McAllister Fights

by Matt Chisholm

  * * *

  He came to with men all around him. He could smell their paint. Opening his eyes, he saw their fierce enquiring eyes. Had they killed him? Had they spoiled the people’s fun? They showed delight when they saw that he was indeed alive.

  He was dragged to his feet. They felt and prodded him to find out if anything was broken, but seemed satisfied that he was whole. They pushed him to the doorway and out into the open.

  A barbaric and splendid sight met his eyes.

  There in a great open space like a shallow amphitheater, the people were gathered. In the center a great fire burned in an open space and around it danced a dozen or so savage figures, stamping their feet in time to the beat of the drums. They were stripped of all clothing except their breech-clouts and their bodies glistened with bright paint and sweat. Near the fire were three posts in a line and to each of the outer ones there was a man tied. McAllister saw that these were Jim Daley, the Delaware, and Ben Fleet the half breed. The vacant one was for him.

  He looked around him. He was surrounded on all sides by warriors, armed and ready for him to make a wrong move. If the chance had been there to make a break for it, he couldn’t have taken it as he felt right now.

  They pushed him forward and he picked his way between the watching people. They became aware of him and a great murmur went up. He stumbled and they laughed. A guard struck him and he went down. They laughed louder.

  My God, he thought, these’re the people I wanted to save.

  When he slowed his pace, a sharp spear point prodded him on. Blows were struck at him from either side, he reeled under them until he reached the open space. Here he tried to pull himself together, to walk upright and straight with his head high. If they wanted the game played in the traditional way, he’d give it to them.

  The other two victims were watching him, Fleet in terror, the Delaware calmly.

  He walked up to Jim and said: “Howdy, Jim. How you feelin’?”

  The Delaware flicked him a smile and said: “Never felt better.”

  He would have gone on to speak to Fleet but his captors laid hands on him and hauled him to the center post, lashing his hands behind it with rawhide. Other men came and laid twigs and logs around his feet.

  He grinned at them and told them: “At last I shall be warm, brothers.” They looked surprised and hurried away. The guards retired back into the circle of watchers; the dancers danced on until suddenly the drums stopped for a moment and then took up a steady, slow and soft beat. The people were turning to watch a new arrival. At first McAllister could not see him because of the position of the large fire.

  Fleet was babbling: “They’re going to torture me. I shan’t be able to take it. Why don’t they kill me now and get it over with?” The sound of his voice went on and on. The poor devil would never suffer the torture he was going through this minute.

  After a moment, McAllister saw what the people were looking at, a strange creature that could have been a devil had McAllister believed in such things. In that moment, he had his doubts because this creature was one of the most evil and strangely terrifying things he had ever set eyes on. Under the guise that he wore, he was, McAllister guessed, an old man. Under the rough kilt of old buffalo hide and swinging tails the legs were the spindly limbs of a very old man and he did not seem too steady on them. They appeared to be coated in muck and filth. The thin old chest was covered by what looked like ancient and rusty chain-armor such as McAllister had seen in story books when a child. Parts of this were broken and torn and displayed the scrawny flesh beneath. The face was covered with paint, but from the upper lip sprouted a false mustache of what was probably horse hair. The eyebrows, usually plucked out by the Plains Indians, were exaggerated in the same way; they hung over the eyes, blond and obscene. The rest of the face was a grotesque mask of paint, mostly black and white so that it looked like the face of an ancient clown. The head was covered with what appeared to be the skull of a buffalo with the hair still on, the horns sticking out on either side. Around the creature’s neck hung the skull of a small child and the withered fingers of men and women. As he drew nearer, McAllister saw that the fringe of the kilt was made up of old human scalps.

  One emaciated arm was covered in bangles of various shapes and sizes. The hand at the end of it held clasped in its shaking grasp a rod of office capped by another small skull and decorated with fringes of hair which long ago had been dyed red.

  “Christ!” McAllister exclaimed, “ain’t you a beauty?”

  The creature executed a crazy dance that was not a dance, stopped in mid-stride and stared out of white-circled eyes at the big man tied to the stake.

