McAllister Rides (16 page)

McAllister laughed.

“It's me they're after, boys, but don't let that stop you shooting.”

Philo dropped down; Grant followed suit. Both rifles were
ready. Even Mrs. Bourn cocked her little gun. McAllister stayed on his feet – if the Indians were going to be among them shortly, he wanted to be fully mobile. He knew they couldn't all be stopped; a determined bunch of men like this one could never be wholly stopped. One or two would get through and they would bring death into the wallow.

Grant fired; a pony swerved wildly out from the bunch, the rider bounced on its rump, fell to the ground and lay kicking. A great cry went up from the watching Indians. They started to edge forward and McAllister saw that if this suicide squad achieved any success at all, the main bunch would be close behind them. The wallow could be over-run in the next few minutes. His blood turned cold in his veins. He looked at Mrs. Bourn and shuddered.

Philo fired. A pony somersaulted violently and hurled its rider from its back. The man landed on his feet, running, continuing the charge, lance in hand, yelling. McAllister drove a shot through his body and dropped him dead.

Then the three rifles were sounding in a continuous hammering of shots, pouring lead into the half-dozen men who came on. A great shout went up from the main body of Indians and the ponies started to trot forward.

We don't have too much time,
McAllister thought.

He missed with a shot, levered and fired again. The oncoming rush was still directed at him; they weren't fifty feet away. He downed another pony, the man landed on his feet and came on, hatchet ready for the kill. A Cheyenne, young and long-legged, coming forward with long strides, paint brilliant on his face. McAllister levelled his rifle on him and saw that a horseman was almost on him. He yelled to the woman and threw himself flat. The pony jumped him, he was up again quickly, firing at the retreating back and knocked the man from the crude saddle. The pony rushed on across the wallow, dodging the mule and the paint. Beside McAllister the little revolver barked twice and Mrs. Bourn screamed a warning. He spun around and saw the dismounted man almost on top of him. No time to lever, he thrust forward with the barrel of the Henry. The man batted the muzzle aside with his hand and swung the ax. McAllister faded before the onslaught, getting his feet into the man's hard belly and hurling him over his head. Suddenly, the wallow seemed full
of Indians, though there could have been no more than three of them. It was stamp, shout and dodge; hatchets and spears sounded on rifle barrels, men fired point-blank; a shrill war-cry; a man went down; a savage thrust with a spear, teeth drawn and bared in a fierce grin. McAllister stumbled over Newby, drove the muzzle of the Henry into a man's side and fired, hurling the man a few yards.

Then there were three dead Indians in the wallow and McAllister unaware of how many lived with him turned and was firing into the oncoming Indians, levering and triggering as fast as he knew how. Dimly, he knew that Mrs. Bourn was at his side with a rifle, firing. They seemed to thunder right up to the lip of the wallow, throwing clods of dirt into his face; a horseman, yelling, reared high above him; a horse screamed in mortal agony and went over with threshing hoofs; a dying man pitched from a horse and bowled McAllister from his feet He heaved the man off him and reared to his feet

Suddenly, he could see only the rumps of horses and the backs of the retreating Indians.

He seemed to stand there a long time.

At last he heard Grant say in his drawl: “Wa-al, we made some good Indians, I reckon.”

He wiped the dirt and powder grime from his eyes and looked around and it seemed that he had lived a hundred years since the young bucks had started their charge.

The first thing he saw was the short spear sticking out of Newby. A dead Indian lay across the captain's legs. McAllister shifted his eyes. Philo half-sat with his back against the edge of the wallow, looking like he had taken a spear through the middle of his body. Mrs. Bourn with a grimed face knelt still with the rifle in her hands. Grant was on his feet, grinning shakily.

A young Indian lay, face-paint smudged, arm folded awkwardly under his body, his buckskin shirt smoldering from a too-close shot, dead. Another, an older man and a Cheyenne also, lay on his back, gazing sightlessly at the sky, most of his face shot away. They made the animals uneasy and they edged away from them. McAllister reloaded the Henry and propped it against a saddle. He felt tired and sickened. For the first time in his life he saw the waste and futility of violence; yet
he knew that he must subscribe to it to stay alive, to keep his companions alive. If the Indians had any sense, they would pull out now. Another attack might give them victory, but the cost would have been dear.

