McAllister Justice

by Matt Chisholm

  The redhead bared his teeth in the moonlight.

  “I shoot who I damn-well like,” he said and swung a leg over the cantle, dismounting.

  When his right foot rested on the ground and took the weight, McAllister kicked it out from under him. As he went down, the marshal cuffed him with a clenched fist around the head. He hit the ground hard, but there was still some life in him. Enough to make him reach for his gun. McAllister kicked it out of his hand, then nearly kicked a couple of ribs in.

  “Mean, ain’t I?” McAllister said and picked up the fallen gun. He swore softly, because his shoulder played him up a little after the violence. The redhead made noises like he was weeping. It gave McAllister a small satisfaction.

  It took the man a fair time to get around to sitting up and calling McAllister all the different kinds of bastards known to man.

  McAllister hefted the gun and said: “Catch.” He tossed it over and the man caught it. He couldn’t believe the marshal was crazy enough to do such a thing.

  McAllister said: “You aim to kill me, Red, but even you ain’t fool enough to kill me now. You’re goin’ to need me plenty with the redskins around. Maybe they’s a couple hid out in the grass yonder listenin’ to us right this minute.”

  After a short rest, McAllister told him to mount up. He looked like he would protest, but he thought better of it and did as he was told. McAllister rode three or four lengths behind him. He planned to ride all night. While the legend that Indians never fought at night was a load of hogwash, there was more chance of moving unmolested in the dark than in daylight. Come dawn, he’d have a look at the country and would halt or go on as he thought best then.

  The redhead asked: “Where we headed?”

  McAllister answered: “The diggin’s,” and left it at that They got by for the rest of the night without more words. Dawn found them moving into the north-west at a shuffling trot. McAllister changed horses once during the night to keep his animals fresh. That gave him an advantage over the Indians, maybe, and certainly over this coyote.

  The country was rougher now. It was still prairie, but the ridges were higher and in the cold light of dawn, the whole world looked desolate and forlorn. They ate in the saddle, chewing on hard-tack, not daring to stop and light a fire, pushing steadily through the morning mist. Once the other man broke the silence. He wanted to rest his horse and he wanted to impress on McAllister that he was mixing him up with some other fellow. He didn’t want to kill anybody. He didn’t know what McAllister meant by that remark of his. McAllister told him he could keep going till he met up with his friend Dix.

  “I don’t know the name,” the man said, but he wasn’t convincing.

  They went on.

  The mist lifted slowly and the hills came into view, looking dark and forbidding till the sun hit them. After that they looked baked dry and forbidding. McAllister didn’t like to contemplate what danger they held for him. His only consolation was that they held the same for this damned outlaw.

  Mid-morning, they sighted a moving mass before them.

  Hastily dismounting, they took cover behind a ridge, and knowing that if it wasn’t cavalry, it was Indians, McAllister looked around for a likely spot to fort up. He didn’t find one, so they stayed right where they were.

  Inside an hour, they knew it was Indians for sure. A large body of fighting men, feathers fluttering and paint bright in the sunlight, led by an old boy on a paint pony. They passed about a mile to the north, going from the north-west into the south-east. They did not spot the two whitemen. McAllister kept them where they were for about an hour, until he was satisfied that there were no more Sioux around, then they mounted and went on.

  He rode now with his nerves jumpier than ever, his chin on either shoulder. Redhead was doubly nervous and McAllister wondered at him having the courage for this trip in the first place.

  Toward dusk they ran slap-bang into real trouble.

  McAllister reckoned there was around fifteen of them.

  Chapter Eleven

  As they had progressed northward so the country had grown steadily more broken. To spot danger a long way off became more difficult. And they were going through a particularly bad patch of country, a jumble of ridges and scattered rocks, when they came on these fifteen young Dakotas who at once showed how glad they were to meet up with two whitemen on their lonesome way out in the middle of nowhere.

