McAllister (17 page)

“Just one?”

“One.”

“Can you get him?”

“Seguramente!”

Without another word, the Navajo swung his horse in an arc, struck it on the rump with his quirt and started it in a flat run up the nearest ridge. Mcallister halted the little train and watched the Apache get aboard his pony, give a defiant sign of gross obscenity with his hand and go pelting away to the north. No more than a few seconds behind him, the Navajo sent his mount scurrying over the ridge and down the other side out of sight.

Mcallister waited.

He waited long enough to wonder if he had sent José into a trap. Cut off by the ridge, he could see nothing. There came no sound of a shot and he knew the Navajo would not use the gun unless he was forced to. The wait stretched itself out
until he could stand the suspense no longer and moved forward up the ridge to peer over.

Then he started cursing.

A half-mile off, he saw a horse down and kicking. José stood near raving, shaking his fists at a fast-disappearing rider who was riding a tired horse away to the north. He saw the Navajo stoop and cut his horse's throat, then come loping back toward him.

This is great
, Mcallister told himself bitterly.
We're now short a horse and before we have time to spit Gato knows just where we're at
.

When José came up, he was finding time to spit, all right. With rage. That white-boweled son of an Apache cur-dog had not stopped to fight, but had put an arrow through the pony. The Apache were cowards and women, they were dogs and … There was a whole lot more of it.

“All right, all right,” Mcallister told him. “So you don't like Apache. I got that much. Well, we have to ride double, so get up behind and we'll hobble on.”

José looked disgusted.

“Ride double and kill horse. Apache catch us all right. Navajo got legs. Don't need goddam horse.”

He got hold of a lead-line of one of the pack-animals, dealt the animal a smart slap across the rump and ran with it as it started off at a fast clip. Mcallister started after him.

When he was level with the Indian, he said: “How long do you think you can keep that up?”

José lengthened his pace and dragged the pack-horse behind him. Over his shoulder he snarled: “Navajo run horse dead. You see. Navajo not women.”

He was still running at noon and when he stopped, he was showing less wear and tear than the horses.

Mcallister dismounted stiffly and said: “Pretty soon I reckon I'll be riding you.”

José smirked. Mcallister let him have his triumph.

Before they went on, forcing themselves now through the breathless blast of heat that came out of the surface of the desert, the Indian went to the nearest high land and came back to report that he had sighted dust coming in their direction from the north-east.

“Gato,” he said.

“How long before they hit us?”

“Mebbe ten smokes.”

If the Navajo was right, that wasn't so bad. With a large dose of luck, they might sight the wagons by then. And though the defending force was badly depleted, so were the Apache. Automatic rifles and the cover offered by the wagons would tell against the unprotected horsemen. There was a chance.

Mcallister heaved himself painfully into the saddle. He looked at the waiting Indian and said: “Now we kill the horses.”

The Indian nodded. “You kill horses, But you don't kill José.”

They went on.

From then on life consisted of turning to watch the north for dust, feeling your spine jarred by the pounding saddle, keeping the flagging horses on their feet, listening to the thud of their hoofs and the soft pad of the striding Indian. After one hour or so, one of the pack-animals went down. They were of two minds whether to kill him and put him out of his misery, but the Navajo declared there was still enough left in him for another hour. So they went on, using their whips, until they sighted dust clearly about five miles away and the pack-animal went down again. This time he stayed there and they had to double load on the other animal. By the looks of him, he didn't have much longer to go. With a deft cut of his knife José killed the downed horse and they went on again.

Now the horse Mcallister rode started to stumble and that had them really worried. The dust was approaching faster than they thought possible and they began to wonder if Gato had gotten himself some fresh horse-flesh. The pack-animal started to drag back on its rope so José got behind it and drove it before him.

They ran out of the ridge country and hit the flat and after another of the hell of traveling, they looked back and had their first sight of their pursuers. At the rate they were coming on, Mcallister wondered if it wouldn't be wiser to find a place to make a fort-up and try for a stand off. But that didn't make much sense with their having nothing but that damned old Dragoon between them. He reckoned the Apache would be breathing down their necks. Already his sun-tired eyes could pick out the colors of their shirts.

