Sundance 6

by John Benteen

  “And that’s the way you intend to keep on living? From fight to fight? By your weapons?”

  Sundance grinned. “You weren’t too proud to hire my weapons. Yeah, that’s the way I intend to live as long as there’s a market for ’em and I can still use ’em. Or until I’m sure the Indians will have the fair treatment they’re entitled to.”

  Young sighed. “I see. Very well, I’ve had my chance and failed. He said I would.”

  “He?” Sundance asked.

  “Yes,” Young answered. “The man you said you loved once but want nothing more to do with.” Young arose, went to a door and opened it.

  “You were right, General,” he said. A tall man with the face of a hawk adorned by a bushy, brown beard came into the room. “I got nowhere with him. So now it’s your turn.”

  The man halted just inside the door. He wore neat civilian clothes, but his face was seamed and weather-burned, betraying his years in the open. His deep-set eyes gleamed as he looked at Sundance. “Hello, Jim,” he said softly. “It’s been a long time.”

  Jim Sundance got slowly from the chair. He stood there for a moment, looking at the bearded man. Then, in a voice that had turned a little husky, he said, “Hello, Three Stars.” And he crossed the room to shake the hand of General George Crook, the soldier who’d done more than any other soldier to seal the fate of Sundance’s people—the horse Indians of the plains.

  Chapter Two

  Crook’s room was in the best hotel in Salt Lake City, which was very good indeed. Closing the door behind himself and Sundance, he went to a bottle and a tray of glasses on the table. Outside, freight wagons rumbled through the wide streets laid out by Brigham Young forty years before. In the distance, the Wasatch Mountains towered over the New Zion of the Mormons. Crook picked up the bottle. “Drink, Jim? It’s prime bourbon. I had to smuggle it in. These folks here don’t believe in it.”

  “One,” Sundance said tonelessly. “And then one more.”

  “But never more than two, eh?” Crook poured, grinning at the half-breed warmly. “The old limit still holds?”

  “It holds. Two drinks I can handle. Three, I start getting wild. Four, I’m liable to tear things apart, and more than that I go plumb crazy. The Indian blood, I guess—”

  “I guess.” Crook came forward, held out the glass.

  Sundance took it. They looked at one another for a moment. Then Crook said, a trifle bitterly, “I guess there’s nothing left to drink to but our health. Yours, Sundance.”

  “And yours, Three Stars.” They sipped their whiskey.

  After that there was silence. The wagons kept rumbling by, a long train of them. Crook gestured to a chair.

  “Jim, sit down.” His voice sounded weary. He was well past his prime of the old days—when the Indians ruled the plains and the deserts and the Army was the underdog.

  Sundance dropped into the chair and Crook sat down across from him. “Surprised to see me, eh?”

  “Yeah,” Sundance said.

  “And not particularly happy, either.”

  “No,” Sundance said. “Not since they killed Dull Knife’s people.”

  Crook’s face shadowed. “I know. And I don’t blame you.”

  Sundance sat up straight, voice rasping, bitter. “Six years ago, the Cheyenne, my people! Little Wolf and Morningstar—the whites called him Dull Knife. After Custer, the last fighting Cheyenne in the north. And it was you who found them, broke them, talked them into coming in. ...”

  “Yes,” Crook said flatly. “I did that.”

  “They came in because you promised that they’d be allowed to stay in their own land, which was theirs by treaty anyhow. Instead, they got shipped to Indian Territory in the south. And they got sick— malaria, pneumonia, flu, all the crowding diseases of people penned up like cattle. They were also starved and cheated by the Indian agents until they began to die like flies. So Little Wolf and Dull Knife broke out to take them home, back north to the buffalo range.”

  His voice trembled with anger. Crook could not meet his eyes.

  “Thirteen thousand soldiers!” Sundance snarled. “That’s how many they sent against less than four hundred Cheyenne, most of whom were children and women!” He grinned savagely. “But they made their long march; they dodged the soldiers, outfought, outran ’em until they got back home. Then they were surrounded again and their horses taken. Again they were promised that if they went to Fort Robinson in Nebraska, they could go home in a little while. That promise was broken, too.”

  “I know,” Crook said tiredly.

