McAllister Justice

by Matt Chisholm

  As he reached the flat, Dix was questioned by men coming out of their shebangs and he declared that he had been fired on by an unknown. He complained that you couldn’t trust a damned soul around here. He hurried on and heard men standing to their arms all around him. He heard men grumbling that if it wasn’t the damned Sioux it was Goddamned thieves. And claim-jumpers.

  As he went on he knew that the smart thing was to go to ground right here in the camp. If he hid up in some shebang, McAllister would never find him. But he was panicked now and knew that the only thing for him was to pull out. After the shooting, every man would gather at the rendezvous as arranged. And they would pull out. Some would oppose him, but he was determined that he would ride. Those that wanted to stay could do so.

  It took him an hour to work his way out of the gulch into high timber where the two horse-holders waited with the animals.

  More questions from them and from the others who slowly drifted in. One or two were feeling good because they had pulled off their coups. The broken-nose and the beard were in high spirits. They had threatened a digger with a knife till he disclosed his hoard, then cut his throat any road. That really got a laugh.

  When they were all there, Dix said: “We’re leaving. Camm’s dead and the law’s here.”

  The beard said: “That’s a hell of a note. We ain’t shaken the place down yet.”

  Dix said: “You want to stay, you do that. I’m ridin’. An’ anybody with a grain of sense’ll do the same. McAllister’s here and he’s federal law.”

  The argument that followed was noisy and it didn’t quieten till Dix demanded to know why the hell they didn’t go down and tell the whole damned camp they were here. After that they argued it back and forth in fierce whispers.

  He finished it by saying: “We washed up here. But we ain’t finished. Tell you what. Ned and George stay here like they want. And they get information out to us. Which man is shipping out gold and when. We can take it at the other end just as easy.”

  They discussed the suggestion and all reckoned it made sense. There were Indians out there, but six resolute and well-armed men could get through all right. So it was decided. Two stayed and the rest mounted. They wished each other luck and rode out, walking the horses for a half-mile and then lifting them into a brisk trot. The two spies went back the way they had come.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Mcallister lost Dix.

  Men gathered around the cook-shack and talked, but nobody knew who had killed Camm. Smith told his story, but nothing more was to be learned. The other two miners who had been killed by the broken-nose and the beard were not discovered till the following dawn. McAllister made his camp where he had tied his horse in the timber near the cook-shack. However, he took the precaution of moving his position by thirty or so yards and tied his horse to his wrist as was his habit. There was no better watch-dog than a prairie-bred horse.

  Dawn found him up and taking breakfast with the woman with a good many other men. He sat among them, not talking, but keeping his ears and eyes open. He saw nobody he knew, but he picked up the information that two miners had been killed in the night. That made it possible, he thought, that Dix had ridden out. McAllister felt sure that he would not have risked riding through Indian country alone. So that meant there were others with him.

  The woman, he noted, did not look at him when she served him his breakfast. He wondered if she knew that he had recognized Dix when the outlaw had peered through the window the day before. He wondered also if she were tied in with the man in any way. Sure, her position here would make her an ideal ally for a gold-thief. Here she could hear the talk and add two and two together.

  The chances being that Dix had ridden out, McAllister next decided to see if he could find out for certain.

  Taking his rifle, but leaving the sorrel tied, he climbed to the rimrock and worked his way through the high timber down toward the south. He reached the mouth of the gulch mid-morning without finding the slightest sign. At the mouth of the gulch, he spent two hours on careful searching, but was no luckier. Crossing the creek, he started working his way back north along the eastern wall of the gulch. Within a hundred yards, he found what he was looking for. Horses had ridden out of here. He circled, eyes to the ground and found where they had gathered. He reckoned that the horse-holders had waited for some time. He searched on and found where two of the riders had returned to camp. So a half-dozen had ridden south toward the settlements, two had stayed behind to continue spying. Having failed mostly in their thievery in the camp, they would now lift the gold at the other end. There was more danger from the law in towns, but at least the thieves were saved the trouble of haulage and the dangers from the Indians.

  Deciding to return to his horse and start the risky trip back to either Malcolm or Deadwood, he began to walk through the timber, keeping parallel to the gulch, meaning to descend when he came opposite the cook-shack.

  It was here that he sighted the Indian.

  Plainly the man was a horse-holder. A young boy, no more than fourteen or fifteen. So far as McAllister could see through the brush and rocks there were upward of twenty ponies here. And there were probably others on other parts of the gulch.

  Wary and nerve-tense, he backed into cover and worked his way as fast as he could without noise to the lip of the gulch.

  Below him, the diggers toiled away, unsuspecting. But he could see that most had pistols in their belts or rifles stacked within easy reach. They were not going to be caught napping a second time.

  McAllister didn’t waste any time. Pointing his rifle skyward, he fired one shot and yelled: “Indians!” The way the men below reacted was almost laughable. For a full second every one of them froze. The next they leapt into action like small puppets manipulated by the same giant hand. Pistols were drawn, rifles scooped up, men ran this way and that, jumping for cover.

  A shrill wavering cry seemed to come out of the sky.

