McAllister Fights

by Matt Chisholm

  “Tom,” he said, “give the chief greetings and tell him that I have come here to punish the transgressors.”

  Mangold translated freely, going on and on for several minutes. Anderson waited with rising impatience. The chief replied in sonorous tones. Mangold put his words into American.

  “He’s askin’ what transgressors you’re talkin’ about, general,” the old scout said.

  “Tell him I mean the renegades who have been burning whitemen’s homes and stealing their women and children.”

  Mangold put this into Cheyenne. The chief answered, his eyes suddenly angry now. And the Indian’s anger angered the general. Jumped-up barbarian sonovabitch!

  Mangold said: “He says he don’t know what the hell you’re talkin’ about, general. He says that no young men have gone from this village. He’s at peace. He says a soldier chief gave his word that no harm would come to his village if he flew an American flag over it. The flag’s flyin’ right now.”

  “He’s a liar.”

  “Mebbeso, but I ain’t tellin’ him that.”

  “Tell him if he withdraws his warriors and allows me and my troops to enter the village without trouble we will talk and maybe come to some agreement.”

  The old scout gave him a queer look. He looked a bit surprised.

  “You mean that, gineral?”

  “It’s what I’m saying.”

  Mangold put it to the chief. The reply came back.

  “We are talking here. Here is a good place to talk. Let it be decided here. Peace or war. The Cheyenne want peace.”

  When this reached Anderson through Mangold, the general looked furious.

  “Ask him why the hell his warriors attacked me then?”

  The answer came back –

  “He says they are not his warriors. They are men who want war. He and the people in the village do not want war. They’re peaceable. If the soldier chief has to fight the Indians he sees, let him stay away from the village. The people there do not want war, they want only friendship with the whites.”

  “My God,” the general cried, “does he take me for some kind of a fool? He wants it both ways. He strikes me with his left hand and offers me his right.” He almost choked in his anger. “Tell him to get those men on my flanks out of it or take the consequences.”

  Mangold put this back to the chief who, when he had heard, sat motionless for some time, staring at the general deep in thought. One of the old men leaned forward and spoke in a low voice to Many Horses.

  The general asked Mangold –

  “What’s he say?”

  “I didn’t catch it all, gineral. But it sounded like ‘Strong Bear’s right’.”

  “Who’s Strong Bear?”

  “My guess it’s the feller leadin’ the bucks that jumped us.”

  “So that’s the way the wind blows, is it? Stand by, boys, for action. Follow my lead.”

  Dolan grinned. Mangold looked startled.

  “What do you aim to do, gineral?” the scout asked.

  “I’m grabbing that chief and taking him back to the column.”

  “Hell, you can’t get away with that.”

  “Watch me. I’m putting the old rogue under arrest.” He turned his head to Dolan. “I’ll cover him, you grab the pony’s line, sergeant, and away we go.”

  Many Horses started to talk.

  He hadn’t spoken a dozen words when the general drew his right-hand gun and levelled it at the chief cocked.

  Mangold cried out an order in Cheyenne. Sudden alarm showed on the faces of the three Indians. Many Horses’ right hand snapped down to the Navy Colt in his belt; Mangold snapped another order. The chief lifted his hands. A running murmur went up from the watching warriors.

  “Quick, now, lads,” the general cried excitedly.

  One of the sub-chiefs shouted and urged his pony forward. Dolan darted his horse forward, he leaned from the saddle and snatched the chief’s line from his hand. The general fired past Many Horses and the sub-chief was knocked clean out of the saddle. The horses jumped at the sound of the shot. The shot man’s pony scampered away to one side.

  A great roar went up from the watching Cheyenne, men started to urge their horses forward from the flanks. All three whitemen were aware that they were in terrible danger and only the utmost speed could save them. The warriors who had come up from the village with Many Horses were kicking their mounts into a run. Several rifles snapped off.

  Dolan heaved his horse around, jammed home the spurs and went racing toward the column, the chief’s horse running wild-eyed behind him. The general and the scout followed suit, spinning their horses and going after him as fast as they could.

  But Many Horses wasn’t to be taken so easily. In spite of the gun in the general’s hand, the chief now ripped the Colt’s gun from his belt and fired back at the general under his left arm-pit. Anderson felt the wind of the bullet and fired back, but the chief was no longer on the back of his paint-stallion. With desperate courage he had flung himself from the back of his racing pony.

  For a second, it looked as though he had landed on his feet, but after three quick paces, he stumbled and went down. In a second, the general was on him, bending from the saddle with his revolver at the full extent of his arm, firing point-blank into the chief’s body. Many Horses was thrown sideways by the force of the shot. He rolled over twice and lay still, but the general never saw that, for he was intent now only on reaching the column, needing its sanctuary desperately from the Indians who, at the sight of their chief being shot, gave a howl of horror and rage. They drove their winter-weakened horses forward after the fugitives as fast as they could go, but they were no match for the corn-fed army horses who were soon among the troops.

