“Reckon.”
“Tell you what, son. You camp with us tonight. We’ll talk a mite.”
The captain turned to his horse, stepped into his saddle and said to the white man who had brought McAllister in: “You find a campsite, Tom?”
“Up ahead a mile.”
McAllister mounted and they went forward at a walk. He looked at the horses around him and saw that they were all bone tired. The rangers were going to have their work cut out if they ran into trouble with their animals in that state. But that wouldn’t stop Newby. Nothing would stop him once he was started.
They went a mile along the rim of the canyon. McAllister didn’t see any scouts but he knew the captain well enough to know they were there.
They camped dry that night. Newby was a brave man, but he didn’t take chances that were unnecessary according to his own lights. The rangers went about their camp chores without any orders being given. Every man knew his job. Within a short time every man but the guards were in their blankets and asleep. Except for the captain and McAllister. They had their talk.
“We’re goin’ to hit the big canyon, son,” Newby said as an opener.
Astonishment showed in McAllister’s voice. He knew Newby took risks, but to go into the canyon with no more than a dozen men when there might be several hundred Indians sounded like suicide. “You ain’t that crazy, captain.”
“It can be done.”
The ranger captain sounded confident. That could only mean that he had other men deployed through the country. Maybe he had another company moving in on the canyon from the west. That would make sense.
“It’s no skin off your nose,” McAllister said, “if I drift down there and find out what I can.”
“You could put the Indians on their guard.”
“When ain’t Iron Hand on his guard?”
“They could catch you and make you talk. You could tell ’em which way we’d come, which way we was headed.”
That made sense to McAllister. The Comanches had ways of making the most reticent man talk.
“And,” Newby went on, “where’s the sense in you tryin’ to get Mrs. Bourn away from them with us around? If we hit ’em before you get to ’em, they’re goin’ to kill you on sight. One whiteman’s much the same as any other to a red-stick. If you get to ’em before us, you’re liable to find yourself in the middle of our attack. No, son, best thing you can do is stick with us. I can do with all the men I can get an’ if you fight anythin’ like your old man, why you’ll suit my book.”
McAllister said: “See here, captain, just think. There’s a white woman down there and I can get her away. You go in there and you’re signing her death sentence.”
“You put it real dramatic, boy,” Newby said, “an’ you’re sure touchin’ my heart. But, hell, I can’t afford the luxury of such feelin’s. Sure, Mrs. Bourn an’ maybe some more captives is goin’ to get killed. It happens all the time when we go against the Indians. You know that. That’s the debit side of the sheet. But we also kill a lot of Indians an’ the less Indians there are, the less settlers they kill. I ain’t forgot that boy even if you have.”
“Give me a few days. Let me go down there and talk with Iron Hand.”
“One day would be too much. Any time now the Comanche’re goin’ to know we’re around. Maybe they know even now. We have to get in there quick or I have twelve dead men on my hands.”
“Gawdamighty,” McAllister said, “ain’t there nothing I can say to make you change your mind?”
“Sleep on it, son,” the older man said, “an’ you’ll see it my way. You don’t stand no chance on your lonesome gettin’ Mrs. Bourn out of there anyroad.”
McAllister gave a snort of disgust, turned over and tried to get to sleep.
Six
A boot in the ribs woke him.
It was still dark. He sat up and saw the uncertain shapes of men on the move around him. The rangers were standing to ready for dawn. By the time the first light had fingered the sky, the horses were saddled and they had their guns in their hands. He could see from their faces that they were tense and expectant of trouble. They joked quietly among themselves and made a crack or two at him, but he could see from their eyes that their nerves were taut.
Captain Newby sought him out as he stood ready with the canelo and the mule. The captain was smiling and that should have been a warning to McAllister.
“I changed my mind, Rem son,” he said. His tone was kindly.
“Changed your mind?”
“Yep. I’m goin’ to let you go down there and have your talk with Iron Hand.”
“What made you change your mind like that?”
Newby looked really paternal. He put a hand on McAllister’s shoulder. His men looked on with graven faces.
