Even as he did so, the charge petered out; swooping horsemen swerved to right and left curving away from the wallow, feathers fluttering. The earth shook beneath the pounding of the ponies’ hoofs. McAllister never fired a shot.
He looked at Mrs. Bourn; she stared at the retreating savages with a set white face. She was scared, but he knew she wouldn’t break. Old man Bourn had gotten himself one hell of a woman.
Philo bit at a piece of twist and started chewing.
“The ball’s opened, gents,” he remarked laconically.
They looked at the Indians. The two parties ran across the undulating plain, met and halted. It was only then that McAllister saw a warrior lift his hand above his head and saw that it glittered in the sunlight. Then he knew that Iron Hand himself was there.
He thought: If I can cut the old bastard down, this could be finished. But he knew the Iron Hand reputation. It didn’t mean much to a whiteman, but it meant a whole lot to the Indians. While he wore that old mail gauntlet, so the story went, he could come to no harm from bullet or arrow. And certainly the veteran warrior had never received a scratch in battle. He had counted coup innumerable times, lifted scalps, butchered the enemy and never seen the color of his own blood. McAllister would have to see about that.
A greenhorn might think that the guts had run out of the Indians, but McAllister and the two rangers knew different. Indians fought that way; they liked to get into close-quarters when the time was right. There were maybe some men out there dedicated to getting hand-to-hand with the whitemen in the wallow and they could now be waiting till the spirit was right. When it was, they would jump their ponies into the wallow not caring whether they were going to their deaths or not. Their names would be glorious from then on. McAllister had not seen too clearly but he thought there were Cheyenne out there. The chances were that there were some suicide boys among them.
The sun was growing hot now. The sweat trickled down McAllister’s face and body and he began to wish that he hadn’t thrown away his hat
The Indians were singing. It sounded as though some were calling stridently like birds, while others sang deep from their chests. Ponies fidgeted this way and that, now and then a young warrior would break ranks and return reluctantly when ordered. There was no lack of courage or will to fight among them, but the leaders knew what damage could be done by the rifles of the white men. Iron Hand would not wish to gain the reputation of leading too many men to their deaths. A chief could lose followers that way.
A man on a warbonnet led out from the massed warriors, trotting his horse just out of rifle shot along to the north of the wallow. Slowly, others followed him.
Grant said: “They’re goin’ to circle, boys.”
“Man to hit old Iron Hand wins the biscuit,” McAllister said.
“Can’t be done,” Philo said. “I shot him point-blank a couple of years back and he just laughed at me.”
Grant stood up and walked to the other side of the wallow. Philo shifted over to the left. They were going to have their work cut out defending the large area. Every man was thinking the same thing – how to stop a charge without using too much ammunition. How long could it last? they asked themselves.
The Indians were stringing out, nose to tail, keeping their horses at a trot still, riding superbly to a man. McAllister couldn’t help admiring them. He’d be damned if he’d ride around in the open with three rifles looking at him belligerently. He saw that a small knot of Indians had taken up a position on a knoll just within rifle range. He wasn’t sure, but he thought he could make out Iron Hand among them.
The Indians were circling now, all looking in toward the wallow, taking it easy, waiting for the shots to come from the wallow and wondering what their own reactions to them would be. The three whitemen raised their rifles and suddenly there wasn’t an Indian in sight, except for an arm here and there and a heel maybe, as each warrior dropped to the further side of his pony. The pace stepped up a mite and the ponies touched a steady lope. Slowly, slowly, the circle began to tighten. McAllister knew that it could be fatal to hold your fire under these circumstances. You could do that for too long and find yourself throttled to death by the closing circle.
He picked a chunky dun pony, drove a shot through its head and prepared to snipe the rider as he hit dirt, but it was not to be. He sighted the dismounted man when he was almost lost among the riders and could not get a clear target. He swore with some control, allowing for Mrs. Bourn’s presence.
Philo fired.
Grant fired twice and gave a Rebel yell of triumph. He shouted something to the others but he did not make himself heard above the roll of hoofs.
McAllister brought down another pony, levered fast and managed to knock over the rider as he tried to run clear of the mounted men.
After that the Indians started coming in close and shooting under their ponies’ necks so that a rain of shot and arrows seemed to come down on the wallow. McAllister was pretty well occupied at the time, but so far as he could see nobody was hit. There was no time now to see if he had hit or not when he fired, he levered and triggered till the rifle was empty, then rammed another loading tube home.
Then, suddenly, the circle of riders was there no more. The tight party of Indians was a loose scattering of warriors scurrying away across the plain, taking their wounded with them. When a man was hit, he would lie flat with his arms up waiting to be picked up. Two comrades would come, one on either side of him, seize him by the arms and carry him out of the fight. Several Indians lost their lives thus rescuing their fellows. Every Indian out there was fair game to the three beleaguered whitemen. Every Indian killed was one less to get into the wallow and use club, lance or hatchet later.
They returned to the knoll and gathered around it where Old Iron Hand seemed to be making them a speech.
