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 wouldnât pay. But why did they want it that way? He wasnât 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 hadnât 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 didnât 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 thecircumstances. He fell backward, kicking his feet into the manâs 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 didnât 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
Kristin Billerbeck, Nancy Toback