  In Cheyenne, McAllister said: “You are not a thing of beauty, old father. You’ll frighten all the girls away.”

  A laugh from the front rows of the spectators greeted this sally. The specter turned on them and immediately they were silent. Then the creature turned back to stare at McAllister as if puzzled by the phenomenon.

  McAllister laughed and said something obscene.

  Again there was a titter from the audience.

  By God, McAllister thought, if you have to go, you might as well go with a laugh. Maybe he’d cringe later on in the proceedings, but he’d give them a run for their money now, while he could.

  The monster came crouching and sidling up to McAllister and as soon as he was within range the big man got the smell of him and it was like scenting death. Slowly he lifted his wand and slowly he brought it down nearer and nearer to McAllister’s chest. He touched him softly there with the crown of the small skull and the seemingly meaningless gesture reduced the people to an absolute silence. Then the creature hopped and skipped away, crying out in a half-pitched feeble voice and four young men, stripped to the waist, came forward and placed irons in the fire. They then approached the captives at the stakes and ripped away their outer clothing on the upper parts of their bodies. They then fell back behind the stakes and waited with folded arms. The little old creature went skipping and hopping again around the flat space in front of the captives crooning to himself so softly that McAllister could scarcely hear him above the sound of the drum.

  Beyond the slowly capering figure, McAllister could see Strong Bear sitting with his fellow leaders. They looked calm and dignified; the anticipation that showed in so many of the eyes that watched, did not show there.

  The little grotesque figure gyrated on and on until McAllister expected it to fall from exhaustion. Fleet started to babble again and nobody took any notice of him. Finally, McAllister could stand it no longer.

  “Ben,” he called.

  The man stopped and turned his head, his eyes dull with terror.

  “Yes.”

  “There ain’t nothin’ to be scared of,” McAllister told him. “They’re goin’ to use the hot irons. One touch an’ you’ll faint straight away. You won’t feel a thing.”

  “Is that true?”

  “Gospel.”

  The man seemed to take a little comfort from that information.

  But McAllister was wrong.

  The dancing figure produced a thin knife from the rags of his kilt and waved it above his head. He danced toward Fleet and brandished the little weapon in his face. The man screamed thinly. The witch-doctor or whatever he was made a high-pitched keening noise that could have been a laugh. He danced on to McAllister and waved the knife under his nose. McAllister laughed. He nicked the big man’s face with it sharply and McAllister spat into his face, not being able to do anything else.

  The ancient man fell back with a little moan of horror. A murmur of awe went through the crowd.

  McAllister bellowed in Cheyenne: “You’ll have to go deeper than that, uncle.”

  Did the old creature give a jitter of rage? The ancient eyes seemed to snap in their mask of paint. Breathless words bubbled out of the toothless mouth. He leaned forward and inserted a fraction of the point of the knife at the base of McAllister’s neck and ran it down his chest to the belly.
The blood came, dark in the firelight.

  McAllister roared out his mocking laughter.

  “You haven’t the strength to go deeper, you worn out old son of a coyote, you yappin’ old village cur.”

  With a hiss of fury, the creature pulled back the knife and for a second everybody present thought that he would plunge it into McAllister’s heart up to the hilt. But at the last second, he seemed to get some control on himself. He muttered something toothlessly, incoherent in senile rage, and turned abruptly to the Delaware. He waved his knife under the Indian’s nose, but the victim stared without emotion over his head into the far distance. The knife point was thrust a short way into his cheek; he gave no sign that he felt it; the knife was run down the chest to belly as it had been done with McAllister, but Daley gave no sign that he felt anything. A murmur of admiration went through the crowd. They were pleased. At least two of the men at the stake would die well. It was going to be a worthwhile combat of wills to watch. The other fellow, though not worth much, would give them a good few laughs before he died.

  McAllister said to the Delaware: “How you doin’, boy?”

  “Never better,” Daley answered and gave his companion a brief smile.

  The medicine man was shrieking instructions in a wavering treble. The young men behind the stakes ran to obey him, bringing him red hot irons from the fire. The old man inspected them carefully, took one and advanced on Fleet.

  “No,” the man screamed, “no, no no.”

