McAllister 1

by Matt Chisholm

  I thought I heard a slight disturbance among the horses, but I couldn’t be sure.

  Not one of the sleeping forms below me stirred. So far so good. I suppose something like ten minutes had passed before there came a piercing whistle. In the rocks, it was impossible to tell where it came from. It didn’t really matter because suddenly all those horses came alive and hell seemed to break loose. There came the unmistakable sound of horses taking fright and starting to run. Neighs filled the night air. Hoofs hammered on rock. I heard the whole bunch take off south, going through the rocks like a hurricane. Dust filled the air and even reached me where I was hidden in the rocks. The whole Indian camp exploded into life.

  And I, hands damp with cold sweat, started shooting, levering and triggering the Spencer so that it spewed lead in the direction of the Indians. I aimed high for fear of one of those forms being a girl.

  I suppose the shooting achieved what McAllister had aimed at. Certainly Indians ran in all directions. I expected to hear McAllister’s Henry adding to my fusillade of shots, but I did not hear a single report.

  The slam and clatter of the Spencer gave me a sudden and quite unexpected sense of power. There below me in the moonlight a whole bunch of fearsome Comanche Indians were thrown into a panic by me alone. It was enough to turn the head of a stronger man than me. For a brief moment, I was utterly elated, amazed that I could perform such a feat on my own.

  By the time the seven-shot carbine was empty, the space below me was almost empty of figures. Indians had gone every way to escape the hail of bullets—into the rocks and away from the eye towards the open plain. I had obeyed McAllister’s orders exactly and had not spilt one drop of blood. A fact, no doubt, which would quickly come home to the Indians. Meanwhile, they were scattered and some of them, I fear, had taken cover in the rocks between me and the eye. At first, I was not sure if those near me were armed. But very shortly I knew only too well. A muzzle-loader went off with a roar like a cannon and a couple of arrows hummed through the air past me like angry hornets.

  I turned to run and the sudden movement reminded me of the Comanche arrow which Mr. Smith had removed from my shoulder. Until now, I had almost forgotten it, but the sudden movement must have opened the wound again.

  One of the Indians was yelling in his own language and I didn’t doubt he was telling his comrades elsewhere in the rocks that they had only one white man to deal with. This made sad hearing, I don’t mind telling you. It also lent wings to my flying feet. But I reckon those wings did not lift me high enough because I stumbled on a rock and went down. In going down, I dropped the Spencer. The fall hurt my shoulder like hell and I guess I shouted with the pain of it. That seemed to be a signal for all the Comanches on the Staked Plains to center on me. I heard the scuffle of moccasined feet all around me and in a kind of blind desperation reached for the butt of my Colt and heaved it from leather. I have to admit that in that dreadful moment, I counted myself as good as dead.

  I just possessed the instinctive desire to stay alive and moved on accordingly.

  The figures around me seemed to completely block the shining orb of the moon. So I just raised my gun, cocked and fired blindly into the dark mass around me. Having fired that one shot and found myself miraculously still alive, I fired a second and a third time. Later, I knew well enough that they had rained blows on me, but at that moment I was quite unaware of the fact. One of them was so close when I fired that the muzzle-flame from the Colt set his clothing on fire. By the light of it, I glimpsed his contorted face and fired again.

  By this time the gun was empty. But it took half-a-dozen clicks of the hammer on an empty chamber to convince me of the fact. I scrambled untidily to my feet, given strength by the sudden and overwhelming desire to kill in return for the fear they had engendered in me. I struck out blindly with the empty gun and felt the heavy weapon almost jarred from my hand when it struck flesh over bone. A man screamed shrilly and I struck again and again, scarcely knowing what I was doing. Something clipped the side of my skull and I went over sideways, painfully striking rock. I rolled and stumbled once again to my feet. The night seemed full of ill-defined and deafening noise.

