McAllister Fights

by Matt Chisholm

  McAllister made his last try, knowing it was hopeless.

  “Won’t you change your mind, father?”

  “No, my son. I regret that you have made your long journey for nothing. I am grateful and I shall not forget.”

  They embraced. Little Wolf came forward and clasped McAllister. He felt the brotherhood of the young man; he wanted to say something, but he found that he could not. He felt terrible and now that his mission had failed, he wanted to get out of there. It was up to the Almighty now. Would Tom Mangold find the village or not? The old man had a knack of finding places and men in seemingly endless expanses of country.

  McAllister put his foot in the stirrup-iron and swung aboard the canelo, looked down at the bronzed faces around him for a moment, lifted a hand in farewell and turned the horse.

  The kids ran a small way with him, some of the young men rode with him to the ridge above the village and then he was alone in the wind-swept immensity of land, alone with his somber thoughts, weighed down by a heavy sense of failure.

  The canelo wanted to turn south and drift with the forceful wind, but he kept it going east to cut Anderson’s line of march, leaning against the wind.

  The horse trotted tirelessly, a California canelo, cinnamon colored, tough with fathomless bottom, a replacement for the wonderful horse that had been killed during the Chaddo affair, not a creature of great beauty or size, but a horse in a million. McAllister kept it moving till noon, when he off-saddled and allowed it to roll on the banks of a swift-flowing creek. Here McAllister drank a little water, chewed on some jerky and smoked a pipe of tobacco, pacing slowly along the creek to ease his saddle-stiff legs. They were in a sheltered spot and both glad to have a respite from the wind. McAllister stayed there for nearly an hour before he saddled once more and ran the horse on east, keeping in his mind an accurate map of the country, assessing how far Anderson and his command would have got.

  He did not come on it that day, nor had he had any hopes of doing so. He found the fresh sign of a half-dozen unshod ponies travelling fast in a north-easterly direction and reckoned he had missed a small war-party of Cheyenne by no more than a few hours, for which he was duly thankful. It would give him something to tell Tom Mangold and the general. He welcomed any information that would take the army away from Many Horses.

  He camped that night in sparse timber with the horse tied to his left wrist, for he had no intention of being left horseless in this kind of country. He fed the animal on the little corn he had left before he slept fitfully, waking every now and then to raise himself on an elbow and listen, roused by any sudden movement of the horse which was as good as a watchdog. He heard nothing but the violent sighing of the wind in the trees.

  In the dawn, he built himself a small smokeless fire and gave himself a hot breakfast, believing that a man in the saddle for a day needed something hot under his belt. A short while after first light, he was in the saddle again, hammering east, the canelo as fresh as when it had started.

  At noon, he came on the site of an army camp. Tom Mangold had left a message for him on a buffalo skull. But he didn’t need the message to know that the command had changed direction and was now headed south-west. Which was a relief. He followed their sign and worked out the line of march on the mental map in his head. Anderson would pass some thirty miles to the south of Many Horses’ village if he kept on that line of march.

  The canelo hit a fair pace and held to it without break for the remainder of the day, but McAllister reckoned the soldiers were still a half-day ahead of him. He slept that night in a small gully, the horse tied to his wrist as before. Once again it was a relief to get out of the wind and he slept well that night, comparatively snug. During the night snow fell lightly and he was covered with a thin layer of it when he woke. He dusted himself and the canelo down, saddled and went on after cold bait for there was no wood for a fire. He upped the pace a little, for the snow had almost obliterated the tracks he followed and he wanted to reach the command before they were hidden completely.

  Toward noon, he received a shock.

  The tracks changed direction again. Anderson was now headed directly west. That meant that he was headed almost directly for Many Horses’ village. McAllister called to the horse and increased pace again. But he didn’t hold it for long.

  Trouble stopped him.

  The canelo whistled. Head and ears pointed west.

