The other buck had turned and was coming back, his object the pack-horse. José started to head in the same direction, but suddenly he slowed and started walking in a tight circle clutching his chest.
Something died in Mcallister and he urged his pony faster.
The returning warrior leaned from the saddle and scooped up the lead-rope of the pack-horse, fought the reluctant animal for a second, then headed back in McAllister’s direction. The horseman from the wagons was shooting now.
Mcallister heard a rifle fired from his right and, turning in the saddle, saw three Apache crouching low over their animal’s necks and racing toward their fellow.
José pitched onto his face and lay still.
A shrill cry brought McAllister’s attention to the Apache with the pack-animal and he knew without being told and though he had never seen the man before that this was Gato.
Rage took possession of Mcallister and self-preservation was beyond him. Crazily he drove the small pinto into the charging man. Gato’s horse staggered and reared, McAllister’s mount swerved wildly and nearly unseated him. The vicious blow of the war-club, meant for his head, struck the little pinto and nearly stunned it. As it stumbled and nearly went down, Gato kicked his own pony closer and made a back-handed side-sweep with the club. Mcallister went out of the saddle in a forward dive, arm and knife like a haft and spearhead. The force of the Indian’s blow brought the man close into Mcallister right onto the point of the blade. Gato tried to wrench himself away, turning his pony’s head and, the blade still in his chest, got clear of McAllister.
A shot whistled past McAllister’s head. Glancing right, he saw an Apache buck with his carbine poised. A shot from behind showed that the rider from the wagons was close. The movement of hoofs near at hand, drew McAllister’s attention back to Gato. With blood streaming from his chest and his eyes wild, the chief was jumping his mount towards him, that murderous club swinging for the final blow. As it descended, Mcallister went over the far side of the pinto, hit ground and dived forward. One of the little horse’s hoofs grazed his head as the animal jumped forward in its fright, then Mcallister was on his feet, tearing Gato from the saddle.
The man was wounded, but fight was still in him. Too much for McAllister. Having got him off the horse, he found he had a handful he couldn’t hold. An elbow in the face broke his hold and before he could roll, he felt the club nearly break his left shoulder. He groaned and fell back, helpless, looked up and saw that club aimed for his head. He tried rolling again, but he couldn’t move.
Very close a gun went off.
The club fell across McAllister’s legs. Gato was knocked sideways as if he weighed no more than a piece of paper and seemed to fade into the dust of the desert. Mcallister turned his head and saw van Tannenberg firing at the Indian with the carbine. Mcallister started to get to his feet and found himself fainting.
“Getting to be a damned habit,” he said and fainted.
He came to as they threw water into his face.
The first person he saw was Sam Pritchard. The little man looked worried. Turning his head, he saw Jack and George Rawlins. They looked worried too. Then he saw the widow and it seemed to him that she looked most worried of all. Which was a pretty good thing, he thought.
“Well,” he said, “here we are.”
The lieutenant pushed his way through the others and stood looking down at him.
“Come, my friend,” he said. “We will get you to a wagon. You need a doctor. Will you go back to town or on to the fort.”
Mcallister grinned.
“Going to be a long time before I get back to Mesquite, I reckon. I killed a couple of marshals there.”
That shook them.
“How many men has this gold cost?” the soldier said.
Mcallister looked around for José. He didn’t see him.
“The Navajo,” he said. “Did he—?”
“He’s dead. Too many men have died. This has been a bad business.”
“Ain’t it? But it has its compensations.” When he looked at the widow, she was smiling and he knew he was right. “Get me up, fellers, and dump me in a wagon. Maybe, you’d come along, ma’am, and take a look at this wound of mine. My, I’m going to need a whole lot of nursing.”
The two brothers Rawlins picked him up and George grinned as he said: “I guess he’ll live.”
This electronic edition published in 2011 by Bloomsbury Reader
Bloomsbury Reader is a division of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc, 50 Bedford Square, London WC1B 3DP
Copyright © Matt Chisholm
The moral right of author has been asserted
All rights reserved
You may not copy, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise make available this publication
(or any part of it) in any form, or by any means (including without limitation electronic, digital,
optical, mechanical, photocopying, printing, recording or otherwise), without the prior written
permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this
publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages
ISBN: 9781448203970
eISBN: 9781448203383
Visit www.bloomsburyreader.com to find out more about our authors and their books
You will find extracts, author interviews, author events and you can sign up for
newsletters to be the first to hear about our latest releases and special offers
McAllister Page 14