It was toward the end of the day when he had decided that he would not find the encampment that night and might as well bed down in the snow when he sighted the smoke of the fires. He climbed a ridge and there was the camp spread out before him in the dusk.
Full dark had descended by the time he rode among the tipis and there was scarcely an Indian in sight. He rode almost to the tent of Many Horses before he was discovered by a squaw who ran shrieking that there was a whiteman among them. Only then did armed men appear.
Five minutes later McAllister squatted before Many Horses.
He waived the Cheyenne courtesies. He talked. He talked as he had never talked before. Many Horses’ son, Little Wolf, sat with them, listening, not speaking. At the moment, this was a personal matter and none of the other chiefs had been called in. It was between Many Horses and McAllister. The son could sit with them, even though he did not speak. Later, if the chiefs came in, the younger man would withdraw to the back of the tipi.
McAllister pled with Many Horses. He used Cheyenne words he thought he’d forgotten. He drew a picture of what the soldiers would do when they came. He reminded the chief what Anderson had done on the Washita the year before. There would be no mercy. Women and children would die.
When he finished, he knew he might have saved his breath.
Many Horses said: “I will not break faith. I and the soldier chief spoke and gave our words. He said I would be protected and I said that I would not make war.”
“But, father, your young men already make war. The braves that attacked us on Indian Creek were from this village. Mangold saw them and recognised them.”
The old man nodded.
“That is true and they will be punished.”
“But that will not save your people. There is only one thing that can save them now.”
“And what is that?”
“You must move camp.”
“The people would suffer in this snow.”
“Better to suffer than to be dead.”
“The soldier chief told me that if we fly the American flag over the village we shall be safe. The flag is flying. The soldiers will not attack us under that. The flag is sacred to them.”
McAllister was almost beside himself. He talked some more, showed anger to the chief. Many Horses did not rebuke him even though he was unmannerly. Instead, he said: “We will send for the other chiefs. We will talk. This is not something I can decide alone.”
The other chiefs came, trooping solemnly into the tipi, squatting in a circle, sharing the pipe that was passed hand by hand. They listened to Many Horses. They spoke in their turn, not hurrying, driving McAllister beyond patience with their slow deliberation.
The last to speak was Strong Bear.
He was the war chief. A slight handsome Indian, a little younger than Many Horses, but still, to McAllister, an old man. He was a modest, quietly-spoken man of almost humble manner. His blanket was old and worn, for there was little worldly pride to the man. He spoke last and he spoke with authority, glancing from face to face as he gently pushed the words at them.
“It is true my young men go out against the soldiers. Why should they not? The soldiers come to fight. It is their business. My young men fight, they are soldiers, and that is their business. They know what the whiteman intends – the end of all Indians. We are being pushed off the world. The buffalo are going, the end is near and it is fitting that when the end comes that it will come with fighting.”
An old chief said: “But the end is not come and it is not the will of the people that we go to war. The soldier chief promised us. The American flag flies over our heads and while it is there no harm will come to us.”
Many Horses said: “Strong Bear is wise in war. For a long time I have taken council with him. But he does not have power among the people until the people are at war. And the people are not at war now. Let us consider carefully. Let Strong Bear consider carefully. He leans too hard toward war and if he leans hard he will take some of the people with him and the people will be split.”
Strong Bear said: “I have no real part in this council, Many Horses is right, for my voice may only be heard in the councils of war. Therefore let us have a council of war, for already many of the people have their minds on war. If you are wrong, fathers, and the soldiers come and they harm the people it will be war, therefore I must be prepared. Let me go with the young men toward the soldiers so that we may stand between them and the people.”
McAllister spoke: “May I speak, fathers?”
They turned and stared at him.
“Speak,” said Many Horses.
“You know me, I am with the soldiers, yet some part of me is here with you. And I say this to you: neither stay here nor fight. Either will bring about the end the white soldier chief wishes. I do not want to see the Cheyenne die in glory or shot down helplessly in this village. I want to see them alive and free. Therefore, I say, go. Go now. This very night. Go while you are alive and are able to go.”