“Rem,” he said, “I know what this means to you. I was young once myself. This is your chance and you deserve it. Only thing is, when you’re talkin’ to the chief, you best be good and ready to break timber out of there when we come abustin’ in.”
McAllister thought: I’m being suckered. All right, if the old goat wants it this way – he can have it.
“That’s real nice of you, captain,” he said, smiling.
“Don’t mention it, son. Watch out for yourself now.”
“Sure.”
McAllister looked around him with a heavy heart, knowing that for some reason best known to Newby his goose was being cooked well and brown, and trying to look as if he’d been given his favorite present. He shook hands with the captain, said his farewell to the watching rangers, stepped into the saddle and rode off with the mule following behind. When he was out of earshot, one ranger turned to another and said: “That Newby sure is a mean old bastard.”
McAllister was quickly out of sight of the rangers, heading along the edge of the canyon, but keeping well back from the rimrock so that he would not be sighted from below. As he rode, his mind worked overtime. Before he had gone a mile it clicked in his mind that he could be a part of Newby’s strategy. If McAllister were in Iron Hand’s camp dickering for the release of a prisoner, the old chief might be more likely to be caught off his guard. If McAllister were sighted going through Comancheria, attention could be attracted away from the approaching Texans. There might also be something of which McAllister couldn’t think, but could be a typically devious product of the captain’s crooked mind.
So what must McAllister do?
He meant to get Mrs. Bourn away from the Comanches. He also meant to do his best to keep alive and keep out of the way of the rangers’ raid. Which meant that he didn’t go direct to Iron Hand.
So that meant Walt Islop. If he could get Islop to co-operate, he would do the whole deal through him. If the old man had an Indian wife, she could be the messenger between Islop and Iron Hand. McAllister need hardly come into it. He had to find something that would induce Islop to play. Either the old man would do it from the softness of his heart or he had to be tempted through the possibility of gain. But would an old man who had just about gone Indian be interested in gain? McAllister would have to wait and see. It was a case of first catch your Islop. He could be in any one of five or six canyons. McAllister had never needed a run of luck more.
An hour after dawn, he saw smoke in the canyon below him. He put the glasses on it, but he couldn’t find its source. It could come from a camp fire or from a chimney. There was little of it, because the fire was among trees and the foliage was dispersing the smoke. He found cover for the animals, tied them and went down on foot, rifle in hand. It was a hard climb down and he started to worry, for time was ticking away and time was something he didn’t have. He picked his way through the tumble of rocks and brush that covered the floor of the canyon only to discover that the smoke belonged to a small party of Indians that looked like an old man, an old woman and some children. There was one battered teepee pitched among the trees.
He went back the way he had come, doubling his caution. There had been old folk and kids back
there and there must be some young bucks around somewhere. Luckily he found them before they found him, two young Indians, one of them carrying an antelope over his shoulder. McAllister went into cover fast, stayed there until they had gone out of sight and went on his way. It was not comfortable, climbing the wall of the canyon knowing that he might be in sight of anybody below, but he made it safely and got back to his animals.
He headed west, got into some rough country and soon after noon found himself above the second canyon. He was now some ten to twelve miles from the great canyon and working around the canyons as if they were spokes of a wheel. He bet himself that he would find Islop in the last. His uneasiness grew as he rode. Being continually skylined above the rim of the canyons was telling on the nerves, but there was no other way of carrying out his task. He was looking for smoke firstly, but if the old man didn’t have a cook-fire going he wanted to be able to pick out a house. He found neither during the rest of that day. Once more he made a dry camp, but with the horse and mule on fair grass. He slept lightly, alert at the slightest sound.
Again, he woke before dawn, had eaten and was saddling his mounts by the time light had come. He waited for full light to spread dramatically over the vast country before him before he moved on just in case he had been spotted by Indians who may have lain quiet ready for a dawn attack. But as the sun swung into the azure sky without incident, he mounted and got on his way. The wind from the north had now settled to a gentle breeze. This however was not cooling and soon his shirt was soaked through with sweat. Today, he knew that he must find water. The animals had drunk nothing this morning and he himself had had no more than a mouthful.
