Suddenly, the peaks fell away and the train came to a wide expanse of malpais and McAllister was forced to detour south. The ride took him out of sight of the train and brought him once more into country that was a jumble of brush, scattered boulders and trees. Here there was cover and here he lurked until once more the train came in sight. Rawley was in the lead and hurrying the animals along, keeping them at a pace which McAllister thought unwise. None of the animals would last long moving that way. But plainly Rawley was desperate to put as much distance between the Indians and himself as he could. He must have heard the shooting when the Apache killed the men he had deserted and he and his three desperadoes must have had some real fear in them. That suited McAllister fine.
He let the train pass, then backtracked a little, went directly due west and came on the saddle which the Mexican had told him about. He went around the saddle and inspected the country on the other side. It was like looking into a different country. Here, suddenly, it looked green, green all the way. He took the canelo back aways and tied it. He loaded his rifle and decided this was his last fight this trip. When he was through here he was clean out of ammunition. The thought was not a comforting one.
He worked his way above the saddle on foot and took up a position among the rocks.
He heard a faint, shrill and distant whistle.
Startled, he looked up.
On the other side of the saddle he saw a man and the man was waving. That was Sam.
Well, I’ll be damned, McAllister thought. So the old horse was in on the last gamble after all. He wondered if Diaz and Carlita were there too. He hoped so, for every rifle was going to be useful. He felt a little relief that he would not have to handle this on his own. Rawley and his men were tough cookies and they knew how to handle guns. So he lay and waited, pining for a smoke and wanting something to put into his belly. Maybe if they finished Rawley there’d be some food to eat. He fervently hoped so. The thought of good crisp bacon and hot coffee was agonizing.
A horse trumpeted to the west and by squinting he could make out a faint sign of movement in that direction.
Ten minutes later, he could make out the leading rider. Five minutes after that, he was certain that it was Rawley on his fine sorrel.
Come on, little man, McAllister thought, come right into my sights and I’ll kill you, you bastard.
Slowly, the train strained up the gradient of the saddle and pretty soon McAllister could hear the thudding of hoofs and the jingle of bridle chains. They came right down the middle of the saddle, as far on either side from cover as they could get. They were taking no chances they didn’t have to take. Behind Rawley came eight mules and horses, going at a trot immediately they were on the level ground of the saddle with Carlos keeping them on the move. He rode a rangy bay with a mean eye and he was working at the pack-animals as if he wanted nothing more than to be clean out of the country and to keep on going. The rear was brought up by Rich and Rico, riding with their rifles across their saddlebows.
Now it came to the moment to kill, McAllister didn’t feel too happy. He could shoot a man in hot blood, but he had never been one to shoot in cold. Maybe it didn’t make sense, but that was the way he was made so there was little he could do about it.
But he didn’t have to fire the first shot.
That came from the other side of the saddle.
Rawley’s horse simply put its nose into the ground and went down, throwing its rider clear, all arms and legs. Rico stopped his horse and started pouring fire into the rocks on the other side of the saddle. McAllister thought it would be a good idea to stop him. He lined his rifle up on him, aimed and fired. The range was long and he missed the first shot. But he stopped the man firing at Sam on the other side. Rico whirled around and started firing up at McAllister. Rich followed his example and did the same. Suddenly, the air around the big man was full of flying lead. He ducked, changed his position and shot Rich out of the saddle. The man hit the ground, bounced once and lay still.
Rawley was on his feet, running back along the train, shouting. McAllister snapped a couple of shots at him and missed both times.
A horseman erupted from the rocks on the other side of the saddle and started toward the train at a reckless pace. McAllister saw that it was Sam. Another rider appeared and he recognized him as Diaz. The Mexican was yelling and firing his revolver though the range was far too long for a hit.