  A rifle cracked from high on the gulch wall and a miner, running, tripped and pitched headlong into the creek with a loud splash.

  Arrows hummed in the air like plumed bees. Turning, McAllister saw an Indian leap from the caprock and go bounding down the steep slope, howling defiance. A tall lean warrior, stripped to his breech-clout and leggings, painted vividly to his waist, a single feather in his black hair. McAllister threw his rifle to his shoulder and knocked him over in mid-bound. The rimrock came alive with yelling warriors and McAllister began a reckless charge down the gulch-side. His goal was the cook-shack and the woman.

  To his horror, he discovered that he was running almost neck-and-neck with two Indians. The astounded braves discovered his presence as he did theirs. One tried to swerve toward him. The incline was against him, but McAllister did his best to aid him. He swerved toward the man, slammed him in the belly with the flat of the rifle-butt and clobbered him around the ear with the barrel. He didn’t wait to see the result of his assault, but turned the rifle on the other man and fired. He didn’t wait to see the result of the shot either, but kept right ahead. He couldn’t have done anything different, because his legs were running away with him. By the time he hit the flat by the creek, his legs were going like wasp’s-wings. He hit the creek and started wading.

  The water sprouted around him, as rifles from above sought him out. There were too many firearms among the savages for his liking. He preferred fighting Indians who had no more than bows and arrows. He never knew how he came through that alive but he did. The miners were firing back raggedly at the Indians now. He waded from the creek, passed a miner forted up in his diggings, waved cheerily to him and ran on. The sorrel, he found safe in the timber, but fighting its tie-rope. Hastily, freeing it and hefting his saddle, he ran for the shack. Here he found the woman crouched in a corner with an oversized pistol in her hands.

  He led his horse inside and said: “Thought you could do with a little company, ma’am,” dropped the line and took his position at a rear window, saying, “Be an idea if you
was to bar the doors, ma’am.”

  She stayed where she was, terrified. “Bar the doors, woman,” he barked, “think of my reputation if anybody found me here.”

  The Indian horsemen hit the camp then. Coming in from the south and riding hard, leaping their ponies over diggings and prostrate miners as they rode, yelling piercingly, shooting rifles and pistols, stabbing with lances as they came. Here and there some fear-crazed fool leapt to his feet to repel them and disappeared beneath the thundering hoofs. For the most part, though, the diggers held firm, firing as fast as they knew how as the Indians swept by. McAllister saw one red man fall from his horse. He landed running, hatcheted a miner to death and fell from a point-blank shot in the back. Two riders turned toward the shack but McAllister discouraged them with a few shots and they rode on.

  Five minutes later a shack went up in flames down-gulch and a flock of diggers came running. Soon a dozen were inside the cook-shack and McAllister for one was not sorry to have their company. Then the Indians came back in a wave, running down fleeing miners. But they came on more than they liked when they made a try at the shack. The fire-power in there was too much for them.

  The firing died down and the men talked. Scattered shots came from up and down the gulch. Among the miners was Smith, the man whose life McAllister had saved. He led the council-of-war. The way he saw it, he said, was that they couldn’t go on haying to stand off Indians and continue digging. There must have been a dozen men killed here already today. That was too high a price to pay. He thought it wisest to return to Malcolm or Deadwood, stake their claims and bank what gold they had. Some of them, he knew, had now considerable amounts about them. Now Mrs. Tyson here had a wagon. With luck they could get together a team of mules or horses. They should prepare tonight, if they were still here to do so, and pull out with the first dawn.

  The woman pulled herself together. She felt safer now that she had this small army in her little fort. She served them food and even made a little joke about it being free today. They talked some more, their mouths full, while two of them kept watch at the windows. The Indians were busy catching isolated whitemen and killing them, overturning mining equipment, setting fire to the shanties. A dozen more men sought shelter in the shack and were made welcome. They were mostly badly frightened men and agreed to Smith’s suggestion that they pull out. Some had left their gold cached under the floors of their shebangs and decided that if things quietened down after dark, they would return and fetch it.

  During the day, the Indians made three attempts to take the shack, but, though ammunition was running low, they were all beaten off with heavy losses to the Sioux. The miners suffered one killed and two slightly wounded. Mrs. Tyson tended them, expertly and coolly. She seemed to have recovered her nerve now. After that, the Indians appeared to withdraw. As McAllister said, most likely they guessed that the miners would leave and would be waiting for them in the hills and on the plains beyond. But seeing the way the miners had fought and the accuracy with which they had shot, he reckoned they had a good chance of making it to the towns.

  By dusk, the gulch was quiet.

  They left the shack in small bunches to comb the gulch for wounded and for the various things that they would need to take with them. While they did this, McAllister loaded the woman’s wagon. Her two mules had been gathered up by the Indians. So they had to wait and see what the others found in the way of livestock.

  Well after dark, the men returned. They were tired and hungry and Mrs. Tyson fed them again. They were fairly jubilant because they had been able to round-up around a dozen animals and had also found pretty large stores of food. They also brought with them six or seven more men. Their best find was several small stores of ammunition. Four of the animals were allocated to the wagon and on it would be loaded five wounded men. A miner volunteered to drive and Mrs. Tyson would travel with the wounded and care for them. The rest of the night was taken up with the burial of the dead and some hastily snatched sleep. There were, Smith announced, around fifty men at the north end of the gulch who had forted up and declared that they would stay and take their chances with the savages. The men who were leaving told each other that these were plain damned fools.

