McAllister

by Matt Chisholm

  A man rode alongside him and, turning his head, Gato saw that his son lay face down across the pommel of the saddle. And he was dead. Gato gave no sign of what he felt. He would give the young man burial, then these whitemen would pay.

  Certainly the first part of Gato’s plan would have been carried out without difficulty on the part of the Apache, if chance and McAllister’s physical condition had not been parts of the game.

  Precisely two hours from the first running fight with the Indians after leaving Mesquite Springs, belt or no belt around the saddlehorn, Mcallister fell out of the saddle. The Navajo would have ridden on, unaware, if McAllister’s horse had not bolted past him with an empty saddle. José turned his pony and went back. Mcallister lay face to the sky looking dead. The Indian slid from the saddle and bent to put an ear to McAllister’s chest.

  The big man lived.

  The Navajo anxiously searched their back trail with eyes accustomed to this bleak sun-bleached moonscape and could find no movement. When he had checked on all the surrounding countryside, he looked for any cover such a barren country could offer. There was precious little and he had to mount his horse and search for a while till he found a shallow dry-wash that offered some sort of a ledge that cast a shadow. To this he brought Mcallister and with lukewarm water from the bag at his saddle he moistened the dry lips. After a while, Mcallister revived slightly.

  He was surprised to find himself on his back.

  “Wha’ happened?”

  “You fell.”

  Mcallister struggled to sit upright.

  “My God, the gold!”

  “The gold is on the horses. Never fear.” The big brown hand pushed him onto his back again. “You rest for a little time, I think.”

  Mcallister batted the hand away and struggled to his feet. When he stood swaying and waiting for the world to stop rocking, José said: “You damn fool, I think.”

  “Ain’t I?”

  The next thing Mcallister knew, he was sitting on the ground feeling the big fool José had called him.

  “You sleep one hour. I watch.”

  There seemed to be some sense in that. Mcallister lay flat and thought about it. Maybe he would be stronger after some rest. But there were the Apache and here were the two of them with one ancient Dragoon gun between them …

  Mcallister slept. The Indian climbed out of the drywash and ranged the desert with his keen eyes. After a while he saw some dust to the south-west, but it was going away from them into the north-west, traveling slowly. That could be Gato and he would be heading for the waterhole at Brennan’s Sink. He would be lucky if he found water there, because the Navajo had checked on that on the last trip across. Maybe the horses could moisten their mouths there, but no more.

  José decided that when they moved, they should go directly west in a straight line for the fort. With luck they would hit the wagons or the fort before they were spotted by the Apache. He spat with some derision. The damn Mescaleros and the other wild people might make his bowels turn over in a sickly fear, but he despised them. They thought they were the smartest men alive, but they weren’t smart enough to stay alive and strong like the Navajo. He squatted in the shade of his horse, wondering whether it would be wiser to wait for dark before they moved.

  He wasn’t strictly honest about letting Mcallister sleep for one hour, but his boss caught him out by waking after a couple of hours. He came up out of the arroyo so quietly that José nearly shot him dead before he recognised him.

  “Put that damned cannon away,” Mcallister said shortly. “You said one hour, you goddam liar. I nearly slept the day through.”

  To José’s astonishment, Mcallister looked nearly as good as new. His face was drawn and the pain showed in his eyes, but he was moving pretty well. The Navajo tried suggesting waiting until dark, but it didn’t go down very well and soon they were mounted and trotting their horses into the west. Mcallister agreed that that dust may well have been Gato’s and it was probably the Sinks the Indians were headed for. So they kept to hard ground and rock where they could to raise as little dust as possible, riding with their chins on their shoulders and stopping every now and then to have a good look around. The horses were desert stock and, though not much to look at, certainly had the stamina for this kind of travel. The pack-horses under their great loads were showing more signs of wear than the saddle-stock and on them was lavished most of the water at the noon halt.

  Somewhat to their surprise and greatly to their relief they found themselves still trotting west when night dropped suddenly on them. When they drew rein to rest the animals, Mcallister said: “You reckon they spotted us?”