Rico turned and saw them coming. He started shooting in their direction. McAllister lined up on him and fired till his rifle was empty. He reached for a reload before he remembered that he had no more ammunition for the weapon. Flinging it away from him in disgust he raced back through the rocks to where the canelo stood. He vaulted into the saddle and even as his backside hit leather the animal had its legs bunched under it and was running.
He clattered back through the rocks and hit the comparatively smooth ground of the saddle, going fast.
The situation had changed in the few minutes that he had been gone.
Rico was whirling his horse away from the fight, knowing that it was time he wasn’t there. Diaz swerved his horse and went after him. He wasn’t firing now, so his gun must have been empty.
Rawley was catching up Rich’s horse and was heaving himself into the saddle. Rawley turned in the saddle as Sam pounded toward him. Rawley jammed home the spurs and his horse jumped forward going at an angle to Sam. Sam fired. Rawley’s gun blossomed smoke and Sam seemed to jolt back in the saddle and then clutched at the saddlehorn. His horse swerved suddenly and halted. Rawley rode on. McAllister called for an extra turn of speed from the canelo and the animal strained, doing its best.
Sam leaned sideways from the saddle, slowly, and then suddenly he fell to the ground. His horse jumped and moved away.
Rawley was headed up the slope of the saddle toward the rocks from which Sam and Diaz had come.
McAllister pounded up, heaved the canelo to a halt and leapt from the saddle.
‘Sam.
Sam was up on one elbow, his face pale. The front of his shirt was dark with blood.
Between his teeth, Sam said: ‘Get Rawley.’
McAllister said: ‘To hell with Rawley, you’re hit.’ He was on one knee beside his friend now. Sam twisted around and stared after Rawley. His eyes were full of fear.
He said –
‘The girl’s in those rocks.’
Still McAllister hesitated. Sam looked in a bad way and like to die. The blood was pumping from him. For once in his life, McAllister didn’t know what to do.
Diaz saved him.
The Mexican came riding back and took in the situation at a glance. In a second he was off his horse and beside Sam, his hands feeling for the wound inside the shirt to stop the flow of blood. McAllister gave his friend one despairing glance and turned to his horse. He piled into the saddle as fast as he could move, whirled the animal around and drove it fast toward the rocks. Rawley was out of sight now.
As McAllister rode, he thought that the girl must appear at any moment. She had watched the fight no doubt from the rocks and would know that it was over. But as he neared the rocks, she had not appeared.
He slowed the canelo to a trot as he hit the rocks, peering around, gun in hand, ready to shoot. The place was ideal for Rawley to shoot from cover and then make his escape or, having downed McAllister, to go back and make a try for the gold. But no shot came. However, McAllister was still wary and slowed the horse to a walk for a moment, searching with his eyes for the slightest movement, with his ears for the smallest sound. None came. He pushed slowly on.
Suddenly, he heard the clatter of hoofs and the rattle of loose stones. He urged the horse forward, hit a canter and went on through the rocks. He came out onto a wide gully, saw movement on the far side and glimpsed a rider going from sight, well beyond pistol-shot. It was risky to ride out into the open, but it was a risk that had to be taken. He wondered about the girl. Why hadn’t he seen her.
God, he thought, is she hurt? He
thought of Spur lying back there wounded and of his having to go back and tell his friend that Carlita was wounded or dead. He turned back, searching through the rocks and calling her name over and over.
‘Carlita, Carlita, for Christ’s sake sing out.’
But there was no trace of her, though he thought he found the place where she had hidden. He couldn’t be sure, there wasn’t time. Rawley was getting away, she might be lying out there somewhere. He didn’t know what to do. The sign around the spot where he thought she’d hidden was a mess of hoof-marks. They might have been made by the girl’s horse and Sam’s or they might have been made by the girl’s and Rawley’s. In the brief glance he gave it, there was no way of telling. He neck-reined the canelo around and burst out of cover into the gully, jumping and sliding his horse down the steep gradient that faced him, hitting bottom and straining up the other side. No shot came. He crouched over the neck of his horse, his eyes everywhere, his nerves singing viciously, ready to shoot if a leaf moved. He had almost reached the top when the shot came.
