McAllister (3 page)

Two hours before sunset, the lead mule of the second wagon went lame. Mcallister called a halt and inspected the animal's off fore shoe. It was loose. The result was that the whole train heard mule language that was an education to all present. And most of it was directed at George Rawlins who had been responsible for checking the animals. George was angry and stolid under the torrent of abuse and answered back, which was what Mcallister had expected. He didn't employ men who said ‘yes' too often.

“I don't give a monkey's jumpin' hoot what you say,” George roared. “I checked that mule partikler and that shoe was fast and true.” He shut his mouth tight while Mcallister ran back over his ancestery and cast evil aspersions on the virtues of his mother, then started doggedly again. “I tell you I checked it and it was okay.”

Mcallister stared at him, got a grip on himself and nodded.

“Keno. I'll take your word on that, George. Hold this fool animal whiles I takes another look.”

While he was inspecting the hoof for a second time, Von Tannenberg came up and asked: “What is wrong, Mr. McAllister?”

Mcallister pointed at the hoof.

“Somebody's been monkeying with this mule.”

The soldier showed disbelief.

“You are sure?”

“Look at those marks there. Somebody pried this shoe loose. You agree, George?”

“Yeah. What son would do a thing like that?”

Mcallister dropped the hoof and straightened up.

“One man stays with each team from now on while they're hitched.” He shot a glance in the direction of the Carmody wagon. “The Carmody men don't stand guard.”

“How about this mule?”

“Fix it.”

George went to the rear of the wagon for tools. From the van came a cry: “Injun's comin' in.”

Mcallister turned and heard the clatter of hoofs coming down the rocky grade ahead. José came into view, drumming his heels into the belly of his running pony. When he had brought his mount to a slithering halt he announced in his
guttural and indistinct Spanish: “Apache have been this way.”

“You seen them?”

“No. Ranch ahead. Man dead and horses gone. I find sign of horses without the shoes of iron.”

Mcallister said: “Lieutenant, I'm going up ahead to take a look around.” He signalled the Navajo to dismount and vaulted onto the pony's back with an agility that brought an exclamation of amazement from the Dutchman. As Mcallister pounded out of sight, von Tannenberg said: “How does he do it?”

George approaching with a hammer in his hand, laughed.

“You ain't seen nothin', mister.”

The lieutenant shouted for Corporal Young to get up ahead on the ridge and cover Mr. McAllister, the non-commissioned officer spurred his horse past and thundered after the disappearing McAllister. The men by the wagons choked on the dust and spat. George got started on the mule. Von Tannenberg strode down the line of wagons, bawling for the teamsters to close up and for the men to keep their eyes open.

McAllister, pausing for a moment on the ridge-top, saw not a quarter of a mile below him a small house made of adobe standing close beside a high-walled corral of the same material. Running through the corral was a narrow stream of water. The water was obviously the reason for the situation of the house, that and the grass that grew for a fair distance on either side of it. The soft and mournful lowing of a cow brought his attention to the thinly scattered herd as it sought for its pitiful nourishment in this hard country. It took a fool or a hero to ranch this kind of land.

He urged the pinto forward.

He had not gone a hundred yards and was approaching the base of the ridge when the pony went crazy, pitching and rearing and finally backing off the trail. Mcallister dismounted and led the reluctant animal forward. He quickly found the reason for his horse's terror. A dog lay by the side of the trail. Mcallister lifted the head by one ear and found that its throat had been cut. Tossing the carcase clear of the road so that it would not spook the teams, he remounted and pushed on cautiously, watching the house for any sign of life.

To be prepared for action, he eased the old Remington loose in his belt.

He got as far as the corral wall without seeing any vestige of life.

Dismounting under cover of the high wall, he ground-hitched the pinto and went forward, aiming to get a glimpse inside the corral briefly just before he took his first close look at the house.

He rounded the corner and saw the man.

He was dead.

He lay on his back in the center of the yard, arms flung wide, his body cut savagely by knives. He still wore his hair.

