McAllister Rides (8 page)

“Walt,” he said, “I have to warn Newby and you can't stop me.”

Islop smiled in his beard.

“Just like your daddy. Plenty of mustard and no sense. You stay here with me and stay alive.”

“It's no good,” McAllister said. “I'm going. I'll leave my mule and gear here. If I don't get back, it's yours. Try and buy Mrs. Bourn free with it.” He turned on his heel and walked toward the corral. Behind him he heard the gun come to full cock. He stopped and faced Islop again. The old man sat with the big old Colt dragoon in his hand and the hand was steady. The dragoon was pointed at McAllister's stomach.

Islop's voice was hard when he said: “Walk back this way, son. Hands high. Move hasty and I'll blow you to Kingdom Come.” McAllister knew he meant it. He walked back to Islop, hands high.

“You old bastard,” he said through his teeth. “A lot of men're going to die because of you.”

“Indians're men too in my book,” the old man said. “They wouldn't be killin' white men if the whites hadn't come a-bustin' into their land. Now, unbuckle that belt kinda easy and let it fall.” McAllister obeyed. He hated to see his good Remington fall into the dust. The old man raised his voice and the two Indian women came running. He spoke to them in their own tongue, the younger one picked up the belt gun and belt, the elder picked up McAllister's rifle as it leaned against the wall of the shack. They took them inside. McAllister stood cursing silently to himself.

“You kin put your arms down now,” Islop told him. “An' cool off. Nothin's changed. Except I mebbe saved you from gettin' your fool self killed dead.”

“You think you can keep me a prisoner? You think I won't jump you the first chance I get?”

“You're a guest. Not that I ain't goin' to bind you up for your own good.”

“What?”

The two women reappeared from the house with one of them carrying a rawhide lariat. Islop ordered him to lie on his face and he obeyed, seething. They tied him thoroughly so that all he could move was his head and propped him up against the house. They then disappeared inside.

“Now,” said the old man, “we're ready for our visitors.”

“What visitors?”

Islop pointed to the trees. McAllister saw a half-dozen horsemen ride into the open. They were Comanches and in their lead was none other than Eagle Man.

They rode up and formed a line in front of the old man, raising their hands in salute. He answered the salute and spoke to them in their language. They dismounted and tied their horses along the corral rail. The
canelo
kicked up a fuss at their Indian smell and tried to nip some of them. An Indian buck drove him away with his quirt. Then the Indians walked back to the old man and squatted in a semi-circle around him. Not once did any of them offer McAllister so much as a glance. He felt a great fool sitting tied there and, he admitted frankly to himself, not a little scared. Any minute now, he thought, he could have his throat cut.

The old man offered the jug around and all the Indians drank. Then they smoked and exchanged a few guttural words. Islop looked at McAllister and cackled with laughter. McAllister only wanted to get his hands on the old villain for two minutes. Eagle Man started to talk. He talked for what seemed a long time. McAllister sat and sweated. Islop made a lengthy reply and the jug was passed around again.

“All I want now,” McAllister thought, “is for them Indians to get liquored up and I'm dead.”

The women brought food from the house and they ate. They drank again and talked some more. Islop turned to McAllister and said: “It's the Bourn woman Iron Hand has, all right. The old man is real proud of her and it's goin' to take an awful lot of presents and persuadin' to make him change his mind. The way I see it, he ain't goin' to change his mind.”

“Tell 'em the soldier chief will be very angry if she is not returned and will come with many soldiers.”

The old man snarled: “You want to make ole Iron Hand laugh? He ain't afeerd of no soldiers. You'll have to think of somethin' better'n that.”

McAllister tried again.

“I have many fine presents for his wives. I have a fine rifle for him and much ammunition.”

“What kind of a rifle?”

“A Remington.”

“Single-shot?”

“Yes, but it's good.”

“Iron Hand has a Spencer repeater. You can't tempt him, son. You should know that a Comanche chief don't set no store by worldly goods. He gives everything away. All he frets about is reputation.”

