McAllister 1

by Matt Chisholm

  “I’m asking myself why the Comanches tortured him.”

  “Don’t think I haven’t asked myself the same thing. An’ him too. But I ain’t no nearer the truth.”

  “Maybe we should trade him back to the Indians for them leaving us be.”

  He rose on one elbow. By the ruddy light of the fire I saw pure admiration on his face.

  “Matthew,” he said, “don’t ever let me call you a dumb mick again.”

  “I ain’t let you call me it, any road. Not ever.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Yep.”

  “Goodnight, Matt.”

  “Goodnight, Rem.”

  ~*~

  There is nothing in the world better than a good night’s sleep. Strong women and strong drink only come second to it.

  The following dawn, I picked an ornery horse that nearly pitched my head off my shoulders. I rode drag. But neither mattered. I was refreshed by sleep. Oh, yes, and one other thing—the sister with the fair hair: May—she gave me a brilliant smile as I rode out to the herd. You know the kind I mean: one of those faint, this-is-between-you-and-me kind of smiles that excludes the rest of the world and makes a man think he’s the most wonderful thing since the difference between the two sexes was first invented. I thought to myself: before we’re through, that little lady and me will come to some kind of an understanding. The thought brought with it that delicious feeling that comes only when you think you’ve hit on one girl in a million.

  Nursing those cows through the day I could not help thinking of this quiet, smiling girl with her pale gold hair, her face tanned by the wind and sun of the plains, her eyes still retaining some of the pain and terror of her short captivity.

  McAllister did not ask me to scout that day, but carried out the chore with Drunk Charlie. They reported no sign of Indians. The rain stopped and we moved on slowly across the immense landscape which seemed to come awake into a full fresh spring before our eyes. The country that stretched our sight to the far horizon seemed to be covered with a faint touch of green. The wind that blew from the north was cool and damp. The cattle livened up. The horse herd grew skittish. The crew talked among themselves and decided that we’d hit the Indians so hard we would not see them again this trip. Indians didn’t like to lose men any more than members of other races did. If they had any sense, they would cut their losses and call it a day. Just the same, McAllister did not allow the wagon to go on ahead and pick a site for the noon halt. We would all stick close, he said, until we were out of Comanche country. We all thought he was being too pessimistic.

  But he wasn’t. I should have known. In such matters, McAllister was seldom wrong. He had spent enough of his early years to know what went on in the Indian mind.

  “Till now,” he said, “they’ve been foolin’ around, doin’ the things Comanches most like to do—hit an’ run tactics, feelin’ the excitement of takin’ somethin’ that ain’t theirs. All the things healthy young braves should ought to like doin’. Now, it’s different. It is necessary they attack us. There’s reputations at stake. The warriors with reps among this bunch must of come down a notch in their people’s estimation. They have to pull themselves up a notch at least. That means a real attack. War. They’ll aim for the whole damn herd next time. They’ll have so much beef they’ll think the buffalo have come back.”

  I asked him what he aimed to do and he said: “What the hell can I do? There’s only one way to drive a herd an’ we’re doin’ that. Nobody ever did discover a way to drive cattle and fight a battle at the same time.”

  With that I had to be satisfied. We drifted those cows along and I, for one, did not often take my eyes from the plain around us, always expectant of seeing a line of warriors and their fluttering feathers. It did not do my digestion any good, I can tell you.

  Every man now rode with a rifle under his leg. In spite of what he had said, McAllister did what he could to prepare for eventualities. Three men were detailed to stay with the herd no matter what. The rest of us were told to be prepared to form ourselves into a war-party. If the worst were to happen, Smith must drive his wagon as close to the herd as he could get. If circumstances looked right he should halt and fort up as best he could. Drunk Charlie and I would join him in the last ditch stand. I didn’t much like the way the talk was going, but I didn’t say so. Nobody likes to sound like a coward, even if he is one.

