McAllister Rides (7 page)

He was pleased, therefore, when he saw the glimmer of water below him after a couple of hours riding. He looked over the country and, not being able to see a sign of life, searched for a way down. This he found some thirty minutes later. It was, as he could see at once, a used trail and one that had been used not long before. It was not easy to say how long before, but he reckoned that riders had been that way in the last week or so. This caused him to halt and put the glasses on the canyon below.

It was a sun-blasted but not unpleasant place. The grass was brown and cured on the root Here and there along the edge of the water were splashes of green where the mesquite grew. He stopped.

Something moved.

He kicked his feet from the stirrup-irons, ready to drop to the ground and search cover. Something dark moved among the mesquite. Some animal browsing, he thought. Slowly a black horse came into view. A moment later a slender sorrel trotted away from water. McAllister let himself relax a little, till he heard the sound of a human voice. A short squat figure came into view. An Indian woman. In her hand she
carried a stick. She whacked the black horse and sent it up canyon away from McAllister. Had he stumbled on another small Indian encampment? He turned the glasses north-west, found a wisp of smoke and searched more closely. Through the brush and trees he thought he could make out the roof of a shack.

His heart jumped a little. Had he found Islop? Should he venture down or inspect the building from high? He decided to be cautious and continued on along the rimrock, watching the canyon carefully for any further life, but keeping back out of sight of the Indian woman. He didn't want any Indians sneaking up on him now he might be near his goal.

It wasn't long before he was in full sight of the shack. He stepped down from the saddle, lay on his belly on the edge of the canyon and took a good look through the glasses.

The shack was a primitive construction, but it was snug. A man could live in simple comfort there, pass a good winter. Off to one side there was a small corral in good repair. In it were a couple of horses. There was no stoop to the house, but in front of the door, seated in what seemed to be a hide chair sat a man. He was busy with his hands, either whittling a stick or repairing harness. A hat covered his head and shaded his face, but McAllister gained the impression that he was old. This could be Walt Islop. McAllister watched the scene for a half-hour. During that time an Indian woman appeared from the house and the Indian woman McAllister had seen down-canyon appeared driving the two horses before her. She put them in the corral and then disappeared into the shack with the other woman.

McAllister rose to his feet, mounted and rode back to the trail he had found earlier. He had a little trouble with the mule going down the steep descent, but he made the flat safely. Once there, he lifted the animals to an easy trot. No reason to hide his presence now. He was taking a gamble on the fact that he was with Islop and that the old man was a passport to safety. It was a hell of a gamble, but he knew some sort of gamble would come into this sooner or later.

When he clattered up to the shack, the old man lifted his head and stared at him, neither surprise nor curiosity showing on his face.

He was old, all right – old as the hills, but he was still limber
as McAllister could see from the way he held himself. His eyes were bright and intelligent. His white beard reached to his chest, his hair hung to his shoulders. He was dressed in buckskin shirt and pants and his feet were covered with mocassins that were new and beautifully decorated. He was the picture of a calm old man who was now content to let life drift by him.

McAllister saw that his first impression of the shack was correct. It was a stout tight building and had probably been built by the old man himself. It was made of whole logs chinked with mud. To the rear of it was a fine stone chimney. The roof was of sods. Away to the left stretched on their frames were two buffalo-cow skins. Scattered around on their frames drying in the sun were the skins of various other and smaller animals. By the old man's chair lay a pile of traps. He was repairing one of these with a rawhide thong.

“Howdy,” McAllister said, leaning on the horn and easing himself in the saddle.

“Howdy,” said the old man. His voice creaked as though he didn't speak much.

“You Mr. Islop?”

Did the old man smile?

“There's only one white man in these canyons, sonny, so I reckon that's me.”

“You took some finding.”

