by John Benteen
Tribolet fired once more, a single round. Striking rock, the bullet screamed down the Bavispe canyon. Sundance slid three more arrows from his quiver.
“Bob!” he yelled. “Bob Tribolet! This is Sundance!”
“Goddamn you, I know who you are—” Tribolet’s voice rose shrilly.
“Good! I wanted you to know who it was that killed you!” Sundance loosed another arrow, putting it near the last gun flash. He heard it strike rock, sheer off. He had not meant for it to hit Tribolet. He was not ready to finish Tribolet off yet.
“You son of a bitch, come out and fight!” Tribolet screamed. He fired three shots, blindly. None came near. When silence fell again, Sundance laughed once more.
“I aim to, Bob. When it suits me. Meanwhile, do some thinkin’. Think about how good all that easy money spends—the money that comes from stirrin’ up wars. Think about how rich a man can get if enough kids and women get killed! Think about all that. All the money you’ll never spend now, and the women you’ll never have, and the drinks you’ll never take, and the sunrises you’ll never see. Bob, the Cheyenne have a saying: It’s a good day to die! You think so, Tribolet? Think it’s a good day?”
Tribolet screamed something formless. Suddenly the darkness at the cliffs base came alive with gun-flashes, and the strung-out shots racing after each other made a long, extended roar like thunder in the canyon, drowning out the river sound. The shooting went on and on, madly, desperately—and then, even above the echoes and the water rushing, Sundance heard the dry click of a hammer on an empty chamber.
“So it’s empty, Bob!” he yelled. “The rifle’s empty and if you leave that shadow to pick up another, I’ll drop you in your tracks.”
“Damn you,” Tribolet screamed. Sundance heard the clatter of the rifle as he threw it away. “Come on, you bastard! I’ve still got my short guns!”
“Yeah, but they make fire. And tell me where you are. And now I’m tired of playing, Bob. I’m ready to come and take you. You can’t see me, but if you shoot, I’ll have you pinpointed.”
There was silence. Sundance made that wolf’s snarl again, slid from behind the pine bole, working his way down the slope in shadow. He never took his eyes from the base of the cliff where Tribolet crouched. There was no movement there, no sound.
Then Sundance was on the level, still in darkness himself. He stalked forward across the shelf, moccasined feet as silent as the night breeze. Twenty yards from the pool of shadow in which Tribolet hid, he halted. He drew the bow until the flint head of the arrow reached the stave. Then he sucked in a long breath, held it. In that instant, the silence was profound; only the rushing river, a whisper of breeze in pines.
Sundance’s voice, loud, harsh, shattered it abruptly. “You get one chance, Bob. Better make it good!”
Before the sentence was completed, Tribolet fired both pistols, pouring lead toward the sound of Sundance’s voice. Sundance took a fix between the two muzzle flames, and, as lead whined around him in the darkness, loosed the shaft.
Tribolet’s scream was high, thin, tremulous, like a frightened woman’s. Still holding the guns, he lurched from shadow into starlight. Sundance stared; there was no shaft protruding from his body. Could he have missed?
Tribolet snarled, raised the Colts. Then Sundance saw the great blot of red on the man’s shirtfront. He knew the arrow had gone clean through Tribolet. He had another on the string and he let that go, too, but with less power. This one thudded into Tribolet’s chest and the man went over on his back, guns spilling from his hands. His legs drew up, kicked convulsively.
Sundance ran forward, fitting another arrow to the bow. He stood over Tribolet with it pointed down.
Tribolet’s kicking was less violent now. The eyes, lit by starlight, glazed as they stared up at Sundance. His snakelike head rolled on its long neck. Tribolet’s mouth opened.
“You ... damned ... Injun ... devil ... ” Tribolet managed that much before a surge of blood rushed out and choked him and he died.
Although there was still much to do, Sundance sat down quickly, weakly on a rock until his own arms and hands stopped twitching.
~*~
Two minutes, maybe three, and Sundance was in possession of himself again. The first thing was to find his weapons. After all the shooting there was no point in not risking light, so he made a fire. He located his six-gun, hatchet and knife in Pete Johannsen’s bedroll.
Then he went to work.
It had all been hidden carefully in a big mound at one end of the shelf—the kegs of whiskey and the boxes of ammunition. Sundance bashed in the casks with the hand-axe. Suddenly the night was rank with the smell of rotgut alcohol laced with tobacco, maybe even horse manure to give it more bite.
