It was like a miracle.
He had walked to the edge of a great break in the plain. Below him was a chasm cut in the face of the earth; he could see the snow-clad tops of trees and the smooth frozen surface of a creek. He went back and told the girl; she gave a little glad cry, got down off the horse and went forward to look. When she came back, she said: “I think I know where we are now. If we go down I shall know for sure.”
They rigged the child up on her back as she demanded and they made their way slowly down. It was difficult with the child and the horse, but finally they made it, descending slowly, stumbling sometimes, slipping and sliding. They stood on the bank of the creek with the trees around them and the air seemed one degree warmer.
“First make a shelter,” he said. “I’ll build a fire.”
He cut branches and laid them down for a bed, covered them with his tarp, laid the child on it and covered him with the tarp. Then he cut branches for the girl to make a shelter. She knew all about that and chose a good spot that was sheltered by the wall of the canyon and almost free of snow. He built a fire and put some of the meat to broil. While he was bringing in wood and piling it near the shelter, she took the baby from the tarp and laid him on a bed of branches she had laid on the floor of the shelter and tied the tarp over the roof of the shelter.
They ate strips of hot horse meat with their fingers, squatting on their hams, and there was quite a festive air in the little camp. The girl held the child on her lap and stuffed chewed meat into its small mouth. It felt good to get hot food into their bellies after so long and McAllister capped the meal by getting a little of his remaining coffee from his saddle-pockets and making some in melted snow. They shared the scalding brew, savoring the warmth. Once more McAllister began to feel human.
“Sleep now,” Falling Leaf told him. “I will watch.” He argued a little with her, but surrendered and crawled into the shelter. At his request, she gave him the child and he cradled it in the crook of his arm under the blankets. The little thing’s warmth seeped through to him and he dropped into a deep sleep.
* * *
He came awake slowly, feeling the heat of the fire at his feet, deliciously drowsy. It was dark. Falling Leaf was hunched by the firelight, lost in the great buffalo coat. He heard the howl of a wolf in the near distance, the soft munching of the canelo as it tried to get some nourishment from the trees.
After a while, he called softly to the girl and she crawled into the shelter. He handed her the child and wrapped it in the blankets, then went out to the fire. He gathered more firewood and built it up. It had stopped snowing and it seemed colder. The wind was up, howling over the chasm in which they were sheltered. He looked around him and saw that the drifts of snow were considerably deeper. He dreaded going on, fighting his way through it, but he knew that they must keep on the move. Filling his pipe, he lit it and knew that he had only enough tobacco for another day.
Dawn came in hushed silence; so silent were the trees that when a small gathering of snow fell from a branch, it sounded loud. He fetched the Henry from the shelter and cleaned it. The girl and the child still slept.
Let them have another hour, he thought. Then we’ll move on.
The horse whinnied softly. McAllister stepped through the trees, found the animal and saw that his whole attention was on the south. McAllister went back and picked up the Henry and listened carefully. The sound was soft, but he knew at once what it was – horses coming down into the canyon through the snow. Maybe men had sighted his smoke, which he doubted; or they were naturally taking the first shelter they came to, which was more likely. He roused the girl; she left the child in the shelter and joined him. They watched the heights above them and wondered if it were soldiers or Indians coming. Even Indians could be a danger if they were the wrong ones. It was a world full of dangers.
Slowly, they came into view through the trees that lined the canyon side, stumbling, tired. A few horses carrying the very old and the very young; the rest on foot, staggering, scarcely able to stay upright on the steep slope.
“They are my people,” Falling Leaf said. Her gladness and relief sounded in her voice. He didn’t know if he was so pleased. This wasn’t how he meant to get her back to her people. This could mean real trouble for him.
He fetched the canelo from the timber and hastily saddled it. He might need it in a hurry. The girl didn’t miss a trick.
“Don’t be afraid,” she said. “They are my people and they will be grateful for the way you have helped me.”
In American, he said: “I ain’t so damn sure of that.”
The people reached the flat and gathered to stare at them before they came slowly forward and continued to stare. Every one of them looked in a state of shock. Plainly they had fled from the village without any protection against the weather. There was not a single heavy robe among them, one big warrior was almost naked as though he had fled when he was prepared for battle. There were about fifteen women and old folk and a halfdozen fighting men. The obvious leader was a shortish man with bandy legs and a curious way of pushing his head forward on his neck. He had plainly gone into battle wearing his best clothes, but now they looked the worse for wear. His full warbonnet was broken and tattered as though it had been riddled by riflefire. His paint was smudged and revealed a heavy and new scar along the right side of his face.
He gave Falling Leaf a hard look, then turned and walked almost completely around McAllister, inspecting him.
“Why are you not with the soldiers, whiteman?” he demanded rudely.
“I came to warn the Cheyenne of the danger they were in,” McAllister said. He shifted his rifle to his left hand so that his right would be free for a quick draw of the Remington.
“Strong Bear did not trust you.”
Falling Leaf said: “He saved my life and the life of my child.”
The ugly warrior said: “Men are now talking. Let the women remain silent.”
