McAllister 2

by Matt Chisholm

  As he stared at the tiny, creeping figures, it seemed impossible that they represented men who could love and hate, who could ride down on a party of Mexicans and wipe them out for a heap of gold. Because that was what he thought was in Southern’s mind. The chain of events which had led to this moment had to add up to just that. There could be no other explanation. Now this moment had come, now that he had all those men in his sights and under his hand, giving him the power of life and death, he weighed the several futures that lay awaiting him. If there were Crewsville men back there he had known for a good many years and he killed just one of them, maybe he would hang and deserve to hang. Maybe there were men there who had been talked into catching a hardened criminal. Two hardened criminals. At the same time they could be a part of this whole bad deal. Charlie Arbiter, Jack Clegg, maybe more could be in cahoots with the sheriff. Maybe even the girl.

  Play it alone, McAllister, he told himself. Alone you came into the world, so you might as well play it through to the end alone. What the hell difference did it make? Put the chance of a rope aside. Sit alone for a moment with your own conscience. That was all that mattered when you got down to it.

  Now he could make out some details of the horses and riders. The Indian was out in front, dismounting now because the trail had become so perilous. It was too steep and too narrow. He could feel the man’s caution. He reckoned some of the possemen behind him were feeling even more cautious.

  He sighted ahead of the Indian. It was a long shot, but not a difficult one to a man like McAllister who enjoyed the challenge of a greater range. It was the same when he handled a pistol. He might not be a showy gun handler, but he could hit almost anything he wanted at a hundred paces. He smiled to himself with grim amusement when he remembered the gunmen who had expected him to come within a third of that distance for a lethal shot. It helped a lot to know your guns, of course. And this old Henry had been with him a good many years. The same as the old Remington revolver he wore, it was like an extension of himself.

  He fired and at once levered a new round into the breech.

  His quick glance touched the Indian and darted to the rearmost man of the file.

  The Indian had halted and stood staring across the valley. No doubt he had spotted the drifting rifle smoke. The whole file came to a halt. He could feel the nervousness of the men as they held their animals as still as they could on the narrow trail. The Indian’s horse, nearest to where the bullet had struck rock, was spooking. The Indian held its bridle. McAllister could almost hear the man’s voice as he tried to calm it.

  While they still stayed where they were, McAllister quickly shifted his position. He did not envy any of those men. They would not be able to turn and go back. Pretty soon he would have them too scared to go forward.

  When he took up his new position, he could see that the Indian was still having trouble with his horse. He could also see that men were pulling their rifles from scabbards. He fired again, this time aiming behind the last man. This was an even longer shot, so, for safety’s sake, he gave the target a wider margin. He saw the last man jump as he fired. His horse was kicking with both hind legs. There was panic in every line of the man’s body.

  Then somebody over there shouted. His voice was shrill with alarm.

  McAllister spotted him. The second man from the front. That was Southern. McAllister fired a third shot. This time, he put it close over the sheriff’s head. He watched the man freeze. The Indian’s horse was fighting to free its head. In despair, the man released it. It started to back and ran its rump into Southern who pressed himself back hard against the cliff face.

  Now, thought McAllister, we are beginning to get somewhere.

  Southern began to scream something incomprehensible to McAllister at the top of his voice.

  McAllister saw the smoke and heard the impact of the bullets before he heard their reports. He got his head down and crawled on his belly to a new position. The firing stopped.

  When he looked again, the Indian had one of his lines in his hand and was trying to pull the animal forward. At first the animal resisted, then suddenly changed its mind and consented to follow.

  There was nothing McAllister hated more than having to shoot a horse. He had had too many good ones in his life.

  He swore a little to himself and aimed with enormous care. He knew that he was asking too much of himself. Just the same, he had to try. It was better than shooting men.

  He fired.

  He knew he had hit the animal in the rump. He hoped he had done no more than crease it.

