McAllister Fights

by Matt Chisholm

  Here come the questions, McAllister thought. This is when I start lying like an Indian.

  He knew that he was going to lie, but it didn’t come easily to him. There was something demeaning about a lie; it meant that a man could only defend himself with a falsehood. But the lives of the men, women and children in Many Horses’ camp were in his hands. A lie might save them from Anderson. But if he lied in defense of them, it meant betraying the men who paid him and that went against McAllister’s simple code. He knew too that it was possible that the Indians who had attacked him could be from Many Horses’ camp. It was his job to help to stop them.

  The lieutenant eyed him from the height of his saddle.

  “We didn’t expect to see you, Mr. McAllister.”

  The man despised scouts. The term mister when he addressed them was like an insult.

  McAllister laughed.

  “I sure didn’t expect you” he said.

  “What’re you doing this far east?”

  “Looking for the army. I was followin’ your trail when the Indians jumped me.”

  The officer looked wise. He sat thinking.

  “Indians don’t travel in winter. Their village can’t be too far off. What do you think, Mr. Mangold?”

  Tom Mangold spat contemplatively.

  “Whitemen don’t travel in winter either,” he said. “But we’re here.”

  Gorman looked offended.

  “This is no time for getting smart, sir. We’re on the serious mission of finding Indians for the general.”

  Mangold said: “You won’t find no Indians in this, lieutenant. My tip is get back to the command while we can and afore this gits wuss.”

  Sergeant Dolan rode back on a blowing horse. The young officer consulted him. Dolan was an old-timer. He had been in the army since before the war and had in fact joined as soon as he landed from the Ould Country. He was for finding their way back to their command while they still could. If Mangold thought they might get lost, then that was a plain fact that had to be accepted. They headed back south-west with Mangold and McAllister in the lead. They crouched up in their saddles, trying to stop their horses drifting directly ahead of the wind that came icily from the north. They plodded on stolidly, a dozen men frozen in the saddle, every now and then walking at their animals’ heads to bring back the circulation to their bodies.

  After dark they stumbled into timber and were able to light fires. They crouched gratefully around these, soaking up the warmth, thankful to get hot food and coffee into them. Mangold and McAllister shared the same fire as usual and the older man didn’t talk until they had eaten. The horses munched on corn in the background, tied close. Neither man thought that Indians would come to steal horses on such a night, but the thought that they could be left afoot in such a place was unthinkable.

  They lit their pipes and talked a little, huddled in their blankets and buffalo robes.

  The old half-Negro, doyen of the frontier scouts said: “So you didn’t see nothin’ of Indians, boy?”

  “Only the ones that jumped me.”

  The scout nodded.

  “That were a close call. I reckon we’ll find villages over by Bent’s old fort.”

  “Why?”

  “There ain’t no reason. Just a feelin’ I have in my water.”

  “Ain’t they more likely to be down on the Washita in this weather?”

  “I heard talk there was Kiowa, Arapaho and Cheyenne down thataway. But we’ll find some over in Colorado, too, I reckon. An’ they’ll least expect us.”

  “But the ones down on the Washita is more likely to be the ones that’s been raidin’.”

  The old man snorted.

  “The gineral don’t give a damn. He’s out arter Indians. Any Indians. So long as he cuts down a handful of bucks, kills a horseherd and brings some trophies back to show he’s had a great victory over the redman, he don’t care.”

  And Mangold didn’t care either, McAllister thought. The man had spent his life among Indians; he had a wife from every tribe on the plains, but he felt nothing for the red race. It did not move him in the slightest that Anderson might come on a peaceful village and massacre it just as he had done that camp on the Washita the year before. Mangold had lived his life among the Indians and he had learned nothing in that time.

  “I think we should head for the Washita,” McAllister said.

  “Tell that to the gineral, not me,” Mangold said. “He wants easy killin’s. There’ll be thousands of the red varmints on the Washita and the gineral ain’t that strong.”

  “This ain’t war,” McAllister said. “This is like huntin’ animals.”

