He led the canelo forward. He had discarded his boots for Cheyenne moccasins. He walked quiet as an Indian. When he was beside the foremost rifleman, he stopped and listened. He could hear soft Indian voices coming up from below. He started forward, his eyes already dark-accustomed, trying to probe the gloom.
The Indians heard the sound of the horse’s hoofs almost at once. There was a soft cry of warning, a shot rang out. Lead whistled a couple of yards to McAllister’s right, struck rock and whined away into the night.
To the horse, he said: “Come on, boy,” and went bounding down the steep side of the bluff. The horse followed well. McAllister ran doubled up, not wanting to show himself against the skyline. The Indians nearly positioned him as they showed when they really started shooting. The shots were coming uncomfortably close when he hit the flat, turned, gripped the saddle and vaulted into it. He yelled to the horse and gave it a back-swipe with the end of the line; it got its legs under it and ran. A blurred figure ran out of the gloom at him, he swerved away from it to the left, ran on fifty yards, then turned abruptly right to head for the creek. He was now aware that there were Indians all around him. Something struck the saddlebow and the canelo staggered, felt as if it would go down, but McAllister held it on its feet by sheer horsemanship. Loose stones clattered under the iron feet, then suddenly they were struggling through a snow drift. Something landed heavily on the horse’s rump and arms grappled with McAllister. He rammed backward as hard as he could with his right elbow, heard a grunt in his ear and iron-hard fingers tightened on his throat. The canelo came to a halt and pitched under the double burden.
McAllister dove from the horse’s back and twisted in mid-air so that his assailant landed under him. They went deep into the snow-drift and McAllister dealt the man under him a smashing blow with his clenched fist in the face. He didn’t wait to see the effect of the blow, but heaved to his feet and tried to get back on the horse. A gun went off close to him and a bullet sang past his ear. There were shouts. He knew that they were all closing in around him.
Plucking the Remington from leather, he fired twice across the canelo’s back, spun and fired into a moving mass before him. He was answered by shrill cries of pain. He dealt the horse a heavy blow with the revolver on the rump and yelled: “Git up,” the animal jumped forward and he went with it, leaping into the saddle and yelling it on. It floundered from the snow-drift and started to run. McAllister heard the Indians whooping after him and prayed they were all on foot. Guns were still going off and he thought he heard the whisper of arrows in the air. If they had any sense, they’d hold their fire or they’d be hitting more Indians than white men. Ahead he caught the gleam of the creek. In a moment, the canelo was scrambling down the bank and plunging into the water. A second more and it was in swimming water. The swift current caught it at once and whirled him down under the bluff. Water spouted up on either side of him as the Indians tried for him and he heard the cheer of the soldiers up above. So long as they cheered and didn’t shoot, he was happy.
The stream must have carried him down some fifty yards, for by the time the pony got its feet on firm ground he was almost past the bluff. Looking up he saw that his landing would not go unopposed, for the tufted heads of Indians showed above the skyline. Well, it was no good stopping to think, he had to keep moving, because there was nothing else to do. Wherever he came ashore, there would be Indians waiting. So he headed the horse across the narrow snow-covered beach and set it at the high bank, lashing at it with the line end and yelling his head off in what was probably a futile attempt to put the Indians off. The Remington was away now and it was empty, so he drew his knife and went at them as fast as the climbing pony could make it.
At the top of the bank, the animal became stuck for a moment and McAllister firmly believed it was his last. But he must have been out on his lucky night. A man fired a gun almost under the horse’s nose and missed. There was a great thud as the animal freed itself, lunged forward and took a man full on. There was a scream, men jumped out of the way of the crazy charge and then the canelo was free to run and it ran.
There came a stutter of gunfire from behind and, turning in the saddle, McAllister saw a large mass moving after him and knew that several horsemen had taken up the chase. He let his horse run, took out the Remington and loaded it with the lines between his teeth. When he had put it away again, he let the canelo run for five minutes and knew that he had left his pusruers behind him, but he didn’t fool himself that there wouldn’t be more.
* * *
He reached General Towney’s camp two hours later. And for the second time recently he was thankful to be alive. He was thankful for a third time after he got into camp, for the pickets fired on him as if he were a Sioux host descending on them. But eventually he stood before the little general in one piece.
In two minutes, he told Towney what the position was. In twenty the general had two troops mounted and ready to march. There was no arguing, no cursing of Anderson for his impetuosity. The little man made up his mind and acted. In fact, he led the expedition himself, riding a big white horse beside McAllister who led the way down into the valley. There wasn’t a man there who wasn’t tense with excitement that was not unmixed with dread. The news of Anderson’s defeat had spread rapidly through the whole command. As they came down into the valley they saw Indians a-plenty, but Indians that kept their distance and drifted away ahead of the troops as if they were a part of the mist. All the way, it seemed the skyline was black with tribesmen, but none showed any sign of fight, for which McAllister was duly thankful, for he didn’t doubt that the host that had ridden Anderson and his men into the ground could have done the same for this small body of men without much trouble.