  McAllister stopped. He saw them at once and knew that he could run or fight. What told him was the shot that passed not a foot above his head.

  He looked around hurriedly, spun the canelo, sent it at a fast run for a hundred yards south and clattered into a gully that must have been placed there by a kindly Providence.

  Slipping from the saddle, he looked back the way he had come and took a good look at the six of them, six Indians belonging to he knew not what tribe, but Indians after his scalp he didn’t have a doubt.

  The wind whisked cold drops of snow into his face, landing on his eyelashes and shading his sight. He saw the dark figures of the Indians against the startling white of the snow as though through a veil. They sat their horses, watching him, hunched against the cold blast of the wind, the impetus of their first rush gone. They waited Indian-fashion to find out what their own emotions were – should they charge or run? Should they circle? Should they slip from their horses and creep up on him on foot? One of them, a little further off than the rest, was calling to the others. The wind carried the sound and McAllister could hear the sound only faintly. But it sounded like Cheyenne to him.

  He climbed up the side of the gully and held his hand open and flat high above his head, shouting: “Peace, I am a brother.”

  The Indian stopped shouting. One of the men nearer McAllister shouted to him. Again, he couldn’t catch the words.

  McAllister climbed wholly out of the gully and stood on the level of the plain. He slipped off a glove and made sure that he could reach the butt of the Remington that was strapped to his left side so that the butt was attainable through the opening of the buffalo coat. Putting on the glove again, he raised his right hand high above his head, flat, palm forward.

  “Brothers,” he called, “I’m a friend.”

  They just sat their ponies and stared at him.

  He called to them again.

  One of them suddenly came to life, giving out a high-pitched yell and brandishing a lance high above his head. His pony jumped forward, the rider held it a second and then let it go. It scampered through the snow toward McAllister. The others sat and watched. The lance came down, point coming straight for the whiteman.

  McAllister held his position for as long as flesh and blood would endure, not knowing whether this was play or in earnest, but, when the Indian was almost on top of him, he decided he didn’t want to take the gamble. He turned and jumped down into the gully. The canelo shied away at this abrupt arrival. McAllister heard the thunder of hoofs, looked up and saw the Indian pony flying above him through the air. The savage rider yelped with exhilaration as he went over the gully.

  Quickly, McAllister clambered halfway up the side of the gully, looked south and saw the Indian turn his nimble horse. The savage halted. The animal’s breath was white vapor. McAllister looked north: the remaining five were still motionless.

  The man to the south started yelling and this time McAllister heard the words. They were Cheyenne. The man was encouraging his comrades to try the same trick.

  McAllister considered the situation. Only one shot had been fired. No harm done, except that he had a little scare put into him. How hard were the Indians playing?

  It wasn’t long before they showed him.

  A man to the north started his pony forward at a trot. He wore a skin cap. The buffalo robe which had been draped around him now lay across his knees, fluttering in the wind. He didn’t hurry, but there was about him a look of determination that told McAllister that he meant business. He was armed with a rifle. Whether it was a repeater or not McAllister coul
d not see. He wished he could. He dropped down into the gully, heaved the Henry from leather, levered a round into the breech and climbed the side of the gully again. The Indian had increased his speed. The others were coming forward, too, urging their animals on with sharp coyote-like yelps. McAllister put a quick glance south and saw the man there was stationary, but encouraging his friends with strident calls.

  McAllister thought: I’ll show him how I feel, then I’ll kill him. He raised the rifle to his shoulder, held his breath and squeezed off a shot. He put it as near as he dared without hitting the man. The man’s only reaction was to duck his head after the shot had passed, swerve slightly to one side and then to come on at McAllister at an increased pace. He rode beautifully and without effort, swaying lithely with the movement of the horse, coming within fifty yards of McAllister before he snapped the rifle to his shoulder and started firing. He fired several shots very quickly, proving that the weapon was a repeater.

