip-truck and winded himself. He worked his way cautiously down the tunnel, feeling his way with his left hand till he rounded the bend and saw the distant gleam of a light. Now his caution increased and, flat on his belly, he headed for the light.
Gunsmoke for McAllister Page 9