  I took a look around the crew, estimating their usefulness in a final fight. All the Moss boys had grown up with guns in their hands and knew how to shoot. They would keep their nerve and do their bit. Hopper Roberts, who had been almost wordless since his brother’s death, would be quite deadly in his rage against the Indians. He needed somebody to vent his despair on. Perfido Suarez was a nerveless man who knew all about staying alive. Wild cows, wild horses and wild men did not faze him. He wasn’t the greatest shot in the world, but he knew cows better than any of us. Which was the reason why McAllister put him in charge of the herd in any emergency that might arise. Wyatt Shafter and his partner, Jim Bayard, would also stay with the herd. They were both seasoned trail-drivers and both good enough with a gun to get by. They were loyal men and they would do their part. Golly Adams, the Negro, was given the horse-herd because he was part horse himself. If we lost the remuda to the Indians he was to be a member of the war-party. When he was told what he had to do in an attack, he rolled his eyes and groaned. “Man,” he said, “I sure got my work cut out with them horses. Every Injun in the world is goin’ to be after them.”

  “That’s right,” said McAllister without mercy. “Now there’s one last thing I’ve got to say—I don’t want any dead heroes. So look out for yourselves.”

  The only man among us who looked delighted was Drunk Charlie. The thought of killing more Comanches brought a cheerful song to his lips. At least, I suppose it was meant to be cheerful. I never heard an Apache song that did not sound like a funeral dirge.

  Golly told him without a smile cracking his face: “That’s a great song, Charlie. You should ought to put it to music sometime.”

  We covered nearly twenty miles that day which was good, and the sooner we were all off these God-forsaken plains, the better. At the end of the day’s march, we found pretty good water and that solved one of our main problems. The cows had taken a good quantity of grass on board that day, in spite of their fast walk, and they settled down on the bedding ground as sweetly as ever I saw a herd do. Even McAllister expressed pleasure at the way the day had gone when he came into camp for his chow.

  “Another couple of days like this,” he declared, “an’ maybe we can count ourselves out of trouble.”

  Janet Jessop said she and her sister were very sorry to add to Mr. McAllister’s worries. Old Rem gave that fetching smile of his and said: “Ma’am, it’s pure pleasure havin’ you an’ Miss May with us an’ that’s a fact.”

  They both smiled shyly and said oh how he did talk. I did not declare my opinion that when McAllister turned on the smooth charm it made me want to puke. I left that till later when the girls had gone to their rest.

  “McAllister,” I said, “why is it that when there’s women around you behave like a parlor dude?”

  He looked a little surprised at the question and said: “Why, Matthew, I just put that opinion down to jealousy on your part. You should try an’ rid yourself of it —it don’t sit too well on you.”

  There were a couple of minor alarms in the night. Golly out there watching the horses thought he saw a prowling Indian and let fly with a shot. In the morning we found he’d blown the head off a prairie dog. There was also some uneasiness in the herd past midnight, but it never came to anything. However, both incidents showed that the boys were on their toes, even though we did curse those who woke us from much-needed sleep. Dawn came and went without incident. We stood to our arms as usual, like soldiers, but after ten minutes of clear daylight, McAllister gave the order to stand down. We got the herd moving without trouble and hit a fair pace. The rain stil
l held off, but the ground seemed to be retaining enough surface water for us to expect to find it at the end of the day.

  There was one calf which was not strong enough to keep up and we butchered it that night and had a son-of-a-bitch stew, much to everybody’s delight. Mr. Smith did us proud and Miss May (under his orders) produced dried apple pie which we all declared was better than even our mothers made. I guess it was a pretty convivial crew that settled down that night. We watered the cattle at a flash pond and they seemed content enough. Drunk Charlie, who had been scouting ahead several miles, came back to tell us that he had sighted what he thought to be a strong party of Indians to the east of us. He could not be sure, he said. They might have been soldiers. McAllister told him to go take a look at their tracks in the first light of day; to be forewarned was to be forearmed.

  Again we got through a night and a dawn without incident and some of us once again began to think that we had seen the last of the Indians. We even said so, but McAllister merely said maybe, but till we knew for sure we would continue to ride with caution. He still thought they would be back. Charlie was given a fast horse and lit out for the north-east to take a look at those tracks. We got the herd on the road and got on our way. McAllister grew unaccustomedly impatient when Mr. Smith was not ready to move when the herd was. Mr. Smith told him to go ahead, he would follow, but our boss would not allow the wagon to be left on its own. Smith grew flustered and somewhat bad-tempered, but he hurried himself and after a fifteen-minute delay got his team moving.

