Kill McAllister (16 page)

“He isn't the only Negro in the country, captain,” he said calmly.

“But there were two men nosing among the cattle yesterday. Isn't that so, Mike?”

Mike nodded.

“That's right enough.”

“We'll soon know,” Dice said. “We'll ride over there first thing in the morning and take a look.” He looked at his boss and for the first time wondered if Link Forster was the man he had once thought he was. Forster stayed where he was, white of face, staring into space.

* * *

McAllister reached the cabin after midnight, was challenged as he approached it and was met by Sam with a gun in his hand.

“I'm real glad you ain't takin' any chances,” McAllister said. “Specially after tonight.”

“What happened tonight?”

McAllister told him what he had learned from his trip down into the valley. Sam sighed when he heard the news and said: “Heigho! We don't sleep warm no more. This is where we move on.”

“An' fast,” said McAllister. “There's got to be a whole lot of country between here and there between now an' then.”

They moved. Bedrolls were rolled, food packed and the spare horse loaded. Within an hour, they were ready. They didn't know which way they should go and McAllister spoke for both of them when he said it didn't much matter except they wanted a base away from the valley.

“It's real high on the far side of the valley, Rem,” Sam suggested. “Most likely we'll find a real good spot to hole up there.”

“Right,” said McAllister, “we'll go around the north end of the valley and go into the hills to the west. An' hope there ain't no damn Indians around there.”

They mounted and trekked north, not troubling yet to hide their tracks, knowing that it was virtually impossible in the dark. They moved as fast as possible over the unknown ground and circled the valley wide, till they hit water that flowed west. They watered the animals here and drank themselves and Sam voiced the opinion that if they followed the water west they would hide their tracks successfully, but their pursuers might expect them to do that.

“I reckon we should hit the east of this ridge and find water goin' east,” he said.

McAllister nodded—

“Then head north again, circle wider and still come down west of the valley.”

“That's hit, boy. It'll take us two, maybe three days, but we'll stay healthier that way.”

It was agreed. They followed the present water to its parent ridge, lost their tracks as best they could on rock, then headed over the ridge and down till they hit water again. This they followed east and north-east till dawn and headed north, but not before they had both worked on rubbing out their tracks for a considerable distance from the water. It wouldn't fool a good tracker, but it would delay him for some time, maybe even as much as half a day.

They were on the edge of the plains again now and the going was good. The only snag was that Sam was still not up to his full strength and, though he made no complaint, he was tiring. And McAllister could see. At noon, when they entered the foothills again he called a halt on the grounds that the animals were getting dangerously tired. Which was true enough. Sam snatched a couple of hours sleep and then they moved on. They crossed a shoulder of the hills, came into a rough and tumble country of strewn rocks and untidy brush and rode over stone wherever possible. They climbed another ridge before dark and came on westward flowing water again. This was luck indeed. There was light enough for them to travel along this for an hour with the water up to their girths, then they camped. It was well-hidden country, so they risked a fire and enjoyed the luxury of drinking the last of the coffee they had hoarded. From now on it was going to be a gastronomically joyless trip. They also smoked almost the last of their tobacco.

Sam chuckled: “I'll kill one of the opposition, just for a smoke.”

At dawn, they were on the move again, heading west along the water course, slowed badly and growing impatient, but knowing that this way would be the safest in the long run. By the time the water petered out, they both reckoned that they were now about level with the valley. They headed over a high ridge and came down into wild country, well-timbered and watered. There were game signs all over and once they sighted the spoor of a bear. They traveled across this valley, climbed its western wall and camped that night in the high hills. It was cold and they were glad
of the buffalo robes the Indians had given them. They were now almost out of food and on the following day they would have to replenish their larder. What they would do when they were in the proximity of the enemy's valley for food, they did not know, for there was no time to jerk any now. However, on the following day they risked a shot and killed a buck, cooked as much of it as they could and packed the cooked meat along with them. They were swinging south again now and were trying guesses at how far some tracker had gotten on their trail.