  The third shot took McAllister’s hat from his head and deposited it in the gully. No man could execute a shot like that intentionally from the back of a running horse and McAllister knew that the game was in earnest. These bucks wanted his hair and they meant to get it.

  He grinned like a hungry wolf. Maybe they’d get his hair, but they’d have them a fight first.

  He levered and fired without thought.

  The heavy bullet lifted the charging Indian from his crude saddle, over the cantle and dumped him on the animal’s rump. He bumped there a couple of times before he fell over backward. The pony swerved to the left, ran a short way and halted. The Indian tried to get to his feet, failed and fell on his face.

  The damn fool, McAllister thought with some regret. Well, the stupid son-of-a-bitch had wanted to be a hero and all heroes died. His goal was survival, the Indian’s had been glory. But he didn’t have anything but a miserable death in the cold of early winter.

  The other warriors must have been thinking much the same thing. They brought their animals to a tearing halt and stared at the dead man as though they couldn’t believe the evidence of their eyes. But they didn’t wait for long. Two of them rode forward, swooping like birds down on their fallen comrade, ripping him from the ground and bearing him out of the fight as all honorable Cheyenne did their dead.

  The others drifted back a couple of hundred yards, almost disappearing into the slowly thickening snow, their wild courage suddenly damped. This, McAllister knew, was the testing moment. The drifting could continue until they finally rode slowly away, sensing that today their medicine was not good. The fellow to the south was the one with sand and it seemed that his boldness was caught by the others. He gave a great shout, shook his lance above his head again and charged.

  McAllister pulled the brass-bound butt of the Henry into his shoulder and fired, but as soon as he squeezed the trigger, the Indian had dropped to one side of his horse and, though McAllister levered and triggered as fast as he could, the man did indeed seem to have some medicine protecting him, for not one of the shots touched him. Yelling defiance, shouting his fullness of life to the cold, snow-covered world, he charged down straight on McAllister, lance levelled. McAllister ducked down below the edge of the gully, the Indian jumped his horse clean over him and stabbed downward with the long lance missing McAllister by inches.

  As soon as he was past, McAllister scrambled up the side of the gully and sent several shots after him, but missed with every one of them. Cursing, he saw that the other Indians, emboldened by this man’s example, were running their horses down on him, cutting the cold air with their battle-cries. McAllister rested his elbows on the rim of the gully, aimed carefully at the nearest rider, who was in the center of the line, and triggered. The painted pony at once reared high in the air, unseating his rider and came down on legs that wouldn’t support it. McAllister snapped a shot at the unhorsed man, but in a second he was out of sight behind a rise in the land. This was the signal for the three remaining savages to slow their mounts, slip from their backs and at once disappear into the snow-covered ground.

  McAllister knew that the fight had now really started. They were going to Indian up on him and while he cut down on one of the creeping figures, he would expose himself to the fire of the others. The chances were that the affair would end with them getting his hair. He was tempted then to mount the canelo and make a run for it. But some rifleman out there was sending his shots mighty close and he reckoned that if he was offered a target as big as a man and a horse, one of them would get hit for sure.

  He glimpsed a man worming his way forward, sent a couple of shots his way, but had little chance of hitting the small target presented to him.

  The cold was hiring through to his bones now. His thin gauntlets were fired keep his hands and his hands were almost too stiff and cold to shoot.

  There was a long silence, during which he perceived no movement. Then suddenly to his right, he glimpsed a swiftly moving figure and was toó astonished to fire, for the man had stripped himself down to the breech-clout for battle in the cold.

  There’s a better man than me, McAllister thought.

  Far to his left there was another movement; bronzed flesh showed briefly against the snow as another Indian ran in closer. No time for a shot. McAllister cursed artistically.

  The man on the right flashed into sight for a brief moment; McAllister snapped a shot at him and at once received fire from the front. It was close and forced him to duck down out of sight. Which was what they wanted and he knew it. Godammit, they’d be on top of him before he knew what was happening.

