McAllister 4

by Matt Chisholm

  Not for McAllister the quick glance around to see if he was observed. He had to go whether he was seen or not. He dived for the nearest horse which stood saddled and ready for a scout not twenty yards away.

  As soon as he started to run, McAllister became acutely aware of how sick and weak he was. His legs started to fold under him so that he expected at any second to be on his knees on the hard-packed snow. Before he could do that, however, his feet went out from under him on the polished surface and he went down. He hit the ground so hard that almost every scrap of wind was knocked out of his body. As he floundered helplessly on hands and knees, he heard the first shout of alarm go up. But he had that horse as his goal and every part of his being was concentrated on reaching it.

  On his feet, he wavered for a moment, this way and that. Somebody fired a shot and he had reason to bless the fact that the volunteer’s standard of marksmanship was not as good as it should have been. The shot missed him by a foot, but it came near enough to the marksman’s comrade to make him yell out in alarm. Slipping and sliding, fighting weakly to keep his feet, McAllister struggled on his way.

  How long it took him to reach the horse he would never know, but it seemed like an eternity. Finally, he had the line untied from the picket-pin and was hauling himself desperately into the saddle. Another couple of shots which winged their way viciously but ineffectively above his head and he was astride and urging the horse to run.

  The animal was reluctant.

  When McAllister, with feeble curses and a kick or two in its belly, at last managed to get the animal to jump forward, it was too late. Something thudded into the animal, it shrieked like a human just once and fell to the ground.

  McAllister was hurled helplessly from the saddle, all arms and legs, fought to land on his feet and instead stretched his length on the ground. He heard shouts, the pounding feet of running men.

  The first face he recognized as he wearily sat up was that of the sergeant who had charge of him.

  ‘You son-of-a-bitch,’ said the sergeant.

  ‘Ain’t I just,’ said McAllister.

  The colonel was there, dancing.

  ‘That’s a government horse,’ he yelled. ‘You are the cause of the death of a government horse.’

  ‘If your soldier-boys could goddam well shoot,’ McAllister said, ‘I’d be dead and the horse would be walking around.’

  One man said: ‘We can soon remedy that.’

  The colonel danced some more and shouted: ‘Who had charge of this man? Where is his guard?’

  The sergeant went pale and started bawling out for the blacksmith – ‘Rogers, where you at, man? Where the hell’s that Rogers gotten to?’

  Somebody discovered him walking around in irregular circles, holding his face and groaning. He was led protesting feebly and denying that he had so much as taken his eyes from the prisoner.

  ‘But he got away from you,’ shrieked the colonel. ‘You cannot deny that he escaped. By God, you shall suffer for this, soldier. A gross dereliction of duty. A crime for which a man should be shot.’

  McAllister grinned and said: ‘Shooting is too good for him.’

  The colonel turned on him savagely. ‘You hold your tongue, sir, or by God I’ll forget that I’m an officer and a gentleman. Take the prisoner away and see that he is tied up. Tight. He stays tied tight. Two men watch him night and day. Hear? Sergeant, do you hear?’

  ‘Yessir.’

  ‘I shall hold you solely responsible. If he gets free again, I shall have your stripes and you’ll see the inside of a guardhouse. This man goes for trial when we get back to civilization.’

  ‘The only man going on trial back in civilization, Colonel,’ McAllister told him, ‘is you. You have violated every code in the book. You have given succor to a known thief and murderer, you have detained a citizen going about his lawful and peaceful business, you have—’

  Maybe the colonel can be excused for what he did next. Maybe he cannot. I don’t know. Twenty witnesses saw him strike the said civilian in the mouth. Said civilian made a vain effort to strike back, but was seen to fall on his face and lay there. He did not stir. The colonel looked anxious, then he walked away muttering that he hoped the miserable bastard died.