Philo laughed and called across to McAllister: “There’s your chance, McAllister. See if you can hit the old man.”
“You think I can’t do it?”
“I’m bettin’ you can’t.”
McAllister pursed his lips, settled himself comfortably and rested his elbows on the rim of the wallow. It was a long shot, but with some luck he reckoned it could be done.
He could see Iron Hand clearly above the horsemen, iron hand glittering in the sun. He aimed carefully, drew a gentle breath and squeezed the trigger.
Behind Iron Hand was a mounted warrior on a paint pony. As the shot sounded, this man threw up his arms and fell over the further side of his horse.
Philo laughed.
The Indians stirred in consternation, thinking they were safe at that distance. Horsemen rode this way and that. Then Iron Hand was no longer at the summit of the small hill and all of them had moved further off.
“I’ll get the old buzzard yet,” McAllister said.
Grant said: “Buy you a new hat if’n you do.”
“I’ll keep you to that.”
The Indians were bunched again, further off this time and it looked like Iron Hand was riding up and down in front of them haranguing them. They raised a shout and then all went quiet. The three men in the wallow knew that something was about to happen. They watched calmly.
“They’ll circle again,” Grant offered.
“No,” McAllister told him, “they’ll make a direct charge. Iron Hand lost enough men in the circle. He’ll pick a few young men with spunk and who want some glory. They’ll come straight at us.”
“Never seen ’em do that,” Philo remarked.
“I seen the Cheyenne do it,” McAllister said, “and there’s some out there now.”
“They don’t stand a chance,” Grant said.
“They reckon we’ll lose our nerve when they come straight. Most men do when they’re charged straight at. One or two of the Indians’ll get through and then it’ll be hatchets.”
“You live an’ learn,” Grant said easily. “Never put much stock in Indians myself.”
They waited.
Mrs. Bourn knelt be
side McAllister, the pistol held in both her hands as if the weight was too much for her. Her eyes went from one man to the other and then to the distant Indians. McAllister reckoned this kind of thing was hard on a woman.
Slowly, the Indians fanned out and sat their ponies watching the white people in the wallow. They were singing again now and there was a light drum beating. Suddenly from the bright scattered figures, there burst a tight bunch of riders, their nimble ponies going at a flat run. It was as if McAllister had read the Indians’ minds. They seemed to all aim for him, coming for him straight as a die. They rode beautifully and without effort; the ponies raced, eyes wild, manes and tails flowing in the wind of their own making, feathers fluttering; the riders clung to their backs, easily as though they were running a friendly race.
McAllister laughed.
“It’s me they’re after, boys, but don’t let that stop you shooting.”
Philo dropped down; Grant followed suit. Both rifles were ready. Even Mrs. Bourn cocked her little gun. McAllister stayed on his feet – if the Indians were going to be among them shortly, he wanted to be fully mobile. He knew they couldn’t all be stopped; a determined bunch of men like this one could never be wholly stopped. One or two would get through and they would bring death into the wallow.
Grant fired; a pony swerved wildly out from the bunch, the rider bounced on its rump, fell to the ground and lay kicking. A great cry went up from the watching Indians. They started to edge forward and McAllister saw that if this suicide squad achieved any success at all, the main bunch would be close behind them. The wallow could be over-run in the next few minutes. His blood turned cold in his veins. He looked at Mrs. Bourn and shuddered.
Philo fired. A pony somersaulted violently and hurled its rider from its back. The man landed on his feet, running, continuing the charge, lance in hand, yelling. McAllister drove a shot through his body and dropped him dead.
Then the three rifles were sounding in a continuous hammering of shots, pouring lead into the half-dozen men who came on. A great shout went up from the main body of Indians and the ponies started to trot forward.
We don’t have too much time, McAllister thought.
He missed with a shot, levered and fired again. The oncoming rush was still directed at him; they weren’t fifty feet away. He downed another pony, the man landed on his feet and came on, hatchet ready for the kill. A Cheyenne, young and long-legged, coming forward with long strides, paint brilliant on his face. McAllister levelled his rifle on him and saw that a horseman was almost on him. He yelled to the woman and threw himself flat. The pony jumped him, he was up again quickly, firing at the retreating back and knocked the man from the crude saddle. The pony rushed on across the wallow, dodging the mule and the paint. Beside McAllister the little revolver barked twice and Mrs. Bourn screamed a warning. He spun around and saw the dismounted man almost on top of him. No time to lever, he thrust forward with the barrel of the Henry. The man batted the muzzle aside with his hand and swung the ax. McAllister faded before the onslaught, getting his feet into the man’s hard belly and hurling him over his head. Suddenly, the wallow seemed full of Indians, though there could have been no more than three of them. It was stamp, shout and dodge; hatchets and spears sounded on rifle barrels, men fired point-blank; a shrill war-cry; a man went down; a savage thrust with a spear, teeth drawn and bared in a fierce grin. McAllister stumbled over Newby, drove the muzzle of the Henry into a man’s side and fired, hurling the man a few yards.
