Kill McAllister

by Matt Chisholm

  He stopped, wondering how that was going down.

  A short Indian with the face of an eagle stepped forward a few paces to his right. He wore a skin cap and held a repeating rifle in his hands. He was past middle years, but there was a youthful spring in his step. His face was painted with carmine, ocher and white. He wore old and worn clothes such as an Indian would use for traveling. That gave McAllister a little hope. Possibly these men were not on the warpath.

  “It was many years ago when The Diver was with the People,” he said. “I myself spoke with The Diver.”

  “I remember you well,” McAllister said, taking a gamble and searching his memory. There was something familiar about the man, but McAllister had been no more than a boy when he had spent two winters with the Cheyenne.

  “The Diver,” said the Indian, “was a boy.”

  “But taller even then than most men,” said McAllister.

  “True,” the Indian said almost begrudgingly.

  The Indian McAllister first spotted said something so quickly that McAllister could not understand. But he knew the man was threatening. The man in the skin cap said: “Patience, son,” and made a restraining motion with his hand.

  Sam said gently: “I got that sonovabitch covered, Rem. He coughs an’ I drop him.”

  Recollection hit McAllister and he had never been more relieved in his life.

  “You,” he said, “are the husband of Many Horses’ sister. You are called Strikes Once.”

  The man stared blankly for a moment, then slowly nodded.

  “That is so.”

  He walked forward and looked down at Sam. He looked at him with great curiosity. Possibly he had never seen a Negro before.

  “What manner of man is this?” he demanded.

  “He drives cattle to the north,” McAllister explained. “He is a man of high reputation among us. Now, he is hurt. We were attacked and robbed. Possibly, he will die.”

  The Indian grunted.

  “It is all as I saw it. I saw the deaths of whitemen. I saw The Diver return to us with a man who was sick. I led these men here, knowing what I would find. They did not believe me, but they will believe me now.”

  McAllister remembered more about this man. He was a noted seer and had predicted truly much that had happened to his tribe. He was also famous among his people for the potency of his medicine, not just in the sense that his spirit was strong and good, but in the sense that he actually had great skill in the use of herbs and cures.

  McAllister said: “You can cure this man, Strikes Once. He has been hit by two bullets and has lost much blood.”

  The medicine man stood deep in thought.

  “I will try,” he said. “Because you are The Diver and you were as a son to Many Horses. But there is danger for you. My people have suffered much from the pony soldiers.”

  “What’s he say?” Sam asked.

  “He’s a medicine man,” McAllister told him, “an’ he’s goin’ to fix you up.”

  “Hey,” exclaimed the Negro, “don’t you let that savage git his hands on me.”

  “He’s the best,” McAllister said. He didn’t mention the danger to the trail-boss, for he reckoned Sam had enough worries without knowing that.

  Strikes Once said something to the other Indians and they came slowly forward. They did not seem so eager to help as did the medicine man and one or two of them showed their dislike of the whiteman openly. They gazed at Sam with great interest and surprise, exclaiming over the darkness of his skin and the strange texture of his hair. McAllister caught up the canelo and saddled him and now the horse caught the Indians’ attention. They walked around it, touching it with their hands until the horse lashed out with a wicked hind hoof. After that, they kept a more respectful distance. McAllister got Sam into the saddle and Strikes Once led the way toward the camp. The warriors brought up the rear, talking among themselves.

  As they approached the camp, McAllister saw that it was a small one and guessed that it consisted of families who had been north for the buffalo hunting and were now in the warmer south for the oncoming winter. There were no more than a dozen lodges pitched in a sheltered spot and near water. There was enough timber handy to provide fuel for the fires. One of the warriors now ran ahead and cried out that a whiteman was coming – the vision of Strikes Once had been true and he had found the whiteman and a wounded man, a strange man with black skin.

