McAllister Rides (3 page)

McAllister grinned.

“And I thought you didn't really care,” he said. He walked out to where the
canelo
stood hipshod at the corral rail in the simmering heat. It was too hot to travel and McAllister cursed his giving Bourn till noon to make up his mind. The
canelo
turned its head to nuzzle its owner and McAllister stroked the smooth neck. A whisker of dust showed on the ridge above the settlement and several horses and riders appeared out of it. McAllister took his time about tightening
cinches and tying down saddlebags. By the time he finished, Bourn was by the corral with a couple of riders, getting stiffly out of the saddle. He stomped up to McAllister who now saw the man clearly for the first time. He was two or three inches shorter than McAllister, heavy in the shoulders, but slim in the hip like the habitual rider. A man nearing fifty, but still physically hard. McAllister didn't doubt that he could use his fists and the gun that hung high at his waist. He had the face of a quick-moving and well-exercised bull.

“Well,” he demanded without preamble, “you thought about my offer?”

“Yeah,” McAllister said. “I'm riding out.”

“You're being a fool.”

“Ain't I?” McAllister flicked a fly from the rump of the
canelo
with his quirt, put a foot in the stirrup-iron and stepped into the saddle. He lifted the lines and the horse turned daintily. One of the riders moved his horse in the way and said: “Mr. Bourn didn't say nothing about you going.”

McAllister looked at this young man with something like pity.

“Tell this boy, Bourn,” he said, “not to meddle when men're talking.”

Bourn said: “You go when I say so, McAllister.”

McAllister sighed. The other rider rested a hand on his gun. “I hope,” he said, “you boys know what you're doing. You're liable to get yourself hurt through this old man's foolishness.”

The man said: “I heard about you. You don't faze me none.”

“Bourn,” McAllister said, “you ain't even half-smart. And if you wasn't anything else, I'd of put you down as smart. This fool play ain't going to make me ride clean into Comanche country and get your wife back.”

“Three hundred is my offer,” Bourn said, “fifty dollars down now.”

“Five hundred and a hundred now, take it or leave it.”

Bourn looked quietly fit to bust.

He said: “Four fifty and fifty now.”

He looked surprised when McAllister said: “Done.” Then he had the expression on his face of a man who thinks he could have obtained a better bargain if he had stuck out. He
looked as if he didn't know which way to turn, gave his men a sheepish look as though ashamed that they had seen him bested and took a roll of bills from his pocket. He tossed them to McAllister who deftly caught them, stepped down from the saddle and tied the
canelo.
He walked past Bourn without a word in the direction of the store. Bourn got onto his own horse, his face grim, and headed back for the ridge.

In the store Ike and his wife were surprised to see him. He threw the money on the counter, said: “Take what I owe you and give me supplies for a month. Enough ammunition for the Remington and the Henry to fight an Indian war.”

“Mein Gott,” Ike declared, “der poy iss crazy in der head.”

“Ain't he,” said McAllister.

McAllister reckoned he was crazy in the head too. He reckoned also he must have been born that way. Inherited it from his old man. He had done crazy things all his life and never got a tittle of profit from them. Ended up as broke as when he had started out.

The
canelo
trotted through the cool of the evening and the big Kentucky mule trotted behind, carrying on its back McAllister's investment for the future.

He rode well into the night, westering all the time, knowing exactly where he was going on this leg of the journey, knowing that by midnight, if luck were with him, he would reach water by good grass for the animals. He didn't hurry because he had a good many miles to cover and he wanted both horse and mule to be fresh for a good run when it was needed.

