Sundance 6

by John Benteen

  He opened stinging eyes, stared up into Tribolet’s grinning face. The man held a six-gun aimed squarely at his head. Sundance blinked, his vision clearing. Then he felt his revolver jerked from its holster and thrown aside. The Bowie clattered after it, and then the hatchet. There was nothing he could do, absolutely nothing.

  “Now,” Tribolet whispered. He stood up and backed away. He and Johannsen, with guns poised, towered over Sundance, who lay on his back. The hammer of Tribolet’s gun made a dry click coming to full cock.

  Tribolet’s head weaved in its characteristic motion, but his eyes never left Sundance. “You want to know where Geronimo is? Why, sure, I’ll tell you. He’s right at the forks north of here, in a deep valley in the Torres Mountains. Not a day’s ride. I can reach him alone now, Sundance. I don’t need you any longer.”

  “Tribolet, damn it,” Sundance said thickly. His eyes had cleared; the coffee had not been that hot after all. But that meant nothing now, for he was looking at his death in the muzzle of Tribolet’s Colt .45.

  Tribolet’s mouth curled. “I’ve been Tanner’s top gun a long time, Sundance. Do you know how much money I made him by selling that booze to Geronimo months ago? Four months of hard campaigning by the Army, because Geronimo didn’t come in, and he’s made twenty thousand every month. Then you show up and the first thing I know you’ve froze me out—because you’re so much goddamn Injun. Well, you’ve served your purpose; you’ve got me through the Army, you’ve scouted me up to here. But if you think I’m gonna let you go back and take over my spot with Tanner, you’re damn wrong. I’m through with you now, and I aim to leave your body here.”

  “Bob,” Johannsen said nervously. “Bob. You shoot that gun, we get all sorts of echoes. No telling what it’ll bring.”

  “I don’t aim to shoot it,” Tribolet said. “Unless I have to. Pete, reach that hatchet of his.”

  Sundance rose on his elbows. “Bob, wait—”

  Tribolet only spat tobacco juice. Sundance froze. Johannsen picked up the hatchet, ran his thumb along the blade.

  Tribolet said, “You used to cut timber back east, Swede. You ought to know how to use that.”

  Johannsen laughed. “Know how? Which way you want his head chopped?”

  “Clean through,” Tribolet said, grinning. “That’s all. Clean through.”

  Johannsen raised the hatchet. Sundance’s eyes shuttled back and forth. Warfield sat unmoving, still grinning that pleasant grin of his. Eagle, the stallion, had raised his head from cropping grass. He stood tensely, ears pricked forward, looking at the strange tableau with his reins trailing.

  And he was Sundance’s last hope. As Johannsen brought down the hatchet, Sundance rolled and whistled shrilly.

  Only an Indian, a plains Indian at that, could know what went into the training of a first-class warhorse. In battle, a man’s life depended on the horse he rode. The same in hunting buffalo. Eagle was Cheyenne-trained both for hunting and fighting, and when Sundance’s whistle split the air, his scream was instantaneous and chilling.

  There is no sound more terrible than the cry of a maddened stallion. When it rang out, echoing among the rocks, Johannsen faltered and Tribolet lifted his head. Both stood paralyzed for a fraction of a second as the roan bulk hurtled toward them, teeth bared. Tribolet raised his gun to shoot, but Johannsen was in the way—and took the brunt of the Appaloosa’s attack.

  The big Swede screamed as nearly fifteen hundred pounds of horse hit him full, teeth chopping. Sundance came up as Eagle’s mouth closed on Johannsen’s upraised arm. The stallion jerked his head up high. Despite Johannsen’s bulk, he came up, too, lifted like a rag doll by that mighty grip, that massive head and neck. He screamed again. Then his arm parted and he fell. Eagle charged over him. One iron-shod hoof came down squarely on Johannsen’s head, and there was a sodden, popping sound, as if someone had dropped a melon.