“I have a pair of glasses. Tell Eagle Man, the chief will be able to see from a long way off.”

“He already has a pair he took from an army captain. You'll have to do better'n that.” The old man seemed highly amused.

“Tell him if he don't give her up I'll come and cut his fool throat personally.”

That set the old man off with cackles of delight. He slapped his bony thigh and cried out: “Jest like your ole man.” He talked to the Indians some more. They grunted. Eagle Man made a cutting motion with the edge of his hand. The talk was finished. He rose, blanket hunched around him and waddled close to McAllister, stared hard into his face for a moment, then waddled away. The other Indians rose and went to their horses. They wheeled them away from the corral and went riding off into the trees. The old man rose and said:
“That didn't get us very damned far did it. But at least they didn't finish you off, boy, which could be a good sign.”

McAllister said: “Take these damned ropes off'n me, Islop.”

“Not yet. Later maybe.”

“If later why not now?”

“You'll see.”

Islop went to fixing the trap again, contentedly smoking his pipe in the sun. McAllister sat and fumed for an hour then, exhausted by the riding and lack of sleep for the past few days, thought he might as well make the best of a bad job and fell into a doze. He was awakened by the sound of gunfire.

He sat upright and stared around him.

The old man was on his feet, staring off into the trees.

“What's happening?” McAllister demanded.

“My guess is,” Islop said, “Newby's meetin' his comeuppance.” There seemed to be some satisfaction in his voice. McAllister struggled vainly with his bonds. Every instinct in him made him want to be with the Texans.

“Get this goddam rope off'n me,” he roared. The old man didn't seem to hear. The women came out of the shack and stood looking toward the trees. There came another flurry of shots and distantly the war whoops of the Indians.

McAllister bawled: “There's white men dying out there, Islop. You gotta do something. Get this rope off'n me.”

“Yellin' won't do you no good, son,” the old man told him. “I saved your fool life tyin' you up thata way. Be still now afore I change my mind about you.”

McAllister fought the ropes again and only succeeded in hurting his wrists.

A riderless horse ran out of the trees, line dragging and eyes wild. Its rig showed that it belonged to a Texas man. McAllister was nearly beside himself. An Indian appeared astride a paint pony. He rode the white man's horse down and grabbed its line. He gave out a little song of triumph at the capture. There was nothing a Comanche prized more than a good horse. He rode past the house, tied the horse to the corral rail, jabbered something excitedly to Islop and the women and rode back into the timber again. McAllister saw there was a dark stain on the saddle of the horse.

Another burst of firing and a bunch of Indians rode into
sight. They went a couple of hundred yards across the front of the house, halted, yelled encouragement to themselves and galloped back into the trees again. A real Indian fight, typical of the Comanches – charge and flee, overcome their fear and charge again. The Indians might outnumber the Texans, but the rangers' firepower was more than they liked. McAllister didn't blame them. He had seen some good guns among his compatriots.

Suddenly two riders burst into view far to the right. They were white men and they were on the run. McAllister knew the Texans had been split up and were breaking. These men were riding for their lives. They had dropped their rifles and were firing backward with their belt guns. A dozen Indians broke cover, beating their ponies to a faster pace. The Texas men had the better horseflesh, but the Indian mounts were fresher. They were overhauling the fugitives fast. An Indian pony went down, flinging its rider over its head. Then one of the white men's mounts was down. The rider tried to land on his feet but failed. He fell heavily and McAllister heard his faint yell. The other Texan reined in and rode back.

“Go on, you don't stand a chance,” McAllister heard himself shouting.

The man swung down from his horse and stood firing at the Indians. They ignored his shots and charged down on him. The man on the ground was up on one elbow, firing. They seemed to ride right over him, too excited to fear the revolver fire. When they passed the man seemed to have been ground from sight.

