McAllister 1

by Matt Chisholm

  I could not see her, as she was hidden from my view still by the canvas cover of the wagon. But I heard her call back to me: “Don’t you fret about me, Matthew. I have the shotgun and if one of them red varmints comes near me I’ll blow him to Kingdom Come.”

  The sound of her voice reassured me. I walked on along the edge of the rim and jacked a round into the breech of the Spencer so they would know they had a repeating rifle to deal with.

  I halted when I was halfway around the depression and the girl and the four Indians were all within my sight. I tried them in Spanish—

  “What do you men want?”

  The first man turned slowly and looked at me. The Comanche were not generally a handsome people compared with other plains races such as the Cheyenne and the Crows, but this fellow was impressive. He held himself very straight and his features were well-molded.

  “We want you,” he said in rough Spanish. “All of you. You may fight, you may talk, any way we want you. There are Comanche dead and you must pay for them.”

  I lined the Spencer up with his belly and I was pleased to see that my hands were not shaking so very much. Which was a nice change for me. All the time I stood there, I was thinking it was time McAllister came riding to the rescue. There never had been a time in my life when he didn’t. But I did not hear the beat of his horse’s hooves and there was no movement out there on the plain.

  “We too have our dead,” I said. “So I think that we have paid each for each other’s dead.”

  There was silence for a while. He just stood there staring at me and I wondered if there were some of his friends creeping up on the wagon from the far side so that I could not see them.

  “May,” I called, “watch your left, girl.”

  Hop’s voice came in reply—“I’m watchin’, Matt. We’ve got ’em to rights.”

  The foremost Indian said: “Come down from there and we will talk.” As he said this he started forward and down through the rocks to the edge of the water.

  I shouted: “Halt. You stay right there, friend, or you’re dead.”

  He stopped at once and his obedience told me that all was not lost. If we played this quietly, maybe I could talk my way out of this.

  “Let’s talk,” he said. “There has been enough killing.”

  “Too true,” I said. “You and the others come up here and talk.”

  He turned and spoke to the others. One by one, they nodded.

  I called down: “Not only you, but the men who are hidden in the rocks.”

  He turned and gave me his long stare again. I guess maybe he was as nervous as me with the Spencer aimed straight at him. If he had any sense, he was.

  “There are no men hidden in the rocks,” he said.

  “There’s some over my side, Matt,” Hopper called out. I don’t think the Comanche understood the English.

  “There are men hidden in the rocks,” I said. “They have been seen.”

  In his own language, which sounded as harsh as his Spanish, the Indian called out, presumably to men in the rocks. At once three or four stepped into sight.

  Hopper shouted: “That ain’t all of ’em, Matt, but I got them marked. Go ahead.”

  I told the Indian: “All of you come up here.”

  They started towards me, most of them walking awkwardly on their bowed legs. The Comanche were called the Huns of the Plains at that time, because they hated to walk and spent all the time they could astride a horse. One or two of them were pretty pot-bellied, for your Comanche is inclined to corpulence as he gets past thirty. This time, I saw, there were a good many guns among them. Most of them were single shooters, but I didn’t like it just the same. They came clambering up through the rocks to me and I saw that, when they were up on the flat, they did not come in too close. I didn’t take my Spencer off their leader for a second and he knew it.

  They were acting all nonchalant and careless, pretending they were not as keyed up as I was. When I told them to sit, they obediently squatted down on the dirt. But they didn’t have me fooled for one minute. They were all watching me like hungry hawks and I made damned sure they were not between me and the wagon below.

  I said: “Talk. What’s your deal?”

  I got another of those long stares. Finally, he said: “To make payment for the men killed you will give us what we ask.”

  “What do you ask?” I could see this fellow wasn’t going to be hurried.

  “We ask for those horses tied to the wagon there.” I nodded. He gave me some more stare and I had to admit to myself I was beginning to find it a mite unnerving. He went on: “You will give us many beeves.”

