McAllister

by Matt Chisholm

  When she had done with him, von Tannenberg paid him a visit to inquire after his health and to hold council.

  In a remarkably strong voice for a man so weak, Mcallister told the soldier: “Mister, this is the way I see it. Somebody’s after me and I wouldn’t be surprised if they was after your gold too. So that makes it Franchon and some friends of his.”

  “But they were Indians that cut their way into the corral.”

  “Sure they were. We’re up against two lots here. And my guess is, José an’ me ran into only a few of the white crowd. It looks like they’re so strong they ain’t afraid of Indians.”

  “That is possible.”

  “You’re darn tootin’ it is. Now, this is what you do. First off, get George Rawlins in here.”

  The lieutenant did that and George tramped stolidly into the room, grinning.

  “Jumpin’ snakes, you’m doin’ all right for yourse’f, boss.”

  “Take that grin off’n your face and listen. You checked all Carmody’s goods aboard.”

  “Yeah. Stake my life they’s all correct, too.”

  “When they was on board, did you come back to the corral or did you keep your eyes on the wagons till they was there?”

  George stared at him belligerently for a moment and Mcallister snarled: “Well, did you?”

  “No, I didn’t and you know I didn’t. I checked ’em aboard and come on back.”

  “Okay. Then you go and take a look in Carmody’s crates and tell me what’s inside ’em.”

  George went, muttering mutinously under his breath. Not long after, he returned muttering audibly, informing them that Carmody’s crate contained just a lot of garbage and sand.

  “That fat old, low, dirty, skulking, two-timing, crooked crawling bastard,” he finished in righteous outrage. “What does it mean, boss? What’s he got to gain by this?”

  “It’s plain,” Mcallister told him. “Carmody isn’t interested in this train reaching the Fort.”

  “What’s he want his own goods stopped for?”

  “That’s not what I said. This train’s going to be stopped and Carmody knows it.”

  “What—that fat, old—?”

  “Not him personally.”

  George was puzzled.

  “Then what’s he want to stop it for?”

  “We’re carrying an army payroll.”

  The mule-skinner looked as if he had been betrayed.

  “You didn’t tell me nothin’ about this.” He did a piece of thinking, apprehension coming into his eyes. “Franchon runs out on us. That can on’y mean one thing.”

  Mcallister nodded—

  “Yeah. Right first time. Go to the top of the class. They were going to jump us any day now. The whole Clover outfit. A small army that wouldn’t be scared of Indians. We wouldn’t give them any trouble because there were two of Carmody’s men among us.”

  “That means that driver out there … ”

  “Go get him, George,” Mcallister said. “Tie him up.” When Rawlins had gone to carry out that task, Mcallister said to von Tannenberg: “Well, mister, where do we go from here?”

  “We have only one way to go. Forward. But first you get well.”

  “What?” Mcallister roared. “I’m well. Let me get out of this god-damn bed.”

  “You can’t travel with that leg.”

  “Watch me.”

  The scene that followed was a memorable one. Mrs. Bankroft, when she had got over her astonishment at her patient’s claim to rapid recovery under her administrations, protested his escape vigorously. But Mcallister prevailed, as he so often did, and, when one of his men had made a crutch for him, he hobbled painfully into the yard to take charge of his side of the operation of moving out of here. In agreement with von Tannenberg, he had Carmody’s wagon burned, so that the mules could be used as spares for the other wagons. The first thing any attackers would try for was the lead mules. One of these down and the whole train was halted.

  Next he and the lieutenant planned the routine of the march, got into the men’s heads exactly what they must do at a shouted command, wagons to circle with the animals to the center on order, outriders to be prepared for sorties at given signals, direct or by making a circling movement. The Prussian was all for modifying military tactics to the situation and had learned a lot from his several campaigns against the Apache. He had the sabers stored in a wagon as worse than useless and saw to it that each mounted man travelled as light as possible. The horses were nursed for the remainder of the day and night that the train remained at the ranch. They would be ready to move out thirty minutes after dawn on the following day.

  7

  Gato Rested in the heart of the malpais forty miles from Mesquite Springs among his followers, unflattered by the fact that he and his handful of men had half Arizona and two Mexican provinces in a state of acute alarm. He was unaware that his following had been variously reported in the American and Mexican presses as being a hundred or two hundred strong. What he did know was that there were several thousand white and Mexican troops on the lookout for him. That did not perturb him. He was used to that and it gave him a feeling of honourable respectability. Already his people on the reservations were speaking admiringly of the number of horses, cattle and sheep he had taken.

  The only emotion that he knew at this moment as he cleaned his fine Winchester rifle was anger. Three of his men had been killed in the last day. That meant that his natural enemy would also suffer. Equally or more. And it was proper that it should be so. He owed as much to himself and the relatives of the slain men.

  He waited now for the reports of his two scouts. He wanted to know more about the people at the ranch. That wagon-train was unusually strong and had unusually resolute men on it. Gato had sent his own son to scout that position. The other scout was following the other party of whitemen, the ones who had slain the young Falling Deer not three miles from this spot. Gato’s only fear was that either of these young men would be tempted to slay a whiteman and so discover to the White Eyes the Apaches’ presence.

