McAllister (16 page)

He hadn't told them, but they knew he was after horses. Sure, an Apache could get up on a horse and ride hell out of him when a whiteman had thought him run into the ground, but even in Apache eyes these mounts were no longer of much use.

“Soon it will be dawn,” Gato's son said rashly as a reminder, for anybody knew that any taking of horses must be done in the last gloaming of night and the first weak light of day when a man who is awake can see what needs to be seen and a man newly-woken does not see enough.

Gato grunted.

“You would like to ride to the edge of the town and steal the horses?” he asked innocently.

“Yes,” the young man answered eagerly.

“Go then.” And as the warrior got quickly to his feet, Gato added with humor in his voice: “I will wait for horses to come to me.”

That stopped the young man and alerted all of them. They listened and after a short while heard the sounds of which Gato had been aware before them. Horses were coming toward them from the direction of the town. One of the older men crowed with delight and softly slapped his naked thigh. The young man drew his breath in with shame, but when Gato called softly to him to prepare for action, his goodnature returned and he went smiling toward his pony.

Gato said: “Hold the noses of your horses,” and every man there moved quickly to obey. When each one of them held his horse, Gato included, the chief said: “There are four animals coming. It is important that we have all of them. Whether the riders live or die, I do not care. We must have the horses.”

They listened and knew that the approaching animals were moving at a steady trot and would pass them at about a hundred paces to the west. There was silence for several minutes until one of the whitemen's horses whinnied. This was a signal for one of the Indians to vault onto his mount's back but Gato hissed: “No!” and he stopped.

Thudding rhythmically in the dust, the horses drew opposite the waiting Indians and they were caught faintly by a cold light and moved through it like ghosts. The Apaches saw that there were two riders only and two pack animals.

“No shooting with guns,” Gato said and vaulted lightly into the old Mexican saddle. His horse was so tired that it refused to move, but a sharp cut with the quirt and it lifted itself into a stumbling run, straining up the steep grade of the ridge. Gato heard the naked rumps of his men slapping into their saddles behind him, forced his pony over the ridge and down towards the riders below him. His men streamed after him, holding back their war-cries until their victims sighted them. The only sound was that of the pounding hoofs and the thud of rifle-butts and bow-hafts on the backsides of the weary animals.

It seemed to Gato, as he headed for the two whitemen that they would never become aware of his approach half from the side and half from the rear. He got to within eighty feet, seventy feet, sixty feet, still neither of them stirred in the saddle. He flipped his heavy war-club by its wrist thong and caught it in his hand, hefting it for the first blow, savage anticipation filling his breast. Suddenly one of the horses whinnied again and the leading rider jerked around quickly in the saddle. He seemed to sit his trotting horse and stare at the Indians pounding down on him for an eternity, but when Gato howled his hatred at him, he answered with a shrill cry. At once the other figure moved and the two ridden horses jumped forward as though puppets worked on the same string. The pack-animals hung back as pack-horses will, but they were given no choice and their lead ropes snapped tight and hauled them ahead. A quirt snapped viciously and they jumped abruptly into willing action.

Gato thrashed his exhausted beast with his club, his savage cries chorusing with those of his followers for, horsemen as they were, each one of them knew that the whitemen's horses were fresh and might get away.

Dimly Gato saw the lead rider throw up his hand, saw the bright flame of a fired gun and felt the wind of a heavy ball pass his face. The shock of the near-miss clicked the mechanism of his mind. That front man was an Indian. He bellowed his rage again. His club rose and fell, trying to drive life into a horse which could not longer respond and Gato felt the
pursued men drawing away from him with every jump.

A rider drew level with him and he saw that it was his son, eagerly leaning forward over the neck of his straining mount, flogging its bony rump with the butt-end of a bow.

“They'll get away,” the young man shouted.

“No,” Gato screamed into the wind of his speed. “Your bow.”

