Gunsmoke for McAllister (18 page)

He approached the camp directly from the east this time, wanting the ridges between himself and the camp so that his approach would remain unnoticed. He wasn't too worried of the task ahead of them, for they would have the advantage of a high position, surprise and the mobility offered by their possession of horses. What worried him was his own tiredness. He had not yet
fully recovered from his treatment at the mine and he had been the most of a day and a night without sleep. He was not at his most alert and his great body felt sluggish. He reached the ridge above the camp, dismounted and tied the canelo; then he climbed the ridge with his rifle in his hand. When he reached the top of the ridge, he lay down and took a long hard look at the camp. He did not have a completely clear view of the spot, for there were brush and boulders in the way, but he could see enough.

The first thing he noticed was that the horse-herd was still absent and that was a relief. He could see where the packs had been dumped and noted that there were several armed men around them. Not far off was a cook-fire with a cooky busy at his pans. A half-dozen men were taking advantage of the inactivity by catching up on their interrupted sleep. Their blanketed forms were visible to left and right of the dump of packs. It looked to him that there were another half-dozen men absent from camp and he accounted for that by the need to recapture the horses. That made him smile. They would have a long hard walk before they caught up with them.

He ran his eye over the surrounding country and reckoned that the best place to make an attack from was the ridge on which he now lay. It was high enough to give them a good clear view of the camp and, at the same time, was well within rifle shot. They could do untold damage from up here and they could slip away down the ridge to their horses when the damage was done. Hit and run was still the way to do it. His only disappointment was that all the men of the gang seemed to be accounted for and that didn't leave much room for desertions. Well, after today if they didn't start running out on Rawley, they wanted their heads tested. He crawled backward, slid down the ridge and reached the canelo. Mounting, he rode back east and met the others coming on at an easy pace.

‘How does it look?' was Sam's first question.

‘Pretty good. They don't have their horses yet.'

‘Let's get at it then,' said Sam.

* * *

Carlos found six horses in a rincon about three miles from camp. He ordered one of the men to mount one and drive the others back to camp. He would keep just one to go after the other horses on. The men protested strongly. How the hell could they catch horses on foot? This was crazy. Crazy it might be, Carlos declared, but this was what the boss had ordered him to do and he
must have a good reason. To the man who was to drive the horses to camp he said: ‘Remember what the boss said. You are not to drive the horses into camp. You hide them in that little canyon, then you walk into camp and tell the boss you have them.' The man looked as if he despaired of Rawley's sanity, but he reckoned he would do as he was told. Rawley held the gold and he wanted his share of it. He rode off, bareback, driving the loose horses in front of him. Carlos mounted the horse he was retaining and went on north after the other horses. He hoped fervently that Gato and his Indians were not about. He even crossed himself and he had not done that in years.

* * *

Tolliver was the sharpest-eyed man there. He lay among the giant boulders, feeling the heat of the rock under him, and watched the man on the ridge below.

He squinted, as if to sharpen his sight still more, and said: ‘That's McAllister. The boss said he'd come there and that's where he is. Maybe Rawley knows what he's talkin' about after all.'

The other man, Burt Green, said: ‘It's a long shot, but I'll make you a wager, Toll, I can hit him from here.'

‘Keep still,' Tolliver said, laying a hard hand on his arm. ‘It ain't time for shootin' yet awhile. There's more to come. That bastard's jest scoutin'. We'll have 'em all.'

They lay still and watched the man on the ridge-top until he had seen all he wanted to see and crawled back out of sight. Tolliver waited. He could see over the ridge on which the man had hidden and after a while he saw the moving speck which was the man mounted on a horse. Only now did Tolliver put his fingers to his lips and give out a shrill whistle. Far below him, Rawley stood up and peered up at him.

