McAllister by Matt Chisholm Read Free Book Online

and tied his bandanna around the outside of his pants.
    â€œWent clean through into the saddle. Nasty. Have to watch it, I reckon.”
    â€œCome,” José said, “let us go now.”
    Mcallister cocked his head.
    â€œI don’t hear any shots.”
    â€œThere is no time. Come.”
    Mcallister looked at him in disgust.
    â€œI left a good saddle back there.”
    â€œYou can get another saddle, but not another life.”
    â€œYou’re mighty extravagant with another man’s money, ain’t you now? You get on that crowbait and go tell the lieutenant what happened. I’ll stick around. Don’t feel up to riding with this leg, any road.”
    The Indian protested that he did not want to leave his friend. Mcallister said, okay, let him stick around and they’d smoke those polecats out of there. But José wasn’t enthusiastic about that either.
    â€œLeave me water and git, then.”
    The big Indian hesitated. Anger always made him say the few English words he knew.
    â€œYou … damn’ fool.”
    â€œYeah ain’t I? Now git.”
    José tried again. This time in Spanish.
    â€œThere are Apache in this country.”
    â€œThe only Apache around here is a dead one.”
    José was nearly weeping with rage and frustration.
    â€œWhat do you want me to do?”
    â€œPussyfoot around those hombres up there and get their horses.”
    The Navajo gave that thought. He nodded.
    â€œI get.”
    He gave Mcallister one last beseeching look and disappearedinto the rocks. The trader checked the rifle and gun for loads, loosed the tourniquet and bound the red rag tightly over his bandanna to increase the pressure on the wound. He reckoned that would hold till he had finished this chore. He wasn’t a fighting man, he told himself, but once this kind of thing started, he looked to see it through to the end. Sticking the Remington in his belt, he got purchase on the rifle and heaved himself to his feet. The world rocked a little, but it steadied itself after a bit and he felt pretty good until a rifle started up again and the rock chips started flying too close for comfort. He got down on all fours and began to crawl.
    He went up.
    It was slow, hot and agonising work. Several times he thought he would pass out again, but he didn’t because he had made up his mind that he wouldn’t before he had caught up with the men who had done this to him.
    Halfway up the broken ridge, he tossed rocks into the dip beneath him and made sure the riflemen were still around. They were. They acted like men with the jitters. Which seemed strange with the advantage they had against a wounded man and an Indian. It suited him.
    The leg was giving him a little trouble and he guessed that age was starting to tell on him. Five years back he wouldn’t have let a piece of lead through his leg to trouble him this way. He cursed, gritted his teeth and dragged that same leg as quiet as he could over the dusty surface of the
malpais.
    After a while the sandstone changed to bare gray rock. It was pretty jagged in places and tore at his clothes and flesh, but a little more pain didn’t count one way or the other and he pushed on till he reckoned he was getting above the riflemen in the rocks. That is, if they hadn’t moved.
    Those men started shouting. Their words were clear to him on the still air, bouncing back and forth against the hot rocks.
    â€œMove in and cut him down.”
    â€œHe’s moved. He ain’t there.”
    â€œMove in, damn you.”
    Neither of these voices belonged to Franchon.
    Loose stones rattled and the butt of a rifle thudded against rock. Mcallister raised his head cautiously above a rock andsaw a man moving slowly about fifty yards away to his left and slightly below him.
    How many more were there and where were they? Was he above them all or was it possible that he could be attacked from the rear. Safer to climb a mite