  “How many?”

  He showed me his fingers, all of them, and closed his hands several times. He had counted out a hundred cows.

  “This is not possible,” I said. “They are not our cows to give. We drive them for another man.”

  This made him pretty angry. He gobbled furiously in his own tongue to his companions. They got angry. One young man jumped up and made threatening gestures to me. I ignored him. Which was not easy, for I had the feeling that it would not take much to make him rush at me and bury his ax in my head.

  The chief said something to the young man and it looked for a moment as if the boy would ignore him, but finally he sat down, muttering furiously. Now the chief turned to me and said: “He is angry because you killed his brother.”

  “That is understandable. I am angry because you killed men who were brothers to me also.”

  He said: “I can see that you are a reasonable man. Therefore you will see that we will not go until you give us what we want. Besides the horses and the beeves you will also give us whiskey and some guns like the one you hold in your hand.”

  “The chief who can say yes or no to you,” I told him, “is with the cattle. We must ask him. Let us pass without a fight and I will put what you want to him.” He said: “You are helpless here. It would be better if one of our people talk with your chief while we hold you here. Then he will give us what we want or we shall kill you.”

  “This would be a great mistake. We have guns and we can make a good fight. You will have more dead and will attain nothing. What good is more dead and no cows?”

  He nodded ponderously—“This is true.”

  At this stage, I had the feeling that they were keeping me here talking for reasons of their own which had nothing to do with obtaining horses and cows. I wanted to take a good look into the depression, but I dared not take my eyes off the Indians in front of me.

  Suddenly from below me came the great boom of a shotgun. Its echoes were cut through by the sound of two sharper reports from a revolver. I heard a shout.

  For one awful second, I didn’t know what to do. It was, I am sure, the worst and longest second of my life. It seemed to me that I hung there, irresolute, but I dare say the Indians noticed no delay at all. A dozen thoughts seemed to come into my mind at once. Should I stay here? Should I start shooting at these Indians? Should I simply jump down through the rocks and make a wild attempt to reach the wagon?

  I guess everything was decided for me by that young Indian. As he jumped to his feet, I knew that he was about to throw that tomahawk of his. I swung the muzzle of the Spencer in his direction involuntarily and fired. I don’t know where I hit him, but it lifted him from his feet and flung him helpless back into the arms of his companions. Every man there was in the act of gaining his feet. Instinct drove me from then on. As I said, instinct does some pretty strange things. Instead of leaping over the rim of that depression, I jacked another round into the breech and hurled myself forwards at the Indians. Whether I fired a shot or not, I can’t say. But my bodily assault took them entirely by surprise. I have no recollection of what I did, except I know I lashed out blindly and in a kind of insane fury with the butt and barrel of that little Spencer. Somebody got a hold of it and wrenched it from my grasp. But by that time, I had forsaken them and was jumping over the rim into the rocks. I was no more than half-co
nscious of the crack of guns behind me. The whole of my being was concentrated on getting down to that wagon.

  I am no great runner, but it was amazing what naked fear could do for a man. Once something whistled close by my head and I ducked. That encouraged me to go even faster. I came down out of those rocks like a buck rabbit with its tail on fire. I was going so fast as I hit the flat that I ran smack into the side of the wagon. As I did so, I heard the shotgun blast off again and the quick stammer of two fast-triggered shots from the revolver inside the wagon. Wrenching my Colt gun from leather, I turned to face the Indians behind me only to find that I was not the only one there acquainted with fear. They hung back irresolutely up on the rim, not wanting any part of the guns below. I spied one of the Indians with what looked like my Spencer and it seemed like a good idea to discourage him. Nothing surely could be worse than being rubbed out by your own weapon. It was a long shot but that old Colt of mine could make itself felt at a hundred feet. So I drove a couple of careful shots at them and they scattered like quail.

  Then there was silence.

  I watched the bare rim above and said: “Hopper, how’s it going in there?”

