Gunsmoke for McAllister (19 page)

The thunder and clatter of hoofs filled his ears.

He got to one knee and his right hand automatically went down to the butt of the Remington. But before he could clear it from leather a horse's breath was on his face and the shoulder of the animal caught him and flung him to one side. A yell reached him. He struck the ground hard on one shoulder and a voice in his head screamed at him to keep moving. He staggered to his feet, his hand searching for a gun that wasn't there. There seemed to be horses and men all around him.

A man laughed. His voice was high-pitched with excitement.

McAllister blundered blindly into a horse and his hands grasped at a man's leg. Something struck him in the face, but he didn't go down. At all costs, he mustn't go down. He must keep fighting. He had a hold of a rider, tearing him ferociously from the saddle and dumping him on the ground. He heard the man yell out and drove his foot at his blurred form. Hoofs pounded and a horse barged into him, sending him to his hands and knees. Something struck him hard in the kidneys and he arched his back with agony. A sharp heel crashed into his ribs. He clutched unseeing at a foot and reared like a leviathan to his feet. A hard object smashed into his head from behind and he toppled forward like a great tree.

When he came to, all the devils in hell were beating a tattoo in his head. He was lying across the saddle of a horse with his legs on one side and his head on the other. He felt as if he had been mangled
by a grizzly, kicked around for a while by a Kentucky mule and then dumped from a great height for good measure.

The horse was travelling at a walk and there were riders all around him. He didn't let on that he was almost fully conscious, but he would dearly like to be able to lift his head to stop the pounding in it. The saddle was hurting his sore ribs. But mercifully the torture didn't last long. After about five minutes, the horse halted and there was the creak of saddle-leather as men dismounted. Somebody came, caught him by the shirt and threw him to the ground. He fell loosely with what he hoped was helpless realism.

He opened his eyes slightly and looked through his lashes.

There were men all around him, standing and looking down at him.

Rawley's voice came.

‘Wake up, McAllister.'

McAllister didn't stir.

Rawley got down on one knee and started slapping his face. He batted his head first one way and then the other, first open-handed and then with the back of his hand. The blows set the devils in McAllister's head to fresh paroxysms of drumming. And Rawley kept saying: ‘Wake up, McAllister, wake up.'

Finally, McAllister couldn't stand it any longer and he hit Rawley in the face with the little strength that he could summon. The man went head over heels and stretched his length on the ground. Somebody tittered. Somebody else kicked McAllister in the head. But not even that killed the satisfaction McAllister felt for hitting Rawley.

Rawley got up and came back. His face was blood-flecked and it looked as if his nose was ruined for life. He was in pain and he was very angry.

His voice sounded mushy and uncertain when he said: ‘I'm going to kill you, McAllister. I'm going to kill you slow and I'm going to enjoy every minute of it.'

Rawley gave orders. Some rawhide thong was brought and McAllister's hands were tied behind his back. He found that he was lying right next to the gold and somehow that was ironic.

They seemed to forget him after that and went to the cook-fire to get their food. They sat around eating their meal and ignoring him. They all looked pretty pleased with themselves. All except Rawley and he looked as if he were occupied with the pain he was
suffering from his punched face.

McAllister thought about Sam, the girl and Diaz and wondered if they had managed to get away, if they were alive. He hoped so. If Sam were alive he wouldn't rest till he had done something about McAllister. But there was more to it than that. He wished Sam alive and riding away to some future life with the girl. McAllister could look after himself. Always had done so and would always do so. He would get out of this and kill Rawley. He would kill Rawley if it was the last thing he did.

They didn't give him any food and they didn't offer him water. It was water he wanted. Desperately. His tongue felt as if it were filling his mouth. The way he felt then he would have traded all that gold that was so near for a single drink.