They swept right past the standing man and he followed them with his pointing gun. A warrior pitched from his saddlepad, bounced on the ground loosely and lay still. McAllister felt like cheering. The Indians rode on a way, then whirled. The Texan was reloading. McAllister couldn't make out his features at that distance, but he knew the man was calm and unhurried. The Indians were hesitating; they ran their ponies up and down, chanting. One shook his short spear angrily at the white man who finished loading and stood awaiting their return. It was like an excerpt from a storybook and impossible to believe.

The Indians were ready to go again, their yells rose to a crescendo and they beat their horses into action with the butts
of their spears and bows. They looked like a covey of bright savage birds as they swooped down on the solitary ranger. They rode straight at him, ignoring his now fast-sounding shots, striking at him with lances and clubs, circling, plunging wildly in on him and then scattering out. He was down. A last shot and an Indian toppled from his horse. The others were springing to the ground, running in on their clumsy horseman's legs, striking at the figure on the ground. A Comanche stooped down, McAllister almost felt the swift and skilled sweep of the knife then the man waved the scalp in the air and began his dance. The others joined him in the dance of triumph and McAllister could hear their deep-throated chanting.

McAllister looked at Islop. The old man stood very still, his face drawn and haggard.

“That make you feel good, Islop?” McAllister asked.

The old man turned and sat down. He didn't look at McAllister.

The Indians got on their horses and loped them toward the house. McAllister's hair rose on the nape of his neck. If ever he had smelled death it was now. These men were blood-crazed and men in that state would take some stopping. They had killed whitemen and they liked the taste of it They pulled their horses up in front of the shack, shouting hoarsely and pointing to McAllister. Islop shook his head. They yelled at him again. The old man shouted back at them in their own tongue. The two women looked scared and ran into the house. Two of the Indians slipped from the backs of their horses. One of them was a bandy-legged man with a pot belly like Eagle Man. His face was brilliant with ochre and carmine with a broad slash of white across his forehead. From out of this paint, his eyes flashed darkly. He screamed something at Islop and the old man put himself in front of McAllister. The savage thrust him aside with a powerful arm and advanced on the whiteman. In his right hand was a scalping knife. McAllister was sweating. He reckoned he was going to be scalped alive. The Indian caught him by the hair with his left hand and yanked his head back violently, shouting into his face.

Old Islop produced his hogleg from nowhere apparently and yelled something in Comanche. The Indian let go
McAllister's hair and jumped back. The other Indians were shouting angrily. Islop yelled again. They backed off. The Indian with the scalping knife gesticulated wildly, howling his objections at the old man. Islop didn't seem to be perturbed. He stood like a rock with the gun in his hand pointing at the Indian. Finally, every Indian there vaulted onto the back of his pony; one of them rode over to the corral to fetch the Texan horse and they all rode off down-valley. The old man sighed softly and thrust the gun into the waistband of his pants. He was shaking now. Wearily, he sat down again and took a long drink from his jug.

McAllister didn't know what to say. Islop had watched the Texans being butchered, but he had saved his, McAllister's, life.

“That took some sand,” he said finally.

“Let's say it was for old time's sake,” Islop said. “Not because you're white same as me, but because you're Chad's boy.”

“Now take these damn ropes off'n me,” McAllister begged.

“Those ropes saved you,” the old man reminded him. “They proved you was a prisoner.”

The gunfire in the trees had stopped. A terrible silence fell over the canyon and there was the smell of burned powder on the now still air. McAllister wondered if all the Texas men had been killed. After a while, the old man bellowed an order to the women and they caught him up the sorrel horse and put an old saddle on it for him. He rode off into the trees. He returned an hour later, looking old and tired. Dismounting he walked up to McAllister and said: “There's five dead men in the timber. All scalped. They was cut up somethin' awful. I'll get the women to go bury 'em.”

“Newby?”

“Reckon either he got away or the Comanches got him. They'll have their fun with him tonight.”

“Can't you do something?” McAllister asked. “You have influence with these people. Can't you go talk with Iron Hand?”

“Do more harm than good. You'n'me's livin' on my reputation right now, son. Iron Hand'll leave us be if'n I set still. I go pokin' my nose in there and the chances are we'll both go to the happy huntin' ground.”