As he ran, he watched the country, fearful for the show of a feathered head against the dull sky, but luck was with them and they saw none. He traveled fast for an hour and then there they were above Islop’s canyon and he was helping her down from the saddle. He untied his slicker, put it around her and let her lie for a while.
“Rest up while you can,” he told her. “I’m going to spy out the land a bit.”
She lay down and looked at him. He thought that her eyes were the most beautiful he had ever seen; their loveliness came as a shock to him. Her mouth, he saw, should have been soft and smiling, but now it was compressed and set tight as though it had been hardened by a bitterness that had been there before she had been taken by the Indians. He found himself patting her shoulder, wanting to comfort her in some way and his sudden feeling of tenderness surprised and dismayed him.
“I’m a burden,” she said. “You could get away on your lonesome.”
He grinned.
“I didn’t come here to get away on my lonesome,” he told her. “I come to get away with you. Don’t fret none – we’ll make it.”
“If you leave me, Iron Hand won’t harm me. Go while you have the chance.”
“You’re wasting your breath, lady.”
He lay on the edge of the canyon with the glasses in his hands and he gave the country below him a good looking over. He could see nothing that moved except for a couple of ponies that he guessed belonged to Islop. He thought he could risk going further west and taking a look at the house. When he went back to her, she was asleep and it seemed cruel to wake her. But he did. She came awake slowly and reluctantly, but when he told her to get into the saddle, she did so without a word.
He got a hold of the canelo’s line again and set off, running. When he had covered a mile, taking advantage of all the depressions in the country he could, he halted again, helped her down and took another long look at the canyon through the glasses. He had the house in sight now and there didn’t seem anything wrong down there. One of the women was splitting kindling in the yard and old Islop was there in his chair with his jar. A few horses and the mule were in the corral. McAllister reckoned he would risk going down. He would have to sooner or later if he wanted that mule. He put her back on the horse again and started down. When he reached the flat, he set off running again.
As he ran, his mind worked. He knew full well that in spite of his having looked over the canyon carefully, he might be trapped at the house. After all, it might be the first place the Indians looked. If they caught him around the house, he could make a break for it, if he and Mrs. Bourn managed to get mounted. But if the Indians spotted him from above, he’d never get either of them out of the canyon alive. He wouldn’t be able to make the rimrock and the only way out would be down-canyon into the great canyon and there several hundred bucks would be waiting for them. So while he was getting that mule was zero hour.
Old Islop was still sitting in his chair, pipe in mouth. When he saw them come out of the trees, he did nothing more than take his pipe out of his mouth and stare. McAllister expected to see him get to his feet, but he didn’t move. The whole incident had an uncanniness about it that made the hair on the nape of his neck rise. The young Indian woman stopped splitting wood and just watched them with impassive curiosity. They reached the corner of the corral and McAllister halted. He put the canelo’s lines in Mrs. Bourn’s hands and said: “Stay right there. Anything happens, you make a break for it.” His instinct for danger was working overtime and Islop sitting there like that didn’t help to damp it down.
He took the rope from his saddle, climbed the corral fence and went after the mule. It played skittish and dodged his first throw, but he got it on the second. Then he fetched the saddlepad and cinched that on the mule. Quickly, he rigged up a pair of rope stirrups for the woman, and they were almost ready. He fetched the single-shot Remington which was still surprisingly with his pack and fastened that to the saddlepad. His saddlebags on the canelo he filled with spare shells and food.
Islop and the woman didn’t move all this time.
There has to be something wrong here, he thought.
He took a careful look around and could see nothing. He walked back to the woman and said: “Get on the mule, Mrs. Bourn. He’s a stepper and you’ll do fine on him.” He helped her down and when she had her feet on the ground, she held onto his arms and stared past him at the old man.
“There’s something wrong,” she whispered.
He gave her a fleeting grin.
“You could be right,” he said. “But we’re going to get out of here.”
She looked past him and raised her eyes.
