McAllister 4

by Matt Chisholm

  He flicked the bacon from the pan on to plates and put the potatoes and onions in the hot fat.

  ‘That sure smells good,’ said Lige.

  McAllister said: ‘You don’t realize it. You’re living on the fat of the land.’

  Lige had McAllister’s old Henry rifle down from its pegs on the wall and was cleaning it. He suggested that if McAllister spotted a mule ear on the way home he might think about knocking it over. They could do with some deer meat. McAllister said sure. He remembered the man who had come asking for him. If he returned … what should Lige tell him? He pondered. It could be ominous, a man coming here asking for him. He could be a part of McAllister’s past, just out of the pen, feeling he owed McAllister something, like a bullet in the head. ‘You tell him to go into town and see your pa. He’ll know what to say to the man.’

  Lige said: ‘I remembered – he was a tall feller. He had red hair and he could sure use a shave. His face was real white.’ By that McAllister presumed he was pale. ‘His horse was a sorrel and mighty stylish. You know … ’

  ‘How did he wear his gun?’

  ‘Right side, butt forward.’

  ‘Boots?’

  ‘Not cowman’s boots.’ That meant they didn’t have high heels.

  ‘Spurs?’

  ‘Nossir, he had a mighty handsome quirt.’

  ‘Saddle?’

  ‘California single rig.’

  ‘Hell,’ said McAllister, ‘I thought you looked at him with your eyes shut. What happened, you get your memory back in your sleep?’

  ‘I thought about it last night. It seemed kind of important to you, so I thought about it. An’ all come back.’

  ‘How old?’

  ‘I can’t never tell how old white folks is.’

  ‘Older than me?’

  ‘Mebbe.’

  ‘How did he call me?’

  ‘Just McAllister, I guess. Aw, once he said the marshal.’

  ‘He did, huh?’

  ‘Yessir, he sure did.’

  McAllister brought the two plates to the table and started to eat. He talked with his mouth full. ‘I’m going to light out directly I’m through eating, Lige. You wash the dishes, then feed the horses. You’re in charge. You reckon you can make out just like you and me’re working together?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Good. Don’t get on an unbroken horse while I’m gone. You break a leg or an arm on your lonesome here, you could lie around for days. Just do the routine chores is all, hear?’

  ‘Yessir.’

  ‘Good man.’

  Five minutes later, McAllister was tramping to the starve-out for Oscar, his saddlepockets slung over his shoulder, a gunny sack of com to tie to his saddlehorn and his Henry in his hands. He dumped it all in the barn and whistled. Oscar was at the gate waiting for him when he reached the corral. McAllister opened the gate and the canelo walked out. As McAllister closed the gate, the cinnamon roan trotted into the barn. He knew he was for the saddle and he was eager to go. Lige came from the house to help McAllister with his gear. When he was all set to go, McAllister looked over the saddle at Lige and said: ‘Lige, you have any bad problems, you ride and tell your daddy. The doctor or Dice Hoggart at the Belle of Union’ll always give you a hand or advice.’

  Lige said, opening his eyes wide, ‘Don’t you be anxious now, boss.’

  ‘And Lige?’

  ‘Yessir?’

  ‘If you ride into town, you saddle Brownie. In fact, we’d better call Brownie your horse from here on.’

  Lige looked slightly stunned. He said: ‘You ain’t tellin’ me … Mr Mack, you ain’t sayin’ you’re givin’ me my own horse, for God’s sakes?’

  ‘That’s what I’m telling you.’

  ‘Jeez.’

  ‘You earned him. You’re a horseman so it’s fitting you have a horse of your own.’

  Lige was lost. He wandered out of the barn and stood looking across to the starve-out where Brownie stood with the other horses. McAllister led Oscar out into the yonder and stepped into the saddle. When he rode north along the edge of the creek, Lige was still standing in a daze.

  The valley had an eerie and strange kind of loveliness that morning; the air was crisp and dry. A morning which made a man glad to be alive. Oscar stepped out briskly. His hooves cracked on the hard ground with a new sharp note.