  “Just like,” Mangold agreed calmly. He knocked out his pipe. “Now, I’m goin’ to get me some sleep.” He lay down in his blankets, drawing them over his head against the cold. McAllister followed suit. His last thoughts before he fell into a dreamless sleep was of Many Horses and his people. Maybe, he thought, if he felt the way he did, he shouldn’t be scouting for the army.

  Chapter 3

  He rose sour in the morning to the sound of bustle in the bivouac, the men being aroused from their beds by the boots of their seniors, and for fear that there were Indians near being cautioned not to make much noise. McAllister’s mind straight off touched on the Indians and he knew that he was still undecided. That mind was usually simple and direct and it was seldom that he did not know it. Now he was in the most agonising dilemma of his life. Sure, he knew that Indians were savages; they were capable of atrocities that would turn a man cold. But then so was the whiteman spurred on by his fear of the Indians. McAllister knew Many Horses as a wise and kindly man, one who had offered him practically the only true kindness that he had known during his early years. He owed the chief something. He had committed himself when he had lied to the lieutenant. Or had he? Was it too late to draw back? Now he faced the question, he knew that he could not draw back. If Anderson went after the renegade Two Bulls, all well and good. If the general went after Many Horses . . . McAllister clenched his teeth savagely. He would prevent that at all costs. But what could a lone scout do? If old Tom Mangold had been a bit more sympathetic, the matter may have been easier, but the chief scout was not. And he had the ear of the general.

  Morosely, McAllister saddled the canelo, tied his gear on board and got stiffly into the saddle.

  They moved off briskly in the dawn, pushing the animals as fast as they could go through the thickening snow which still fell. Men were grouchy in the cold after a fitful sleep which had not rested them. McAllister knew that many of the men were shaken by Anderson’s decision to hold another winter campaign against the Indians, for it was a widespread custom for men to desert in the spring and join the colours in the winter when fighting was not expected. Now they found themselves faced by a formidable campaign against what they considered to be a dangerous and treacherous foe in the winter they dreaded. And chances of desertion were not many in a snow-bound waste such as this. But even so already a half-dozen men had slipped away from the command, taking their chances, and taking with them their valuable cavalry horses. There had been several deserters hunted, but none had been recaptured. It was McAllister’s opinion that the majority of them had died in the snow.

  A couple of hours after dawn, they came to an almost frozen creek and dismounted to rest and water the animals. They did not cross, but, on the advice of Mangold, followed the water north-west and by noon were in the foothills. McAllister grew uneasy, knowing they were heading roughly in the direction of Many Horses’ village. He tried to draw Mangold out and find where they were headed, but the old man would impart no information.

  Around noon, the snowfall slackened off and the wind dropped, for which they were all thankful. McAllister looked around him at the other men, crouched cold in their saddles, their faces unshaven, all looking dirty and dishevelled. Nobody looked as if they would put up much of a fight if they were jumped by Indians. But he knew that appearances could be deceptive.

  Th
ere was some fairly extensive brush growing on the banks of the creek and the lieutenant gave permission for fires to be lit so that the men could warm themselves through and make themselves a hot drink. McAllister quickly built a fire and shared coffee with Mangold. They didn’t talk.

  McAllister was burying the fire when the shot came.

  A trooper not far away gave a cry and fell into his own fire.

  At once there was a scramble of movement that was not without panic. The hit man’s comrade dragged him out of the fire and started beating at his clothing where it had caught alight. Sergeant Dolan and the lieutenant were shouting.

  There came a crackle of rifle-fire and lead hummed through the air. McAllister ran to the canelo and wrenched the Henry from its scabbard.

  Gorman was shouting: “Mount up, mount up.” Men showed an inclination to bury themselves into the snow for protection against the flying lead. Dolan was kneeling and firing into the east. A loose horse ran through the fires. A man tried to catch it, missed and went sprawling.

  Gorman yelled: “They’re on the ridge over there, sergeant. Mount up and clear them off there.”