  As soon as dawn showed a cold gray finger in the sky, McAllister saddled the sorrel and went out on scout. It was not something that he welcomed. He was tired, his shoulder was stiff and giving him trouble and he knew the Indians wouldn’t be far off. To the east within a thirty minutes’ hard mountain ride, he found an Indian encampment of some one hundred and thirty lodges. Shortly after that he ran into a small scouting party of a half-dozen and had to run for it. He told the waiting miners that the road south looked to be clear, but he wouldn’t guarantee that it would stay that way for long. There were enough Indians around to scout the whole countryside. But it was decided to move out anyway and they set off. The vanguard was three mounted men led by McAllister. Smith with the main body of miners walked with the wagon, keeping close, while the remainder of the mounted men acted as a rear-guard.

  McAllister liked what he saw of the men he was with. They had had knocked out of them the usual cockiness that such men displayed at the mention of Indians. They were scared enough now to be careful and determined.

  Smith and his men manhandled the wagon across the creek while McAllister and the advance guard kept watch from the gulch walls. There were a few long-distance shots from stray Indians as they worked their way south down the gulch, but nobody was hit. But as they left the creek and started to work their way through the hills, the sniping became heavier and more accurate. The little army held their fire, not being able to see the foe, and suffered on until McAllister, never a man to sit still under fire, gathered all the mounted men together and led several sorties out against the enemy. Thus he managed to keep their flanks clear until they reached the plain. Their pace was slow and they had barely reached the open before night came on them. They pushed on for several hours through the dark, but finally were halted by the tiredness of the animals.

  McAllister, after consulting with Smith and a few of the leading lights among the miners and after setting guards, found time to visit with Mrs. Tyson. He found that she was not sorry to be out of the gulch. She had not done badly while she had been there and was pleased by the marshal’s suggestion that she looked for a property in Malcolm. There was, he assured her, a good potential trade there. The place was still bursting at the seams with miners. Prices were high, but he would see to it that she received supplies.

  He rolled in his blankets knowing that he had made himself a friend. A damned handsome one at that. He’d be a mite happier if he was sure that she was not mixed up with Dix. Trust him to come on two women who could be suspected of being in with the enemy. Well, they were both pretty and that was some compensation. He slept soundly.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Dix found Paston drinking whiskey from a mug sitting on his bed in a rooming house on Bridie Street, Deadwood. He was passing himself off as a drummer. The Texan wasn’t pleased to see his gun-hand.

  “What in hell’re you doin’ here?” he asked.

  Dix, normally wary with Paston, but now bone-tired from the ride and his nerves shot, answered sharply. “We pulled outa the gulch.”

  Paston set his mug down with a meticulous care that showed his rage. He stood up slowly. “You pulled out?”

  “We’re all washed up there. Half the diggers’ve done the same. Too many Indians.”

  “Christ!” Paston said. “I thought you had sand.”

  “I didn’t see you there,” Dix told him.

  He thought the Texan was going to strike him, but he didn’t.

  “Did you bring any gold?”

  “Yeah. Duggan and Paul have it. Look, boss, we can operate this end just as good.”

  Paston sat down again. “We’ll have to.”

  Dix moved his feet uneasily. “But that ain’t all.”

  His tone made Paston jerk up his head and stare at him. “Tell it.”


  “McAllister.”

  “You ain’t goin’ to tell me he reached the gulch.”

  “I’m tellin’ you. Jumped into our business with both feet.”

  Paston waved him to silence and thought furiously. Finally, he gave Dix a drink and said: “Go fetch Duggan an’ Paul. I want that gold where I can see it and we have to talk.”

  Dix drank gratefully, wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and fetched the other two. The four of them talked for two hours, drinking and planning.

  When they broke up, Paston was in a better humor. He laughed and said: “All we want now is for the Indians to work for us.”

  “Why not?” Dix said. “We could talk it around town and in Malcolm that we know miners have been stopped and robbed by the Sioux on the road.”

  Paston snapped is fingers, pleased. “Say, that’s an idea. You do that. And Duggan, I want guns and the best. That McAllister puts his nose into our business again, he’ll get it blown clean off. Six Winchesters should settle his hash.”

  The men clattered out and Paston lay down on the bed, smiling. He was going to make his pile this time. Life was sweet. McAllister was going to meet his come-uppance and maybe if things turned out real good he’d go back and pick up little Miss Mann after all. With her, he could turn himself into a respectable wealthy man.

  Chapter Sixteen

  A Week passed.

  A shattering week for the whole country that bordered the Sioux territory. First a patrol of cavalry were attacked and scattered by the Indians not twelve miles outside Malcolm. The soldiers had it that the Sioux had attacked them in hordes hundreds strong, but the old-timers, McAllister among them, reckoned cynically that there had been maybe twenty of them. The fifteen-man patrol had lost three dead and two wounded.