He walked over and looked down at Newby. The captain was dead, of course. McAllister closed his eyes. Next he went to Philo. A short spear was sticking out of the fleshy part of his right hip. McAllister put his foot on the man's thigh, gripped the spear-haft with his hands and heaved the weapon free. Philo made a sighing noise. McAllister beckoned Mrs. Bourn over. She laid the rifle down and came.

“Fix him up,” McAllister told her and started to drag the Indians out of the hollow. Grant came and gave him a hand. They dragged them well clear of the wallow so they could be picked up by their fellows. They were tired and hot when they finished. They drank a little from the small amount of water which had nearly been finished by the animals. Every now and then, they took looks at the Indians, saw they were bunched a good way off and giving no signs of attacking again.

“You reckon they had enough?” Grant asked.

McAllister said: “They had enough, but they're mad at us and can't drag themselves away. I reckon they'll come again.”

“Maybe if'n we hold 'em off till dark we can sneak outa here.”

“Maybe.”

They dug a shallow grave and put Newby into it. Then they walked the horses back and forth over it so there would be no trace for the Indians to find. After that, they ate a little and rested up. Philo didn't look too bad, but he wasn't laughing much. Mrs. Bourn fell into an exhausted sleep.

McAllister woke Mrs. Bourn gently. She sat up with a start, not seeing him clearly in the murky starlight.

“What is it?” she demanded.

“We going to try and get away,” he told her. He walked over to the
canelo
and saddled it, thinking. It wasn't going to be easy to get out of there, but they were better off with regard to horses than they had been. He would ride the
canelo
and was glad to be with his own mount again. Grant and Philo could ride their own horse and the Indian pony. Mrs. Bourn could take the mule. He would have preferred for them to all walk and lead their animals for the start of the escape so that they could not be so easily seen against the skyline, but that wouldn't be possible because neither Philo nor Grant were in a fit state to walk.

If they were going, they would go now before the Indians started to move in close under cover of the dark. Even so there was a great risk. It was not truly dark and Indian eyes were sharp. So were Indian ears. McAllister reckoned the best thing they could do was to work their way south first and then come around into the east below the Indians. He hoped they could make it – he didn't fancy fighting in the dark.

Mrs. Bourn came to him and asked: “What animal shall I ride?”

“The mule,” he said. “Now, listen close, Mrs. Bourn. Stick close to me out there. If anything happens, do what I do. If anything happens to me, keep on going. You have to head east. Do you think you can do that?”

“I learnt the stars from my daddy.”

“Good. Got your gun?”

“Yes.”

“Up with you, then.”

He cupped his hands, she placed a small bare foot in them and he boosted her onto the mule's back. The animal snorted softly. He gave both the other men a hand up and they eased themselves in the saddles. Grant was on the Indian pony and he said the wooden saddle was hell on his crotch.

“I won't never be the same man again after an hour in this thing,” he told McAllister.

McAllister stepped into the
canelo's
saddle and it was good to be there once more. He stopped to listen for a few minutes, hearing the Indians drumming and singing in the distance. He prayed that they had not scattered guards out over the
plain, but knew that such a thing was a strong possibility.

“Let's go,” he said, finally, and led the way south, keeping the
canelo
at a steady walk. He eased the Remington around so that its butt was handy and felt comfort from the weight of the Henry beneath his right leg.

They walked thus for five minutes perhaps when the
canelo
snorted.

McAllister halted.

The mule cannoned into his horse gently and Mrs. Bourn enquired what it was. He heard the two rangers exchange a few words. He listened carefully to the night. He could see nothing but the dark mass of the land in front of him, hear nothing but the distant drumming and singing of the Indians.

He kneed the
canelo
forward, but the animal refused. McAllister knew he didn't do that for nothing. There was something up ahead there the animal didn't like. That could be Indian ponies.

A night bird sounded.

