by John Benteen
As if pulled by the same string, Sundance and Al Sieber turned. The woman had come through a door in the back of the Mother Lode. She was young, in her late twenties, and she was lovely: copper hair piled high on her head, skin ivory white, eyes huge, sea-green, swirling with anger and determination. She wore a dress that matched her eyes, a dress cut low over fine, round breasts, hugging a slender waist, the flare of hips, its hem high enough to reveal a length of excellent legs. She was a sight to take a man’s breath away. So was the sawed-off shotgun, doubled-barreled, she held steadily leveled at Sundance and Sieber.
“Al,” she snapped. “You know my rules. No fighting in the Mother Lode. You want to tear things up, go outside in the street. You, too, half-breed. I won’t have my place wrecked by a couple of wild bulls locking horns!”
Sieber’s lips twitched under his mustache. “Put down that scattergun, Jan.”
“Not until both of you go through that door. Out!”
Sieber turned back to Sundance. “Well, Sundance, you heard what Miss Farnum said. You wanta shuck those weapons, meet me in the street?”
Sundance said, “Lady. If I take off my gun, what about you holdin’ it for me?”
“All right,” she said. “I’ll do better than that. I’ll use this shotgun to guarantee a fair fight. Tell your Cherrycows that, Al—”
“They won’t interfere,” Sieber said. “Shuck your hardware, Sundance.”
“Right.” Sundance grinned, unlatched the belts, laid his weapons on the table. The woman moved forward. “Harvey,” she said, addressing the bartender. “Take these things and stow ’em behind the bar. Now, you two hit the dirt.”
“Yeah,” said Sieber eagerly. “Come on, Sundance.” He backed toward the door, and Sundance followed. “Martine, Ki-e-ta,” Sieber said as they passed the Apaches; he spoke in Chiricahua. “Stay out of this, you hear? Whatever happens, you stay out.”
“All right, Al,” one answered. “But be careful.”
Sieber stepped through the door onto the sidewalk, then out into the dust of the street. Sundance followed, something singing drunkenly in him at the prospect of combat. It would be a good fight, a hell of a good fight. Sieber was a powerful man, and he knew every trick in the book. Then he was in the dust himself, and Sieber was poised and waiting. The crowd, with the, woman in the forefront, had swarmed onto the sidewalk to watch.
Sieber backed off until he stood beside the tall hind wheel of an ore wagon parked across the street. His clenched fists were the size of small hams. His teeth flashed in a grin beneath his mustache as his hands came up. “All right, Sundance,” he rasped. Then he charged.
If he’d been sober, Sundance would have relied more on footwork. He could have rolled away from Sieber’s charge, chopped the man as he went by. But he was in no mood to dance; what he wanted was violence, the hard impact of fist on flesh, to hurt. He ran at Sieber in a charge of his own, and the two men came together in the middle of the street, and they hit each other simultaneously. Sundance lanced in a hard, straight left to Sieber’s jaw. He felt the shock of impact all the way up his arm and laughed, just before Sieber’s right slammed his head around. Sieber followed with a left to Sundance’s belly, but Sundance had clenched rock-hard muscles there and took the blow, driving his own right straight between Sieber’s eyes.
Sieber grunted and Sundance came back on balance. Then, toe-to-toe, face-to-face, they began to slug, arms and fists pistoning in short, brutal blows, driving home wherever they could find an opening, or sliding off of arms or shoulders. It was sheer brute force, and the sound of blows, of fists on flesh, was a staccato of dull sounds in the hush.
The steady pounding went on for a full minute, maybe more, and Sundance hardly felt the pain, exulting only in the damage he was dealing Sieber, in the use of muscle, strength. But no two human beings could take such punishment for long. As if by mutual agreement, they broke apart, stepped back, chests heaving, lungs pumping. Both were bleeding; one of Sieber’s eyes was already swollen shut, and scarlet trickled down Sundance’s chin from a smashed lip.
Like herd bulls of some great, ferocious species, they faced each other for a panting second longer. Then Sieber shook his head and came in again. This time his fists weren’t clenched, his hands were open, clawing for Sundance’s face, going for the eyes. He wanted Sundance’s eyes and wanted them quickly; they were the key to ending this. Sundance rolled his head aside, and Sieber’s nails raked his cheek, and then he hit Sieber on the temple. Sieber lurched sideways, brought up hard against the ore-wagon’s wheel. Sundance gave him not a second to recover, but charged in. Instantly, Sieber put up a booted foot and kicked Sundance hard in the chest.
