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  When the white men slaughtered Indians, it was called a victory. But when the Indians killed whites, that was a massacre. To be on the safe side, the whites called every Indian a ‘hostile’. And when you were a hostile, not even the Stars and Stripes flying over your camp could save you from packs of hunting soldiers.

  McAllister had a whole band of Cheyenne on his conscience. On him depended whether they lived or died.

  Brevington was a preacher and a soldier – so he fought against the Indians, and he prayed against them too.

  Wild Bill Hickok never forgot a debt, and he owed McAllister considerably. When they met, two great legends of the Old West came together. And when they both encountered Brevington, they would add even more to their legends …

  Copyright

  McALLISTER 4: McALLISTER AND CHEYENNE DEATH

  By Matt Chisholm

  First published by Hamlyn Books in 1981

  Copyright © 1981, 2017 by Matt Chisholm

  First Smashwords Edition: September 2017

  Names, characters and incidents in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information or storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law.

  This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book

  Series Editor: Mike Stotter

  Text © Piccadilly Publishing

  Published by Arrangement with the Author’s Agent.

  Chapter One

  It was the year in which Milly McNickle had her first baby that the Indians came and camped on Howard Creek in the Black Horse Valley. McAllister always remembered it because Doc Robertson was unable to attend so McAllister had to deliver the child. A man is apt to remember that kind of a year.

  There was the joshing for one thing, of course. How many times in their lives had folks ever heard of a man delivering a child? So McAllister came in for a lot of ribbing. He did not seem to care much; but when folks started sending for him to deliver a child, he thought it time to call a halt. He said if Doc Robertson promised not to raise horses, he would not play midwife any more.

  He could duck out of a thing like that easily enough. To duck out of the subject of the Indians was another matter entirely.

  The Indians were Cheyenne-part of the Northern Cheyenne who were affiliated, as you might say, to the Sioux Nations. It was a pretty small band of them with White Bull as their chief. At least that was what the white people called him. To McAllister, who knew his Cheyenne, he was an important man and certainly was chief among the small band who chose to follow him for the winter hunt. Only that year there was not much of a hunt, for the buffalo had failed to come, and Indian bellies were pretty hungry. No other game seemed to come either.

  To begin at the beginning, McAllister was preparing for winter. In this high country it came early and it came hard. He started preparing in the fall when, in his opinion, the country was at its most beautiful. The birch along Howard Creek were all silver and russet browns and reds, splashed across with yellow. He worked on his big barn and his pens.

  He had made up his mind to get his most valuable stock under cover this winter. He had cut hay all summer and spent his last dollar on corn. He reckoned he would get through this snow without losses. God willing.

  It was Si Tallin who stopped off to be neighborly and take a friendly drink and told McAllister about the Indians.

  ‘I seen them a few days back, Rem. Must be twenty lodges, I reckon. Up here for the winter hunt. The folks ain’t too damned pleased about it. I heard tell these’re Cheyenne. Well, hell, the army’s fightin’ Cheyenne. All over. Maybe these ain’t hostiles right this minute, but maybe they was a week back an’ maybe they will be again come next week. Who knows with goddam Indians?’

  They drank and Tallin made flattering remarks about McAllister’s whiskey, which usually meant he wanted more.

  One fall such as this, long ago, old man Chadwick McAllister had dumped his son on the Cheyenne for a month while he went off hunting. The month had run into several years and old Chad he was pretty taken aback when he came to find that his son was a pretty good Indian, but could no longer pass for a white man. Now Chad was partial to Indians one way and another, but it did not seem right that a white boy should grow up an Indian. So he made McAllister’s foster father, Many Horses, some handsome presents and carried young Remington off to be reared in the brush country of Texas. Here he learnt the white man’s lessons – to chew baccy, swear and drink whiskey. He also learned a thing or two about women before his voice broke.

