* * *
He was up before dawn. He ate a little hard-tack, rolled his bedding and tied it behind the saddle. Then he rode to the creek, drank himself and watered the animals again, before he rode south along the edge of the creek toward the Comanchero camp. He reached it shortly after dawn when its inhabitants were starting to stir. He could see no sign of the Indians as he rode in.
He found the jefe smoking against his wheel and he wondered if the man had slept there. He looked unwashed and obscene in the cold morning light. For protection against the chill wind that blew from the north, the man had dragged a moth-eaten buffalo robe around him. He watched McAllister cynically as he dismounted. McAllister was tempted to find a good reason for punching the man on his nose.
“Where are the Indians?” McAllister asked without preamble.
The man shrugged.
“How am I to know? They were here. I do not see them now, so they will have gone. Where? I do not know. One day when they want to do business with me, they will return.”
McAllister squatted. Near the next wagon were gathering the men with their spears and bows, eyeing him distrustfully. McAllister could smell their fear and suspicion. They reminded him of coyotes who would bravely attack the wounded buffalo calf, but would flee from it if it butted one of them.
On second thoughts, he wondered if he wasn’t wrong. These people were go-betweens between two warring peoples. They survived by walking a tightrope, depending on the forebearance of both sides for their survival. If they put a foot wrong, both sides could kill them.
“Where did the Indians go?” McAllister urged. “You could make a guess.”
“A guess that could cost me my life. You know the unwritten rules. The Comanchero has the confidence of Indian and settler alike.”
“The Comanchero has the confidence of nobody.”
The man smiled and shrugged.
“Did Eagle Man mention a white woman for sale?”
“He may have done.”
“I have a fine rifle,” McAllister said.
He let the statement hang in the air. It stayed there between the two of them while he filled and fired his battered pipe. He got the smoke going like a well-stoked chimney, settled himself cross-legged on the ground as if he had all the time in the world.
The jefe was watching him through slitted eyes.
“I am looking for a certain woman,” McAllister went on.
“The man who helps me find her could possess that fine weapon.”
The little eyes gleamed.
“There would need to be ammunition for the rifle,” he said.
McAllister nodded, puffing.
“There’s ammunition.”
The jefe said: “It is not an easy matter. I know there are women with the bands, but there are many bands. I know that Iron Hand has three. The woman you seek could be with Iron Hand. But which is she?”
“Is there a way I can find what women are with Iron Hand?” McAllister asked.
“His band is the Bird Catchers. All the time fresh families join them. Iron Hand is a man with a terrible reputation, you must know. All the time he has fresh captives. It is not easy.”
“Can you find out?”
Fear flitted across the face of the fat man.
“If I knew, which I don’t, I could not tell you the names of the women. A man must live and a Comanchero lives by not talking.”
“There has to be some way I could find out.”
“Maybe. To handle the rifle would help.”
McAllister hesitated a moment, then he rose, went to the pack-mule and took down one of the single-shot Remington rifles he had taken from the Richards boys. He walked back and handed it to the jefe who took it with trembling hands. His excitement took him quite out of himself and he started to mumble joyously to himself. The men standing by the next cart came forward and crowded around, inspecting the rifle admiringly. McAllister knew he’d made a hit.
“A rifle,” he said, “is of little use without the ammunition.”
That seemed to throw a little cold water on them. They eyed him reproachfully.
“You are able to alter that situation, señor,” the fat man said.
“I could. But first you must tell me what I want to know.”
The man held out his hand. McAllister felt in his pocket and brought out three rounds. He tossed them to the fat man who at once opened the breech of the rifle.
McAllister said: “You load it and I’ll blow your head off.”
The fat man blinked. He stared hard at McAllister for a while until he seemed convinced that the tall man meant business.
“As you will,” he said and clicked the breech shut.
The other men murmured. One of them lifted his spear threateningly and the jefe spoke to him sharply. He subsided.
“Three rounds,” the fat man said, “are not much use to a hunter.”
“There are more when I hear what I want to hear.”
“There is a man, an old Yanqui. The Indians allow him to come and go.”
McAllister had heard of such a man. He had heard the name Walt Islop used in connection with him. It was said that he was a squaw-man and that he knew more about the Comanches than any other living soul. If he communicated with the Bird Catchers he would know what white women they held. This could be the chance for which he had been waiting. He didn’t let his interest show.
“Who is this man?”
“I do not know his name.”
“Does he move around with the Indians or does he stay put in one place?”
“Sometimes he moves, I have heard, but mostly he stays in one place. The Indians come to him because he is good with wounds taken in battle. They regard him as a medicine man. They never harm him.”
“Where do I find him?”
“There is the matter of the ammunition.”
McAllister rose again, went to his saddlebags and refilled his pockets with ammunition. He went back to the fat man and gave him three more rounds.
“This is not enough.”
“Nor is your information.”