  A mile down the creek, McAllister found some of Si Tallin’s longhorns which had drifted across the creek. He took fifteen minutes of his time to drive them back, as any neighbor would. He saw they were putting on tallow and were in good condition. One old mosshorn steer tried to evade him, but Oscar stayed with him and they turned the animal back across the water.

  Pretty soon, as he went on, he saw the smoke from the Indian camp. He was sighted and White Bull was out to give him greeting. They exchanged no more than a few words and the Indian seemed well-pleased that McAllister was on his way to the fort. As he rode on through the camp, McAllister took a good look at the younger men and he could not miss the fact that he received pretty sullen looks. He called greetings in Cheyenne to them, but they did not reply.

  In a short while, he was riding through the breaks. Beyond the breaks, he was wending his way through a number of smaller, high valleys and in time came to Greg Talbot’s place, almost inaccessible on a small shelf moated by a rushing mountain torrent. From there Greg could see anybody coming into his valley. He ran a few cattle, nursed a truck garden and hunted. He knew that Greg must be away from home or he would have hailed McAllister. Here McAllister hit a fairly well-established trail and once more Oscar hit his hammering, steady pace. The snow held off, but the sky was ominously dark and the cold was chilling. Halfway through the morning the cold drove McAllister to dismount and run beside the horse to keep warm. He came in sight of the fort late in the afternoon.

  It stood alone in the wide circle which the logging parties had cut in the trees which had been felled for the construction of the fort. The country around looked bald and curiously vulnerable as a naked man or woman would be. As McAllister rode out into the open, he could see such a logging party winding its way from the northeast, wagons and mounted men moving slowly.

  The fort itself had been constructed by army engineers and was composed almost entirely of logs-high walls surrounded it, inside which stood barracks for the soldiers, officers, officers’ quarters, stables and store houses. There were fire steps along the walls and he could see the small dark figures of the soldiers forever on the lookout for Indians. There had been men killed here during the summer and the army was still jumpy. Not for the first time, McAllister wondered why White Bull had led his band so far into the northwest. The Cheyenne hunting range was far south of this. Had the Cheyenne come up here because their own buffalo range was bare? There were a number of questions McAllister wished that he had been able to ask White Bull, but courtesy forbade him and he had no desire to lose the Indian’s confidence. There was nothing about the situation that McAllister liked.

  He was challenged at the gate of the fort and, when he asked to speak with the commanding officer, a young sergeant took him to the office block, reported to the orderly room sergeant and he was asked to wait.

  An hour later, he was told that the colonel would see him. He was not in the best of moods when he was shown into the man’s office. The commanding officer, he found, was a Major Robert Whitehouse, acting colonel: a small man with tired eyes and an attitude that the whole world was conspiring against him. McAllister could find some sympathy for this attitude because this man was probably dealing with an enemy whose tactics he did not fully understand, a hostile environment, soldiers whose desertion rate was high and a general who disapproved of him. The man was old enough to believe that he should by now have reached a senior command post.

  He scarcely looked at McAllister when he shook hands with him.

  ‘Well, what can I do for you, Mr … er?’

  ‘McAllister.’

  ‘McAllister.’

&n
bsp; McAllister was not going to stand in front of anybody’s desk while the fellow lolled at his ease. He sought a chair and pulled it up before the desk. The major watched him with disapproval. You could see from his eyes that he neither liked nor approved of civilians. He was no doubt here to protect civilian settlers, but that did not mean that he had to approve of them. They were encumbrances that got in the way of military duties.

  ‘Major, I’ve just come from—’

  ‘Colonel,’ said the major. ‘I’m a colonel.’

  ‘All right, Colonel. I’ve just come from the camp of White Bull down on Howard Creek. He tells me—’

  ‘Who is this White Bull?’

  ‘He’s leader of a small band of about twenty lodges of the northern Cheyenne. He’s camped at the north end of Black Horse Valley.’

  ‘I never heard of him, but go ahead.’

  ‘He tells me that you gave him permission to camp and guaranteed him protection.’

  ‘You can’t expect me to remember every Indian—’

  ‘He wanted to speak with you, but is afraid to come to the fort in case he’s fired on by the soldiers.’

