McAllister Fights

by Matt Chisholm

  “You must know,” Many Horses told McAllister, “that no firm decision has been reached by the chiefs yet about what should happen to you. It is the way of the people to talk much and think carefully before they make a decision. It is a time of war and Strong Bear’s voice must be heard and his words weighed carefully. He is against what I want to do. I wish to keep the people together and to move on further north and there from a position of strength among the main part of the Sioux Nations to sue for peace. Strong Bear wishes to take the warriors and break away from the tribe, continuing the war. I want you to ride back to Anderson and take him my word.”

  McAllister nodded.

  “He’s taken a beating and he may be ready to talk, but it’s my opinion that the man is bent on a fighting victory. He is ambitious and he wants the Great Father to know that he is a fine general.”

  “But the other soldier chief, Towney, has now come,” Many Horses said, “and I hear that he is more powerful than Anderson.”

  “That is so.”

  “And this Towney is a more careful man.”

  “I’ve heard that.”

  “So you will find Towney.”

  “I work for Anderson. I shall have to report to him first.”

  With a smile, Many Horses said: “You will come upon Towney’s men first. That is easy in so big a country. And it is natural that Towney will question you.” Many Horses gestured to McAllister’s chest which Red Feather had carefully dressed. “Will you be able to ride.?”

  “I’ll ride in the morning with first light. A good night’s sleep will put me right. But I must have my weapons and my own horse.”

  “You shall have them.” Many Horses gave an order to Little Wolf and the young man slipped from the lodge.

  “How am I to find the soldiers?”

  “The young men have scouted the backtrail regularly. It was they who found us on the trail. They will know where to find the soldiers. They will take you. Now I must get back to the talks again.”

  After that the chief left. McAllister slept, comfortable in the warmth of the tent. He awoke when the chief returned. Many Horses sat by his side and said: “It is settled. You will go in the morning. Your horse is tied outside the lodge. There are your arms beside you.”

  McAllister slept again. He dreamed of being tied to a stake and a monstrous little hobgoblin pranced around him every now and then prodding him with a sharp fork.

  Chapter 13

  It was a cold raw dawn. The canelo, looking thin and worn, was standing saddled and ready at the lodge door. McAllister didn’t know how he was going to stand up to a possible several days’ ride, but he guessed that he was the most likely horse in the village. The family came out to see him off and waited for the escort to arrive. When they came McAllister saw to his dismay that their leader was the bow-legged man, Walking Calf. The man grinned derisively when he greeted McAllister.

  “You will take the Diver to within sight of the soldiers, then you will leave him,” Many Horses said. “No harm will come to him. Do you hear me?”

  “I hear you, uncle,” the warrior said.

  The time came for McAllister to make his farewells. He embraced Many Horses and Little Wolf. Red Feather came forward to throw her fat arms around him and shed a tear. Falling Leaf said: “My man and I shall not forget that you saved me and our son.”

  Then he was astride the canelo and lifting his hand in farewell, still not able to fully believe that he was alive.

  They went out of the village at a trot with many of the people standing and watching them go with curiosity. They went directly south and soon the pace fell to a walk to preserve the ponies. They travelled due south for the remainder of the day, riding through a cold and white world that seemed utterly devoid of life, except for the occasional flash of a rabbit and once a solitary hungry, ranging wolf. McAllister rode warily, for he did not trust the half-dozen men he was with. He knew for sure that Walking Calf was one of Strong Bear’s men and the war-chief did not favor the idea of sending him back to the troops. So he rode carefully, keeping clear as far as possible of the warriors, knowing that in the last resort he would have to rely on the pitiful but now superior speed of the canelo to get him out of trouble.

  That night he slept apart from the others with the canelo tied to his left wrist. He dozed lightly, not daring to put himself entirely at their mercy. But nothing happened during the night and he was almost surprised to find himself unharmed in the light of the dawn.