The jefe gave that some thought. Finally, he said: “You go south-west from here. Two, maybe three days. You will hit the creek as it bends by noon if you ride now. Follow the creek until you come to a ford by two rocks shaped like the heads of men. These you cannot fail to see. When you have crossed the creek there, travel directly west until you reach the canyons. There are several, including the great canyon where the Indians live. There is grass there for their ponies and the ponies of Iron Hand are like the blades of grass in the numbers. The old white man lives in one of the smaller canyons.”
“Which one?”
“That I do not know and you must find for yourself.”
The fat man knew all right, McAllister thought, but he’s banking on me wandering around looking for it and getting myself killed. He’ll get word to the Bird Catchers I’m around. But he knew that he wouldn’t get any more out of the Comanchero. He gave the man another handful of shells, nodded and stepped into the saddle. He took up the mule’s line and rode through the camp in a south-westerly direction. He didn’t feel very gay and reckoned he had signed on for a whole lot of grief. The prospect of rescuing a pretty Texas lady from a fate worse than death or of earning five hundred dollars didn’t help to cheer him.
Five
He didn’t go the way the Comanchero had told him. He had enough trouble on his hands without courting any more. He didn’t trust the jefe who had undoubtedly taken note of the valuables he was carrying in the mule’s pack. A man who went to get a white captive back from the Indians would be carrying presents. The Comancheros had looked to be real handy with those spears and bows. And a man could die in the dawn with an arrow or a spear in his lights as easily as being hit by a lead bullet.
So he put good distance between himself and the camp and then changed direction, circling west and then coming to the creek from the north, riding with a chin on either shoulder and eyes aching fr
om looking for movement over great distances. To a man used to big country from childhood this country looked the biggest he had ever seen. No wonder the Comanche had taken to this stretch as the last defense against the whiteman. Here he had the distance which was his defense. Here was room to maneuver, room to hide. A hunted man could lose himself forever in distance.
He stepped up his pace a little, going trot, walk and dismount, finding that impatience was starting to rise in him. It was not going to be pleasant finding this old white man in his canyon with two or three hundred Comanches breathing down his neck and he wanted to get it over with. As he went on the feeling that he was being a damned fool and that if he had any sense he would turn back increased. He saw no living thing until the second day out on the plain and then he could not see even with the use of the glass whether he and a white man or he and an Indian avoided each other or not. He guessed it was an Indian and his unease grew.
When he finally reached the creek, he found that it was now no more than a trickle of water, though that was enough to refresh himself and his stock and refill the canteen. He missed the ford and the rocks that were like the heads of men and had to search up- and down-stream for them. He found them eventually near dark. The wind from the north had dropped and the heat was oppressive. Clouds scudded over the moon that night and he felt that he was in for a storm, but it didn’t come. When he woke in the morning he found the sky clear, the wind up again and the plain covered with a scattering of buffalo. He reckoned that there were something like five thousand animals in the herd and knew that there would be Indians around somewhere. This increased his uneasiness. He found high ground and gave the country a good sweeping with glasses. He found what he thought was an Indian hunting party to the east and circled around the herd to the north all the morning. During the afternoon he got clear of the animals and suddenly, when he least expected it, came to his first canyon.
Now was the time to stop and think. He had a very rough plan of the canyon country in his head and he had to work out the obvious place for Walt Islop to be, knowing all the while that he could be quite wrong. The whole idea of finding a lone whiteman in this vast area was foolish and he ought to grab at sanity and go back while the going was good. Maybe it was the thought of the white woman, the thought of the five hundred dollars or his own simple pride, or all three, but he decided to play a hand or two before he withdrew, knowing all the while that his crazy stubbornness would drive him on to the bitter end. Why, he asked himself, as he found himself some cover on the rimrock, couldn’t he settle down and marry, have kids, like any other sensible fellow. Then he wouldn’t go around studying how to get butterflies in his belly at regular intervals this way.
He looked over this first canyon and reckoned that it ran roughly east-west. He couldn’t see clearly from where he was but thought that he could make out where it ran into another to the west running north-south. That would be the great canyon where the Comanches liked to gather when they came south for the big hunt The buffalo were out there on the plain so it stood to reason that the big canyon was pretty full of Indians. So – steer clear of there for as long as you can, McAllister. Stay alive as long as you can.
From where he was, it looked pretty fair country down there. Some of the canyon looked pretty sun-blasted, but there was water down there and he could see some good green patches and even some timber. The thought of the shade and the cool tempted him, but he reckoned he wouldn’t be going down there till he had to. He had heard that the great canyon was green from end to end and a treat for sun-sore eyes. There was grass there for a thousand ponies.
Now, he thought, seeing what he thought was the plan of the canyons in his head, Islop ought to be somewhere to the west, unless he was somewhere in the very canyon beneath him. There was always the chance of that.