He lay out in the sun for a couple of hours and all the time Rawley and the others gazed off into the north every few minutes anxiously. After that time, McAllister saw the reason for their anxiety. They were waiting for the rest of the horses. Three men riding bareback came in driving them. These men had to be told about the fight and they came and gazed at McAllister with great curiosity. One of them was Carlos who hadn't forgotten that he owed McAllister a grudge. He kicked the prisoner in the leg and that seem to give him some satisfaction.

There was some talk then about moving off for a few hours travel before dark, but Rawley apparently thought they would stay where they were till dawn. McAllister was relieved to hear it. The chances were that, if they were moving off now, they would kill him right away to save the trouble of taking a prisoner along with them. So he had a few hours in which to make his escape. He wondered just how he was going to do that. Whatever he did, he had to do pretty quickly or it would be too late. All he wanted really was a miracle.

Rawley put a strong guard on the horses this time. He wasn't taking any chances. He deployed his men carefully and McAllister heard him say that half of them would keep guard while half of them slept on their arms. They must be ready for another attack at any moment. He came and stood by McAllister, looking down at him with a little smile of pure pleasure.

‘We're movin' out of here at dawn, McAllister,' he said, ‘an' I'm leavin' you here gut-shot. You'll take a long time to die. I'm only sorry I won't be here to watch it. So think about it through the night.'

He walked away and McAllister didn't doubt that he was right.
There wasn't much else he could do but think about his coming death. And how to avoid it. Rich came and sat with his back to the gold, facing McAllister, a rifle across his knees.

‘I'm sleepin' here,' he said. ‘One move outa you and I cut you down.'

That depressed McAllister. Night came down and Rich's form became a dark blur in the starlight. The cook fire died down. A solitary lobo came out in the hills and sang its doleful lullaby. McAllister shivered in the cold of the mountains after the intense heat of the day. The hours started to move by slowly, but McAllister knew that dawn would come all too quickly for him. He wondered what Sam was doing.

Around midnight, he thought that Rich was asleep and tried to get softly to his feet, but the man's voice came out of the dark –‘Lie down or I'll blow your head off.' He lay down.

The hours passed. Nothing broke the hush of the night but the changing of the guards. Dawn was not far off, the stars started to wink out and the light touch of false dawn came into the sky. McAllister felt the cold touch of death on his shoulder.

Sam
, he thought,
I hope you're up to something real smart
. But how even Sam was going to winkle him alive out of this small army he didn't have any idea. He was starting to have a sneaking suspicion that Rawley was going to have his way and he was going to be left on the trail with a bullet in his belly.

Just before dawn, Rawley went around waking the sleeping men.

Not long now
, McAllister told himself.

The scene imprinted itself on his mind.

The figures of men were starting to become clearer in the new cold light of dawn. There was a fellow walking by with his rifle at the trail. He wore the mule-ears of his boots flapping on the outside.

The cook was blowing on the embers of the fire noisily. Rich was stretching and yawning. A man on the hillside was calling down to a man below.

They all seemed frozen in one position as the flat slam of a rifle sounded. McAllister didn't see who was hit or where the shot came from. All he knew was that something was happening and there might be a chance to make a break. He braced his legs in preparation to rising to his feet.

Suddenly, the morning air was split by shrill cries and the thunder and rattle of hoofs. McAllister was on his feet. He could
see a sudden rush of movement to the north between the high boulders.

The cook had his mouth open wide and was screaming: ‘Indians! Indians!'

Rich said: ‘My God.' And a man above them in the rocks started firing his rifle. Rawley ran back down the narrow way, shouting. Behind him a great dark mass was on the move and McAllister knew that was the remuda. If he stayed where he was he would be trampled into the ground. Moving awkwardly with his hands tied behind his back, he ran for the rocks. Rich thought of the same thing at the same time. They ran neck and neck. Mean to the end, McAllister tripped him and felt a surge of satisfaction as the running man went down hard. Rich rolled over his face contorted with pain. He thrust forward his rifle as McAllister swung a moccasined foot for his face. The toe contacted with the man's jaw and he slammed back against the dirt. McAllister ran on. He dove into the rocks and crawled to his feet.