* * *

Rawley walked from the camp, carrying his rifle. He walked for about fifteen minutes till he found himself approaching the small canyon in which the horses were hidden. The men were there with their saddles and he could tell from the bored looks on their faces that he did not think that matters would turn out as he thought they would. But when he spoke to them, they brightened. Their quick movements when they obeyed him showed him that they were eager now. They slapped their saddles on their horses, tightened cinches and mounted up. He told them exactly where to
take up their positions and they rode off. He turned east and south when he came out of the canyon, but they swung west first before they turned south through the hills. They moved at a brisk trot for an hour, circling and then halted on high ground above a small valley. Dismounting, they lounged around, holding their horses ready to ride at a second's notice. One of their number climbed to a higher position so that he could watch for the approach of McAllister and his party. They all felt encouraged now. This time, they thought, things would go in their favour. This time, Rawley was going to turn the tide of ill-luck that had beset them.

* * *

Rawley was excited. He couldn't remember when he had felt better. For a while back there, he thought he was losing his grip, but now he was confident that he was going to nail the men who had done as much damage to his pride as to his enterprise. By the time this day's work was over his men were once more going to believe that he was a tough, unbeatable man. That was how he saw himself and that was how he wanted everybody else to see him.

He turned to Rich lying nearby and said: ‘They won't know what's hit 'em.'

Rich smiled.

‘Give me just one of'em,' he said. ‘I could have a lot of fun with one of 'em in my hands.'

Rawley looked at the dummies made up of blankets and packs lying in realistic positions beneath other blankets. They would take most of the fire when the ball opened. He had Tolliver and a couple of men on the height that dominated the ridge from which McAllister and Spur would make their attack. The wounded men would come in useful, too, for most of them could still fire a rifle. They were posted in the rocks immediately above the camp. The mounted men would now be taking up their position south of the ridge. McAllister would be hit as he made his attack and his people would be ridden down when they tried to get away. Something inside Rawley laughed. Rich wasn't going to be the only one who had a lot of fun. Speaking for himself, he could scarcely wait for the shooting to begin.

McAllister suddenly didn't like it. Not one part of it.

Maybe it was because of the weariness that had soaked through into his very bones, but the machinery of his body was not working properly. He knew that his reactions were slow. As they rode in single file along the narrow trail, he looked back at Spur. Sam looked cheerful enough. As usual, he was calm. Behind him rode the girl. The honey color of her skin was being burned to a rich brown by the strong sun. She was, McAllister thought, a woman in a million and, when they were out of this, she would make Sam a good wife. The two Mexicans brought up the rear and their excitement showed in the dark glitter of their eyes.

Why go on
? McAllister thought.

What was the point? They were alive and they might not be if they went ahead with this craziness. It wasn't too late to pull out. All they were enjoying now was revenge and that was a commodity that usually ended up as a nasty taste in the mouth. He thought about Rawley and the kind of man he was and he reckoned he didn't like what his mind revealed to him. The fellow was an inhuman monster and the world would be a better place without him. But did that mean that none other than Remington McAllister must rid the world of him? Hell, he was always getting himself onto crusades like this. Why couldn't he find himself a quiet job of a dollar-a-day cowhand where the most that could happen was that he could get himself killed by an angry steer or kicked by an irate mustang?

But he was in this now. His friends were in it and maybe he owed it to the men who had died back there at the mine. In the West, every man was his own policeman and justice had to be done.

But he wasn't convinced. He'd still rather be in El Paso with a drink in his hand and a pretty girl by his side.

There was the ridge, reared up in front of them.

He halted and stepped down from the saddle. Leather creaked as the others followed suit.

He said to Carlita: ‘You stay with the horses, girl.'

In Spanish she said: ‘There is no need for anybody to stay with the horses and I can shoot as well as a man.'

‘For Crissake,' he said. ‘We could want them horses on the run. You hold 'em and you bring 'em to us if we break down timber
outa there.'

Sam said shortly: ‘Do like he says, honey.'

McAllister looked at his friend, sensing tenseness in his voice.

The men handed their lines to the girl. She touched Sam on the arm and smiled up at him and McAllister envied him. He reckoned he'd have to get around to finding a girl like Carlita for himself. There were worse fates a man could suffer.

