Gunsmoke for McAllister (3 page)

He heard nothing. He sent the canelo on again, let it run at a more sober pace for a mile or more then stopped again to listen. Now he could hear the pursuit, but at that distance he couldn't make out how many horses were involved. He thought it might be a good idea to stay where he was and bank on them going past him, but he thought he had left too clear a trail in the moonlight to risk that, so he quartered east, searching for the river and fifteen minutes later found it. He rode down into the shallows and allowed the canelo a little water, for the animal had stood drink-less for many hot hours outside the sheriff's office. He scooped some handfuls of water into his own mouth and turned north, keeping to the shallows of the west side of the stream and trotting his horse at a brisk pace. He went about a quarter mile this way, turned into the stream and started across. In a moment, he was in swimming depth. The canelo swam strongly, breasting the current and soon touched bottom. McAllister didn't allow it to wade ashore, but once more kept it to the shallows until he found what he was looking for. This was a long gravel beach. Now he left the water and swung down from the saddle. This was something that would have to be done carefully. He led the horse for about twenty yards, found rock and moved across it, leading the horse with supreme caution to see that it left no marks in the damp sand between the rocks. When the rock petered out, he mounted and rode on north-east, angling toward the hills.

In his head he carried a map of the country as drawn for him by Sam Spur and he knew that he was headed roughly in the direction of Sam's place. Maybe this didn't seem wise, but he reckoned he would play hell with the sign-readers behind before he was finished. Any road, he was out of supplies and he needed to eat as much as any man. More.

By midnight, he left the poor grassland through which he had been riding and came onto desert. Here the giant cactus reared their ghostly heads in the moonlight. A dozen men could have stood among them unperceived. Luck again was with him and within the hour he hit the malpais that he knew was ahead of him somewhere. He smiled to himself. It would take them a day or more to find where he had left the rock country behind him. As he approached it, lying like a dark flat mass across his line of advance, he angled suddenly right and moved a couple of hundred yards at a shallow angle to the rock. Dismounting, he led the horse onto the rock and left it ground-hitched, praying that it would stand. Taking his blanket from the rear of his saddle, he walked back along his tracks, then, when he reached the spot where he had angled off from his line of travel, he walked backward working over his sign with the blanket. He took his time and did a good job, though he knew an Indian could have followed him with no trouble. However, he thought the light wind that was picking up from the north would add the finishing touches to his work.

When he reached rock, he rolled the blanket, fastened it to the saddle and remounted. Now he angled north again, riding the horse carefully on the treacherous stone, every now and then dismounting to lead it over a particularly bad piece.

Dawn found him at the northern extremity of the malpais. Here a mass of stone reared its jagged head to the clear blue sky. He ground-hitched the canelo and climbed to the peak with his glasses in his hand, giving the country a careful inspection, taking his time. Dust stirred to the south, but after a long and careful look, he decided it was most likely broomtails. Half-satisfied, he climbed down and mounted the canelo.

Man and beast were tired now and he hoped that soon he would come on water.

There was a stretch of sand ahead of them now, on the further side of which was a jumble of rocks. This he crossed on horseback. Then he left the horse again and patiently wiped out his sign. That done, he remounted and rode across the rock into the foothills. The sun was mounting the heavens fast and it was growing
hot. The sweat was starting to run down his big body.

The foothills hereabouts were a wild jumble of boulders, little brush and no trees. They started to climb, came through scattered brush and timber and then, suddenly, the canelo got busy with his ears.

McAllister halted, at once wary and distrustful. But the horse wanted to go forward and he let it. The canelo took him to water unerringly, whinnying with pleasure. It was an
ojo
, literally an eye of water among the rocks thrusting itself crystal pure up through a bed of gravel. Horse and man drank thankfully together. McAllister drank all he could hold, but he didn't allow the horse the dangerous luxury. He batted the reluctant animal's head away and filled his canteen. Mounting, he went on.

