“You damned old fool,” said McAllister, “can’t you see that Jack an’ me is the best thing that ever happened to you. Without us you’re going to be attacked by Indians, claim-jumpers, maybe even the sheriff’s posse. You have two first-rate guns here for the price of one. I call that a bargain in any man’s language.”
One of the other Mexicans said: “I trust this McAllister. Besides, to be forewarned is to be fore-armed. We have eyes, we can watch them. Until we get to the gold, these two pistoleros will guard us for their own sakes, I think. After that, we shall have to be on our guard. I think I can accept such a condition.”
“Oh, can you?” chirped Charlie, starting to dance around a little, “well, I’ll be goddamed if I can.”
“Put it to the vote,” said McAllister and looked around at their faces. He saw what he thought he would see. The faces of men who considered that trouble tomorrow was better than trouble right here and now.
Ignacio said: “I am for retaining the services of these two men.” he said it in very careful English so that Clegg could understand.
“Jesus,” said Clegg, “I never thought I’d be working for goddam Mexes.”
McAllister told him: “It’s amazin’ what a man will do for a handful of gold.”
Clegg laughed and said: “Ain’t it.”
The laugh helped. Clegg was a personable man and he radiated a cheerful goodwill. Nobody doubted that concealed a hard man beneath, but the goodwill they could see somehow made them feel a little better.
Ignacio said: “So let us go on and not waste time. We will talk of this matter again.”
McAllister tightened cinch and stepped into the saddle again. He turned his lively little Spanish canelo horse for the mountains. They all followed behind him. Charlie fell in beside McAllister, frowned for a while at the distant pastel shades of the sierra before he asked: “Does Sheriff Southern have the services of a good tracker?”
McAllister said: “If he can he’ll use a Mohave called Punk. He’s a drunk and he’s trash, but when he’s sober he’s as good a tracker as anybody could need.” The thought of Punk made him frown as deeply as Charlie, but after a while he brightened a little. He said: “I think we’ll lay some bait for the bastard, Charlie.”
“What kind of bait?”
“How about a bottle of Taos lightnin’ for starters?”
Old Charlie laughed till he nearly fell out of the saddle.
“You’re a son-of-a-bitch, McAllister,” he declared in admiration.
“Ain’t I?” said McAllister with some pride.
~*~
In spite of the great heat, they made good time towards the foothills. The Mexicans had seen to it that they had good mounts. Emilio would have fixed that. He had a good eye for a horse. He had not chosen the big and strong, but small, hardy animals with stamina. They traveled all day at a brisk walk and a trot with the men walking and resting their mounts every third hour. This way, at the end of the day and just inside the folds of the foothills, the horses were in excellent condition. McAllister’s canelo, which could run all day on a handful of grass, as its owner boasted, was as fresh as when it had left Crewsville. The men had suffered more from the intense heat than the horses. McAllister brought them to a pretty spot for camp, beside a shallow lake fed from a freshet high above in the rocks. There was fair grass here for the animals.
The men debated whether there was any need yet for a night guard.
McAllister said: “There’s always need for a night guard. We have enough here. Every man watches for an hour. The horses must feed and they’re hobbled. We dare not lose one of ’em. So we have a guard.”
Then they debated in Spanish if the man Clegg could be trusted to do a guard. McAllister lost patience and told them all to go to hell. If there was any more damn-foolery like this he and Clegg would pullout. Charlie and the Mexicans agreed reluctantly that Clegg could stand guard.
~*~
In the morning, McAllister told Charlie and Ignacio that he would stay behind for an hour to watch their back-trail. The two partners were at once suspicious. McAllister knew exactly what was in their minds.
“All right,” he said. “Leave a man behind with me.”
So they picked Emilio’s son, Manuel, who was thought to be a pretty sophisticated fellow as he had seen some rough action for several years below the border as a bandit. The fact amused McAllister. Manuel was their answer to Jack Clegg. Two of a kind.
