McAllister Justice (11 page)

He gripped her by her shoulder and for a breathless moment she thought that he was going to kiss her. Instead, he flashed a grin across his dark, somber face and said: “I'll hold you to that.”

Noon found him five miles on his way, not hurrying, because hurry wouldn't catch his man. An hour later, still ten miles from the first dark fold of the hills, he ran into an army patrol: lieutenant, sergeant and ten men. The army weren't taking any chances with Indians around and signal fires burning on the heights above. The lieutenant was young and tired. He sat a tired horse and was backed by tired men.

“Mister,” he said, “I'm sick to the guts with telling men to go back, so don't give any damned good reason why you should go on.”

McAllister halted his bay and regarded the youngster kindly. “I have a reason even the army can't get around,” he said.

The officer groaned. “Let's have it. Then turn around and get.”

The marshal said: “Name's Remington McAllister. United States Deputy Marshal.”

The veteran sergeant laughed and said: “Well, that's a new one any road.”

They dismounted and stretched their legs, arguing. McAllister could produce no papers to prove either his identity or his appointment. The lieutenant stated with triumph in his voice that he could ride along and go back to Malcolm with the others they had gathered up. McAllister wasn't the man to argue with eleven rifles and he was curious to see the others that the army had gathered in. Luck might put his man among them.

Mounting, they rode a couple of miles to the west and there below a ridge they came on a party of some fifty miners camped under the watchful eyes of a half-dozen soldiers. McAllister joined the grumbling men and took a look around. It didn't take him long to find out that his man was not here. But a man that took his notice was. A red-haired man wearing a black hat. His clothes were more those of a broken-down cattleman than a miner. That was not enough to make him remarkable, for many a hopeful cowman took to the search for gold. But McAllister had a hunch and decided to play it.

The army, it seemed, was ready to get on the move and reach town before nightfall. That seemed over-hopeful because many of the men were on foot, either with their gear on burros or on their backs. The pace would be slow. McAllister rode alongside the redhead. He noted that the horse was good, showing both speed and stamina.

“That nag,” he said casually, “looks like it can travel.”

The man turned to look at him. If he recognized McAllister he didn't show it.

“I reckon,” he said laconically. He was young. No more than twenty-two or three. Raw-boned and hard. The eyes had a wild look about them.

“After dark, it could maybe get away from these army crowbaits.”

“Maybe.” The man's eyes searched him, wary.

“We'll never hit town in daylight. The soldiers'll have to camp.”

The man considered that carefully, nodded and said: “I'll back you.”

They moved slowly on toward town, up one ridge and down the next, cavalrymen out on either side as scouts. Once or twice, soldiers rode in with more civilians and added them to the others. Every time a soldier came near the miners, they cursed him. The soldiers didn't look like they were enjoying the chore, but, as one remarked, he guessed it was better than fighting Indians.

As McAllister had predicted, night caught them a long way
from home and with dusk settling down on them rapidly, the sergeant rode among them, telling them to halt and bed down. They cursed him and stopped, settling down where they stood. McAllister dismounted, wishing that he could rest up for the night too. His shoulder was giving him hell, throbbing like an Indian tom-tom. The prospect of a wild ride into the night with army carbines giving him a noisy fare-thee-well was not a pleasant one.

The redhead slipped from the saddle near him and said: “Full dark in a coupla minutes.”

McAllister took a look around, seeing that the army were clustered at four points around the miners at a distance of about fifty yards. That didn't look so good. He stabbed a finger at one group of cavalrymen and said: “There's a gully to the left of that bunch. That'll give us cover.”

“All right.”

“No shooting,” McAllister said. “Nobody gets hurt an' they won't bother to come after us.”

The man said sharply: “I make my own rules, mister.”

“You can make your own hangrope, too.”

The man didn't answer and together they walked their horses through the miners toward the far side of the dell that contained them. By the time they reached the last man, full dark was on them. A fire flared at the nearest picket. That would guide them to the gully.
Keep to the left of that,
McAllister thought,
and keep on going.

