Several women came down to the creek for water. They were laughing and chattering among themselves. Children tagged along behind, running in and out between their elders. Their light screams of fright and delight carried up to the watching man above.
Suddenly, he knew that one of the women was white.
Maybe it was the way she carried herself or the way she placed her feet. But she wasn’t Indian, he would bet his boots on that. She wasn’t laughing like the others, but she wasn’t segregated from them and they did not seem to resent her in any way, although it wasn’t easy to tell at that distance. As it was, they came almost directly below him and waded into the shallows of the creek. The white woman did as they did, filling the pot she was carrying. McAllister put the glasses on her. For a few minutes, she had her face turned away from him, then she turned and he saw her clearly. It was uncanny: him right up there and her down there and it was as if he could reach out his hand and touch her almost. He felt sure it was Mrs. Bourn from the description he had had of her. She was burned now by the sun and the wind and her hair was all anyhow, but there was no doubt that she was a fine looking woman. Her clothes were tattered and she looked a little drawn, but there didn’t seem much else the matter with her.
Her feet were bare. Her hands she used in a graceful way that he liked. Her hair was soft and dark brown and he bet her eyes were blue. For a moment she paused and seemed to be looking straight at him and it was as if she had appealed to him aloud. He knew then like a shot from the blue, that he was going to get her out of there.
She turned away and walked with the other women back toward the lodges, swinging along gracefully, her skirts catching at the brush, her hair blowing in the light breeze. He kept the glass on her, wanting to find which lodge she was heading for. The other women dropped out of the party one by one until there was only Mrs. Bourn and one other woman left. They went to a large lodge slightly away from the others near the bank of the creek. He put down the glasses and raised himself a little and eyed around, checking that there was a way down to the creek, wondering how deep the water was around there near the lodge.
There was a faint sound above him which for a fraction of a second meant nothing to him. Something swished through the brush which he thought concealed him and struck a rock near his head with a sharp sound like pink. His startled eyes stared at the arrow lying beside him.
Then he reacted.
He rolled fast and his right hand tore the Remington gun from leather.
The Indian above him was hastily fitting another arrow to his bow.
McAllister thought: I fire one shot and the whole camp’s after me.
But he didn’t have any choice. The arrow was notched above, the dark eye sighted.
McAllister cocked and fired.
The man stood on tiptoe for a moment in a twisted agony of death, the bow and arrow fell. The man knelt down, holding his belly and seemed to thrust his head out over the rim-rock. He plunged, all arms and legs down toward McAllister, missed him by no more than a foot as he crashed on the ledge, then went on plummeting down into the canyon. He hit dirt once more and dropped with a great splash into the creek.
Fearfully, McAllister’s eyes went out over the camp.
He expected it to at once burst into frantic life as several hundred Indians ran to cut down the white intruder. Nothing of the sort happened. Heads turned, it was true, eyes searched the canyon wall. Maybe few had seen the guard fall. Whatever was the reason, it was an incredible time before anything happened.
McAllister quickly made a choice. If he went back the way he had come down, he would be in full view of the people below and the fat would be in the fire properly. As it was, he had a slender chance if he carried on along the ledge on which he now lay. He started crawling. And as he did so he saw the consequences of his shot. Voices were raised now. Men ran. Children gathered with the women to stare up at the rim-rock. Then men were mounting and riding their ponies through the creek. Somebody discovered the dead man and then a howl went up. A man went racing back into the camp, shouting. More people gathered.
McAllister looked at the sky. It would be an hour before dark came to offer him its cover. He saw to it that his gun was loaded in all five chambers. He kept on crawling – the ledge widened out, became covered with thick brush that offered him excellent cover. But he knew that it wouldn’t serve him for long.
The horsemen who had ridden through the creek were now urging their mounts up a narrow trail that led up to the rimrock. They had to go in single file and the warriors were jostling each other in their eagerness to get to the top.