  The horse erupted. It seemed to rear and to throw itself against the face of the cliff. The next moment its hind legs went over the edge. Its thin shriek of terror reached McAllister and for a moment it appeared to clutch at the ledge with its forefeet. Then, with a sickening abruptness, it seemed to pitch far out into space. It hit the precipitous slope a hundred feet below and bounced as it went on to the base of the V.

  The effect on the others was electric. Automatically they dropped their horses’ lines as if they were too hot to handle. They crouched back against the cliff as if they feared they too would go over the edge. The man at the rear of the file abandoned his horse and ran back down the narrow trail, his left hand touching the rock as he went. He leaned away fearfully from the chasm.

  McAllister levered the Henry.

  Southern was screaming an order again. He had his rifle up and was shooting.

  McAllister ducked down and shifted his position again. When he took another look from his new position, Southern was still firing. McAllister put a shot between him and the Indian. Southern lay down against the rock wall. The Indian started running forward.

  “That,” said McAllister out loud, “is something we cannot have.”

  He placed a shot in front of the running man, but he ran on. McAllister thought: We don’t want that son-of-a-bitch reading sign even on foot.

  Now he had to shoot with the greatest care. He could not afford many misses or the man would reach cover. His grim humor came into play again. The further the man ran, the further he would have to crawl back.

  He fired.

  The man ran on.

  McAllister ripped off some rich profanity and jacked a new round into the breech. The second shot was made faster, but was none the worse for that. The Indian went down. In fact, he nearly went over the edge, but managed to save himself.

  Now that the first hit of the fight had been made, the posse seemed to really get it into its corporate head that if it tried to advance, it would be shot. They started to abandon their horses and to start back. McAllister laid a shot near Southern. The man sprang to his feet and started back along the ledge as fast as he dared. The tracker was yelling that he was hit bad and somebody would have to help him. For all the attention the others paid him, they might have been deaf. It did not take the wounded man long to realize that he did not have many friends in the posse. He started crawling, dragging his left leg painfully.

  McAllister thought: Poor bastard. All he'll get in return is a few dollars and a bottle of whiskey.

  He fired a couple more shots to keep them moving, then he decided there was little more he could do there. So he crawled away until he was clear of the valley, rose to his feet and broke into a run.

  As he mounted his horse, he wondered how long the posse would have enough scare in them to shrink from the idea of following. One thing he was sure of— that tracker was out of the game for a while.

  Sixteen

  He halted when he heard the horse ahead of him. It was coming in his direction. He turned his own horse into the rocks and slipped from the saddle. He had no sooner levered a round into the breech of the Henry than the rider came into sight.

  It was the girl.

  He stepped out of cover and she reined in.

  “What happened?” he asked.

  “I am here to ask you that.”

  “No,” he said, “I don’t believe it. You weren’t damn fool enough to
ride back here … Christ, don’t I have enough on my mind without having to worry about you all the time?”

  She smiled angelically.

  “You don’t know how wonderful it is to have you so concerned, McAllister.” He said something that was not generally said in front of respectable females at that time. She did not look shocked. He walked into the rocks and fetched his horse. When he was in the saddle, she said: “Well, what did happen?”

  “I fired a few shots when they reached the narrow trail. I reckon they’ll hesitate a while before they start after us again.” She turned her horse and they started back. He said: “Have you forgotten that your man was killed by Indians? You must be out of your mind.”

  “I was out of my mind worrying about you? Is that so unnatural?”

  “I’ve been through this kind of thing before, Pilar. I am a grown man. I can look after myself.”

  “Ah—I know the situation is familiar to you, even to having a woman worrying over you, McAllister. But you must remember that it is all new to me. I have never before had a man to worry over.” He laughed. “There’s nothing I can say to that—and you know it.”

  They reached an open vega and, as they did so, a horse and rider burst from the tree on the far side of it. McAllister saw that it was old Charlie Arbiter. McAllister groaned and said: “Now what?”

  “Charlie wanted to come with me, but I would not allow him. But you see …”

  Charlie came on fast and reined in like a wild vaquero. He looked so old and frail that McAllister expected him to fall out of the saddle.