He could have sworn that the sound came from a human throat

He leaned back and whispered to Mrs. Bourn: “We're going to make a run for it. Tell the others to wait for the word.” He heard her passing the message back. One of the men said: “Keno.”

“Now,” he yelled suddenly and rammed home the spurs. The
canelo
jumped forward and he heard the mule get into action behind him. Glancing back he saw the others following. They raced forward through the darkness.

They rocketed down a slight incline and there wasn't one of them who didn't pray silently that the animals did not put a foot in a hole or otherwise fall. Above the pounding of the hoofs, McAllister thought he heard a yell. A second later, he heard the faint report of a gun and something rushed stridently through the air above his head. Something dark reared up suddenly from out of the grass almost from under the feet of the racing horse and he felt a heavy blow on his left thigh. One of the men behind yelled and then there was nothing more. They thundered on through the darkness, hit a grade and the animals strained up it. McAllister kept them on the same pace for about ten minutes, falling back to see that all had stayed with him and finding they had. Grant
shouted something cheerful and then he took the lead again.

When he thought they must be clear, he called a halt and they all sat their heaving animals and listened. They heard nothing but the night sounds.

“We did it,” Philo said. McAllister knew that both men, wounded as they were, had suffered during the hectic ride. But they uttered not one word of complaint. He didn't feel as triumphant as Philo. They had gotten clear now, but he knew that didn't mean the end of the Indians. Come daylight they would pick up the trail. It was up to him to find good cover by dawn or soon after.

He went on through the hours of darkness, trot, walk, trot, walk, saving the horses as best he could. Both the rangers seemed to have accepted his lead. But he didn't go on his own hunches. He talked the country over with them both. Grant seemed to know the plains best. He reckoned that if they swung east now they would hit some broken country that would allow them some good cover while they rested up. The horses would not stand up to this pace for too long. The Indian pony was poor and the horse the two rangers had ridden in on was about played out.

At dawn they came to broken country and McAllister thought maybe they should stop, but Grant said “no”, push on several miles further while they could, the Indians would be starting out after them about now. He sad there was good cover a few miles further east. McAllister could see little in the poor light of dawn.

The day was a clear one with a strong wind blowing from the north. There were no more than a few wisps of cloud in the sky. No more chance of rain, it seemed. They pushed on slowly into the east and went through the broken country out onto the open plain again and there ahead of them was an incongruous hill. That's where they'd stop, Philo declared.

“We can see 'em comin' for miles. If'n they come.”

They dismounted and climbed the hill and sure enough when they got to the top they found they had a fine view for miles around. There was good cover up there too and McAllister was pretty pleased, though he didn't like the idea of stopping at all. For his money, he'd press on, but it was out of the question with the woman and the two wounded men. The three of them looked completely bushed. He made
them rest straight off. He felt fine, he declared, and he saw to the animals. Nobody argued and within minutes they were asleep in their blankets. McAllister hobbled the horses down at the foot of the hill for they had to eat. They hadn't chewed on grass for something like twenty-four hours. His main worry now was water. At the foot of the hill was a small flash-pond, a product of the recent rain, but there was little water in it and that was fast drying out in the wind and sun. The horses, however, made the most of it and were soon feeding with a will on the sun-cured grass. McAllister sat up in the rocks with his rifle across his knee and watched the country.

He watched till noon and saw no sign of Indians. He thought about his situation and how he would be handing Mrs. Bourn over to her husband if they got out of this. He hoped she'd keep her mouth shut about what she had been to old Iron Hand in the Indian camp. Certainly it was to her own good if she did. He thought that his five hundred dollars was mighty precarious.

Shortly after noon, he saw dust in the west. He woke Philo and Grant. They were wide awake as soon as he touched them, refreshed by their sleep. He pointed the dust out to them and they reckoned it was the Indians all right. If it wasn't it was a real big bunch of riders a-coming. McAllister went down and fetched up the horses, tying them among the rocks. Mrs. Bourn woke and came to him. She also looked as if the rest had done her good and the wind whipped some color into her cheeks. He thought he had never seen a prettier sight even with her hair all over the place and her face dirty.