Kill McAllister (11 page)

The Negro rolled onto his back and moved his right arm. A look of ecstasy came over his face.

“You see that – I moved my arm. Boy, you should of been a sawbones.”

“Sam,” McAllister said, “you feel like ridin'? We have to keep movin'. Come dawn we have to be a long way from here.”

“Don't I know it. Rem, you thought which way you goin'?”

“Creek runs south-east to north-west. Reckon they'll expect us to go north-west.”

Sam pursed his lips as he thought.

“No, sir. The obvious way to go is north-west, so they'll expect us to go south-east. We go north-west,” he said.

“All right,” agreed McAllister. “North-west it is.” He rose and killed the fire. Then he found a clean shirt for Sam and got it on him, rolled tarp and blanket and tied them behind the saddle. Getting Sam into the saddle again was a real chore and he suffered as much as Sam did, but, with a good deal of swearing shared equally between them, they got him astride. McAllister tied his feet under the canelo's belly and led the animal down into the water. He took the animal to mid-stream till the water was up to its belly and turned north-west. The flow of the water was gentle. He looked up at Sam and knew that he was already asleep. This was going to be a long hard pull and he knew that he would have to be in the water till dawn.

About midnight, it started to rain and, though he welcomed it from the point of view of the downpour obliterating his tracks when he left the creek, it reduced him to a state of abject misery. His slicker he put on Sam, so that within a matter of minutes he was soaked to the skin. However, the rain did give him the opportunity of leaving the water and traveling along the shore on foot. Head down, he tramped stolidly through the rain, every now and then throwing back a remark to the Negro to keep his spirits up. But Sam didn't show any signs of needing to be cheered. He cracked a joke as frequently as his companion spoke, though McAllister noticed that he often did it through his clenched teeth. As for McAllister, though his ribs were still very sore, the aches of the rest of his body had been almost worked out by the constant exercise and on the whole he was feeling a little more human. Now that he had hard ground under him he made a better pace and he only regretted that running was out of the question.

It might have been thought by the casual observer that Sam was no more than an inanimate bulk of flesh sitting the saddle, but he proved that he had been keeping his wits about him, for suddenly, he said: “Rem, now's our chance to git away from the creek while the rain's fallin'. I reckon it'll hold some. Swing west. That'll fox whoever's on our trail.”

It made sense and McAllister led the way west, the canelo plodding steadily behind him. After an hour or so the rain slowly came to a stop. They kept on west without stopping and with dawn they came into a heavy ground mist. McAllister halted; he was bone tired and the canelo needed rest as much as the men. McAllister unrolled the tarp, eased Sam to the ground and covered him with the blanket. He unsaddled the horse and put it to graze. The sun came up and struggled with the mist for a while.

McAllister gave Sam a drink of water and asked him how he felt. Though he didn't need to ask for he could see the man was in fever.

“I'll make out,” the Negro said simply. He refused food, so McAllister ate a little, squatting on the ground beside Sam. He occupied the time, thinking. What the hell did he do now? he asked himself. So far as he knew they were miles from any settlement.

Slowly, the mist started to clear.

McAllister thought he heard a distant sound and it alarmed him. He got to his feet, sought a rise in the plain and took a look
around. The north, south and east were clear, but when he looked west he could scarcely believe his eyes.

At a distance of less than a mile he saw conical shapes on the face of the prairie that could only be Indian tipis. Alarm rose in him, because he knew that this far west the tribes could easily be hostile and while in Combville he had heard stories of the army in action against the Cheyenne, Arapaho, Comanches and Kiowas. He hurried back to Sam. The Negro was asleep. He shook him.

“Sam, wake up.”

Sam opened his eyes.

“What is it?”

“There's an Indian village west of here. We have to move.”

The Negro raised himself slowly onto his elbows and stared past McAllister.

“Too late, boy,” he said, “they found us.”

McAllister turned.