Then there were three dead Indians in the wallow and McAllister unaware of how many lived with him turned and was firing into the oncoming Indians, levering and triggering as fast as he knew how. Dimly, he knew that Mrs. Bourn was at his side with a rifle, firing. They seemed to thunder right up to the lip of the wallow, throwing clods of dirt into his face; a horseman, yelling, reared high above him; a horse screamed in mortal agony and went over with threshing hoofs; a dying man pitched from a horse and bowled McAllister from his feet He heaved the man off him and reared to his feet
Suddenly, he could see only the rumps of horses and the backs of the retreating Indians.
He seemed to stand there a long time.
At last he heard Grant say in his drawl: “Wa-al, we made some good Indians, I reckon.”
He wiped the dirt and powder grime from his eyes and looked around and it seemed that he had lived a hundred years since the young bucks had started their charge.
The first thing he saw was the short spear sticking out of Newby. A dead Indian lay across the captain’s legs. McAllister shifted his eyes. Philo half-sat with his back against the edge of the wallow, looking like he had taken a spear through the middle of his body. Mrs. Bourn with a grimed face knelt still with the rifle in her hands. Grant was on his feet, grinning shakily.
A young Indian lay, face-paint smudged, arm folded awkwardly under his body, his buckskin shirt smoldering from a too-close shot, dead. Another, an older man and a Cheyenne also, lay on his back, gazing sightlessly at the sky, most of his face shot away. They made the animals uneasy and they edged away from them. McAllister reloaded the Henry and propped it against a saddle. He felt tired and sickened. For the first time in his life he saw the waste and futility of violence; yet he knew that he must subscribe to it to stay alive, to keep his companions alive. If the Indians had any sense, they would pull out now. Another attack might give them victory, but the cost would have been dear.
He walked over and looked down at Newby. The captain was dead, of course. McAllister closed his eyes. Next he went to Philo. A short spear was sticking out of the fleshy part of his right hip. McAllister put his foot on the man’s thigh, gripped the spear-haft with his hands and heaved the weapon free. Philo made a sighing noise. McAllister beckoned Mrs. Bourn over. She laid the rifle down and came.
“Fix him up,” McAllister told her and started to drag the Indians out of the hollow. Grant came and gave him a hand. They dragged them well clear of the wallow so they could be picked up by their fellows. They were tired and hot when they finished. They drank a little from the small amount of water which had nearly been finished by the animals. Every now and then, they took looks at the Indians, saw they were bunched a good way off and giving no signs of attacking again.
“You reckon they had enough?” Grant asked.
McAllister said: “They had enough, but they’re mad at us and can’t drag themselves away. I reckon they’ll come again.”
“Maybe if’n we hold ’em off till dark we can sneak outa here.”
“Maybe.”
They dug a shallow grave and put Newby into it. Then they walked the horses back and forth over it so there would be no trace for the Indians to find. After that, they ate a little and rested up. Philo didn’t look too bad, but he wasn’t laughing much. Mrs. Bourn fell into an exhausted sleep.
Thirteen
McAllister woke Mrs. Bourn gently. She sat up with a start, not seeing him clearly in the murky starlight.
“What is it?” she demanded.
“We going to try and get away,” he told her. He walked over to the canelo and saddled it, thinking. It wasn’t going to be easy to get out of there, but they were better off with regard to horses than they had been. He would ride the canelo and was glad to be with his own mount again. Grant and Philo could ride their own horse and the Indian pony. Mrs. Bourn could take the mule. He would have preferred for them to all walk and lead their animals for the start of the escape so that they could not be so easily seen against the skyline, but that wouldn’t be possible because neither Philo nor Grant were in a fit state to walk.
If they were going, they would go now before the Indians started to move in close under cover of the dark. Even so there was a great risk. It was not truly dark and Indian eyes were sharp. So were Indian ears. McAllister reckoned the best thing they could do was to work their way south first and then come around into the east below the Indians. He hoped they could make it – he didn’t fancy fighting in the dark.
Mr
s. Bourn came to him and asked: “What animal shall I ride?”
“The mule,” he said. “Now, listen close, Mrs. Bourn. Stick close to me out there. If anything happens, do what I do. If anything happens to me, keep on going. You have to head east. Do you think you can do that?”
“I learnt the stars from my daddy.”
“Good. Got your gun?”
“Yes.”
“Up with you, then.”
He cupped his hands, she placed a small bare foot in them and he boosted her onto the mule’s back. The animal snorted softly. He gave both the other men a hand up and they eased themselves in the saddles. Grant was on the Indian pony and he said the wooden saddle was hell on his crotch.
“I won’t never be the same man again after an hour in this thing,” he told McAllister.
McAllister stepped into the canelo’s saddle and it was good to be there once more. He stopped to listen for a few minutes, hearing the Indians drumming and singing in the distance. He prayed that they had not scattered guards out over the plain, but knew that such a thing was a strong possibility.
“Let’s go,” he said, finally, and led the way south, keeping the canelo at a steady walk. He eased the Remington around so that its butt was handy and felt comfort from the weight of the Henry beneath his right leg.
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