“Look up there,” she said.
He turned his head.
They were up on the rimrock staring down at him. A dozen of them, feathers fluttering in the wind, pony tails moving. He looked down-canyon and saw nothing that moved.
Mrs. Bourn said: “There’s no way out, is there?”
“One way,” McAllister replied.
“Which way’s that?”
“Through ’em.”
She looked shaken, but she looked right back at him, straight. He thought that she was one hell of a woman.
“By Gawd, Mrs. Bourn,” he said. “You’ll do.”
She smiled wanly.
“The name’s Elly,” she said.
“Short for?”
“Ellaine.”
“That’s a mighty pretty name.”
They didn’t hurry. He helped her onto the mule and put the lines in her hands, then he stepped into the canelo’s saddle. McAllister looked back at the old man and still he hadn’t moved. It was as if he were waiting for death. McAllister’s death. They wheeled their mounts and McAllister led the way down canyon. Before they entered timber, he glanced back. The Indians on the rimrock hadn’t moved. They weren’t sure yet which canyon wall McAllister was going to try and mount. They trotted through the trees and came out onto the grass with the creek on their right. When they were well clear of the trees, McAllister looked back. The Indians hadn’t moved, but before he and Mrs. Bourn had covered another quarter mile the Indians were moving along the rimrock to cut them off. They knew there was only one way up for them and they would be waiting for them when they got there.
McAllister looked at the woman. Her face was still drawn and wan, but her eyes seemed to be alive. She was managing the mule fine. She had a good animal there that would outrun a good horse over a long distance. It had a steady easy pace and its trot was particularly comfortable. It wouldn’t ever beat the canelo on speed, but over distance, as much as he thought of his own horse, McAllister wouldn’t have liked to bet.
They clattered down the canyon and by the time they reached the steep and narrow trail, the Indians were waiting for them. There must have been a few young ones up there with some sass in them, for they began shouting taunts down at them.
McAllister halted.
Mrs. Bourn said: “It’s hopeless; we’ll never get past them.”
“You’d be surprised,” McAllister told her. “How many would you say was there?”
“A dozen?”
“About right. Now my old man used to say when you’re boxed and you can’t get out, occupy your time with whittling down the odds. What’s the betting I can’t make them ten before they can hightail outa there?”
It was a difficult shot, aiming upward like that and he knew it, but he reckoned he could do it.
He stepped down from the canelo, drew the Henry from its boot and told the horse to stand. It froze as if made of stone. McAllister told Mrs. Bourn: “Get down behind the mule in case they throw anything back at us.” She slid to the ground and stood staring up at the Indians over the mule’s back. “Hold on to him or he could make a break for it.”
He got down on one knee behind the canelo, rested the rifle on the saddle and took aim. They were still shouting taunts up there.
You won’t be acting that way in one second flat, McAllister promise
d.
A young man was making obscene gestures. McAllister ignored him and concentrated on a man wearing a full war-bonnet He drew breath and squeezed the trigger. Without waiting for the result, he levered and fired again.
If he had dropped a bomb among them he couldn’t have shocked them more.
The man in the warbonnet just seemed to be whisked from sight One moment he was on his horse and the next he wasn’t. Even the horse seemed surprised. The young man who was making the rude gestures did the craziest thing or so it seemed. He jumped his pony straight forward out over the canyon. Horse and rider parted company in mid-air and fell to the rocks separately. The sound they made when they landed wasn’t pleasant. The mule tried to break away and the canelo shied. McAllister turned and caught the mule by the bridle, talking to it soothingly. Mrs. Bourn pulled back on it. She had gone white.
The Indians above were piling from their horses. One of them had a single-shot carbine and he started shooting with it, but he wasn’t too good shooting down at such a great range. McAllister told Mrs. Bourn to get against the canyon wall with the two animals and she obeyed.