Next came the ammunition. The hatchet shattered case after case, and Sundance dumped their contents over the rock shelf’s edge, watching thousands of brass cartridges rain down into the torrent of the Bavispe. They sank from sight to lie until rushing water had thoroughly ruined them.
By the time he finished, dawn was near. He turned the picketed horses loose to forage for themselves, then gathered up a supply of food and stuffed it into his saddlebags. With that, plus his bow, arrows and other weapons, he was weighed down. Then he loped across the shelf among the lifeless bodies. Sundance was very weary. The intensity of the last few days and the strife of combat had drained him. But he had kept his promise to Crook. Geronimo’s men would never drink that whiskey or fire those bullets.
He ran up the ridge, past the guard post where Fielding, with the arrow through his skull, stared blankly at nothing. He loped down its other side, changed to a course that would take him to Eagle. Ahead, the forest thickened, the shadows beneath the trees impenetrable. Sundance slowed, moved more cautiously as he reached its edge. Then he halted. He cocked his head, listening, straining every sense. But he heard nothing, absolutely nothing. There was no motion in the darkness. Then, all at once, without knowing how, he knew they were there.
Sundance stood as if rooted to the ground. Very slowly, he raised his hands, palms outward, empty. When they were high above his head, he said, quietly: “Sikisn. Brothers. It is I, Sundance. And I come in peace.”
No one answered. He stood like that for a long time. It seemed an eternity. Then the darkness came to life. Shadows moved slowly toward him, and when they cleared the canopy of the trees, starlight gleamed on six rifle barrels which six Apaches had trained squarely on his belly.
Chapter Nine
There was a long, taut moment while the Indians stood poised. They were lean and wolfish, dressed in tatters and shreds, their faces smeared across with white paint. Sundance’s belly knotted, and he held his breath. If these were Geronimo’s warriors, their vengeance would be swift and certain when they saw what he had done to the whiskey and ammunition. Then the leader of the six shifted slightly, Sundance sucked in his breath. Starlight fell across a face he had seen before and glinted on the brass buttons of the shredded, old uniform the man wore. “Martine,” Sundance said.
The Apache Scout, the one who’d slugged him with a rifle after the fight with Sieber, did not answer. All he did was snap a terse order in Chiricahua. “Take his weapons and tie his hands.” Another Indian stepped quickly forward. Sundance recognized Ki-e-ta. He was not gentle as he pulled the gun, knife and hatchet from Sundance’s belt, seized the bow, jerked the quiver from his shoulder, and did a practiced job of frisking him for concealed weapons.
“Gatewood,” Sundance said. “Is he nearby? Can you take me to Gatewood?”
No one answered. Ki-e-ta was looping rawhide around his wrists now. “I know where Geronimo is,” Sundance added.
Ki-e-ta paused for an instant, then knotted the thongs. Horses were led down out of the pines. Eagle, snorting warily, ready to fight again, was among them. Sundance spoke a single word that quieted him. Then Martine prodded him with the rifle barrel. “Get up,” he said. “If you try to break, we’ll kill you.” There was hatred in his voice; Si
eber obviously had not let them in on the secret of the staged fight.
Awkwardly, Sundance swung up on the stallion. The Apache scouts closed in around him. Not a word was spoken as they headed east into the woods. Nor did Sundance ask any questions. They had to be taking him to the Army—either to Gatewood or Lawton, or to some other officer on patrol.
They were all like ghosts, drifting soundlessly through the timber that shrouded the magnificent, rugged country. Slowly, in the east the sky lightened. Presently they crested a high hogback. Beyond them rolled a sea of mountains, mist-shrouded, touched with dawn. Then Martine pointed with his rifle. On the flat below, Sundance saw the camp.
In its center, he recognized two white flecks as tattered Sibley tents. Forty or fifty men were spread out around them—cooking, tending horses, or on guard. Most of them were Apaches. Martine jerked the rifle barrel in signal, and they rode down the slope. As they neared the level, a mounted man came galloping to meet them. White, he was medium-sized and lean, in a battered cavalry hat, canvas jacket, and tattered jeans. Even at that distance, Sundance recognized Tom Horn, leader of the Apache scouts.
When Horn reached them, he pulled up, stared. His eyes were pale blue, his features sharp, a brown mustache shagging his upper lip. “Jim Sundance!” he blurted, and his eyes went hard. Then he nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, I heard you were back in Arizona and up to something.” He grinned. There was no humor in what he’d said. “You finally got caught, eh?”
Sundance said, “It’s still botherin’ you, eh, Tom? That time in Phoenix.”