  There was a man in front of me, a small squat figure, striking at me again and again. What with, I had no idea. I was on my knees and my head and face felt as though they had been battered out of shape and recognition. The next moment, I was on the ground with my head cradled by my arms. I wanted to give up the ghost, but something inside me urged me to live. I reached out and my two hands found something substantial and I heaved on it with all the strength remaining to me. I guess I had hold of a man’s ankle and I pulled him off his feet. The next I knew I was astride a man on the ground and I was smashing at his face savagely with my fists.

  The next thing I was aware of was running through the rocks, yelling for the bastards to stand and fight. A man appeared in front of me and I think his hands held a spear. He thrust at me with it and I smashed the weapon aside with whatever I held in my hand and then, with a backhand over arm blow, brought my weapon down on his head. I heard the skull crack and it was like nothing but the cracking of a giant eggshell. It was then that I discovered that I held a short-handled ax.

  I also discovered that strangely I was standing alone in the moonlight. All that I can remember of that moment is that I felt like a man who had suddenly become cold sober after being drunk. My brain seemed to clear and for the first time since the shooting started I became aware of my surroundings. I felt like a great helpless fool.

  I was brought around from this rather stupefied contemplation of myself by an arrow which brushed so close to me that I felt its feathers against my cheek. As I jumped in alarm I heard the arrow-head strike a nearby rock with an empty clunk.

  Silence did not seem to have much to offer me so I yelled: “McAllister, where the hell’re you at?”

  Where were all the damned Indians? Where were the two helpless captives we were supposed to rescue? This kind of escapade, as you may have gathered, was not the kind of thing for which I have much talent.

  I heard what seemed to be a distant sound. I thought it told me that a number of horses were going off into the night away from me.

  I became aware of another sound. Turning, I saw a squat figure running in on me through the pale moonlight. In his hair, he wore a few feathers. He didn’t seem to have much else on except for some bright paint on his face and chest. Amazing how quickly an Indian can paint himself up for a fight. This fellow carried a very short lance. Which told me about him all I wanted to know. Or preferred not to know. He seemed to be very happy charging me. I had the feeling that he would be even happier cutting my gizzard so that I parted with my mortal life. All in all, there was not much time to be scared. I did about the only thing I could do under the circumstances. I hit him with the ax.

  It was not a particularly heavy blow. But it was a particularly heavy ax. More like a Viking’s battleaxe than a slender Indian tomahawk. It certainly stopped that great Comanche warrior dead in his tracks. And I mean dead.

  I won’t go into morbid details because I am not a man who likes to snatch life from fellow creatures. I don’t get much of a kick over killing just about anything really, when it comes down to it. If I kill for food, that’s another matter. But I must say in that moment of violent victory it seemed to me that there wasn’t so much to this being brave in battle stuff.

  The Comanches must have thought their medicine pretty bad and mine pretty good about this time. Because they all made no secret of the fact that they would rather be there than here. They made off through the rocks like a passel of scared rabbits. Mind you, I didn’t let that fool me or give me any false ideas. I knew Indians. They might lose heart quickly, but they sure got it back quickly too. They liked hit-and-run fighting. I didn’t like any kind of fighting at all. It’s all such a hell of a gamble. And I was never much of a gambler.

  Hearing the Indians leave and still wondering where the hell McAllister had gotten
to, I worked my way back through the rocks and searched for my weapons. I found the Spencer without too much trouble and at once loaded a fresh tube into it from my pockets. The Colt took a little longer, but I finally came on it and stuffed fresh shells into it.

  From what seemed to be a distance of three or four hundred paces, I heard the flat slam of what I thought was McAllister’s Henry. I thought: The fool’s gotten himself into a bind. And I started legging it through the rocks, but found that made the wound in my shoulder ache, so I slowed my pace. I knew if I saved McAllister’s life he would only bite my head off for being an interfering son-of-a-bitch.

  I came up out of the chasm and all I could see in the bright moonlight was miles and miles of plain. That was a bit of a let-down, I don’t mind telling you. At least I thought I’d see the butt-end of some Indians.

  “McAllister,” I bellowed, “where’re you at?”

  I heard him say from not too far off: “Why don’t you go an’ tap the Indians on their shoulders and tell ’em right where you’re at?”

