McAllister 2

by Matt Chisholm

  “How about a woman?”

  She smiled. “Maybe that sounds rather nice.”

  “How about you cutting and running with me?”

  Her smile faded. She shook her head. “No. I have made up my mind to the gold. Unless you can promise me its equivalent …”

  It was his turn to shake his head. “No, ma’am, I can’t promise you anything of the kind. A lot of fun, but not much gold. I guess the McAllisters were never too clever with gold.”

  “How about Indians?” she said. “I’ve just seen one up in the rocks yonder.”

  Thirteen

  McAllister stood up, stretched and yawned.

  He said: “Pass the word quietly to the others. I’m going to the horses. Everybody should quietly get into cover.”

  “I’ll do it,” she said, “but I would rather stay with you.”

  “That’s nice, ma’am. Maybe some other time.” He picked up his Henry and strolled through the brush and trees to the horses. Charlie Arbiter was searching for his hideaway. When he saw McAllister he looked like the cougar that had swallowed the rattler.

  “Now you keep away from me, man,” he shouted.

  McAllister said: “Indians, Charlie.”

  The old man stopped dead—“Huh?”

  “Indians. Pick up that rifle of yours and get into cover. They can only be after the horses.”

  For a moment, the old man seemed petrified. Then he seemed to gather himself together. He picked up his rifle and went at a sharp trot for the nearest rocks. McAllister stayed where he was, but with ears and eyes sharp. They waited five or ten minutes without anything happening. McAllister said to himself: I didn’t see an Indian. But why the hell should she tell a lie about that? An idea struck him and he decided to walk back to camp. He started through the trees and was about to walk out into the open when, behind him, he heard Charlie’s shriek of terror. The next second, his rifle went off with a sharp crack. McAllister started back on the run.

  The horses were hobbled, but they were trying to escape. They were rolling their eyes in alarm, thoroughly spooked. Charlie suddenly appeared, running aimlessly from the rocks. McAllister looked around, but he could not see another living soul. Had the horses been alarmed by anything more than the shriek and the shot?

  “So where’re the Indians, dad?”

  The old man stopped in his run and peered around with myopic eyes. He seemed astounded to see McAllister. “Indians?” he exclaimed.

  “Yes, Indians. You shot at them, didn’t you?”

  “Sure, I shot at him.”

  “But you didn’t hit him.”

  “What makes you think I didn’t hit him? Sure, I hit him.”

  “Then where is he?”

  The old man started to cackle with wild and uncontrollable laughter. “He ain’t gone no place, that’s for sure. Go take a look.”

  McAllister wondered if this could be a trick. But he knew the old man’s singleshot rifle was empty. He darted past Charlie and entered the rocks. He almost stumbled over the man lying on the ground.

  McAllister stared down at him, almost unable to believe the evidence of his eyes.

  This man was an Indian all right and an Apache at that. He lay on his back with his mouth wide in a yell, his eyes staring blankly at the blue sky above. Maybe the girl was telling me the truth.

  Beside the Indian lay a short cavalry carbine. McAllister picked it up. If there were more Indians about, they might as well be a gun short. He walked out of the rocks and he knew that his nerves were starting to jump. Where there was a dead Apache, there had to be live ones. The hair on the nape of his neck was starting to creep.

  He said to Charlie in the calmest voice he could muster: “Drive the horses in, Charlie, and be damned quick about it.”

  The old man danced with rage—“Who the hell’re you givin’ goddam orders to, McAllister?”

  McAllister told him: “I’m tryin’ to save your fool neck.”

  The old man said crazily: “It was me shot the Indian, boy. You didn’t shoot no Indian.”

  “But I’m goin’ to shoot an old man if he don’t do like I say. Aw, what’s the use?”

  McAllister started at a run for the far side of the horses with the intention of driving them back through the trees to the camp. They started skittering this way and that. McAllister swore. He had a sudden and totally disconcerting feeling that the whole crazy situation was coming apart.