The country grew more pleasant as they climbed, the air was cooler and here and there was grass. McAllister halted, off-saddled and gave the canelo an hour on the grass. He stretched his legs, knowing that he needed sleep, but not allowing it to himself. It was while he was strolling that he found the sign. He came on a steep narrow trail and it was marked with fresh horse-droppings. He saw at once that several animals had passed that way and at first thought he might have come on the tracks of some mustangs, but on climbing a little he found a spot where they had halted. Here were the tracks of men wearing moccasins. The horse sign was a jumble of marks, but he thought that more than a half-dozen riders had passed that way no more than a couple of hours ago.

He admitted to himself that he felt alarmed. It would have been foolish to feel anything different. He knew that he was on the edge of Gato's country and that the chances were that the Indians had belonged to his band. These most likely were the Indians who were mentioned in Sam Spur's letter.

Gato was a veteran Apache of unknown origin. Some tales had it that he was a Mescalero broken away from his people; others that he was a Chiricahua who had gone bronco and gathered around him outcasts from other tribes. It didn't matter which was true. All that mattered was that Gato came and went as he wished between the United States and Mexico, taking what he took a fancy to, whether it was cattle, sheep or women and children. For years now he had defied the efforts of the army to bring him to subjection and each year of his freedom had seen his strength increase. He had raided deep into Mexico and had killed men
on the outskirts of Tucson itself. No ranch was safe from him and many men had left their range to escape his ferocity. He was the terror of all but the strongest parties of gold and silver miners in the hills and many a lone prospector had lost his life under an Apache blade.

So when McAllister thought of Gato, he thought of cut throats, of being emasculated and being burned upside down over a slow fire. The man had a macabre sense of humor and he didn't like white men. After he had passed that way, white men had been found with their testicles in their mouths and their eyes gouged out. To fall into Gato's hands was something one wouldn't wish on one's worst enemy.

The surprising fact about the renegade chief was that although he was so widely feared he had very few warriors at his command. It was said by the few men who had actually set eyes on the band that there were more women and children in it than fighting men.

McAllister made his way back to his horse, saddled up and moved out. He at once left the trail followed by the Indians, knowing that they would be watching their back-trail and feeling that he was too young to die yet. He drifted north-east, doubly watchful now, his rifle across his saddlebow.

A short while after, he was surprised to see smoke. He made his way toward it and came to a pleasant spot – green sward of grass cut by the clear waters of a stream, shaded by quaking aspens, a veritable little paradise. And there, nestling among the green, was a small cabin.

He halted when he saw the sign in the grass that told him that horses had been this way recently. He followed the sign to the water's edge and saw that the ponies were unshod. Which could mean that the Indians he had nearly come on earlier had been this way. He inspected the cabin. There was no sign of Indians now, but that didn't mean they weren't somewhere around.

As he watched, a man walked out of the cabin, spotted him and raised a hand in salute. Wary and sharp-eyed, McAllister rode slowly toward him.

The man was in his early fifties, beard shot with gray, face and body honed down to muscle and bone. His gaze was untroubled and direct. He was unarmed.

McAllister halted the canelo and the man's eyes went admiringly to the animal.

‘Howdy,' he said.

‘Howdy,' McAllister said, ‘name's Rem McAllister.'

‘Pete Jenkins, 'light.'

McAllister said: ‘You had visitors a while back. They gone?'

The man smiled: ‘You don't miss much. Sure, they went and they won't be back for a while.'

McAllister stepped down and they shook.

‘You et?' Jenkins asked.

‘No.'

‘Come on in.'

McAllister said: ‘I'll tend to my horse an' be right in.' He unsaddled the canelo and let it roll. When he went inside the cabin, the horse was contentedly cropping the grass.

The smell of the frying steak hit him as soon as he entered and it made the juices of his stomach go crazy. The cabin was sparsely furnished – a bunk, a table, two chairs, a stove and not much else except for some rough shelves and some hooks in the wall.

Jenkins was at the stove, busy with the steaks.

McAllister asked the question uppermost in his mind.