  “Yes,” the Navajo told him. “Maybe Gato go to the Sink, but he leave scout. You bet.”

  They let the animals finish the water and no more than moistened their own mouths though Mcallister at least was now suffering uncomfortably with thirst. They lightened their horses of everything except their saddles and bridles and went on. During the night, they rested every two hours, then walked the horses for a while before they got aboard and suffered that hammering trot again. They were eating the distance and doing well, though men and animals were starting to suffer badly, but they reckoned that if they did not sight the wagons at dawn or shortly after they would be unlucky.

  Dawn found them moving at a walk with the horses showing signs of wanting to stop. Both men were against doing that until the sun started to make itself felt. The chill of dawn was starting to admit defeat under attack from the sun when somebody fired a rifle at them from long range. Mcallister who was in the lead, heard the whine of the ball, saw the dust spurt away to his right and started to control his pitching horse before they heard the sound of the shot.

  On glancing off to the right, both men saw the skylined figure as it stood and ran to its mount.

  “Apache!” José spat out.

  “Just one?”

  “One.”

  “Can you get him?”

  “Seguramente!”

  Without another word, the Navajo swung his horse in an arc, struck it on the rump with his quirt and started it in a flat run up the nearest ridge. Mcallister halted the little train and watched the Apache get aboard his pony, give a defiant sign of gross obscenity with his hand and go pelting away to the north. No more than a few seconds behind him, the Navajo sent his mount scurrying over the ridge and down the other side out of sight.

  Mcallister waited.

  He waited long enough to wonder if he had sent José into a trap. Cut off by the ridge, he could see nothing. There came no sound of a shot and he knew the Navajo would not use the gun unless he was forced to. The wait stretched itself out until he could stand the suspense no longer and moved forward up the ridge to peer over.

  Then he started cursing.

  A half-mile off, he saw a horse down and kicking. José stood near raving, shaking his fists at a fast-disappearing rider who was riding a tired horse away to the north. He saw the Navajo stoop and cut his horse’s throat, then come loping back toward him.

  This is great, Mcallister told himself bitterly. We’re now short a horse and before we have time to spit Gato knows just where we’re at.

  When José came up, he was finding time to spit, all right. With rage. That white-boweled son of an Apache cur-dog had not stopped to fight, but had put an arrow through the pony. The Apache were cowards and women, they were dogs and … There was a whole lot more of it.

  “All right, all right,” Mcallister told him. “So you don’t like Apache. I got that much. Well, we have to ride double, so get up behind and we’ll hobble on.”

  José looked disgusted.

  “Ride double and kill horse. Apache catch us all right. Navajo got legs. Don’t need goddam horse.”

  He got hold of a lead-line of one of the pack-animals, dealt the animal a smart slap across the rump and ran with it as it started off at a fast clip. Mcallister started after him.

  When he was level with the Indian, he said: “How long do
you think you can keep that up?”

  José lengthened his pace and dragged the pack-horse behind him. Over his shoulder he snarled: “Navajo run horse dead. You see. Navajo not women.”

  He was still running at noon and when he stopped, he was showing less wear and tear than the horses.

  Mcallister dismounted stiffly and said: “Pretty soon I reckon I’ll be riding you.”

  José smirked. Mcallister let him have his triumph.

  Before they went on, forcing themselves now through the breathless blast of heat that came out of the surface of the desert, the Indian went to the nearest high land and came back to report that he had sighted dust coming in their direction from the north-east.

  “Gato,” he said.

  “How long before they hit us?”

  “Mebbe ten smokes.”

  If the Navajo was right, that wasn’t so bad. With a large dose of luck, they might sight the wagons by then. And though the defending force was badly depleted, so were the Apache. Automatic rifles and the cover offered by the wagons would tell against the unprotected horsemen. There was a chance.

  Mcallister heaved himself painfully into the saddle. He looked at the waiting Indian and said: “Now we kill the horses.”