  Somebody burst through the trees and he saw that it was the girl. Thankfully, he saw that she had a gun in her hands. He yelled for her to help get the horses in.

  A gun boomed from the direction of the camp.

  He glimpsed a shadowy figure flitting through the trees behind the girl. He yelled for her to run and she reacted immediately, running hard towards him. The next moment, he saw a man down on one knee with a rifle leveled. McAllister dropped the old cavalry carbine and slapped the butt of the Henry into his shoulder. He fired instantly and saw bark fly from a tree trunk. Then came the blossom of black smoke from the gun of the kneeling man. The bullet passed no more than six inches from McAllister’s head which, in his opinion, was too close for comfort. He jacked another round into the breech and fired again. Only then did he realize that the man had magically vanished.

  The girl reached him.

  He found a sudden grin for her. “I thought you were lyin’ about the Indian you saw. That’ll learn me.”

  His mind was searching for what to do next. The position was an impossible one. He wanted his party in the saddle and moving on from here fast. But if there were many Indians, that would be suicidal. If he left the horses and joined the rest of the party, that would leave the horses ready for lifting. Without the horses, the Mexicans and Charlie might as well give up the ghost. So, he thought, at all costs, he had to stay with the animals.

  Charlie was busy ramming a fresh round into the breech of his rifle. He was dancing from one foot to another in an agitated kind of a way. A man came running through the trees and McAllister nearly shot him. Just in time, he saw that it was Salvador.

  “Where are the Indians?” he demanded.

  McAllister told him: “Well, we know there’s two at least and Charlie killed one.”

  At that moment, there came a light clatter of hooves above them to the west. McAllister turned and glimpsed a man crouched over the neck of a racing horse. A second and loose horse ran beside him. McAllister took careful aim with the Henry, but the man was gone from sight before he could fire. The hoofbeats died away.

  McAllister listened carefully, but the only sounds he could hear were the alarmed shouts of the men in camp. McAllister bitterly regretted the man who got away. He would now take the news of his comrade’s death and the presence of the horses and burros to his friends. Before long they would have a whole band of very efficient Apaches breathing down their necks.

  The girl said: “Now do you believe that it was Indians who killed Jesus?”

  He said: “I believe it. Now, let’s drive these animals in.”

  As they started to chase the animals through the trees, Charlie Arbiter followed them shouting: “I was the only one to kill an Indian. Christ, I don’t know why the hell we hired you an’ that Jack Clegg, McAllister. You ain’t worth two cents’ worth of cold piss between you.”

  When they reached camp, the Mexicans and Clegg were looking alarmed, but they did not look as bad as McAllister expected. Manuel had stopped talking and he looked pretty resolute. When McAllister bawled out for everybody to get saddled up, they obeyed him without argument and made a fast job of it. When Charlie was in the saddle, McAllister approached him and said quietly: “You know how those Indians found us, Charlie? They followed your beans.”

  The old man said: “Aaaaaah!” in disgusted dismissal of the suggestion.

  Then McAllister told Clegg: “Ride drag, Jack. I’ll go point from here on.”

  The man did not argue. His quietness told McAllister that he was thinking of cutting and running. Th
e girl walked her horse up to McAllister and he told her: “Watch Clegg, girl.”

  She gave him a smile and said: “I’m watching all of them. And you.” McAllister rode to the head of the little column, looked back to check they were all ready and rode forward.

  Fourteen

  Nothing more happened that day.

  They climbed till dark and then went into a cold and dry camp. They were on a bench which seemed to hang between heaven and earth. The only good thing to be said about the place was that it seemed fairly safe from attack. A cliff of bare, unscalable rock reared a thousand feet above them and part of the bench was covered by an overhang of rock about a hundred feet above them. They were, Salvador told him, now very near to the mass of high caves. Surprisingly, the bench was grassy. It extended longways for about a quarter of a mile. In width it was no more than a couple of hundred feet. Either end of the bench could be blocked by brush, so it was easy to contain the animals. Everybody agreed that it would be foolhardy to light a fire. They ate a cold meal washed down with water. They allowed the animals a little water each, which they gave to them in their hats.