It was as if the canelo had run into a stone wall.
The animal went down without warning and McAllister only had time to kick his feet from the stirrup-irons and throw himself clear of the fall of the massive body. He hit hard and badly, knocking the wind out of himself and dropping the gun. Even as he lifted his head and spat dust from his mouth, he heard the iron-shod hoofs on stone. It sounded like more than one horse on the move.
Did that mean Rawley had the girl with him?
He searched around desperately for his gun, found it and clawed it up. Then he staggered to his feet and drove forward. The canelo kicked feebly once and lay still. Something like insanity burst inside McAllister.
He thrust his way through brush at the lip of the gully like a man possessed, his eyes berserk. He wanted Rawley under his gun. He wanted nothing else but to plant a bullet between the man’s eyes. He had never wanted to kill a man so badly in all his life.
He lurched through the brush, stumbled on stones, fell, picked himself up. He knew that he was not taking enough precautions, but he didn’t care. He could hear the sound of horses’ hoofs and he went after them. He was crossing a ragged dip in the land, that rose to a green shoulder beyond, and which, in its turn, gave way to a massive craggy peak. To the right was a wild tangle of brush and boulders. He thought he could hear the horses in that direction. He picked up his feet and started to run, muttering crazily to himself about what he was going to do to Rawley when he caught up with him.
The second shot sobered him a little.
It came from the direction in which he was heading and it missed his head by no more than an inch.
He dropped flat and found that he had very little cover. But he had recovered his senses. He knew suddenly that at any moment he might be dead. Nothing pulls a man together so much as the fear of death.
Like an Indian, he found cover where there was precious little. He knew that Rawley was still under cover ahead of him. He could see the rifle smoke drifting; there was no sound. Rawley was keeping still as death and waiting for him to show himself. He pressed himself flat in a crease in the ground and cautiously raised his head.
A shot almost parted his hair.
He started to sweat in earnest. Rawley had him pinned down.
He went snake-like to the right, using his elbows and his toes, going slowly and carefully, determined not to expose himself to that rifle. All he had was his belt-gun and he would have to get a sight closer before he could make a telling shot.
Then he found there was no more cover. He lay still with his head tucked down, knowing that he lay between Rawley and the gold, determined that he should not get it.
‘McAllister.’
That was Rawley.
‘McAllister, you hearin’ me?’
‘I hear you.’
‘Get on your feet and walk back the way you came.’
‘I should smile.’
There was a short silence, then Rawley spoke again.
‘I have the girl here.’
McAllister almost had to laugh. Could anything be cornier? This was the way the dime novels ended. Only the hero always thought of a clever way out. With a bound he was free or he took a brilliant long shot with his gun narrowly missing the girl’s head as the villain clasped her to him. He didn’t think he was in that class. He was just an ordinary man and would have to do the best with the few talents he possessed.
‘You’re lyin’,’ he sang out.
There was a stir of movement, stones rattled. He lifted his head cautiously.
The girl rode out of the brush.
She looked pretty awful and scared, but she looked unharmed.
He didn’t know what to do. For the tenth time that day so it seemed.
‘You let her go, Rawley. Any harm comes to her an’ I kill you. Hear?’
Rawley laughed. The girl turned the horse and went out of sight. McAllister lay in the dirt and raged.
‘Get goin’, McAllister. I don’t have too much time. I’ll kill the girl right here an’ now if’n you don’t move.’
He looked back the way he had come.
Cover was thirty yards away. He wondered if he would ever make it. He had seen Rawley in action and knew that he wouldn’t hesitate to kill the girl if he had to. Could be he was bluffing, but that wasn’t a chance McAllister dared to take.
He bunched his legs under him and yelled: ‘I’m goin’, Rawley.’
He snapped one leg straight, shot from cover like a rock from a sling and headed for cover.