  The Indian nodded. “You kill horses, But you don’t kill José.”

  They went on.

  From then on life consisted of turning to watch the north for dust, feeling your spine jarred by the pounding saddle, keeping the flagging horses on their feet, listening to the thud of their hoofs and the soft pad of the striding Indian. After one hour or so, one of the pack-animals went down. They were of two minds whether to kill him and put him out of his misery, but the Navajo declared there was still enough left in him for another hour. So they went on, using their whips, until they sighted dust clearly about five miles away and the pack-animal went down again. This time he stayed there and they had to double load on the other animal. By the looks of him, he didn’t have much longer to go. With a deft cut of his knife José killed the downed horse and they went on again.

  Now the horse Mcallister rode started to stumble and that had them really worried. The dust was approaching faster than they thought possible and they began to wonder if Gato had gotten himself some fresh horse-flesh. The pack-animal started to drag back on its rope so José got behind it and drove it before him.

  They ran out of the ridge country and hit the flat and after another of the hell of traveling, they looked back and had their first sight of their pursuers. At the rate they were coming on, Mcallister wondered if it wouldn’t be wiser to find a place to make a fort-up and try for a stand off. But that didn’t make much sense with their having nothing but that damned old Dragoon between them. He reckoned the Apache would be breathing down their necks. Already his sun-tired eyes could pick out the colors of their shirts.

  His horse stumbled again and he kept it on its feet by sheer will-power. José was just cursing the reluctant pack-horse in succulent and horrible Spanish when he stopped suddenly and said: “Smoke!”

  Mcallister stared in the direction he was pointing and saw with difficulty the wisp of smoke slightly to the south-west.

  “Maybe wagons,” the Indian said.

  Mcallister told him: “We don’t know, but we have to gamble on it.”

  They angled slightly left and headed for it. It wasn’t possible to tell the distance to it from their position because once more the country was starting to break up. But when they heaved up a low ridge, they saw the dim shapes in the heat haze that could be wagons.

  Glancing over his shoulder, he saw that the following riders had also changed direction and had, at the same time, increased their pace. Trust the Apache to have spotted that smoke and to know what it meant. Another couple of minutes and he reckoned they would be within long rifle-shot. He used the spurs on his hapless mount, but the animal had nothing more to offer. From behind some hopeful buck fired a rifle, but they didn’t even hear the whine of the ball. They staggered down the long slow grade of the ridge and tried to pick up enough speed to help them over the flat beyond, but they didn’t manage it.

  Another five minutes and the Indians were starting to fire in the hopes of hitting a horse which showed that they were more interested in the packs than the animals. Or maybe they had a fancy for fresh pony-meat. They were starting over the low ridge and covering the ground fast, yelping now like wolves in sight of a failing prey. Mcallister looked back again and reckoned their horses were fresh all right and if he and the Navajo reached the train first it would be a miracle of miracles and he was over twenty-one and didn’t believe in them any more.

  “José,” he bawled above the sound of the hoofs, “Give me that gun and get on down to the train.”

  The man gave him a startled look.

  “No,” he said.

  “Give me that gun or you’re fired.”

  “Hokay—me fire.”

  Mcallister explained what he meant to do, punctuating his sentences with choice phrases and telling José what the Apaches would do to him if they caught him, as if he didn’t know. José ran in close to Mcallister and handed up the gun. Mcallister stuck it in his belt and then reached down for the powder and shot. There didn’t seem much of that either. A shot whistled over their heads and hit dust.

  They pounded up another ridge and as they reached the top, Mcallister shouted: “Now show me how you can run.” The big Navajo gave him a fleeting grin and quickened his pace, lashing the exhausted horse ahead of him. Mcallister topped the ridge, went on a short way and heaved his mount to an abrupt halt. Bellying down he dragged himself back up the ridge, checked the gun and peered over.

  The Apache were less than three hundred yards off. He prayed they would make their run over the ridge within pistol-shot. He got his head down then and played it by sound. The Navajo was going well, but it looked an awful long way to the wagons, but he could see that they had been alarmed down there. The sun glinted on rifle-barrels.