The clouds started to clear; the sun broke through and suddenly as if a miracle had happened before their eyes it was almost like spring. The men’s spirits lifted under the clear sky, but they were unprepared for the sight that met their eyes when they rode up to the spot where Anderson had met his end. McAllister checked through his glasses that there was no fighting going on around the bluff, then he turned his horrified attention to the sight before him. A terrible silence had fallen, not a rifle shot or a word broke through it. The two troops had come to a place of death.
What was left of the men who had fought under Anderson lay about in the grotesque postures of violent death and there was not a man there who had not been mutilated. Some had lost scalps only, many more had fingers and hands hacked off, a few had simply been brutally hewn to pieces. The raw ones among the men started to vomit.
They dismounted and walked among the dead. General Towney was pale and shaken. McAllister, who had been fully prepared for what to expect, was also shaken. His legs had weakened under him, his stomach heaved.
The general stopped when they came to a figure lying on its back with one leg caught under it awkwardly. It was Anderson. He had been shot through the right cheek and the bullet had gone out through the left side of the skull. Otherwise he had not been harmed in any way.
Towney gazed at him for some time and then said simply: “The poor tragic fool.”
McAllister said: “Another one who thought Indians were a pushover. They listened to the lies of experienced men who should ought to know better.”
The general turned and stared at him for a moment, then walked away with bowed shoulders.
A sergeant cried out: “Movement from the bluff, general, sir.”
Glasses were swung in that direction.
McAllister saw a dark line of riders coming around the north side of the bluff. It was several minutes before he made up his mind that it was soldiers and not Indians. They rode slowly, some of the horses carrying double and though a bunch of Indians a hundred or so strong rode nearer to look at them, there was no hostile act. Within a short while, the major rode in with his men and slid exhaustedly from his horse. The general was there shaking his hand.
“I was never more pleased to see anybody in my life,” Carpell
said. “I thought we were all dead men.” He talked for a while with his superior, then orders were given for men to deploy in skirmish order while graves were dug. Spades were broken out and the grim business of planting two troops of men in the earth was started. Searching among the dead, McAllister found old Tom Mangold with an empty pistol in his hand and his hair missing. There was a look of horror and fear in his lined old face. McAllister wondered why he had hated Indians so much. Now maybe he knew. He dug the old man’s grave himself.
It was noon before they finished and were preparing to mount.
A picket in the east called out that riders were coming fast.
Everybody’s eyes turned in that direction, glasses were raised. Every man there was tensed again, for the Indians had held off for too long and it was a bad sign. But after a while it was declared that they were soldiers. Soon a troop of cavalry appeared on the snow pounding west at a brisk trot. Not long after a captain rode up at the head of his men and asked if General Towney were present. The little general came forward, received a salute and was informed that the officer was from General Walters. If General Towney was in contact with the Indians he had been instructed to give him certain orders. General Walters was fully informed by scouts what had happened to General Anderson and his party.
The captain handed over a sealed letter to the general. The little man broke the seal and read through the orders carefully. When he finished he said: “Officers.” The order went out for officers and they came hurrying. When Towney had them all around him he tapped the envelope and said: “I have orders here from General Walters,” he said. “He says that all troops in this area are in a critical situation. He doesn’t doubt that the combined Sioux and Cheyenne forces are strong enough to overrun all troops present at this scene of operations. They have got to be stopped and we can only stop them by talk. Is that generally agreed?”
Major Carpell said: “I’ve had a good close look at ’em, general. I don’t doubt they could eat us for breakfast.”
The general turned to McAllister.
“Mr. McAllister,” he asked, “can you make a rough estimate of the number of men the hostiles have in the field?”
“It’d have to be pretty rough, general,” McAllister said, “without me having plain view of the number of lodges up ahead yonder. My guess would be not under three thousand braves and not over four.”
“That’s good enough for me. Now, it may be the opinion of some people who should know better that the Sioux and Cheyenne are nothing but a bunch of savages any disciplined body could defeat, but it is not mine. Personally, I think at this moment the army has bitten off more than it can chew. It therefore behoves us to act with guile where strength has failed. There are men among the Indians who know that this victory is nothing more than a temporary thing. Such men will be willing to talk and I want one of you to offer to go and find these men. It’s damned risky as you all must know and I shall think no man a coward for not going. Well, gentlemen?”
Carpell said in a weary voice: “I’ll go, sir.”
“You will go now, major, and you’ll go with the thanks of the army. I will, of course, send a strong escort with you.”
McAllister stepped forward.
“No escort, general.”
They turned and looked at him, the army slightly indignant that a mere civilian should presume to make his voice heard at their council.
The general said: “The major has a right to expect –”
“I’ll go with him,” McAllister said. “I speak Cheyenne. Many Horses will talk to me. Send a strong force in and it’ll be askin’ for trouble.”
The major said: “McAllister could be right. He knows the Cheyenne well.”
The general thought a moment, then said: “Very well. Just the two of you. It’s a risk, but. . . Everything’s a deadly risk at this stage.”