  Gato was a medium-sized Apache, whose grandmother was said to have been a Mexican woman of extraordinary beauty captured on a raid into Sonora. Certainly, the Apache was a fine-featured man and not so squatly made as most of his people. True, he was not physically a powerful man, though his prowess and stamina were bywords among the nations. His face was somber in repose, but he could smile quickly and loved to laugh at the horse-play of the youngest members of his party. But he could be stern and ruthless and ever-willing to sacrifice a weak member for the majority. He was a man to be respected, loved and feared. He knew men and judged to a nicety when to encourage and when to threaten. He was also a man without fear—but that did not make him a reckless fool. A man who was either reckless or a fool could not have survived in this savage wilderness for the seven years he had been off the reservation. Sagacity, boldness and the ability to move fast and light made him a dangerous and illusive adversary. At this very moment, army command was sure that he was in the San Carlos mountains a good many days’ ride from here. They were convinced that the raids on the Craddock horses and in the vicinity of Mesquite had been carried out by another party, too small to belong to Gato.

  A sentry called out.

  “Let him come,” Gato cried softly.

  Out of the darkness stepped his son. Gato lifted his eyes and searched the young man’s face in the small glimmer of light from the fire.

  “What have you learned?”

  “The people at the ranch have burned a wagon.”

  Gato thought about it and could not think why they should do that. He asked—

  “Was it old and no good?”

  “No—it was a good wagon.”

  “How many people?”

  “I think five wagon people. One woman. Five soldiers.” Gato brooded and finally said: “They killed two of us.”

  “Mcallister is there.”

  Gato lifted his eyes from the flames and stared i
nto his son’s face. He knew that man of old. He remembered the time when Mcallister working for the army and in plain defiance of the Mexican authorities had gone almost single-handed into the Sonora hills and treated for Gato’s surrender. That had been years back. Both Gato and Mcallister had been young bucks then. And Gato had surrendered on McAllister’s word. But that word had been broken, not by the man but the government. The government then was not to be trusted. But still a man like Mcallister could serve it. Of one thing only was Gato still sure—he would never surrender again. Either Gato or Mcallister would die. It would have been better if all those years ago, he had cut the White Eye scout’s throat instead of accepting his hand.

  The sentry in the rocks called again and Gato answered: “Let him come,” and signed for his son to leave him, telling him he had done well.

  The young man gave him a shy grin and walked away into the darkness. His place was taken by a small man past his best years. Yet still he had the reputation for having the sharpest eyes of his people. He was also noted for being a great thief. He wore a Mexican hat and an old army coat. His weapons were a breech-loading single-shot carbine and a butcher’s knife. He grinned toothlessly as he squatted by his leader’s side.

  “Well?’

  “They are four smokes by the single-tree-water. A White Eye from the wagon-train followed Falling Deer, but it was not he who killed our brother. That was these people at the water.”

  “I know that.”

  “But what you do not know is that this White Eye from the wagon-train killed two of these other whitemen.”

  Gato looked interested. He smiled and nodded to himself.

  “This is very good.” His men and his horses could rest for a few days. These White Eyes would clash again. Let them hurt each other before the Apache struck.

  “You have done well,” he told the veteran warrior. “When you have eaten and rested, you will watch the ranch. If the train leaves, return and tell me. Do not go near to the train or the ranch.”

  The scout saluted him and, rising, slipped silently into the darkness.

  8

  Clover Eyed the handsome Southerner warily. Sure, Clover was the big man around here or anywhere else he liked to go, but Franchon was deadlier than a rattlesnake. Only one other man in the world Clover feared and that was that old toad Carmody. His reason for his wariness of Franchon was obvious—the gunman was fast, faster than Clover or any one of his men, and he was totally reckless. He would kill a man knowing that in the act he could get himself killed. So when Franchon sneered at him now, although Clover knew his men were near and listening, he made no move. Carmody was another dish of beans altogether. Physically, Clover feared him not at all. It was something else about the fat man that brought obedience from the man who had inspired more wanted posters than any other man west of Kansas City.

  Clover was watching Franchon’s right hand and its proximity to his gun-butt when he noticed that the handle was cased by wood. That gave him a clue.

  “What happened to the famous ivory-handled gun, Franchon?” he asked.

  “I lost it.”

  “That looks like an army model.”

  “It is.”

  That didn’t prove anything, but it gave Clover the idea that Franchon had been disarmed and had made his escape from the ranch. He had an uneasy feeling that the gunman had killed a soldier. There’d be hell to pay if that were true.

  “Tell me—how come you left the train? On foot?”

  “You’re asking a lot of questions, Clover?”

  “Look—Carmody says you’ll stay with the train. But you don’t. Am I suppose to just take that without a word? I don’t like it. This thing was carefully planned.”

  Franchon stared at him, his pale eyes glittering in the lamplight. He looked as cold as a reptile.