  Tribolet yelled and dodged aside. That gave Sundance enough room to catch a flying stirrup. He jerked on that, seemed to fly up by magic. Then he was in the saddle with Eagle stampeding across the bench. Tribolet whirled and fired. He was shaken and his shot went wide. Dade Warfield raised his rifle, then dodged out of the way as Eagle lunged straight for him. Sundance, on balance now, slipped down Eagle’s flank,, locked a heel on the saddle horn, dropped under the stallion’s neck, one hand seizing his mane. Tribolet yelled a curse and fired again, but the bullet only raked Eagle’s rump. Aimed at his rider, it missed because the rider wasn’t there. Then Eagle turned a corner, was shielded by a jut of rock. Tribolet’s third bullet screamed off the granite. Then, lathered, foaming, but tireless, the big horse cut down a gully into the forest. Warfield, on his feet now, hosed Winchester bullets after Sundance, hanging under Eagle’s neck. They shrieked harmlessly off the rocks like Tribolet’s had done.

  Eagle dodged through the forest above the river. Sundance rode Cheyenne-fashion under his neck for another hundred yards, then slipped nimbly back into the saddle. Behind him he heard yelling and cursing. But their mounts were picketed, without bridles, and bare-backed. He smiled grimly. Then, by pressure of his knees, he turned Eagle toward the left, sent the stud rocketing down a hill into deeper woods. The shouting died behind him.

  Chapter Eight

  The moon had long since risen, a waxing sliver, and gone down. The place where Sundance lay, deep in a pine forest on the flank of a hill, was in grave-dark shadow. In the distance, an owl hooted softly; close by, Eagle stirred restlessly, having exhausted all the green browse within reach, beginning now to nibble at the carpet of needles on the forest floor. Sundance awakened and looked up at a few stars seen through a gap in the canopy of branches. He knew that his internal alarm clock, acquired through years of living like a predator, had not failed him. It was midnight.

  He sat up, threw aside his blankets. He was rested now, refreshed and ready for the rest of the night. It would be strenuous, all right. The least of his worries as he slept had been discovery by Tribolet. He’d gotten a fine head start on him. Tribolet would not roam these mountains at night—not so close to the Apaches and the others who hunted him.

  Sundance rolled his blankets, splashed water on his face from an icy rivulet welling from a height of rock, and drank a little. Then, in darkness, he drew the bullhide panniers closer to him. From the long one he took out the bow. He deftly strung it, plucked the taut string of buffalo sinew, and it vibrated with a muted, harp like sound. Sundance’s lips peeled back from his teeth in a wolfish grin.

  The panther-skin quiver was next, arrows rattling faintly, shafts and sharp flint points clicking. He laid it by the bow. Then he unwrapped the shield, held it up to feel the six dangling scalps. It would not stop their bullets, but it was important. It was his medicine, his luck, like the wrapped pouch of otter skin he drew next from the parfleche. Here, alone in the mountains, minus his white man’s weapons and with white men as his enemies, he felt the years peel back. Once again he was a Cheyenne Dog Soldier. In his head he could still hear the thrumming of ancient drums, the wild, stirring shouts of the Fast War Dance. Despite all that had happened he felt good, confident.

  Next he took from one of the bags a pipe with a bowl made of precious redstone from the Minnesota quarry. He stuffed it with tobacco from a Bull Durham pouch. Then he lit it, shielding the match with his hands. When it was going, he mounted to a height of rock above the trickling water. He smoked carefully, pointing the pipe at all the cardinal points of the compass and at the sky and earth. After that he laid it aside to burn out; then he saddled Eagle. As he jerked the cinches tight, starlight hit his eyes. They glittered, cold and shiny as black flecks of glass. His mouth was a thin line. Within Sundance, hatred now burned like a blue flame turned low—hatred of Tribolet and the others, not only for what they had done to him, but for everything they stood for. Tonight, either he would cease to exist, or they would!

  Tanner was now forgotten. So were all the complicated aspects of his deal with Crook and the situation of the Ap
aches. Only one thing existed now: vengeance on his four white enemies. Sundance was Cheyenne—he would avenge all they had done to him and his people. Holding the bow, the quiver on his back, he swung up into the saddle.

  Eagle snorted, trembling between Sundance’s thighs as if he knew they were going to war again. Then Sundance eased the reins, putting him at a walk into the darkness pointed northeast.

  As he’d fled Tribolet’s bunch, his mind had noted instinctively every landmark, every twist and turn the running horse had taken. Sundance had no trouble following that course in reverse. The stallion, for all his size, made no noise as they drifted through the hills like twin shadows. His hoofbeats were muffled by the thick pine straw underfoot—and not once did he snort or nicker.