Ten left, McAllister thought and pondered on how he was to remove them from up there before more came on the scene drawn by the shooting, because he’d take a bet some sharp copper-colored ears hadn’t missed it. So he didn’t have much time.
He could see their heads above the rocks up there and he started taking pot shots at them. He didn’t manage to shift them altogether, but he at least made them keep their heads down. He also convinced them that he was not going to be an easy scalp. He signed to Mrs. Bourn to stay where she was and started up the narrow trail.
He hadn’t climbed twenty feet when they started sending rocks down on him. Which wasn’t much fun from his point of view. If one of those rocks hit him it could crush his skull like an eggshell.
The woman was screaming something to him that he couldn’t make out. He thought he heard distant firing, but couldn’t locate its direction. He strained upward, sweating and watching for rocks. The situation wasn’t to his liking and he reckoned his price for getting Mrs. Bourn away from the Comanches should have been a thousand.
Then a funny thing happened.
Something dark was propelled through the air. It passed him by a few feet and fell onto the rocks below with a sound of broken bones and flesh. The woman screamed in earnest now. He stared down helpless at the Indian lying on the rocks, wondering how he got there. The only thing that seemed possible was that he had lost his footing.
The woman was screaming again.
This time he heard her words.
“They’re running. Mr. McAllister, they’re running.”
He stood in amazement for no more than a moment, then went on with his climbing. He strained and heaved his way to the top, dragged himself across the rimrock and stood to see several Indians making tracks, running to their ponies, getting aboard and sending then running hard toward the north. A rifle sounded and one of them pitched from the saddle. McAllister made out a wisp of smoke.
He called and saw an arm raised in a wave.
He went forward, rifle ready for a quick shot, ever-cautious.
After he had gone about fifty paces, he found a man lying in a buffalo wallow. A white man, rifle in hands. It was Newby. McAllister went up to him and saw that he had blood all over the front of his shirt and his face was drawn with suffering.
The ranger captain said: “I started shootin’ because I thought some of my boys was down there.”
McAllister said: “My guess is your boys ain’t anywhere on this earth.” He ran back to the rimrock and called down to the woman. “Come on up, Mrs. Bourn, and make it fast.”
He stayed where he was, watching the country, making sure no Indians sneaked up on her while she was making the climb. She was tired and the climb taxed her strength to the limit, but she made it, bringing the canelo and the mule with her. He boosted her onto the mule’s back and swung up on the horse. A moment later they were staring down at Newby. He looked like he was about to give up the ghost.
This was all I needed, McAllister thought I didn’t have a chance in hell of getting away with the woman. Now I have to be saddled with a wounded man.
Mrs. Bourn exclaimed at the sight of Newby and jumped down from the mule. She eased him over onto his back and pulled back the shirt to look at the wound.
“Oh, you poor man,” she said.
“Your friends done that,” McAllister said and, when she gave him a reproachful look, wished he hadn’t.
“This’ll be Mrs. Bourn,” Newby said.
“Yes,” she said.
“Captain Newby, ma’am. Texas Rangers.”
McAllister swung down from the canelo’s back, eyes still moving around looking for the return of the Indians with reinforcements.
“This ain’t the time for niceties,” he said. “Let’s get you on the horse and get outa here.”
“I’m not ridin’ anywhere,” Newby declared. “You have Mrs. Bourn to think of. You ride out with her while the goin’s good.”
“I put it to the vote,” McAllister declared. “All in favor say ‘aye’.”
“Aye,” said Mrs. Bourn.
McAllister said: “Aye.” He laughed shortly. “You’re outvoted two to one.”
“Don’t be a damn fool,” Newby said. “I wouldn’t last a mile.”
“You’re being over-modest, captain,” McAllister told him. “I’m betting you you last ten.”
Mrs. Bourn turned on him. “He can’t ride like this, Mr. McAllister. He’s bleeding badly. I’ll have to fix the wound.”
McAllister made an impatient sound.
“What with?” he demanded.
“Your bandanna to start with. Do you have a shirt in your saddlebags?”