  His old instinct was riding him now, his instinct for danger and as the miles passed beneath the horses’ feet so his consciousness of danger increased. It would come, he knew, from behind and he did his best to ride off to one side so that there was never an Indian behind him. He knew that they were conscious of this and all the time there seemed to be some buck edging around behind him. And so it went on, mile after mile, shifting back down the line, trying never to let a man get behind him and always finding that there was one edging there.

  However, when the danger showed itself, it came from the front. The attempt to kill him was simple and direct and it nearly succeeded.

  The man riding directly in front of McAllister turned in his crude saddle and McAllister happened to look at his face. He saw that it was contorted for violent effort and in the following second found that this was a true indication of what came next. With a great heave, the man brought his horse around and hurled his lance. Forewarned, McAllister swerved the canelo to the right. The other horsemen with a yell at once centered on him, jumping their ponies in toward him. McAllister’s move had brought him close to the next rider and this man aimed a war club at the big man’s head. McAllister swayed back in the saddle to avoid the blow, it missed him narrowly and struck the saddlehorn so heavily that for a moment the canelo was almost brought to a standstill.

  McAllister rammed home the spurs and the animal jumped beneath him, taking him violently into a rider in front, bowling the smaller animal over and throwing the rider clear. By this time, McAllister had thrust his right hand into his buffalo coat and drawn out the Remington. A gun roared behind him and a bullet brushed past his face. He whirled the canelo, found a man directly in front of him and fired. He didn’t wait to see the man pitch from the saddle, but swung the gun on to the next man who was attempting to line up a rifle while he controlled a panic-stricken pony. McAllister dropped this man, rammed home the spurs and jumped the canelo clear. The animal ran, pounding the snow-covered ground from beneath its feet. McAllister glanced back and saw that two of the Indians were taking up the pursuit. He could probably have out-run them, but he had no intention of running the canelo in its weak state, so he thrust the Remington away, drew the Henry rifle from its saddleboot, pulled the horse to a halt and pumped lead along his back trail. One swerved his horse around and rode back out of rifle shot straight off, but the other persisted, yelling himself to courage and riding straight for McAllister. The big man shot the pony from under him with some regret and watched him climb painfully to his feet to shout obscenities. Then McAllister turned his horse and went on south.

  It was nice to be alive and free of the trouble behind, but he didn’t feel too comfortable because he didn’t have a very good idea of where he was and had no idea whatsoever of where the troops were. He realised that the Indians may not even have taken him in the general direction of the soldiers and that, if he followed the trail he was now taking, he might well ride clean past them. He rode the day out, glad that it snowed no more, and sheltered the night in a break in the prairie once more with the canelo tied to his wrist.

  He awoke the following morning with a start.

  A sound clear as a bell sounded over the snow-clad prairie and he knew that it could only be an army bugle. Starting up, he hastily saddled the horse, mounted and rode on south. It wasn’t long before he was challenged and found himself surrounded by a knot of curious soldiers. When he had told them who he was, the corporal in charge told him that they were a picket belonging to General T
owney’s command. McAllister chuckled with relief. At last his luck was turning.

  They took him to a rather battered-looking young officer who escorted him through the lines of soldiers to a small tent and here McAllister found himself face-to-face with General Towney.

  Towney was a small energetic man with a nondescript face and intelligent eyes.

  Here, McAllister could see, was a man vastly different from Anderson.

  Towney looked him up and down and smiled briefly.

  “Why, Mr. McAllister, you look even worse than my men,” he said.

  “I could say I feel worse, general.”

  “I hear you were scouting for General Anderson.”

  “I was hunting the Cheyenne position before the army hit Many Horses’ band at Goose Creek,” McAllister told him. “The Cheyenne took me.”

  “You were lucky to get away from them alive. Sit down and tell me your story.”

  “I’d like to do that, general, but I should ought to be gettin’ on to General Anderson.”

  “General Anderson’s not five miles off. Not much time’ll be wasted if you talk to me a while, eh?” The general smiled again, this time conspiratorially. He wanted the information that was due to Anderson.

  “Some of the information’s yours any road,” McAllister said. “The Cheyenne had your two scouts, Daley and Fleet.”

  “They did?”