  “I know where I’m at,” I said. “Where the hell’re you?”

  “Walk east forty paces,” said McAllister’s voice. “That should about do it.”

  I walked east forty paces and fell into a gully. Luckily its walls and its bottom were of sand. I rolled fairly comfortably down and I landed pretty softly. All was well except for my shoulder. That hurt a lot. I groaned and I heard a female voice ask: “Is he hurt?”

  “Hurt, ma’am?” said McAllister deprecatingly. “Not exactly hurt. He had an arrow in his shoulder but that ain’t nothin’ to old Matthew who is of the mountain man breed. He don’t count wounds unless they’re in pairs, ma’am.”

  I sat up. I looked around and I saw two smaller forms beside McAllister’s. “Old Matthew,” I announced, “is definitely hurt. Old Matthew counts the smallest scratch. He does not belong to the ridiculous hero breed of which McAllister, God rot his soul, is the founder member.”

  I rose to my feet with what I thought was considerable dignity. I heard a sound and I turned. I was not alone there in the moonlight with a man and two girls. There were four horses there also.

  “Horses,” I exclaimed and for a moment I thought old McAllister was just about the most marvelous man in the world. Can you tell me how he did it?

  McAllister said: “You see, girls, he is not only brave and modest, he is intelligent also. Next week he aims to recognize a dog on sight.”

  I swear one of those females giggled. I promised myself that before I was through I would have my revenge on McAllister. I would make that man look so damned small, folks would tread on him without even knowing.

  “Instead of sitting around here gabbing,” I said, “would it not be a good idea to fork those indifferent-looking Indian ponies and raise some dust out of here?”

  “No sooner said than done,” said McAllister, and gallantly lifted a girl on to a horse’s back.

  I tried to do the same with the other girl, but my wounded shoulder failed me and I dropped her on the ground.

  McAllister said: “You seem to be suggestin’, Matthew, that the young lady is too heavy for a man to lift.” He picked her up and dropped her astride the pony as if she weighed no more than a feather. I forked a nice-looking little pinto. It only looked nice. I had forgotten that an Indian horse does not like to be mounted from the white man’s side, which is the left. So that little pony threw me off to the right as if to remind me to try again from that side. I confess that in my understandable rage I used a naughty word. McAllister said “Tsk, tsk—ladies present.”

  This time they both giggled. I decided that I disliked women in general even more than I disliked McAllister.

  I climbed back on to the little pinto, this time from the Indian side, and it made up its mind that it would allow me to stay aboard. We climbed up on to the plain and I looked around for Indians, but there didn’t seem to be any in sight.

  I asked: “Where did the Indians go?”

  “There’s a hole in the ground about a quarter-mile south of here,” McAllister explained. “They’re all hid in there reckonin’ I don’t know they’re there.” He lifted his pony into a trot and we moved briskly north. Not briskly enough for me who wanted to get as many miles between us and those Indians as possible. Scarcely a word was spoken before dawn rose. I guess we were all thinking about those Indians behind us. They may have gone to ground with commendable speed at the water, but that did not mean they wouldn’t be hard on our trail as soon as they caught their horses. McAllister said he had scattered them over hell’s own half acre, but horses were horses and water was water and the twain were meeting all the time. So before very long those Comanches would be in their saddles again and coming after us lickety-spit and with blood in their eyes.

  Talking of Comanche saddles—I don’t know if you ever sat one. If you didn’t, don’t. They were just not made for a white man’s butt. Nor for any other color butt so far as I could judge. One mile forking that wooden monstrosity covered with some red cloth and I felt as if I had been emasculated for life. McAllister rode his as if he had a junco thorn clean up his ass. He had a marvelous far-away look and a pained expression in his eyes like a man riding on piles. It may sound hilarious, but I’m telling you, it’s no joke.

  Come dawn, I took a good look at our two female companions and I have to say right here and now, no two ways about it, they were sure worth rescuing. Their hair was all over the place, their clothes had been torn to rags and they could both have used a hot tub, but they looked good enough to eat. Though eating them would have been pure waste.

