He was dismounted, leading his two animals and topping a ridge when the bay started a whicker. Mcallister grabbed his nose and gazed in frozen horror at the back of the half-naked old man in the dip below him. He then lifted his apprehensive eyes to the bunch of a dozen or so ponies restless on their tie-lines. Watching the old man and clutching at his horse’s muzzle, he slowly backed. The mule was at its most unco-operative and the minute it took to get back over that ridge seemed like an eternity, but Mcallister accomplished it, got aboard the bay and walked it quiet as he could away from the Indian horses. Before he had gone very far, he lifted it into a steady trot and headed directly west. That wasn’t the way he wanted to go, but the immediate danger was the thing to consider. Having gone a couple of miles, with his eyes forever turned in the direction of the firing, he swung south and came around the noise of the battle in a gigantic circling movement, praying that in the height of the action the Indians would not spot his dust. Certainly he sighted plenty of theirs.
As soon as he was to the east of the shooting it died away and, going to the crest of a ridge, he got his first good sight of the Clover boys. They were strung out, heading south at a good clip. At least it looked as though they were aiming to get to the Springs. As they were no more than half a mile away from him, he reckoned he must be too near to the Indians for comfort. Gato, he knew, might be thinking of outflanking the refugees from the east. He got aboard again and went slowly east himself, not daring to hurry for fear of raising telltale dust.
The heat by now was well-nigh intolerable, his clothes were saturated with sweat, his saddle was blackened by it and was agony to sit, his wound hurt him like hell. He told himself that he was the biggest damn fool he had ever known even to have started this ride. But that was not much comfort to him.
The desert had now fallen to a dead silence that was broken only by the plod-plod of his animals. He paused once to moisten their mouths with water and to switch the saddle to the mule, but apart from that he didn’t stop until he considered that he was at a safe distance from any man that was trailing Clover. As a halting place, he found himself a fall of rock from a ridge that offered he and his animals a little shade and gave him a wall at his back.
He left the mule saddled, got his back against the rock and dozed. He hadn’t intended to, but he must have done, because the next time he looked at the landscape the shadows were long and the overpowering heat had been drained from the sky. But you could have still fried an egg on a rock without any trouble.
It was the bay that woke him.
It was still whinnying when he reached full consciousness.
Instinct, experience, call it what you like, but some warning in him caused the hair on his neck to stand on end. Real danger was mighty close to him. The bay, which he had tied to his left wrist, suddenly flattened its ears and backed off. The mule, tied to the bay, tried hard to make a break for it. The horses were to the left and that was the way they were looking. Mcallister gave the tie-rope an extra turn around his wrist and drew the Remington. The heavy weight of the old weapon should have been a comfort, but it wasn’t much. He pushed himself to his feet, with his back close against the wall, knowing the danger could be above him. He craned his neck and stared up, but could see nothing but sandstone. He looked across the backs of the animals and saw nothing but desert. Glanced right and saw the same. But the animals knew there was danger here and they were never wrong.
He waited it out for about five minutes, during which time the animals quietened, though they never once settled down.
Mcallister decided he would have to make a move; he didn’t fancy getting caught in these rocks after dark by an Apache. So he had to get into the saddle and get out of rifle range in no time at all once he was mounted.
The bay was the faster, but the mule bore the saddle. He counted the chances and played the bay.
When he moved, he moved fast.
He jumped out from the wall, heaving on the bay and turning it. As he did so, he whirled and faced up the low cliff above him, glimpsed a patch of vivid color and snapping a shot at it. In the moment of squeezing the trigger, he dived under the bay, came up the other side, heard a shot pass close overhead and fired again, this time at a brown face with the white teeth showing vividly in it. Then he was vaulting onto the bay’s back, trying to turn the mule so it went in the same direction as the bay. All it did was to barge itself clumsily into the horse’s shoulder and nearly bowl it over. Mcallister felt it stagger beneath him. He kicked the mule in the belly, yelling hoarsely. From the corner of his eye, he saw a dark shadow launch itself from the rocks above and in that instant Mcallister drove the spurs home savagely and the bay leapt in alarm and pain beneath him, knocking the mule out of its path.