Manuel proved to be a happy fellow full of chat. After thirty minutes in his company, McAllister wished he had never suggested stopping behind to watch their back-trail. Finally, he told Manuel if he didn’t shut off his gab he would stuff his hat down his throat and secure it there with his bandanna. Manuel was very offended. After that, he was silent for at least five minutes. The effort nearly killed him.
But Manuel possessed a glass and this enabled McAllister to have a pretty good look over the plain across which they had come the previous day. It enabled him to pick up the tiny curl of dust to the southwest. He would have to stay where he was for another hour or two to make out any details, but he didn’t doubt that wisp of dust represented what passed for law and order in this neck of the woods. If Southern was traveling fast, he was about one day behind.
He told Manuel what he thought and the Mexican became a little emotional, suggesting that McAllister and he stay where they were to ambush the pursuit. If necessary, they would sell their lives for the sake of their comrades.
“Like hell,” said McAllister, “we sacrifice our lives for the sake of anybody. We get the hell out of here and I use my noddle to hide our tracks from that drunken Indian. There’s more ways of killin’ a coyote than by beatin’ it to death with a piggin’ string.”
Manuel looked puzzled and asked for an explanation. Was it possible to kill a coyote with a piece of rawhide as small as a piggin’ string? This was interesting.
“It’s a professional secret,” McAllister told him. “Wild horses could not drag it from me.”
“Wild horses?” said Manuel. “Why should wild horses—?”
McAllister was clambering down the rocks to their horses. Puzzled, Manuel followed.
Mounted, they started off after the others. McAllister saw they had left a trail a child could follow. So he got out his mental map of the country and took a good look at it, wondering where he could start to hide tracks or lay a false trail for the drunk Indian to follow. But when he thought about that Indian, he wondered if the man could be fooled by a false trail. What, he asked himself, were the chances of him leading his party in a circle and coming up behind Southern’s. McAllister could only take that move to its logical conclusion if he had some fighting potential at his command. When you came down to it, was it possible to see Charlie Arbiter and his partners turning into fighting fools? McAllister thought not. He would have to think of something smarter than that. Besides, old Charlie had made it pretty clear that he expected McAllister and Jack Clegg to do the fighting.
They were beginning to climb. As they ascended the atmosphere grew cooler rapidly. The nature of the country started to change. Spring was later up here. Much of their surroundings were now green. Here and there was fair grass. After an hour, they passed a small and lovely lake set among silver birches. Hard to believe this was where the Apaches hid out when the mood took them. McAllister’s hope was that now the bronco bands were far below the Mexican Border heavily engaged with Mexican troops.
He grew a little depressed when he thought of how many elements he had against him. He thought of his own partner back in Texas and wished he was along. This man Clegg may have been a dab hand with a gun and he maybe had a lot of sand when it came to saloon brawling and such, but how would he shape up if it came to a fight with Apaches or a run in with the men behind?
He said to Manuel: “Did you ever fight Apaches, Manuel?”
The Mexican looked startled. He crossed himself and said in a slightly offended tone: “What prompted you to ask me that kin
d of a question, man?”
“Some experience might come in handy,” McAllister said. “It is not impossible that we shall meet some up this way.”
“God forbid,” said Manuel fervently and crossed himself again.
Inwardly, McAllister groaned.
~*~
An hour later, they caught up with the others. One look at their noon camp and McAllister quietly despaired. After he had eaten, he took Charlie Arbiter aside and said: “Charlie, you have to start running this outfit on a tight rein. From here on we have to be ready at all times for a fight.”
Charlie looked a little shocked.
“What the hell do you think we’re paying you and Clegg for?” he said.
“Charlie, when I hear you ask a fool question like that,” McAllister told him, “I wonder how we’re going to get through all this. We have Southern and his merry men on our tail, we have maybe some pretty wild Indians not so far ahead of us. Me and Clegg may just need a little support. For crissake use your head.”
The old man gobbled speechlessly at this for a while and then he muttered something about not having to take this kind of thing from the hired help. Before they could say any more, Jack Clegg came up, full of complaints. These damned Mexes, he said, thought because they had hired him that he was going to act as a packer on this trip. If McAllister thought he was going to act as a packer to a bunch of lousy, stinking Mexes, McAllister had another thing coming.