  An officer called the doctor who made a careful examination of the prisoner and declared him to be a very sick man. An officer who remains nameless was heard to say that if McAllister died, he for one would report it as murder. Under the circumstances and obeying the orders of the doctor, McAllister was not tied to a tree or anything else that night. In fact, there was not a vestige of an iron or rope on him. They made up a warm bed for him near a fire and a medical orderly attended him. Just the same, the sergeant and two armed men were within easy reach of him all the time and one of the three stayed awake to watch him.

  ~*~

  The following day, there was some argument about what should immediately happen to the prisoner. The colonel said that everybody should stay with the column. They were in Indian country and he was responsible for every life there. Wounded, sick and all the rest should remain with the main force. The half-dozen sick were tied on horses or carried in litters. McAllister, more dead than alive, but warmed slightly by a shot of whiskey given him by a merciful doctor, was thrown astride his saddle and there he clung, scarcely aware apparently of what was happening to him.

  Lawson came to him and said: ‘They saved you for me, McAllister, but don’t think you’re going to get away with it. I’m going to blow your goddam brains out before the day’s done.’

  McAllister appeared to come alive a little at this.

  He looked at Lawson and said: ‘It’ll have to be in the back, Dom.’

  Lawson said: ‘Suits me whatever.’ He took his place at the head of the column.

  The Volunteers moved forward as quietly as they knew how. Bridle chains and anything that could rattle had been muffled or tied down. Talking was forbidden. The colonel announced that if anybody made any sound which would give the presence of the column away to the Indians he would be severely punished. McAllister witnessed it all as though through a veil. His chest pained him as if a tight band of steel had been closed around it. When he coughed it was as if his lungs were being pierced by red hot needles. He was told to stop coughing unless he wanted to be gagged.

  After an hour or so of slow advance, the column halted while Lawson went ahead with several men to scout the Indians. The men waited by their horses with mounting impatience until they returned. Lawson came back to report that the Indians were still where he thought and that they seemed to have mounted no guards. The army would catch them like sitting ducks.

  ‘Good, good, good,’ declared the colonel and rode forward for an inspection of the field of action. He quickly returned to deploy his troops.

  The Indians apparently were camped on the far side of a frozen creek. The horse herd was amongst timber on rising ground beyond it. Company A would advance due west from here, circle and come through the timber from the west, driving off the horse herd and attacking the village from that direction. McAllister could have told him that he was wasting his time on the Indian horses. At this time of the year they would be far too weak for riding. They would be best ignored. Company B would attack from the south. Company C under the immediate command of the colonel would approach from the northeast, cross the creek and attack from that direction. The Indians would be caught and there would be no escape for them. Companies A and B would hold back until they saw Company C advancing. That would be their signal.

  One of the officers said: ‘Let me get this right, Colonel. Are you telling us that you aim to hit this village without first checking if there’s fighting men in it? I mean – maybe there’s only old men, women and children in there.’

  The colonel turned and stared at the man unbelievingly. ‘Can I believe my ears, sir?’ he cried. ‘Is this one of my officers speaking?’

  The man persisted. ‘I would have thought that under any rules of warfare you shou
ld know what you’re killing before you kill it.’

  ‘It’s practically mutiny,’ the colonel cried. ‘You heard me say, sir, that we shall attack that village yonder. Are you questioning my authority?’

  ‘Not your authority, sir, just your correctness of action.’

  ‘You will obey my order, Captain,’ the colonel said, ‘or you shall answer for it.’

  The captain said stoutly: ‘I shall obey your order, Colonel, because that’s my plain duty and I don’t have any alternative. But it will be you who answer for it, sir. I shall submit my own report to the authorities after this action.’

  Colonel Brevington made a disgusted and impatient sound. He waved a hand in dismissal of the captain. ‘Every man here today will boast of this to his grandchildren. Stay cool, men, and beat hell out of the red devils.’ He gave the order to move out.

  The sergeant in charge of McAllister asked rather timidly: ‘What about the prisoner, colonel?’