Mcallister twisted in the saddle and drove a shot at the shadow. Like a shadow it was silent and apparently immune to hurt. It charged right into the face of his fire. Mcallister clamped his right arm across his body and fired at that charging, hunched-up figure, the bay frightened and stepping sideways now, the mule on the other side pulling on its line with all its strength, ready to bolt.
One of the shots went home. But the charging man did no more than break step before he came on again. As the hammer of the Remington clicked on an empty chamber, Mcallister hurled the weapon into the contorted savage face and launched himself after it.
As soon as he touched the man, his hands slipped over the fat-laden skin. He fell sideways, hurting his leg agonisingly. At once the Indian was on him. Something as hard as rock almost shattered McAllister’s right shoulder and he knew the man carried a stone-headed war-club.
Mcallister rolled desperately, first one way, then the other, heard the club strike ground and felt himself come up against the soft skin of the man’s boots. These he embraced, driving his shoulder into the ankles with all his strength. The man cried out and went down. Keeping one arm around the thrashing legs, Mcallister plucked his knife from his belt, vainly trying to hamstring the man. All he gained was a kick in the teeth, that nearly stunned him. The warrior got free and reared to his feet, stamping down on Mcallister who rolled and drove to his feet, knife hand extended in a lunge for the man’s belly. But his right leg failed him and he stumbled to his knee.
The Indian made a quick thrust with the head of his club, having no time for a full swing and Mcallister was able to catch hold of the haft of the weapon in his left hand and heave the man toward him. The impact was bone-shaking and Mcallister almost gave under it, but he managed to twist the club and heave the man past him, turning awkwardly for a thrust with the knife to the ribs. He felt the blade grate home on bone and the man’s sob of pain. Hurling the warrior from him, he got to his feet and met the rush that showed the man was as fresh and strong as he was when he had started.
The light was so poor now that Mcallister felt rather than saw the descending stone of the club-head, barely had time to sidestep and kicked savagely at the Indian’s legs. The man adeptly avoided the kick, caught Mcallister by his shirt, turned his back on Mcallister and hurled him over his head. The fall almost finished McAllister. The Indian retained his grip on the cloth and kicked him in the head. His senses reeling, Mcallister rolled, got himself free of the grip and charged back blindly into the fray. He managed to get his head under the other’s chin in a ramrod movement that shook the savage to his doeskin boots and stabbed at the brown body with an insane and, he feared, final burst of energy.
As the blade lacerated his flesh, the man gave a muffled cry, stepped back and swung the club, striking Mcallister in the chest. Mcallister seized the club and wrenched it from the failing grip. The man clung to the wrist-loop, but was quickly kicked free of it. But the man was not finished. He came in again at once and Mcallister knew that his weapon was now a knife. He warded the first lunging blow with a wrist and brought his own knife up from his knees into the belly.
The Apache exhaled in a long, sobbing sigh and leaned on Mcallister for support. Mcallister heaved him free and drove t
he knife into the heart right up to the hilt so that the meeting of the quillon with the ribs jarred his arm to the elbow.
The man went down, kicked a couple of times, gave a low hollow moan and lay still.
Mcallister had difficulty in retrieving his knife so tightly was it jammed between the ribs. When it was free he wiped it on the stinking breech-clout and returned it to his sheath. He started searching around for the Remington, but exhaustion overcame and he sat down to rest. Only when his breathing was easier after gulping in air hungrily, did he remember the shots that had been fired and how far they could have been heard in this desert country. He searched hurriedly till he found the Remington and started stuffing loads into the chambers. Then he looked around for his animals. All he could see was one dark shape that could have been the bay. He wanted the mule with the rifle on the saddle.
He started toward the bay that at once shook its head and ran off.
Mcallister stood and cursed weakly.
He listened and heard the music of the bridle-chains and knew the mule wasn’t far off. But when he headed toward the sound, it receded into the gathering darkness.
