McAllister Rides by Matt Chisholm Read Free Book Online

McAllister thought,
but he’s banking on me wandering around looking for it and getting myself killed. He’ll get word to the Bird Catchers I’m around.
But he knew that he wouldn’t get any more out of the Comanchero. He gave the man another handful of shells, nodded and stepped into the saddle. He took up the mule’s line and rode through the camp in a south-westerly direction. He didn’t feel very gay and reckoned he had signed on for a whole lot of grief. The prospect of rescuing a pretty Texas lady from a fate worse than death or of earning five hundred dollars didn’t help to cheer him.

Five
    He didn’t go the way the Comanchero had told him. He had enough trouble on his hands without courting any more. He didn’t trust the
jefe
who had undoubtedly taken note of the valuables he was carrying in the mule’s pack. A man who went to get a white captive back from the Indians would be carrying presents. The Comancheros had looked to be real handy with those spears and bows. And a man could die in the dawn with an arrow or a spear in his lights as easily as being hit by a lead bullet.
    So he put good distance between himself and the camp and then changed direction, circling west and then coming to the creek from the north, riding with a chin on either shoulder and eyes aching from looking for movement over great distances. To a man used to big country from childhood this country looked the biggest he had ever seen. No wonder the Comanche had taken to this stretch as the last defense against the whiteman. Here he had the distance which was his defense. Here was room to maneuver, room to hide. A huntedman could lose himself forever in distance.
    He stepped up his pace a little, going trot, walk and dismount, finding that impatience was starting to rise in him. It was not going to be pleasant finding this old white man in his canyon with two or three hundred Comanches breathing down his neck and he wanted to get it over with. As he went on the feeling that he was being a damned fool and that if he had any sense he would turn back increased. He saw no living thing until the second day out on the plain and then he could not see even with the use of the glass whether he and a white man or he and an Indian avoided each other or not. He guessed it was an Indian and his unease grew.
    When he finally reached the creek, he found that it was now no more than a trickle of water, though that was enough to refresh himself and his stock and refill the canteen. He missed the ford and the rocks that were like the heads of men and had to search up- and down-stream for them. He found them eventually near dark. The wind from the north had dropped and the heat was oppressive. Clouds scudded over the moon that night and he felt that he was in for a storm, but it didn’t come. When he woke in the morning he found the sky clear, the wind up again and the plain covered with a scattering of buffalo. He reckoned that there were something like five thousand animals in the herd and knew that there would be Indians around somewhere. This increased his uneasiness. He found high ground and gave the country a good sweeping with glasses. He found what he thought was an Indian hunting party to the east and circled around the herd to the north all the morning. During the afternoon he got clear of the animals and suddenly, when he least expected it, came to his first canyon.
    Now was the time to stop and think. He had a very rough plan of the canyon country in his head and he had to work out the obvious place for Walt Islop to be, knowing all the while that he could be quite wrong. The whole idea of finding a lone whiteman in this vast area was foolish and he ought to grab at sanity and go back while the going was good. Maybe it was the thought of the white woman, the thought of the five hundred dollars or his own simple pride, or all three, but he decided to play a hand or two before he withdrew, knowing all the while