He found the water all right, but there wasn't much of it. Just enough to give men and beasts a good drink. With full bellies he moved them back half a mile from the water, for it was never safe to camp right on a well. You never knew who would be driven there by thirst. He felt uneasy and he slept light, wakening often to listen to the
canelo
and the mule
crunching the crisp sun-cured grass. He was up with the dawn and in the saddle soon after, using the cool hours to ride in and for his breakfast chewing on the jerky he always carried as he rode. The land rolled away before him like a mighty sea, disappearing, as the sun rose high, into a shimmering haze of heat. Soon the heat made movement unpleasant and man and animals were shining with sweat, but steadily they pushed ever westward through the heat.

Caution rode him heavily. He sensed that he was riding into danger; not the ultimate danger that he would be in from the Indians, but something nearer at hand.

Ike had said:
Zey could be over der ridge.

They could be and they probably were. He should have made a detour of twenty or thirty miles and ridden clear of them. But he'd be damned if he did. He was young and his pride irked him. He wouldn't ride one single mile to get away from three saddlebums like the Richards. He reckoned on them striking, but he didn't have much idea how or when, though he had a fair notion that it would be soon. The Richards wouldn't ride two miles when they could ride one. Nor would they stand up and challenge a man when they could shoot him from behind. So it would be today or tomorrow and it would come from cover.

He would have to rely on his own eyes and the nose and ears of the
canelo,
for the California horse was as good as a watchdog for danger.

Toward night, the land started to rise almost imperceptibly beneath the pacing hoofs of his animals. He had passed not a living soul all day, nothing had moved except a herd of antelope and a distant caballada of mustang that fled at his approach with a roll of hoofs that was like the faint sound of drums. He camped out on the flat with nothing in sight. He gave the horse and mule a little water from his canteen in the crown of his hat and hoped that he would find water on the following day. The
canelo
looked hurt at such churlish treatment. The mule took it philosophically and contentedly munched on grass. McAllister slept deeper this night and he needed it.

Again he was up with the dawn and on his way, taking advantage of the cool. He could feel the extra strain the animals were taking now as the country rose steadily. He did
not know this stretch of country well, but he knew that, although he couldn't see it, there was a break some time during this day's ride. Brimble's canyon lay ahead of him, a wide break of several miles in the rising plain. If they were waiting for him, they would be there, although it would not be an easy task for them to find him in this vast country. He had ridden no trail and they could have missed him by miles.

Around noon, he knew that he was about an hour's ride from the canyon and he reckoned if they were there and there was a fight in store for him, he'd fight on a full belly. He found buffalo chips, took tinder from a waterproof pouch and built a fire. There was little water left, but there was enough for a cup of coffee. He enjoyed this while he cooked bacon and beans. Then he was on his way again, moving his animals at a walk.

As he rode he thought that the situation fitted him to a T. Ike was right – he was crazy in the head. No sane man risked his life for a woman unknown to him for the sake of five hundred dollars he would most likely never live to receive. On top of that he had to get himself in bad with three roughnecks who would most likely leave his dead body in a gully for the vultures and crows to pick. Like father like son. His old man had been born to trouble too.

He halted.

Two shots had been fired somewhere up ahead. They could mean anything of course. A hunter, a couple of fellows having a private fight. But two shots spaced as they were sounded to him mighty like a signal. Say some men were spaced out across country in search of another man and one sighted him. He would signal with a shot. They wouldn't fear that McAllister would cut and run. They knew he wouldn't duck a fight

He waited and watched. The mule dozed and the
canelo
cropped the short grass. After a short while his sharp eyes caught a glitter of bright light, too bright to be the reflexion of the sun from the barrel of a rifle. Somebody was looking at him through a glass. He lifted the lines and went slowly forward, shifting his eyes to right and left as he went to get the lie of the land, looking for any faint chance the terrain offered. McAllister might not run from trouble, but he wasn't such a damn fool he rode straight into it.

He reckoned that the man with the glass was about two
miles ahead of him. The other men would be strung out as far on either hand. So he had a little time to maneuvre yet. Not long, but if he had a little luck, enough.

Five minutes and he saw what might be a chance.