  McAllister sought out Salvador and asked him what quantity of gold they would be taking out.

  “I have no idea,” the man told him. “You should ask Carlos or Ignacio.” McAllister tried Ignacio who was instantly suspicious. “Why do you ask this? How does it concern you?”

  “Let me put it another way,” McAllister said. “If we lose the burros and the horses, can we still walk out of these hills with your gold?”

  Ignacio replied: “We will worry about that when the time comes. Meanwhile, we have hired you to keep us alive and keep our horses and burros. Let us hear no more about us losing our animals.” McAllister sought his blanket, propped himself against his saddle and lit his pipe with his hands cupping the lucifer’s flame. Somebody came and sat down beside him.

  McAllister put his hand on the butt of his Remington under cover of the blanket.

  “Rem?” It was old Charlie Arbiter. For the moment a very subdued old man. “Rem, do you really reckon I would do a crazy thing like leavin’ a trail for that bastard Southern to follow?”

  Charlie sounded sincere. Harry Sargent had been very sincere down in El Paso the minute before he tried to blow McAllister’s head off. Sincerity did not cut any ice with McAllister from that day on.

  McAllister said: “Let’s say I was a mite surprised, Charlie.”

  “You gotta believe I didn’t do it, Rem. I done some pretty low-down things in my misbegotten life, but, hell, I didn’t never do a thing like that.”

  “I believe you, Charlie,” said McAllister. He didn’t believe him and he didn’t disbelieve him. He had suspended judgment.

  The old man’s shaky hand fell on McAllister’s shoulder for a moment.

  “I appreciate that, Rem,” he said. “By God, you won’t regret siding with me this way, boy. I’ll see you rich.”

  “That’ll be nice, Charlie,” McAllister said. “I think I’d really like bein’ rich.”

  The old man chuckled pleasantly. “Never met nobody that didn’t.” He rose and added: “Goodnight to you, son,” and walked away into the darkness.

  Almost immediately another figure took his place. McAllister groaned. He wanted nothing but to lie there and smoke his pipe while he thought.

  “Would it cause a scandal if I slept near you, McAllister?”

  It was the girl. McAllister put his pipe away.

  He smiled to himself in the darkness and said: “Ma’am, if you sleep on your lonesome you can only lose your life. If you sleep by me you might lose somethin’ more precious.”

  Her chuckle was more fetching than Charlie’s.

  She said: “That’s something you would not get through stealing. It has to be given.” She settled down beside him.

  “I’m hopin’ you feel generous,” he said.

  They lay side by side in silence for a while, then she said: “A woman can be brave only some of the time. Much like a man. In the night it might comfort her to reach out and know that she will touch a man.”

  “Just any old man?”

  “No, señor, not if she is my kind of woman.”

  When she came to him, he found that the rawhide look of her body was deceptive. Her body was firm, but it was pliant and sweet. Her mouth was as soft as a flower petal under his. It opened a little with a kind of tender acceptance. The slim hand behind his head held their mouths together.

  He thought, while he could still think straight: This feels like I’m hooked for good this time.

  Fifteen

  Somebody was shaking him.

  He came clean awake, totally aware of where he was and what situation he was in, but he had forgotten the girl till he heard her whisper: “Listen.” He lifted his head from the saddle and listened. When he heard the sounds from below, he thought: My God, what’s gotten into me? I slept through a racket like that.

  A party of horsemen was passing along the trail below the bench. It was five hundred feet below their position at the base of a cliff that high, but the sound carried clearly up to them on the clear, quiet night air. He could hear the distinct sound of iron shoes striking rock and the more muted sound of bridle chains. Once he heard a human voice.

  In the darkness, he reached for his rifle and found it. He knew with startling clarity that, if it was Southern below them, the posse could be on them by dawn.

  “Wake the others as quiet as you know how,” he told the girl. He was pulling on his boots.

