McAllister Rides (11 page)

Ahead of him was the side canyon he had inspected when he had first looked for Islop. He headed for that. He edged away from the canyon's edge onto the plain where the going would be easier. That way he was out of sight of the warriors below and they could think that he had headed east. There was a drop in the level of the ground so that, for a short while, the men behind could not see him and made it impossible for them to give his direction to those below. This suited his purpose nicely. He rode another half-mile when the country suddenly broke before him; he rode down into an arroyo, slipping and sliding, drove his mount merciless up the farther side and was among great rocks that reared fifty to a hundred feet high on either hand. They, he knew, would play hell with the sound of the pony's hoofs and might help him. He kept on going, keeping the dun to its hardest pace. The land fell away again and he was going down a sweeping
shelf of land that would take him to the side canyon. He looked back and could see nobody behind him. But he knew there would be pretty soon. Those bucks weren't going to give up so easily.

He reached the canyon, slowed a little and found a way down. That little dun was at home in this kind of country and took him down at a speed that took his breath away.

The weather had started to close in again now. Clouds were making their speedy way south from the north wind, the cold pierced his shirt. Discomfort had never been more welcome. He swung east along the canyon, letting the pony keep its own pace along the stone-littered way. The animal knew its safest speed and McAllister couldn't afford a broken leg now.

Then his pursuers spotted him. He looked back once and saw them streaming down from above, feathers fluttering in the wind. The canyon must have taken him for about a mile before it came to a dead halt, as he knew it would. He also remembered a way up. He set the game little animal at the steep and narrow trail, looked back and saw the dozen or so riders racing after him, dodging their mounts around the boulders and brush, riding like centaurs as only the Comanches could ride. As he paused he could hear the faint sound of their whoops against the wind.

When he reached the top, they reached the start of the little trail. He rode the dun a dozen paces back from the wall and returned to look down on them. They saw him and howled at him. He gathered rocks together and started pelting them. It wasn't a very glorious way of fighting, but it was effective and that satisfied McAllister. They fired at him to no purpose and he made it pretty plain to them that they weren't going to get up that trail after him. After a while, they gave up and, while some of them stayed at a distance to watch him, others rode off to find another way up. He thought it was time he moved on.

He got back on the dun, which tried to bite him, and it began to rain. He rode north, thinking that he was probably the luckiest man alive.

He made his way carefully through the night, wondering when he was next going to get a good night's sleep. It was raining and it was dark and if he had any sense he would be holed up somewhere till it was light enough to see and dry enough to travel in. The rain seemed to be falling in a solid sheet. It was the rain that helped him keep some sense of direction. It was so dark that he could scarcely see the ears of the Indian pony he was astride. The wind he knew was pressing from the north and bringing the rain with it The wind was behind them now and that was what made the horse willing to go on at a fair pace. It was his instinct that kept him going, feeling his way through the darkness. That and the instinct of the pony that wanted to get back with its fellows in the great horse herd.

The pursuit had remained silent for the last two hours now. The Indians had continued to hunt him a short while after dark, but had quickly given it up as fruitless. He had no doubt that if he stayed around, they would be on his tail shortly after daybreak. He grinned to himself in the darkness. He'd be a lot nearer home than they could possibly think.

As he rode, he did his best to measure distance in his mind and as he measured distance, he measured time, knowing that timing was important as location. He must be far gone by dawn. And Mrs. Bourn must be with him. He knew that finding her would prove the hardest part of the task.

By the sound of his horse's hoofs, he knew that he was near the western wall of the small canyon, now going south. But soon the sound changed and he heard nothing but the hissing of the rain. The pony plodded on. He reckoned that at last he had made it to the great canyon. Now he was prepared every second for trouble. He relied on the pony to warn him of it before it was too near. But he knew that the rain would play hell with the animal's senses.

However, the pony did not fail him.

Suddenly, it jerked its head and whinnied. There were men or horses up ahead. If that were so, McAllister must still be headed roughly south. But no, the pony now turned slightly left and quickened its pace. McAllister let it have its head, knowing that he had no alternative.