He stood and thought. The Indian’s pony could not be so very far off and it would be tied most likely. Tied to what? Ground-hitched, then. Had it spooked at the gun-fire and tried to run?
From beyond the small cliff-face to the east came the soft howl of a coyote. Mcallister froze. The little wolf didn’t sing as soon after dark as this. Silently he cursed his fool animals. If they had stayed, he’d be a mile away by now. He drew the Remington and bellied down to the still hot ground. That way he could hear better and it gave him some small sense of protection. Now that some of the excitement was over, he could feel that his leg was pretty bad.
He reckoned that whoever was out there in the darkness was looking for the buck just killed. With no horse to ride, he could do nothing but wait it out.
Soon the stars appeared and not long after the moon peered down on the endless wasteland from out of a cloudless sky, throwing a giant saguaro into stark relief nearby. An eerie stillness, disturbed only by the movement of the mule somewhere behind him, possessed the scene. The desert world seemed too tranquil and serene for there to be a death-toting savage within a couple of hundred yards of this spot.
As soon as the moon came out, Mcallister moved not even a finger. Like a wild animal he froze to absolute immobility, knowing that his moon-shadow moving would catch the eye of any alert Apache, particularly if he was on higher ground.
When an Indian did appear, he came so suddenly and so silently that he was within spitting distance of Mcallister and in plain sight before he was aware of him.
“José!” Mcallister called softly and saw the big Navajo nearly drop in his tracks with fright.
José looked in his direction and said: “Goddam!”
Mcallister got to his feet and limped toward the Indian.
“You sonovabitch,” he said.
The reply came in guttural Navajo, then the two men flung their arms around each other. Then Mcallister laughed and said: “Who was scared most, huh?”
That got the Navajo mad.
In Spanish, he protested: “I am a renowned warrior. Why should I be afraid of these Mescalero and Chiricahua dogs?”
“They ain’t like the Mohaves and Mexes you raided as a kid—they fight back.”
The Navajo grunted in disgust and spat.
“Now you’re here,” Mcallister told him, “make yourself useful. Somewhere out there, I have a mule and a horse. There’s an Indian pony someplace, too.”
“The Indian pony I have. Your animals, I get.”
He strode away in the moonlight to fetch his horse and rope. Within thirty minutes he and Mcallister were jogging south, the whiteman tied to his saddle because the leg had now become so bad that he found it difficult to keep his senses and his seat. José had re-dressed the wound, but it had broken open and was bleeding profusely. As he rode, Mcallister gripped the tightened stick of a tourniquet, loosening it every fifteen minutes or so when he could remember. Rapidly, the ride became a nightmare and he rode through an insane world of fire and searing heat. All he could remember was the Navajo begging him to allow him to stop. All that big buck got for his pains was a cursing and so some instruction in the rich obscenities of the whiteman. They readily ate up the miles south to Mesquite Springs. That was all Mcallister had in his mind now—to reach the Springs, to reach Clover and that fat, murderous old toad, Carmody.
17
Clover Pulled in his horse and said, letting the men hear the rough edge on his voice: “Stay still.”
They halted, the horses coming together as though finding comfort in the close proximity of their own kind in this eternally empty land.
The outlaw heard the soft pad of the shoeless Indian ponies out there in the moonlight, just out of his sight.
“They’re still there,” he said and, for the first time, the listening men heard a faint note of despair in his voice.
Franchon said: “They don’t ever attack at night. We stir ourselves, we can be at the Springs by dawn.”
The horses rattled their bridle-chains and the saddles creaked as men eased themselves on the leather.
“My guess is you’re about to see that old yarn made into a lie any minute now. Gato ain’t no more afraid of the dark ’n you or me.”
Rand said: “It’s gotta be the gold they’re after. Okay, so let ’em have gold.”
“Don’t make me laugh,” Clover told him. “You think toted this I gold all this way just to give it up to a bunch of Goddam savages?”
