Free McAllister Rides by Matt Chisholm Page B

man didn’t seem to hear. The women came out of the shack and stood looking toward the trees. There came another flurry of shots and distantly the war whoops of the Indians.
    McAllister bawled: “There’s white men dying out there, Islop. You gotta do something. Get this rope off’n me.”
    â€œYellin’ won’t do you no good, son,” the old man told him. “I saved your fool life tyin’ you up thata way. Be still now afore I change my mind about you.”
    McAllister fought the ropes again and only succeeded in hurting his wrists.
    A riderless horse ran out of the trees, line dragging and eyes wild. Its rig showed that it belonged to a Texas man. McAllister was nearly beside himself. An Indian appeared astride a paint pony. He rode the white man’s horse down and grabbed its line. He gave out a little song of triumph at the capture. There was nothing a Comanche prized more than a good horse. He rode past the house, tied the horse to the corral rail, jabbered something excitedly to Islop and the women and rode back into the timber again. McAllister saw there was a dark stain on the saddle of the horse.
    Another burst of firing and a bunch of Indians rode intosight. They went a couple of hundred yards across the front of the house, halted, yelled encouragement to themselves and galloped back into the trees again. A real Indian fight, typical of the Comanches – charge and flee, overcome their fear and charge again. The Indians might outnumber the Texans, but the rangers’ firepower was more than they liked. McAllister didn’t blame them. He had seen some good guns among his compatriots.
    Suddenly two riders burst into view far to the right. They were white men and they were on the run. McAllister knew the Texans had been split up and were breaking. These men were riding for their lives. They had dropped their rifles and were firing backward with their belt guns. A dozen Indians broke cover, beating their ponies to a faster pace. The Texas men had the better horseflesh, but the Indian mounts were fresher. They were overhauling the fugitives fast. An Indian pony went down, flinging its rider over its head. Then one of the white men’s mounts was down. The rider tried to land on his feet but failed. He fell heavily and McAllister heard his faint yell. The other Texan reined in and rode back.
    â€œGo on, you don’t stand a chance,” McAllister heard himself shouting.
    The man swung down from his horse and stood firing at the Indians. They ignored his shots and charged down on him. The man on the ground was up on one elbow, firing. They seemed to ride right over him, too excited to fear the revolver fire. When they passed the man seemed to have been ground from sight.
    They swept right past the standing man and he followed them with his pointing gun. A warrior pitched from his saddlepad, bounced on the ground loosely and lay still. McAllister felt like cheering. The Indians rode on a way, then whirled. The Texan was reloading. McAllister couldn’t make out his features at that distance, but he knew the man was calm and unhurried. The Indians were hesitating; they ran their ponies up and down, chanting. One shook his short spear angrily at the white man who finished loading and stood awaiting their return. It was like an excerpt from a storybook and impossible to believe.
    The Indians were ready to go again, their yells rose to a crescendo and they beat their horses into action with the buttsof their spears and bows. They looked like a covey of bright savage birds as they swooped down on the solitary ranger. They rode straight at him, ignoring his now fast-sounding shots, striking at him with lances and clubs, circling, plunging wildly in on him and then scattering out. He was down. A last shot and an Indian toppled from his horse. The others were springing to the ground, running in on their clumsy horseman’s legs, striking at the figure on the ground. A