  Chad’s separation of Rem McAllister from the Indians had not been quite timely enough. He never forgot what Many Horses had told him and taught him, nor did he forget the warmth of the life in an Indian band, his close relations with other humans and the rectitude which every Indian child accepts without argument. In short, he had learned the Indian right and wrong. Chad tried every now and then to knock the Indian thoughts out of the boy’s head, but he never really succeeded. If he had, this story would not have to be told.

  He asked Tallin whose band it was on Howard Creek.

  ‘Whose band?’ Tallin said.

  ‘Christ, how should I know whose band, man? They’re Indians. I didn’t ask ’em their goddam names.’

  McAllister saddled his favorite horse, Oscar, and rode down the valley the following morning. He admitted to himself that the Indians’ presence made him uneasy. If this band was not hostile, why wasn’t it on the reservation? But if it was hostile why wasn’t it out fighting the soldiers? He would know soon enough.

  Tallin was right. There were some twenty tipis parked on the edge of the breaks not far from the creek. It was a nice spot. McAllister had his first cabin there when he came into this country. He could still see the burned remains of his cabin. Si Tallin had done that when he rode for Edward C. Larned, the cattle baron. Tallin had lived that down by proving to be a good neighbor. McAllister might never forget, but he forgave easily enough. Life was too short to bear grudges.

  ~*~

  As soon as he rode into that Indian camp, he got the feel of it.

  First, it was a worried camp. There were young men here who had lately been fighting the soldiers. He could not prove it, but he was pretty sure. Their faces were surly as they watched him come. The women were scared and they could not hide the fact. The old men were anxious. Their manner turned to wonder when they heard his fluent Cheyenne. They had never heard a white man speak their tongue this way before. Most likely many of them had never seen a white man this close before. He looked for guns and did not see any.

  White Bull came out to greet him and it was then that McAllister, with his great memory for faces, recollected him. This was a cousin of Many Horses and not unlike the chief to look at. His hair had white in it now and he was stooped and faintly hesitant in manner. McAllister remembered him as a warrior in his prime. A handsome man with a marvelous air of confidence. They embraced and McAllister called him ‘father’, which pleased White Bull.

  In the warmth of the tipi, leaning against their back-rests, the old man said: ‘I remember you well, son. You were called Diver.’ He smiled at the memory. ‘You could not swim until you were taught, but you could always dive. They were good days.’

  They talked of this and that for a good while, as Indians did, politely and with care, avoiding offence. McAllister produced a little whiskey. He wanted the old man to talk and to do so frankly. White Bull did not approve of whiskey but
he thought a little did no harm. Finally, they got around to the nub of the matter. Why were he and his band here?

  White Bull said: ‘Diver, you know that young men love to fight. It has always been so, therefore it is right. When there are many enemies, they like to fight more, which also is natural. The soldiers have come into our country and the game has been driven from our prairies. The gold hunters have torn open the breast of our mother earth. Bad times have come and the young men think they can put it right by fighting. They have not yet learned that there are some fights which cannot be won. You and I know different, but they believe it and think that if they are brave enough and strong enough and if their medicine is good, they must be victorious. It is a little sad, I think. Do you agree?’

  ‘Yes,’ McAllister said, ‘very sad.’

  ‘The soldier chiefs say the young men are bad because they fight. I find this a strange reasoning and I cannot believe that the white chiefs mean what they say. Only a fool would talk that way. The young men fight for their people. What else is there for a young man to do? What else is a young man for? I am getting old and I think differently. The winter of my life approaches as also does the winter of the year. Cold and hunger temper a man’s mind and his courage. Winter calls for a different mind and a different courage. Now I have to think how my band shall come through the winter. I have told the soldier chief at the fort that I took no part in the fighting with the soldiers. This is true. You believe me?’

  ‘I believe you, father.’