Mcallister was shocked to stillness by the sight, but he did not forget to give the interior of the corral his inspection. It was empty.

He lifted his eyes to the house, mounted on a platform of hardened earth, the open door reached by crude steps. It was impregnable as a fortress. One slotted window overlooked the corral for the protection of the stock. But just the same the Apache had got those horses out of there and that fool dead man there had run out to save them. He had not learned the lesson Mcallister had learned long ago when he was a button. If the Indians wanted your horses, you let 'em take 'em. That way you stayed alive. Sure, you weren't much without a horse, but that was better than being nothing at all.

Watching the front of the house, he advanced on it along one side of the yard, hugging the corral wall. That looked after his back.

It wasn't easy getting on the first step to mount the stoop because he had the unpleasant feeling that unseen eyes were watching him. The place was still and silent and he could hear a fly buzzing somewhere near. This was the house of the dead all right.

He reached the stoop as the flutter of cloth touched the corner of his vision. Whirling, he dropped to one knee and cocked the Remington in one movement.

Why he never fired and killed her with his nerves as they were, he never knew. But he didn't. He kneeled there with the raised gun pointing at her breast and she stood still as death gazing at him from the far end of the stoop with the empty gaze of a person in deep shock.

Shaking, he got to his feet.

“Why, ma'am … ”

She didn't say anything, but made a keening sound in her throat.

“Stay there. Stay right where you are.”

Sure, she needed help, but he hadn't taken a look inside the house yet and he wasn't taking any chances. He never did. That was why he was still alive.

He went through that doorway like a charging bull, gun still cocked and pretty sure he'd blast a shadow in half if it looked like a man. But there was nobody there—just two empty rooms with the same pitiful dead look the outside of the house had.

Outside, he found that the woman was sitting on the edge of the stoop, staring at the ridge without seeing it.

He touched his hat foolishly and she turned her head in his direction, but he felt she saw him like the figment of a dream.

She was tall, he saw, well-made. Strong, with the thinned-down face this country gave a woman. Not thirty yet and maybe when the shock wasn't on her face, kind of pleasant for a man to look at. He glanced over his shoulder and reckoned the dead man was maybe five years older than she was. That probably made him her husband.

“Your man's dead, ma'am,” he said. “The Indians killed him. We'll take you out of here.”

His words had the effect he wanted.

The thin face crumpled and, for a brief moment, her eyes came into focus, seemed to settle in horror on his stubbled chin and broken nose and then she was weeping. Pushing her face into her hands and sobbing out loud. He put his arm around her shoulders and could feel them shaking. She subsided against him and clutched at his arm as he hastily eased the hammer off cock.

After he had muttered comforting things for a few minutes, he patted her shoulder a couple of times and left her. Reaching the center of the yard, he had a clear view of the ridge with Corporal Young waiting mounted on its crest. Mcallister signalled to him to come on. As Young spurred his mount, Mcallister saw that José had joined him and was running by the stirrup, pacing the running horse. Mcallister chuckled, knowing the Indian could run that cavalry mount off its feet.

When they pounded into the yard, Mcallister said quickly to the Navajo: “Get that dead man into the corral and bury
him. Quick. Corporal, get Rawlins to cut that lame mule loose and get Mr. Tannenberg or whatever his name is down here with the train fast.”

The corporal whirled his horse and clattered away. José bent over the dead man, picked him up effortlessly and headed for the corral. When Mcallister turned back to the woman, he found her watching with the look of horror returned to her face.

He cursed himself for a fool. Of course—the Indian.

“That's all right, ma'am. That's no Apache. That's my Indian. He don't like ‘Paches no more'n we do.”

She started laughing then and he had to hit her in the face with the flat of his hand and after that she had a good loud cry till the train could be heard approaching. As the first mules entered the yard, Mcallister said: “Afraid you'll have to snap out of it, lady. There's work to be done. Us men'll want coffee by the gallon and some hot chow if'n you can manage that.” And as she looked at him helplessly, he added: “Best to keep busy, I reckon.”