They pulled their rifles out and looked at each other, then McAllister led the way up the steep slope. It wasn't easy climbing with a rifle in your hand, for the way was almost perpendicular and there were jagged rocks all the way. They were all winded when they reached the top and they lay on the ground below the ridge-top and waited for their wind to return. McAllister peeked over at the camp below.

It looked much the same as when he had looked at it previously. The sleeping figures were still in their blankets. The cook was busy at his fire. A man sat with his back to the stored packs, smoking. He felt that something was wrong, but he couldn't say what. Surely, if this was a trap, those men would not expose themselves down there.

Sam joined him.

‘Looks all right,' Sam said after a while.

McAllister said: ‘I don't like it.'

‘Why not?'

‘I don't know. Just somethin' I feel in my water.'

Sam looked at him. He knew McAllister's hunches and respected them.

He said: ‘All right. Let's shoot hell out of'em and make tracks.'

The sun hit metal about thirty feet above the camp. There were some men in the rocks there. McAllister touched Sam's arm and pointed. Sam nodded.

‘There's somebody there all right,' he said. ‘You take them. Me and the boys'll shoot up the camp.'

McAllister ranged his eyes around, but could find nothing. Maybe he was wrong after all. He levered a round into the breech of the rifle. It wasn't going to be easy shooting downhill. He wished he had his old Henry.

Sam said: ‘Open the ball.'

McAllister laid his eyes on the rocks immediately above the camp, found the glitter of metal and aimed just above and behind it. He squeezed the trigger. The glitter of metal disappeared. Sam and the two Mexicans started firing.

The cook dove for cover. The man sitting on the packs, rolled over and dropped down behind them. The sleeping men didn't move.

Sam yelled: ‘You were right.'

Then all hell broke loose.

The peak above the camp erupted with fire. Lead whined through the air and slugs ploughed into the ridgetop, hit rock and whined away to the heavens, blasted dust into the faces of the attackers. Porfirio gave a low cry, jerked violently to his feet, seemed to step into space and rolled head over heels down the face of the ridge. Bullets slapped into him as he fell and he was shot ragged by the time his body lay still, caught in some brush.

McAllister backed up into better cover and raised his rifle to cover the peak. But there was little he could see to shoot at and he knew that the men up there could still see him plainly.

Sam yelled: ‘Run,' and rolled back down the ridgeside. For a moment, McAllister thought that he was hit, but, as he glanced over his shoulder, he saw that Sam was on his feet climbing down as fast as he could go. Diaz was on his feet too, leaping down the steep slope, agile as a goat.

McAllister got to his knees and heard the horses.

He turned his head and saw the riders coming from the south on the run.

Something like panic hit him then and he moved. Bullets were still raining around him. He started down the slope. Even as he climbed down, his mind was measuring distances. The horsemen were coming as fast as they could over the difficult ground, yelling and firing their guns. The girl was running forward with the horses. Sam stopped and fired at the riders. That didn't stop them. They swept on. The girl was screaming to him. He ran on. Diaz reached the bottom first, tore his line from the girl's hand and vaulted into the saddle. McAllister yelled to the girl to get going, but her whole mind was on Sam and his escape.

Sam reached the bottom, shouted something to the girl and vaulted into the saddle. He stopped to give the girl a hand up. The canelo, panicked suddenly, swung away to one side and the girl lost him. Sam struck the girl's horse on the rump with his rifle butt and it jumped forward into a run. Sam turned in the saddle and started firing at the riders.

McAllister reached the canelo and the animal jumped away from him. He swore violently, cheeked it and got into the saddle. Sam whirled his own mount and rammed home the spurs.
McAllister yelled to his horse, spurred and followed.

At once disaster struck.

As the horse turned and jumped forward, something struck McAllister at chest height and tore him from the saddle. He bounced on his horse's rump and then hit the ground. The canelo barged against the tree that had unhorsed McAllister and scampered off. McAllister floundered for a moment like a landed fish, shocked and winded. He knew that he had lost his rifle.