  Now McAllister rode ahead a half-mile to a ridge and looked north-east with his glass, no doubt to check how Charlie was making out. He signed for two men to join him fast and Manny Moss with his brother Orville put their ponies into a run and joined him. I saw McAllister pointing and then the two brothers go down off the ridge, quirting their mounts. A short while after, they came into view going lickety-spit in the direction Drunk Charlie had taken. We all knew that meant trouble. Ten minutes later, we heard the distant popping of guns. We had covered another mile when we saw three riders coming hard out of the north-east. It did not take us long to spot the riders strung out behind them. McAllister called to me and told me to get myself on top of a ridge in that direction. Wyatt Shafter joined me as I dismounted on the ridge. The three riders were about a mile from us and coming on fast, urging their mounts to the limits of their speed. Well they might, because the Indians behind them were gaining fast. We waved to the three men to tell them to head exactly towards us. Wyatt led our horses down the safe side of the ridge and rejoined me. We both lay down so that the top of the ridge gave us some cover. Then we waited.

  Pretty soon, Drunk Charlie, Manny and Orville Moss went past us and down the ridge, not drawing rein but going on. At that moment, the foremost Indians were within range of our carbines. We started shooting. Wyatt’s gun was a single-shot breech-loader, so he did not do so well as I did with the Spencer, but between us we laid down a fire that cooled the Comanche’s enthusiasm at once. We were in no mood for fooling around. When they turned sideways on to us and dropped out of sight behind their horses so they could shoot at us from under their horses’ necks, we shot the horses. I reckon we must have downed three before they decided to call it a day. But only so far as we were concerned. They no sooner swerved away from us than they swooped down towards the wagon.

  We heard Smith’s shotgun boom twice and were already scrambling down the ridge and into the saddle. As we put our horses into a run, I saw that Charlie and the two Moss brothers had swerved away from the herd and were angling in towards the wagon also. We could see the Indians darting in towards the wagon, hurling spears and shooting their arrows and guns. I thought I heard a woman’s shrill scream. Drunk Charlie was shooting from the saddle, riding with a reckless skill, guiding the animal with his knees. The three of them reached the wagon before us. I watched them curve around the vehicle, now chasing the men who had chased them. All the time guns were going off. As soon as the Indians quit attacking the wagon they swerved towards the herd, riding straight in at it. That they were bent solely on destruction was shown by their shooting into the strung-out animals. I saw a steer sink to his haunches. Charlie Moss, nearest the Indians, was trying to hold in his dancing horse and shooting at them. The Indians rode on around the herd, shooting into it. On the far side they came face to face with Hopper Roberts riding swing over there. Hopper stood his ground, blazing away. It seemed from where I was that the Indians simply rode straight into him. His horse reared and went over and Hopper went out of sight behind the cows. The herd itself was starting to take fright at the shooting and I knew that the next few seconds could spell disaster for us. I glanced around for McAllister, but could not find him.

  As I faced front again, something hurtled past me, going from left to right. As it hit the ground and quivered there, I saw that it was a spear. Glancing left, I stared straight into the eyes of a Comanche. The rest of his face was painted beyond human recognition. A bunch of feathers hung rather rakishly from his topknot. My discomfiture at the sight of him seemed to amuse him greatly. My discomfiture increased somewhat more than slightly when I saw that he rode in the company of a number of fellow-tribesmen. A heavy gun boomed hugely and I heard Wyatt cry out behind me. That told me I was alone.

  Not for the first time on that trip, I was at a loss to know what to do. So I promptly lost my head and, in sheer panic, instead of veering away from the Indians to ride between the wagon and the herd, I swerved hard left and rammed my horse into the Indians.

  I suppose under the circumstances that was better than doing nothing at all. Certainly my action was totally unexpected —both to the Indians and myself. The shoulder of my mount caught the Indian pony’s shoulder and, as it was on the wrong foot, as you might say, knocked him over with no trouble at all. After that I found myself in an almighty tangle from which I thought I would never extricate myself.

