McAllister Rides (17 page)

“Mr. McAllister,” she said, “do I have to go back to Mr. Bourn?”

He thought that was a funny way for a woman to speak of her husband.

“Ma'am,” he said, “I get five hunnerd dollars for taking you back. How do you expect me to feel about a remark like that?”

She put a hand on his arm and looked up into his eyes.

McAllister,
he told himself,
you're about to be suckered by a woman. A pair of fine eyes and you fold. Steel yourself, boy.

“There'll be no life for me there with him knowing I've
been with the Indians,” she said. “There wasn't much life before. I'm begging you.”

“I don't have no choice,” he said. “Heck, Mrs. Bourn, ma'am, he's your legal husband. I don't have no right to make decisions for him.”

“I'm making the decision. I don't want to go back.”

McAllister started sweating.

“Where'll you go?” he demanded.

“I've a brother in San Antone. He'll take me in gladly.”

“Can't be done.”

“I don't have five hundred dollars, but I have a hundred all of my own and it's yours if you'll take me to my brother.”

That's cutting my losses too close for my liking,
he thought.

“Your old man'll know,” he said. “Heck, he'd come after me with a gun.”

“You aren't afraid of him.”

“I'm naturally scared of all husbands.”

She smiled a little then and looked at him in a way that turned his legs to water.

“We'll worry about that when we get out of this,” he said. “There's a whole lot of Indians yonder and there isn't too much ammunition.”

That scared her and he wished he hadn't said it. She gave him a funny sideways look and took her hand away from his arm.

“Did you ever love a woman?” she asked.

“Not so's you'd notice, ma'am. Not because I ain't partial to 'em, mind. Too fiddlefooted is all.”

She put her head on one side and took a long look at him.

“You look like an Indian, but you're soft inside.”

“That won't get you nowhere, ma'am. You're worth five hunnerd dollars to me and I don't aim to forget it.”

She walked away from him and picked up Newby's rifle. He didn't know if she was mad, but he thought he could see tears in her eyes.

Grant and Philo had made themselves as comfortable as possible among the rocks. McAllister had a good look around, seeing that the Indians would have their work cut out to get up the hill at them. The west side was the best side to climb and he reckoned they'd come that way. He got his glasses
from his saddle-pocket and put them on the advancing dust. Now he could make out the vivid colors and knew that it was Indians all right. He told the two rangers and they merely grunted. They'd known all along it was Indians, their instincts told them that.

“Philo an' me've been talkin',” Grant said. “It'd be best it'n you an' the little lady was to go, McAllister.”

The big man looked at him and thought about it He reckoned these two rangers would do to ride the river with.

“That's right neighbourly,” he admitted. “But I'm kind of saddle-sore and I reckon I can't ride too well for a spell.”

“Hell, Rem,” Philo said, “you have to think of the woman.”

“I think about her all the time. She's worth five hunnerd dollars to me.”

“To hell with the money, you have to get her out alive.”

“I'll get her out alive. You can bank on that.”

They didn't say any more. Already they had gone too far honing in on another man's business and he had taken it well.

“Men,” McAllister went on, “I reckon old Iron Hand wants Mrs. Bourn. That's the only reason he's after us. By now the rest of 'em ain't so mad keen. They took heavy losses back there and plenty of 'em is reckoning their medicine ain't so good. This could be over purty soon.”

They waited.

The dust cloud grew near until they could make out the warriors plainly. They could see from the numbers that already some of the Indians had dropped out and gone home. No good pushing your luck when your medicine was bad. That was the way an Indian fought.