His one comfort was that the army had probably been given orders to treat the miners gently unless they offered violent resistance. The army might fire when they made the break, but it would be into the air.

“I'm on my way,” the redhead said and swung into the saddle.

McAllister followed suit. They settled themselves in the saddle, McAllister hoping that his spare horse would follow obediently.

“Now,” the redhead said and swung his quirt. His horse jumped, pitched once and started to run. McAllister touched
the spurs and gave the bay its head, swinging the free ends of the lines to slap at the lead-horse. He hung back a little, but a round curse and another swing of the lines got it going. McAllister bore away to the left of the fire. For a full minute it seemed that he heard nothing but the pounding of hoofs and the creak of saddle-leather, but, as he came abreast of the fire, following close behind the other rider, he heard a strident shout. A shot rang out and he heard the passage of the carbine ball over his head. Instinctively, he ducked, as he thundered on.

From in front he heard a pistol's sharp retort and the night was stabbed with muzzle-flame. Glancing left, he saw a dark figure stagger and trip into the fire.

Regret for the unknown man who had fallen touched him. It was quickly displaced by rage agains the fool who had done it. No call for anybody to get hurt. McAllister promised himself:
The sonovabitch'll pay for that. Soon.

No further move was made to stop them. They ran free across the rolling prairie and nothing could have stopped them but a gopher hole. By the stars when they showed, they trotted north. When the moon sailed out clear from behind the clouds, they halted. McAllister dismounted and said: “You didn't have to shoot.”

The redhead bared his teeth in the moonlight.

“I shoot who I damn-well like,” he said and swung a leg over the cantle, dismounting.

When his right foot rested on the ground and took the weight, McAllister kicked it out from under him. As he went down, the marshal cuffed him with a clenched fist around the head. He hit the ground hard, but there was still some life in him. Enough to make him reach for his gun. McAllister kicked it out of his hand, then nearly kicked a couple of ribs in.

“Mean, ain't I?” McAllister said and picked up the fallen gun. He swore softly, because his shoulder played him up a little after the violence. The redhead made noises like he was weeping. It gave McAllister a small satisfaction.

It took the man a fair time to get around to sitting up and
calling McAllister all the different kinds of bastards known to man.

McAllister hefted the gun and said: “Catch.” He tossed it over and the man caught it. He couldn't believe the marshal was crazy enough to do such a thing.

McAllister said: “You aim to kill me, Red, but even you ain't fool enough to kill me now. You're goin' to need me plenty with the redskins around. Maybe they's a couple hid out in the grass yonder listenin' to us right this minute.”

After a short rest, McAllister told him to mount up. He looked like he would protest, but he thought better of it and did as he was told. McAllister rode three or four lengths behind him. He planned to ride all night. While the legend that Indians never fought at night was a load of hogwash, there was more chance of moving unmolested in the dark than in daylight. Come dawn, he'd have a look at the country and would halt or go on as he thought best then.

The redhead asked: “Where we headed?”

McAllister answered: “The diggin's,” and left it at that They got by for the rest of the night without more words. Dawn found them moving into the north-west at a shuffling trot. McAllister changed horses once during the night to keep his animals fresh. That gave him an advantage over the Indians, maybe, and certainly over this coyote.

The country was rougher now. It was still prairie, but the ridges were higher and in the cold light of dawn, the whole world looked desolate and forlorn. They ate in the saddle, chewing on hard-tack, not daring to stop and light a fire, pushing steadily through the morning mist. Once the other man broke the silence. He wanted to rest his horse and he wanted to impress on McAllister that he was mixing him up with some other fellow. He didn't want to kill anybody. He didn't know what McAllister meant by that remark of his. McAllister told him he could keep going till he met up with his friend Dix.

“I don't know the name,” the man said, but he wasn't convincing.

They went on.