McAllister said: “Charlie an’ I are work-in’ out our differences right now, Jack.”
“You’d best get ’em settled good,” said Clegg, “or you can ride shotgun on this bunch of greasers on your lonesome an’ that’s final.”
McAllister said to Charlie as Clegg stomped away: “You see how it is, Charlie. You’ve got to get a grip on your crowd. Somewhere along this route I have to lose those boys behind us. To do that, we’ve got to have some kind of discipline among your partners.”
Charlie almost whined: “That’s the point, Rem. They are my partners. I can’t dictate to ’em.”
“Well, you’d best start, Charlie, or I’ll do it for you.”
The Mexicans wanted to prolong their siesta. It was not good to ride in the heat of the midday sun.
McAllister said: “I reckon if we lose time now, Southern and his men will catch up with us early evening.”
Manuel protested that that could not be true. McAllister swore by all that he held sacred that what he said was true. Reluctantly, the partners were convinced. They saddled their animals and lined out for the march. The way grew rockier and steeper. They were following an ancient trail and, though steep, the traveling was fairly easy. It was while they were on this trail that McAllister told them that he wanted to turn off the trail and follow a goat track to their right.
The little cavalcade halted and everybody cricked their necks and looked at the goat track.
Ignacio said: “There is no sense in following that terrible track when we have a good trail to follow.”
McAllister explained that, if they took the goat track, he would be able to block the advance of the party behind them a little later. The partners protested loudly. McAllister told them if they shouted a bit louder, the Apaches would be sure to hear them and most likely their pursuers would too. They then shouted quietly. McAllister insisted on having his way. They protested that the goat track was dangerous. McAllister said he knew it was dangerous. But so were the men behind them. Clegg lost his temper and yelled for God’s sake get up that goddam hill and cut the cackle, they were giving him a pain in the ass. They looked offended. It was not the place of a hired man, they said, to use such a tone to them. McAllister looked as if he would burst into tears and told them if they did not do as he said, he would ride off and leave them. They went into a huddle. Five minutes later, when they appeared physically exhausted with argument, they consented to use the goat track.
They dismounted and led their animals up the steep and narrow way. Manuel actually stopped talking while they were making the climb. Jack Clegg, grinning, said that was because he couldn’t talk with his eyes shut.
When they reached the end of the goat track, they were on a rocky shelf. McAllister pointed to where he wanted them to march. Once there, they were to stop and go no further until he reached them. They said they all understood that.
They mounted and rode on. McAllister watched them out of sight around a bend in the trail and then he got to work. He looked around until he found some fair-sized and heavy boulders, but not ones that were too heavy for him to move. He also chose ones that were not too deeply embedded to be moved. Then he simply rolled some of these down the steep slope below him. The first two had no effect on the surface of the slope they rolled and bounced over. But the third started the little landslide he wanted. The fourth and fifth began to move so much that he nearly scared himself, thinking that the very ground under his feet was going to be whisked away downhill. He watched the whole trail below being blocked. He dusted himself off, wiped the sweat from his face and neck with his bandanna, and reckoned that he had not done too badly. That would not hold the posse forever, but it would certainly delay them.
He had sent Charlie’s party over bare rock and the trail beyond would also be fairly rocky. He reckoned he had gained them maybe two or three hours. It just depended on how smart that Indian of Southern’s was. He mounted his horse and followed the others.
He considered his situation and thought he had been in worse. The next few days might be enriched by the most enjoyable of pastimes: the pitting of one expert’s wits against another. The Indian was good. He would see if he was better than Remington McAllister, Texas-raised and Cheyenne-trained.
~*~
When he got to the point where he had told the Mexicans to stop, he found that they had not stopped, but had wandered on down the trail. The trail they had wandered down was plain dirt and their tracks showed clear enough for a myopic old lady to follow.
He rode after them and bellowed: “Hold it right there.”