  “They penned ’em up in barracks, thought they’d disarmed ’em. Starved ’em, mistreated ’em, let ’em die from the cold and hunger. And when they decided to fight back with what few guns they’d hidden, rather than be wiped out by disease and starvation, the Army shot ’em down—men, women, children, wiped out almost to the last soul.” Sundance was panting now with emotion. “And ... that ended it for my people. You, Three Stars, were the man who set it all in motion.”

  Crook stared down at his glass, then drank. “Yes,” he said. “That’s true. I asked Dull Knife to come in. He wouldn’t do it. I fought him and burned Ju’s camp. Then and there, if I’d wanted to, I could have wiped them out, all of them, done a lot worse to them than Custer did to Black Kettle on the Washita. And it would have been revenge for Custer and I’d have been a hero and got a lot of medals— but I didn’t.” He poured more whiskey.

  “What I did was leave them, let them wander around on the prairie while they thought it over. They went to Crazy Horse and his Sioux, and Crazy Horse wouldn’t take them in. So then they decided to surrender.”

  He raised his head, looked at Sundance. “And the promises I made them I thought would be kept. When I found out the War Office had changed its plans, intended to ship them south, I went to Chicago, argued and begged and pleaded with Sheridan and Sherman both. I came within an inch of resigning—or of a court martial.” He sipped from his glass. “Anyhow, there was nothing else I could do; it was out of my hands.”

  Then Crook’s eyes met Sundance’s. “It was a lousy thing. A rotten thing. I’m ashamed of any part I had in it. But where were you? Why weren’t you with the Cheyenne?”

  Sundance’s mouth set. “I was in jail.”

  “In jail?” Crook’s brows arched.

  “The Army put me there—orders from Sheridan. They were afraid that if I got to the Cheyenne and led them in battle, with my knowledge of the white man’s tactics ... I’d only have had to steal a couple of your Gatling guns. At the time I was headed west from Washington. They took me at St. Louis, a whole company of ’em, jerked me off the train. I wound up in prison at Fort Leavenworth and stayed there for a long time.”

  “By whose authority?” Crook rasped angrily.

  “By the authority of Philip Sheridan himself, your own commander! He’d heard rumors that there was a blond-haired man fighting with the Cheyenne at Little Big Horn against Custer. He thought he knew who that man was. Anyhow, that was his excuse. After it was too late to help the Cheyenne, he finally turned me loose. Otherwise, don’t you think I’d have been there? Don’t you think I would have fought with my people, died with them if I had to—?”

  “I know what you would have done,” Crook said quietly.

  “Anyhow, it’s over now,” Sundance said. He drained his glass, set it down hard. “It’s all over now for the Sioux, the Cheyenne. Only the Apaches have still got the guts to fight. And only just a handful of those—Geronimo and his bronco Chiricahuas off the reservation. But at least they’re still free.” His mouth twisted. “Twenty-five, thirty, out of thousands. And I hope they stay free.”

  “Yes,” Crook said. “I thought you’d feel that way. So maybe I’m on a wild goose chase. But the reason I’ve spent the past month hunting you down, Sundance, is to ask your help in bringing Geronimo and the Chiricahuas in.”

  ~*~

  For a long moment, the room was silent. Outside, the wagons had finally
passed by. In the distance, a horse nickered. When Sundance spoke, his voice was contemptuous and rough-edged. “Three Stars, you can go to hell.”

  Crook’s face did not change, but Sundance saw pain in his eyes. The General nodded. “All right, Jim, I guess I’ve got that coming. And if it’s any consolation to you, Geronimo has already done what no other Indian could do. He got me booted out of my command in Arizona—General Miles has taken over.”

  Crook stood up. “So, it’s not for my benefit that I’m asking help from you.” With drink in hand he began to pace. “Jim, you know the Chiricahuas, and you know the story. Years ago, when the Apaches were running wild, when they ruled all of Arizona, the Army sent me in to tame them. And I did it, tribe by tribe, brought them into the reservations. I fought them when I had to, but mostly I made bargains with them—and always I tried to keep my word. They came to live in the San Carlos and Fort Apache reservations. We found good land for them, gave them tools and seed. They went to farming and raising cattle. And,” he gestured strongly, “they did well at it! Better than anyone dared believe. Even the Chiricahuas, the wildest of them all, finally came in and settled down. But then the Army sent me north against the plains tribes. When I came back, the Chiricahuas were on the warpath again. I finally brought them in, moved ’em to the Fort Apache sub-agency. They were reasonably happy there, most of them still are. If it wasn’t for Geronimo—”

  “I’ll grant you that Geronimo’s a sonofabitch,” Sundance said. “But, by God, it takes a sonofabitch to stay free and fighting.”