  ‘Good. The young men have come in and the Cheyenne nation has divided for the winter hunt. As you know, when the snow comes they’ve scatter and in one and twos hunt the scarce game so that we may eat meat when the buffalo meat and the pemmican is gone. This year there have been few buffalo and the white hunters have disturbed the little game there is. The People are hungry. Through the winter, they will be hungrier. The young men will not fight in winter. They will hunt. Maybe in the spring when the grass is up and the ponies grow strong again, they will go out to fight the soldiers once more, but I hope not. Too many are dying and soon there will be no more young men to make our women with child. What will happen to the People then? I hope to keep the young men quiet. But the People are frightened and they are right to be frightened. How may the soldiers know those of us who do not want to fight? The young soldiers are strangers to us. They know nothing about us. Any Indian man, woman or child is a target for their guns. You know this, Diver.’

  ‘I know it.’

  ‘Then what shall we do to make ourselves safe from the soldiers?’

  ‘Go close to the fort. I’ll talk with the commanding officer there.’

  ‘I have asked him already and the agent. The agent says come near, the soldier chief says that he will shoot us if we come near. The chief who is higher than him says this must be so.’

  McAllister said: ‘An American flag, father. You must put an American flag above your village so that the soldiers will know that you are peaceful.’

  The older man nodded. ‘This is good, but how shall I ask the soldier chief for one? If I go to the fort, he will shoot me.’

  ‘I’ll go to the fort. He’ll listen to me.’

  ‘Good.’

  They talked on for an hour or more. When McAllister left the tipi, he talked with a few of the band with whom he had hunted in the past. Then he rode home along the valley, through the russet browns and yellows of the fall, and reached home before dark. The sky was clear and the air felt clean and sharp. No sign of snow yet, he thought, but it would be here soon. He hoped he had enough hay in for the winter. Lige Copley was forking hay in the barn. Lige was his only help at the moment. He was the son of a former slave who worked in Black Horse as a blacksmith. The boy was hard-working, intelligent and as devoted to horses as McAllister himself. A man and a boy were not enough for the work to be done and McAllister had hired Greg Talbot, a hill rancher, for the past year, but now Greg had gone back into the hills to run his own place.

  When McAllister unsaddled Oscar in the barn, Lige said: ‘There was a man here, boss, askin’ for you.’

  ‘Did he say who he was?’

  ‘Nary a word. Seemed kind of tight-mouthed.’

  ‘Did he say what he wanted me for?’

  ‘No, sir. He was a saddle bum by the looks of him, huntin’ a job likely. One of them fifty-dollar-saddle ten-dollar-horse men.’

  ‘Throw Oscar into the corral,’ McAllister said. ‘I’ll cook us some chow.’ Lige was the lousiest cook McAllister had ever met up with, which was saying something after years of experience with horrific trail cooks. He had allowed Lige to cook one meal since he first employed him and that had been one meal too much. It was now a joke between them, a kind of routine they went through daily. Lige thought the joke was terrific.

  ‘You certain sure you don’t have a notion to allow me to cook the meal, boss?’

  ‘Certain sure, Lige. I still have a wish to live.’

  Lige kept his face straight, but he shook with laughter. He said: ‘Come on, you,’ to Oscar and the horse followed him across the yard to the corral.

  As he went into the house, McAllister looked at the sky. Still no sign of snow. He wondered who the man who had asked for him was. He threw some slices of bacon into the pan and heard the appetizing sizzle. While he prepared the meal, he thought about the Indians down on Howard Creek. When he thought about them, he had an uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach. He called that his Indian instinct and it was usually right. He had come to respect it. Maybe it was plain hunger.

  When Lige came in, McAllister asked him if he had washed his hands. ‘Your ma told me to ask you that every time you come in to eat.’

  Lige went out to the pump and McAllister heard him pump up about one cupful of water. When Lige came in again, McAllister spooned bacon, potatoes and onions onto their plates, put the coffee pot on the table and said: ‘Tomorrow we’ll make bread, boy. I surely hunger for bread.’

  ‘Me too,’ said Lige.