The impact lifted Sundance clear off his feet. He landed flat on his back in the dust. Sieber came away from the wagon wheel in a tremendous dive; he seemed to float crazily in Sundance’s vision, hover in the air as time seemed in suspension. Then his two hundred pounds plus landed with crushing force squarely on Sundance. Sieber’s fingers, thick and blunt-nailed, were reaching for his eyes again. Sundance rammed his own hand up between Sieber’s arms and splayed his fingers across Sieber’s face, digging in. Sieber changed tactics then, and his hand closed on Sundance’s yellow hair. As he reared back to straddle Sundance, Sundance’s fingers slipped from Sieber’s face, and then Sieber, panting, grinning through a mask of blood, jerked Sundance’s head up and slammed it down hard against the dirt.
For a moment the world seemed to explode. Sundance thought that was the end of it. Sieber jerked his head up again. Sundance wasted breath on a grunted curse and seized Sieber’s wrist with both hands. He exerted every ounce of strength in the hardened, powerful layers of muscle in his arms; and he felt bone slide and grate in Sieber’s wrist. Then Sieber let go of his hair and raised his left hand to hammer a blow down into Sundance’s face. But in that instant he was off balance, and Sundance arched his body, bucked furiously. Sieber rolled back awkwardly, and one of Sundance’s long legs came up from behind and crossed his chest and crushed down, and suddenly Sieber was pinned between Sundance’s thighs, closing like the jaws of an enormous trap on his torso. Sieber snarled and sat up and got at Sundance’s ankles and pried them apart. Nothing Sundance could do could resist the strength of Sieber’s mighty arms. Then Sieber was free, rolling out of that leg-clamp, scrambling to his feet. Sundance came up, too, bounding like a panther, and when Sieber rushed at him, he was ready. Sieber had only one good eye now, the other completely shut, and in desperation he left himself wide open. Sundance saw the opening and came in, heedless of any blow Sieber might land, and aimed for the point of the jaw, the one place where, hit exactly right, the biggest and toughest man is vulnerable.
Sieber charged straight into Sundance’s traveling fist. The collision sound of chin and knuckles was like a splitting watermelon. Sieber rocked back; his good eye glazed, hands dropping. Sundance grinned and hit him again in exactly the same place. Sieber sighed. Then, like a great tree with its base cut through, he swayed and fell, landing unconscious so hard that plumes of dust rose around his limp body. Sundance let out a rasping breath and moved in to stomp Sieber’s head, moccasined foot raised high. Before he could bring it down, he heard the woman’s yell: “Half-breed, look out!”
Sundance whirled, but there was no time to dodge. The Apache was already there, his carbine held by the barrel like a club. For a split second, Sundance stared into a flat, dark face with lambent eyes. Then the rifle butt smashed down. It struck his head with terrific force, and all at once the world exploded into nothingness.
Chapter Four
For a long time there was nothing but the pain. Sundance lay motionless. With the seeping return of consciousness, the pain increased until it felt as if someone with a dull saw were halfway through his skull. He endured it for a long time—an eternity, it seemed—before it finally ebbed a little and he dared open his eyes.
What he saw when his vision cleared was a tiny window in a log wall above him—a window grilled
with iron bars. He rolled his head, saw a grilled door of iron, narrow, also set in logs. Beyond it was another small room containing a desk, chair and gunrack. Then he knew. The hard, flat surface on which he lay was a cot in a jail cell.
He closed his eyes again, giving his head more time to clear. There had been light behind the window, so apparently he had been unconscious all night. Not only his head, but his whole body ached from the pounding Sieber had given him. It would take a while to recover. Sundance lay without moving for another hour, then, when able to stir, he sat up.
As he did so, a man moved quickly up to the other side of the cell door, lawman’s badge gleaming on his vest, one hand on the grip of a Smith and Wesson revolver holstered on his hip. He was young, hardly more than a boy, with curly, chestnut hair and a round, almost babyish face. The marshal’s deputy, Sundance guessed. He did not miss the hatred in the young man’s eyes.