  McAllister thought the young officer was crazy, but he had to admit that he had guts. He stepped into the saddle himself and saw the sergeant slogging through the snow toward his horse. A man ran past McAllister and dove down the bank of the creek. Dolan saw him and bawled for him to come out or he would personally shoot him. Gorman shouted to his orderly who was holding his horse, the man came running and the officer swung into the saddle. Soon there were a half-dozen men mounted. Dolan whirled his horse, revolver in hand, yelling for the men to follow him. The lead was still flying. Gorman spurred forward and McAllister went after him, easing the Remington from leather.

  Heavily, they charged forward through the snow, a ragged line of riders.

  Halfway to the ridge, McAllister could see the dark dots against the snow that were the heads of men. He wondered if they would stand against the charge. If they did, it was possibly all up with the army. He asked himself why he was charging with the soldiers and couldn’t answer the question. He’d bet that old Tom Mangold wasn’t there. He was back there by the creek, laughing, getting ready to light a shuck if the soldiers came off worst.

  A trooper fell forward in the saddle, his arms around the neck of his horse. The animal carried on forward and slowly jogged his rider loose so that the man fell into the snow. The others charged slowly on.

  Dolan’s big mount hit the bottom of the ridge and started to strain up it. When the sergeant was halfway up, the rest reached the steep slope. The lieutenant was shouting excitedly.

  There was a flurry of movement from the top of the ridge. Several men showed themselves, firing almost point-blank on the advancing soldiers. The cavalrymen started banging away at them ineffectively with their revolvers. The Indians may not have been sÇared by the gunfire, but they apparently didn’t like the way the whitemen kept on coming. Maybe there was some sense in the lieutenant’s craziness after all. Suddenly, the Indians vanished. When McAllister reached the top of the ridge, he saw the Indians about thirty yards away running toward a knot of ponies that stood among some brush.

  He yelled to them in Cheyenne to surrender, but they kept on going till they reached their mounts, leaping agilely into their saddles and sending the animals at a run toward the west, belaboring them with any weapon they had to get more speed out of them.

  Near McAllister, Dolan sat his saddle, sighting carefully with his issue Colt. He fired twice and an Indian several yards in the rear of his companions pitched into the snow. One mounted man turned back to aid him, but the troopers spurred forward and galloped down on him with their guns going. He didn’t wait for anything more, but fled. The fallen man got to his feet, tried to run and fell into the snow again. Suddenly, the soldiers were all around him, guns pointed.

  “Don’t shoot,” the lieutenant shouted. “I want him alive.”

  Dolan asked if they should pursue the fleeing tribesmen, but he was told: “No, let ’em go. We have this fellow and we’ll make him talk.”

  The sergeant had a rope on his horse. He built a noose and dropped it over the head of the wounded savage.

  As the man was hauled to his feet, McAllister saw that he was a Cheyenne, a young man barely into his twenties, scared but fierce as a captured cougar. He was naked except for his breech-clout and leggings and had been shot through the back of the right thigh. The hatred and rage that showed in his eyes was as baleful as a wolverine’s.

  Gorman walked up to him and stared into those wild eyes. For a moment, McAllister thought that one or the other would strike a blow, but they did not.

  “Take him down to the creek,” Gorman said. McAllister saw that the young officer was shaking under some violent emotion. It could have been rage, it could have been reaction to his scare in the charge. It took men different ways.

  Sergeant Dolan hauled on the rope, hard. The Indian went down and a soldier laughed. McAllister’s hand went out to help the savage to his feet, but he restrained himself. He had to go carefully. And what the hell did the Indian mean to him? Hadn’t he jumped the army a few minutes back? Wouldn’t he have cut McAllister’s throat soon as look at him?

  Dolan kicked the Indian and went on kicking till the man got to his feet. The man lunged for the sergeant, but a trooper hit him with the barrel of a gun and put him down into the snow again.

  “Careful,” the lieutenant said. “I want that man able to talk. Go ahead now.”

