Chapter 3

They came out of the sun, down the slope and yelling with excitement.

McAllister didn’t need any second bidding. He hit the canelo with quirt and spur and got out of there fast. When he glanced back, he saw that there were four of them and, though they seemed to be mounted on pretty poor-looking animals, they were getting speed out of them as only an Apache knew how. They came down that slope like bats out of hell, their colored rags fluttering, hitting a pace that seemed utterly reckless on ground like that. But McAllister was forced to match them and more. He knew that with the California horse under him he had the best of chances of keeping ahead of them. All he had to do was pray the horse wouldn’t put his foot in a hole and go down. If that happened, it was all up with McAllister.

He ran a half-mile, knowing that he was slowly increasing the distance between himself and his pursuers. He began to pass the mouth of the canyon where he had lost Sam Spur’s sign. He was tempted to turn down it, knowing that he would get a safe fast run there, but decided against it, because if there were any more Indians in there, he could find himself in a trap. But just as he decided this, a shot fired ahead showed him that he was running into three mounted men who had appeared from nowhere. Trust an Apache to appear out of the ground.

So there was no alternative. He swung the canelo left and thundered toward the mouth of the canyon, hoping against hope that the place was empty of Indians. The Indians behind him at once changed course and, cutting off a corner, came alarmingly close. As he clattered into the canyon, he heard the rattle of their rifle-fire behind him. To shoot a moving target from the back of a fast-running horse wasn’t easy and he reckoned he was safe from gunshots for the moment. As he went into the canyon, the two small parties of Indians joined loosely together and came yelling after him, beating their horses to the utmost of their speed.

Once on the floor of the canyon, the canelo began to show its paces. It hit a stride that increased McAllister’s respect for it, reaching out over the hard ground, head extended, nostrils wide. McAllister looked back and saw that he was gaining on the riders behind. He started to feel a little hopeful.

In the next moment, however, his hopes were extinguished. Faintly, far off above the sound of the canelo’s pounding hoofs, he heard the sound of a shot. It seemed in the same instant that he heard the whistle of the bullet. He saw patches of color among the rocks, the glitter of metal in the sun. The worst that could happen had happened. There were Indians afoot off to his right front. Some of them he could see were vaulting onto their ponies; others were standing and firing at him.

He swerved left, angling across the floor of the canyon. The two following horses, which, being unladen, had kept up well, came around well enough. The yelling Indians behind changed course. He dropped the lead lines and let the two animals behind go free and, as he raced toward the cover of the rocks on the other side of the canyon, he saw that he had succeeded in delaying the men directly behind him for a moment as they pulled up to catch the bay and the gray. He hoped that there would be disagreement over the ownership of the animals to delay the Indians for a while.

Within a matter of moments, the canelo was clattering among the giant boulders and McAllister was swinging down from the saddle. He led the animal deep into the rocks and hitched the line to a rock. He then opened a saddle-pouch and filled his pockets with rounds for the Henry which he heaved from the boot. That done, he climbed a high boulder and gained a vantage point of the canyon.

He had a good view and saw at once what the Apaches were up to. Riding across the open space, they were heading for the rocks that surrounded him. He knew that as soon as they were among them, they would dismount and hunt him on foot. And nobody was faster in the world on foot than an Apache. He didn’t like the look of things at all. He flung himself down and lined up on the nearest rider. He reckoned they thought they were out of rifle range, but he aimed to give them a surprise. This nearest man had a red rag around his head like a sweat-band; his shirt was of blue marked with polka dots; seatless army pants were tucked into knee-high Apache moccasins. He was riding a chunky little dun horse and was preparing to dismount.

McAllister fired, missed the man and brought the pony down. Even as horse and man pitched to the ground, the big man levered a fresh round into the breech and made good his mistake. As the warrior leapt to his feet, as astonished no doubt as he was shaken, McAllister hit him in the leg and put him down again. He could see from the attitudes of the rest of them that he had made his impression. They knew now they weren’t jumping a pilgrim. He didn’t waste any time, but levered again and lined up with a man who was riding his bay pony clean into the rocks off to his right. This time, he hit the man, knocking him clean out of his crude saddle. This time, they all learned their lesson and disappeared from view. And McAllister thought it time he changed his position.

He slid down the boulder, ran back through the rocks until he was almost to the canyon wall. On the way, he took the canteen from his saddle and slung it from a shoulder. He didn’t know how long he was going to be forted up there and he didn’t want to die of thirst. He now searched for a spot from which he could cover his horse, for he had no intention of being left afoot if he could help it.

Climbing a little to gain some advantage, he found what looked like a shallow cave above a rock-strewn ledge. This gave him a good view and would protect him from above and two sides. It seemed as ideal as anything could be in these circumstances.

They left him alone for about thirty minutes, no doubt while they talked over the situation.

McAllister lay wondering why they were so intent upon attacking him. Ordinarily, they would have made a try for his horses and he would have refrained from hitting them with his rifle. But they had shown they were interested in more than his horses. They wanted him and for that reason he had brought the two warriors down. If they were playing for keeps, he had to, show them it wouldn’t pay. But why did they want it that way? He wasn’t satisfied with the answer that they were just blood-thirsty savages who wanted the blood of any white man they came on. Having two men hit hadn’t stopped them. They were still out there and they were going to attack him. In this kind of country, he was going to have his work cut out to stop them. At a moment like this he could have done with Sam Spur at his side. Sam had had the same thought no doubt and that was the reason why he had asked McAllister to come.

Suddenly, there was an Indian in sight, running forward. He snapped off a shot at the scarlet head-rag, but the man was gone from sight as soon as he squeezed the trigger. To the left, another flitted momentarily, running in closer and again his shot was too late. McAllister cursed softly to himself. Those were two he could see. How many were working their way toward him that he could not see?