The mules and horses went by like thunder, scattering rocks to right and left, raising the dust in a choking cloud and behind them came fast riding demons with scarlet sweat-bands around their heads.

Apache!

They went streaming by on their shaggy ponies, yelling. Rifles banged at them from the rocks. McAllister ducked as an arrow
whooshed
past his head. Then, as fast as they had appeared, the Indians were gone. McAllister saw one of the warriors pitch from the back of his racing pony and hit dirt. There were a dozen bullets in him before he could rise.

Rawley was shouting: ‘Center on the gold.'

Men were running.

A man came through the rocks, looked at McAllister and started to go on. But he gave the prisoner a second look and started to say: ‘You –' McAllister went into him head first and caught him in the belly. They went down in a heap and the man was in a bad way, gasping and retching as he floundered around on the ground. McAllister got to his feet as fast as he could and jumped on the man's belly with both feet. That settled him for a while. There was a knife in the man's belt. McAllister got down on his knees, leaned back and drew the weapon. The man rolled over on his face, retching. McAllister got down behind the rocks and started to work the blade as best he could on the rawhide thong. This would take time. He was sweating and he was starting
to panic. The man looked up and saw him. He made a wild strangling noise and reached down for his belt-gun. The thong gave even as the man drew the weapon from its holster and McAllister launched himself, right arm extended. The arm was a lance and the knife its head. The blade sank into the man's chest. His eyes seemed to start from his head and he gave a choking cough. McAllister heaved on the knife, but it was stuck in the bone. He scooped up the pistol, thrust it into the top of his pants and reached for the fallen rifle.

Men were running through the rocks. The firing was still going on and it sounded as if the Indians were attacking from the north. McAllister decided to go south. On hands and knees he started through the rocks. He reckoned Rawley and his men wouldn't be thinking about him too much at a time like this. God bless all Indians and the Apaches in particular. He covered about fifty yards and rested. He felt bushed and he was shaking from head to foot.

After a while, he became aware that there were rifles being fired near him.

He raised himself and took a look around.

He didn't stay looking for long. Within twenty yards of him were two Apache shooting in the direction of the camp. He hugged the ground tighter than a fellow hugs his girl. Apache weren't going to tell one white man from another at a time like this. Now he knew real fear. He glanced up hill and saw another Indian above him.
Godalmighty
, he thought,
there's Indians all around me and Rawley and his men behind
. Maybe he'd been better off back there with his hands bound.

He didn't know whether to try and crawl south or stay where he was and hope the Indians didn't see him.

Just then, the Indian above him gave a grunting cry and pitched down through the rocks. He bounced on a boulder above McAllister and came to rest within a yard of the escaping man. This, McAllister decided, was all he wanted. The other Indians would collect their dead and wounded as all good Indians did and they would be bound to find him. This warrior was as dead as last week's mutton with half his head shot away. Not a pleasant sight.

McAllister didn't wait for a closer inspection, but started crawling. Ten yards and he stopped, hearing the guttural voices of Apaches immediately above him. Two men passed within twenty yards of him. He held his breath and prepared to shoot the pair of them. But they passed on and came to the dead man. McAllister
went on as fast as he could.

He covered another hundred yards and was out of sight of the camp when he came on the horses. They were gathered in a little rincon and there was one old warrior guarding them.

McAllister cast a hasty look around and ascertained that there was not another soul in sight. He stepped out of the rocks and covered the Indian. The man looked for a moment as if he would lift his rifle and shoot. In that case, McAllister would have killed him, but he didn't want a quarrel with the men who had supplied him and his friends with grub and mounts.

He tried Spanish on the old man. The eyes gleamed with understanding.

‘I am with Spur,' he said. ‘Spur is a friend of Gato.'

‘Spur,' said the old man and nodded fiercely.

‘The white man held me prisoner.'

The old man said in cow-pen Spanish: ‘Gato kill all white men.'