“If it's an Indian,” McAllister said, “I reckon he's two days behind us. If it's a whiteman, three-four. Any road, that'll give us time for a quick visit to the valley before we move camp.”

Sam agreed.

The next day, McAllister stopped his horse on a high shoulder and said: “I reckon we're opposite the enemy camp.”

Sam grinned widely.

“Boy,” he said, “you're ‘most as good as me. You passed it a hunnerd yards back.”

They dismounted, unsaddled and hobbled the horses. They ate, drank a little from the small stream nearby and smoked the very last shreds of their hoarded tobacco.

“Wa-al,” Sam said, “you're the general. How do we do it?”

“Cheyenne fashion,” McAllister said. “Go in light with no horses. We come back on their horses.”

“Do we burn anythin' or kill anybody?”

It was McAllister's turn to grin.

“Right now we're after horses,” he said, “but if we did so happen to burn a house or shoot a feller or two it would brighten the day considerable.”

“Right. Let's get some sleep.”

They found shelter from the still cold wind in the timber, slept warm until dark and rose as if by mutual agreement. While Sam rolled the beds, McAllister checked the horses. They then cached their rifles in the trees, checked their belt-guns and started west. They both felt pretty good. They walked for four hours before Sam halted with a hand on McAllister's arm.

They had been walking across the deep grass of the valley for a couple of hours, wading once through a deep creek and meeting cattle frequently. The valley seemed full of cows.

“There's horses ahead,” Sam said.

McAllister who prided himself on his acute senses was nettled.

“I don't hear a thing,” he said.

“I didn't
hear
'em,” Sam told him, “I
smelled
'em.”

“Can that nose of yourn take us right to them?”

“I reckon.”

“Then lead on.”

Sam led the way unerringly, stopping every now and then to listen, bringing them between the two shacks and straight to the edge of the corral that stood to the east of the smaller one.

McAllister whispered: “Rope a horse each, open the gate and ride.”

“I go in first,” Sam said. “You'll scare 'em. Horses don't scare for me. You watch that cabin to the north. That's nearest. Stand right alongside this here gate, I'll bring a horse to you. You drop anybody that comes out of that door.”

McAllister swore succinctly and said: “Go ahead.”

Sam said: “Take it easy now, boy,” climbed silently over the corral fence and disappeared into the darkness. There was nothing but starlight to see by and the horses in the corral were no more than a dark shifting mass. Both shacks were in total darkness. McAllister listened. He heard Sam speaking softly to the horses. McAllister found that he was tense. He eased the Remington in its holster high on his right hip ready for a quick draw. He opened the gate cautiously and waited.

“Rem.”

Sam was at his side so suddenly that McAllister's heart pounded.

“Yes?”

“There's your horse, yonder.” Sam made a noise with his mouth and a half-broken mustang came to the corral fence as docile as a kitten. “I'm goin' to mount now and drive 'em out. They'll cross the yard, so anybody comes out the shack too fast, he'll git his toes trod on.”

“Go ahead,” said McAllister. His breath was rather taken away. He was used to making the running, but this Negro cowhand seemed to have it all worked out.

Sam walked away into the darkness; there was a slight pause, during which McAllister walked around to the horse and got ahold of its mane. It shied a little, but it quietened when McAllister spoke to it and patted its neck.

Suddenly the horses in the corral erupted as Sam gave a piercing yell. The terrified horses bunched, scampered across the corral, then headed along the edge till they hit the gate. They turned out of it, eyes rolling, manes flowing in the wind of their
own making, crashing against the upright of the gate and wrenching it loose. It took all McAllister's strength to hold his own horse.

The door of the shack opened, surprising McAllister, but he drew quickly and drove a shot through the opening.

In the next instant, the last of the horses swept past him, then Sam, yelling like a Comanche. McAllister vaulted onto the back of the mustang and gave it its head. It hunched its legs under it, jumped and ran. McAllister thought he heard the sound of a shot above the thunder of hoofs, but couldn't be sure. He lay flat along the neck of that horse and kept his head down. He and Sam rode across the valley, yelling, the horses going ahead of them like frightened quail. McAllister couldn't see too clearly, but it looked to him they had about thirty head on the move. They ran them a couple of miles across the valley into the hills, scattering them all over and riding on over the wall of the valley themselves. Sam started to laugh.