They came in pretty close guessing maybe that the whites were hiding in the rocks above them. They knew for sure when McAllister started using the Henry on them. They drew back and lined up to stare up at him. He could see Iron Hand out in front with his steel gauntlet on his right hand. He was in rifle-shot and McAllister knew that if he could hit him, this affair might be finished before it started. He started firing at him and, though he wounded men on either side of him, missed him each time. It was uncanny and he couldn't make it out. Then Iron Hand urged his paint-horse forward and rode to within a couple of hundred yards of the rocks, turning sideways on to them and riding backwards and forwards,
shouting his defiance at the whites. All three whitemen opened up on him, but none of them succeeded in hitting him. An observer who did not know Indians would have acknowledged the demonstration as an act of superb courage, but McAllister knew that the Indian was doing it because he had complete faith in his medicine. He believed that the bullets of the whites could not harm him. He knew then what Iron Hand would do or planned to do. He would charge the rocks fearlessly and reckon on counting coup on the three white men before they died and before he rode off with the white woman he wanted so badly.

And that was more or less what Iron Hand did. He led his warriors in two direct charges against the hill, but each time they were driven back by the heavy fire from the men in good cover. Each time, Iron Hand was reluctant to withdraw, but his threats and pleadings could not hold the others. Their willingness to fight at all was beginning to ebb. McAllister reckoned that if they could repulse another charge the day might be theirs.

But there wasn't another full-scale charge. Instead Iron Hand trotted his horse forward with no more than a dozen warriors behind him. These were the glory boys.

They halted not twenty yards from the foot of the hill, chanting. They weren't in any hurry. They were prepared to die this day and it didn't matter if it happened now or a few minutes later. Either way glory would be theirs. Iron Hand was turning his horse backward and forward in front of them, shaking his steel fist above his head, declaiming loudly as if calling upon the spirits to protect him. McAllister knew they were all full of confidence down there, they all thought their medicine was good or they wouldn't be there at all. The rest of the Indians sat their horses, watching, held there now by nothing but curiosity.

Grant said, chewing: “These boys ain't goin' to be so damn easy to stop, I reckon.”

McAllister said: “We have to kill 'em all. We do that and the others'll go home.”

“Let's get to it,” Philo said.

They rested their elbows on rocks and started shooting. McAllister aimed at Iron Hand, but he didn't have any more luck now than he'd had earlier. The Indian seemed invincible.
One young warrior was knocked from the saddle, but he scrambled back again, broke suddenly from his fellows and, amid a storm of lead, charged his horse up the steep incline. The three of them fired together; the horse went down in a tangle of arms and legs and rolled kicking down the slope, screaming like a woman. The Indian, limping badly in the right leg, came on gamely, his stone hatchet ready in his right hand, a heavy rawhide shield decorated with an eagle on his left arm. They fired at him, but he seemed to lead a charmed life; he survived the hail of fire, came on and mounted the rocks in front of the three white men. The three of them fired into him point-blank and only then did his reckless charge stop. He stayed as if suspended in air for a moment, then fell backward and rolled slowly down the slope until he was stayed by a large rock.

A great shout went up from below.

The chant of the warriors gathered for the charge stopped. Iron Hand smote himself on the breast with his steel gauntlet and kicked the belly of his horse with his heel. The animal jumped forward and the other warriors at once put their mounts into motion, streaming after their leader with shrill cries. Rocks scattered to left and right, dust rose, the horses heaved their way up the steep incline, nostrils flaring and eyes wild. The three white men started firing, unable to miss the solid mass of Indians at such close range. Within seconds three men had been knocked from the saddle, their ponies careering crazily off to one side.

McAllister and the two wounded rangers levered and triggered as fast as they could, but they knew from the start that nothing could stop at least some of the Indians getting through. One who had overtaken Iron Hand tried to jump his pony over the rocks behind which the white men were standing, but the animal stuck halfway. The Indian leapt from his back and ran at Philo with a shout. Mrs. Bourn ran forward even as the man raised his hatchet and fired at him point-blank, knocking him sideways into Grant. Ranger and Indian went down in a heap. At the same moment, Indians were slipping from their horses and leaping over the rocks. McAllister fired into them, had no time to lever and staggered back as a man jumped on him from above. He tripped and went down.