She turned and went silently into the house.

Von Tannenberg came up and dismounted. Quickly Mcallister told him what he had found. The Prussian looked shocked, but Mcallister was glad to see not too shocked. At least the man was hardened.

“And the woman,” he asked, “is she all right?”

“Cooking chow for us right now if'n I ain't mistaken, lieutenant.”

Von Tannenberg raised his eyebrows in surprise.

“If you are able to deal with all situations like this one, Mr. McAllister, you will—what is the expression?—do to ride the river with.”

Mcallister laughed.

George Rawlins walked the limping mule into the yard and demanded: “First you say fix this goddam mule, now you get us on the move.”

Mcallister said: “You'll find tools here.”

They got three of the wagons and all the stock into the corral, put a guard on top of the house and all enjoyed the luxury of washing in the stream. One of the troopers, a heavy Dutchman named Schneider, was detailed off to help the woman with the preparation of the meal, Mcallister and the lieutenant filled their pipes and talked.

Von Tannenberg was for pushing on as soon as they were offered the cover of darkness. Mcallister wasn't so sure. If there were Apache in the neighbourhood, it might be wiser to stay here awhile. There was water and the security of walls for men and stock. His advice was to wait for morning so that he and the Navajo could scout the country for sign.

The soldier thought that fair enough and said so. Certainly he did not want to risk losing his horses. While haste was necessary, he was also carrying gold and he could not afford to lose that. So they agreed on a strong guard of soldiers and teamsters and went to give their orders for the night. Everyone received the news that the night was being spent at the ranch with joy. It was no fun travelling at night and trying to sleep through the heat of the day, in spite of what one might think.

Before he took to his blankets, Mcallister visited the woman and found some change in her. She had washed her face, put a comb through her hair and seemed to be almost fully aware of what went on around her. She agreed that she should sleep in the small room, while the officer and Sam Pritchard would occupy the larger one. The remainder of the train would sleep on the stoop and stand guard. Schneider, the Dutchman, stood guard at the rifle-slit overlooking the corral.

As Mcallister wished the woman goodnight and left the house, he met Lee Franchon coming in. Mcallister blocked his way.

“Where do you think you're going?”

The gunman stood very still for a moment. He ran his tongue across his lips.

“Inside.”

“Why?”

“To sleep, of course.”

“You sleep outside with the others.”

Franchon laughed.

“You think I'm a cowhand or something? You're not in charge of me. Step aside, Rem.”

Mcallister said: “Clear off, little man, before I put you over my knee and spank you.”

Mcallister asked himself why he said that—it could only make the man mad. But he couldn't answer himself, except
that he didn't like Franchon or his kind and that he felt uneasy with him on the train.

Franchon said: “You could get yourself killed talking that way.”

“I'll have none of your gunman's talk here. Light a chuck and fast.”

The gunman's temper burst out.

“No man talks to me that way.”

As Mcallister moved towards him, the gunman's pale hand slapped down to the butt of his gun. McAllister's own work-hardened right hand tore the big pistol from his belt and smashed it into the handsome face.

Franchon went back off the stoop with a muffled cry and hit the yard on his back. He flopped a little like a landed fish, managed to cock his gun, but had it kicked from his grasp before he could bring it into action.

At once there were men all around them.

Mcallister belted his gun and picked Franchon's up. Thrusting it into a pocket, he stooped, caught the gunman by the scruff of his neck and jerked him painfully to his feet.

The Carmody driver came up and said: “Mr. Carmody's going to hear about this. You can't get away with handling one of his men this way.”

Mcallister gave him no more than a glance. He ran his hand over the shaking Franchon searching for the hide-out gun he knew was there and found an up-and-over in a vest pocket. Slung around the man's neck he found a short stabbing knife. This he removed and handed to the Navajo.

“If I had a spare mount, I'd send you back to the Springs. But I don't have, so you stay with us. Now you step out of line just once and I'll leave you for the coyotes. Hear?”