The girl screamed piercingly. No shot came. He covered ten yards and was going strongly. Now, his mind told him, the shot must come, he dodged suddenly to the right, covered a half-dozen yards and switched back to the left. Still no shot came. His nerves were screaming. A few more paces and he swerved to the right.
Then the shot came and he almost knew relief when he heard it. The lead tore through brush ahead of him. Another shot and it slammed into rock and whined away to the heavens. He hurled himself, somersaulted, came to his feet and plunged into cover. He ripped his clothes and his flesh, but he didn’t give a damn, it was so good to be out of sight of that sonovabitch yonder. He lay panting there, gasping breath into his starved lungs.
A sound tore through his confused consciousness.
The girl was screaming. The sound went on and on, the product of pure terror. He got to his feet and peered across the open space to the brush and boulders. He could see nothing.
Then, suddenly, the scream was cut off and a terrible silence hung over the place.
Something like terror touched him then.
What had happened to Carlita?
All caution went now and he was running, heading for the brush, running as he had never run before. He strained up the steep slope and burst into the brush. Nothing. He searched to right and left, gun ready in hand. Horses had been there, he could see their sign plainly. They had gone that way. But a small pair of feet had gone in the opposite direction. He raced that way, leaping boulders, moving with desperate haste, scared of what he would find.
Suddenly she was at his feet.
Her golden-colored skin had gone a kind of dirty chalk color. Her eyes were closed. Her dress had been ripped and she looked as though she had fallen from a boulder, for her feet were higher than her head and she lay in an awkward position. He hurried to her side and fell on one knee by her. Her face showed a livid mark and it looked to McAllister as if it had been made by the barrel of a gun.
But she was alive. Her lovely breasts were rising and falling. McAllister whirled. Whoever had done this to her was not far off. Rawley was poised for a shot. McAllister hit dirt, crawled a ways and started to look around. No shot came.
He turned, searching with eyes and ears. Nothing.
The silence was starting to get him.
He moved a dozen cautious silent yards, turned this way and that, then heard that slight trembling sound which he knew to be the start o
f a horse’s neigh that had been cut off by a human hand being clapped over a muzzle.
He whirled and started forward again.
It took him ten minutes of careful work to find that horse. It was Rawley’s sorrel and it was grazing on a tuft of poor grass it had found.
Where was the girl’s horse? he asked himself. Where was Rawley? Rawley must have struck the girl. He realized that he was sweating and was steadily working himself into a scare. It wasn’t pleasant walking around here waiting to be shot at.
He searched.
It wasn’t long before he found the last thing that he expected.
He found Rawley.
The man lay between two large rocks with one leg twisted under him. It must have been broken to have attained such a position. He was dead. He had been stabbed several times in the chest and his throat had been cut. The blood from his wounds was still fresh and he was covered with it. His eyes were open and they stared sightlessly at McAllister.
Somebody had killed him in the last few minutes and they were still near.
An ice-cold hand ran itself slowly down McAllister’s spine.
Slowly he turned, eye and gun seeking out the killer. Death stood within an arm’s length knife-thrust of him.
He almost fired as soon as his eyes took in the figure standing there, motionless, dripping knife in hand. Recognition held him back.
It was Gato.
For a moment, neither man spoke. Then the Apache made a cutting motion with his left hand. He spoke –
‘Finido,’ he said. Finished.
McAllister drew in his breath, knowing that he had been allowed to live. He didn’t doubt that the rocks around him were full of Indians and that if he made a wrong move they would kill him.
The Indian went on: ‘Take the girl. Go back to Spur. Go home. Now.’
McAllister took his gun off cock and walked past the chief. He was tired to the bone. He was at the end of the line. He looked around him and could see no sign of an Indian. When he reached the girl, she was sitting up with a dazed expression on her face. She looked at him as if she didn’t recognize him.
Gunsmoke for McAllister Page 17