The general took the two of them aside and talked to them. It took him thirty minutes and then they were mounted. Towney and his men would see them safely out of sight and then they would return to their camp to await results. McAllister and Carpell took a good swallow and started down the valley. McAllister carried a discarded Indian lance with a white cloth hanging from it, reminding him of the time when Many Horses had ridden out to meet Anderson carrying the same emblem of peace.
So, he thought, old Many Horses would negotiate from strength as he had wanted. Maybe he could get something for his people after all.
After a mile, he glanced back – the troops were no more than a dark smudge on the churned snow.
Slowly, they pushed forward and the Indians appeared, men on ragged ponies, pennants fluttering, feathers bright in the sunlight. They kept well off to either side, keeping pace with the two lonely horsemen slowly pacing down the center of the vast valley, helpless men who could be butchered at the sign of any chief who happened to be there, who could be cut to ribbons at the whim of any reckless young man who had ridden his war-pony out for the first time.
McAllister glanced back. The troops had disappeared and a cloud of Indians had ridden between, coming on slowly in the wake of the two of them.
He laughed.
“Too late to turn back now,” he said.
Carpell grinned faintly.
“I hope you know this Many Horses real well,” he said.
McAllister said –
“You could say he’s my father.”
The major gave him a half-startled glance and kept on going.
The Indians came in closer, gradually until they were within pistol shot on either side and to the rear. There were Sioux and Cheyenne mixed, with Sioux in the majority. Slowly the host of savage riders closed around their van until they were completely hemmed in.
Carpell said: “I’m starting to sweat.”
“Well,” McAllister said, “they ain’t killed us yet.”
For fifteen minutes, they moved forward in this way until there was a stir in front and a small knot of horsemen broke through the press of Indians and rode toward the two whitemen. Carpell put a hand on the butt of his revolver.
“Leave it alone,” McAllister told him sharply. “I know this man.”
The slim young Indian in the lead rode superbly, moving effortlessly to the movement of his horse. On the crown of his head he wore a spray of eagles’ feathers fanned out. His face was painted for war, he wore his best clothes, he rode his best horse. It was Little Wolf. He looked grave, as was befitting an occasion such as this. He pulled his paint-pony to a halt and raised one hand.
McAllister gave him a quick grin and got a glimmer back in response.
“Welcome, brother,” Little Wolf said.
“We come in peace, brother,” McAllister told him in Cheyenne. “We want to talk with Many Horses and any other chiefs who would see the wisdom in talking rather than fighting.”
“It is good,” Little Wolf said.
“What does he say?” Carpell asked.
McAllister told him with a quick grin: “They ain’t takin’ our hair yet awhile.”
Carpell gave an audible sigh.
“That’s nice to know,” he said.
Little Wolf turned his horse and led the way; the warriors with him formed a solid phalanx around the two white emissaries. They went forward at a trot and the whole host got on the move, shaking the earth with their thunder and not for the first time, McAllister thanked God that Towney was a man of sense. They swept among the lodges, watched by hundreds upon hundreds of people, pressed in by their silence. A victorious people, McAllister reminded himself, no longer a bunch of half-naked wretched fugitives in the snow.
They halted.
A man stood before them, face grave, old eyes watchful.
“That’s Many Horses,” McAllister said.
The chief signed for them to get down and they dismounted. Carpell saluted the chief, Many Horses raised a hand in reply. Then unafraid of what the watching multitude might think, he embraced McAllister as a man would his son.
Carpell said
: “Well, at least we’re off to a good start.”
McAllister told him: “This time we’ve got to offer them something worthwhile, they hold the cards.” It was time somebody offered them something worthwhile.
Many Horses turned and led the way into the nearest lodge. They followed him. There were the chiefs assembled, Sioux and Cheyenne. They sat. McAllister looked at the fierce faces around him and knew that in his small way he held the fates of a lot of men in his hands.
Many Horses said: “Let us remember that many men have died and that we are alive.”
McAllister said silently to himself: “Amen to that.” He was on both sides and on neither. The blood of both these people flowed in his veins. Would it be possible for him to show either side the problems of the other, a so-called civilised people and a so-called barbarian one. Both were childlike and proud, both destructive, both had rights.
Carpell said: “Start off as you mean to go on, McAllister. Tell him, the Great Father in Washington is angry and he has soldiers as many as the grass on the prairie.”
McAllister said in sonorous Cheyenne: “Fathers, I have come with the words of the Great Father in Washington. He is wise and he has the welfare of all men near his heart. He knows that there is no reason why the redman and the whiteman should not live in peace together.”
McAllister Figh
This electronic edition published in 2011 by Bloomsbury Reader
Bloomsbury Reader is a division of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc, 50 Bedford Square, London
WC1B 3DP
Copyright © P. C. Watts 1969
First published by Panther Books
The moral right of author has been asserted
All rights reserved
You may not copy, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise make available this publication
(or any part of it) in any form, or by any means (including without limitation electronic, digital,
McAllister Fights Page 16