Goodbye, Mrs. Bourn, McAllister thought, there wouldn’t be much chance of getting her away now. It was going to be all he could do to stay alive himself. And he had a sneaking feeling he wouldn’t be able to do that.
He came to the end of the ledge. He searched around and couldn’t find a way up or down. His heart was heavy with a sudden feeling that he was utterly defeated. He wondered if Mrs. Bourn was down there watching, not knowing she was about to witness the death of the man who had come to save her.
He started to work his way back. A brave had reached the rimrock and was racing his pony along the edge of the canyon. McAllister stared up through the brush at him, saw him halt and look this way and that, searching for the man who had fired the shot. McAllister dared not move. More riders came racing up. They shouted to one another. One seemed to be giving orders. They ran their ponies up and down the edge of the canyon. Maybe they were searching for signs, but they wouldn’t find any.
He found a way down and eased himself through the thick brush, thorns catching at his clothing. He moved inch by inch, holding his breath, then came surprisingly to a ledge that ran along the side of the canyon going north. He wormed his way along it. It wasn’t easy, having to keep himself hidden from below and above.
Then he came to an open patch and hesitated. He knew that if he tried to cross it, he might be seen from above, but he knew also that he had to keep moving. So he chanced it.
The sudden piercing cry from above showed him he’d been sighted. His heart started pounding wildly in his chest. He looked up and saw them sitting their ponies looking down on him. A man pointed and shouted orders. Another called to those below. Men began running along the edge of the creek. Men, women and children were coming from all parts of the camp. Mrs. Bourn was going to see him die, of that he was suddenly certain.
But he wasn’t dead yet He’d give these bastards a run for their money.
He reared up to his feet, trusting to the fact that he was a long shot from those both above and below. When he started running along the ledge, those above jumped their ponies parallel to him. The men on the creekside increased their pace. Everybody was shouting and screaming. This was the kind of hunt they liked and every man was a hunter, every woman and child too.
The men above were piling from their saddles and saddle-pads, starting to climb down over the rimrock, eager to get at him, everyone wanting to count coup or be the one to lift his scalp. Men were wading through the creek, intending to climb up toward him. Sweat rivered down his face in his desperation, he looked this way and that searching for an escape like a hunted animal. Already he could feel the knives at his flesh. Some of the men above raced their ponies on past him and were leaping to the ground and he knew they had found a way down in front of him. In a moment he would be completely surrounded.
He had three choices and they all ended in death. Back, forward and down. Everywhere there were Indians.
There were only three Indians up ahead, so he chose that way. If he had a large slice of McAllister luck he stood the best chance against those.
Rocks clattered as men hastily climbed down. He quickened his pace, reached a narrow way that climbed and started to strive up it.
Immediately above him was an Indian. There was just time to see the look of savage expectancy on the painted face. The arm swung back the short spear.
McAllister became the gun
-bearing machine that he could be. It was pure reflex action. He threw himself flat under the flying spear, he drew and cocked the Remington. The gun boomed noisily, the man above seemed to tuck his head in comically to his chest and tumble out into the air. McAllister didn’t wait to see him land, but was up and moving, hearing the prolonged wail of rage and horror that issued from the throat of every Indian who watched.
Immediately in front of him was another man, rifle in hand, teeth gritten together startlingly white in the dark face, eyes murderous. Like a fool, the man fired from the hip. McAllister felt the rush of the heavy ball going past him, knew the man’s gun was empty and climbed on. The man waited for him, jittering with expectancy, swinging the rifle like a club. McAllister ducked under the blow, hurled himself up and forward, not wanting to expend another valuable shot and knowing that he could do what he intended. His shoulder drove hard into the man’s ankles, he ripped the feet from beneath him and the man pitched over him. He landed on McAllister’s legs, tried desperately to save himself and rolled on down the steep incline.
McAllister didn’t stop. There was one man now between himself and the rimrock and up there were three ponies. There was a chance for him as narrow as a hair’s breadth.