  The Indians were close now, giving voice, pounding up the ridge. Luck was with McAllister, for one of them rode his pony almost up the tracks left by the prey and hit the top of the ridge within throwing distance of the waiting man. The buck paused for a moment as his mount gathered itself for the downward plunge and at the same time spotted the running Navajo. He cried out and pointed and at that split second of time must have realised that there was one man where there should have been two. He turned his head and looked straight into the whiteman’s eyes as Mcallister lifted the heavy Dragoon and shot him dead.

  He pitched from his crude saddle without a sound.

  His pony snorted wildly and ran down the grade. McAllister’s horse tried to take off, but started stumbling over the trailing line.

  Mcallister heaved himself to the crest of the ridge, sighted a charging rider not a dozen yards away and fired again.

  This time he missed. But a horse close behind took the ball in the face and went crazy. The Indian he had aimed at swerved his mount and came straight at him. Mcallister rolled hurriedly from his path, aimed lying on his back and shot the man through the chest.

  Then there seemed to be Indians all over him.

  A horse reared high, hoofs smashed into the dust near him and he heaved himself to his feet, lashing out at a dark face with the weighty barrel and hearing bone give under the terrible blow.

  He fired again as a rider swung a club for his head and then suddenly he was alone and men were riding away from him.

  Near him a dying man was screaming and a horse voiced his mortal agony.

  Looking around, he seemed to see everything at once.

  Several riders were whooping after the running Navajo; McAllister’s horse was down on its foreknees with blood flowing from its mouth. Guns were popping among the wagons. Hastily, Mcallister started to reload, head jerking this way and that in search of danger.

  A sound behind him and he turned.

  The man had launched himself from the back of his pony and his plunging
weight bore Mcallister down, half-loaded gun flying from his hands. Naked steel bit smartly at his flesh and he kicked out with a booted foot at naked flesh. The grease-stench of a savage filled his nostrils and a distorted face was near his as the man came into the attack again.

  Mcallister flung a fist, heard it contact and then he was on his feet, swaying and dazed as the warrior seemed to bounce from the ground and howl back into the attack again.

  He sidestepped that rush and hit the man in the neck, kicked him in the head before he hit ground and had the knife out of his hand before he could regain his feet. Blood streaming down his face, the Apache came at him with his bare hands, flight or surrender a stranger to him and Mcallister met him with the knife. Stabbing two, three times, choking on the dust and his legs trying to collapse under him.

  The man went down and stayed down.

  Mcallister caught sight of José still running and it seemed that he was no nearer the wagons than before. But the two mounted Indians were closing in on him.

  And I have his gun, Mcallister told himself.

  A horse’s whinny brought him up short and he went in a shambling run for the shaggy-looking pinto that tried to run when it saw him coming. It trod on the end of the trailing line that was tied around its lower jaw, got itself righted, but before it could escape, Mcallister was aboard and lashing it.

  It fought him and pitched, but Mcallister was in no mood for niceties and got it going into the general direction of the wagons. It hadn’t taken a dozen jumps when he realised that the Dragoon was lying back there in the dust and he had no other weapon than the knife.

  But José had nothing but a knife either.

  He thundered off the ridge, hit the flat and headed for José.

  The men with the wagons could do nothing for the Navajo for fear of hitting him. Somebody rode out of the wagons shouting, but the Apache were on top of José now. He was having trouble with the pack-horse, but he stopped fooling with that as he looked back and saw that he had to look after himself. Mcallister saw him snatch his knife from his belt and turn to meet the nearest warrior. The man could not have had a gun because he rode straight at the big Indian and tried to ride him down. The Navajo dodged that one, slashed at the man as he went past him and turned quickly to run at the one following behind. This one had a gun and he fired. José staggered, but he didn’t stop. The Apache came off the back of the horse as if he were a feather-weight and raised the dust. José dropped on him. The knife-hand rose and fell once and the Apache was left kicking out his life.