  My horse, finding the Indian animal sprawled in front of it, did not know what to do next. His indecision was nearly the undoing of both of us. Or maybe he felt my indecision. He was moving forward and did not want to for it meant that he would tread on the Indian pony. He tried to do two things at once—step off to the right and jump the fallen horse. He succeeded in neither. He trod on the fallen horse and nearly went down, taking me with him. Blundering forward, in a panic through treading on the other horse, he drove into the unhorsed rider who had managed to land on his feet. This Indian, feeling himself going down, grabbed at the nearest object. This was the bridle of my horse. It did not save him from going down, but he failed to relinquish his grasp on my tackle. Horse fought man, panic increasing. My horse started a wild pitching, anchored by the weight of the Indian.

  I suppose at this point that one of the other Indians came in close and hit me with whatever was handy. I felt as though my left ribs were busted and I came out of that saddle like a flying angel.

  To say that I hit the ground hard was to gravely understate the action. I heard the wind go out of me like a collapsing balloon. There seemed to be horses’ hooves and legs all around me. Dirt was kicked into my face. I found rather to my amazement that I still held the Spencer in my right hand. At such times I suppose that one should be thankful for small mercies, but I was not in the condition to be appreciative of a single thing. All I knew was that I was full-length in the dirt, my mouth full of muddy grit, with the same substance in my eyes. I was breathless and I felt as if every bone in my body had been jarred from place. Added to that I expected bullet, arrow, spear or ax to carve my flesh at any second.

  Fact being stranger than fiction, always and without remission, I managed to stagger to my feet without being harmed in any way by any of these handicaps. It seemed that all the mounted Indians had gone past me. Some of them were in the act of turning to rend my flesh in one unattractive way or another, while others were going on towards the wagon. I remember seeing a puff of smoke from the vehicle which showed that somebody there was firing at the attackers.


  My dismounted Indian still clung to my horse’s bridle and seemed to be making an effort to climb aboard him. The danger of losing my horse seemed the most vital thing in my life at that moment, so I hit the Indian with the butt of the Spencer. I hit him very hard. If the blow did not kill him, it should have rendered him inoperative for some time. You may imagine my chagrin at having him turn on me like a cornered cougar, his face distorted with rage and hate. I hastily reversed the Spencer, lined it up with him and pressed the trigger, only to find that I had failed to lever a shot into the breech.

  It was too late to remedy this failure, for he was on me like a spitting wildcat. Again I hit dirt. This time with a one-hundred-and-sixty-pound Indian on top of me. As he did not seem to possess a weapon, he was trying to kill me with his bare hands. I heard the horses of the others come close and I thought: This is the end of Matthew Chisholm, late of Coney Creek, Texas.

  I rolled and threw my assailant off me. He hit the ground on his back. This seemed to act upon him like a spring. He appeared to bounce effortlessly to his feet and, while I stared at him in total amazement, he plucked something from the ground and jumped in close to me. I saw that he held a very short lance. As he thrust downward with it, I rolled desperately to the right. This brought me close to one of the Indian ponies. I chose the wrong moment, naturally; the moment in which the Indian was in the act of dismounting.

  He trod on my face.

  I lashed out blindly with the Spencer and I think I hit the horse’s hind leg. The animal jumped and the Indian lost his balance. I started to rise and found that I was underneath the horse. It was a matter of go back or go on. I went on, kicking myself as hard as I knew how to the far side of the animal. I came to my feet to find another mounted Indian in the act of lunging at me with his spear.

  To save myself I instinctively thrust out a hand and brushed the point aside. I brought the Spencer over one-handed. The blow was not delivered well. I no more than clipped the bridge of his nose with the butt. However, it was enough to put him off his stride a little. He staggered back and that gave me the chance to take hold of my carbine with both hands and deliver him a blow which was of some benefit to me. Naturally, it did not do him a lot of good. In fact, as it hit him in the belly, he doubled up and gave me the opportunity of belting him across his shiny black tresses with the brass-bound butt of the Spencer. After that he looked for a moment as if he were attempting to stand on his head.