A young warrior found the horse-meat that McAllister had hung from a tree. He cut it down and slit portions of meat from it, handing it out to the others. Ravenously they started to swallow the raw meat almost without chewing it.
Falling Leaf ignored the warning of the warrior.
“The people owe this whiteman gratitude,” she said. “Many Horses and Little Wolf will see that the debt we owe him is paid.”
The warrior gave a snort of laughter.
“And where are Many Horses and Little Wolf? Fallen before the guns of the pony soldiers. There will be a new chief. Already Strong Bear leads, for we are now at war. Only a few men went out to fight the soldiers, but the soldiers made war on all the people. So the whole of the band are now at war. Strong Bear leads us all. And he did not trust this whiteman.”
A young man stepped forward, a Spencer repeating rifle in his hands. His face was drawn with weariness, but there was still a swagger in his walk and he curled a lip at McAllister.
“I say slit his throat like the dog he is,” he offered. “He has a fine gun and a good horse.”
McAllister flicked his gaze over the faces around him and knew that he wasn’t going to talk his way out of this one. These people had suffered too much in the last twenty-four hours – now they needed a scapegoat. There wasn’t much food here, there would be little more on the march, there were many long and cold miles ahead of them. To make an enemy suffer would make them feel better. The Indian tradition was that you killed or tortured your enemies on sight. Anybody who was not inside the tribe was outside it and so fair game. He could read their thoughts in their cold eyes. Nobody would think now that these people were capable of love and loyalty, great tenderness to children. They were people who dipped their hands in the blood of their enemies, who cut off their fingers as souvenirs of a glorious killing.
His hand snapped to the butt of the Remington and he stepped back a pace.
He moved quickly, but the bow-legged man anticipated him. Quick as a flash the butt end of the lance he carried was whippe
d around and the sound of it cracking on the back of McAllister’s right hand was like a gun-shot.
The Remington fell by the fire.
McAllister snapped the Henry into his right hand. Somebody rushed him from the right. He was conscious that the young warrior levered a round into his Spencer. Falling Leaf rushed forward and flung herself at the man. A heavy blow landed on McAllister’s right shoulder and he went down to one knee. He swung the rifle savagely, struck a man with the brass-bound butt and sent him flying into the fire. Then they swarmed all over him, fierce as animals, clawing, striking, kicking. Something smashed into his face, he lost his rifle and he fell over backward. As soon as he struck ground, he was struggling to get to his feet. He saw that a man was striking at him with a war-club. He tried to avoid the blow, but his reactions were slowed now. It exploded on his head and the ground came up to meet him again. This time a merciful blackness took over.
* * *
When he came to, he was trussed up like a hog-tied steer, unable to move hand or foot. His head felt as though it had been split open and there was a bitter taste in his mouth. He wanted to retch, but he’d be damned before he gave them the satisfaction of seeing him do that.
He turned his head and saw that Falling Leaf was kneeling by him, her eyes anxious.
The rest stood around looking at him.
The young buck said: “Stick a knife in him and take his hair.”
The bow-legged man said: “No. Many of our people are lying out there in the snow, gut-shot, in pain. Women and little children have been left maimed. A whiteman should pay. It is fitting. Soon we shall meet up with the people. Then we shall all have compensation for what we have suffered.”
“You are a cowardly dog, Walking Calf,” Falling Leaf said.
The people drew in their breath, shocked. Walking Calf showed horror and rage, but he said nothing. The girl was the daughter of a chief and the wife of an important warrior. One had to tread carefully with such a one. He would bide his time.
“Free his legs,” he ordered. “This one will walk. The women will guard him. See that he suffers as our people have suffered.”
“And you will ride his fine horse,” Falling Leaf said with a sneer.
“The horse shall be ridden by the wounded and the little ones,” the man snapped back. He caressed the Henry he had picked up. The Remington was already in his belt. “Come, we must get on.”
A man said: “The children are tired. Let us rest here awhile.”
“No, they must grow up to be warriors. Fighting men do not rest when action is demanded of them. We have found food here. That is enough. We now have the strength to go on.”
Somebody freed McAllister’s ankles and he was kicked to his feet. He saw Falling Leaf go into the shelter and come out with the child slung over her back. She would walk now.
“Let the Diver have the thick coat,” she said.
“No,” Walking Calf growled. “If you do not want the caot, give it to another woman.”
They moved out, a slow and limping procession of men, women and children. A woman struck at McAllister with a heavy stick and told him to get walking. He went after the others and at once, away from the warmth of the fire, the cold penetrated his thin clothing. It was so cold that he wondered if he would live long enough to be tortured by the Cheyenne. The only thing that could save him now was for Many Horses to be alive.
* * *
Every minute from then on was a lifetime, every hour an eternity, every step after a while became a torture. His arms were helpless at his sides and there was no chance of getting the circulation going in them. But it was the walking that kept him alive in the cold.