One of the sub-chiefs said: “This is madness, this talk of going. The little children would perish in this cold.”
“And what, father, will happen to them if the soldiers come here?”
“We have the flag.”
McAllister stared at the older man in exasperation for a moment.
“The flag,” he said, “will not ward off bullets, it will not protect you against the long knives of the pony soldiers. If there is no danger to you, why have I risked so much to come here to warn you?”
“Yes,” said Strong Bear, “that is a question I have asked myself. Why have you come here? How do we know that your words are true?”
McAllister said: “You are right to be sceptical. But ask yourself what would the soldiers gain by my warning you?”
The war-chief leaned forward.
“That is easy to answer – the people on the move will be even more helpless than they would be in this camp. Here we are all together, strong like a bundle of sticks tied close. On the march we would be scattered, easily attacked.”
“That is not so,” McAllister said. “You would be moving under the protection of your mounted braves who can move more quickly than the slow pony soldiers. Out on the trail you would have room to maneuver. On the trail you would be able to evade the soldiers. Here you cannot move. Here your tents and your goods can be destroyed.”
Strong Bear stood up.
“No,” he said in his soft concise voice. “You, fathers, will not move. I may stay and talk here all night, but you will not move. Neither what the Diver says nor what I say will make any difference. Your paths and mine are parted. It is sad and were the moment not urgent I could find the tears to shed. But the moment is urgent and I must act. I and the young men who are willing will go to meet the soldiers. If they are not there, we will come back shamed, but that is something we have to risk. There is too much at stake for any other action. If we find them, then we shall delay them and word shall be sent to you to flee.”
Many Horses raised a hand.
“Wait. Pause to think. If you ride to meet the soldiers they will think we all want war. Then they will attack us for sure.”
Strong Bear smiled.
“If we attack them first, they will be too busy staying alive to think of attacking you.”
He folded his blanket around him and stalked to the door. He pointed to McAllister.
“The Diver stays here,” he said. “He is the only man who could betray us. If he tries to leave, kill him.”
McAllister stood up, hand on the butt of the Remington, knowing the gesture was useless. Unless Strong Bear willed it, he would have little chance of getting out of there alive. The war-chief ignored him, stooped and went out of the tipi. Many Horses reached out and touched McAllister’s leg.
“Rest easy, son,” he said. “You are safe whilst you are in my lodge.”
McAllister sat down again and the talk went on. But the heart had gone out of it. Strong Bear would act, no matter what t
he peace-chiefs of the tribe thought and said. And the war-chief would have a strong following. He was a dynamic man whom men looked to for leadership. An hour passed, McAllister’s eyelids started to droop sleepily in the close heat of the tent. Little Wolf slipped out and McAllister knew that the chief’s own son may well have gone to join the war-party. If Many Horses noticed, he gave no sign. Then the chiefs drifted away and nobody was left but Many Horses and his immediate family. There was Red Feather, his fat and smiling wife; Falling Leaf, Little Wolf’s pretty young wife, her child, crooning softly under the wall of the tent, his small brown hands clutching.
“Think of your family,” McAllister said.
Many Horses looked at him somberly.
“I think of my whole family which is the people. If we flee as you suggest, then we incur for certain the wrath of the soldiers. No, son, I have the promise of the soldier chief. I must do nothing to feed the anger of the soldiers against my people. My path is not the path of glory that every man wishes to follow, but it is the path which every honest chief must choose. I must choose the one that will bring the greatest number of my people to safety and peace.”
“But Strong Bear will go out with the warriors and the general will know they come from here.”
“When Anderson is nearer word will be brought to me. Then I will go out to meet him. We will talk and he will know that I speak truthfully. I will make him understand.”
“I tried, chief. I tried to make him understand.”