  ‘A very sensible Indian, if I may say so.’

  ‘He wants to camp near the fort so that he will not be attacked by the army.’

  ‘He must be out of his mind. I would no more have Indians camped near this fort than I would have them camped inside it. My God, I must be allowed to take elementary precautions for the safety of my command. If he’s on Howard Creek, that’s where he stays.’

  ‘How can I guarantee him his safety?’

  ‘You can’t and, if I may be permitted to say so, sir, it’s none of your business.’

  ‘Bill Steiner, the agent, told him his safety would be guaranteed by the army,’ McAllister said.

  ‘If you mean Captain Steiner,’ the major said, ‘that’s none of my responsibility.’

  ‘The War Department is responsible for the Indians.’

  ‘This man White Bull has a number of young men among his band who have been out with the hostiles, Mack … Mack … er … You’re not talking to a man who doesn’t have the facts at his fingertips, Mack … er … ’

  ‘We’re dealing with men’s lives here,’ McAllister said. ‘Women and children, too.’

  The soldier looked weary. ‘You sound like somebody from back east, man. I’ve been fighting goddam Indians since the end of the war. I’m sick to death of goddam Indians. Steiner may love the bastards, but I do not. I’ve seen what they’ve done to white women and children. Maybe you didn’t.’

  There were plenty of answers to that. McAllister had also seen what whitemen had done to Indian women and children. That kind of argument would get you nowhere.

  ‘You’re telling me that you wash your hands of these people?’

  ‘I’m telling you I’m not interested. If White Bull wants me to guard over him, he should keep his young men from raiding and warring. So they’ve all come home to spend the winter with him. As soon as spring comes and the grass is up, the ponies’ll be strong enough to work and those same young men will be cutting white throats again. Mister, you’re wasting my time.’

  McAllister rose.

  ‘Mister,’ he said, ‘I reckon I’m wasting mine too. I can’t talk with a man who don’t see Indians as human beings. That’s what the Cheyenne call themselves – the Human Beings.’ He started for the door, but by the time he reached there, his conscience forced him to make one more try. ‘I’m begging you: think again. If you give White Bull a guarantee, it could stop the young warriors going on the warpath again. You’d maybe save white lives.’

  ‘I don’t know what your trade is, McAllister,’ the soldier said. ‘But I suggest you attend to it and leave me to attend to mine.’

  McAllister left the office. In the orderly room, the sergeant and a private stared at him stonily. He knew they’d been listening. Outside, the snow had started to fall. He walked across the parade ground to the sutler’s and found few customers in there. The sutler he knew from way back. A man named Bill Evans who had traded liquor down in Kansas. He did not have two cents to rub together then, but he looked as if his fortune had improved. But trade was slack right now. The goddam commanding officer kept the men working all hours. He expected a winter attack and he wanted the fort completed in a hurry. The man standing at the bar drinking was Portugee Phillips. They knew each other and they shook hands. It was said that the man was a part South Sea Islander, but he looked much like a Sioux-white cross to McAllister. He was a good man, handy and with plenty of sand. They took a drink together. McAllister said that he didn’t want to push his horse further that day and wanted a place to sleep.

  Evans said Portugee was sleeping in a storeroom. McAllister could share with him if he wanted. Sacks of com made a pretty fair bed. No charge. McAllister thanked him and the general talk began. McAllister repeated his meeting with the brevet colonel. Portugee smiled.

  ‘He ain’t our kind of folks, Rem. He don’t understand.’ Phillips was working for the army; packing and acting as a courier. But there would be no riding soon. This snow would lie and would be hell on a horse. ‘Was I you, Rem, I’d get out of here come first light or you’ll be here all winter.’

  McAllister thought that good advice.

  He learned about the local situation from both men. The Sioux were bunched east of there. No matter this wasn’t their territory. Sure, there was a scattering of Cheyenne with them, though some had pulled out. The older and wiser men did not want any part of the campaign that was coming.

  ‘My God,’ said McAllister surprised, ‘you’re not telling me the Indians aim to fight through the winter?’