  “All right, Matt. We stopped ’em, I reckon.”

  Keeping my eyes moving along the rim, I walked to the front of the wagon. To my surprise, the team was still. I guess they were petrified. Only one of them had stepped over the traces. May sat on the driving seat, white to the mouth, so still that I wondered if she’d been hit. “May,” I said. “You all right?”

  She didn’t answer and I was filled with dread. I climbed up to her and repeated her name. Slowly, she turned her head and looked into my eyes. Hers were dead.

  “You pull yourself together, girl,” I told her. That was what McAllister would have said. “This ain’t no time for foolishness. You have to drive the wagon through the water and up through those rocks yonder —hear?”

  She did not say a word.

  Oh my God, I thought, she’s taken leave of her senses. This is all I want.

  I hit her then, suddenly, but not too hard. I batted her head to one side.

  Her eyes snapped.

  She looked at me and said: “You ain’t no damn good, Matt Chisholm.” Climbing down off the wagon, I said: “That’s a fact, ma’am. Now you drive these horses up there and don’t you stop till I tell you.”

  She didn’t answer and I said sharply: “Do you understand?”

  “Yes,” she said, “I understand.”

  She picked up the lines. I ran along the team and heaved the nearside leader’s foot over the trace. Before I could jump clear, she had yelled to the team and they hit their collars raggedly. I jumped back and fell over. Swearing I got to my feet, and just managed to reach my horse as she passed. The team went through the water with an almighty splash, throwing spray up on either side. The wagon rocked and bounced into the water and came to a standstill as it stuck fast. I climbed into the saddle and kicked Patch in the belly. He jumped forward and around the wagon, landing in the water. I yelled crazily to the team and urged them forward. May found her whip and started laying on with that. Again the horses raggedly hit their collars, the wagon rocked and fell back deeper.

  By this time I was in a lather of sweat.

  My language must have been horrible to hear. I was so mad I hardly heard the rifles banging from the rocks above. The nearside leader went down with a scream and lay kicking in the water, throwing up a lot of spray. The rest of the team went into a kind of frenzy.

  I jumped from the saddle and put away my gun. Drawing my knife I started cutting the gear on the downed horse. His partner kicked me hard in the leg and knocked me into the water. I went under and came up with a mouthful. Spitting it out, I staggered to my feet.

  Hopper yelled: “Here they come.”

  I saw a figure not a couple of yards from me, running. I reached out for him, missed and measured my length in the water. When I rose again, May was standing in the wagon and using her whip. The man had his arm up to protect his face. My knife was in my hand, so I used that. I ran in on him and thrust the knife in hard under his left arm. He turned on me at once and lashed at me with his war-club. It caught me on the elbow and momentarily paralyzed my arm. I slammed the knife into him with all my strength. He fell over into the water and the nearside wheeler kicked him. He disappeared under the water. I looked around, but I couldn’t see another Indian. Now I waded through the water and got around to the offside leader and cut the traces from him. He ran forward into the rocks.

  “Go ahead,” I yelled to May and she used the whip again. I didn’t think there was much chance with the four horses only. Hop started shooting again. I looked around, but I still couldn’t see any Indians.

  Suddenly, the wagon lurched forward. I jumped aside, put my knife away and got aboard Patch again. The wagon bucked and swayed past me and reached the rocks. Considering the luck I’d had lately, the damn thing could not possibly get out of the depression on to the flat above.

  But I was wrong. It went over the rim like a dream. Those four horses stretched out and that old wagon rattled on its way. I rode after it. Looking back I saw a half-dozen mounted Indians. They were making a show of coming after us, but their hearts weren’t in it. After a mile, they gave up and stopped. I rode forward and told May that she could ease up. When she slowed, I rode around the back of the wagon and looked in on the two occupants. Janet was holding Hop’s hand or vice versa, I should worry—McAllister had reserved the redhead for himself. Let him sort that out.

