McAllister by Matt Chisholm

range.”
    He gave his orders.
    Suddenly every man turned and fired at the line of Indians still in the crevices. As soon as the black heads ducked to get down out of the withering fire, every man swung into the saddle. The startled horses tried to turn every which way, but the spur and quirt drove them straight into a hard run. Whenthe leaders tried to swerve aside as the rifles up ahead of them cracked into action, those behind avalanched them forward. Clover became a violent tornado of motion. Lashing the laden mules into a run, he drove the horse under him straight for the now startled Apache. Clover fired his rifle once, drove it home into the scabbard at his knee and drew his Colt’s gun, yelling at the top of his voice to keep his own and his men’s courage at its zenith.
    As he had ordered, his men kept roughly together until the last moment, then, as they were almost on top of the Indians lying on the nearly flat ground, they spread out. Seeker, the wounded man, reeled from his saddle, coughing a stream of blood; another man was catapulated forward as his horse went down under an adept piece of hamstringing on the part of a daring Indian. Clover caught sight of a distorted and savage face at his knee, glimpsed briefly the flash of a knife in the sun and fired point-blank. There was time only to see the small dark hole in the face, then he was past and driving full-tilt into an Indian who was scrambling to his feet to get out of his way. The shoulder of his horse caught the Indian and knocked him from his feet. The two mules on the lead rope tried to jump him, but one failed and trod him into the ground.
    Ahead of him he caught sight of a brave whose guts had run out of him. He fired and missed because his horse was acting up, pitching badly in the excitement. Beside him a gun went off and the Indian tripped and took a header into the sand and lay twitching like a crazy marionette. Clover glanced left to see Franchon’s white face. Clover laughed and roared: “A pretty shot, by Gawd.”
    He got a tight rein on his horse and started yelling: “Turn around, turn around.”
    He turned his own mount with some difficulty, then fought the iron-mouthed mules and saw to his dismay that his men were showing signs of running for it. The damned fools! If they tried that the Indians would pick them off. He roared louder. Men faltered, reined in and turned. Clover glowed. He still had a hold on them.
    â€œHit the bastards again,” he bellowed and led the mules again in a clumsy charge.
    A couple of Indians ran like cottontails, leapt in the air and disappeared with incredible speed into the earth. Clovertook a snapshot at another and missed. Franchon rode one down, turned coolly in the saddle and shot the man through the head as he started to rise.
    Suddenly, as if he had appeared from nowhere like a wraithe in the choking dust, an Indian was in front of Clover. Even in that short second, the outlaw could see the man’s handsome, calm features. He raised the revolver he held in his left hand and fired. Clover heard the shot sing viciously past his ear, chopped off a shot and tried to ride the man down. The Indian sidestepped neatly without any perturbation showing on his face and fired again as Clover passed him. The outlaw felt a terrible blow in his side, so hard that he was almost knocked from the saddle. Grabbing the saddlehorn, he felt the horse starting to pitch again under him and told himself that his life depended on his staying in the saddle. The horse slewed around as he unwittingly heaved on the reins and a mule barged into it. Clover cursed insanely, drove the spurs home and sent the horse hard to the left, felt him starting to bolt and let it have its head.
    That was the wisest thing he ever did in his life, both for himself and his men. Everybody saw him take this sudden change of direction and followed him. They went out of the fight at a flat run, leaving the Indians firing at