In front of him was a dip, something like a buffalo wallow, and away to the right was a gully a little deeper than the height of a man and horse. McAllister rode into the dip, halted and stepped down from the saddle. Then he led horse and mule into the gully and, walking along it, found that it bent around and headed roughly north-west. He followed it for maybe a couple of hundred yards till he came to a jumble of rocks and brush. Here he tied the patient mule and went on. Another five minutes and he halted again and climbed the side of the gully to take a look around, careful not to expose himself too much. The beat of a horse's hoofs reached his ears and, turning his head, he saw a rider beating down from the north at a fair pace. The distance was great, but he thought it looked like Morny Richards. This man rode across McAllister's front for several minutes before another man appeared from a hollow and met him. They sat their horses looking east, one of them pointing and apparently talking excitedly. After a while another horseman approached from the south and joined them. Even at that great distance it was possible to see that they were in something of a dilemma. McAllister reckoned they'd be in a worse one when he drove some lead up one of their butts.

He climbed down the side of the arroyo, heaved the Henry rifle from leather and checked the loading. Then took three loading tubes from his saddlebags and stuck them in his belt. He smiled a little grimly. The Henry held fifteen shots and that gave him some advantage. He doubted if the Richards had a repeater that could hold that number of shots between them. It evened up the odds nicely for his money.

Rifle in hand, he led the
canelo
forward another couple of hundred yards until he reckoned he was within long rifle shot of the three men. He reckoned that if there was going to be shooting he would get in the first shots. He ground-hitched the
canelo,
knowing it wouldn't spook at the sound of gunfire. Then he climbed the arroyo side again and lay on his belly watching the scene before him.

The three men had broken up now, scattering out to form
a line of about one hundred yards long; they rode with immense caution at a slow walk, rifles held across their saddle bows. McAllister considered them – three grown men who were after another man with revenge in their hearts like three overgrown kids. They had nothing to gain by McAllister's death, yet here they were risking their own lives to bring it about. It didn't make any kind of sense to him. But the West was made up of such pride, men's emotions were crude and their pride infantile. Maybe his was that way too.

Morny Richards was in the center of the line, Rick to the right and Seth to the left. Rick was nearest to him, therefore Rick would be cut down first because he was the most certain target. He waited, wanting to be sure of a hit. Slowly the horsemen came eastward, but they had forgotten a man could move as fast or faster than they could and the center of their line was directed at his former position. If Rick continued as he was, he would pass within fifty yards of McAllister's left. His brother Morny was now some fifty yards to the right of him and further from McAllister. Seth was at a distance of more than one hundred and fifty yards. The distances offered on the face of it some chance to McAllister, but he knew that horses could move fast and bullets faster.

McAllister came suddenly alert.

Rick had started to angle left and was headed directly for McAllister. Clearly he had not seen the hidden man yet. McAllister jacked a round into the breech of the Henry. He wondered if Rick would catch the faint sound on the still plains air. But the sound of the horse's hoofs must have muffled it. Rick came steadily on.

I'll have to kill him,
McAllister thought.
There's no other way if I'm to have a chance with the other two.

He raised the rifle, butt into shoulder and knew he couldn't do it. He cursed himself for a soft fool, but he couldn't bushwhack a man this way even if the man wanted him dead.

He lowered the rifle and crawled back into the arroyo well out of sight of the advancing man, listening for the sound of the approaching horse. He waited, still and tense until the steady
plod-plod
came to his ears. Then he simply came erect, waist-high above the lip of the arroyo and said: “Looking for me, Rick?”

The man nearly fell out of the saddle in alarm and
astonishment. He went as still as a man can when his life depends upon it.

“Jesus God,” he whispered.

McAllister said: “Drop the rifle.”

The rifle fell into the grass and raised a small wisp of dust. McAllister looked past Rick and saw that the other two men had not yet noticed that anything was wrong.

His eyes went back to Rick. The man looked sick.

“Now the gunbelt.”