  “I’m not one of your men, Clover. I judged it best to leave the train and that’s the end of it. I’m here to look after Mr. Carmody’s personal interests. You and I have to get along till this chore’s done. Leave it at that.”

  Clover gave it a little thought, then said—

  “All right. But stay close, Franchon. My boys’re jumpy and there’s Indians breathing down our necks. This may not be easy.”

  Franchon smiled coldly.

  “All we have to do is take a couple of bags of gold from four soldiers and a few mule-skinners.”

  “I’ve lost two men.”

  “And have eight left.”

  Franchon turned his back on Clover and walked away to the rim of the circle of light. He sat down with his back against an aspen tree, tilted his hat over his eyes and apparently fell asleep. He didn’t move when a rider headed into camp and told Clover: “Jed, they burned one of their wagons.”

  Clover rose and walked over to Franchon, prodding with his toe. Franchon said without moving: “Don’t do that.”

  “McAllister’s burned a wagon. That’ll be Carmody’s. He’s on to us.”

  Franchon’s voice from under the hat said: “Is that all you woke me up to tell me?”

  “You running out gave him the warning,” Clover accused.

  The gunman pushed his hat back and raised his pale eyes to the man standing over him.

  “Look, quit worrying. I’m going to kill this McAllister. I’ll blow his brains out if it’s the last thing I do.”

  Looking at him, Clover knew he meant it.

  The outlaw walked back to the fire, calling a couple of his men to him as he went. They squatted on their hunkers and accepted chews from him.

  “Here’s what you do first light in the morning …” he began.

  9

  The Three wagons rolled slowly across the arid sun-blasted land that was so hard now they were heading into the malpais that they scarcely raised dust. The neat feet of the mules clattered on the bare rock and now and then horses and wagons slid precariously. The mule-skinners drove cautiously and all their attention was on the road. Every man knew they were taking a gamble carrying straight on due west and that it might have been wiser to have lost them a day. Their water would not last for ever and their line of march was controlled by the amount of water they could carry. Four teams of mules and the saddle-stock needed a frightening amount of the liquid.

  Mcallister drove the lead wagon with Young riding ahead with the Navajo flanking him. The lieutenant brought up the rear with a trooper with another flanking him. The two prisoners were in the second wagon, tied tightly together. Carmody’s man had sworn to kill somebody for tying him to a stinking Apache, but it was generally agreed that it was an excellent idea to put them both together. With luck the Indian might kill the whiteman and if the Indian tried to escape, the whiteman would pay for his keep by raising the alarm.

  Mrs. Bankroft, without being invited, placed herself on the wagon beside Mcallister who, strangely enough, made no complaint at her presumption. She was very quiet, but he found her presence a strange pleasure to him. Every now and then, he pointed something out to her in the desert he knew so well and she would nod and thank him for the information with a quaint formality. At the mid-day halt, she redressed his wound and told him that it was looking very well and she didn’t think it would go bad now if he was sure to keep it clean. At the halt, she made coffee and took some to the two prisoners whom she offered the cup to impartially.

  The malpais which they had sighted two hours out from the ranch and had slowly marched on all day, they reached in the middle of the afternoon when the sun was getting a little more than any of them could stand. When they reached the great slabs of volcanic rock, they found that it could grow worse. Here they entered what they considered to be a hell on earth. Lieutenant von Tannenberg was seeing it for the first time, for he had taken the southern route from the Fort as passable for horses, but not for wagons. This was a short cut, for the freak road through this terrible country might be as hot as the nether regions, but it was comparatively smooth. This would save them that precious day that their water demanded.

 
Neither Mcallister or von Tannenberg had any doubts that if an attack was to be made upon them it would come in the next three miles, for there was scarcely a foot of the way that did not offer good cover for riflemen. Their only advantage lay in the fact that it would not be easy for any ambushers to make a mounted charge from among the sharp rocks.

  Nothing happened for two thirds of the way and by that time they knew that their opponent, whoever he was, Indian or white, was a good general. By this time most men would have been near to reassurance that no attack was coming. They could also be almost beaten down by the overpowering heat.

  They were within a mile of the desert and the worst of the rocks giving way to more open ridges when the shot came.

  The offside leader of McAllister’s wagon, a big dun animal, swerved sharply to the right and stumbled to its knees. Its partner spooked, trod over the traces and nearly went down. The pair behind collided with both of them and the offside dun was trodden on. It screamed and the following pairs got entangled with the traces and several fights broke out.

  Mcallister moved fast. He pushed the woman beside him into the wagon, snatching up his Remington and firing immediately at smoke drifting among the rocks to his right.

  At once someone fired from the left of the trail and he heard a bullet, ripped through canvas and thud into the goods behind him. Then Sam’s rifle started to slam out its reply. As arranged, Mcallister concentrated on the right hand attacker. Firing broke out further along the train as each wagon came to an untidy halt. There was no chance of laagering here, for there was no room and bitterly he knew they would have to shoot it out and that would mean he would lose men. An unpleasant thought.

  As he took another steady shot at the crown of a hat high above him, the woman shouted in his ear: “Get into the wagon.”