Next he slipped Newby’s belt from the saddlehorn and eased him to the ground. His face was the color of ashes, but when he lay on his back, his eyes opened and met McAllister’s.
“How we doin’, boy?”
“All right,” McAllister told him. “Right now, all you need is sleep.”
The captain closed his eyes.
“It’s all right for you two,” McAllister said. He looked at the sky and prayed for rain. It wouldn’t be good for Newby, but it might stop the Indians picking up their trail. It was the only thing that could save them. If the rain didn’t come, it was only a matter of time before the Comanches came on them. There were enough Indians back there to swamp any number of men armed with repeating rifles. He watched the country and he watched the sky. He took the saddles off the horse and the mule and let them roll. They drank from the small pool of water that had been left by the rain in the center of the wallow. He rolled the man and woman onto his tarp and the slicker, covered them with blankets and did not wake them. As he could not sleep, he ate. Experience told him that a tired man needed food if he couldn’t sleep.
There was a knoll not far off that would give him a better view of the plain and he went to this and squatted down, passing the time by cleaning all the weapons. He was going to need them all in good working order when the fight started. That done, he found himself starting to doze and got himself onto his feet guiltily. He walked around a little and put the glasses on the country. Nothing stirred.
He wondered what his old man would have done in this kind of a situation. But this problem would not have arisen with old Chad McAllister. He wouldn’t have gone into Comanche country for a woman for a paltry five hundred dollars.
I reckon I was born a sucker, McAllister told himself.
***
He glanced toward the wallow. Something stirred there. He walked over and found Mrs. Bourn sitting up and trying to tidy her hair, using the small pool of water as a mirror. The sight brought a smile to his face. When he walked up to her she looked at him, saw the smile and responded. He reckoned she was really something when she smiled.
“Feel better?”
“Yes,” she said. “I’m sorry. I’m a burden.”
He kicked a stone.
“Aw, shucks,” he said, “don’t give it a thought.”
Still kneeling, she turned to see him better.
“We should be moving,” she said. “You’re worried.”
“A mite.”
“Iron Hand’ll come after us?”
“I reckon.”
She stood up. The top of her head reached his shoulder. She was a lot of woman and he would have offered more than five hundred dollars for her if he hadn’t gone after her himself. He reckoned Bourn was a pig.
“How is Captain Newby?”
“Hanging on likely. He’s the kind that does.”
“We daren’t go on with him like that?”
“Much more’d kill him.”
“So we wait till the Indians come.” He nodded. “I said before – let me go back. That might stop Iron Hand. He put some store by me.”
McAllister looked her straight in the eye and said: “Who wouldn’t?”
“Let me go.”
“Mighty handsome offer, ma’am, but it wouldn’t do no good. The old man’ll be out for blood. If the sign’s there, he’ll follow it. All you can do is pray for rain to wash it out. Then we have a chance. Not much of one, but a chance.”
“If they do come, what kind of a chance do we stand?”
“I been in Indian fights before and I’m still alive.” He gave her a smile and touched her cheek with his hand. “Don’t fret none, girl. I won’t let them hurt you.” She clasped her hand on his and put her face against his calloused skin. He could feel her shaking.
A sudden movement brought him around fast. The canelo had jerked up his head and was looking south, nose busy. McAllister went to the western lip of the wallow and used the glasses on a small moving speck his naked eyes had caught. He watched it for some time. The woman came to his side.
“What is it?” she asked.
“Two men on one horse,” he told her. “Whitemen.”
The men were following the sign left by the canelo and the mule. Most likely they were two survivors from the ranger company. McAllister reckoned that all he needed now was for them both to be wounded. He and the woman stood together watching, looking past the slowly moving dot into the west as the day started to fade, looking for a larger movement.
When they were close enough for McAllister to make out some detail, he saw that his worst fears were well-founded. They were both wounded. And they were even more bushed than their horse, a wretchedly tired bay that hung its head when it halted and splayed out its legs. The man behind the saddle slipped to the ground. He was a short stumpy man, bearded and with red-rimmed eyes. He was about McAllister’s age and he had been shot in the middle of the right thigh.
