McAllister Rides (9 page)

“But you have to make a try.”

“You're young. It shows. When you get to my age, you learn there's a time for doin' and a time for not doin'.”

Night came winging down on the canyon country. A chill wind started to blow from the north. At the old man's orders, the two women, when they had returned from burying the dead, carried McAllister into the house. They dumped him in a corner and left him. His wrists ached infernally from the ropes and he asked the old man to slacken them, but Islop ignored him. The old man retired to his bunk and soon his snores sounded through the shack. McAllister didn't sleep. He decided to spend the night getting free.

Islop's women knew how to tie knots. McAllister struggled against them until the early hours, until he had to stop exhausted. He had fought for hours in what he hoped was silence and it felt as if his wrists were half-sawn through by the tough rawhide strands. He knew then that if he worked till eternity, he would never get free. It had grown close inside the shack and he was sweating. The old man was snoring on the other side of the large room and the two women stirred restlessly in their sleep. McAllister was much occupied with the thought that the Comanches might return during the night. The man who had threatened to scalp McAllister didn't look like one to give up easily. If Iron Hand heard of his presence in the canyon, and he was bound to, he would probably send warriors to either kill him or fetch him to the camp. McAllister didn't think Islop would be able to resist Iron Hand's wishes, if indeed he would want to.

As he could no longer fight the ropes, McAllister gave the night hours up to thought. He reckoned that, if he wanted to stay alive, he ought to be out of there by dawn. But how? Would the old man be likely to free his hands to eat his breakfast? There might be a chance then. As it was, he lay there
thinking that every sound he heard from the canyon outside heralded the approach of Indians bent on killing him. By dawn his morale was low.

With the dawn, the two squaws arose from their blankets and the younger one took the jug of unknown liquor to Islop. He sat on the edge of the bunk and drank deeply, sighed and handed her back the jug. McAllister saw that the old man was fully dressed. Islop sat there scratching himself and looking morosely at McAllister as if it were painful to be reminded of his existence so early in the day. The elder women threw deer meat steaks into the pan and soon the aroma of cooking filled the shack. Against his will, McAllister fell asleep.

He awoke to find that the younger squaw, all smiles, was trying to feed him with small pieces of meat. His hands were still tied, so he knew that he was not going to get a chance to escape now. The old man sat at the table and wolfed down his breakfast, drank some more liquor, loaded his pipe and went puffing into the open and his footsteps went away down canyon. The young squaw finished feeding McAllister then both she and her companion went outside. He heard sounds of horses walking and thought most likely one of the women was taking some from the corral to better grass further along the canyon.

McAllister at once began to think of all the implements with sharp edges that might be found in a cabin. Knives were the obvious ones, but. what he really wanted was something firm that he could bring some pressure to bear on. He searched through his mind. He decided that the best thing he could do was gain his feet so that he could have a good look around. This took him some time, but he finally made it, by pushing his body against the wall behind him. Propped up there, covered in sweat and helpless as a mummy, he peered around. From where he was he could see out of the glassless window. The younger Indian woman was working near the corral. Nobody else was in sight, which didn't mean that there wasn't anybody near. He spotted his rifle and gun near the old man's bunk. On the table lay a heavy butcher's knife. He eyed that for some time, thinking of how he could use it. His hands were bound behind his back and his arms were tied tightly to his sides. It seemed hopeless, but he didn't give
up. He would try and reach the knife and then go on from there.

First, he let himself fall full length on the floor which brought his head and shoulders some six feet nearer the table. Then he swiveled himself around on his shoulders so that his feet were against one of the table legs. Next, he managed to get himself in a kneeling position, resting against the table. The pain in his wrists was almost unbearable, but he fought his way through it. On his knees, he turned and, using every muscle in his body, tried lurching to his feet. He tried it three times and each time fell on his face on the floor. On the fourth try, however, he managed to get his hands caught on the table top and was able to balance himself erect. He turned himself on his toes and faced the table, staring at the knife so near and so unattainable. He cursed the old man fluently for a few minutes and set to work.