“I know. You have been a good friend to the Cheyenne. We shall not forget. But now, stay close. The young men are angry and it is not safe for a whiteman to walk about the camp. Stay here with me and you will be safe.”
Red Feather fed him, but he was not hungry. He wrapped himself in a buffalo robe and tried to sleep, knowing that he would have to be out of here soon or the army would find him here and that would be the end of him. He wished to God he had never hired on as a scout in the first place and once he had signed on he wished he had broken his pledge and ridden away south back home to Texas where he could have minded his own fool business and nursed cows.
He heard the cries of the gathered women outside, the gathering of horsemen. The drums beat and the singers raised their voices. Moccasined feet stamped the winter-hard ground in the war-dance, men called on the spirits to aid them, men searched in their hearts to see if their medicine was good. In the dawn, the warriors would ride out, seeking death or glory and only the women and children and those loyal to Many Horses would be left in camp. The sitting ducks would be left sitting, ready for the slaughter. His guts churned over at the thought. In his mind’s eye he saw the snow blood-red, the women and children shot down just as they had been on the Washita the year before.
With the sound of the drums in his ears, he at last drifted off into sleep that was ridden by dreams, dreams of death, of shame and fear.
Chapter 5
Dawn.
Somebody was outside breaking wood for the fire. McAllister lifted his head. The only other person in the lodge but himself was the girl-wife, Falling Leaf. She saw him and smiled. He smiled back.
“Little Wolf,” he said, “has he gone with the warriors to fight the soldiers?”
“No,” she replied, “he has gone to watch for Many Horses.”
He threw back the robe, pulled on his boots and buckled the Remington’s belt around his waist. Going out of the tent he felt the cold blast of winter. At her wood-breaking, Red Feather turned to smile at him.
“Where is Many Horses, mother?” he asked.
“To swim in the creek,” she said.
McAllister shuddered at the thought. The old man must be as tough as rawhide.
He looked about him. Women were at their chores outside their lodges. Whatever the weather, women went about their work. Some boys fooled down by the creek. They were naked in the snow and an old man was ordering them into the water. One by one they obeyed him and dove into the water, the old man shouting encouragement to them. McAllister looked beyond the camp, seeing the pony herd on the far side of the creek, the animals either pawing their way to grass through the snow or browsing on the twigs and bark of trees. They would be half-starved now. The horses on which Strong Bear and his men were riding would be in the same condition, neither run nor stamina in them. They would be no match for the corn-fed horses of the soldiers.
Depression fell on McAllister. He knew that if he were half-smart he would be able to think of something to make Many Horses pack up camp and move, but he wasn’t half-smart enough and, though he searched his mind for an idea, he found nothing. He was bereft of ideas. The desperation of the moment seemed to have paralysed his brains.
Many Horses came up from the creek, dripping with water and smiling, obviously invigorated by the icy dip. He called a greeting to McAllister and passed into his lodge. McAllister replied sourly. He went inside to find the chief reclining against his backrest. He squatted down.
“Chief, hear me for the last time.”
Many Horses gestured for him to continue.
“By now Strong Bear will have met the soldiers. By now Anderson will know for sure that there is a camp here and that it is hostile. This is your last chance to pull out.”
“No, son. As I have said. If we leave here that will make us hostile in the eyes of the soldiers. I shall go and speak with Anderson. Time enough then to flee if we have to.”
McAllister said: “You don’t know Anderson like I do. If you go speak with him, he’s liable to put you under arrest. Where will your people be then?”
“No,” Many Horses said. “I shall go to him under a flag of truce. The pony soldiers respect such a flag. It is their custom.”
McAllister didn’t say anything more. He knew that there was no moving the chief and that he was beaten. What he had to think about now was saving his own hide.
“If the soldiers come here, chief, I’m a dead man,” he said. “You know that.”
“I know it and I shall not forget you.”