  Crook’s mouth twisted. “I have a certain admiration for the old bastard myself. Anyhow, last year he broke out again. He plotted to assassinate one of my best junior officers who was keeping an eye on him. He told the other chiefs, Nana, Chihuahua, Naiche, that the murder—which misfired, incidentally—had already taken place. He convinced them that they’d hang for it, so they led their people off the reservation, ran for Mexico, holed up in the Sierra Madre. Then they cut a swath of death and destruction all across southern Arizona.”

  He drained his glass, set it down. “Well, you know how I fight Indians. I always try to hire as scouts members of the tribe I’m chasing. I used Chiricahuas loyal to me as scouts against Geronimo. Only one Apache can trail and catch another one. We found Geronimo in the Sierra and we held a conference. He agreed to come in. That was early this spring. Well, most of the Apaches did come in. But Geronimo broke his promise. Part of the deal was that he and his band would travel to the reservation by themselves, with their weapons. On the way, something happened—a peddler sold them whiskey and ammunition. Geronimo and Naiche got drunk and hauled out back for the Sierra with twenty warriors and some women and children.” He laughed wryly. “And I caught hell from Sheridan. His idea was that I should have wiped them all out when I had them in my power. Somehow he thought my Apache scouts had betrayed me, too, though I’ll swear they didn’t. I’ve recruited hundreds of Indians in my time, but I’ve never seen a band more loyal or more efficient than my Chiricahuas, nor a better leader for them than Al Sieber.”

  “Al’s a good man,” Sundance said. “A damned good man. He’s like you. He knows Indians, understands ’em.”

  “Right. Well, to wind all this up, Sheridan replaced me with Nelson Miles. Miles went down there with five thousand troops.”

  Sundance laughed. “Against two, three dozen Apaches?”

  Crook’s mouth twisted in a grin. “He was going to chase them in traditional cavalry formations, using traditional tactics. You know how far he got that way. Nowhere ... nowhere at all. They made a fool out of him, too. But then he got smart. He’s begun to use the Apache scouts again. And now the word from Geronimo is that he just might consider coming in again.”

  “So?” Sundance looked at him stonily. “If five thousand soldiers and a hundred Apache scouts can’t bring him in, let him stay out. I’m not going after him. I’m through playing Judas goat to Indians, Three Stars.” His voice rose. “Do you hear? I’m through!”

  Crook nodded. “Jim,” he said softly, “I don’t blame you. And I’m not asking you to play Judas goat again. I didn’t come to you on my behalf, or Miles’ or the Army’s. I came to you because the Apaches asked me to. They themselves want Geronimo brought in—or killed.”

  He sat down. “Jim, there are more than six thousand Apaches on those two reservations. Not only Chiricahuas—they’re just a fraction—but White Mountains, Tontos, all the others. And Geronimo and his thirty-odd broncos are threatening everything they’ve achieved so far!”

  He leaned forward, eyes glittering. “And Jim, they have achieved a lot! In last year’s harvest, they brought in over a million pounds of grain! They’re running four thousand head of cattle on their own range! We’ve built two flourmills, a sawmill, and they’re harvesting timber! Last year we planted two thousand fruit trees and two thousand grape vines! The Apaches are working hard to pay their way— and Geronimo’s about to blow it all to hell.”

  Sundance sat up straight. Now his eyes glittered with a certain interest. “Keep talking, Three Stars.”

  Crook let out a breath of relief. “I thought you’d begin to see. I’m also the one who put all that in motion, too, and I can’t bear to see it wasted. But it will be, unless I get your help.”

  Once more he sprang up, began to pace. “Have you ever heard of the Tucson Ring?”

  “Yes,” Sundance said.

  “Then you know it’s made up of contractors to the Army. They make a fortune selling to the Army— and the more Indians are on the warpath, the more Army there is to sell to. For a while, when all the Indians were peaceable, it looked like they were going broke. But now that Geronimo’s still out, they’re getting rich again.”