  ‘I reckon so,’ Portugee said. ‘And they stand a good chance of winning this round. They’re changing their tactics; they have good leaders. They won’t win in the long run, but you can’t tell ’em that. I’ve tried. Chiefs don’t take good advice, whichever side they’re on. You and me should be Indian commissioners, Rem. We’d have this piece of trouble settled in no time at all.’

  McAllister opined: ‘You can’t settle this, Portugee. The whites want what the Indians have. The Indians won’t settle for having sweet damn all.’

  The talk ran on and then Evans offered them a meal. The talk continued over the meal and then both men retired for the night. In the storeroom, they talked some more before they went to sleep.

  ‘All you can do with old White Bull is have him pull back into the breaks, Rem,’ was Portugee’s advice.

  ‘If I can make him go. His fighting men won’t take to the idea. I have the feeling they’ll come down the valley to my place and lift my horses. And maybe my hair too.’

  ‘Would they do that to you? I always thought of you as close to the Cheyenne.’

  ‘Times have changed, like you said. I’m white and that’s enough.’

  ‘I wish you luck.’

  ‘I have a feeling I’m going to need it.’

  Chapter Three

  McAllister headed home at first light the following morning. Snow was now falling steadily. As he shook hands with Portugee Phillips on the edge of the parade ground and mounted, a logging party was leaving the fort. The soldiers looked miserably cold.

  ‘See you in the spring maybe,’ Phillips said.

  ‘Sure.’ McAllister swung into the saddle and lifted a hand in farewell. When he rode out through the gateway, he faced the onslaught of the wind and was nearly blinded by the wall of snow that hurled at him. He rounded the east wall of the fort and then turned south. The force of the wind now hit him from behind and he was thankful that he was moving ahead of the storm and not having to force Oscar into it. The horse went ahead strongly. He had eaten well of Evans’ corn. A couple of hours later, McAllister ran almost headlong into a party of Indians. They were as wrapped up as he was against the cold, but he knew at once that they were Sioux. He cursed because he knew no more than a few words of their language. However, they did not leave him in any doubt that if he was not ve
ry smart he could consider himself their prisoner.

  The McAllister luck had not quite deserted him. On the chance that one of them understood Cheyenne, he used the language and his words were heard by the one member of the party who belonged to that people. The man pushed his horse forward out of the bunch of Indians and said: ‘How is it that you speak the language of the People so well?’

  ‘I am Diver, son of Many Horses. I think I know you.’

  ‘Yes, I am Two Smoke. Many Horses’ daughter, Moon, is my wife.’

  ‘It is some years since I saw you,’ McAllister said. ‘I see that you have become an important warrior.’

  ‘That is true,’ the Cheyenne agreed. ‘Tell me, Diver, do you work for the army?’

  ‘No. I have come from the fort. I went there to speak for White Bull who is camped near my home.’

  One of the Sioux made an angry remark and Two Smoke returned it in kind and told McAllister: ‘He wants to know why we are talking. I say: Go to White Bull and tell him to send his young men here. They should be fighting alongside the Sioux.’

  McAllister nodded. ‘I shall tell him this.’

  ‘Good. Now go quickly before these thick-headed Sioux become unpleasant.’

  They clasped hands and McAllister went on his way without a second bidding. The Sioux looked a little put out, even murderous, but when Two Smoke spoke to them, they permitted McAllister to pass. He kept Oscar at a good pace for the next hour or so. He hoped fervently that there would be no more such encounters.

  It stopped snowing around noon and the wind dropped a little, for which he was thankful. He rested Oscar for a short while and then went on. He began to wonder if he would ever reach home. He had been a damned fool to set out from home at all. Drifts were deepening and at times Oscar was up to his belly in snow. Hell, thought McAllister, how he hated winter. He reckoned he would hate it a good deal more before he sat before his warm stove. He camped that night in a pine forest, crouched over a fire with Oscar standing by munching on his oats. McAllister hoped forlornly that he was headed in the right direction. He wondered if, in fact, he had been riding in a circle for the last hour or two. It had been known.