McAllister

by Matt Chisholm

  As Gato levered the Winchester for his second shot, he became aware of his men thrusting their heads and shoulders from their hiding places. Out there on the plain, one of the White Eyes had wheeled his horse in his panic and crashed into a couple of pack-mules. A big man in the lead was shouting at the top of his voice for the others to follow him. He had sense that one. He dug in the spurs, lashed not only his own horse with his quirt, but the pack mules also. Several men started to follow him and Gato decided that he must be Clover. The rider who had headed back for the trees was fired at from the cover he was seeking and Gato guessed the old man he had left with the women had not been able to resist the chance of battle and had disobeyed orders. But he was a good man, he shot the rider and the horse carried on into the trees.

  But Gato had no time to be a spectator. He fired after the big man while the others poured fire into the others, those that followed the big man and those that milled about and fired their guns. Another saddle was emptied at once, they got some sense into their heads and went hard after the big man. Gato had missed him and he became angry. The Indians in the other trenches on the other side of the whitemen were firing off ammunition as though it grew on trees, but they were not getting much satisfaction.

  Gato chuckled. The White Eyes had underestimated the Apache. The big man had no sooner thought himself clear of danger that he almost rode on top of the third detachment of Indians. Gato saw the dark heads with their bright head-cloths bob into sight and saw the black smoke of the rifles blossom. A horse screamed and went down. A man beside Gato started shrieking with laughter and yelling obscenities at the enemy.

  Gato said crisply: “That won’t kill them. Only you and your rifle will.”

  The chief vaulted out of the pit and started running toward the now halted whitemen. He cried out for the others to follow him and heard the slap of their feet as they came out of cover and ran in his wake. They hadn’t gone far when Gato saw the White Eyes spot their silent charge and lift their rifles to stop it. Butt no sooner touched shoulder than the chief had swerved violently and flung himself flat. The lead whined harmless over the Apaches’ heads as they followed their leader’s example.

  One of the whitemen cried out and fell forward over his saddlehorn, a horse went down coughing and suddenly all the whitemen were getting quickly to the ground. Some lay down and some knelt as they fired at the Indians.

  A young man near Gato said: “Let us get our horses and charge them.”

  That’s all the young knew—the charge. The sudden excitement and the quick passing of danger. But that was not the way Gato fought. Not against men like Clover who could shoot guns straight.

  “You are a fool,” Gato told him. “Lie still and let the White Eyes do the charging. Then we will kill them all.”

  * * *

  Clover was saying: “Charge ’em. That’s the on’y way to settle them red bastards.”

  One of his men said: “Hell, how can we with them pack-mules.”

  Clover laughed. Strangely enough it sounded like he was really amused. They looked at him in wonder. His great unshaven, sweat- and dust-streaked face beamed like a rough-hewn moon.

  “They’re on foot,” he said. “Put yourself in their boots. Lyin’ down on your belly with hosses comin’ at you. You think of the iron shoes and what they can do to you. A hossman takes a hell of a lot of stopping.”

  Franchon who looked as cool as if he were dealing faro back at the Springs said, “What about the ones behind us?” He fired as a head appeared over a mound of sand and cursed gently as he missed.

  “We hit them up ahead,” Clover told him, “and them others are out of range.”

  He gave his orders.

  Suddenly every man turned and fired at the line of Indians still in the crevices. As soon as the black heads ducked to get down out of the withering fire, every man swung into the saddle. The startled horses tried to turn every which way, but the spur and quirt drove them straight into a hard run. When the leaders tried to swerve aside as the rifles up ahead of them cracked into action, those behind avalanched them forward. Clover became a violent tornado of motion. Lashing the laden mules into a run, he drove the horse under him straight for the now startled Apache. Clover fired his rifle once, drove it home into the scabbard at his knee and drew his Colt’s gun, yelling at the top of his voice to keep his own and his men’s courage at its zenith.