  “What will we do?” Pilar asked.

  “Get the hell out of here,” he said, and mentally retraced their steps of the day before. He knew that he was automatically searching for a place where the posse could be stopped. “Tell them to saddle up and prepare to move. Make it quick now. Every minute can count from here on.”

  She knew urgency when she heard it; but she took a moment to kiss him quickly. He liked that. It was good to know a woman who got her priorities right. He slapped her bottom and told her she was a good girl. She held on tight to his hand briefly and said: “Be careful, my heart.” That sounded just right in Spanish. Then she was gone and he heard her waking Ignacio who was a dozen paces away. Boots on, he shrugged himself into his coat, strapped on his gun and checked that he had shells in his pockets. He found his rope and headed for the animals. Manuel was on guard there, asleep. McAllister woke him and told him they were moving. The Mexican started talking, but McAllister told him to shut his mouth, the posse was almost on top of them. Manuel was suddenly all business.

  McAllister found his horse with some difficulty in the dim starlight and snubbed a rope on him. Within minutes he had the animal back in camp and was getting his saddle and gear aboard.

  Charlie Arbiter came rushing up, all alarm. McAllister tried to calm him. “Charlie, you an’ the others push ahead. Everythin’ rests with speed now. I’m goin’ back to perform a few delayin’ tactics.”

  “That’s hellish risky, boy.”

  “That’s what I’m bein’ paid for, Charlie. Remember?”

  “Aw, hell, son, I didn’t mean for you to get yourself killed dead.”

  “I don’t mean for me to either, Charlie. Now, git.”

  He was up in the saddle with the others bustling around him, men torn between haste and need for silence. A burro started braying and somebody cursed it beautifully in Spanish. The girl was beside his horse, a hand on his knee.

  “Did I hear you tell Charlie you were going back there?”

  “Yep.”

  “You must be crazy. At least take Clegg with you.”

  “He’s the last man I want, honey. You just watch that boy.”

  “McAllister, don’t do it. Please.”

  Why did a woman always want you to be a hero and never want you to take risks?

  “Pilar,” he said in English, “I’ve done this a good many times before an’ I’m still alive an’ kicking.”

  What she wanted to tell him was somethin
g that would not sound right in English. In her own language, she said: “I shall not live until you return to me.” He bent, kissed her and kicked the horse into action.

  He rode as fast as was safe in the dark, down the bench to the place where they had entered it. He dismounted to remove the brush, then tied the horse among the rocks and brush there. The chore he had to do was best done afoot. If he was where horses could not go, he stood a better chance.

  He walked about a mile until he came to a small V-shaped valley, almost small enough to be called a gully. The trail along which the posse would have to come was on the left-hand arm of the V. It climbed steeply. He went down into the depth of the V and climbed fast until he was high on the right-hand arm of the V. He knew Southern could not reach the spot until after daylight. If McAllister could catch the riders halfway up that steep and narrow trail, they would be entirely at his mercy.

  He made himself comfortable, took out his ancient pipe, filled it with foul, black tobacco (a pigtail which he had bought from a sailor at Galveston) and fit up. He puffed away with entire satisfaction. The smoke soothed him and he allowed himself to half-doze, a condition which allowed him to rest with his eyes open.

  Thus he watched the dawn come up.

  ~*~

  An hour later, he wished he’d had breakfast and he thought wistfully of a cup of piping hot coffee. Instead he had to content himself with a few cuts of jerky from his pocket where it lay along with his ammunition.

  An hour later still, he began to think that he had made the biggest mistake of his career, because nobody appeared on the narrow trail. The awful thought that somehow that Mohave of Southern’s knew some secret way of getting ahead of Charlie’s party brought a first flutter of panic with it.

  Then the young sun touched the barrel of a rifle and another and another. The horsemen came silently on to the trail at a distance of about a mile. Small creeping figures which looked no larger than ants. He moved back into the rocks. He started to feel better. For a moment, he had imagined the girl under fire and he had not liked the thought at all.