“So you’re awake,” the deputy rasped. “Okay, Injun. Get this straight. You make one bad move, I’ll shoot you down the way I would a dog with hydrophoby. It’s too damn bad that Apache didn’t knock your head clean off. Maybe after what Sieber said about you when he woke up, some of the boys’ll come and do it with a rope. And maybe if they do, I’ll resign and my last official act’ll be to let ’em in.”
Sundance rubbed his face. “Sieber said—”
“That you were here to stir up more Injuns, get ’em off the reservation to ride with Geronimo. Oh, Al told us all about it—how you used to live with the Chiricahuas, how you speak their language and are good friends with all of ’em. What you’re bound to be here for is to make ’em rise against the whites, jest like you made the Cheyennes and Sioux rise up in the north.”
The boy’s voice cracked; he wrapped his left hand around the bars, and his right drew the gun half out of its holster. “Oh, God,” he went on, “I wish you’d try to make a break. If you only would—”
Sundance stared at him, sensing something more than ordinary Indian-hatred, sensing a kind of insanity. “Kid,” he managed, “what’s wrong with you?”
“Wrong?” The boy was panting now. “I’ll tell you what’s wrong, you dirty, lousy, stinking gut-eater. You know what I did before I got this job? I helped my daddy run a ranch south of the Gila. And I was out one day lookin’ for stray horses and come home and ... you know what I found?” He swallowed hard, sweat glistening on his forehead. “My momma and my daddy ... dead. And what they had done to ’em—what they had done to ’em! But that wasn’t the worst. My baby sister, only five years old ... she was missin’ and I went lookin’ for her. I found her in the smokehouse. They—oh, Christ, they hung her from a meathook! Rammed it through the back of her head! Oh, I would love to have you make a break for it, you goddam Injun, I’d love to kill you for what Geronimo did to them when he broke out—!”
Sundance found no words, said nothing.
The boy backed away from the cell door. He stared at Sundance with glittering eyes. “In fact,” he whispered, “I think I will. I could always claim you made a break for it. Nobody would dare question that. Hell, no! Likely, instead, they’d give me a medal!”
Sundance licked his lips, a chill running down his spine. He looked past the boy into the outer office; it was empty.
The deputy caught his shift of eyes, grinned crazily. “Oh, it won’t do you no good to look for help. We’re alone here, all alone. Marshal Flanagan’s home eatin’ dinner, and afterwards he always takes a nap. And anyhow, he wouldn’t care. Nobody would, not after what Geronimo and that murderin’ brother Josanie of his have done in Arizona.”
He took his hand away from his gun, reached into his shirt pocket, drew out a tobacco sack.
“Yeah,” he whispered. “I believe that’s jest what I’ll do.” Deftly, he rolled a cigarette, licked it and pinched its ends. He stuck it in his mouth, took out a match and lit it. Sundance stared at him. This was something Crook had not counted on, nobody had counted on.
The cigarette waggled in the deputy’s mouth as he went on. “Look at this smoke, Injun. Watch it, because it’s takin’ your last seconds away with it. When this cigarette burns down, you go.” He drew the Smith and Wesson, raised it, lined its barrel on Sundance. “I’ll shoot you where it’ll hurt the most and take the longest time to kill you. I want to see you roll and listen to you howl—”
“Kid,” Sundance husked, “you’re crazy.”
“Sure. I’m crazy. I’ve been crazy ever since last year. Crazy to kill me at least one Injun.” He took the cigarette from his mouth, looked at it. “Ought to be done in half a minute. Time enough for you to pray, if Injuns say prayers.” He thrust it back between his lips, dragged deeply on it. Plumes of gray trickled from his nostrils. “It’s bitter when you smoke too fast, but I’m in a hurry.” The hammer of the pistol made a dry sound, coming back to full cock. The muzzle of the .44 was centered on Sundance’s belly, just above the groin, and it looked as big as a railroad tunnel in that instant.
This was crazy, Sundance thought, a stupid, foolish way to die! And yet this was how he was going to end. Well, at least he could throw himself aside, maybe take it in the heart or the head, but not in the belly or the crotch. He tensed every muscle.
The boy took the cigarette stub from his mouth and smiled. “Ready, gut-eater?” He raised the butt high, pinched between his fingers, prepared to let it drop. “I’ve had my smoke.” He thrust the gun barrel forward, let the cigarette drop.