  As he had ordered, his men kept roughly together until the last moment, then, as they were almost on top of the Indians lying on the nearly flat ground, they spread out. Seeker, the wounded man, reeled from his saddle, coughing a stream of blood; another man was catapulated forward as his horse went down under an adept piece of hamstringing on the part of a daring Indian. Clover caught sight of a distorted and savage face at his knee, glimpsed briefly the flash of a knife in the sun and fired point-blank. There was time only to see the small dark hole in the face, then he was past and driving full-tilt into an Indian who was scrambling to his feet to get out of his way. The shoulder of his horse caught the Indian and knocked him from his feet. The two mules on the lead rope tried to jump him, but one failed and trod him into the ground.

  Ahead of him he caught sight of a brave whose guts had run out of him. He fired and missed because his horse was acting up, pitching badly in the excitement. Beside him a gun went off and the Indian tripped and took a header into the sand and lay twitching like a crazy marionette. Clover glanced left to see Franchon’s white face. Clover laughed and roared: “A pretty shot, by Gawd.”

  He got a tight rein on his horse and started yelling: “Turn around, turn around.”

  He turned his own mount with some difficulty, then fought the iron-mouthed mules and saw to his dismay that his men were showing signs of running for it. The damned fools! If they tried that the Indians would pick them off. He roared louder. Men faltered, reined in and turned. Clover glowed. He still had a hold on them.

  “Hit the bastards again,” he bellowed and led the mules again in a clumsy charge.

  A couple of Indians ran like cottontails, leapt in the air and disappeared with incredible speed into the earth. Clover took a snapshot at another and missed. Franchon rode one down, turned coolly in the saddle and shot the man through the head as he started to rise.

  Suddenly, as if he had appeared from nowhere like a wraithe in the choking dust, an Indian was in front of Clover. Even in that short second, the outlaw could see the man’s handsome, calm features. He raised the revolver he held in his left hand and fired. Clover heard the shot sing viciously past his ear, chopped off a shot and tried to ride the man down. The Indian sidestepped neatly without any perturbation showing on his face and fired again as Clover passed him. The outlaw felt a terrible blow in his side, so hard that he was almost knocked from the saddle. Grabbing the saddlehorn, he felt the horse starting to pitch again under him and told himself that his life depended on his staying in the saddle. The horse slewed around as he unwittingly heaved on the reins and a mule barged into it. Clover cursed insanely, drove the spurs home and sent the horse hard to the left, felt him starting to bolt and let it have its head.

  That was the wisest thing he ever did in his life, both for himself and his men. Everybody saw him take this sudden change of direction and followed him. They went out of the fight at a flat run, leaving the Indians firing at them futilely.

  They continued the reckless pace for a couple of miles then Clover, getting a grip on himself and fighting the terrible pain in his side, pulled up. He got himself upright in the saddle and took a look at the remnants of his little force.

  Four men and one of them was Franchon. He smiled wryly to himself. The cards weren’t falling so bad. He wanted that white-faced sonovabitch dead, but not till they were safe in Mesquite. Alive, he was a good man to have around with Indians all over.

  One of the other men was the Carmody hand.

  His own two men were Schneider and Rand. Not too bright either of them, but they’d follow him. Things could b
e worse. He looked past them and searched the now sun-blasted country with his red-rimmed eyes. Not a sign of dust. That didn’t mean there wouldn’t be pretty soon. If that was Gato back there, he’d keep on coming.

  Franchon was eyeing the blood on his shirt.

  “You hit?” he asked.

  Clover laughed. He could always raise that laugh, particularly when the going was tough. He replied in his most civil voice.

  “Sure. It ain’t the first time, son. I’ll live, if that’s what’s frettin’ yawl.”

  Rand said: “That was sure a close call.” He tried to keep his voice level and show just how tough a hand he was, but it shook and they all knew he felt as they did.

  “What the hell happens now?” Schneider demanded. His voice shook and he didn’t give a damn who noticed.

  “Wa-al,” Clover said with a fine show of carelessness, “I have hole in my side you could put your goddam fist in. I don’t aim to git my shells wet, so how about one of you hombres patchin’ me up?”