  The sun came through the clouds and brought some immediate warmth with it for which McAllister was thankful, for his clothes were still wet on him. The people started to come out from the village and with them came the yapping and snarling village curs. The canelo had its work cut out to keep them clear, but he went to work with a will. Strikes Once cried out an order and men and women at once tried to drive the dogs away.

  To McAllister it looked a good camp and the people seemed in good condition with some fat on them. This was a group who had hunted well and were all set for the winter. But there was hostility here and he didn’t miss it. He didn’t doubt that if the medicine man had not been there things would have gone hard for Sam and himself. They wended their way through the lodges with the crowd pressing noisily behind them: children and dogs running all over, women eyeing the strangers with the greatest curiosity and even reaching out their hands to touch them. The warriors stalked along almost in total silence, their blankets about them and weapons in their hands. Finally, they came to a tipi which stood by itself on the banks of the creek and outside this stood a man taller than the average Cheyenne, his hair flecked with gray. McAllister could not remember having seen him before. Strikes Once fell back beside McAllister and said: “This is our peace chief. High Cloud. If he says you stay, then you stay. The people will listen to him.”

  McAllister halted in front of the chief with Strikes Once beside him. High Cloud was a fine-looking man, outstanding even among a people as handsome as the Cheyenne. His brow was high and the nose finely arched. The long slit of a mouth had humor to it and the eyes were intelligent. A complete man who had few doubts about himself.

  The medicine man spoke in Cheyenne that was almost too rapid for McAllister to follow. He told the chief how he had found these two strangers as his dream foretold and that one of them had been sorely wounded. The chief gave McAllister a solemn greeting and at once spoke to the watching Indians, gesturing widely with his right arm which was free of the buffalo robe he had draped about him. Several young men at once stepped forward and lowered Sam from the canelo. They carried him to a tipi nearby and disappeared inside. Strikes Once hurried after them. The chief signed for McAllister to enter his own tipi.

  McAllister let out his breath in a sigh of relief. So far at least they had been accepted.

  He gestured for the chief to go ahead of him, the man stooped and stalked into the tent. McAllister followed him and saw that inside there were two women, one old and one young, and a small boy. The young woman acted shyly, but the elder eyed McAllister with a mixture of curiosity and hostility. The chief sat down, putting his back against a backrest, facing the fire in the center of the lodge. From the pot on it came a rich and delicious smell. McAllister’s stomach juices started to work. The chief made a sign and the younger woman brought his finely carved pipe. With due ceremony the pipe was filled and lit. The chief puffed, smiled a little and handed it without a word to McAllister. The big man puffed and handed it back.

  Suddenly, the chief smiled with a brilliance that surprised McAllister. In that second they were on an easy footing together.

  “So you are The Diver,” High Cloud said.

  “Yes, father,” McAllister said. “I was as a son to Many Horses.”

  “I never saw you, but I heard. Know this, son: you have the protection for the moment of Strikes Once and myself, but that does not make you safe. During the summer my people have had much of the trouble with the buffalo hunters and with the soldiers. There have been deaths on both sides and my people are angry. There is danger from the young men and t
here is danger from the soldiers. I have heard that your mother was a woman of the people and if the soldiers find you here, they will think that you have returned to your mother’s people. It would be wisest therefore if Strike Once does what he can for your friend and then you ride on your way.”

  McAllister said: “He is badly wounded, father. Maybe I shall ride away alone.”

  “God will decide,” said the chief.

  The little boy edged nearer on his haunches, his eyes wide and on McAllister’s face.

  “And who is this warrior?” McAllister asked.

  High Cloud’s face creased in another smile.

  “This is my youngest son, Small Runner, called so because before most children can walk, he ran swiftly.”

  McAllister winked at the youngster. The child’s face stayed solemnly attentive. McAllister grinned and the little fellow shyly smiled. McAllister wished he had something to give him, but he had nothing. Then he thought of his pocket knife. He found it and brought it out, opening and shutting the blades so the boy could see. Then he held it out to Small Runner. The boy hesitated.

  “Go ahead, son,” McAllister told him. “Take it.”