There was a gap in the table-top between the two heavy planks of wood that composed it. During the next thirty minutes he spent the time, using his mouth, in getting the flat handle of the knife jammed between the two planks so that the blade stuck into the air. He cut his mouth once on the razorlike edge, but he ignored it. Finally, he had the handle pretty firmly fixed. Next, he sat himself on the table and fidgeted around till he had the blade against the rope that tied his wrists. After that it was just a matter of jogging himself up and down. After a few tries, the knife came loose and the blade slid away from him so that the edge was almost level with the table-top. McAllister lay on top of the table and frantically continued the work. To his great relief, after a few moments, the strands of the rope parted. He almost wept with relief.

But he wasn't out of the woods yet. He had his hands free, but his arms were still tied to his sides. He got the knife in his hands and worked on every strand within reach and after a while, his arms were free. He worked his hands to get the blood circulating and exquisite pain shot up his arms. Stooping he started to work on the rope that fastened his ankles.

A voice said: “Won't do you no good, son.”

He looked up and saw the old man standing in the doorway with a gun in his hands.

McAllister's heart missed a beat

His mind raced. Should he continue as he was or should he make a try for the old fool with the knife?

He said, as calmly as he could: “I'm getting out of here, Islop,” and continued to hack at the ropes. They parted and he kicked his legs to move the blood. The old man looked as if he didn't know what to do.

McAllister said: “I don't want no more of this, Islop, I want out. I can't win. Best thing for you too after yesterday. You ain't going to stand so good with old Iron Hand after you throwing down on that Indian.”

The old man still had the gun pointing, but he was thinking. There was sense in what McAllister said.

“You mean you'd forget about the Bourn woman?” he demanded.

McAllister laughed.

“I'd be damned stupid if I thought I could get away with that now. These boys have their blood up. There ain't a white man safe around here. I don't stand a chance of getting close enough to Iron Hand to talk. If I could I doubt he'd talk after being hit by the rangers. And, after what you told me, he wouldn't want to part with the woman anyroad.”

The old man said: “Thank Gawd you seen sense at last. All right, on those terms, I'll let you go, son. You get out there and throw your kak on that fancy horse of yourn an' you ride like all the devils in hell is after you. I can't help you no more.”

“You helped me all you could, I reckon,” McAllister conceded.

The old man put the gun away.

McAllister went across to the bunk and strapped on his own gun. It was a relief to be armed again. He picked up his rifle and strode to the door. The old man stepped aside and following him to the corral, watching him catch up the
canelo
and saddle it.

“I'm leaving you the mule,” McAllister said. “I aim to travel light and fast.”

Islop nodded. The young Indian woman joined Islop and stood watching. McAllister checked the pack near the corral rail and transferred some feed from there to the
canelo's
saddle. Then he was ready. He shook hands with the old man and said: “You're welcome to anything in the pack you want.”

‘That's kind of you.”

“You saved my life, I reckon. It's no repayment.”

The Indian girl smiled, not understanding a word they were saying. McAllister stepped into the saddle and lifted a hand. He rode to the edge of the trees and looked back. The two of them were watching him.

* * *

He rode out of the country fairly openly, seeing the older Indian woman in the canyon and waving to her, riding up the trail to the rimrock and out onto the open plain. He wasn't quite sure what he meant to do, but one thing he was certain of: he was not going to leave Mrs. Bourn where she was. He sighted Indians from the plain and took cover in a buffalo wallow, making the
canelo
lie down. They passed at a distance of about half a mile, twenty or thirty of them and their numbers didn't comfort him much. This was no hunting party, except in that the warriors were hunting men – Texans. He wondered how many of Newby's party had survived. He watched the Indians out of sight, trotting their horses north under what was now a lowering sky. The wind was blowing from the north and the clouds scudded south. McAllister sniffed – the air was damp. If he had some of the luck that was due to him, it would rain. He remounted the
canelo
and rode on east, leaving a plain trail behind him that a child could follow.