  Sundance reached for the bottle and poured his second drink. “Go on.”

  “It wasn’t only the stupidity and cheating of the Indian agents that made Geronimo jump the reservation. Some outside party, the suppliers, had a finger in the pie. Geronimo and the others somehow got hold of enough whiskey, guns and ammo to go out. The first time he surrendered and I almost had him back, it was a white man with whiskey who met him south of the border, poured booze into him and gave him more ammo. As long as he stays out and the Army chases him, you see, there’ll be fat supply contracts. Worse than that, there’ll be a lot of public sentiment aroused against all Apaches.”

  He thrust a finger toward Sundance. “The Apache reservations are good land. I saw to that when I set them up myself. And Arizona’s getting crowded now. A lot of people want that land. They’re nibbling at its edges all the time, hollering for the Government to take it away from the tribes and put it up for grabs. And the more hell Geronimo raises, the more public sentiment they’ve got on their side. If he doesn’t surrender soon, what they want may happen. They’ll throw the reservation open and ship all the Apaches east, to Indian Territory. What will happen then to the ones who’ve tried to make an honest go of it?”

  Sundance downed his whiskey. “They try that, there’ll be an Indian war that’ll make all the others look tame.”

  “That’s right. And the Tucson Ring will get even fatter—off the dead bodies of whites and Indians alike.”

  Sundance rubbed his face tiredly. It never seemed to end. There was no limit to the white man’s greed. Once the Apaches had owned all of Arizona. Now they held only a tiny corner, and the whites wanted even that.

  Crook went on. “I’m pretty sure that this time Geronimo will really come in. If he does, that’ll end it all. But if he stays out another three, four months, the public will be hollering to open up the reservation and punish all the Indians. That’ll scare even the peaceful ones. They’ll grab their guns and run, and the crops will rot in the fields—”

  “I know,” Sundance said. “What is it you want of me?”

  “I want you to go to Arizona. I want you to find out who was behind selling whiskey and guns to Geronimo. And most important, I want you to make damned sure that when Geronimo comes in
this time, it doesn’t happen again. Even if—”

  “Even if I have to kill some men to do it.”

  “That’s it,” Crook said quietly.

  Sundance stood up. “Three Stars, once I swore I’d never do anything a white general asked me to again. Besides, it’s a tall order. You know all those people; you’ve dealt with the Tucson Ring. Don’t you know who’s doing it?”

  “I’ve got a pretty good idea,” Crook said grimly. “But no proof. I know that the man who sold the whiskey to Geronimo as he was coming in was Bob Tribolet—he’s a desperado and gunslinger who hangs out around Globe.”

  “Then why didn’t you arrest him?”

  “Two reasons. First, it happened on Mexican soil. Secondly, Tribolet didn’t risk his scalp just for the profit on a few gallons of rotgut and a few boxes of ammo. He went because he was paid well to do it. I wanted to find out who paid him. Unfortunately, Sheridan replaced me with Miles before I could proceed. All the same, if Geronimo offers to surrender again, I don’t want Tribolet or anybody else fouling it up.”

  Sundance grinned ironically. “Have you considered that if Geronimo comes in to Miles, Miles will be a hero? Everybody will say he did what you couldn’t.”

  “I’m not concerned about glory. Anyhow, it will be the Apache scouts and the junior officers I trained who bring him in; that’s glory enough for me. All I’m concerned about is the rest of the Apaches on the reservations. And they’re concerned about themselves. I’ve talked to them, and all of them said the same thing. ‘Three Stars,’ they told me, ‘you must go away, where your people send you. And then we are unprotected unless you send someone to take your place, to help us.’ And when I asked them who, every one of them answered, ‘Send Jim Sundance to us.’ ”

  Sundance, after that, did not speak for a long time. Never, he had sworn, would he become involved in any mission for the Army. And yet, according to Crook, the fate of the whole Apache nation might well depend on the answer he gave Crook now. Mercilessly, he searched the General’s face. Crook met his gaze unwincingly, and there was no mistaking his sincerity. Not that Sundance had ever doubted it. He and Crook had known each other since the Indian wars had begun, and the General had for years been like an older brother to him. Even with all the mistakes, all the backfired good intentions, Crook had done more for Indians than any other man in the west. Maybe in the long run that included Jim Sundance. Presently, he made his decision.