  One moment they weren’t there and the next they were. They must have spotted the two of them from afar and hid up. They came out of a gully not a quarter of a mile away to the right, beating their ponies into speed and yelling like all get-out.

  McAllister yelled: “Ride,” and gave his horse the spurs.

  They bolted for a couple of miles up and down ridges, dodging around rocks, jumping the narrower gullies, which forced McAllister to release the lead-horse, until the redhead’s horse started to flag and even McAllister’s fresher animal started to heave. It looked like the Indians, or at least a few of them, were steadily gaining. The marshal started to feel pretty unhappy. The redhead looked like his heart was breaking.

  Finally, they were beating around a pretty high knoll, when McAllister yelled: “Fort up. To your left.”

  The gunman was now in a state to obey any command. He wheeled his horse around and sent it clattering to high ground, McAllister following, giving the lead Indian a glance over his shoulder. The man was no more than a couple of hundred yards behind, beating hell out of his pony with the butt of his bow.

  As McAllister’s horse heaved up the steep grade, the marshal pulled his carbine from the boot, jacked a round into the breech and gave this first brave a shot from the saddle. He had no hopes of making a hit, but the shot unnerved the Indian and he swung his horse from the line of pursuit.

  McAllister reached the summit, slid from the saddle and took a quick look around. He could have done worse than stop here. There was cover and you could see around all sides. With a half-dozen more men, he would have stood a good chance.

  He laughed nastily and said: “Glad you didn’t kill me, Red?”

  But the gunman hadn’t heard. He was bellying down and using up his shells on the Indians who had halted in a cluster just out of rifle-shot. They looked like a gaggle of bright birds. They reminded McAllister of savage hawks. He looked for the glisten of metal to see if they had any rifles among them. He reckoned there were three or four and for him that was three or four too many. Just mounted on their ponies with their clubs and axes and after scalps they were not the kind of thing he would care to meet up with every day.

  The lead-horse came cantering up, wanting to stay with his stable-mate. McAllister tied the three animals the best he could to the rocks, not trusting to ground-hitching with the guns going off.

  The Indians were sitting their ponies and trying to make up their minds whether they were going to charge, dismount and shoot it out or ride off and call it a day. The sight of those white scalps on the hilltop proved too much for their good sense and they rode around the hill a few times, yelling. The gunman started shooting his carbine at them, but McAllister told him to hold his fire. He wasn’t hitting anything anyway.

  Then suddenly they came up the hill. If they had come from all sides, they would have over-run the two whitemen without much trouble. But they didn’t. They wanted to keep each other company and came all bunched up. As soon as McAllister and Red raised their rifles every Indian there yanked his pony around and got out of there fast. Not a shot was fired.

  Next, they circled the hill a couple of times, then swung inward and charged up the steep incline. This time they nearly made it, but the rifle fire from above was too much for them. Two horses and three men got themselves shot that time. They all retired for an hour out of rifle shot. They screamed abuse at the defenders, made obscene signs, but did little else.

  The gunman said: “My horse is rested up. Let’s ride.”

  “Maybe you want to lose your scalp,” McAllister said. “I’ll keep mine.
”

  When they circled the hill again, the Sioux used their heads. They charged, but as soon as the rifles above started searching them out, they dropped from sight behind their climbing horses. McAllister downed two of the ponies and then the Indians showed they were smart. Halfway up the hill, they started dropping from their animals. Some ran in crouched up, others dropped to cover. Within minutes, they almost had possession of the hilltop. McAllister killed a man who nearly jumped on top of him, then everything went quiet and there wasn’t an Indian in sight. After a while they gave evidence of their presence by sending a few shots and some arrows onto the top of the hill.

  The gunman screamed.

  Glancing around, McAllister saw that an arrow had transfixed his shoulder from behind. The marshal ran to him, heard an arrow hum past his head like an angry hornet, got a hold of the arrow in the man’s shoulder, broke it off short and pulled it out.

  The man rolled on his back, white-faced, and said: “Jesus, I’m killed.”