“I dessay. 'Light, boy.” McAllister stepped down. “Put your animals in the corral. There's water there and good hay.” McAllister led the animals to the corral rail, unsaddled the
canelo
and took the heavy pack-gear from the mule. He put them in the corral and the mule started joyously to roll. The horse headed for the water and drank. McAllister strolled back to the old man and squatted. Islop called something out in a language he couldn't understand, but which he guessed was Comanche and one of the squaws came from the house with an earthen jug in her hands. The old man took it from her and handed it to McAllister.

“Cut the dust.”

McAllister drank. He thought he had gullet and stomach of iron, but he quickly changed his opinion when that liquor hit bottom. It exploded in him and he choked a little, but when he regained his breath, he felt marvellously relaxed. He
didn't know what it was. He handed the jug back and Islop drank long and deep. Sighing with satisfaction, he put the jug beside him.

“An old man needs that,” he said. “Three things an old man needs: good food, strong liquor and a strong woman. I don't ask nothin' else of life now.”

There was a short silence during which both the old man and McAllister loaded and fired their pipes. Then McAllister said: “Took me a good few days to find you, Mr. Islop.”

“Reckon it would. Don't have too many visitors these days.” He chuckled a little. The sound was like the cackling of a hearty hen. “Guess my neighbours keep 'em away.”

McAllister smiled.

“Could be. Name's Remington McAllister.”

The old man cocked his head.

“Memory ain't so good now, but I recollect a feller by that name. Tall dark feller, a regular hellion. I disremember his given name.”

“Chadwick?”

“Chad. That was it.”

“My daddy.”

Islop leaned forward, squinting at McAllister.

“Look a lot like him, but darker. Yep, there was an Indian wench dropped a pup to him. Could that be …?”

“It could.”

“Cheyenne, wasn't she?”

“I reckon.”

“So you're Chad's boy. Kinda brings back memories. Have another drink.” They both drank again. McAllister felt his head swim a little. He was starting to feel carefree. “There'll be chow soon. My women cook real dandy. I taught 'em white style and they learned real good.” McAllister's mouth watered. He hadn't had a good meal in days.

The old man went on: “Chad an' me wintered two years with the Cheyenne. We had us a hell of a time.” His mind wandered off as he searched through his memories. “I recollect we rid down Sante Fé way. We sure whirled that town around a piece and let her fly. There was a gentle-born Mex gal there old Chad sure cottoned to. She sure was a beauty. Reckon there was a son. Say, you could be…”

McAllister nodded.

“I could be.”

“Didn't you know your mother, son?”

“No, I never did.”

“Too bad.”

“I got by.”

The old man shot him a piercing glance. “You come lookin' for me because I was ole Chad's sidekick?”

“No, sir. I heard about you from the Comancheros.”

That brought the old fellow wide awake. He put the trap down and took another long drink from the jug.

“Which ones? You get the
jefe's
name?”

“No. But he was a fat fellow I wouldn't trust as far as I could throw a cow. Eagle Man was with him when I rid in.”

“I know the one. What you doin' visitin' the Comancheros?”

“Looking for somebody.”

“Who?”

“A woman.”

“Name?”

“Mrs. Bourn. Young with dark hair and blue eyes.”

“So the
jefe
sent you to me?”

“He wanted me off'n his back.”

A woman came out of the shack and spoke to the old man who rose and beckoned McAllister inside. When he had gotten used to the gloom McAllister found that the interior was neat and trim. All the furniture was hand-made from the table and chairs to the bunk that stood against one wall. The stove and oven had been made of clay and stone. There were animal skins in plenty and the walls were hung with bright Navajo blankets. There was an air of primitive luxury about the place that pleased McAllister. The old man may have gone to the Indians, but he had kept up his standards. They sat at the table and the two Indian women hovered to offer them food. One was in her prime, the one McAllister had seen driving the horses, and was almost as wide as she was tall. This was the one detailed for the heavy work, he guessed. The other was younger, barely out of her teens and comely. She looked as though she had Mexican blood. They didn't smile or speak and when Islop waved them away they sat with their backs to the wall and watched patiently. When the old man demanded anything they both sprang up ready to
serve. When this happened once Islop cackled with appreciation.