His horse stumbled again and he kept it on its feet by sheer will-power. José was just cursing the reluctant pack-horse in succulent and horrible Spanish when he stopped suddenly and said: “Smoke!”

Mcallister stared in the direction he was pointing and saw with difficulty the wisp of smoke slightly to the south-west.

“Maybe wagons,” the Indian said.

Mcallister told him: “We don't know, but we have to gamble on it.”

They angled slightly left and headed for it. It wasn't possible to tell the distance to it from their position because once more the country was starting to break up. But when they heaved up a low ridge, they saw the dim shapes in the heat haze that could be wagons.

Glancing over his shoulder, he saw that the following riders had also changed direction and had, at the same time, increased their pace. Trust the Apache to have spotted that smoke and to know what it meant. Another couple of minutes and he reckoned they would be within long rifle-shot. He used the spurs on his hapless mount, but the animal had nothing more to offer. From behind some hopeful buck fired a rifle, but they didn't even hear the whine of the ball. They staggered down the long slow grade of the ridge and tried to pick up enough speed to help them over the flat beyond, but they didn't manage it.

Another five minutes and the Indians were starting to fire in the hopes of hitting a horse which showed that they were more interested in the packs than the animals. Or maybe they had a fancy for fresh pony-meat. They were starting over the low ridge and covering the ground fast, yelping now like wolves in sight of a failing prey. Mcallister looked back again and reckoned their horses were fresh all right and if he and the Navajo reached the train first it would be a miracle of miracles and he was over twenty-one and didn't believe in them any more.

“José,” he bawled above the sound of the hoofs, “Give me that gun and get on down to the train.”

The man gave him a startled look.

“No,” he said.

“Give me that gun or you're fired.”

“Hokay—me fire.”

Mcallister explained what he meant to do, punctuating
his sentences with choice phrases and telling José what the Apaches would do to him if they caught him, as if he didn't know. José ran in close to Mcallister and handed up the gun. Mcallister stuck it in his belt and then reached down for the powder and shot. There didn't seem much of that either. A shot whistled over their heads and hit dust.

They pounded up another ridge and as they reached the top, Mcallister shouted: “Now show me how you can run.” The big Navajo gave him a fleeting grin and quickened his pace, lashing the exhausted horse ahead of him. Mcallister topped the ridge, went on a short way and heaved his mount to an abrupt halt. Bellying down he dragged himself back up the ridge, checked the gun and peered over.

The Apache were less than three hundred yards off. He prayed they would make their run over the ridge within pistol-shot. He got his head down then and played it by sound. The Navajo was going well, but it looked an awful long way to the wagons, but he could see that they had been alarmed down there. The sun glinted on rifle-barrels.

The Indians were close now, giving voice, pounding up the ridge. Luck was with McAllister, for one of them rode his pony almost up the tracks left by the prey and hit the top of the ridge within throwing distance of the waiting man. The buck paused for a moment as his mount gathered itself for the downward plunge and at the same time spotted the running Navajo. He cried out and pointed and at that split second of time must have realised that there was one man where there should have been two. He turned his head and looked straight into the whiteman's eyes as Mcallister lifted the heavy Dragoon and shot him dead.

He pitched from his crude saddle without a sound.

His pony snorted wildly and ran down the grade. McAllister's horse tried to take off, but started stumbling over the trailing line.

Mcallister heaved himself to the crest of the ridge, sighted a charging rider not a dozen yards away and fired again.

This time he missed. But a horse close behind took the ball in the face and went crazy. The Indian he had aimed at swerved his mount and came straight at him. Mcallister rolled hurriedly from his path, aimed lying on his back and shot the man through the chest.

Then there seemed to be Indians all over him.

A horse reared high, hoofs smashed into the dust near him and he heaved himself to his feet, lashing out at a dark face with the weighty barrel and hearing bone give under the terrible blow.