  “Sure. They’re safe enough. They were taken while Many Horses was away. The chief was separated from his people after Anderson hit ’em at Goose Creek. Many Horses wanted peace, but the young men wanted war. You know the way it goes. I told Anderson he wanted peace, because I talked with Many Horses before. But Anderson wouldn’t believe that. He thinks the only good Indian is a dead one. Maybe he’s right, maybe he ain’t. But Many Horses wanted peace then an’ he wants it now, general. That’s why he let me go. He sent me to say he wants out. He wants peace. You give him peace or he’ll come at you with all the power of the Sioux Nations behind him. An’ he ain’t foolin’, believe me.”

  Towney frowned.

  “I believe you. Indeed I do. But we all have our orders. The Army Department wants the Cheyenne utterly defeated in the field once and for all. It could be they’re right. You know as well as I do, McAllister, that Many Horses’ young men have been out. They were out before Goose Creek.”

  “That ain’t so. I know. I went down into Many Horses’ village. The young men were there then. It was when Anderson moved his men against the village they went out to stop them. The war chief Strong Bear led them. But even then Many Horses wanted peace. He’s no fool, general. He’s one Indian who knows the strength of the whiteman. He’s got imagination. He knows this can only end with the Cheyenne near wiped out. Now he’s dealing with you from strength. He has the Sioux and the Northern Cheyenne behind him. Make peace with him alone or make peace later after a whole lot of men have been killed.”

  “I can’t treat with him, man. My orders are unconditional surrender on the part of the Cheyenne.”

  McAllister stood up.

  “An’ you know no man worth his salt is going to make that kind of a peace.”

  The general looked up at him.

  “I know. But this is one of those crosses you have to bear when you’re a soldier. Now, tell me of Many Horses’ dispositions.”

  “Won’t do you no good if’n I do, general. The chief’s on the move from here on. He has what’s left of his own band with him now and about two hundred warriors from what I reckon is Buffalo Spear’s band. An’ of course, all the women and kids. But that’s what gets me. It don’t matter how many women an’ kids the Cheyenne have with ’em, they can still move around fast and hit hard.”

  “That,” said Towney, “I have experienced personally.”

  “Treat with him now, general,” McAllister said, “an’ save yourself a whole lot of grief.”

  “I can’t do that. I have orders to hit the Cheyenne while their ponies’re weak. But they’re not going to have it all their own way. General Walters is moving against the Indians from the town of Cheyenne. He has with him over five hundred men and four field pieces. The army means business. No, I’m afraid there’s no holding back now. We have to finish them while they’re weak.”

  “But that’s the whole point, general. They ain’t weak. Not while they’re fightin’ for their lives.”

  There was little more to it after that. The general gave orders for McAllister and his horse to be fed and thanked him for his information. The scout was then provided with a guide to take him to General Anderson’s camp.

  He rode into the second army camp an hour before noon and a glance was enough to show him that the command had suffered. The men, for one thing, were dressed in any nondescript item of clothing they could lay their hands on to keep out the cold and it was not always easy to tell a soldier from a civilian. The civilians with the wagons and foot soldiers were now with the cavalry, all camped on the banks of a frozen creek, stretching out for what seemed about a mile. McAllister reckoned if the Cheyenne hit them now, they’d roll them up in no time at all. The men were in tents laid out in lines. There were fewer horses than before standing in their picket lines. The command had taken a beating. Anderson wasn’t going to be an easy man to face. McAllister didn’t know that he was very worried about that.

  The first man he recognised was old Tom Mangold squatting on his haunches smoking his pipe in the warmth of a fire. With him was Jed Harper, the civilian contractor. Harper jumped to his feet at the sight of McAllister, his face alight with pleasure. A moment later, McAllister swung down from the canelo and Harper was wringing his hand. At once there were a dozen men around McAllister doing the same thing. When the first hubbub had died down, Mangold asked sourly: “An’ where the tarnation hell do you think you bin, boy?”

  McAllister said: “We’ll get along to the general, Tom, an’ you can hear all about it.”

  Mangold got to his feet.

  “You bet your sweet life we will,” he said. “Come on.”