The mist lifted slowly and the hills came into view, looking dark and forbidding till the sun hit them. After that they looked baked dry and forbidding. McAllister didn't like to contemplate what danger they held for him. His only consolation was that they held the same for this damned outlaw.

Mid-morning, they sighted a moving mass before them.

Hastily dismounting, they took cover behind a ridge, and knowing that if it wasn't cavalry, it was Indians, McAllister looked around for a likely spot to fort up. He didn't find one, so they stayed right where they were.

Inside an hour, they knew it was Indians for sure. A large body of fighting men, feathers fluttering and paint bright in the sunlight, led by an old boy on a paint pony. They passed about a mile to the north, going from the north-west into the south-east. They did not spot the two whitemen. McAllister kept them where they were for about an hour, until he was satisfied that there were no more Sioux around, then they mounted and went on.

He rode now with his nerves jumpier than ever, his chin on either shoulder. Redhead was doubly nervous and McAllister wondered at him having the courage for this trip in the first place.

Toward dusk they ran slap-bang into real trouble.

McAllister reckoned there was around fifteen of them.

As they had progressed northward so the country had grown steadily more broken. To spot danger a long way off became more difficult. And they were going through a particularly bad patch of country, a jumble of ridges and scattered rocks, when they came on these fifteen young Dakotas who at once showed how glad they were to meet up with two whitemen on their lonesome way out in the middle of nowhere.

One moment they weren't there and the next they were. They must have spotted the two of them from afar and hid up. They came out of a gully not a quarter of a mile away to the right, beating their ponies into speed and yelling like all get-out.

McAllister yelled: “Ride,” and gave his horse the spurs.

They bolted for a couple of miles up and down ridges, dodging around rocks, jumping the narrower gullies, which forced McAllister to release the lead-horse, until the redhead's horse started to flag and even McAllister's fresher animal started to heave. It looked like the Indians, or at least a few of them, were steadily gaining. The marshal started to feel pretty unhappy. The redhead looked like his heart was breaking.

Finally, they were beating around a pretty high knoll, when McAllister yelled: “Fort up. To your left.”

The gunman was now in a state to obey any command. He wheeled his horse around and sent it clattering to high ground, McAllister following, giving the lead Indian a glance over his shoulder. The man was no more than a couple of hundred yards behind, beating hell out of his pony with the butt of his bow.

As McAllister's horse heaved up the steep grade, the marshal pulled his carbine from the boot, jacked a round into the breech and gave this first brave a shot from the saddle. He
had no hopes of making a hit, but the shot unnerved the Indian and he swung his horse from the line of pursuit.

McAllister reached the summit, slid from the saddle and took a quick look around. He could have done worse than stop here. There was cover and you could see around all sides. With a half-dozen more men, he would have stood a good chance.

He laughed nastily and said: “Glad you didn't kill me, Red?”

But the gunman hadn't heard. He was bellying down and using up his shells on the Indians who had halted in a cluster just out of rifle-shot. They looked like a gaggle of bright birds. They reminded McAllister of savage hawks. He looked for the glisten of metal to see if they had any rifles among them. He reckoned there were three or four and for him that was three or four too many. Just mounted on their ponies with their clubs and axes and after scalps they were not the kind of thing he would care to meet up with every day.

The lead-horse came cantering up, wanting to stay with his stable-mate. McAllister tied the three animals the best he could to the rocks, not trusting to ground-hitching with the guns going off.

The Indians were sitting their ponies and trying to make up their minds whether they were going to charge, dismount and shoot it out or ride off and call it a day. The sight of those white scalps on the hilltop proved too much for their good sense and they rode around the hill a few times, yelling. The gunman started shooting his carbine at them, but McAllister told him to hold his fire. He wasn't hitting anything anyway.

Then suddenly they came up the hill. If they had come from all sides, they would have over-run the two whitemen without much trouble. But they didn't. They wanted to keep each other company and came all bunched up. As soon as McAllister and Red raised their rifles every Indian there yanked his pony around and got out of there fast. Not a shot was fired.