This man was armed with a war club and looked as if he knew how to use it. McAllister didn’t waste time. He raised his gun carefully and fired. The range was no more then fifteen feet and the bullet caught the man in the right shoulder, knocking him backward against the canyon wall. As McAllister hauled himself up, the man kicked out violently at him. McAllister caught him by the ankle and sent him sliding and yelling down the steep grade. He tore through brush, howling as he went. The howl suddenly thinned as he pitched out into space and the next moment was cut short as the man landed in the creek.
Breath sobbing in his chest, McAllister made the rest of the climb with the watching crowd yelling at him. He reached the top so weary that he could hardly put one foot in front of the other. The Indians who had climbed down from above had a few guns among them and were now shooting at him, but in vain. The range was too long and the shots passed by widely. As soon as he was on the flat, he ran his eyes over the three ponies ground-hitched there. One was a chunky dun and this he chose as having bottom. And he was going to need plenty and then some. He shuffled toward the animal and it jumped away from him terrified of his white man’s smell. He got around the Indian side, managed to grab the single line and, using his last ounce of strength, vaulted into the saddle. It was a narrow wooden affair such as the Indians often used and it nearly ruptured him as he hit it. The little pony jumped and kicked, it pitched and it did everything it could think of in the first few seconds. There was no time for niceties. McAllister hit it a blow on the side of the head that staggered it and after that it seemed to know who was master. He kicked it in the belly and it lit out of there, running north as if all the devils in hell were after it. After he had covered several hundred yards, he looked back and saw the first Indian clambering over the rimrock. He had a little start and he was going to need it.
Below him, it seemed that a hundred warriors had seen what had happened and they were racing their ponies along the side of the creek, keeping pace with him. Everything rational in him screamed out for him to seek out the canelo, get on it and ride for the open plain. That way he could get to safety. The canelo could outrun anything these Indians bestrode. But he wouldn’t do that because there was some crazy instinct working in him and he knew just what he was going to do. And what was more, crazy as it might seem, he knew that he could do it.
Ahead of him was the side canyon he had inspected when he had first looked for Islop. He headed for that. He edged away from the canyon’s edge onto the plain where the going would be easier. That way he was out of sight of the warriors below and they could think that he had headed east. There was a drop in the level of the ground so that, for a short while, the men behind could not see him and made it impossible for them to give his direction to those below. This suited his purpose nicely. He rode another half-mile when the country suddenly broke before him; he rode down into an arroyo, slipping and sliding, drove his mount merciless up the farther side and was among great rocks that reared fifty to a hundred feet high on either hand. They, he knew, would play hell with the sound of the pony’s hoofs and might help him. He kept on going, keeping the dun to its hardest pace. The land fell away again and he was going down a sweeping shelf of land that would take him to the side canyon. He looked back and could see nobody behind him. But he knew there would be pretty soon. Those bucks weren’t going to give up so easily.
He reached the canyon, slowed a little and found a way down. That little dun was at home in this kind of country and took him down at a speed that took his breath away.
The weather had started to close in again now. Clouds were making their speedy way south from the north wind, the cold pierced his shirt. Discomfort had never been more welcome. He swung east along the canyon, letting the pony keep its own pace along the stone-littered way. The animal knew its safest speed and McAllister couldn’t afford a broken leg now.
Then his pursuers spotted him. He looked back once and saw them streaming down from above, feathers fluttering in the wind. The canyon must have taken him for about a mile before it came to a dead halt, as he knew it would. He also remembered a way up. He set the game little animal at the steep and narrow trail, looked back and saw the dozen or so riders racing after him, dodging their mounts around the boulders and brush, riding like centaurs as only the Comanches could ride. As he paused he could hear the faint sound of their whoops against the wind.
When he reached the top, they reached the start of the little trail. He rode the dun a dozen paces back from the wall and returned to look down on them. They saw him and howled at him. He gathered rocks together and started pelting them. It wasn’t a very glorious way of fighting, but it was effective and that satisfied McAllister. They fired at him to no purpose and he made it pretty plain to them that they weren’t going to get up that trail after him. After a while, they gave up and, while some of them stayed at a distance to watch him, others rode off to find another way up. He thought it was time he moved on.