  The child looked at his father and, smiling, High Cloud nodded. The small brown hand reached out, the fingers touched the knife, then closed on it. Suddenly he was all smiles. The younger woman said something, the boy rose and ran to her, showing her the knife.

  High Cloud laughed out loud.

  “You have made a friend for your life there,” he said.

  They talked for a little until the women told them that the food was ready for eating. McAllister didn’t need any second bidding. He politely waited for the chief to begin then dipped into the pot with a round spoon offered to him by the older woman. He reckoned that food had never tasted better in his life. He ate till he felt like bursting; High Cloud and he belched comfortably.

  “Are you hungry still?” the chief asked solicitously.

  “No, father. I never ate better in my life.”

  “Good.”

  McAllister found some tobacco, offered it to his host. The Indian took it with a show of pleasure. Tobacco was hard come by.

  A man stooped and entered the tipi; a young and slender warrior with the features of High Cloud. He was stripped to the waist and wore nothing but a breech-clout and moccasins. His hair was in two long braids. One eagle feather stood above his head. He did not look at McAllister, but saluted the chief with deep respect. He spoke quickly and softly.

  “This is one of my sons, Coyote.” He explained McAllister to the young man. They shook in the whiteman fashion. Coyote looked a little nervous at being in close proximity to a whiteman. He bore the solemn expression that Indians used for strangers and formal occasions. He had, he said, come from Strikes Once. The medicine man said for The Diver to come. McAllister excused himself to the chief and followed the young warrior out of the tipi, wondering what the news was. He didn’t know whether to expect to find Sam dead or alive.

  The tipi to which Coyote led him was small and shabby, the home of a man who was not troubled by material things. The young man entered and McAllister followed. Like the chief’s lodge this one had a fire burning in it. But food did not simmer invitingly on this one; instead something pungent burned. Near the fire Strikes Once stood. He looked a wild and uncouth sight. He was stripped to the waist to reveal a scarred and emaciated torso, daubed liberally with paint; he had removed the skin cap and his unconfined hair fell loosely about his face. He had repainted his face so that now there were wide white circles about his eyes, vermillion lightning flashes on his forehead and cheeks. He was stamping his right foot on the hard-packed ground and in his right hand was a gourd rattle which he was shaking in time to the soft chant that came from his lips. He was sweating profusely and he panted as if he had been making a supreme physical effort. At the sight of McAllister, however, he relaxed suddenly and smiled grotesquely.

  “Go to your friend,” he said.

  McAllister turned to the right side of the tent where Sam was lying on a pile of buffalo robes. Over him was draped a trade blanket. McAllister went down on one knee beside him.

  Sam looked up and grinned.

  “Hey,” he said, “you sure knew what you was doin’ when you brought me to this outfit, boy. That ole coot yonder sures looks weird, but, hell, he knows his business.”

  McAllister laid a hand on the Negro’s forehead. It was of normal temperature.

  Sam said: “You reckon it’s magic? This feller a voodoo man? Sure looks like magic to me.”

  McAllister chuckled.

  “He’d sure like you to believe it is,” he said. “But it’s just plain good Indian medicine.”

  “You know what he stuffed in them wounds of mine?” Sam demanded. “Wa-al, it looked like plain moss and herbs to me. Then he done tie me up with rawhide.”

  “You’re goin’ to be all right,” McAllister said. “That’s all that matters.”

  McAllister was so relieved that he didn’t know what to say. All he could do was to go to Strikes Once and pat him on the back. The Indian seemed to understand the thanks. He had something else on his mind and he spoke of it.

  “These men who shot your friend,” he said, “is there still danger from them?”

  “Maybe,” McAllister said. “But I rode through water when getting away from them. Then the rain came and washed away my tracks when we left the creek.”

  The Indian shook his head.

  “I smell danger,” he said.

  Coyote spoke: “If there is danger, let me scout, uncle.”

  The medicine man slapped the warrior on the arm.