McAllister nodded. He took off his bandanna and gave it to her. He looked mad. It was a favorite of his, red with white spots. He went and fetched a flannel shirt from his saddlebags and watched her tear it into strips.
“Ma’am,” Newby said. “The lead’s still in there. If it don’t come out, I don’t stand a chance.”
She went pale and looked at McAllister appealingly.
“Can’t you do it?” he demanded.
“What makes you think I can’t?”
“You’re green around the gills.”
She looked mad. He thought she looked pretty handsome that way. He walked to his saddlebags again and brought out a small flask of whiskey.
“Keep your eyes on the country,” he said, getting down on one knee. “I’ll fix him in two shakes.”
She snatched the whiskey from him and glared.
“You watch the country,” she snapped. She set her jaw in a determined way and uncorked the bottle. She gave Newby a swig and then started cleaning the wound with the whiskey. McAllister stood up and watched the country. He heard Newby give a groan of agony. Mrs. Bourn came and said: “Give me your knife.” He handed her his knife and she went back to work. McAllister looked once and Newby was arching his back in agony. Mrs. Bourn didn’t seem to be flustered.
After a while, Newby gave another stifled groan and McAllister looked around. The ranger was unconscious. Mrs. Bourn was wiping red blood from her hands onto the remainder of McAllister’s gray shirt.
“You ruined my best shirt,” McAllister accused. She stood up, her face ashen.
She stook one step and started to go down. McAllister caught her, but she pushed him away and declared in a shaky voice: “I’m perfectly able to manage, thank you.”
“Suit yourself,” he said and released her.
This time she went right over and he was only just able to catch her before she hit the ground. He left her there and went to take a look at Newby. He looked terrible. McAllister swore a little. He took a nip of whiskey himself, then forced a little between Mrs. Bourn’s lips. After a few minutes she came around.
“There ain’t time to sit around,” McAllister told her. “We got to get moving.”
&
nbsp; She tried to tidy her dishevelled hair and said: “Captain Newby can’t be moved.”
McAllister laughed unpleasantly.
“If he ain’t dead from riding,” he told her, “he’ll be dead inside the hour from Comanches.” He brought the mule alongside her and said: “Get up.”
She gave him a baleful look and allowed him to boost her into the saddle. He went back to Newby and said: “How’s it coming, old timer.”
Newby opened his eyes and lied.
“Pretty good,” he said.
“Good enough to ride?”
“If’n you ain’t goin’ without me, looks like I am.”
It took all McAllister’s strength to get the man into the canelo’s saddle, but he managed it. He let Newby’s belt out a few notches and looped it over the saddlehorn. That done, he pushed the Henry away in the saddleboot, fixed the single shot rifle on the mule and took a long last look at the country, using the glasses. He slung the glasses on the canelo’s saddle, took up the line and started off east. He didn’t have much hope of getting far.
Eleven
By noon they had covered a good few miles, McAllister loping easily along with the horse and mule trotting behind. He kept a good pace and was satisfied with the distance made. He would have made the mule take a double load, but he wanted the animal to conserve its strength for time when speed would be needed even more desperately. The clouds were still darkly above them and the weather was stormy and oppressive. The sweat poured from the running man. The woman sat on the mule crouched forward, wretched in her tiredness. As for Newby, he was hunched over the saddle-horn; his face colorless and his eyes closed.
Every now and then McAllister stopped to see if Newby was still alive. The man seemed to be made of iron. The pulse was weak, but he lived. McAllister gave him full credit. The old buzzard was tough. But by noon, Newby and the woman had plainly had more than enough. McAllister would either have to stop or he would lose them both. He told himself he had five hundred dollars on the woman and she had to win through. There was no cover in sight, but a buffalo wallow. He stopped, helped the woman down, laid her on the ground and as soon as that she was asleep. He could not help himself and was experiencing another moment of pity and admiration for her.
McAllister Rides Page 10