Kill McAllister (12 page)

McAllister said: “He is badly wounded, father. Maybe I shall ride away alone.”

“God will decide,” said the chief.

The little boy edged nearer on his haunches, his eyes wide and on McAllister's face.

“And who is this warrior?” McAllister asked.

High Cloud's face creased in another smile.

“This is my youngest son, Small Runner, called so because before most children can walk, he ran swiftly.”

McAllister winked at the youngster. The child's face stayed solemnly attentive. McAllister grinned and the little fellow shyly smiled. McAllister wished he had something to give him, but he had nothing. Then he thought of his pocket knife. He found it and brought it out, opening and shutting the blades so the boy could see. Then he held it out to Small Runner. The boy hesitated.

“Go ahead, son,” McAllister told him. “Take it.”

The child looked at his father and, smiling, High Cloud nodded. The small brown hand reached out, the fingers touched the knife, then closed on it. Suddenly he was all smiles. The younger woman said something, the boy rose and ran to her, showing her the knife.

High Cloud laughed out loud.

“You have made a friend for your life there,” he said.

They talked for a little until the women told them that the food was ready for eating. McAllister didn't need any second bidding. He politely waited for the chief to begin then dipped into the pot with a round spoon offered to him by the older woman. He reckoned that food had never tasted better in his life. He ate till he felt like bursting; High Cloud and he belched comfortably.

“Are you hungry still?” the chief asked solicitously.

“No, father. I never ate better in my life.”

“Good.”

McAllister found some tobacco, offered it to his host. The Indian took it with a show of pleasure. Tobacco was hard come by.

A man stooped and entered the tipi; a young and slender warrior with the features of High Cloud. He was stripped to the waist and wore nothing but a breech-clout and moccasins. His hair was in two long braids. One eagle feather stood above his head. He did not look at McAllister, but saluted the chief with deep respect. He spoke quickly and softly.

“This is one of my sons, Coyote.” He explained McAllister to the young man. They shook in the whiteman fashion. Coyote looked a little nervous at being in close proximity to a whiteman. He bore the solemn expression that Indians used for strangers and formal occasions. He had, he said, come from Strikes Once. The medicine man said for The Diver to come. McAllister excused himself to the chief and followed the young warrior out of the tipi, wondering what the news was. He didn't know whether to expect to find Sam dead or alive.

The tipi to which Coyote led him was small and shabby, the home of a man who was not troubled by material things. The young man entered and McAllister followed. Like the chief's lodge this one had a fire burning in it. But food did not simmer invitingly on this one; instead something pungent burned. Near the fire Strikes Once stood. He looked a wild and uncouth sight. He was stripped to the waist to reveal a scarred and emaciated torso, daubed liberally with paint; he had removed the skin cap and his unconfined hair fell loosely about his face. He had repainted his face so that now there were wide white circles about his eyes, vermillion lightning flashes on his forehead and cheeks. He was stamping his right foot on the hard-packed ground and in his right hand was a gourd rattle which he was shaking in time to the soft chant that came from his lips. He was sweating profusely and he panted as if he had been making a supreme physical effort. At the sight of McAllister, however, he relaxed suddenly and smiled grotesquely.

“Go to your friend,” he said.

McAllister turned to the right side of the tent where Sam was lying on a pile of buffalo robes. Over him was draped a trade blanket. McAllister went down on one knee beside him.

Sam looked up and grinned.

“Hey,” he said, “you sure knew what you was doin' when you brought me to this outfit, boy. That ole coot yonder sures looks weird, but, hell, he knows his business.”

McAllister laid a hand on the Negro's forehead. It was of normal temperature.

Sam said: “You reckon it's magic? This feller a voodoo man? Sure looks like magic to me.”

McAllister chuckled.

“He'd sure like you to believe it is,” he said. “But it's just plain good Indian medicine.”

“You know what he stuffed in them wounds of mine?” Sam demanded. “Wa-al, it looked like plain moss and herbs to me. Then he done tie me up with rawhide.”