  If the three whitemen thought themselves to be safe back among their comrades, they were mistaken. The shooting of the chief had so maddened the Cheyenne that they now rode clean up to the smoke-wreathed muzzles of the soldiers’ guns. The clatter and din of the untidy charge and its repulsion was deafening with the guns going off, the screaming of enraged and wounded men, the pitiful whinnying of injured, horses. The devastation wrought by the firing of the troops was terrible. The ground around the column was littered with the dead and the dying, horses kicked and screamed their lives away. But it was not only the Indians who suffered. The whole column reeled under the impact of the charging savages, several of whom through the very recklessness of their charge had been carried still mounted into the very midst of the column itself. Then it became a matter of hand-to-hand fighting for fear of shooting a comrade, every man there a savage, hacking and kicking, doing anything to destroy the foes they feared and hated.

  Then, as quickly as it had started, it was over. Soldiers staggered, their faces black with burned powder, exhausted by their violent efforts, their guns empty, rifle butts gory from being used as clubs. The Indians broke off with their customary suddenness, swooping down from the saddle as they went to pick up their dead and wounded. But these proved to be so many that even after the last horseman had withdrawn out of gunshot, there were still dead bodies and writhing wounded scattered around the battered column.

  The general walked among his men, throwing a word of encouragement here and there. The man looked exhilarated by the action, his eyes bright with excitement. His face was smudged with burned powder and he coughed on the fumes of the guns, but he was plainly a happy man.

  “Well done, lads. I’m proud of you. The greenest recruit is now a seasoned soldier. You’ve received your baptism of fire, boys, and you’ve done well.” He got back to the major at the head of the column. Carpell looked a little battered. His face had been grazed by a bullet and was smeared with blood, but he was calm enough.

  “Well, major, what would you do now?” the general demanded.

  Carpell knew better than to think that any suggestion of his would be carried out.

  “Tend wounded and retire to the wagons as best we can with a strong vanguard out.”

  An
derson laughed.

  “That’s why one of us is a general and the other a major, I venture to suggest. No, we advance straight for the village in one compact body. The fruit awaits to be plucked. That last charge took the stuffing out of them. The little that was left after their chief had been killed.”

  A resigned look came over the major’s face. He looked like a man sentenced to death, but who was brave enough to face it. He was also a troubled man, for the killing of the chief had alarmed him. He hadn’t been able to see the details of the little skirmish, but it looked uncommonly like to him that Many Horses had been killed in cold blood. But this was not the time to raise such a question, though he didn’t have a doubt that it would be asked later. If any of them lived to come out of this to answer questions.

  The column was a half-hour collecting itself and during that time not a shot was fired. The dead were hastily dug into shallow graves and the horses walked back and forward over them to hide them so that the savages could not disinter the corpses to mutilate them. The wounded were patched up as well as could be and tied on their horses. Six men dead and eight wounded. Anderson and most of them reckoned they had come off lightly after a charge of that kind. Wounded horses were killed. Only four men were forced to ride double, which was a blessing.

  The column went slowly forward. The general reckoned there wasn’t much time if he was going to take the village before sunset and that he was determined to do.

  Chapter 8

  McAllister stood listening, knowing now that he had not been mistaken and the distant sounds that he could hear were indeed the reports of small arms.

  He glanced around him and saw that his two guards, though much of their attention was fastened on the distant shooting, still watched him.

  His mind busied itself, thoughts racing.

  He had to get out of here, fast. If the army caught him here it was the finish.

  Men and women, the children scampering, were hurrying past him, going up on to the ridge to the west to see where the shooting was coming from. Warriors who had stayed in the camp, slipped across the creek to the horse-herd, caught up a pony and rode through the camp for the ridge.

  He watched the ridge, trying to tell from the reaction of the people there what was happening further to the south, but he could not.

  His guards were walking forward: The camp was emptying. He was tempted to run for the canelo at the lodge door, mount and shoot his way out of here, ride along the creek or cross over, headed for the west or north. Make a fresh start. But no sooner did he think this than one of the guards looked straight at him and levelled his rifle once more.

  McAllister made signs for him to allow him to go up on the ridge to see what was happening, but the man ignored him.

  The distant shooting had stopped. McAllister listened again. Maybe either the Cheyenne or the army had withdrawn. McAllister would bet that the general had not beaten a retreat. He didn’t know the meaning of the word.

  Red Feather came from the tent and stood by him; Falling Leaf came up too, holding her child in her arms. Their faces were creased with anxiety.

  Red Feather said: “The chief should not have gone. The soldiers are not to be trusted. He trusts them too much.”

  McAllister knew that Falling Leaf’s thoughts were on the son, Little Wolf. Depression hit him. He smelled death. The impulse of a moment ago to run and never look back was modified. Part of him was here with these Cheyenne. He wanted to know what was going to happen, he wanted to do what he could to help.

  He didn’t know his own mind, he told himself. What could one renegade whiteman do in a situation like this, in the face of the army? No, he must ‘light out. But the guards were still there and he had no real wish to kill them in his attempt to escape.