  The sergeant walked along the length of the rope and mounted his horse, shouting for a couple of men to check on the wounded man on the ridge. The men stepped into the saddle and trotted their horses back to the ridge. Everybody else mounted except the Indian and they started back for the creek with the Indian limping on the end of the line. Once or twice he fell as they made their way down the ridge, but no sound of complaint came from him. When he fell, Dolan didn’t wait for him to regain his feet, but dragged him by the neck.

  The man who had dropped from his horse was dead. The troopers caught his horse and slung the body across the saddle. They were shaken, for the man had been young and popular. When they reached the creek, the lieutenant cursed at the men who had failed to charge. He didn’t say anything to old Tom Mangold who squatted by a fire imperturbably smoking his pipe. When Dolan flung the young buck down near him, he rose slowly to his feet and walked over to him and inspected him with some interest.

  “Cheyenne,” he said. He turned to McAllister with a smile. “You’ll be able to talk with him, boy.”

  The officer gave orders for the man’s hands to be tied behind his back and for the rope to be kept around his neck. Then he turned to the man who had been shot when the Indians first opened fire on the camp. The man had taken the shot through the belly and looked in a bad way. Orders were given for a litter to be made for him. Corporal Caxton, who had some medical skill, meanwhile attended to the wound. All the time, the injured man groaned and cursed venomously.

  Gorman turned his attention to the Indian. Legs apart, hands behind his back, he stared down at the young warrior.

  “We got one of ’em,” McAllister said. “Them Indians is liable to come back for him.”

  Gorman jerked around.

  “You attend to your business, McAllister,” he snapped. “I’ll attend to mine.” The boy’s nerves were all to hell.

  McAllister walked to the creek edge, so that he could watch the prisoner and the ridge top with only a shift of his eyes.

  “Get him on his feet,” Gorman said.

  Dolan kicked the Indian to his feet.

  “Ask him where his camp is,” the officer said. Nobody said anything. “Go ahead, Mangold.”

  “Let the kid do it,” Tom Mangold said. “His Cheyenne’s good.”

  “Go ahead, McAllister.”

  McAllister said: “Where’s your camp, man?”

  The sound of his own language may have startled the warrior, but he signalled the
fact with no more than a flashing turn of his dark eyes. He straightened himself and stared at the horizon. His legging was almost totally covered with blood below the wound now.

  McAllister repeated the question, but the only response was silence.

  McAllister said: “If somebody don’t patch his wound, he’ll be dead before he talks.”

  “I’ll be the judge of that,” Gorman said. “Ask him again.”

  Once more, McAllister put the question. Silence.

  Gorman clenched his fists and shouted: “Answer.” The Indian pursed his lips and continued to stare into the distance.

  Mangold laughed as if he were genuinely amused.

  “Answer, goddam you, you dumb savage,” Gorman yelled.

  McAllister tried again. He knew that he had to be careful, for Mangold could understand every word he said. He had a wife and several children among the Cheyenne.

  “Whose band do you belong to?” McAllister asked. “Is your chief named Two Bulls?” Silence. “If you are of the band of Two Bulls and you tell us where we may find him, the soldiers will care for your wound and their anger will run away like water through the fingers of a hand.”

  “You put that mighty purty,” Mangold conceded.

  The Indian continued to survey the horizon with an unwavering gaze. McAllister knew that this man would probably die before he consented to talk. All he had learned in his upbringing was being put into this moment. Aw, sure, there were Indians that could break as quick as a whiteman under questioning or torture. But there were also the kind who were sustained in their silence by an unbreakable pride. McAllister reckoned they had such a one here.

  “You are a young man,” McAllister said, “and no doubt you are brave. You went on the warpath with Two Bulls for glory. I understand that. But Two Bulls is foolish. He will gain nothing from war. There will be no glory in it for him, only the mockery of his people, for the soldiers are many and the Great Father is angry. He will not rest until Two Bulls is hunted down and destroyed. All who ride with him are doomed. The sooner he is caught the better for all the Cheyenne. He will bring nothing but misery to his people. The anger the soldiers feel toward him will be turned against all his people. The women and the little children will suffer. Every Cheyenne village the soldiers find will be burned and the people who survive will wander homeless in the terrible cold of winter.”