  The ancient creature gave a little caper of joy and went close putting the iron within an inch of Fleet’s chest. One moment he was straining away from the hot iron apparently trying to push the stake over, the next he was limp in his bonds, unconscious.

  McAllister said: “I reckon ol’ Ben had the right idea.”

  The ancient man stopped for a moment in front of McAllister, decided to leave him to last and went on to the Delaware. He performed a little dance, put his hand near the iron and thought it not hot enough. A gesture of the emaciated hand and a young man handed him another. This one was apparently of right temperature and he advanced upon the Indian at the stake. Daley’s gaze didn’t waver from the distance over the creature’s head. The medicine man might not have been there.

  Slowly, the iron was advanced.

  When it was within an inch of his naked bronzed chest, the Delaware did not flinch, but stood as still as a statue. Slowly the iron was advanced until there was a slight hiss, smoke arose and the smell of burning flesh reached McAllister. The Delaware’s upper lip quivered slightly and the muscles of the chest jumped involuntarily, but the Indian gave no other outward sign that he felt pain.

  The creature capered away.

  McAllister said: “Feelin’ a mite warmer now, huh, Jim?”

  “Some,” the Indian said.

  A little more capering, Jim Daley seemed to wilt slightly, the sweat was now coursing down his face and chest. The puckered flesh where he had been burned seemed to stand out on his breastbone like a talisman of pain.

  The torturer was now in front of McAllister.

  “Here we go, boys,” the big man said.

  A gesture for another iron. It was handed forward. The creature drew breath in sharply through the lipless and toothless mouth. The dead eyes flickered momentarily into life.

  “Come ahead, you piece of old carrion,” McAllister told him.

  He gibbered a little, brought the iron close to McAllister’s chest and watched his face closely. McAllister clenched his teeth and grinned. He was still grinning in a horrible mockery as the iron met his flesh. Every nerve in his body seemed to concentrate screaming into that one small spot on his chest and every nerve screamed till he thought he could hear himself scream aloud. But no sound came, he stood mute and quivering, trying to control his jumping muscles, grinning, grinning.

  Slowly, the iron was withdrawn and McAllister could smell the burning of his own flesh. A nausea of horror swept over him and for one terrifying instant he thought he would pass out. He gritted his teeth till he thought they would break in his mouth.

  The grotesque gnome made an angry sound of disgust.

  The Delaware said: “Warm over your way, boy?”

  “For the time of year,” McAllister said and clung to consciousness like a virgin to her lover.

  The sweat was running into his eyes. He flicked his head to clear it. Ben Fleet was coming to and moaning. It made McAllister want to laugh. Why, the sonovabitch hadn’t even been touched yet!

  The beat of the drum was increasing in volume and speed. The pace of the witch-doctor’s dance increased till McAllister wouldn’t have been surprised to see him fall to pieces. Now he advanced on the man to the right and Ben Fleet started screaming again and fighting to get free. But he didn’t faint this time until the hot iron had made its mark. Then once again he slumped in his bonds and hung there, a helpless sacrificial victim.

  “Ben ain’t playin’ too well for our side,” McAllister remarked conversationally. He had practically recovered himself and was wondering how he would take the second course of this savage feast.

  “I saw the Navajo torture a Chiricahua once,” the Delaware said. “He lasted clean through the night.”

  “You don’t say.”

  “It’s the truth, man.”

  It was going to be the knife now. In McAllister’s imagination, he saw himself being cut until there was nothing left of him but heart. The thought was not a happy one. The first man to meet the steel for the second time was Jim Daley and once again he met the pain inflicted on him without a flinch. A slice of flesh was taken from the upper part of his right breast. The medicine man capered with it, showing it to the onlookers, but his efforts only drew their admiration, for in the Delaware they saw the man they could wish to be.

  He stood motionless and silent still staring into the distance.

  Now yours truly, thought McAllister. Ben ain’t goin’ to give them no fun a-tall.

  The gnome advanced, knife brandished, crooning a little incomprehensible song. He took a long time about it, advanced and retreated, playing coy, till at last the knife was poised over the flesh of McAllister’s right breast. The tip was inserted. McAllister started his grin. He felt the flesh break open. The knife moved.