  Thus, they wound through the mountains for an hour, then an hour more. It was now two in the morning, the time when human alertness is at its lowest ebb. Sleeping men sleep most soundly now; and the senses of waking ones are dulled. That was how Sundance had planned it.

  He soon reined in, looped Eagle’s bridle lines around the dry branch of a dead tree stub. That was enough to hold the horse until he returned; if he did not come back, Eagle could pull loose easily. He ran ahead on foot, close enough to the Bavispe to hear its rushing current. Its steady sound would muffle any noise he might make.

  After a while Sundance stopped, listened, then allowed himself some rest. He wanted to be fresh for the kill. It was something he could hardly wait to do; Sundance had not realized how much bitterness had accumulated in him over the past fifteen years.

  In that time the white men had taken everything the Indians owned. He had seen his best friends die one by one. Most of the great ones were gone now: his own father, Nick Sundance; his godfather among the Cheyenne, Tall Calf, killed at Fort Robinson; Cochise, his Apache godfather; and Kint-puash, whom the whites had called Captain Jack, who had led the desperate battle of the Modocs in Oregon and California. Crazy Horse was also dead, murdered while under arrest; the great Nez Perce, Thunder-Rolling-in-the-Mountains, known to the whites as Chief Joseph, had lost his bid for freedom. Whole nations had been destroyed, clans and families wiped out, societies erased, women and children and babies killed like vermin. In that decade and a half, the number of Indians had been cut by fifty percent. White soldiers and unknown diseases had exterminated half a mighty people. All of it could have been avoided— all of it! That is, if promises had been kept and treaties abided by ... and if the vaunted white man’s honor had been more than a hollow mockery.

  And here he was, Sundance thought, cooperating with the whites to bring in the last Indians who had guts enough to fight. It went against his grain, but there was nothing else to do. There was no longer any point for Indians to die uselessly. What they had to do now was live, adjust to the white man’s world, and replenish their numbers. They had to survive, to hang on. Maybe the day would come when they could once again deal with the United States as equals, proud and numerous tribes united in a new way. Meanwhile, though, Tribolet and his crew were out in the darkness somewhere; they represented everything Sundance hated and fought against. If he couldn’t wreak vengeance on all whites, he could on them at least. And he could do it in the way of the Cheyenne Dog Soldier.

  Now it was time. He ran on again, following the sound of rushing water. He was in terrain that was wholly familiar, not more than three hundred yards from the camp on the shelf above the river. One more ridge to crest, and then he would be looking down upon it; if Tribolet were smart, there’d be a guard on that ridge.

  Sundance’s left arm arched behind his back, withdrawing three arrows from the quiver. Carefully, he slipped the bowstring into a notch, put the other two beneath his arm. Then, on hands and knees, he began to crawl.

  To stalk like this was one of the first things a Cheyenne boy had to learn—or any Indian boy for that matter. Buffalo were run with horses, but deer, antelope and wild turkey were not. Neither were elk, bighorn sheep, or Blackfeet, Pawnee or Crow. How many times, he wondered, had he crept into sleeping enemy camps like this, filtering past their guards to steal prime warhorses tethered outside their owners’ teepees?

  Sundance went slowly now, and presently dropped flat on his belly, keeping his buttocks down, slithering like a snake. Every inch of progress might betray his presence. To an Indian, time had a wholly different meaning than to an impatient white man. He let no dry twig or branch betray him, took care to dislodge no rock. When his throat began to tickle and he had the need to cough, he quelled it by stroking his neck hard with his hand. Then he went on.

  Now Sundance could see the wooded ridge crest, its trees a darkness against the lighter darkness of the sky. It humped up at one point into a low peak. That was where he had posted a guard before, and it probably was where Tribolet would have one now. He went on, swinging a little wide of that point, his Thunderbird shield high on his left arm. Its presence would be lucky, reassuring, even if it meant a little awkwardness in his passage.

  Now he was just below the ridge crest. His eyes sought the barricade of timber where the guard should be. It was only a dark blot on the hillside. He waited for a long time until its details resolved themselves in his vision. Then he saw the silhouette of Fielding, whom he recognized not so much by his shape but by the upthrust muzzles of the shotgun he always carried.