He rode for the remainder of that day and the best part of the next before the rain came down. He struggled into his slicker and his heart lifted. The rain swept violently across the face of the earth, washing it clean, filling the arroyos and creeks, wiping out the sign of man. Which was what McAllister wanted more than anything. He and the horse were pretty tired, but he didn't hesitate. He turned around and rode back roughly the way he had come, though beating slightly more to the south-west with the rain driving at him from the right. The horse didn't like it, it was a fine weather horse that liked the sunshine, but it stuck to it and kept at the hammering trot that it would stay with for hours. McAllister rode through the night, knowing the game little horse would be able to rest when he reached his destination.

He reached the first canyon before daylight came and would have gone over the edge if it had not been for the horse. The
canelo
pulled up abruptly and would not go on in spite of its owner's urging. McAllister went forward on foot, found the canyon and led the horse down on foot.

He went along the canyon a way till the light came and then found a sheltered rincon and hobbled the animal on grass and near water. Then he found a ledge where he could cache his gear in the dry. He hid it with rocks and brush and was satisfied that it would be there when he returned. If he returned.

He left his rifle, too, for he wanted to travel light and there might be considerable climbing to do. Although the rifle would give him offensive power when he needed it, free movement was even more important. The fighting proper would start, he reckoned, when he got back to the horse. If he got back to the horse.

The
canelo
whinnied as he walked past him, not wanting him to go. McAllister walked swiftly now, having changed his boots for Indian footgear. Unlike most horsemen, he liked walking and found it invigorating. He reckoned, with his customary modesty, that he could outwalk or outrun any Indian living. He hoped he could, because pretty soon, he might have to.

He walked for an hour, then feeling the tiredness in his bones and not wanting to reach the main Indian camp before dark, he found a sheltered spot under a ledge, simply lay down and, using his hat as a pillow, fell asleep. He knew that a really tired man never accomplished anything.

Waking two hours before dark as he had intended, he ate a little, drank some rain water washing down from the canyon side and went on.

It had stopped raining and the sun was trying not very well to come out from behind the clouds. He took off his slicker, rolled it tightly and hung it from his belt at the rear. Before dark he stopped to clean his gun and sharpen his knife. That done, he felt himself almost ready for anything. Almost Something was missing. He searched around and cut himself a short club. He was good with a club and its use didn't make either a noise or a mess. Not much of a mess, anyroad.

Now he moved with extreme caution, taking advantage of every particle of cover the countryside offered, yet trying not to slow his pace. He was starting to be impatient to meet the real mountain of trouble that lay ahead of him. The sooner it was over, the sooner he would like it.

Dark fell and he carried on going ahead, climbing to the plain above when he started to near the great canyon. From the height, he saw the twinkling lights of the Indians' fires. The sight took his breath away. He didn't think he had seen a larger Indian encampment in his life.

Now he had to do something in the dark that was done better in the light. But he couldn't afford to do it in the light. He had to find a place of concealment in which he could lie up through the coming day. He wanted to know the camp beneath him backward. So he wanted a good hiding place and height. He went down over the rimrock and prayed the moon would come out. The moon didn't. The cloud persisted, though it cleared a little and gave him some feeble starlight. However, he found what he thought was a good spot and settled into it, hidden, as he fondly hoped, in good rock and brush. He was some thirty feet below the rimrock and several hundred feet above the canyon floor. He settled down and slept till dawn.

He was up to see the Indian camp come awake.

It was an impressive sight, he had to admit. To right and left of him there stretched buffalo-hide tents, well spaced and scattered out along the banks of what was now a well-filled creek. There were far more here than he had anticipated. There were so many tipis that he reckoned there were other peoples here beside Comanches. And as the light grew better, he saw that he was right; some of the lodges down there belonged to Kiowas. He thought he spied those of Cheyenne and Arapaho also. Iron Hand must have been patching up the feuds between the tribes. If that was so, the Texas border could tremble. The buffalo hunters had best make themselves scarce. McAllister counted nearly four hundred tents. If you reckoned three warriors to a lodge that made an awful lot of indians. If you reckoned two to a lodge that made nothing to sniff at.