  Now McAllister and me, maybe we didn’t have too much in common—like courage and dynamic personality, that kind of thing—but, by Jiminy, we had a shared and, I may say, a very fine taste in women. We both admired them greatly— a woman had only to lift a finger and, like so many Western men of that period, we came running. I can’t help it—we were raised that way. Women were pretty few and far between and therefore precious. These women had been stolen by Comanches and had been, as McAllister told me, in their hands for four or five days. When they reached that water-hole, they couldn’t see their way clear of getting back to their own folks for several years, if ever. It depended if they were ever found and if somebody could raise a ransom for them. In that time, they would have been used by every man who fancied them and would most likely be raising their own kids who at heart would be Comanche braves. Like Quanah Parker’s mother, Cynthia Ann. Now, when it comes down to the bone of the matter, the Indians have a lot on their side. In one way, they have it all. It was their land and it was us whites who horned in on them. But it was no good telling that to two girls who had been scared out of their lives and nearly walked to their deaths for several days at the tails of Comanche ponies. The look in their eyes told you what they’d been through. It kind of made your heart bleed just to look at them.

  Be that as it may, there we were riding those little Indian ponies and with a strong war-party of those self-same Indians not more than half a day behind us. And that is nothing to a Comanche. He can ride a horse when it’s finished and make crow-bait gallop. So, as we rode, we looked back a lot and prayed that pretty soon we’d sight the herd.

  The girls were two sisters: Janet and May Jessop; Janet eighteen and May a year older. We were both surprised that two white women in that country were not married and mothers by that age. Most had their first child before eighteen. We gathered that both were strong-minded ladies. They had been raised on a small Texas ranch about thirty miles on the other side of the Pecos. Their old man ran cows, sheep and hogs. They had a mother and five brothers and they guessed all their menfolk were out looking for them.

  McAllister apologized for the fact, but he made it clear to them that we had an oversized bunch of cows to nurse and that if the Misses Jessop wanted to stay in our company, they would have to come on to Colorado with us. Which, they agreed, might not be an ideal arrangement, but a sight better than being in the han
ds of the Indians. Me and McAllister exchanged glances that said we thought it was an ideal arrangement. Maybe we would come across somebody going back across the Pecos. If so and if that somebody had a party strong enough to go unmolested through Comancheria, then the girls could go with them. I crossed my fingers and prayed we wouldn’t come across any such party. I don’t doubt McAllister shared my views. Mind you, I could foresee that we would have to fight off randy cowboys and such.

  Trail herds do not, as you will have seen, travel at any great speed. It did not surprise us that we came up with ours by noon. We surprised the crew all right, turning up with two girls in tow and I treasure the memory of our boys’ faces when they first caught sight of them. Most of them had their eyes on stalks. Mr. Smith was all gallantry, taking off that old derby of his and giving them a bow that would have done a queen credit. The girls seemed mighty taken with them all and, as I had guessed, we had almost to beat the boys off.

  However, when we had the crew more or less settled down and had rigged up a shelter for the girls so they could clean themselves up and do what they could to repair any damage they had suffered, we told those who were not out guarding the herd what had gone on back there at the eye. The boys looked at us as if they thought we were two pretty tough heroes. It was an unaccustomed part for me to play, so I kept my mouth shut and didn’t say one solitary word about me losing my head and messing my pants with sheer naked fear. Nor did McAllister, which came as a pleasant surprise to me.

  When the girls were cleaned up and in pretty good repair, we hitched the team to the wagon, the girls climbed up beside Mr. Smith and we hit the trail. The cows had walked all night and were getting pretty tired, but McAllister thought there was a chance of more water just ahead and he would keep going until we reached it. There he proposed to rest the cattle till nightfall and then to push on again in the cool of the dark.

  During that drive, you’d be surprised the number of times men from the herd found it necessary to head for the wagon. Or maybe you wouldn’t. I told McAllister he should maintain some discipline, but he only laughed and said that they’d all earned a look at a pretty girl and boys would be boys.