He was pleased, therefore, when he saw the glimmer of water below him after a couple of hours riding. He looked over the country and, not being able to see a sign of life, searched for a way down. This he found some thirty minutes later. It was, as he could see at once, a used trail and one that had been used not long before. It was not easy to say how long before, but he reckoned that riders had been that way in the last week or so. This caused him to halt and put the glasses on the canyon below.
It was a sun-blasted but not unpleasant place. The grass was brown and cured on the root Here and there along the edge of the water were splashes of green where the mesquite grew. He stopped.
Something moved.
He kicked his feet from the stirrup-irons, ready to drop to the ground and search cover. Something dark moved among the mesquite. Some animal browsing, he thought. Slowly a black horse came into view. A moment later a slender sorrel trotted away from water. McAllister let himself relax a little, till he heard the sound of a human voice. A short squat figure came into view. An Indian woman. In her hand she carried a stick. She whacked the black horse and sent it up canyon away from McAllister. Had he stumbled on another small Indian encampment? He turned the glasses north-west, found a wisp of smoke and searched more closely. Through the brush and trees he thought he could make out the roof of a shack.
His heart jumped a little. Had he found Islop? Should he venture down or inspect the building from high? He decided to be cautious and continued on along the rimrock, watching the canyon carefully for any further life, but keeping back out of sight of the Indian woman. He didn’t want any Indians sneaking up on him now he might be near his goal.
It wasn’t long before he was in full sight of the shack. He stepped down from the saddle, lay on his belly on the edge of the canyon and took a good look through the glasses.
The shack was a primitive construction, but it was snug. A man could live in simple comfort there, pass a good winter. Off to one side there was a small corral in good repair. In it were a couple of horses. There was no stoop to the house, but in front of the door, seated in what seemed to be a hide chair sat a man. He was busy with his hands, either whittling a stick or repairing harness. A hat covered his head and shaded his face, but McAllister gained the impression that he was old. This could be Walt Islop. McAllister watched the scene for a half-hour. During that time an Indian woman appeared from the house and the Indian woman McAllister had seen down-canyon appeared driving the two horses before her. She put them in the corral and then disappeared into the shack with the other woman.
McAllister rose to his feet, mounted and rode back to the trail he had found earlier. He had a little trouble with the mule going down the steep descent, but he made the flat safely. Once there, he lifted the animals to an easy trot. No reason to hide his presence now. He was taking a gamble on the fact that he was with Islop and that the old man was a passport to safety. It was a hell of a gamble, but he knew some sort of gamble would come into this sooner or later.
When he clattered up to the shack, the old man lifted his head and stared at him, neither surprise nor curiosity showing on his face.
He was old, all right – old as the hills, but he was still limber as McAllister could see from the way he held himself. His eyes were bright and intelligent. His white beard reached to his chest, his hair hung to his shoulders. He was dressed in buckskin shirt and pants and his feet were covered with mocassins that were new and beautifully decorated. He was the picture of a calm old man who was now content to let life drift by him.
McAllister saw that his first impression of the shack was correct. It was a stout tight building and had probably been built by the old man himself. It was made of whole logs chinked with mud. To the rear of it was a fine stone chimney. The roof was of sods. Away to the left stretched on their frames were two buffalo-cow skins. Scattered around on their frames drying in the sun were the skins of various other and smaller animals. By the old man’s chair lay a pile of traps. He was repairing one of these with a rawhide thong.
“Howdy,” McAllister said, leaning on the horn and easing himself in the saddle.
“Howdy,” said the old man. His voice creaked as though he didn’t speak much.
“You Mr. Islop?”
Did the old man smile?
“There’s only one white man in these canyons, sonny, so I reckon that’s me.”
“You took some finding.”