The second man who stepped down from the saddle was tall and lank, about thirty years of age with a long drooping fair mustache. His left hand was tied up in a bloody rag. Like his companion he still possessed a belt-gun and from the saddle of the horse two rifles hung.
This man said: “I’m Philo and this is Grant Texas Rangers.”
“I’m McAllister and this is Mrs. Bourn.”
They touched their battered hat-brims and said: “Howdy, ma’am.” Philo continued: “We saw you when you rode a ways with us’ns.” He glanced toward Newby’s still form.
“That’s Newby,” McAllister told them.
Philo walked and took a look at him. Grant sat down with a look of pain on his face.
The lank man turned: “How bad is he?”
“Bad as a man can be without being dead.”
They seemed to accept that philosophically, then Mrs. Bourn said they were hurt and she would attend to them. They climbed down into the buffalo wallow and she started cleaning their wounds with McAllister’s precious whiskey without even a by-your-leave. He thought it was a gross liberty. He brought the bay down into the wallow and unsaddled it. It rolled a little and didn’t get up. McAllister wouldn’t have been surprised if it never got up again. He gave it a drink of water from his hat. He looked around the wallow and reckoned that if they were attacked a wallow forty feet across would be difficult to defend with three men and a woman. But there would be no other kind of cover for miles. He watched the west; the fact that no Indian had appeared yet was worrying him more and more. He could think of no reason why they weren’t there.
* * *
It was dusk. The atmosphere was close and a storm was in the offing; the clouds hovered thick and black overhead. Newby came to and called out. They all went to him.
“Who’s with you, McAllister?” he demanded in a hoarse whisper.
“Philo and Grant, captain,” Grant said.
“So you got away. Any more?”
“Never saw one. We come in from the west like you said and they was all around us. Never seen so many abergoins in one place in my life.”
“Men,” Newby said, “we have to move on. We don’t stand a chance if we stay here and we have Mrs. Bourn to think of.”
“I want to go back, Captain Newby,” the woman said. “Maybe if I go back, Iron Hand will call off the hunt.”
Philo said: “You ain’t a-going back, Mrs. Bourn, so get the idea right outa your head.”
“Move out now,” Newby said, “while it’s dark.”
“And Indians never move in the dark as the tale has it,” McAllister said sarcastically.
Newby insisted. “You stand a better chance in the dark. Or can’t you find your way without the sun or the stars?”
“Nobody can,” McAllister replied, “but I reckon I can hit the Texas border someplace if I try real hard.”
“And, Philo.”
“Yes, cap’n.”
“Leave me here. I don’t have but a few hours any road.”
McAllister said: “Philo and Grant a
re both hurt. One more wounded man won’t make ail that difference.”
“We don’t go without you, cap’n,” Grant said.
Newby started to swear, but they didn’t pay him any heed. They saddled the animals. Everybody agreed that Mrs. Bourn should ride the bay, as she was the lightest and the mule was best able to carry the two rangers. Newby was loaded onto the canelo and tied to the saddle. McAllister led the way on foot, holding the bay’s line, then came Newby and the mule and the two rangers brought up the rear.
With a few pauses to check if Newby was still alive, McAllister trotted east till midnight. It had started to rain an hour before that. They draped McAllister’s slicker around Newby, Mrs. Bourn huddled in one of his blankets and Philo put on his own slicker. Like McAllister, Grant was soon soaked to the skin. It was uncomfortable running in wet clothes and they were soon weighing heavily on him and by midnight he was glad to stop. They came to a flash lake and they were glad that at least they had water to drink. McAllister distributed a meager ration of hard tack and they squatted wretchedly in the rain, munching it. They had two canteens between the five of them and McAllister filled these at the lake before he once more led the way on east.
An hour from dawn he stum led into another buffalo wallow and it seemed like as good a place as any to stop. Everybody was tired and by the time McAllister had just about run himself out For two Jays and two nights he had had no sleep and he felt that he couldn’t go on much longer. They eased Newby from the canelo and rolled him in the tarp; Mrs. Bourn draped her blanket around her and was at once asleep.