He heard familiar noises and to his surprise found himself surrounded by ponies.
The dun had brought him into the horse herd itself.

He looked around. Inquisitive noses sniffed at the dun, some shied away from the whiteman smell. One spooked and dashed away.

What now?

McAllister reckoned he would have to hazard a guess as to the whereabouts of the lodges and take a chance. He halted the dun and listened. He could hear nothing but the rain and the movement of the hundreds of animals around him. He started through the murk and thought he saw a glimmer of light off to his left. It was so faint that he didn't know if his eyes were playing tricks. He eased his slicker off, rolled it and tied it to his belt. He was going to need his arms free from here on out.

The sound of a human voice sounded so near that he was startled out of his wits.

Swinging his head right, he saw the uncertain form of a mounted man. His right hand slapped down on the butt of the Remington. The Indian shouted. His pony jumped forward and McAllister moved. His hand brought the Remington up and he fired in one movement. The pony skittered to one side, throwing his rider clear and it seemed that every horse there erupted into violent action. One moment they were still and nervous at the raised voice, the next they were panic-stricken and running.

McAllister didn't wait.

If they were starting to run, let 'em run. Let 'em all run, the more the merrier. He kicked the dun into motion, swung it left and sent a couple more shots into the sky. Somewhere a horse screamed. The whole earth shook under the hundreds of hoofs as something like three thousand ponies got on the move. Those ahead of McAllister carried on moving away from him, bolting in mass terror now. The dun caught the
fear and it was all that McAllister could do to hold it, fearing for a fall on the rough ground in the dark. But the animal stayed on its feet and surged on. McAllister prayed that it was going toward the lodges. As he rode, he tore off his hat and hurled it into the dark; its shape could easily give his presence away among a people who mostly did not wear hats. He could hear nothing now but the thunder of the horses' crazy run. It filled the whole night. He knew that they were running east because the rain beat on the left side of his face. The dun stumbled and nearly went down but McAllister managed to hold it on its feet by sheer skill of horsemanship.

Suddenly in front of him there was turmoil among the horses and, pushing forward, he saw, as far as he could see, that they had run into a lodge. The skin tent came down, there were yells of alarm. Thunder sounded then, rolling like angry drums through the dark sky. He rode on. In a flash of lightning he thought he saw a man, but he never heard the yell as the man went down under the hoofs of the horses.

A lodge ahead of him. He swerved the dun. Another lodge and another. He turned left and then straightened out again and found that the loose horses were no longer with him. A couple of men ran past him, shouting.

How far had he come into the encampment? Soon he must meet up with the creek. The dun came down to a trot. All around was the uproar of a vast collection of people, torn from their beds during a night storm. Indians seemed to be wandering about all over.

Suddenly, there were no people and no lodges. The dun stopped. McAllister slipped from the saddle and found that he was on the bank of the creek. Leading the dun, he set off along its edge. Now all he had to do was find Iron Hand's lodge. It sounded simple enough but it was a tall order in this light.

He walked a hundred yards or more, crouching down against the pitiless rain, trying to count the tents. But that didn't help him much. Pretty soon, there were no more lodges again and he knew that he had come right past the one he wanted. He started back again, the dun plodding at his heels.

There was a lodge in front of him, near its door was a man shouting in a bull-like voice. McAllister left the pony at the rear of the tent ground-hitched and hoped it would stay. He
put his face close to the wall of the tent and thought he made out the chief's insignia of the iron hand. He found that he still had his revolver clenched tightly in his right hand.

He walked around the tent and came on the man standing shouting at its entrance. The man turned and saw him. Whether he recognised him as a white man, McAllister never knew. He didn't take any chance. He lifted the Remington and brought the barrel down hard on the man's head. The blow was apparently not sufficient. The man was strong. He went down to his knees, but powerful arms reached out for the white man. McAllister drove his knee into the man's face and felt himself caught in a bearlike grip. He struck again with the gun and kicked himself free. This time, the Indian went down and stayed down. McAllister stepped across him and stooped to enter the tent.