“I dessay. ’Light, boy.” McAllister stepped down. “Put your animals in the corral. There’s water there and good hay.” McAllister led the animals to the corral rail, unsaddled the canelo and took the heavy pack-gear from the mule. He put them in the corral and the mule started joyously to roll. The horse headed for the water and drank. McAllister strolled back to the old man and squatted. Islop called something out in a language he couldn’t understand, but which he guessed was Comanche and one of the squaws came from the house with an earthen jug in her hands. The old man took it from her and handed it to McAllister.
“Cut the dust.”
McAllister drank. He thought he had gullet and stomach of iron, but he quickly changed his opinion when that liquor hit bottom. It exploded in him and he choked a little, but when he regained his breath, he felt marvellously relaxed. He didn’t know what it was. He handed the jug back and Islop drank long and deep. Sighing with satisfaction, he put the jug beside him.
“An old man needs that,” he said. “Three things an old man needs: good food, strong liquor and a strong woman. I don’t ask nothin’ else of life now.”
There was a short silence during which both the old man and McAllister loaded and fired their pipes. Then McAllister said: “Took me a good few days to find you, Mr. Islop.”
“Reckon it would. Don’t have too many visitors these days.” He chuckled a little. The sound was like the cackling of a hearty hen. “Guess my neighbours keep ’em away.”
McAllister smiled.
“Could be. Name’s Remington McAllister.”
The old man cocked his head.
“Memory ain’t so good now, but I recollect a feller by that name. Tall dark feller, a regular hellion. I disremember his given name.”
“Chadwick?”
“Chad. That was it.”
“My daddy.”
Islop leaned forward, squinting at McAllister.
“Look a lot like him, but darker. Yep, there was an Indian wench dropped a pup to him. Could that be …?”
“It could.”
“Cheyenne, wasn’t she?”
“I reckon.”
“So you’re Chad’s boy. Kinda brings back memories. Have another drink.” They both drank again. McAllister felt his head swim a little. He was starting to feel carefree. “There’ll be chow soon. My women cook real dandy. I taught ’em white style and they learned real good.” McAllister’s mouth watered. He hadn’t had a good meal in days.
The old man went on: “Chad an’ me wintered two years with the Cheyenne. We had us a hell of a time.” His mind wandered off as he searched through his memories. “I recollect we rid down Sante Fé way. We sure whirled that town around a piece and let her fly. There was a gentle-born Mex gal there old Chad sure cottoned to. She sure was a beauty. Reckon there was a son. Say, you could be…”
McAllister nodded.
“I could be.”
“Didn’t you know your mother, son?”
“No, I never did.”
“Too bad.”
“I got by.”
The old man shot him a piercing glance. “You come lookin’ for me because I was ole Chad’s sidekick?”
“No, sir. I heard about you from the Comancheros.”
That brought the old fellow wide awake. He put the trap down and took another long drink from the jug.
“Which ones? You get the jefe’s name?”
“No. But he was a fat fellow I wouldn’t trust as far as I could throw a cow. Eagle Man was with him when I rid in.”
“I know the one. What you doin’ visitin’ the Comancheros?”
“Looking for somebody.”
“Who?”
“A woman.”
“Name?”
“Mrs. Bourn. Young with dark hair and blue eyes.”
“So the jefe sent you to me?”
“He wanted me off’n his back.”
A woman came out of the shack and spoke to the old man who rose and beckoned McAllister inside. When he had gotten used to the gloom McAllister found that the interior was neat and trim. All the furniture was hand-made from the table and chairs to the bunk that stood against one wall. The stove and oven had been made of clay and stone. There were animal skins in plenty and the walls were hung with bright Navajo blankets. There was an air of primitive luxury about the place that pleased McAllister. The old man may have gone to the Indians, but he had kept up his standards. They sat at the table and the two Indian women hovered to offer them food. One was in her prime, the one McAllister had seen driving the horses, and was almost as wide as she was tall. This was the one detailed for the heavy work, he guessed. The other was younger, barely out of her teens and comely. She looked as though she had Mexican blood. They didn’t smile or speak and when Islop waved them away they sat with their backs to the wall and watched patiently. When the old man demanded anything they both sprang up ready to serve. When this happened once Islop cackled with appreciation.
McAllister Rides Page 5