  The people on the ridge-top had fallen silent now and they were drifting south to the scene of the battle. He would have given anything to be up there with them.

  One of the guards spoke to Red Feather. The whiteman must go inside the lodge. McAllister didn’t move. The guard walked over and prodded him with the muzzle of his gun and McAllister walked to the lodge and entered. The canelo turned its head to eye him as he went by.

  After a short while Red Feather entered and she said: “Whether the soldiers come or not, you must get away, son. There has been fighting and the young men will be angry. When they come back here and if Many Horses is not here, your life will not be worth a worn moccasin.”

  He didn’t have to be told that, but it was good to know that he had an ally.

  Suddenly, Red Feather looked startled and hurried to the door of the lodge.

  “They’re shooting again.”

  McAllister followed her and listened.

  The shooting sounded more fierce than ever now. He stepped away from the tent and looked up at the ridge. The people were running south and he could hear their shrill cries. In a moment, they were gone from sight. The camp was now almost totally deserted.

  He looked around.

  The two guards had disappeared. Now was his chance. But he didn’t move. There was acute danger for him here, but he couldn’t leave.

  Red Feather said: “You must go now.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Don’t be foolish, of course you can.”

  Falling Leaf carne to add her plea to her mother-in-law’s. He waved them away. He had never played the coward and he didn’t mean to start now. But an argument started with himself. It wouldn’t be playing the coward if he ran now. What good could he do if he were dead? And he would surely be dead if the young men came back without or ahead of Many Horses.

  The firing died away and a stunned silence seemed to settle for a moment over the whole land. McAllister and the two Indian women looked at one another. Then the silence was cut through by the sound of many voices raised in a shrill and prolonged scream. Women and children appeared over the ridge to the south, streaming down on to the flat as fast as they could go; fat squaws waddling along, young mothers clutching their babies, old men shuffling along at the top of their speed.

  McAllister didn’t have to be told that disaster had hit the tribe.

  No sooner had the people surged into the camp, milling this way and that, than the air filled with screams and shouts, then the first horsemen appeared over the ridge, flogging their horses. McAllister watched them come down the steep slope, their horses squatting on their hind legs and coming down with stiff forelegs. In a moment, they were in the camp, shouting that the soldiers were coming, pack and flee.

  Red Feather said: “If you won’t run, get out of sight.”

  He stepped back into the doorway of the lodge.

  “You should get yourself to safety, mother,” he told her.

  She looked at him.

  “I shall wait for Many Horses and my son.”

  Lodges were starting to come down, the buffalo hides rolled and packed on to hastily assembled travois. Men rode their horses through the creek toward the horseherd to get more horses. The whole scene was of the utmost din and confusion.

  More and more warriors rode their exhausted ponies into the camp. Some women decided to escape without their worldly goods and a whole flock of them with children in attendance started to run along the creekside north. Others waded through the ice-cold water in an effort to go west and possibly to catch up horses as they went. Everybody seemed absolutely demoralised. But McAllister didn’t let the sight fool him too much. He knew the Cheyenne and was aware that if the soldiers did indeed ride down into the camp, the warriors would resist them with untold ferocity.

  Suddenly a warrior going past on his pony spotted McAllister in the doorway of the lodge. He spun his horse, lowered his lance and charged.

  It all happened so quickly that there was no time but for an instinctive reaction.

  Red Feather screamed.

  McAllister stepped back into the cover of the tent. The Indian pony charged into the narrow opening and apparently became wedged. It was at once frantic to escape. Th
e rider had driven the lance through the hide of the tent and this he abandoned. He was shouting angrily. He tore at his pony’s head, managed to get it to back up and at once darted inside the lodge. In his right hand was his war-ax.

  McAllister launched himself forward. As the ax arched down for his head, he went in close under it, batted the arm aside, grabbed the warrior by his long braided hair and heaved him violently across the tent. The man whirled away from him, all arms and legs, his yell of alarm cut off as he hit the further wall and fell amongst a pile of robes and furs. He tried to get his feet under him at once, but McAllister paced and leapt, landing on the man’s belly with both feet. He heard the wind go out of the man agonisingly, but that did not stop the fellow from getting to his feet as McAllister, who had also fallen, did the same. The Indian had dropped his ax and now reached for the knife in his belt. McAllister went forward fast, ignored the knife and took the warrior full in the belly with his head and bore him backward into the wall of the tent again. He felt the knife graze his shoulder. Raising himself from his waist, he smashed his right fist into the painted face beneath him. The man groaned and lay still.

  Shaken, McAllister rose to his feet to find himself face-to-face with an anxious Red Feather.

  “Go now,” she said.

  He didn’t need any second bidding. He knew if he stayed around here he was a dead man. He ran to the door and looked around. Nobody seemed to be looking in his direction. He untied the canelo and vaulted into the saddle. He glimpsed Falling Leaf’s lovely and frightened face as he swept back the spurs. The canelo jumped and ran.