McAllister by Matt Chisholm Page A

his following had been variously reported in the American and Mexican presses as being a hundred or two hundred strong. What he did know was that there were several thousand white and Mexican troops on the lookout for him. That did not perturb him. He was used to that andit gave him a feeling of honourable respectability. Already his people on the reservations were speaking admiringly of the number of horses, cattle and sheep he had taken.
    The only emotion that he knew at this moment as he cleaned his fine Winchester rifle was anger. Three of his men had been killed in the last day. That meant that his natural enemy would also suffer. Equally or more. And it was proper that it should be so. He owed as much to himself and the relatives of the slain men.
    He waited now for the reports of his two scouts. He wanted to know more about the people at the ranch. That wagon-train was unusually strong and had unusually resolute men on it. Gato had sent his own son to scout that position. The other scout was following the other party of whitemen, the ones who had slain the young Falling Deer not three miles from this spot. Gato’s only fear was that either of these young men would be tempted to slay a whiteman and so discover to the White Eyes the Apaches’ presence.
    Gato was a medium-sized Apache, whose grandmother was said to have been a Mexican woman of extraordinary beauty captured on a raid into Sonora. Certainly, the Apache was a fine-featured man and not so squatly made as most of his people. True, he was not physically a powerful man, though his prowess and stamina were bywords among the nations. His face was somber in repose, but he could smile quickly and loved to laugh at the horse-play of the youngest members of his party. But he could be stern and ruthless and ever-willing to sacrifice a weak member for the majority. He was a man to be respected, loved and feared. He knew men and judged to a nicety when to encourage and when to threaten. He was also a man without fear—but that did not make him a reckless fool. A man who was either reckless or a fool could not have survived in this savage wilderness for the seven years he had been off the reservation. Sagacity, boldness and the ability to move fast and light made him a dangerous and illusive adversary. At this very moment, army command was sure that he was in the San Carlos mountains a good many days’ ride from here. They were convinced that the raids on the Craddock horses and in the vicinity of Mesquite had been carried out by another party, too small to belong to Gato.
    A sentry called out.
    â€œLet him come,” Gato cried softly.
    Out of the darkness stepped his son. Gato lifted his eyes and searched the young man’s face in the small glimmer of light from the fire.
    â€œWhat have you learned?”
    â€œThe people at the ranch have burned a wagon.”
    Gato thought about it and could not think why they should do that. He asked—
    â€œWas it old and no good?”
    â€œNo—it was a good wagon.”
    â€œHow many people?”
    â€œI think five wagon people. One woman. Five soldiers.” Gato brooded and finally said: “They killed two of us.”
    â€œMcallister is there.”
    Gato lifted his eyes from the flames and stared into his son’s face. He knew that man of old. He remembered the time when Mcallister working for the army and in plain defiance of the Mexican authorities had gone almost single-handed into the Sonora hills and treated for Gato’s surrender. That had been years back. Both Gato and Mcallister had been young bucks then. And Gato had surrendered on McAllister’s word. But that word had been broken, not by the man but the government. The government then was not to be trusted. But still a man like Mcallister could serve it. Of one thing only was Gato still sure—he would never surrender again. Either Gato or Mcallister would die. It would have been better if all those years ago,