  “So you’re all in one piece still,” crackled the old man. “You, McAllister, I mean. Damn fool goin’ off an’ bein’ a goddam hero.”

  “Like you said, Charlie, I’m paid to protect you.”

  The old man gave him a strange look. “Did you hit anybody?” he asked.

  “The Indian.”

  Did the old man look relieved? Charlie turned his horse and they rode forward at a steady pace. McAllister was puzzled. There was something here he did not understand. He knew for sure that Charlie had been laying a trail. But why should he be so concerned for McAllister’s safety if he was planning to have this outfit over taken by the sheriff’s crowd? But, McAllister asked himself, could you be certain of anything in this vale of tears?

  McAllister said to the girl: “Old Charlie here’s been layin’ a trail so the fellers behind can follow us with no trouble at all. How about that?”

  “You lyin’ son-of-a-bitch,” the old man screamed, turning on McAllister in fury. “I ain’t done no such thing.”

  “Old man,” said McAllister, “I’ve been pickin’ beans up all along the trail. You had a pocket full of beans. That can only add up to one thing.”

  “Like hell it can,” cried Charlie. “I can think of a dozen different reasons why I should have a pocketful of beans.”

  “Such as?”

  “I been pickin’ beans up like you did?”

  The girl was looking from one to the other of them in astonishment.

  “You didn’t,” said McAllister. “I can prove it.”

  “How in hell do you prove a thing like that?”

  “Pilar’s been watchin’ you.”

  Charlie glared at the girl as if she had betrayed him.

  “Jesus,” he said. “What kind of a deal is this? It sounds like a goddam conspiracy.”

  “So why do you have a pocketful of beans, Charlie?”

  The old man reined in hard. The others brought their animals to a halt and watched him. He said: “I told you a lie. I didn’t pick ’em up. I took ’em off the feller that’s been droppin ’em.”

  “Who?”

  The old man looked evasive.

  “It ain’t no-never-mind,” he said. “All that matters is I stopped him. He won’t lay no more trails, that’s for sure.”

  “Oh, no?” said McAllister. “You mean there’s no other way of leavin’ a trail than droppin’ beans? You can’t believe that.”

  “I got my eye on this feller,” Charlie said, looking stubborn.

  The girl said: “Charlie, this man could get us all killed.”

  The old man looked away and mumbled: “Mebbeso. Forget it. Just forget it, I tell you.”

  “Like you owe me a hundred dollars I’ll forget it,” said McAllister. “Let’s get on, we can’t sit around here jawin’ all day.”

  They lifted their lines and put their animals in motion.

  ~*~

  When they reached the others, they were given curious glances. Nobody asked what the shots they must have heard portended. Everyone in the party seemed sullen and uncommunicative. It was as though, McAllister told himself, everybody there had suddenly grown suspicious of one another. Maybe, he thought, that was because they must be getting near to the gold. Bringing his mount alongside Charlie’s, he asked the old man quietly: “How near the gold are we, Charlie? I have to know.”

  Charlie looked down at his hands and said: “Maybe a day, maybe a mite more. From here on, I lead.” He kicked his horse into action and rode forward down the column. To every man he passed, he said: “From here on, I lead,” until he reached the head of the column. Jack Clegg, who had been riding point, at once turned back and joined McAllister in the rear.

  In almost a whisper, he said: “I reckon this is just about it, Rem. How about it? Do we settle these greasers’ hash?”

  McAllister said: “Not before they find the gold, Jack.”

  Clegg laughed uneasily and said: “Of course not.”