  “Any minute now,” McAllister told him and turned to meet the charge.

  The oncoming Indians were a blurr of vivid colors, mouths open, yelling. He used the carbine to kill a warrior at twenty paces, crushed the skull of another with the brass-bound butt and made a jump for his horse. He collided with somebody and the stench of paint and buffalo fat filled his nostrils. He tried to lift the carbine for a blow, but it was knocked from his hands. He ducked under a swinging club, smashed his fist into a carmined face and was knocked from his feet. Tucking his shoulder under him, he somersaulted, came up on his feet and pulled his pistol free of leather. When the gunman screamed for a second time, McAllister shot the Indian standing over him, and saw that the whiteman was pinned to the ground by a lance.

  Shouting with triumph a young buck got astride the spare horse. McAllister started shooting seriously. He knocked the boy off the horse, shot a man who rushed him in the face and turned his gun on a little knot of warriors who were charging him. The attack faded as suddenly as it had begun. McAllister didn’t wait to find out anything else. He scooped up his carbine, slammed it home in the boot and got aboard. Leaving the spare horse to look after itself, he used the spurs and jumped the horse off the hilltop. The Indians didn’t seem to want to part company with him, but he had other ideas. Several shots came at him, but he ducked low in the saddle and rode. An arrow glanced off his saddle-bow, an Indian, bolder than the rest, tried to catch hold of the bridle, leaping from cover, but McAllister rode him down and went on. The horse rocketed down the hill, slipping and sliding and by the time he reached the base, the pursuit had started.

  They came kiyacking off the hill, their rage now greater than any fear his gun could instil in them. With shrill cries they swooped past the spare horse that was lagging behind, hit the flat and kept on coming.

  McAllister ran them hard into the heat of the day, heading for the hills and not knowing what he might find there. A miracle might land him with a bunch of miners. His usual luck would put him right in the lap of the Sioux nations. The little bay he bestrode was pulling well, but he knew that another hour at this pace and if the Indians could hold it, the animal would be finished.

  The horse never had a chance to prove his stamina one way or the other. As the sun hit noon, it went down, snapping its right foreleg with a report like a gun.

  McAllister went over its head, managed to twist and came down almost on his feet. He jarred his wounded shoulder and felt sick. But there was no time for pain if he wanted to stay alive. The Indians were coming on fast. Glancing at the kicking bay, he saw that the rifle was uppermost. Luck. He tore it from leather and drove a shot at the foremost rider and missed. Nerves. He slammed a shot into the pony’s head, it kicked a couple of times and lay still. McAllister flung himself behind it and started pumping lead. They scattered out around him, dropping over the sides of their ponies, presenting to him no more than a heel and a hand each. He followed them around and dropped two ponies smartly. He never did see the sense in hiding behind a running horse that could be shot.

  The Indians landed on their feet and he knocked one over with a shot up the butt. That was one fine buck who wouldn’t swagger any more. The man was maybe thirty paces off and he was so enraged by the agony of his wound that he started a crazy charge. McAllister shot him through the head and that was the end of him.

  The Indians slithered their ponies around about a quarter of a mile away and he could tell by the way they carried on that they were not happy about the situation. That made him and them just about quits.

  They gave him fifteen minutes to worry and sweat. He was horseless in Indian country. Which was like saying a man was as good as dead.

  Just then he heard a clatter of hoofs and, looking up, saw the spare horse trotting toward him.

  No, he told himself nobody, but nobody had luck like this.

  He reached for the rope on the saddle, untied it and built a noose. The Indians saw what was going on and came galloping back, yelling. He dropped the rope and picked up the carbine again. The spare horse, a sorrel, stopped, frightened by the noise of the charge. McAllister groaned.