McAllister got up and walked outside the lodge. It was then that he spotted the two warriors. One was away to his right, sitting cross-legged in front of a fire for warmth. His rifle was across his knees. The other fellow was off to the left, standing leaning against a tree, rifle in hand. McAllister didn’t have any doubt that they were watching him. Not much chance of getting out of here without Many Horses’ say-so. Inwardly McAllister raged. He was as much a sitting duck as the Indians.
If he got out of this alive he could see himself becoming the best-hated man on the frontier, the Indian-lover, the man who betrayed the soldiers to the hostiles, the blood-thirsty Indians. But, God, that was the last thing he wanted to do. But only he knew that all he wanted to do was to save bloodshed. He just didn’t want a bunch of innocent people dying. He didn’t want the women and children hunted like beasts through the snow. Who would ever believe him? Who, if they did believe him, would care that he had tried to save Indians’ lives? Who would think Indians’ lives worth saving?
What would old Chad McAllister have done? What would he have thought?
McAllister knew the answer to that. The old bastard wouldn’t have given a damn what anybody else thought. He went his own way all his life; not always doing what he thought was right, but certainly doing what he wanted. Maybe they both amounted to the same thing to the old man.
He almost heard the old man’s voice –
Bust outa there, son, while you’re still alive. You did what you could. Git on thet fancy hoss o’ yourn an’ ride the hell away from it all.
McAllister knew he couldn’t do that. Maybe it was because of his Indian blood. He felt a fatalistic urge to stay. Somehow his fate seemed tied up with these people. He had to see the drama or the tragedy played out to the end. What did it matter what the majority of whitemen would think of him? He had to do what he thought was right. While there was still a slender chance of his doing something for Many Horses and his people, he must stay. If Anderson attacked t
he camp, he, McAllister, must take just one more of the chances that he had so often taken in his short life. If the soldiers came, he’d get a leg over the canelo and hightail out of there as if all the devils in hell were after him, banking on the horse’s speed and stamina.
In the midst of this reverie, he heard a distant shout.
Turning and lifting his eyes, he saw the horseman, a small dot on the ridge top. A woman nearby cried out in a hoarse voice and pointed excitedly. People were coming out of the lodges. Many Horses appeared, buffalo robe clutched around his shoulders. He looked up at the horseman. Did his eyes show alarm for a second?
“The soldiers!” he cried. “Is it possible that they’re so close.”
He called to Red Feather.
She came running with his pony. Men were catching up their horses tethered at the doors of their lodges; they hurried to their chief. The sub-chiefs came hurrying. Red Feather demanded to know what Many Horses thought he was going to do. To speak with the soldier chief, he told her brusquely. Looking like that, she cried. It wasn’t fitting that a great chief should go to meet the whiteman looking like that. Why, his face was not even painted. He gestured her away and vaulted, agile as a young man, on to the back of his paint-stallion. His heels drummed the animal’s belly and it trotted between the lodges toward the ridge. The sub-chiefs followed; a dozen warriors brought up the rear. McAllister stood watching them go, wondering how far away the soldiers were. He glanced around and saw that the two Indians were still watching him.
Chapter 6
It had stopped snowing and the air was still and crisp so that every sound was exaggerated to the human ear. The world seemed full of the sound of bridle-chains, of the soft plod-plod of the horses’ hoofs in the snow and the gentle rattle of accoutrements. There was still corn left for the horses and the animals were full, moving forward with a will. The fact cheered the general, riding in the lead – he would catch the Indians while their horses were weak and for once his cavalry would ride rings around them. Anderson was feeling cheerful; he felt in his bones that success was near. All he wanted now was a little luck, such as coming on the village at the first light of dawn, taking it completely by surprise. The one thing that worried him was that McAllister had not returned. He smiled to himself. Maybe that was because the command had not waited at Indian Creek as he had promised, but had pressed on north-west, believing old Tom Mangold when he said that the village was there.
McAllister Fights Page 5