  “Good. Coyote is die best scout we have. If these whitemen are coming here, he will find them.”

  The young man picked his hunting shirt from the floor of the tipi and slipped into it. Then he pulled on his leggings, picked up his bow and a sheath of arrows and was ready to go. Without another word, he slipped from the tent.

  The medicine man put more herbs on the fire. The scent they gave off as they burned was pungent, yet somehow refreshing and invigorating. He said to McAllister: “Sleep, my son,” and pointed to some skins near Sam. Not needing any second bidding, McAllister lay down and pulled a rug over him. Exhaustion hit him like a physical blow. Sam was saying something, but he didn’t pay him any heed. Sleep swooped on him and he surrendered.

  Strikes Once went to the doorway and looked out. The cold struck him; a light flurry of snow brushed across his face. The first heralds of winter were here.

  * * *

  McAllister awoke.

  It was dark in the tipi except for the warm glow of the fire. But when he threw back the buffalo robe that covered him, the cold hit him. He glanced at Sam and saw that he was asleep peacefully. Good. What had woken him? Voices murmured outside the tipi. Two men entered – Strikes Once and Coyote. The younger man looked cold; the medicine man stirred the fire and the warrior moved close to warm. McAllister joined them, squatting.

  “What have you learned?” he asked.

  “There are whitemen driving many cattle south of here;” the young man told him.

  That brought McAllister fully awake with a jerk.

  “South?”

  Coyote nodded.

  “Which way do they go – north?” McAllister demanded.

  “A little north, but more to the west,” was the reply.

  That surprised McAllister again and he wondered if Coyote had found other cattle than the Struthers’ herd. It was possible. If it was the Stiuthers’ herd, what was it doing traveling west? There was only one answer to that: Forster was afraid now at what he had done. The killing of the crew had scared him and he dared not go to market with the cows. That made sense. So he was headed west. Could he be planning to winter them in Colorado? That again was a possibility. Hope rose in McAllister. If that was so, he would have some time on his side. He and Sam needed time like nothing else. They had both to get strong again before they could do anythin
g against Forster.

  “There is more,” Strikes Once said.

  “More?”

  Coyote said: “I think that some of the men are looking for you, Diver. They are north of the herd and there is a half blood with them and he searches the ground as if looking for sign.”

  “In what direction do they go?”

  “They come this way. Tomorrow they will come here. They would be fools to miss the village.”

  Strikes Once and McAllister looked at each other.

  The medicine man said: “You are thinking what I am thinking. If they find you here, they could kill you and there could be great trouble for the people. For all our sakes, you must go away from here. They are bad men and if they come there will be killing. Then the soldiers will come and there will be grief for the people.”

  “I understand,” McAllister said, “and you’re right, uncle.” But how could they move Sam now? Where could they go with winter coming on? Strikes Once knew what he was thinking.

  “Do not fear,” he said. “I have thought of this possibility and while you slept I spoke with High Cloud. Coyote will guide you into the hills where there is a cabin. There you will find good shelter for your friend during the great cold. We will give you food. The hunting is good there and you will not starve. Your friend we shall move on a travois, he will be warm and comfortable and no harm will come to him. You will see. I do not like to turn you away at such a time, but you know that it is for the best for all of us.”

  McAllister touched him on the arm.

  “My heart is very full,” he said. “Without you my friend would have died. We owe you his life.”

  “It is nothing.”

  McAllister went to his saddlebags which had been brought into the tipi while he slept and from them he took his spare gun – a Remington .44, the twin of the one he wore. He gave this to Strikes Once.

  “A small present,” he said.

  The Indian looked as if he had been given the world. He held it in his hands, his eyes bright. Coyote made admiring noises.

  “This is a very fine present,” he said. He chuckled a little. “I shall be the envy of all the young warriors.” McAllister went to the saddlebags again and came back with a handful of shells. Strikes Once chuckled and chuckled, overcome with gratitude and pleasure. It was too much, he said.