There was a fire burning low in there, in the center of the lodge. By its light, McAllister saw the forms of several Indians, mostly women and children.

“Mrs. Bourn,” he roared.

He saw a woman start. Her face turned to him.

‘I've come for you,' he told her. ‘Let's get the hell outa here.'

But she didn't move.

Somebody else moved instead. A form launched itself from a bed of skins to McAllister's right. His eye caught the glitter of metal and his brain registered the fact that an ax was being directed with the power of a good arm behind it at his head. He threw himself to one side and fired by instict. He seemed to catch the man in mid-air. The heavy ball at close quarters caught the man as if he weighed nothing and dumped him on the ground near the fire.

Burned powder stung his nostrils and eyes.

He darted forward and caught the woman by the wrist.

“Come on.”

“No,” she screamed.

If he heard her, it didn't register. His whole being was keyed to getting her out of there and nothing else in the world existed. The women were screaming. He dragged the woman to the entrance and out into the rain. The full weight of her protesting body hung back against him. She stumbled over the Indian McAllister had stunned, but he pulled on her arm
without mercy, dragging her around the tent to where he had left the dun.

He had a shock.

The horse was no longer there. He glanced around hurriedly and could see no sign of it. Women in the lodge were setting up a hell of a racket; almost enough to be heard above the general din of the camp. A man stumbled out of the dark and barged into him. He muttered something and went on. McAllister relaxed a little after bracing himself to strike the man down.

He would gain nothing by remaining there. The woman was still fighting to get free of his grip. He shook her a little and said: “Behave yourself, woman. I'm taking you outa here and there ain't a thing you can do about it.”

He started dragging her toward the creek. She leaned back against the pull and tried to get her heels set Women came out of the lodge screaming at the top of their lungs. They found the unconscious Indian at the lodge entrance and then they screamed some more. A horse pelted by in the darkness; McAllister made a grab for it and missed because he was anchored by the woman.

Mrs. Bourn was yelling: “Let me go, let me go, let me go.”

They reached the edge of the creek. He got his arm around her and bent his head so that his mouth was near her ear.

“I'm from your husband, ma'am. He hired me to get you out of here,” he told her.

The white orb of her face turned up toward him and she said almost in horror: “Oh, no.”

“Oh, yes,” he said. “Five hunnerd dollars to get you out and by God I'm going to earn 'em.”

She turned in his embrace and gripped his arms.

“I can't go back,” she said. “Please let me stay. Please.”

“You'll think differently when we get away from here.”

“I never want to go back. Can't you believe that?”

“You mean it now, but you won't mean it later. Come on.”

“Can't you see? For God's sake … I've been with the Indians … I can't ever go back.”

McAllister said: “Aw, hell,” and started down the bank. A moment later he was up to his waist in water. The creek was filling fast now and the drag of the water was strong. He leaned against it and wondered if he would be able to
reach the other side. The woman caught her breath noisily when she hit the cold water; the strong current almost swept her from her feet. McAllister took one pace and was up to his waist, he stumbled and nearly went down; the woman fought to get herself free. He turned, stooped, got an arm behind her knees and another around her shoulder and picked her up. She kicked, screamed and scratched and he cursed her roundly. When he reached the middle of the stream, the water was up to his chest and the woman was almost submerged. She was frightened now; she stopped her yelling and clung tight to him. He thought she'd strangle him.

Suddenly, the force of the water seemed to double itself, he was knocked sideways and his feet went from under him. The next instant, he was below the surface and floundering, the woman gone from his grasp. He strained back against the flow and got his feet on the bottom, surfacing and reaching out for the woman. He missed her, saw the dim white of her flesh and dove in full-length after her. When he got a-hold of her, the flow took them and whirled them over and over. She was fighting desperately and he guessed that she couldn't swim. He managed to get over on his back with her half on top of him, his arm half around her neck and his hand gripping her clothing. He bawled for her to lie still and leave it to him. He started swimming with his feet and one hand, praying that he was heading for the shore he wanted.