A man stood silhouetted against the sky not twenty yards away. The blanket and the feather was enough to show McAllister that it was an Indian.

McAllister reached for the Henry and got slowly to his feet.

To the right of the first man, a second appeared. McAllister turned his head and saw that there were five men in all. He and Sam were completely surrounded.

“You got your gun, Sam?” he asked softly.

“Right here under the blanket,” Sam said. “Take it easy now. Talk before you shoot.”

McAllister passed the Henry from his right to his left hand, which left his right hand free for a quick draw. The right hand he raised in a sign of peace. None of the Indians stirred, but stood motionless, staring.

McAllister tried his halting Cheyenne. There was a chance these people were Cheyenne and his past association with that people might just save Sam and himself.

“Peace, brothers,” he called. “I am called McAllister by the whites. To the Cheyenne I was known as The Diver. I lived in the lodge of Many Horses and I called him father. I was as a son to him and was as a brother to his son, Little Wolf.”

He stopped, wondering how that was going down.

A short Indian with the face of an eagle stepped forward a few paces to his right. He wore a skin cap and held a repeating rifle in his hands. He was past middle years, but there was a youthful spring in his step. His face was painted with carmine, ocher and white. He wore old and worn clothes such as an Indian would use for traveling. That gave McAllister a little hope. Possibly these men were not on the warpath.

“It was many years ago when The Diver was with the People,” he said. “I myself spoke with The Diver.”

“I remember you well,” McAllister said, taking a gamble and searching his memory. There was something familiar about the man, but McAllister had been no more than a boy when he had spent two winters with the Cheyenne.

“The Diver,” said the Indian, “was a boy.”

“But taller even then than most men,” said McAllister.

“True,” the Indian said almost begrudgingly.

The Indian McAllister first spotted said something so quickly that McAllister could not understand. But he knew the man was threatening. The man in the skin cap said: “Patience, son,” and made a restraining motion with his hand.

Sam said gently: “I got that sonovabitch covered, Rem. He coughs an' I drop him.”

Recollection hit McAllister and he had never been more relieved in his life.

“You,” he said, “are the husband of Many Horses' sister. You are called Strikes Once.”

The man stared blankly for a moment, then slowly nodded.

“That is so.”

He walked forward and looked down at Sam. He looked at him with great curiosity. Possibly he had never seen a Negro before.

“What manner of man is this?” he demanded.

“He drives cattle to the north,” McAllister explained. “He is a man of high reputation among us. Now, he is hurt. We were attacked and robbed. Possibly, he will die.”

The Indian grunted.

“It is all as I saw it. I saw the deaths of whitemen. I saw The Diver return to us with a man who was sick. I led these men here, knowing what I would find. They did not believe me, but they will believe me now.”

McAllister remembered more about this man. He was a noted seer and had predicted truly much that had happened to his tribe. He was also famous among his people for the potency of his medicine, not just in the sense that his spirit was strong and good, but in the sense that he actually had great skill in the use of herbs and cures.

McAllister said: “You can cure this man, Strikes Once. He has been hit by two bullets and has lost much blood.”

The medicine man stood deep in thought.

“I will try,” he said. “Because you are The Diver and you were as a son to Many Horses. But there is danger for you. My people have suffered much from the pony soldiers.”

“What's he say?” Sam asked.

“He's a medicine man,” McAllister told him, “an' he's goin' to fix you up.”

“Hey,” exclaimed the Negro, “don't you let that savage git his hands on me.”

“He's the best,” McAllister said. He didn't mention the danger
to the trail-boss, for he reckoned Sam had enough worries without knowing that.

Strikes Once said something to the other Indians and they came slowly forward. They did not seem so eager to help as did the medicine man and one or two of them showed their dislike of the whiteman openly. They gazed at Sam with great interest and surprise, exclaiming over the darkness of his skin and the strange texture of his hair. McAllister caught up the canelo and saddled him and now the horse caught the Indians' attention. They walked around it, touching it with their hands until the horse lashed out with a wicked hind hoof. After that, they kept a more respectful distance. McAllister got Sam into the saddle and Strikes Once led the way toward the camp. The warriors brought up the rear, talking among themselves.