“Not all of it,” Rand said. “Dicker with Gato. Hell, he don’t like losin’ men any more’n we do.”
“Don’t fool yourself none. That boy would cut our throats if’n there was gold or not. Slittin’ your throat pleasures him just like … like … like Franchon killin’ a man.”
He heard the gunman draw his breath in sharply and chuckled his challenge. By God, he wasn’t finished yet and if he wanted to bait a pistolero like Franchon, he’d do it.
Franchon said in his soft cold voice: “You’re pilin’ it up for youse’f, Clover, but no matter how much you make it, you can’t make it worse.”
Clover laughed out loud, so suddenly that his horse jumped.
“Boyo, you scare me more’n Gato. I’m purely shakin’ in my boots.”
The other men, expecting violence, started backing their horses away. But nothing happened and nothing would happen between him and Franchon till he was good and ready. That was why Clover was still alive, he always picked his own time and place. Except for now. He couldn’t do that with Gato. Rage touched him.
“Git on,” he said, “we’re wastin’ time.”
He turned his horse south and lifted it into a run, the two pack-animals lumbering clumsily along in his wake. The others spurred their horses to keep close, as if they feared to be too far away from a man who was afraid of nothing.
Like shadowy ghosts the Apache horsemen rode their parallel trails, pacing them, waiting for the opportunity to swoop in and finish them.
Toward dawn, when there was no more to light their way than a dim star light that was diminishing by the minute, Clover halted again. The horses were in a bad way now and knowing horses as he did, he was doubting that they had enough left in them to get him and his men safely into town. There must be another ten miles at least to go. The pack-animals seemed to have suffered most and were all the time hanging back on their lead ropes.
Clover looked up at the stars.
“When them little lights go out, they’ll jump us.” They all started looking over their shoulders, seeing an Indian in every cactus, in every patch of darkness. “We stick together. Any man gits separated, he’s dead. Listen for my beller. Keep close.”
Rand asked: “What do we use for shells?”
“You don’t have shells, use the butt of your carbine.”
They waited.
The Indian ponies out ther
e no longer traveled along their line of advance. Now they padded softly in the dust all around Clover and his men.
Carmody’s driver whispered with a sound no louder than the rustle of a dry leaf: “They’re all around us.”
They heard the rhythmic click of Clover’s gun as he cocked it. When they lifted their eyes, they saw that the stars were going out one by one.
Somebody said: “Aw, Jeeeesus.” The blasphemy had never sounded more like a prayer on his lips.
Suddenly there was a strange sound like thunk close in among them. Something fell so hard against Rand that he was nearly knocked from the saddle.
“What the hell—?”
A horse reared up and a man swore.
Rand almost screamed: “It’s an arrow. My Gawd, he’s been hit by an arrow.”
Squinting through the darkness, Clover saw that the saddle of Carmody’s driver was empty.
“Rand,” he said, “you got him?”
“Yeah. He fell right on top of me. I heard this noise then he fell right … they got him in the throat.”
“Pitch him out.”
“I cain’t. I …”
Rand had trouble with his horse.
Clover growled hoarsely: “Pitch him away, you damn fool, afore he spooks the hosses. No, drop him. We’ll move off a bit. Come ahead, follow me.”
They all heard the dull sound as the dead man hit the ground. A couple of horses started bucking tiredly, but the men held them and edged them away from the body. It was pitch dark now and they were still trying to sort themselves out and bunch again when all hell let loose. A horse screamed and went down, throwing its rider into another man, one of the pack animals tried to get itself free and Clover started bellowing for them to keep together.
Rand yelled: “Every man for himself,” and they heard his quirt lashing his exhausted horse into a run.
Clover roared: “Goddam you, come back here,” but it was no good, Rand was away. They heard him pound south. No more than thirty seconds had passed when they heard his inhuman shriek as he ran into his first Indian. Somewhere out there a warrior laughed mockingly, cackling with obscene mirth, mingling the sound of his laughter with the death screams of the dying whiteman.
McAllister Page 9