“Man,” he said, “it was so Goddamn easy, I fancy a-goin' back an' tryin' somethin' more.”

“No, you don't,” McAllister said. “Enough's enough. They'll spend a day ketchin' up them horses, then we hit 'em again. Each time we hit 'em, it gets worse.”

“Say, Rem,” said Sam, “they'll come lookin' for those horses tomorrow. We could be there when they find 'em.”

McAllister laughed.

“Maybe you have somethin' there,” he agreed.

They rode back to camp, drove their borrowed horses off, saddled and mounted their own and moved along the water. They stayed in the water for two miles, came out onto rock and found a cosy corner in the hills. Here, they slept to past dawn, when they ate some cold deer-meat and washed it down with water. They saddled their horses and, taking their rifles with them, rode east again to where they had scattered the horses. They found a goodly bunch of them, tied their own mounts under cover and sat down to wait.

They didn't have to wait long. After some thirty minutes, Sam said: “You hear something?”

McAllister grinned.

“This time I'm with you,” he said. “Three riders comin'.”

Three riders came picking their way through the rocks. At once the range was an easy one for a rifle. Three men riding loosely in the saddle, not expecting trouble, their mind on finding their horses. And now they had found them. They started rounding
up the dozen or so horses.

Sam said softly: “You aimin' to kill?”

McAllister shook his head.

“I'm no great hand at killin',” he said. “Not this way. Wait a while.”

They jacked rounds into the breeches of their rifles. The riders circled below them and in short time had the horses bunched. They talked a little, then one of them used some trees to rig up a rope corral, which showed they reckoned on staying awhile. When the horses were inside the corral, the men unsaddled and turned their saddlers in with the remuda. One man started to collect kindling.

McAllister said, “Now's as good a time as any. Fleshy part of the leg is my target.”

“That'll be some shootin'.”

“Some of us can do it.”

Sam said: “I'll take the man with the blue handkerchief around his neck.”

“Red bandanna for me.”

They raised their rifles. McAllister's man was the one fetching the coffee from his saddle. He was stooped over, oblivious of his danger. Sam's was the fellow with the kindling. McAllister fired. His man was knocked around violently, thrown over the saddle over which he was bending into the tree beyond. Sam's target seemed to kick his leg backward like a crazy dancer before he fell yelling to the ground. The third man drew his belt-gun and seemed to be foolishly looking around for a target. Sam swung his rifle on him.

McAllister said: “Leave him, Sam. He can tote the others home.”

Sam put up his rifle and said: “All right, let's pull out.”

The man below with the revolver suddenly panicked at the silence of the rocks around him and hunted cover as fast as he could go, accompanied by the yells of one of his stricken comrades. Back in the cover of the rocks, the two Texans mounted and rode away.

“It's too Goddamn easy,” Sam said in disgust.

“It'll get harder as we go on,” McAllister promised him.

They worked their way south now, going warily, knowing that there would be riders out not only in the valley, but in the hills. Once they spotted two horsemen at a distance and took cover till they had passed, but saw nobody else. Late afternoon they came on a lone cow wearing a strange brand. This they killed and skinned. They took a goodly supply of meat and the hide back into the hills to the west and ate well. Sam wanted to jerk the beef, but there wasn't the time. To smoke it would have been to risk discovery; so he did the next best thing by cutting it into strips and cooking it slowly and thoroughly on hot stones. The hide, McAllister and he cut into strips and dried as best they could. They reckoned they would have need to for extra rope and their tackle needed repairing. They stayed at that spot quietly for a couple of days repairing their gear, resting and eating. Both were now badly in need of a smoke and discussed the taking of one of the enemy for the sake of his tobacco. But both felt on top of their form; Sam wasn't at his full strength, but he was doing well and McAllister had never felt fitter. Both were now buoyed up with hope. Maybe they wouldn't get all the cows back, but they'd pay the old colonel's debt for him.