  He climbed slowly out of the saddle, straining on the horn so he wouldn’t pain his side and they got to work on him. No lead was found in him and it was reckoned that the ball had bounced off his ribs without breaking them. There was a lot of blood and pieces of torn flesh that looked pretty untidy, but when they had stuffed the torn-off tail of his shirt over the wound and bound his bandanna around him tight as he could bear it, he claimed he felt as good as new.

  “You fellers did a good job,” he declared and beamed on them.

  Just then, Rand, who had been sent up a ridge to keep a look out, came riding toward them hell-for-leather shouting that the Indians were coming. It was now that they all saw that Clover had not stopped on this spot by accident. Right near where they were standing was a small patch of broken ground. All around it for nearly a half-mile was flat open ground. Anybody trying to get at them here would have to make a target of himself for a long time.

  “Fort up, boys,” Clover said, leading the way, dragging his horse and the two mules behind him. They followed him and settled themselves down. They managed to make one of the horses and two of the mules lie down, the rest they got into the best cover they could.

  After a while, when their nerves were starting to sing unpleasant songs of fearful anticipation, Rand sang out: “There they are,” and pointed to a ridge about a mile off.

  Every man turned and saw the wild horsemen hazily in the heat, backed by the hot eternity of the sky.

  Aloud, Clover counted them.

  “On’y eleven of’em,” Schneider declared, trying to find comfort in the old tale that one whiteman was worth six Indians and not finding much.

  “Enough,” Clover said.

  “This is all fine and dandy,” Carmody’s man said, “we’m all forted up, but them bastards could sit out there for days till our water run out.” He looked at Clover bitterly. “We shoulda gorn back to the water like some of us wanted.”

  “Yeah,” Clover said scathingly. “Right back into the rocks so’s one of them boys could walk clear up to you an’ cut your fool throat.”

  The Apache were motionless and every man watching them could feel the malignancy of their distant gaze.

  Clover said: “Gato ain’t nobody’s fool. He’ll make another try for us. We’ll knock maybe a couple of’em over and he’ll git back outa range for a think. After that he’ll settle down to jest followin’ us.”

  Rand said: “He’ll git us in the end most like.”

  Clover laughed as if that was very funny.

  “Boy, quit that. You think I’m fool enough to pick men that couldn’t shoot straight and didn’t have guts. You’re shook up now. But when them red devils start out after us, you’ll be okay. You’ll see.”

  He saw the hope come into Rand’s eyes and knew that he had not lost his magic.

  Clover jerked his head in the direction of the Indians, still motionless.

  “Trouble is,” he said, “most men can on’y see things with their own eyes. Now you use your ee-magination. Put yourself up there in them Injuns place. Maybe you think they’s sittin’ up there chewin’ over cool as you like what they’s goin’ to do to us’ns. They ain’t. They’s tryin’ to git up enough sand to come in here an’ git us.” Clover smiled benignly. “They won’t never do that. They’ll come just so far. When they see a few of their pals dyin’, the guts’ll run out on ’em.”

  He took his attention from the Indians, seemed to forget the men around him who watched him closely to see the depth of his courage and started checking on his ammunition and his guns. The Colt’s gun had some dust in it and he cleaned it off carefully before he put it away. Each man then remembered that his life depended on his weapons and looked to them, glancing every now and again up at the ridge to see if the Apache were still there. Schneider drew and felt the edge of his knife.

  Suddenly Franchon said: “They’ve gone.”

  They all looked and saw that the ridge-top was bare.

  Men swallowed, tongues licked dry lips and eyes darted around the horizon in search of movement. The sun reflected painfully into their eyes and put fire behind their eyeballs. One or two shook their canteens to see how much water they had.

  Clover didn’t miss the movement.

  “Any man takes a drink before I tell him gits a bullet between the eyes.” He left it at that and they knew he meant it and they knew how important it was that they conserve their water. For the first time, they realised that there was a greater enemy out here than the Indians.