Jack Clegg said: “You look kind of mad, Rem.”
McAllister told the Mexicans and old Charlie who was acting up like a turkey gobbler: “You see them goddam tracks you just made? They could mean a hang-rope around the necks of all of you.” They looked offended.
“Why the hell,” said McAllister, “do you think I sent you on ahead? What do you think all that goddam noise was? I blocked the trail behind us to delay our pursuit. I didn’t want any goddam sign for another half-mile.”
They looked even more offended. Ignacio told him they were very offended by his tone. McAllister prayed to heaven to give him patience.
He said: “You cut some switches from that brush yonder and you wipe out all them tracks, hear? An’ don’t cut the switches from near this trail.”
They patiently swept tracks until he was satisfied. Jack Clegg stayed in the saddle having a leisurely smoke. McAllister decided to cut him down to size when the time came. He reckoned this trip would age him twenty years.
They covered another five miles before McAllister called a halt and told them to camp. They made a cold camp and nobody was in a very good humor. The only comfort to McAllister was that his bad humor was worse than anybody else’s. During the night he kicked somebody’s cousin’s backside because he caught him asleep on guard. In the ensuing row Ignacio told McAllister: “You are not treating us with dignity, my friend.”
McAllister told him: “You damned fool, I’m tryin’ to keep you alive.” He saw that he was going to be doing guard for most of this trip and that meant that he was not going to get much sleep. That did not please him at all.
Jack Clegg said, as McAllister got between the blankets: “If ever I saw an outfit doomed from the start, it’s this one. An outfit makes its own luck and I reckon this one’s already made itself a heap of bad luck.”
McAllister had to admit he could be right. “But,” he said, “can jail-breakers be choosers?”
Clegg said: “All you an’
me have to do, Rem, is jump these pathetic sonsabitches, take their supplies and light a shuck. We’d be in Texas in no time at all.” McAllister was sorely tempted, but he managed to say: “No, I don’t reckon we’ll do that, Jack.”
“You speak for yourself,” Clegg said.
Ten
The mountain dawn was crisp and clear—the kind of morning that makes a man glad to be alive.
McAllister when he woke was glad to be alive. Until he remembered where he was and what he was engaged in. Then the world looked suddenly black.
The Mexicans were quarrelling about who was going to prepare breakfast. McAllister pulled on his boots and climbed to a high point to take a good hard look at their backtrail. He didn’t expect to be able to see much in the mountains, but you never knew. He watched the distant Crewsville trail for upwards of half-an-hour, then, seeing nothing moving, he returned to camp. The Mexicans were eating breakfast, chatting pleasantly with each other. There was no one on guard.
McAllister said: “Ignacio, there is nobody on guard.”
The man shrugged beautifully and said: “There is no need yet. Maybe tomorrow when there will be some danger. Do not be afraid, my friend.”
Clegg said: “Did you see anything, Rem?”
“Not a thing.”
~*~
When they hit the trail, McAllister increased the pace. There was no complaint, which surprised him. They all followed him willingly. During the morning, as he hoped, they reached a wide expanse of malpais. Across this it was not easy to follow even a shod horse. The metal shoes might just make a small, almost imperceptible mark that a man with exceptional eyesight and one who knew what he was looking for might be able to follow. It extended for about one mile across and McAllister halted on the far side.
“Every man dismount and lead his horse here,” he ordered. He explained that there was just one narrow place over which they could travel on rock and avoid leaving tracks in the soft sandy soil. They nodded, they understood. He led the way and they followed him. He managed to stay on rock for about one quarter of a mile, after which he took them into the bed of a fast-flowing stream and for the next hour they battled their way up against the current: McAllister then led them carefully out of the water on a small shingle beach and up on to more rock. He kept them on rock for the best part of an hour and then allowed a breather. They unsaddled the horses and allowed them the luxury of a roll. The Mexicans were all smiles. They reckoned they had been pretty smart to hire a man like McAllister. He had given them a fine lesson in trail-craft. They were full of praise for him.
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