  ‘Lige.’

  ‘Yessir?’

  ‘We’ve got to find us another hand. There is more’n enough work here for two men.’

  ‘We’ll make out, boss.’

  ‘All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.’

  ‘Playin’s for kids,’ Lige said.

  They ate steadily, quickly and in silence as was the custom. They each saved a potato till the end, so they could mop up the grease with it. They reckoned that was the best part of the meal. Then they sat around to drink their coffee and McAllister filled his pipe. They both belched a couple of times and then they were ready for conversation. When they were both there, this was their habit. This was the boy’s learning time and a time of great pleasure for McAllister. He had never known a boy that wanted to learn more than this one.

  Lige was a tall gangling boy, too tall and too thin for his age. His mother had told McAllister: ‘He outgrow his strength, Mr McAllister.’ McAllister was of the opinion that there was no such thing as outgrowing your strength. Lige was merely at that stage when he needed physical work to build the muscle and food to fuel it. Each day he watched that boy tuck away twice as much chow as himself. The boy’s capacity for food was a source of great wonder and admiration on his part.

  ‘Lige,’ he once asked, ‘do you ever stop eating?’

  ‘Sure, boss, when I sleeps.’

  Lige had one of those black faces the eastern cartoonist used to make a meal of, exaggerating the lines till every white man who looked at it knew it as a symbol of the stupid, unlettered black man who was good for a laugh any time. But Lige was smart and he was dedicated. His body wasn’t built for a horseman, but his brain was. He had that rare commodity – horse-sense, which was something that could not be taught. He understood horses and they understood him. He had never feared a horse and they knew it.

  When they had washed the dishes, they went into the yard to look at the night. The stars were not in evidence. There was a damp, cold feel to the air.<
br />
  ‘Lige, I have to ride to the fort tomorrow. I’ll be gone maybe a couple of days. You reckon you can mind the store while I’m gone?’

  ‘Sure.’ As they turned back into the house, the boy said: ‘Snow tonight.’

  McAllister said: ‘I reckon you’re right at that.’

  Chapter Two

  The following morning, McAllister was up an hour before first light. It was cold with that deadly and sudden drop in temperature which told of snow about. When he looked out of the window, he saw a light dusting of snow along the valley. When he looked over at the ridge to the west, the trees were draped in gossamer white. It might look picturesque, but McAllister hated it. Winter to him had always meant hard times driving horses and cattle in a freezing temperature, hands and feet dead with cold, breaking the ice for water, floundering in drifts while trying to save cattle. As he thought about it, he told himself he should have stayed down in Arizona.

  Lige came from his bunk, blue and shaking with cold. He looked the essence of misery.

  McAllister said: ‘If you don’t like it, you should of stayed in Africa.’

  ‘Africa, boss? My folks come from Alabama.’

  ‘You keep moving now and keep warm. You go sick on me, boy, and your ma’ll skin me.’ He slung beans into a pot and bacon into the pan. He could use a man-size steak of beef this morning. ‘And while I’m gone you see you eat, hear? I want to see you fat and sassy when I get back.’

  Lige looked at him poker-faced and asked: ‘You mean I ain’t sassy enough?’

  McAllister cooked enough bacon to make sandwiches. They were favorites of his. He didn’t have any bread so he made biscuits. He also had some meat biscuit which he put into a saddlepocket – the ubiquitous jerky, two large handfuls. Tobacco. Peggin’ strings. Powder and shot. Percussion caps. Anybody would think he was going to fight a war. Salt. Turn the bacon. He reckoned he’d fry some potatoes and some onions. With a full morning belly, he could last till tonight. He wondered why the hell he’d promised to go to the fort for old White Bull with the weather closing in this way. Though maybe heavy snow would not fall for a week or two. Still ... he went to the window and looked along the valley … he’d hate to get caught out there in the hills in a blizzard. He would take the gelding, Oscar. He was the strongest and most intelligent of his horses.