McAllister by Matt Chisholm Page A

them futilely.
    They continued the reckless pace for a couple of miles then Clover, getting a grip on himself and fighting the terrible pain in his side, pulled up. He got himself upright in the saddle and took a look at the remnants of his little force.
    Four men and one of them was Franchon. He smiled wryly to himself. The cards weren’t falling so bad. He wanted that white-faced sonovabitch dead, but not till they were safe in Mesquite. Alive, he was a good man to have around with Indians all over.
    One of the other men was the Carmody hand.
    His own two men were Schneider and Rand. Not too bright either of them, but they’d follow him. Things could be worse. He looked past them and searched the now sun-blasted country with his red-rimmed eyes. Not a sign of dust. That didn’t mean there wouldn’t be pretty soon. If that was Gato back there, he’d keep on coming.
    Franchon was eyeing the blood on his shirt.
    â€œYou hit?” he asked.
    Clover laughed. He could always raise that laugh, particularlywhen the going was tough. He replied in his most civil voice.
    â€œSure. It ain’t the first time, son. I’ll live, if that’s what’s frettin’ yawl.”
    Rand said: “That was sure a close call.” He tried to keep his voice level and show just how tough a hand he was, but it shook and they all knew he felt as they did.
    â€œWhat the hell happens now?” Schneider demanded. His voice shook and he didn’t give a damn who noticed.
    â€œWa-al,” Clover said with a fine show of carelessness, “I have hole in my side you could put your goddam fist in. I don’t aim to git my shells wet, so how about one of you hombres patchin’ me up?”
    He climbed slowly out of the saddle, straining on the horn so he wouldn’t pain his side and they got to work on him. No lead was found in him and it was reckoned that the ball had bounced off his ribs without breaking them. There was a lot of blood and pieces of torn flesh that looked pretty untidy, but when they had stuffed the torn-off tail of his shirt over the wound and bound his bandanna around him tight as he could bear it, he claimed he felt as good as new.
    â€œYou fellers did a good job,” he declared and beamed on them.
    Just then, Rand, who had been sent up a ridge to keep a look out, came riding toward them hell-for-leather shouting that the Indians were coming. It was now that they all saw that Clover had not stopped on this spot by accident. Right near where they were standing was a small patch of broken ground. All around it for nearly a half-mile was flat open ground. Anybody trying to get at them here would have to make a target of himself for a long time.
    â€œFort up, boys,” Clover said, leading the way, dragging his horse and the two mules behind him. They followed him and settled themselves down. They managed to make one of the horses and two of the mules lie down, the rest they got into the best cover they could.
    After a while, when their nerves were starting to sing unpleasant songs of fearful anticipation, Rand sang out: “There they are,” and pointed to a ridge about a mile off.
    Every man turned and saw the wild horsemen hazily in the heat, backed by the hot eternity of the sky.
    Aloud, Clover counted them.
    â€œOn’y eleven of’em,” Schneider declared, trying to find comfort in the old tale that one whiteman was worth six Indians and not finding much.
    â€œEnough,” Clover said.
    â€œThis is all fine and dandy,” Carmody’s man said, “we’m all forted up, but them bastards could sit out there for days till our water run out.” He looked at Clover bitterly. “We shoulda gorn back to the water like some of us wanted.”
    â€œYeah,” Clover said scathingly. “Right back into the rocks so’s one of them boys could walk clear up to you an’ cut your fool throat.”
    The Apache were motionless and