“You're goin' to be all right,” McAllister said. “That's all that matters.”

McAllister was so relieved that he didn't know what to say. All he could do was to go to Strikes Once and pat him on the back. The Indian seemed to understand the thanks. He had something else on his mind and he spoke of it.

“These men who shot your friend,” he said, “is there still danger from them?”

“Maybe,” McAllister said. “But I rode through water when getting away from them. Then the rain came and washed away my tracks when we left the creek.”

The Indian shook his head.

“I smell danger,” he said.

Coyote spoke: “If there is danger, let me scout, uncle.”

The medicine man slapped the warrior on the arm.

“Good. Coyote is die best scout we have. If these whitemen are coming here, he will find them.”

The young man picked his hunting shirt from the floor of the tipi and slipped into it. Then he pulled on his leggings, picked up his bow and a sheath of arrows and was ready to go. Without another word, he slipped from the tent.

The medicine man put more herbs on the fire. The scent they gave off as they burned was pungent, yet somehow refreshing and invigorating. He said to McAllister: “Sleep, my son,” and pointed to some skins near Sam. Not needing any second bidding, McAllister lay down and pulled a rug over him. Exhaustion hit him like a physical blow. Sam was saying something, but he didn't pay him any heed. Sleep swooped on him and he surrendered.

Strikes Once went to the doorway and looked out. The cold struck him; a light flurry of snow brushed across his face. The first heralds of winter were here.

* * *

McAllister awoke.

It was dark in the tipi except for the warm glow of the fire. But when he threw back the buffalo robe that covered him, the cold hit him. He glanced at Sam and saw that he was asleep peacefully. Good. What had woken him? Voices murmured outside the tipi. Two men entered – Strikes Once and Coyote. The younger man looked cold; the medicine man stirred the fire and the warrior moved close to warm. McAllister joined them, squatting.

“What have you learned?” he asked.

“There are whitemen driving many cattle south of here;” the young man told him.

That brought McAllister fully awake with a jerk.

“South?”

Coyote nodded.

“Which way do they go – north?” McAllister demanded.

“A little north, but more to the west,” was the reply.

That surprised McAllister again and he wondered if Coyote had found other cattle than the Struthers' herd. It was possible. If it was the Stiuthers' herd, what was it doing traveling west? There was only one answer to that: Forster was afraid now at what he had done. The killing of the crew had scared him and he dared not go to market with the cows. That made sense. So he was headed west. Could he be planning to winter them in Colorado? That again was a possibility. Hope rose in McAllister. If that was so, he would have some time on his side. He and Sam needed time like nothing else. They had both to get strong again before they could do anything against Forster.

“There is more,” Strikes Once said.

“More?”

Coyote said: “I think that some of the men are looking for you, Diver. They are north of the herd and there is a half blood with them and he searches the ground as if looking for sign.”

“In what direction do they go?”

“They come this way. Tomorrow they will come here. They would be fools to miss the village.”

Strikes Once and McAllister looked at each other.

The medicine man said: “You are thinking what I am thinking. If they find you here, they could kill you and there could be great trouble for the people. For all our sakes, you must go away from here. They are bad men and if they come there will be killing. Then the soldiers will come and there will be grief for the people.”

“I understand,” McAllister said, “and you're right, uncle.”
But how could they move Sam now? Where could they go with winter coming on? Strikes Once knew what he was thinking.

“Do not fear,” he said. “I have thought of this possibility and while you slept I spoke with High Cloud. Coyote will guide you into the hills where there is a cabin. There you will find good shelter for your friend during the great cold. We will give you food. The hunting is good there and you will not starve. Your friend we shall move on a travois, he will be warm and comfortable and no harm will come to him. You will see. I do not like to turn you away at such a time, but you know that it is for the best for all of us.”

McAllister touched him on the arm.

“My heart is very full,” he said. “Without you my friend would have died. We owe you his life.”