Grant threw the dying Indian off him and met a charging Indian with the brass-bound butt of his repeater. Iron Hand rushed past the fighting men and headed for Mrs. Bourn who had fled screaming to the other side of the rocks. McAllister took the attacking Indian belly in feet and kicked him over his head. The man landed hard on his face, but that didn't stop him from getting quickly to his feet and coming back into the attack. McAllister slammed the flat of the butt into him and knocked him sideways. The man came in fast from that side, a heavy butcher knife in his hand swinging in an arc for McAllister's belly. McAllister arched his body away from the blow, struck the striking hand with the butt of the Henry and kicked the man hard in the groin. The man doubled with the sudden agony and McAllister slammed him with the full weight of the rifle. Even that didn't stop him. He got slowly to his feet, lips drawn back in a snarl of pure savagery and came in again. By this time, McAllister had time to lever a fresh round into the breech. He fired and the man went down.

He saw that Philo was down, his legs jerking. Grant was fighting toe to toe with a burly Cheyenne. McAllister's gaze went beyond him and saw Iron Hand dragging Mrs. Bourn from the small arena by the hair. The woman was fighting desperately, but the Indian cuffed her roughly each time she tried to get to him and then hurled her away from him by her hair. Her piercing scream cut McAllister's ear-drums. He swung the Henry, pressed the trigger and heard a faint click. Jumping forward, he struck the chief's forearm a terrible blow with the barrel of the rifle, nearly paralysing it. He released the woman and spun around. For a moment, McAllister was conscious only of the awful ferocity of the man's eyes. The Indian's hand moved to his waist and McAllister expected to see a knife come into sight, but instead Iron Hand produced a belt-gun. He didn't wait for any more, but jumped forward, his right fist swinging. Before it could contact with the Indian's jaw, however, Iron Hand struck him with his mailed fist.

McAllister stumbled back and fell.

Iron Hand cocked and fired.

McAllister was on the move, rolling and coming to his feet, drawing his knife from the sheath at his back. Crouching,
Iron Hand followed him with the muzzle of the gun. McAllister moved on to the right, watching the Indian with care. As soon as the thumb cocked the hammer, he hurled himself first to the left and then forward. The shot passed so close to McAllister that he felt it pluck at his sleeve.

Before the Indian could fire again, McAllister slammed the knife into him with such force that the hilt grated against bone. The blade was in a vital part, but that did not finish the chief. He smashed the steel gauntlet that gave him his name into McAllister's face and knocked him backward. McAllister fell on his back hard and all the wind seemed to go out of him.

For one silent moment, he stared into Iron Hand's terrible eyes.

The Indian raised the pistol. The hammer came to full cock. McAllister's flesh crept with the expectancy of lead smashing into his living flesh.

Then Iron Hand's face seemed to crease itself into a mirthless grin.

Slowly, the gunhand fell. He fired the gun into the ground. The chief sank to his knees, battled vainly to lift the gun and kill his enemy and suddenly lurched forward onto his face, the hilt of McAllister's knife protruding from his breast.

For a moment, McAllister couldn't move. So convinced was he that he had been about to die that he couldn't credit that he was still alive. A shot near at hand brought him to his senses. He turned his head and saw Grant kneeling there with a quavering grin on his face with the big Cheyenne stretched out in front of him.

A small sound to the right brought his head around. Mrs. Bourn was on her knees weeping. Whether from shock or because Iron Hand was dead he didn't know. What's more, he didn't care.

He got to his feet and found that his legs were shaking like the leaves of an aspen.

He said to Grant: “Let's get the dead outa here or those boys'll be coming up for 'em.”

He rolled Iron Hand onto his back, put his foot on the man's chest and heaved his knife free. He wiped the blade on the Indian's fine doeskin shirt. He reckoned he'd killed a fine tough old man. The thought didn't cheer him. He put
the knife away, hefted the heavy body of the Indian, walked to the rocks at the edge of the slope and hurled him down it. The body turned over and over, taking dust and rocks with it until it reached the bottom. A great howl of rage and dismay went up from the watching Indians. Together he and Grant threw the other bodies over. The Indians started to show violent signs of grief for a while till several of them rode forward and lifted up their dead and bore them away. Neither Grant nor McAllister fired a shot. It seemed to be tacitly agreed between all those present that there had been killing enough.