  Harper said: “Go ahead, Rem, I’ll care for your hoss.”

  McAllister followed the old scout. A sentry at the general’s tent door challenged them but Mangold waved him aside and strode in. The general was lying dozing on a camp bed.

  He sat up at their entrance, angry.

  “What the—?”

  “Look what I brought you, gineral,” Mangold said and stepped aside.

  Anderson looked at McAllister as if he couldn’t believe his eyes. For a moment, he didn’t say anything, but got to his feet and adjusted his clothes. Then he looked hard up at McAllister in his height.

  “Well,” he barked in his incisive voice, “you know what men have been saying about you, McAllister?”

  “No, but I reckon I’m goin’ to hear.”

  “Don’t give me any insolence, sir. You may be a civilian, but, by God, out here I’ll have the proper respect from you.”

  “An’ what’re men sayin’ about me, general?”

  “They say you went over to your mother’s people.”

  “Well, I been with the Cheyenne.”

  “You admit it?”

  “I reckon.”

  Mangold said: “Careful what you say, boy.”

  McAllister said: “They give me a fine present.”

  “A present?” the general roared.

  Without a word, McAllister pulled wide the buffalo coat and the jacket underneath, opened his shirt and showed the puckered burn scar and the fresh knife-wound.

  “My God,” the general said softly.

  “They give the same to Daley the Delaware.”

  “And why did they let you go?”

  “Many Horses let me go to bring word to you.”

  “He wants to sue for peace?”

  “He’ll talk. No more than that. He’ll talk now while he has something like three hundred fighting men behind him. Back yonder on Goose Creek he was willing to sue for peace, but after you shot him up, he’s changed h
is mind. He ain’t suing, but he’s willing to talk to avoid bloodshed. You can talk now, or you can talk when he has a thousand fightin’ Sioux behind him.”

  The general looked like he’d have a fit.

  “The insolent red bastard,” he exclaimed. “There’s no hope of us talking. We’re not here to talk, we’re here to kill Indians and that’s what I intend to do.”

  “You’re pilin’ up a heap of grief for yourself, general.”

  “When I want your advice, McAllister, I’ll ask it. Let me tell you that pretty soon when neither the Sioux nor the Cheyenne have one single pony that can run, they’ll have over a thousand well-armed troops against them. They don’t have a chance.”

  “General, you go up there after Many Horses and you’ll be diggin’ your own grave.”

  The general turned to the old scout.

  “Tom,” he said, “take this young fool out of my sight before I put him under close arrest.”

  Mangold jerked his head toward the door.

  McAllister gave the furious general a long hard look, went to say something, thought better of it and walked out of the tent. He knew that a whole lot of men would be dug into the hard winter soil before the campaign was over, and there was nothing he could do about it.

  Chapter 14

  They stayed a week by the creek. During that time, the remaining supplies were packed aboard wagons and the six empty wagons left were hauled off through the snow back to Fort Reardon, the base just north of the Texas line. With them went an inadequate escort of foot-soldiers. Anderson wanted every man he could muster for what he was certain would be his great victory over the Indians. News of his attitude seeped down the chain of command I to the men. The general was going to make a great killing or die in the attempt. It was going to be his command alone that did it. Not Towney or Walters. The men said they knew Towney was in command of the whole enterprise but they’d bet their last dollars on Anderson disobeying orders and having a go at the Indians on his own. He didn’t like sharing the newspaper headlines with others. And strangely enough, the men had started to have an inspired confidence in their leader in spite of the terrible trouncing that Gorman and his troop had had at the hands of a pack of half-starved savages. They put this down to a treacherous trick on the part of the Indians. They found nothing good to say about the Cheyenne. They were, the soldiers declared with authority, the most treacherous, devious, dishonest and downright cruel Indians on the Plains. This from green easterners who had seen only dead Indians close to. But the general would show ’em. He was boasting now that the Cheyenne could bring in all the Sioux they wanted, he’d ride through the Sioux Nations with his gallant regiment and the lodges would be full of weeping and wailing. He’d teach them a lesson they wouldn’t forget till the end of their days.