  Sundance’s lips came away from his white teeth in a wolf’s snarl. He shifted into position, clasping extra arrows in the same hand that held the bow’s grip. He turned the bow crosswise, its stave parallel with the ground, and drew the arrow back until its head almost touched the stave’s juniper wood.

  Fielding moved slowly, listlessly. At this time of morning his alertness had ebbed, and his shifting of position silhouetted his head, sixty yards away. Sundance took careful aim, fingers looped tightly around the bowstring. Then he let the arrow go.

  The thrum of string, the whistle of shaft, was lost in the steady sound of the river’s running. So, too, was the dull sound the arrow point made in bone and flesh as it bit home, driving straight through Fielding’s skull, in one temple and out the other. Dead instantly, the man didn’t make a sound, only sagged back against a log behind him.

  Instantly Sundance had another arrow notched. Quickly, he slithered along the ridge, keeping off the skyline, reached the pile of fallen timber in which the dead man lay. Fielding had hardly moved. His shotgun, which had fallen from his grip, lay across his feet.

  With that weapon, Sundance knew, he could spray the shelf of rock below. Likely he could get at least two men with both barrels firing at once. But its thunder would betray him, and its bright muzzle flash would mark him as a target. No. The bow was a better weapon for this work. He let the shotgun lay where it had dropped, then wriggled on. And now, on the ridge crest, he could look down on the shelf of rock below. They had built no fire; Tribolet had that much sense at least. But he hadn’t figured on the starlight. The two men sleeping down there were plain to see in the starlight, rolled up in their blankets.

  An Indian would have known better. He would have gone to sleep in the shadows, and then, as shadows moved through the night, he would have awakened and kept himself masked. He would never have made such a fine target of himself.

  But, Sundance thought, those two targets could wait. There was another guard who was posted on the cliff that rose above the shelf. Sundance knew where that post was. He waited, eyes fixed on it. Presently he made it out, but he couldn’t see a target at which to shoot, especially since it was a full two hundred yards away. But he was in no hurry. It was a while yet until dawn.

  He lay quietly on the ridge. Fifteen minutes passed, twenty; then a half hour slipped by. The picketed horses made a few restless sounds. Sundance did not take his eyes off the nest of boulders on the cliffs edge above the river. Nor did his fingers leave the bowstring.

  Sundance had a big advantage. He knew that white men never sat still or laid low for long. And soon enough a dark, massive form reared up out of the rocks, stan
ding. Sundance recognized against the sky the shape of Sven Johannsen. Sven stirred restlessly, turned in a half circle, looked straight toward the spot where Sundance lay. That was when Sundance let go of the second arrow.

  It slashed across the two hundred yards with an amazingly flat trajectory, given it by the power of the bow and the strength with which it was drawn. Then it sank deep into Sven Johannsen’s chest. The man had time to scream, a terrible sound that rang out through the mountains and echoed and echoed again. He pitched off the cliff, fell limply to the shelf below, landing with a loud, meaty sound. At that instant, Sundance threw back his head and cut loose with the shrill, gobbling, paralyzing war whoop of the Cheyenne. The two sleeping men sprang out of their blankets and came straight up with guns in their hands. They stood there for a split second, looking dazed and baffled. Sundance let go of another arrow.

  It caught the shorter figure, Dade Warfield, in the chest, and he fell backward. Then the taller man’s paralysis broke, and, as Sundance grinned, he ran into the shadow of the cliff.

  Sundance laughed softly. There was no way, absolutely none, for Tribolet to know from which direction that arrow had come. Even now he would be pressed flat against the rock, eyes searching the darkness for any sign of the enemy. Sundance lay motionless. Let him worry!

  For about three minutes Sundance waited, then he made his move. Keeping to the shadows, he moved soundlessly over the ridge, worked down it toward the shelf, brought up in the cover of a big pine just above the level. Then he called out: “Tribolet!”

  His voice rang eerily through the darkness, barely audible above the rush of water.

  Suddenly, from the blackness beneath the wall of rock, gun flame blossomed. Three reports blended in a single roar as Tribolet hosed off bullets in the direction of Sundance’s voice. They came nowhere near, and Sundance laughed loudly and gave the Cheyenne war whoop again.