  ‘He stays here.’

  ‘Me and the boys would dearly like a crack at the Indians, sir.’

  The colonel relented. ‘All right, bring him forward until we sight the village. You will stay back while we make the charge. That will give you the chance of a shot or two.’

  The column advanced. Those who were afoot now rose into the saddle, those with pistols drew them and looked to their loading. Carbines were unbooted. The men’s tension and excitement rose. They started talking among themselves until their sergeants hissed for them to stay still. Even the horses caught the excitement and started to act up a little. One man said: ‘They can smell the blood even before it’s drawn.’

  McAllister found himself riding behind the colonel and the captain who had taken Major Newton’s place as second-in-command. This was the very officer who had questioned Brevington’s attack on the village. Once this man looked back and his gaze met McAllister’s. They both understood the situation and both of them in their own ways were powerless.

  Although McAllister was still fevered, his mind in a general turmoil and his body scarcely strong enough to keep him in the saddle, there was a small corner of his brain which stayed clear, as though in defiance of the laws of nature. It was this part of his brain which was insisting that he do something to prevent the slaughter on which the troops were nearly launched. He looked around desperately, wanting to get his hands on a gun for just one shot, to make a small startling sound which would alarm the camp and the Indians to save themselves while they still could. There seemed not a chance. He could have wept from the agonizing frustration of his situation. He found as they went forward that tension inside him was mounting to an unbearable pitch.

  At last they came to a rise in the ground and he was riding up it, leaning forward in the saddle in order to stay there. The horse slipped a little and recovered itself.

  When they halted at the top, McAllister’s uncertain eyes made out the cluster of hide tents on the far side of the creek, dark against the white snow, here and there a curl of smoke. Beyond was the forested slope and the dark trunks of the trees where the winter-weakened ponies scratched and gnawed for a precarious existence.

  The colonel was saying: ‘All right, get moving Company A.’ The word went back down the line and the first company peeled off from the rest and, under cover of the ridge, rode off into the south. Quickly the sound of their travel across the expanse of snow died away and they moved soundless as ghosts.

  The captain spoke up for the last time.

  ‘I must protest again, Colonel, at this action. It is not only unwise, it’s improper. Worse than that, it is unchristian.’

  This was far too much for the colonel to take – the lay preacher in him was caught to the quick. He turned pale and then red with fury. He stood in his stirrups and the leather creaked under the weight, his horse shifted uneasily at the sound of his enraged voice.

  ‘Brigg,’ he said, ‘this is too much even for a forbearing man such as myself. I relieve you of all responsibility. You no longer hold the rank of captain in this formation. You shall charge the enemy below there as a lowly private.’

  Brigg said: ‘You do not possess the authority, sir.’

  ‘We shall see, sir,’ cried the colonel. ‘Oh, we shall see. Now, I have no more time for the trivia of an officer’s poor personal discipline. Move out Company B. Look sharp now before we have the savages all over us.’

  There was a surge of movement behind McAllister as the company moved out. Soft-voiced orders were given. Hold file now, close up. Goddam you, hold that fool horse in. McAllister became aware that the formerly demoralized but still exhausted troops were now disciplined and ready for action. Their own wishes made them at once obedient to orders. The orders of the sergeants at once took on the snap of men who knew that they would be instantly obeyed.

  Now, screamed a voice inside McAllister’s head. It’s got to be now.

  Until that moment, there had been no sign of life among the Indian tipis. Now a man stepped out of one, scratching himself, stretching and yawning. A dog followed him and started sniffing around, catching a scent. Some wild creature had ventured there during the night. The dog became excited. Across the stillness of the snow, McAllister could hear its eager whimper. McAllister thought that the Indian must look up and see the soldiers’ shoulders and heads above the skyline. But the man continued, unaware.

  Just raise your eyes for a moment. Just look up and see. There’s death for you here on the ridge.