‘Ain't you afraid of Indians?'

The man turned to him with a little smile.

‘I'd be crazy to say I wasn't afraid of Indians. They scare the hell outa me. You mean am I scared of Gato?' McAllister nodded. ‘Sure. But I like it here. An' Gato leaves me alone. We both mind our own business. I've been here a long time. Before Gato came. We get along. I set his son's leg when it was broke once. He ain't forgotten that. Funny thing, his people don't even steal from me. The old bastard can't be all bad.'

‘You seen Gato?'

‘Never. Can a man ask what you're doin' in this neck of the woods?'

‘Lookin' for a man called Spur. Sam Spur.'

The man raised his eyebrows, smiled and nodded.

‘Old Sam … say, now I know where I heard your name. Sam. He talked about you one night when we was havin' a pow-wow. Sure, you're old Chad McAllister's boy. Never knew Chad, but I heard tell of him plenty.' Jenkins talked on, pleased to have a fellow white man to talk to, telling about himself. He lived simply, wanting for little, panning a little gold in the hills, shooting for the pot. He said that Sam's place was some five miles into the hills. The trail down to it was no more than a few minutes' ride from the cabin. McAllister couldn't miss it.

‘You seen Sam?' McAllister asked.

‘Sure. A month – two month. Time don't mean much up here.
It was just after the snow. He come in here with some deer meat for me. Mighty civil of him. He's like that, Sam.'

The man talked on, enjoying the sound of his voice and McAllister wondered what he would do if he knew McAllister was a fugitive from justice. Maybe nothing. Most folk didn't have a great deal of sympathy with the law. Men liked to make their own law. After a while McAllister rose and said he had to be going. Jenkins came outside with him and watched while he caught up the canelo and saddled it. They shook, McAllister mounted, raised a hand in farewell and rode slowly away. How much would Jenkins tell the sheriff when he came hunting this way? He must ask Sam that.

He found the trail Jenkins had mentioned and headed down it. It was through pleasant country, but he didn't let that modify his wariness. He wondered if Sam had the same understanding with the Indians as Jenkins had. But that surely couldn't be possible, for Sam had mentioned their trying to run off his horses. He'd soon know.

The trail led him up, he came clear of timber and he could see out over the whole sun-blasted country, right out over the malpais he had crossed during the night; he moved slowly over the titanic landscape, as small as a creeping ant. Within an hour, he came to a saddle between two hills, crossed it feeling exposed to hidden eyes and came down into a surprising country that was lush with good grass and well watered. Here he came on several cattle scattered out and he saw that they bore Sam's brand of a spur. Not long after, he sighted the house, sat the canelo looking the land over carefully before he went down toward the house.

Sam had picked himself a good spot; well-sheltered from the wind; grass, water, everything a man with cattle could want.

Sam had built well, using the timber available; he had constructed a fine chimney and actually cut shingles for the roof. The walls were massively constructed of notched logs, shaped and fitted neatly together and it seemed incredible to McAllister that a man had done so much work on his lonesome. There was a stoop on which a man could sit on lazy days sheltered from the sun. Off to one side was a corral, the gate open, empty.

The door of the cabin was open. No smoke came from the chimney. Separately such facts could mean nothing, added together they could make something. There was an air of long desertion about the place that McAllister didn't like.

Then he came on the sign and he knew that he had come up
with the warriors he had so narrowly missed back on the Indian trail.

He stopped the canelo and jacked a round into the breech of the Henry.

Is Sam dead in there?
he asked himself.

The Indian sign led right up to the house, it scattered around all over. He didn't doubt that the savages had emptied Sam's corral of horses for him. Judging by the sign, he doubted that they were long gone. But he hadn't heard any shooting back in the hills. Queer. He didn't like it. Were there Indians hiding in the cabin waiting for him to come within easy gun- or arrow-shot? He had to find out, for Sam could be lying wounded in there.

He sat thinking for a while, then made up his mind. If he had to go in there, he'd go in fast. That way he would stand less chance of being hit.