McAllister said: “One of you two boys can stand first watch.”
Philo said: “I’ll do it.”
McAllister just stretched himself out on the wet ground in the rain and was at once in a deep sleep.
Twelve
He came awake to bright sunlight, Grant was prodding him in the ribs with a toe. He sat up, blinking and saw that Mrs. Bourn was sitting near tidying her hair. Philo was at the rim of the wallow looking east with a rifle in his hands.
“Your horse’s acting up,” Grant said.
McAllister looked at the canelo. The horse stood like a pointer, ears forward, nose to the east. McAllister stood up and looked in that direction; he could see nothing but a shimmering haze of heat. The earth seemed to be steaming in the hot sun after the rain. He lifted the glasses to his eyes.
At first he saw nothing. Then something moved, something a long way off, a small flutter of movement. He moved the glasses across country and realised with a sudden shock of alarm that he had run them down a line of horsemen. His eyes became accustomed to the distance and the glasses and told him what his brain knew already. The flutter of movement was a warbonnet.
This was why Iron Hand hadn’t followed him. The Co-manches had circled and cut off the retreat to Texas.
He worked his shoulders to work out some of the stiffness he had acquired through sleeping wet. A hell of a note – he had a fight on his hands and he was as stiff as a ramrod.
“What is it?” Grant asked.
McAllister looked at the woman.
“Indians,” he said.
“Goldurn it,” Philo said out of deference to Mrs. Bourn. Both Texans looked quite calm. They were rangers and the rangers didn’t accept men lightly. Men said it took one ranger to quell a riot and two to stop a war. Iron Hand had made hash of them and the legend was busted wide open, but these two men weren’t going to show it upset them any.
Mrs. Bourn came up to McAllister and laid a hand on his arm.
“It’s not too late,” she said. “I could stop it here and now.”
“What does that mean, Mrs. Bourn?” Philo asked.
“Iron Hand wants me back,” she said. “Let me go and he won’t attack.”
“Them’s noble sentiments, ma’am,” the Texan said, “but it wouldn’t do no good. Ole Iron Hand’s out for blood and he won’t be satisfied till he’s tasted it. Only he’ll be tastin’ his own, I reckon.”
They didn’t waste any more time talking, but set about their simple preparations for defence. McAllister stuck a row of loading tubes for the Henry in his belt, Grant and Philo filled their pockets with rounds for their rifles. They moved Newby near the rim of the wallow so that he would have at least some slight protection from flying lead and arrows. McAllister found his old pocket Remington with the short barrel amongst his gear, checked its loads and gave it to Mrs. Bourn.
“There’s five shots in it,” he told her. “Save the last for yourself.”
She tried to look at him steadily.
“Iron Hand would never harm me.”
“It’s your choice,” he told her. “There’s others out there beside Iron Hand. This’ll be a mixed bunch. Cheyenne and Arapaho as well as Comanches. Maybe a sprinkling of Kiowas.”
He went to the side of the wallow and used the glasses again. Mrs. Bourn came and stood close to him. From far off came a faint sound like the calling of wild birds. From out of the haze slowly came a bright thin line. He watched it for some time, watching the small bright spots become men and horses. After a while he could make out more detail, see the feathers fluttering, catch a glitter of metal in the sun, pick out the small brilliance of paint on men and horses. An hour passed and during that time the line edged nearer. They were in no hurry. Then details could be made out with the naked eye. All the time, Mrs. Bourn did not move from his side.
McAllister walked over to Newby and took a look at him. His eyes were open.
“What’s happening, boy?” he asked.
“Indians.”
“How many?”
“Enough.”
“Give me my gun.”
McAllister found his gun, saw that it was loaded and gave it to the wounded man. Newby laid it on his chest, his hand on the butt.
“You should of gone on, son, like I said.”
“Sure,” said McAllister and went back to watching the Indians.
There was sudden movement
A single Indian was riding forward from the host. He was a thickset man on a bony paint-pony. It could be Eagle Man. As he got closer, McAllister was sure it was. When he was just within rifle range, he halted and started to make wide signs with his arms.