  The man to the far left, shouting with savage delight, ran a few lightning paces and dropped from sight. He was now on McAllister’s left flank and pretty soon he would be around behind the whiteman.

  As he didn’t have eyes in the back of his head, McAllister thought grimly, that could be the end of him. Halleluja!

  The center man was up and running. McAllister shot fast. The man dropped from sight. He didn’t know if he had scored a hit or not.

  Suddenly, he realised that, if he didn’t make a run for it in the next few minutes, he was a dead man. These boys had sand and they wouldn’t stop coming. Cut your losses, McAllister, and call it a day.

  He ducked down into the gully and shoved the Henry away in its saddleboot. He drew the Remington and checked the loads. Stepping into the saddle brought his head above the rim of the gully and this enabled him to see two of the Indians running forward with an urgency that may have shown that they guessed he was going to run out on them. He snapped a shot at the nearest, missed and drove the spurs home. The canelo jumped, bunched its great muscles under it and drove down the gully. A howl of rage sounded from the Indians and, as he and the horse burst into the open, several shots sang out at him.

  Suddenly, the man on the left flank was on his feet, running in at McAllister at an angle, war-club in hand. McAllister thought this a doubtful shot from the back of a running horse and, at the last moment, swerved the canelo in toward the man just as he prepared to swing the club for a lethal blow. The shoulder of the charging horse smashed into naked human flesh, knocking the Indian tumbling, all arms and legs. The canelo staggered from the violent impact, almost lost its footing, but McAllister was able to keep it on its feet. It dashed away over the cold-hardened ground. McAllister looked back to see the remaining Indians rushing for their horses and knew that in a moment, the chase would be on. He doubted if they would catch him aboard the fleet canelo, but there was always the danger of a fall, a broken leg and, if they caught him in the open, it could mean the end. He planned therefore to run a fair way and then, when opportunity offered, to drop into good cover and catch them with the Henry as they charged down on him.

  In a moment, they had caught up their ponies and were after him in full cry, running them over the dangerous ground at an utterly reckless speed.

  McAllister must have covered about a quarter mile when the California horse went down under him, throwing him out of the saddle. Th
ere was scarcely time to kick his feet free of the stirrup-irons. The iron-hard ground came up to meet him. He struck it awkwardly and a great jar of pain exploded in his shoulder. As he scrambled painfully to his feet, he saw that his horse had fallen a dozen feet from him. The Remington lay in the snow. A wild yell of triumph from the Indians brought his head up and he saw that they were bearing down on him. He was caught flat-footed in the open with no protection in sight.

  Scooping up the revolver, he ran toward the canelo, planning if a leg was broken to shoot it and find cover behind it, but as he approached, the animal reared to its feet and scampered away through the snow. Cursing savagely, McAllister turned and saw that the first Indian was not thirty paces away and coming hard. He cocked and fired the Remington, aiming low and missing. The Indian veered off to one side and he swung the gun on the men behind.

  He did not fully realise all that happened in the next few moments, but certainly he saw one of the Indians pitch from his pony without him, McAllister, having fired. The earth trembled under the thunder of horses’ hoofs and three riders rode past McAllister from the south.

  The Indians were running, tearing their horses around and speeding away to the north; dark figures pursued them, men shouted, guns were fired.

  It was all over in a matter of minutes and there was a horseman pulling in his animal. Old Tom Mangold eased himself down from the saddle, grinning wryly.

  “You all right, son?”

  “I reckon.”

  His shoulder felt like hell.

  Several cavalrymen in their nondescript frontier uniform came up. They looked cold and wretched. McAllister walked to the canelo, picked up the trailing lines and led it back to the waiting men. An officer rode back from the pursuit. It was Lieutenant Gorman, young and keen, a scalp-hunter, a man who hated to be relegated to the frontier, but a man who longed to distinguish himself, no matter what field he fought in.