  Franchon was the exception. Even in that moment of danger, he saw fit to say: “I drink when I want.”

  Clover chuckled cheerfully.

  “Brother,” he said, “you best not want.”

  Suddenly Carmody’s driver shrieked: “Look!”

  They all swung to face the north.

  A thin cry like that of a wild bird on the wing, keened across the flat as a line of horseman came at a steady trot down a ridge. The whitemen could see nothing clearly in the heat, but here and there they caught a glimpse of bright cloth and the glisten of the sun on metal. They were still in line ahead when they hit the flat, but they scattered like deer when Rand, suddenly losing his nerve, sent a shot at them. He worked his lever for a second shot, but he did not trigger it off because Clover got to a knee and leaning forward cracked him hard on the side of his head with his clenched fist. Rand turned a raging and terrified face to him.

  “Fire when I tell you, you goddam fool,” Clover told him. “Our shot might have to last us a week. Ever’ time you fire, you hit an Injun, hear? Schneider, you keep an eye on the south, case the bastards’re bein’ slippery.”

  “They’re all there,” Carmody’s driver said.

  “Maybe.”

  Clover lifted his rifle.

  “Now,” he said, “I’m takin’ the boyo on the pinto. Rest of you take your opposites.”

  They straddled their legs, implanted their elbows firmly and sighted, preparing for shots that would tell. The Indians suddenly lashed their ponies into a mad gallop, yelling at the tops of their voices. Clover, cool as you like now, because he had to be for his life, sensed the tension rising in his men.

  “Not yet,” he said and at least one of them was stopped from firing.

  The Indians pounded to within a quarter mile, but Clover still held his fire. When he could see the ocher and vermilion paint clearly on the face of the savage on the pinto, he fired. As the man was driven backwards over the rump of his speeding horse, every man among the Clover party unleased his taut nerves by the simple means of squeezing a trigger with the gentleness of an artist. As the black powder enveloped them blindingly for a moment a sorrel pony leapt into the air and came down with a sound which they could hear clearly. Clover crawled rapidly to one side to get out of his smoke, spotted the unhorsed Indian scrambling to his feet and knocked him down again. He didn’t doubt the man was dead any more than he doubted he had shot him clean through the head. The Indians were shaken, but they w
eren’t finished. A couple of them turned and kicked their horses back the way they had come, but several more tried to carry out their instructions to get on either side of the defenders and swung off to either flank. The withering fire they met quickly told them they wouldn’t make it. Inside a couple of minutes, the only evidence that Indians had been there was a thick pall of dust.

  Among the Clover gang, one man was coughing his heart out on the acrid smoke, another spat to clear his mouth, another laughed as if he had just witnessed the funniest sight of his life. Only there was a queer uncontrollable note in the sound of it. That was Rand. He stopped when Clover slapped his face.

  “Like I said,” Clover told them. “They didn’t have the sand.”

  “What now?” Franchon asked and Clover saw that even he looked to him for leadership.

  “Fork your ponies and we’ll ride.”

  “Hell, they’ll be back.”

  “They’ll be back a whole lot of times yet. But each time they come we’ll be a mite nearer the Springs.”

  They got aboard and started off south, most of them with their chins on their shoulders.

  “Wastin’ your time,” Clover told them. “He won’t come that way again. That Gato’s thinkin’ up somethin’ real special for us.”

  He lifted his horse into a steady gallop, dragging the pack mules behind him. He’d get himself and the gold to Mesquite if it cost every man there. He didn’t think it strange that a man like himself who couldn’t be scared by such a man as Gato, should be keeping his word at the risk of his life for a feeble old man like Carmody.

  16

  Mcallister Headed toward the sound of gunfire acting as if danger might jump him from every clump of sage-brush he passed. Every ridge he came to, he climbed carefully, peering over cautiously into the country beyond before he trusted himself against the skyline.

  He never did catch up with the men firing those guns that day, because he nearly rode on top of Gato’s horse-guard.