Philo said: “I reckon he wants to talk.”
“Reckon I can hit him from here?” Grant wanted to know.
“I’ll go talk with him,” McAllister said.
“Your privilege,” Philo said. “I’d druther hold a pow-wow with a snake.”
McAllister climbed out of the wallow.
Grant said: “Stay off to one side of him so we can cut him down if he gets sassy.”
McAllister started the long walk. He told himself that he should have ridden out on the canelo. That way he would have had the means of getting back fast if he met trouble. He knew why he didn’t take the horse. If anything happened to him, the others would need the animal.
Eagle Man stayed still, watching McAllister come toward him. The line of Indians stayed a good gun shot off. The sight of them was appalling. There must, McAllister reckoned, have been a couple of hundred of them. There wasn’t a chance of fighting a bunch that size to a standstill. There wasn’t the ammunition for one thing.
At last he stood facing Eagle Man.
The Indian started to talk with his hands.
The woman, he told McAllister, she must be handed over now. Iron Hand did not want any harm to come to her.
What of the whitemen, McAllister asked, if the woman was handed over, did the white men go unharmed?
Eagle Man sneered. His hands worked. The whitemen would die. They had killed many Indians and they must die. That was right and proper. Whether they handed over the woman or not they would die, so they might as well hand her over now before the fighting started.
McAllister sneered.
The Comanches, he said, were a pack of bow-legged, fat-bellied women fit only for stealing helpless women and children. The men in the buffalo-wallow were a very di
fferent proposition. Maybe they would all die, but the fight wasn’t over yet and many Indians would die. The whitemen had repeating rifles. A dozen Indians would fall in the first charge. Another dozen would die in the second. How many men was Iron Hand prepared to lose for the sake of a woman and his foolish and selfish pride?
Eagle Man forgot his hands for a moment and gobbled angrily in Comanche. He whirled his pony and brandished his short spear above his head.
McAllister made an obscene sign with his hand. The Comanche’s control snapped. He jumped the paint straight at McAllister and thrust forward with the short spear. McAllister had reckoned on that One moment he was standing passively, the next he exploded into action. He sidestepped the paint and grasped the animal’s single line with his left hand so that it turned sharply toward him. With his right hand, he batted the spear aside. He grasped the Indian’s clothing and jerked him violently from the saddle.
Eagle Man hit hard and made a sharp yelping sound. He might have had a heavy punch, but he started to his feet with the agility of a boy. McAllister kicked him in the face and put him down again.
He didn’t look up, but he heard the line of warriors get on the move. He didn’t have too much time.
Eagle Man had dropped his spear. He floundered after it as fast as he could move. McAllister slapped his right hand down on the cedar-wood butt of the Remington, tore it from leather, cocked and fired. The ball took Eagle Man in the head and knocked him to the ground kicking. The paint-pony was going crazy, pitching and backing away from McAllister.
The Indians were yelling now, urging their ponies forward; the roll of their hoofs was like distant thunder.
McAllister jumped for the paint, it shied and skittered away. He started sweating.
A warrior fired a shot and the bullet sang through the air past McAllister. The paint tried to tear its head free. McAllister swore. He shoved the Remington away and made another try for the pony. It reared and nearly took him off his feet. No time for niceties – McAllister balled his fist and hit the paint between the eyes. It staggered. McAllister vaulted onto its back and clasped his legs around its barrel. It whirled, got its rear legs bunched under it and started running in the direction of the approaching Indians. McAllister wrenched its head around, it fought, but reckoned McAllister was master and turned. From the now ragged line of racing Indians several guns banged. Lead hummed around McAllister. He yelled to the pony and kicked it in the belly. It took off like a bird, scared of everything, his whiteman’s smell, the noise. McAllister could see the heads of Philo and Grant over the rim of the wallow. Rifle barrels showed. They were shooting. He aimed the paint between them, jumped it into the wallow and slipped from the saddle. Hastily, he tied it to the mule, turned, ran for the lip of the wallow, scooped up the Henry and flung himself down.
McAllister Rides Page 11