  McAllister could read the man’s dead eyes like a foul book. There was more to this man Clegg than he had seen at first. He had a sudden and absolute conviction that this fellow would shoot him in the back as soon as look at him. He cursed the moment when he had decided to come on this crazy trip. How had he gotten into it in the first place? Then he looked at the girl riding slim and upright ahead and he knew he was wrong in the head and did not regret coming one little bit. However, he looked forward to the next few days with something like dread. His task was going to be an almost impossible one. He would need an iron nerve, eyes in the back of his head and more luck than could ever be expected by a reasonable man. He realized that lack of sleep was beginning to tell on him and that his reactions might be slowed disastrously. Why then didn’t he simply ask the girl to get out with him and ride away?

  He knew that he had never ridden away from this kind of a cleft stick in his life. He was getting too damned old to change now. Just the same, he owed something to the girl, didn’t he?

  Just what did he owe to the girl?

  A hell of a note. He owed her … there had been those few hours with her in his arms … she did not seem to be the kind of woman to give herself lightly. Maybe she had been serious for other reasons than the obvious. If it had been her intention to join this gold-hunt ... his mind was getting in a tangle. Did a man have to be suspicious of every living creature? Had trust gone completely by the board? Sure, it had. If a man wanted to survive, suspicion was his mainstay in life. But he knew he could not go all the way with that kind of thought. If a man believed in nothing, there was no point in surviving.

  ~*~

  The terrain was changing abruptly.

  Charlie had led them up a high ridge of soft dust and shale and now took them down into a small valley with sloping sides that quickly gave way to a narrow, jagged and meandering canyon. The sun was abruptly blotted out. McAllister looked up and saw the great yawning mouth of the cavern looming darkly above him. It was almost too big to be called a cavern. It was as if a great part of the body of the mountain had been torn out by a giant hand. From ground to roof, it must have measured five or six hundred feet. It was so deep that its furthest depths were lost in darkness. In such titanic recesses did the ancient Indians build themselves homes, safe from attack by the wild tribes. But there was no sign of a settlement here.

  Charlie now turned directly towards it. McAllister thought: We’re near now.

  Some u
nheard and unseen signal seemed to stop them all. They stayed still, listening. Even the little burros seemed to listen. Then, without a word spoken, they all moved forward and up, slowly mounting until they passed under the outer edge of the great roof. They lifted their eyes and looked into deep shadow. The sound of the animals’ hooves became strangely distorted. They all felt minute and unimportant under the vault of this cathedral of rock. Charlie Arbiter led the way on into the deep shadow at the rear of the cave. From the rear, McAllister watched him disappear into the gloom followed by the others, one after the other. The air here was still and warm, seeming to hold him a soft grip. The past pressed in on him as it had failed to do in the great outside. Here was the presence of the ancient Spaniards and the even older Indians before them, men with stone tools and skins for clothing. Something white off to his right, half-buried in the dust, caught his eye and he saw that it was a human skull. One eye-socket showed, arch and empty. Somewhere ahead of him, a man coughed and the sound echoed dully.

  Then he himself was engulfed in the darkness and the silence, a silence that persisted beyond the soft sound of the animals’ hooves. For a moment, he was all Indian and he felt the dread of the countless souls which had been here before him. The sensation lasted no more than a moment, then the nineteenth-century man came back into place.

  Charlie was saying something up ahead. Slowly his words were passed down the line. Men were stepping down from their saddles. He saw the dim shape of the girl slip to the ground. A man in front of him said in Spanish: “Dismount.” He stepped down. The line trudged forward. Word came back for him to mind his head. It was not until he reached a hand above him that he found he was hemmed in above closely by rock. He stretched out a hand to the left and found a gritty sandstone wall. The way grew narrower and the horse was forced to walk behind him. A moment later, he was stooping under the low roof. Right ahead of him, Jack Clegg swore foully, the first words he had spoken since coming here.

  They seemed to walk thus for a long time. The air grew still and close for a while and McAllister began to suffer from the unpleasant sensation of being buried alive. Soon, every fiber of his body ached to be out in the open air again. Sounds drifted back to him, tunneled and twisted by the narrow rock gallery. He could smell the fear of the men in front of him. Once he heard Clegg mutter almost despairingly to himself: “Christ, I never bargained for nothin’ like this.”