One thing he was certain of, for the next day or two, while he made his search, he was going to go quieter than a cat. The last thing he wanted was trouble with a small ranging party of young bucks out for scalps. One dead Indian could ruin everything. He had to convince Iron Hand that he wasn’t out for trouble. Maybe he had to show them that he could be big trouble if crossed, but he didn’t want a fight till he got the woman out of there. The chances of a fight after he got her out were high enough as it was. Even if he managed to buy her from Iron Hand that didn’t mean some scalp-happy buck wouldn’t come after them.
He started chewing on hard tack, not daring to light a fire. Suddenly, there was something in his mouth beside hard tack. It was his heart.
He heard metal chink on stone.
The canelo whinnied from a few yards away where it was tied. The mule started to bray.
McAllister cursed, scooped up the Henry and popped his head out of cover for a look. The sight that met his eyes almost brought them out of his head.
Not a halfmile away, coming toward him at a steady walk along the edge of the canyon, was a party of riders. He didn’t need the glass to tell him that they were white men. That was an iron shoe he had heard hit rock and they were well-armed with rifles that he could see glittering in the sun. He couldn’t see too clearly, but he guessed there were more than a dozen men there with pack animals on their lines.
He groaned.
There could be little doubt who they were. The only armed men who would venture into this kind of Indian country in any force were either buffalo-hunters or Texas Rangers. There weren’t any wagons present, so that meant they were Rangers. And they would be hunting Indians or had been hunting Indians. Either way, Iron Hand wouldn’t be in the mood for negotiating the release of a white captive. Anyroad, if Iron Hand was attacked either the captives would be spirited away or they’d be killed. If ever McAllister had hated the Rangers, it was then.
Another sound, in the opposite direction, brought his head around. Two riders were walking their horses toward him from the north. He started to duck for cover, but it was plain they had seen him.
He walked out to meet them.
One was a whiteman and the other was an Indian. A Delaware at a guess. They looked like they had been in the saddle a long time and had come a long way. Their horses were ganted down as they were. They halted and lifted their hands in greeting. McAllister knew they were scouts for the other party.
“Howdy,” the white man said. The Indian eyed McAllister steadily, his face impassive. He was a handsome man of middle years, dressed in white man’s garb and with a good repeating rifle across the saddlebow.
“Howdy,” McAllister returned. “I didn’t look for so much company way out here.”
“Likewise,” said the man. “Who’re you an’ what’re you doin’ here?”
The question was blunt and McAllister didn’t know that he liked it.
“Remington McAllister,” he said. “I’m out here for my health.”
The man smiled.
“Tell that to the captain,” he said. “He’ll laugh like hell. He likes a good laugh does the captain.”
“Who is he?”
“Newby.”
McAllister nodded. He knew Newby who had known McAllister’s father. He was an old hand and tough. He hated Indians and it was his pleasure to hunt them. The only good Indian was a dead one. Newby had seen too many frontier raids to think any different. They were vermin to be exterminated. Ten years on and off he had been leading raids against them. Men said it was his ambition to kill Iron Hand personally.
“Ketch up your animals,” the ranger said. “We’ll go see the captain.”
McAllister knew that he was virtually a prisoner. There was no bucking these two. He went and packed his gear and loaded the mule. When he led the animals out into the open the two men eyed his pack with interest. He mounted and they rode toward the body of horsemen.
The main body of rangers halted. McAllister rode up to them and dismounted. Newby stepped down and walked toward him. He was much as McAllister remembered him although they hadn’t seen each other in several years. Newby was still tall and gaunt with watchful bl
ue eyes, faded from the sun and deep in his head. His tawny beard was now heavily flecked with gray. He wore a hogleg that looked a yard long at his right hip and carried a light repeating carbine in his hand. His faded gray shirt was black with sweat and his gun-barrel chaps over serge pants were scarred and torn. He looked tired, but McAllister knew this was misleading, he always looked tired.
“Hello, Rem,” he said. “Long time no see.”
“Howdy, captain.”
“Seems like I allus has McAllisters in my hair. If’n it ain’t the old dog-wolf it’s the pup.” Newby scratched his bearded chin.
McAllister said: “I ain’t in your hair, captain. I’m just riding, minding my own business.
The other men watched, showing no interest, some jaws moving on chews. McAllister ran his eyes over them and reckoned he had never seen a tougher crew. He didn’t doubt that any Indian they spotted would be shot on sight.
“Do tell,” Newby said. “A McAllister that minds his own business. That’s something new.”
He moved his chew-plug to the other cheek and spat.
“What do you want to know?”
Newby cocked his head and squinted one eye.
“Go ahead, son,” he said, “tell the old man what you’re doin’here an’ no foolin’.”
Men started to dismount and stretch their legs. They could see their commander was in no hurry.
“I’m locating a captive.”
“On your lonesome?”
“Yep.”
“You’re as crazy as your old man.”
“Ain’t I?”
“Who’s the captive?”
“Mrs. Bourn.”
“I heard about her. One reason why we’re here. That an’ the kid ’at got hisself killed.” The captain thought a little. “You don’t stand a snowball’s chance in hell. You know that?”
McAllister Rides Page 4