The Cheyenne, he decided, must be the toughest people on earth. They travelled for three days in clear weather and in falling snow, ploughing endlessly through drifts, sometimes with him out in front, driven by sticks and curses to break trail for the others. He walked until his body was numbed with utter weariness, until his brain reeled and his sight became blurred. During that time a wounded man mounted on one of the skeleton horses died and they left him buried in the snow, too taken up with their own haste northward and their own suffering to bury him in a fitting manner. A child died, discovered as a dead weight on a woman’s back. They left it. Ever forward. Now and then he caught sight of Falling Leaf trudging doggedly on with the child on her back. At least she was warm in the big buffalo coat. She had managed somehow to wear it so the child was under its thick cover. Once he tried to speak to her to give her courage, but he was beaten away with sticks. The food ran out; they marched on, hungry, wanting only to find some of the people so once more they would be part of the circle that was the tribe. If anybody knew where they were going, McAllister saw no sign of it. They just went forward, bent down with tiredness, hoping, kept going by some inner faith.
They slept little. Only once when they chanced on timber, did they build fires and sleep warm. But there was no warmth for him. He was thrown on his own, away from the others, his legs tied now, kept awake for hours by the intense cold and then captured by sleep only because of his extreme exhaustion. He seemed to sleep no more than minutes before it was daylight and he was kicked to his feet again and the walking began once more.
Then suddenly one day, the faith of the wretched Indians was justified and there in front of them in a sheltered spot by the side of a frozen creek were the people, several hundred of them. There were no lodges here and few horses. The people had managed to erect some make-shift shelters and they had fires, but there was little food. Here in command was Strong Bear. He came to view the captive lying in the snow. He didn’t speak, but gave a short barking laugh that showed that McAllister would find no mercy there. However, there is good always to be found in the bad. Falling Leaf managed to build a fire where he lay and he was warm at least and was able to drift off into a deep sleep.
* * *
They stayed there a week, resting, while the men went hunting. They did not have a great success, but at least there was enough food in camp to keep life in the people. One or two still died each day from the suffering on the trail, but now the people started to cheer a little.
About this time, Falling Leaf came to McAllister and said: “I have heard talk. The scouts say that the pony soldiers are not far behind now and they are looking for us. But Strong Bear is not afraid. He says that he will go out and fight them.”
McAllister asked: “Have you heard anything of Little Wolf and Many Horses?”
“They all agree that Many Horses must be dead, but I have heard of men who say they saw Little Wolf alive after the big fight.”
He was glad for her and said so, but the fact that Many Horses was probably dead did not cheer him.
“How is the little fellow?” he asked.
She smiled. “Always hungry, but he is strong. Like his father.”
She managed to smuggle him a little food, but it was not enough for his big frame and he hated taking it from her, knowing that she and the boy needed it.
That same day, a scout rode into camp crying out that the pony soldiers were coming. All was action suddenly. The members of the soldier societies ran through the camp getting the people on the move. The warriors painted their faces for war and looked to their weapons. Those who had horses strong enough to run mounted them. McAllister saw Walking Calf astride the canelo and hoped fervently that the horse did not stop an army bullet. It was a pitiful fragment of the manhood of the tribe who stayed in the rear of the fleeing people to meet the soldiers, no more than fifteen men on horseback and perhaps twice that number on foot. There were few rifles among them. Most of the weapons were bow-lances, clubs and hatchets. How Strong Bear hoped to stop the soldiers with that lot was beyond McAllister.
The only bright side to the picture was that if the soldiers were victorious and he was freed at least Anderson might think that he had been a captive of the Cheyenne from the start. That was his only hope and he knew it was a slender one. If the soldiers were victorious s
ome squaw would slit his throat and shove his body into a snowdrift where it would be found by the coyotes in the spring.
With that gay thought he walked on north through the snow beaten as steadily as a drum by a fat, old and unlovely woman who had detailed herself to be his guard.
Chapter 10
The people straggled untidily to the crest of the ridge and stopped, their attention taken by the distant stutter of rifle fire from the south. The old woman stopped beating McAllister to watch.
To McAllister, it was like watching a set-piece of a battle, like seeing animated toys go about the game of war. He reckoned the soldiers at about fifty, though he could not be certain at such a distance. The dark, slow-moving column slowly made its way north, worming a path between high ground, stopping every now and then when the snow became impossibly thick, searching for a new way through.
He saw the Indian riflemen dotted along a ridge in the snow, the mounted midgets who were the cavalry of the Cheyenne, the pitiful fifteen men, waiting to ride their starving and weak horses in against the heavy cavalry. There and then he decided it was suicide. They aroused his admiration, but he thought it crazy. Fighting without being pretty sure of winning was always crazy – that was something his old man had taught him. The only kind of war worth fighting was one you were pretty sure of winning.
The Indian rifles crackled.
The army column came slowly to a halt. Men were out of the saddle, down and shooting. But they wouldn’t be able to see many targets. The Indian cavalry started a skirmishing movement, went slowly in against the rear of the column, struggling through the deep snow.
* * *
Lieutenant Gorman felt the anger rising in him. He could see the mass of the fleeing Indians on the ridge a mile ahead of him and he wanted to get at them. One moment, he had been victorious, pursuing leader, now suddenly he was on the defensive, held down in the snow by a handful of half-starved savages.
McAllister Fights Page 9