“It is nothing.”

McAllister went to his saddlebags which had been brought into the tipi while he slept and from them he took his spare gun – a Remington .44, the twin of the one he wore. He gave this to Strikes Once.

“A small present,” he said.

The Indian looked as if he had been given the world. He held it in his hands, his eyes bright. Coyote made admiring noises.

“This is a very fine present,” he said. He chuckled a little. “I shall be the envy of all the young warriors.” McAllister went to the saddlebags again and came back with a handful of shells. Strikes Once chuckled and chuckled, overcome with gratitude and pleasure. It was too much, he said.

McAllister told him: “It is nothing for what you have done for us.”

Coyote rose and went from the lodge. Not long after he returned, beckoning to McAllister who followed him outside. There was the canelo saddled and ready. There were three other horses there, on one of which was attached a travois. The snow was falling fast now. At McAllister's elbow. Strikes Once said: “The snow is good. Your tracks will be covered.” High Cloud came through the snow, wrapped warmly in a buffalo robe. With him was his small son and the two women. The latter carried more robes.

“They will protect you against the cold,” the chief said.

Several young men appeared, their manner more friendly now. McAllister woke Sam and the young men carried him carefully to the travois with Strikes Once hovering and fiercely telling them to handle his patient gently. Once on the travois, the women
covered the Negro with robes so that nothing but his face was visible.

“How do you feel, Sam?”

“Just fine, boy.”

McAllister turned to High Cloud.

“How can I repay you, chief?”

“A man does not repay gifts.” They shook, whiteman fashion. McAllister touched his head as a mark of respect for the older man. The chief spoke to his son and Coyote vaulted onto the back of a paint stallion. McAllister stepped into the canelo's saddle. Strikes Once called out for God to go with them. They moved off into the pale darkness of the snow. It was very cold and McAllister shivered.

Link Forster was a worried man and an angry one, angry at himself and at fate. Only yesterday he had been pleased and relieved when he had thought of taking the cows to Dice Grotten's brother. Dice had thought it a good idea too. Everything seemed plain sailing. Everything would have been if the weather had held. A little rain wouldn't have hurt, but now had come the first flurries of snow.

And he had two men to find, two men who had knowledge of the killings back in the valley and the chances of their being found seemed to be growing remoter as time passed. The halfblood Osage had been beaten by the rain at first, then he had picked up some sign briefly to the west of the creek only to lose it again. Now there was the Indian encampment and that was an added complication. The halfbreed had scouted the place and declared that it was peopled by Cheyenne and the chances were that the people would not be friendly to whites. At least that would be the safest assumption to make.

“Let them go,” Grotten's advice had been. “Well be safe over the Colorado line. They're just cowhands. They have a real scare put into 'em. What're they goin' to do?”

But Forster wasn't so sure.

“That's what I'm wondering, aren't I?” he almost shouted.

“Who's going to pay them heed in Kansas?” Grotten wanted to know. “They're Texans. They're discredited before they open their mouths.”

Forster hoped that was true. But he knew that he wouldn't rest content until he had them both dead in front of him.

“Dice,” he said, “you go out again with Sholto and the ‘breed and you find those two.”

Grotten looked pained. He was presented with enough problems in trying to get a large herd of wild Texas longhorns to Colorado with only a bunch of half-skilled Kansas hands to help him without taking on the finding of two men in this immense land.

“Let 'em go, captain,” he begged. “Hell, we have our hands full with these cows.”

“We don't get those two and there won't be any cows,” Forster persisted.

“Nick tried,” Grotten said. “Twice he tried.”

Forster bellowed—

“Then he goes out and he tries again. What's the matter, Dice, can't you handle this? Do I have to do everything?”

That was enough for Grotten. His loyalty to Forster was his whole life. He wheeled his horse without another word, smarting under Forster's remark. He found Sholto and Nick Wetherby on the flanks of the herd and gathered them up with him.