  He got behind the dead horse again and opened fire. The Indians scattered and started circling wide. They were too far for sure shooting and he didn’t want to waste ammunition. But they did one good thing. Their yelling scared the sorrel toward him. McAllister dropped the carbine and grabbed the rope again. Building his loop, he ran toward the animal and stopped, raging with frustration when it halted at his approach, turned and trotted away. The Indians yelled in derision. They halted and watched, enjoying the fun. McAllister ran back, hefted the carbine and shot one in cold rage. That altered their note a bit. They tried a bunched-up charge, but when he lifted his weapon for a shot, they scattered and cleared off well out of rifle-shot. He started with the rope again. He reckoned he could keep on all day like this till he dropped.

  But this time, the sorrel stood at his approach and McAllister felt that he threw the rope with his fate in the balance. Happily, he dropped the loop clean over the animal’s head.

  He had no sooner done so than the Indians came in on the run again. Cut off from his rifle he had to move fast. Gathering his reata, he vaulted onto the sorrel’s back and kicked it in the direction of the dead horse. This was easier said than done because the sorrel didn’t like the smell of it and started pitching. McAllister cursed it to hell and back, jumped to the ground and took a couple of dallies around the saddlehorn with the rope. The sorrel fought it and nearly strangled himself. McAllister scooped up the carbine, swung on the Indians and fired.

  Or he would have done if there had been any ammunition in the damned thing.

  Cursing again, he dropped it and drew his revolver.

  The nearest Indian was not twenty yards off.

  He let him get in close before he lifted the gun and fired carefully. The man took the shot in his chest and went over the rump of his pony, that continued on and jumped the dead horse. McAllister dodged aside and cocked for the next.

  This was a young warrior who wanted out, but his horse was running away with him and he couldn’t do anything about it. He dropped over the far side of the animal, but didn’t go far enough and McAllister managed to shoot him in the leg. He went out of the fighting screaming with pain and anger. The others came in a bunch and were all over him in a second.

  That was the only thing that saved him.

  They were cannoning together and were having as much trouble with each other as with him. He fired into the mass of them, saw the sorrel stumble to his knees and received one brave bolder than the rest as he dove from the back of his running horse.

  McAllister felt strong fingers at his throat and a knee in his stomach. He fired his last shot and staggered to his feet alive. The Indian stayed down dead.

  He stood in a thick haze of dust and gun-smoke. It was all quiet except for the roll of fading hoofs. When the smoke and dust cleared he saw that a very small knot of Indians was gathered at a safe
distance, watching him.

  He tried to stop himself shaking, but when he found that he could not, he went ahead getting the saddle off the bay anyway. That was some chore, but he made it eventually and still the Indians had not ventured any closer. He reckoned that, like him, they had had their bellyful. He got the hull on the sorrel and then got to work on the bridle. That settled, he took a mouthful of water from his canteen and gave some to the horse in his hat. He reckoned it deserved it. He hoped to God the animal was a stayer. At least he was fresher than the Indian’s horses and that gave him an edge on them.

  After debating whether to stay where he was till dark or ride on, he climbed into the saddle, after he had loaded his last eight cartridges into the carbine, and headed for the hills. The Indians followed, but the spring had gone out of them and when he upped the pace to a fast lope, they started to drop behind.

  Dusk found him on the edge of the hills with the sorrel still going pretty well. Here he was lucky enough to come on water. Poor stuff, but better than nothing. At least the horse had a drink. He did not light a fire, but chewed hard-tack washed down with a sip of water from the canteen. He slept rolled in a single blanket, hidden in the rocks with his horse tied to his wrist.

  It was an uneasy night, filled by brief snatches of sleep and long periods of wary listening. But he managed till dawn when he saddled and rode slowly along the edge of the foothills looking for the road in, the one taken by the miners.

  He rode through the first half of the day, wilting under the now suddenly powerful sun while the earth steamed from the recent rains. Once he went to ground when he sighted horsemen, but he never discovered whether they were soldiers or Indians. It didn’t matter, because he didn’t want to be seen by either.

  Then, in the middle of the afternoon, he ran onto a sign that couldn’t be mistaken. The miners had come this way. Some sort of luck was still with him.