Read McAllister for Free Online Page B

lashing at his animal with his rein ends, rocks scattered right and left and the Indian disappeared from his dim view.
    The sun ripped its hot rays clean into McAllister’s eyeballs as he tried to look at the ridge above and a rifle cracked. The bay horse, struggling to rise, screamed and became an inert dead weight on McAllister’s foot. With all his strength the man tried to use his free leg to lever the animal up enough for him to free his foot, but this was his right leg and he could see the blood already seeping from it to soak the upper part of the pants’ leg.
    The rifle sounded again and the dust spurted viciously into his face, choking him. Grinding his teeth against the pain that encompassed both legs, he heaved the Remington from his belt and tried to see the ridge through the blinding glare of the sun. He might as well have been blind. But he fired the gun just the same.
    Then he knew that there was more than one man up there. The air around him became alive with those leaden birds of teeth as they searched him out.
    When the angry burst had died down and he found to his astonishment that he was still alive, he heard José shouting to him in Spanish.
    â€œBe ready,
amigo
, I am coming back for you.”
    Mcallister wrenched his head around and almost shrieked—
    â€œNo … no … my foot … I can’t move.”
    He started trying to reach the Henry rifle in the boot, straining through the red veil of pain that enveloped him. A bullet hit the horn of the saddle and sang away into the brazen sky. But he got a hand on the butt and falling back with the full weight of his body, heaved it clear of leather. Nearly fainting from the pain, he got to work trying to lever the horse from his ankle, working with feverish and desperate haste.
    He heard a clatter of hoofs and glanced up to see José whooping savagely into view about a hundred yards away. The rifles above went insane, lead and sandstone chips filled the air around him. He didn’t know how he or the Indian could survive in such a holocaust. With a last frantic heave on the rifle barrel that brought the sweat of suffering welling from him, he lifted the horse an inch and pulled out his leg. Hastily thrusting the pistol into his belt and toting the rifle in his right hand he swung to meet the charging horseman.
    The Navajo’s left hand held the mule’s coarse mane, his knees held the sweating hide like a vice as he leaned over in the traditional Indian manner of picking up wounded and horseless men.
    The riflemen tried for him, but some guardian angel must have been by his side. He thundered past McAllister, gripped his arm and leaned his weight against the whiteman’s. Mcallister was torn off his feet and whirled violently as he made an agonising jump and buckled his game leg under him. This spoiled his jump and he nearly hurled himself over to the far side of the animal’s rump. For a moment, José fought for balance, nearly thrown from his seat, but managed to stay where he was and sped on.
    He hadn’t gone far and the rifles were still vainly trying for them, when Mcallister said faintly in his ear, “Hold up.”
    He pulled the panting horse to a halt. When he turned his head it was to see Mcallister disappearing over the tail of the horse. José dismounted hurriedly, got the horse into the cover of the rocks and returned for McAllister. The tall man was in a dead faint.
    When he came round, he sat up and said—
    â€œHow long I been out?”
    â€œNo time.”
    â€œOkay—give me that head-rag of yourn.”
    The Navajo protested, but Mcallister bawled at him angrily till he complied. Mcallister quickly tied it around the upper part of his thigh, put the barrel of the Remington in the slack of the tourniquet and turned. When the flow of blood from his wound had subsided, he said, “Good.” He then tore a square of cloth from his under-vest, padded the wound with it