  Fourteen

  WE CAME UP with the herd late in the afternoon, sweet as you please. They looked like the best behaved bunch of longhorns you ever could see. You couldn’t believe they had caused us all so much trouble. McAllister rode back to meet us. His greeting was typical.

  “My God, Matthew,” he said, “can’t I leave you to do anythin’? What the hell kept you?”

  Need I inform you that I told him in no uncertain terms? After which I added what he could do with his carping criticism, in fact what he could do with his whole goddam herd.

  He looked a little shocked and disappointed at this. He said he thought it was kind of hard on a man when his partner turned on him.

  “I just never thought to hear you talk that way, Matt, old timer,” he said in a tone that would have touched a killer’s heart.

  “Now you said your piece,” I said, “answer me a question.”

  “Anythin’,” he said meekly, “just go ahead an’ ask.”

  “Where the hell were you when I most needed you? What’s it with a man when he puts a bunch of mangy scrawny moth-eaten scrub-eating longhorns before a friend in danger of being killed?”

  He turned and looked at me in complete amazement.

  “Old friend,” he said, “I didn’t doubt for one minute them Indians would jump you. Likewise, I knew if any man could handle that kind of a situation, it was you. You didn’t need me. You only thought you did. You can handle anythin’ I can handle. An’ what’s more—you damn well know it.”

  McAllister rode ahead and called the parade to a halt. He picked a spot for the wagon and May halted the team. McAllister now appeared to notice for the first time that we had two horses missing from the team. He thought that was pretty careless of me. Did I think that horses grew on trees? I would have to answer to Dice Roberts for this.

  When we had unhitched the team and unsaddled, we talked by the fire as the coffee cheerfully boiled. I started to feel a little more human. The girls, God bless ’em, in spite of their recent ordeal were busy preparing a meal for the men.

  McAllister said: “Kind of a shame you had that there run-in with the Indians, Matt. It was not necessary.”

  “What do you mean: not necessary? How the hell could I help getting jumped by a passel of savages? You think I chose to have myself scared clear out of my skin for the sheer damn fun of it?”

  “You don’t get my drift, boy,” said McAllister. “Them Indians hadn’t heard I’m in the mi
ddle of fixing a deal with their chief.”

  “What?” I said. “I’ve been risking life and limb and you’ve been sitting around here talking peace?”

  I don’t have to tell you that I was mighty relieved to hear it.

  Just then somebody sang out: “Indians comin’.”

  I reached for my gun and stood up to look around. Two Indians were riding towards us. At that moment, Drunk Charlie appeared from nowhere. McAllister said softly to me: “Matt, you keep an eye on Charlie. He’s kind of nervous because the Indians want him.” That startled me a little. I looked at McAllister, and wondered if he would ever be driven so far that he would give a man up to maintain peace. You never knew with McAllister.

  “Rem, for God’s sake, you wouldn’t … would you?”

  “Nobody ain’t goin’ to cry over Charlie,” he said. “He should of been hung five years back.”

  Charlie was scowling and muttering to himself a short way off. I had to admit that he looked like a habitual killer. He was the kind of man not even a mother could love. I looked beyond the approaching Indians and saw the line of warriors sitting their horses.

  The two Indians halted their horses about twenty feet short of the wagon, dismounted and came waddling towards us. The one in the lead was a heavily built man in his forties. The other, a much younger man, looked a little apprehensive, I thought.

  McAllister greeted them both politely and poured a little whiskey into a couple of tin cups. The two Indians took the cups eagerly and drank. The elder one took his without a blink, but the younger one was slightly staggered. The girls, I noticed, had disappeared into the wagon. The younger Indian got his eyes on Charlie and said something to his companion in his own language. The elder Indian said to McAllister: “It is the strong wish of all our people here that you give this evil man to us before we agree to anything.”

  Before McAllister could reply, Drunk Charlie said: “I heard that. After what they put me through, McAllister, you want to thank your lucky stars I’m not pumping lead into these two.”