“Trained 'em with a stick,” he told McAllister. “First off they thought I was soft being white, but they purty soon knew different. We get along fine now. You got a present, a geegaw or somethin' in that pack o' yourn? Any little thing're make 'em happy.”

“Sure,” said McAllister, “I'll find 'em something when we're through eating.”

It was some time when they were through eating. In that time McAllister consumed the largest buffalo steak he had ever eaten. He would have liked to wash it down with coffee, but the old man didn't possess any. Instead there was some more of the unnamed liquor Which McAllister was better able to take now that his belly was full. They spoke little during the eating, but outside again they lit their pipes and talked. But first, McAllister made his presents to the ladies. He had a stock of necklaces with him, all made of cheap glass, but the two Indian women received them with squeals of delight. Now they were all smiles and they chattered like magpies. Islop drove them away.

“Now, son,” he said, settling the jug by his side, “this captive. You put me in a spot.”

“How come?”

“The Comanch' trust me. That's why they let me stay. I mind my business and they mind theirs. Now an' again I doctor their sick and wounded. I married a couple of their women. I got connections. The young woman there, she's Iron Hand's daughter. You know that?” McAllister didn't know it.

“Mr. Islop, I ain't asking you to break no trust. All I want to know is where Mrs. Bourn's at. That ain't asking a lot”

The old man ran his fingers through his beard.

“It is if the Comanch' don't want you to know.”

“Why shouldn't they want me to know? All I want to do is a straight trade. Just find out which band Mrs. Bourn is with. Leave the rest to me.”

The old man glared at him.

“Just like your daddy. Plumb crazy. Never weigh the consequences. That's why Chad's kickin' up the daisies and I'm
still around. Allus rushin' in. This is delicate, son. You don't know how delicate.”

“What's delicate about it? Hell, Mr. Islop, they have Mrs. Bourn. All I want to know is the name of the man I have to dicker with and what band he's with.”

“That's what I'm tryin' to tell you, boy. On'y you keep a-gabbin'. She's Iron Hand's woman.”

McAllister went very still. He felt a little sick. This knocked the bottom out of his plans.

“What do you mean, she's his woman? You mean she's totin' wood and sech for him? Or –?”

“Or, son. He's taken a real shine to her has the old man. Now, it'd be hard enough you ridin' in here after a captive on your lonesome. You likely be killed. There's regular ways of doin' sech things, like goin' through the Comancheros. The Indians don't take kindly to strangers jest a-ridin' in like you done. No, sir. Now, you find the woman you want belongs to Iron Hand. But that ain't all.”

McAllister asked: “Is there something more for Gawd's sake?”

“I reckon. What kind of a chance do you think you'll have with the Texas Rangers up on the rim?”

McAllister was flabbergasted. He gaped at the old man, the wind taken right out of his sails.

“You know they're up there?” he asked foolishly.

“Know? Hell, the Indians of knowed for days. You might say they watched 'em all the way from Texas.”

McAllister was on his feet.

“Then what're we sitting here for?” he cried. “We have to warn them.”

The old man snapped: “Simmer down, you young fool. Stay out of it. What do you owe Newby? Did he stop you comin' down here? Did he?”

“No,” McAllister was forced to admit. “But they're our fellow countrymen.”

“You don't have no fellow countrymen when you reach my age. I quit foolin' around with that stuff years gone. I stay alive because the Indians trust me. I can't afford to be seen hobnobbin' with too many whites.”

“Good God, man, they'll be massacred.”

“Not Newby. You know he has another party comin' in
from the west? The captain holds some good cards. I'll be patchin' a good few Comanches up before too long. Now, set an' talk. We have to think what to do about this Bourn woman.”

But McAllister couldn't concentrate on Mrs. Bourn. His mind was entirely tied up with the fate of the rangers. He could see them riding into an Indian ambush and being wiped out to a man. He wouldn't be able to live with himself if he allowed that to happen.