The young man grinned quickly. His naked thighs tightened against the barrel of his pony as he reached back for an arrow and fitted its notch to the gut-string of his bow, his body swaying easily to the movement of the animal beneath him. The pursued were drawing away steadily, ten yards, fifteen yards, almost too far for the boy to make a hit at this pace.

“Quick!”

The young powerful body pulled the bow-string to the weapons full capacity and let fly. Even above the noise of the hoofs Gato heard the clear sweet twang. In the poor light he could not see the arrow's flight, but the men ahead did not waver. They thundered on toward the north.

“Again!” Gato bellowed. His horse was at the end of its strength. Once it stumbled and nearly fell, but Gato mastered it and kept it on its feet against the law of nature. It tried for him until it seemed its heart must break. Another one of his men passed him.

Again the big man in the lead turned in the saddle and fired that monstrous pistol of his. This time no ball tore the air near Gato, but the young man fell back onto the pounding rump of his pony, bounced twice and slid off into the dirt and into the path of the animals behind. Men swerved wildly to avoid him, a pony leapt him, then they were all intent on the chase again.

Gato screamed, slipped the club from his grasp and lifted the rifle from its loop over the saddle-horn, jacking a round into the breech and trying to get an uncertain aim On the figures ahead that were now disappearing into their own dust. As soon as he fired, his men resorted to firearms. Gato shouted for someone to go back and pick up the boy as soon as he had wasted three precious shots on the quarry who were by then well out of pistol-shot. Commonsense told him to call off the chase, but he was angry and thwarted and he had taken beatings enough. As the seconds passed his men were
using up shot and that was almost as precious as horse-flesh. He bawled his order for them to halt. They pulled in the horses that were only too willing to stop and grouped around him, sullen and angry.

Gato sat his heaving horse for a moment, calming himself, commanding his brain to rule his passion. Finally, he said softly: “We will get them. The desert is large and we have time.”

An older warrior said: “Time, but no horses.”

A younger man looked worried at such a tone being used to his leader, but Gato said nothing, except: “You will see.”

His mind got to work.

Two men, a whiteman and an Indian, setting out into the desert with pack-horses. That pack-saddles had contained something very heavy. Therefore, if two men should take such a risk as this, the contents of those saddles must be valuable. Now—both must head for water. What water? He smiled nodding to himself. Now he was sure that the horses would be his … and the contents of the saddles. Also a whiteman who would give pleasure to his warriors and give them new heart.

He pointed into the north-west and beat his horse into a heart-broken trot.

Already he saw himself regaining his self-respect after the ignominious treatment he and his men had received at the hands of the White Eyes. He would catch this whiteman and his Indian at the water-hole and give his men their pleasure, then he would go in search of the army wagons and with good fortune would catch them within sight of the fort. That would be his ultimate triumph. To let the soldier-chief see his own wagons being robbed and not be able to do anything about it. Good. He grunted his satisfaction. But, of course, all such thoughts meant nothing without fresh mounts.

A man rode alongside him and, turning his head, Gato saw that his son lay face down across the pommel of the saddle. And he was dead. Gato gave no sign of what he felt. He would give the young man burial, then these whitemen would pay.

Certainly the first part of Gato's plan would have been carried out without difficulty on the part of the Apache, if
chance and McAllister's physical condition had not been parts of the game.

Precisely two hours from the first running fight with the Indians after leaving Mesquite Springs, belt or no belt around the saddlehorn, Mcallister fell out of the saddle. The Navajo would have ridden on, unaware, if McAllister's horse had not bolted past him with an empty saddle. José turned his pony and went back. Mcallister lay face to the sky looking dead. The Indian slid from the saddle and bent to put an ear to McAllister's chest.

The big man lived.

The Navajo anxiously searched their back trail with eyes accustomed to this bleak sun-bleached moonscape and could find no movement. When he had checked on all the surrounding countryside, he looked for any cover such a barren country could offer. There was precious little and he had to mount his horse and search for a while till he found a shallow dry-wash that offered some sort of a ledge that cast a shadow. To this he brought Mcallister and with lukewarm water from the bag at his saddle he moistened the dry lips. After a while, Mcallister revived slightly.