He fired again as a rider swung a club for his head and then suddenly he was alone and men were riding away from him.

Near him a dying man was screaming and a horse voiced his mortal agony.

Looking around, he seemed to see everything at once.

Several riders were whooping after the running Navajo; McAllister's horse was down on its foreknees with blood flowing from its mouth. Guns were popping among the wagons. Hastily, Mcallister started to reload, head jerking this way and that in search of danger.

A sound behind him and he turned.

The man had launched himself from the back of his pony and his plunging weight bore Mcallister down, half-loaded gun flying from his hands. Naked steel bit smartly at his flesh and he kicked out with a booted foot at naked flesh. The grease-stench of a savage filled his nostrils and a distorted face was near his as the man came into the attack again.

Mcallister flung a fist, heard it contact and then he was on his feet, swaying and dazed as the warrior seemed to bounce from the ground and howl back into the attack again.

He sidestepped that rush and hit the man in the neck, kicked him in the head before he hit ground and had the knife out of his hand before he could regain his feet. Blood streaming down his face, the Apache came at him with his bare hands, flight or surrender a stranger to him and Mcallister met him with the knife. Stabbing two, three times, choking on the dust and his legs trying to collapse under him.

The man went down and stayed down.

Mcallister caught sight of José still running and it seemed that he was no nearer the wagons than before. But the two mounted Indians were closing in on him.

And I have his gun
, Mcallister told himself.

A horse's whinny brought him up short and he went in a shambling run for the shaggy-looking pinto that tried to run when it saw him coming. It trod on the end of the trailing line that was tied around its lower jaw, got itself righted, but before it could escape, Mcallister was aboard and lashing it.

It fought him and pitched, but Mcallister was in no mood for niceties and got it going into the general direction of the wagons. It hadn't taken a dozen jumps when he realised that the Dragoon was lying back there in the dust and he had no other weapon than the knife.

But José had nothing but a knife either.

He thundered off the ridge, hit the flat and headed for José.

The men with the wagons could do nothing for the Navajo for fear of hitting him. Somebody rode out of the wagons shouting, but the Apache were on top of José now. He was having trouble with the pack-horse, but he stopped fooling with that as he looked back and saw that he had to look after himself. Mcallister saw him snatch his knife from his belt and turn to meet the nearest warrior. The man could not have had a gun because he rode straight at the big Indian and tried to ride him down. The Navajo dodged that one, slashed at the man as he went past him and turned quickly to run at the one following behind. This one had a gun and he fired. José staggered, but he didn't stop. The Apache came off the back of the horse as if he were a feather-weight and raised the dust. José dropped on him. The knife-hand rose and fell once and the Apache was left kicking out his life.

The other buck had turned and was coming back, his object the pack-horse. José started to head in the same direction, but suddenly he slowed and started walking in a tight circle clutching his chest.

Something died in Mcallister and he urged his pony faster.

The returning warrior leaned from the saddle and scooped up the lead-rope of the pack-horse, fought the reluctant animal for a second, then headed back in McAllister's direction. The horseman from the wagons was shooting now.

Mcallister heard a rifle fired from his right and, turning in the saddle, saw three Apache crouching low over their animal's necks and racing toward their fellow.

José pitched onto his face and lay still.

A shrill cry brought McAllister's attention to the Apache with the pack-animal and he knew without being told and though he had never seen the man before that this was Gato.

Rage took possession of Mcallister and self-preservation was beyond him. Crazily he drove the small pinto into the
charging man. Gato's horse staggered and reared, McAllister's mount swerved wildly and nearly unseated him. The vicious blow of the war-club, meant for his head, struck the little pinto and nearly stunned it. As it stumbled and nearly went down, Gato kicked his own pony closer and made a back-handed side-sweep with the club. Mcallister went out of the saddle in a forward dive, arm and knife like a haft and spearhead. The force of the Indian's blow brought the man close into Mcallister right onto the point of the blade. Gato tried to wrench himself away, turning his pony's head and, the blade still in his chest, got clear of McAllister.