As they approached the camp, McAllister saw that it was a small one and guessed that it consisted of families who had been north for the buffalo hunting and were now in the warmer south for the oncoming winter. There were no more than a dozen lodges pitched in a sheltered spot and near water. There was enough timber handy to provide fuel for the fires. One of the warriors now ran ahead and cried out that a whiteman was coming – the vision of Strikes Once had been true and he had found the whiteman and a wounded man, a strange man with black skin.

The sun came through the clouds and brought some immediate warmth with it for which McAllister was thankful, for his clothes were still wet on him. The people started to come out from the village and with them came the yapping and snarling village curs. The canelo had its work cut out to keep them clear, but he went to work with a will. Strikes Once cried out an order and men and women at once tried to drive the dogs away.

To McAllister it looked a good camp and the people seemed in good condition with some fat on them. This was a group who had hunted well and were all set for the winter. But there was hostility here and he didn't miss it. He didn't doubt that if the medicine man had not been there things would have gone hard for Sam and himself. They wended their way through the lodges with the crowd pressing noisily behind them: children and dogs running all over, women eyeing the strangers with the greatest curiosity and even reaching out their hands to touch them. The warriors stalked along almost in total silence, their blankets about them and weapons in their hands. Finally, they came to a tipi which stood by itself on the banks of the creek and outside this stood a
man taller than the average Cheyenne, his hair flecked with gray. McAllister could not remember having seen him before. Strikes Once fell back beside McAllister and said: “This is our peace chief. High Cloud. If he says you stay, then you stay. The people will listen to him.”

McAllister halted in front of the chief with Strikes Once beside him. High Cloud was a fine-looking man, outstanding even among a people as handsome as the Cheyenne. His brow was high and the nose finely arched. The long slit of a mouth had humor to it and the eyes were intelligent. A complete man who had few doubts about himself.

The medicine man spoke in Cheyenne that was almost too rapid for McAllister to follow. He told the chief how he had found these two strangers as his dream foretold and that one of them had been sorely wounded. The chief gave McAllister a solemn greeting and at once spoke to the watching Indians, gesturing widely with his right arm which was free of the buffalo robe he had draped about him. Several young men at once stepped forward and lowered Sam from the canelo. They carried him to a tipi nearby and disappeared inside. Strikes Once hurried after them. The chief signed for McAllister to enter his own tipi.

McAllister let out his breath in a sigh of relief. So far at least they had been accepted.

He gestured for the chief to go ahead of him, the man stooped and stalked into the tent. McAllister followed him and saw that inside there were two women, one old and one young, and a small boy. The young woman acted shyly, but the elder eyed McAllister with a mixture of curiosity and hostility. The chief sat down, putting his back against a backrest, facing the fire in the center of the lodge. From the pot on it came a rich and delicious smell. McAllister's stomach juices started to work. The chief made a sign and the younger woman brought his finely carved pipe. With due ceremony the pipe was filled and lit. The chief puffed, smiled a little and handed it without a word to McAllister. The big man puffed and handed it back.

Suddenly, the chief smiled with a brilliance that surprised McAllister. In that second they were on an easy footing together.

“So you are The Diver,” High Cloud said.

“Yes, father,” McAllister said. “I was as a son to Many Horses.”

“I never saw you, but I heard. Know this, son: you have the protection for the moment of Strikes Once and myself, but that does not make you safe. During the summer my people have had
much of the trouble with the buffalo hunters and with the soldiers. There have been deaths on both sides and my people are angry. There is danger from the young men and there is danger from the soldiers. I have heard that your mother was a woman of the people and if the soldiers find you here, they will think that you have returned to your mother's people. It would be wisest therefore if Strike Once does what he can for your friend and then you ride on your way.”