He levered another shot into the Henry, waited.

Suddenly, there was a man within twenty yards of him, knife in hand. McAllister whirled, fired and missed. The third miss in almost that number of minutes nearly unnerved him. The man dropped from sight. McAllister didn’t like it one little bit. This meant that there were Indians between him and his horse.

A flutter of bright cloth to the left. McAllister swung the rifle, fired and made a hit, catching the man in mid-leap and knocking him backward.

A rattle of rocks to the right.

He turned.

The man was on him before he could lever and fire. His eye caught the glitter of the knife in the sunlight, the encarmined face was contorted with effort and rage, the eyes terrible in their ferocity. McAllister did the only thing he could under the circumstances. He fell backward, kicking his feet into the man’s hard belly as he went.

The Indian somersaulted, landed miraculously on his feet and whirled, knife in hand. He drew his breath through his teeth with a hard hissing sound. McAllister got to his feet, fascinated by the baleful eyes and the terrible intent. Even as the man leapt to the attack, McAllister levered the Henry. But it was too late, the man was on him and the knife was arching for his belly. He avoided the gut-ripping blow, slammed the butt of the rifle around and smashed the man on the side of the head.

The Indian went down like a scalded puma, snapping and screaming, but it didn’t finish him. It seemed that he was on his feet as soon as he was down.

Over his shoulder, McAllister saw others running in.

This is the finish, he thought.

As the Indian ran in on him again, he jammed the muzzle of the rifle into his belly and fired. The man fell away, his red shirt afire from the muzzle-flame, brown hands clutching his belly.

McAllister whirled again, levering and firing, knowing that he could not stop the flood. The wounded man, dying, was making frantic efforts to reach him with the knife, hating to destruction even in death.

The nearest Apache were within twenty yards of him, leaping over rocks as nimble as goats, shouting their intent. McAllister fired with the speed of utter desperation. It would all be over in seconds now.

From far off he heard the stutter of rifle fire.

An Indian collapsed in mid-leap. Another suddenly veered to one side and fell among the rocks.

Every man left on his feet stopped as if he had run into a solid wall. Heads turned, searching for the source of the shooting. A man cried out shrilly, pointing upward.

McAllister raised his eyes and saw the thin dark lines of the rifles, the puffs of dark smoke. Lead smacked into rock and whined to the heavens, kicked up dust, whacked sickeningly into bodies. Indians were turning and running, scampering like frightened rabbits through the rocks, racing each other now to get away from McAllister. He saw men hastily throw themselves onto their horses and quirt them away. They fled, racing down the canyon, sometimes two men to a pony and the gunfire followed them for as long as they were in range.

The gunfire died away.

McAllister stood, suddenly bereft of strength.

A soft whimper drew his eyes around and he saw the Apache he had shot give his last kicks before he died. There seemed dead all around him – men lying huddled between rocks, a man stretched across a boulder, a man lying on his back with his face shot away. Death was everywhere.

He looked up and saw nothing. No sign of the men who had so miraculously rescued him. Puzzled, he reloaded the Henry and walked out into the canyon toward the still standing canelo, eyes wary for any wounded Apache, because one wounded was as dangerous as a lion. But none lived. The gunfire from above had been totally lethal.

He wondered who the men were who had saved him and wondered more why they did not show themselves. One thing he was sure of was that the men up there had been the reason why the Apache had attacked him with such resolution.

As he stepped into the saddle, he wondered if the men up there had anything to do with Sam Spur’s disappearance. Uneasy, he moved off down canyon. As he rode, he kept a chin on either shoulder, not only for the Indians, but for the men who had saved him. There was something here that he did not understand and not to understand is to fear. Healthy fear was what had kept him alive on the frontier for so long.

He reasoned that, as the men on the canyon wall had not shown themselves, it was possible that their intention had been more to do damage to the Apache than to rescue him. If it had been a normal rescue in Indian country, somebody would have hailed him. But the canyon wall was still utterly deserted. Not even a wisp of dust came from up there. Something was wrong.

He came to the spot where Sam’s tracks had disappeared. If he had sense, he would have ridden the canelo horse away from there as fast as he could go, but he knew that he would not. Something had happened to Sam and he wanted to know what. Maybe Sam was in real trouble. He had been set afoot here about a week back and he could be dead by now. He could have been injured in a fall, but neither of the horses had shown any sign of having a fall. Besides, there was that bullet graze on the bay. McAllister reckoned that Sam had been fired on and it would not have surprised him to find his body among the rocks. Maybe mutilated by the Indians. That seemed the obvious explanation. But it didn’t explain the wiping out of the sign to his satisfaction.

Maybe the explanation lay with the men who had rescued him … maybe …

He dismounted and ground-hitched the canelo, finding his way among the boulders to the wall of the canyon, searching it more carefully than he had before. His search was long and patient, broken every few moments for a good watchful look up and down canyon. He could be caught again like a rat in a trap and he didn’t like it overly.

Then he saw it.

The edge of a hoof mark in the sand close to a boulder. Somebody had wiped tracks carelessly here. He concentrated now with a fierce intensity, searching to left and right and finding flat rock on both hands. He got down on hands and knees and crawled a dozen yards, examining the rock minutely, and found nothing. He went back and tried the other way, giving the rock the same close attention.

He was about to give up when he found it. The faint mark of an iron-shod horse’s hoof. He went on.

Another and another mark. He had no idea how many animals had come this way, but he knew that at least one had. He rounded a giant boulder and there was the trail in front of him, snaking up the side of the canyon, narrow and possibly dangerous, but it could be negotiated by a man leading his horse.

He went back and fetched his horse, leading it through the rocks and starting slowly up the narrow trail.