He was surprised to find himself on his back.

“Wha' happened?”

“You fell.”

Mcallister struggled to sit upright.

“My God, the gold!”

“The gold is on the horses. Never fear.” The big brown hand pushed him onto his back again. “You rest for a little time, I think.”

Mcallister batted the hand away and struggled to his feet. When he stood swaying and waiting for the world to stop rocking, José said: “You damn fool, I think.”

“Ain't I?”

The next thing Mcallister knew, he was sitting on the ground feeling the big fool José had called him.

“You sleep one hour. I watch.”

There seemed to be some sense in that. Mcallister lay flat and thought about it. Maybe he would be stronger after some rest. But there were the Apache and here were the two of them with one ancient Dragoon gun between them …

Mcallister slept. The Indian climbed out of the drywash and ranged the desert with his keen eyes. After a while he
saw some dust to the south-west, but it was going away from them into the north-west, traveling slowly. That could be Gato and he would be heading for the waterhole at Brennan's Sink. He would be lucky if he found water there, because the Navajo had checked on that on the last trip across. Maybe the horses could moisten their mouths there, but no more.

José decided that when they moved, they should go directly west in a straight line for the fort. With luck they would hit the wagons or the fort before they were spotted by the Apache. He spat with some derision. The damn Mescaleros and the other wild people might make his bowels turn over in a sickly fear, but he despised them. They thought they were the smartest men alive, but they weren't smart enough to stay alive and strong like the Navajo. He squatted in the shade of his horse, wondering whether it would be wiser to wait for dark before they moved.

He wasn't strictly honest about letting Mcallister sleep for one hour, but his boss caught him out by waking after a couple of hours. He came up out of the arroyo so quietly that José nearly shot him dead before he recognised him.

“Put that damned cannon away,” Mcallister said shortly. “You said one hour, you goddam liar. I nearly slept the day through.”

To José's astonishment, Mcallister looked nearly as good as new. His face was drawn and the pain showed in his eyes, but he was moving pretty well. The Navajo tried suggesting waiting until dark, but it didn't go down very well and soon they were mounted and trotting their horses into the west. Mcallister agreed that that dust may well have been Gato's and it was probably the Sinks the Indians were headed for. So they kept to hard ground and rock where they could to raise as little dust as possible, riding with their chins on their shoulders and stopping every now and then to have a good look around. The horses were desert stock and, though not much to look at, certainly had the stamina for this kind of travel. The pack-horses under their great loads were showing more signs of wear than the saddle-stock and on them was lavished most of the water at the noon halt.

Somewhat to their surprise and greatly to their relief they found themselves still trotting west when night dropped suddenly on them. When they drew rein to rest the animals, Mcallister said: “You reckon they spotted us?”

“Yes,” the Navajo told him. “Maybe Gato go to the Sink, but he leave scout. You bet.”

They let the animals finish the water and no more than moistened their own mouths though Mcallister at least was now suffering uncomfortably with thirst. They lightened their horses of everything except their saddles and bridles and went on. During the night, they rested every two hours, then walked the horses for a while before they got aboard and suffered that hammering trot again. They were eating the distance and doing well, though men and animals were starting to suffer badly, but they reckoned that if they did not sight the wagons at dawn or shortly after they would be unlucky.

Dawn found them moving at a walk with the horses showing signs of wanting to stop. Both men were against doing that until the sun started to make itself felt. The chill of dawn was starting to admit defeat under attack from the sun when somebody fired a rifle at them from long range. Mcallister who was in the lead, heard the whine of the ball, saw the dust spurt away to his right and started to control his pitching horse before they heard the sound of the shot.

On glancing off to the right, both men saw the skylined figure as it stood and ran to its mount.

“Apache!” José spat out.