  The man beat himself with his arms against the cold. Now the flap of another lodge opened and a bent old man stepped out and stood shivering in the cold, not wanting to go on but ordered on by nature. Go back, old man. Go back.

  The dog was running along a line of scent, barking joyously now, heading for the creek.

  ‘Oh, that goddam dog,’ said a man nearby.

  McAllister rode forward for a clearer view and nobody prevented him. The slight movement made him dizzy and he swayed in the saddle. Slowly, he counted the lodges and knew there were more than when he had counted them previously. Two more? Three more? If young men from the fighting had joined White Bull, would they have been able to bring tipis with them? Maybe they had picked up their women and children somewhere before they fled? He prayed to God that White Bull had no young men fresh from battle down there. In the same breath, he prayed that there would be some young men to protect the women and children from the soldiers.

  He thought of White Bull asleep down there with his old wife by his side. Then, incongruously, he thought of himself back at his own house with his own wife, which he did not possess, at his side, while a couple of hundred or more Cheyenne waited to swoop down on them.

  Brevington was still giving orders. He had changed his mind. Now he could see that the whole village was within carbine shot of the ridge. He would dismount his men from here and hold the Indians under a steady and firm fire while his flankers moved it. When the mounted attack was under way he and his men would mount and go to their assistance.

  Assistance? The word was a mockery. It would be assistance at a slaughter.

  Yet, McAllister did not know. Cheyenne were stubborn people. However few fighting men were down there, they would put up a fight. They would run to stand between the soldiers and their women and children. While they could stand, they would stand. They would die preventing the soldiers from reaching their families. Such was the tradition. There could be a lot of white boys killed here today yet.

  Traditional Indian defense under attack was flight; they were a hit and run people, fitted for quick attack and counter-attack. If the attack was too heavy then flight was the answer. But there was an exception to that rule. When women and children were concerned, you stood between them and the enemy. That was what warriors were for, that was their ultimate reason for being. McAllister knew well the tenacity and ferocity of Indians under attack in such circumstances. If they were cornered here today, they would fight in desperate pockets of resistance. Then the colonel would suffer his casual
ties. Brevington now knew that his surprise was to be total. He saw the Indians surrendering and his men cutting them down. Already the man could see his name in newspaper headlines:

  GREAT VICTORY OVER THE INDIANS.

  McAllister turned once more to look at the faces of the waiting soldiers. It must have been the fever in him, for instead of white faces he saw the faces of the young Cheyenne. He knew in that moment that he must not only save the Indians from the soldiers, he must save the soldiers from themselves. McAllister had lived a tough and hard life, he had killed men without a qualm, but he had never lowered himself to do what was planned here today and nobody’s son should be subjected to being forced into such an act. This man Brevington would lead and the young men would follow. He had to stop them committing a crime for which they could never be forgiven.

  With a loud shout, McAllister lashed his horse forward.

  In that crazy moment there was a sudden and piercingly clear realization that in that single act he had altered a whole situation. Up to that moment, he had not really feared the young white soldiers in any real way. He was the same as them. A whiteman. Now, urging his horse down that snow-thick slope, he had put himself on the opposite side. Suddenly, every rifle there behind him was held by an enemy.

  He found that he was shouting in Cheyenne at the top of his voice – ‘Soldiers … soldiers …’

  He watched the young man stop, head jerked up, staring unbelievingly. A flap opened and a man’s head and shoulders appeared from a tipi. The stooped old man stopped in his tracks, mouth agape.

  ‘Move ... for God’s sake, move … run for your lives. Listen to what I’m telling you. Save yourselves. Soldiers … soldiers …’

  His horse was halfway down the slope, going down in a great shower of snow, front legs stiff, rump sliding. McAllister continued yelling. Now the Indians must see the soldiers behind him. They must see …

  The flat sound of a rifle shot sang mournfully across the valley. The colonel’s voice was raised in a shrill shout – ‘Shoot that man!’