And at that instant the front door opened.
~*~
Its hinges squeaked and it slammed against the wall. In that fraction of a second Sundance was as close to dying as he had ever been. Then the boy froze as a woman’s voice called out: “Charlie? Charlie Boggs! Where are you?”
The deputy’s lips curled. “Damn!” he whispered, then let down the hammer of the gun. “Don’t think this gets you off, though. When she’s gone.” He turned, trembling, and his voice was reedy. “Miss Farnum? What do you want?”
The woman stood in the doorway, eyes accustoming themselves to dimness after the outside glare. Sundance could see her silhouette, and no sight had ever been more welcome. He sprang up and ran to the cell door as the deputy slid the Smith and Wesson back in leather and shuffled reluctantly into the office. “Listen,” he yelled. “Listen, Miss Farnum—”
“Shut up!” the deputy snarled, whirling, and for a moment Sundance thought he’d draw the gun and fire. But then the woman—the one from the Mother Lode—was coming forward, and Boggs turned to face her again. “What is it?” he snapped.
She was in the doorway of the cell block now, staring from Boggs to Sundance, and she was quick enough to know that she had interrupted something crucial. Dressed in white this morning, she was even lovelier than she had been yesterday before the fight. For a moment, those swirling, sea-green eyes raked over Sundance, then they shuttled to the young deputy.
“Charlie,” she asked softly, but with an undertone of iron in her voice, “what’s going on here?”
“Nothin’ that concerns you,” the boy answered sullenly.
“If it concerns this prisoner it does,” she said.
Sundance’s hands curled around the bars. Boggs straightened up. “What d’you mean by that?” he grated.
Jan Farnum looked at him narrowly, levelly. Then she reached into the big handbag slung over her arm and took out a paper. “Because,” she said, “I’ve got an order here from the judge for his release—in my custody.”
For a moment, the jail was very silent. Then the boy’s voice rang out. “No!”
Jan Farnum’s face was in profile to Sundance. Her features were as delicate and clean-cut as those on a cameo, but there was strength in them, more than in Charlie Boggs’ softly rounded face. “Read it,” she said.
“I don’t want to read it,” Boggs rasped. “You take it to Marshal Flanagan, get his signature on it. Then you bring it back here.”
The red lips of a wide, ripe mouth curved in a smile without any humor. �
�Somehow I don’t think there’d be time for that. But I’m ahead of you anyhow, Charlie. I’ve already been to Flanagan. He’s signed it.”
The boy only looked at her, lower lip protruding.
Now Jan Farnum’s voice was soft. “I think I know how you feel. Don’t forget what happened to my parents, too.” She touched his arm. “But two wrongs don’t make a right.”
“This is a dangerous man. You heard what Sieber said.”
“And I say I’m taking responsibility for his conduct.” She thrust the paper at him. “Unlock the cell, Charlie!”
He stood motionless for a clock tick, then reluctantly took the paper, read it, lips moving slightly. Suddenly he sighed and his shoulders slumped. “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, you’re right, it’s all in order. And I ... it’s good you came when you did.” Dragging a hand across his eyes, he shook his head. “I don’t know. Inside my mind somethin’ came unwound.”
“I was afraid it might. That’s one reason I got this paper.” She turned to Sundance, running her eyes up and down him. Tousled and battered as he was, he was not a pretty sight. But he did not miss the way her breasts rose and fell beneath the tight bodice, or the swirling once more in those magnificent eyes.
Charlie Boggs did not look at Sundance as he unlocked the iron door. “All right,” he muttered. “Go with her.”
“Yeah,” Sundance said. He turned to the woman. “Okay, Miss Farnum. Lead on.”
~*~
When they were on the street outside the Marshal’s office Jan Farnum said, “I have the feeling I came just in the nick of time.”
“You did,” Sundance said, and told her what had been about to happen. Meanwhile, she led him down the street, heading for the Mother Lode. “And I’m obliged to you. But. why? Why’d you go to so much trouble?”
“I had my reasons,” she said coolly, in a way that told him he’d get no further explanation, at least for a while. “When you know me better, you’ll find that I always have my reasons.” They had reached the saloon now, but instead of going in the front, she turned into an alley that ran along its side. “The back way,” she said. “That’s where my rooms are.”