  “Enough.”

  The knife was withdrawn. The creature turned to see who had dared to cry out like that in the middle of a sacred ceremony.

  Heads turned to see the man who had bellowed in Cheyenne.

  A figure walked through the throng. An old man with a fleck of gray in his hair, so rare in an Indian, upright, his hawk face held high. The clothes were ragged and weariness showed in every deep line of his face. Behind him walked a young warrior, eagles’ feathers in his hair, features the same as the old man who led the way.

  Many hundreds of voices said –

  “Many Horses,” and it came out like a subdued roar.

  McAllister thought it was a part of a crazy dream brought on by pain. But as the man approached, he saw that he was real enough. The man was honed down to skin and bone, but it was the same indomitable Many Horses.

  The gnome was capering with rage now, mouthing foul nothings.

  “Go away, old man,” Many Horses said in his deep voice, so loud that everybody there heard. “Go to your prayers which are your business and leave me to attend to mine.”

  The young men who attended the old creature came forward, their eyes fierce, their manner hostile. Little Wolf behind his father moved the lever of his Henry rifle. They stopped. McAllister waited for the anger of the crowd to come, but they were so taken aback by the appearance of the great man they thought dead, that they could do nothing for the moment, but watch and wonder.

  Strong Bear came forward. There were others with him, armed men.

  “This is not right, Many Horses,” he said in his cold calm voice.

  “Ah, Strong Bear, savior of his people,” Many Horses said with pleasure and before the war-chief could move back he had
embraced him. There was nothing that Strong Bear could do but return the salutation.

  He reacted with the politeness of a Cheyenne, it came automatically. He murmured his pleasure that so great a chief was still alive and had been preserved by the will of the Great Spirit to lead them once again. The people took the cue from him and gathered around to add their greetings. Many Horses didn’t hurry them, he spoke to all who spoke to him, then he said in his voice of command: “Untie these men.”

  “But it is not seemly,” Strong Bear protested. “We are merely carrying out the will of the people.”

  “We will talk about this later,” Many Horses said with authority. “I have a plan which I shall put before the chiefs and these men have a part in it.”

  “The way of the Cheyenne,” protested Strong Bear, “is for the will of the people to prevail. Their enemies are in their hands here and –”

  “It is the way of the Cheyenne,” Many Horses returned, “for a chief to lead for the good of his people and now I have the good of the people in my mind. Never fear, we shall talk of this. If then you want to kill these men, then you shall kill them.” Many Horses gave some sharp orders and some young men who were in sympathy with him came forward to release the prisoners.

  As soon as he was cut down, Ben Fleet took two staggering steps away from his stake and collapsed in a heap. McAllister and the Delaware massaged their wrists and watched carefully to know what move to make next. They were not out of the wood yet and they knew they had to go carefully. Many Horses took no further notice of them and was conferring with the chiefs who had sat around Strong Bear. McAllister was amazed that the people had accepted with such meekness the fact that their victims had been taken away from them. It showed what a hold the old chief had on them.

  Finally, Many Horses turned and beckoned to them. McAllister picked Ben Fleet up in his arms and the chief gave an order to Little Wolf. The chief’s son led them to a tipi on the outskirts of the village and said: “The Indian and the half breed will stay here. Stay close to the lodge and do not be seen too much in the village.” McAllister laid Ben Fleet on a pile of rugs inside and Little Wolf told Jim Daley that someone would come and dress his wounds. He then led McAllister to a large lodge some way off and told him that the owner had allowed Many Horses and his family to use it. Inside McAllister found Red Feather and Falling Leaf with the child. They had a warm and noisy reunion before McAllister declared that he could eat a horse and Red Feather fed him a gargantuan meal. By the time he had eaten his fill and was lying back on a backrest, smoking his pipe and feeling pretty content with the world, Many Horses returned. This time he embraced McAllister and showed that he was genuinely pleased to see him. He ate a little and started a pipe before he talked. Little Wolf sat down quietly beside his wife with his son in his arms.