He got back on the dun, which tried to bite him, and it began to rain. He rode north, thinking that he was probably the luckiest man alive.
Nine
He made his way carefully through the night, wondering when he was next going to get a good night’s sleep. It was raining and it was dark and if he had any sense he would be holed up somewhere till it was light enough to see and dry enough to travel in. The rain seemed to be falling in a solid sheet. It was the rain that helped him keep some sense of direction. It was so dark that he could scarcely see the ears of the Indian pony he was astride. The wind he knew was pressing from the north and bringing the rain with it The wind was behind them now and that was what made the horse willing to go on at a fair pace. It was his instinct that kept him going, feeling his way through the darkness. That and the instinct of the pony that wanted to get back with its fellows in the great horse herd.
The pursuit had remained silent for the last two hours now. The Indians had continued to hunt him a short while after dark, but had quickly given it up as fruitless. He had no doubt that if he stayed around, they would be on his tail shortly after daybreak. He grinned to himself in the darkness. He’d be a lot nearer home than they could possibly think.
As he rode, he did his best to measure distance in his mind and as he measured distance, he measured time, knowing that timing was important as location. He must be far gone by dawn. And Mrs. Bourn must be with him. He knew that finding her would prove the hardest part of the task.
By the sound of his horse’s hoofs, he knew that he was near the western wall of the small canyon, now going south. But soon the sound changed and he heard nothing but the hissing of the rain. The pony plodded on. He reckoned that at last he had made it to the great canyon. Now he was prepared every second for trouble. He relied on the pony
to warn him of it before it was too near. But he knew that the rain would play hell with the animal’s senses.
However, the pony did not fail him.
Suddenly, it jerked its head and whinnied. There were men or horses up ahead. If that were so, McAllister must still be headed roughly south. But no, the pony now turned slightly left and quickened its pace. McAllister let it have its head, knowing that he had no alternative.
He heard familiar noises and to his surprise found himself surrounded by ponies. The dun had brought him into the horse herd itself.
He looked around. Inquisitive noses sniffed at the dun, some shied away from the whiteman smell. One spooked and dashed away.
What now?
McAllister reckoned he would have to hazard a guess as to the whereabouts of the lodges and take a chance. He halted the dun and listened. He could hear nothing but the rain and the movement of the hundreds of animals around him. He started through the murk and thought he saw a glimmer of light off to his left. It was so faint that he didn’t know if his eyes were playing tricks. He eased his slicker off, rolled it and tied it to his belt. He was going to need his arms free from here on out.
The sound of a human voice sounded so near that he was startled out of his wits.
Swinging his head right, he saw the uncertain form of a mounted man. His right hand slapped down on the butt of the Remington. The Indian shouted. His pony jumped forward and McAllister moved. His hand brought the Remington up and he fired in one movement. The pony skittered to one side, throwing his rider clear and it seemed that every horse there erupted into violent action. One moment they were still and nervous at the raised voice, the next they were panic-stricken and running.
McAllister didn’t wait.
If they were starting to run, let ’em run. Let ’em all run, the more the merrier. He kicked the dun into motion, swung it left and sent a couple more shots into the sky. Somewhere a horse screamed. The whole earth shook under the hundreds of hoofs as something like three thousand ponies got on the move. Those ahead of McAllister carried on moving away from him, bolting in mass terror now. The dun caught the fear and it was all that McAllister could do to hold it, fearing for a fall on the rough ground in the dark. But the animal stayed on its feet and surged on. McAllister prayed that it was going toward the lodges. As he rode, he tore off his hat and hurled it into the dark; its shape could easily give his presence away among a people who mostly did not wear hats. He could hear nothing now but the thunder of the horses’ crazy run. It filled the whole night. He knew that they were running east because the rain beat on the left side of his face. The dun stumbled and nearly went down but McAllister managed to hold it on its feet by sheer skill of horsemanship.
McAllister Rides Page 8