“You got the drop on me ... then. I was a mite drunk and a little slow. Well, I told you there’d be another time. Looks like this is it. Whatever you’re up to out here, it ought to be good for a stretch in a Federal pen.” Then he turned to Martine. “Take him to the headquarters tent.”
Falling in beside Sundance’s mount, he went on as they rode toward camp, “What you doin’ out here? Aimed to join Geronimo like you were braggin’ back in Globe? Figured you’d turn bronco sooner or later.”
“I’ll talk to your commanding officer about that,” Sundance said. “Gatewood—is he here?”
“Gatewood and Captain Lawton both. And you’re damned right you’ll talk, I’ll see to that.” Horn pulled up before a Sibley tent, swung down. “Watch him, men,” he said in Chiricahua. Then he ducked inside. A moment later he came out, roughly pulled Sundance from the horse and shoved him through the door. Martine and Ki-e-ta followed with ready guns. Just inside, Sundance halted.
The two Army officers who occupied the tent stared at him. He knew them both: “Beak” Gatewood was tall, lanky, big-nosed, with an unhealthy sallowness mingling with his tan. Captain Henry Lawton was shorter, more solid. Both were superb frontier officers, and they showed the effects of long campaigning, eyes circled with fatigue, uniforms ragged and dirty.
Sundance grinned at them. “Hello, gentlemen,” he said. “You found Geronimo yet? If you haven’t, I know where he is.”
~*~
“I tell you,” Tom Horn snapped, “it’s a bunch of lies! What happened’s plain. He was with that whiskey-runnin’ outfit, and they had a fallin’ out. It was.”
Captain Lawton held up one hand. “Be quiet, Tom,” he said. He looked at Martine, speaking very slowly. “Let me get this straight. This man was traveling with Tribolet and his whiskey runners. There was a fight and he killed them all—with a bow and arrow?” Martine nodded. Lawton went on. “And then he dumped out the whiskey and the ammunition?”
“It was that way,” Martine answered. “After that, we took him.”
Lawton nodded. Sundance had stood under guard while the Apaches told their story in Chiricahua. They had picked up the trail of Tribolet’s outfit the previous day. Despite all of Sundance’s scouting, he had never known they were there. And they had seen it all, including that last battle.
Lawton turned back to Sundance. “I don’t understand it. You traveled with Tribolet, scouted for him —they saw you do it. And then you killed him and all his men and dumped out all that booze and ammo.”
“Maybe if you’d let me tell my side of the story,” Sundance said dryly, “it might make more sense.”
“Sundance is right,” Gatewood said. He gestured to Horn. “Cut him loose, he’s not going anywhere.” Horn hesitated, then obeyed. Gatewood picked up a coffee pot from a fire just outside the tent door, poured a cup and passed it to Sundance. “Now ... talk!”
Sundance drank the coffee, felt it revive him after the long night. “Yeah,” he said. Slowly, carefully, he told them all about it.
When he was through, Gatewood and Lawton looked at one another. “That’s the damndest thing I ever heard,” Gatewood said. “You got any proof of that?”
“Sieber will back me up.”
“Sieber ain’t here,” Tom Horn cut in.
“Besides which,” Sundance said, “if I was on Geronimo’s side, would I have dumped the whiskey and the ammo?”
“I tell you,” Horn said angrily, “it’s some kind of trick. This half-breed’s slick as grease! And he’s with the Injuns through and through!”
Sundance said wearily, “Hush, Tom. If you want satisfaction for that night in Phoenix, I’ll give it to you some other time. Right now—” He raised his head and looked at Gatewood. “I know where to find Geronimo.”
“Where is he?” Gatewood asked, sitting up straight. “We’ve combed the mountains for that bastard. Went to Fronteras, found it swarming with Mexicans waitin’ to ambush him if he came in there. Picked up the trail of some squaws, got this far, then lost it again. Where is he?”
“Not far from here,” Sundance said. “In the Torres Mountains. From what Tribolet told me, you’re a little off course.”
“Then lead us to him!” Lawton demanded. “By God, wherever he is, we’re strong enough to.”
“No,” Sundance said. “No, he’ll be holed up in a fortress. I know how he operates. You’ll never take him in an attack, not without losin’ a lot of men. The only way to bring him in’s to talk him in.” He hesitated, very tired, now. Then he let out a long breath. “Turn me loose,” he said, “and I’ll go find him and arrange a parley. From then on, you’re on your own.”
For a moment the tent was silent. Then Tom Horn snorted. “Sure! Turn him loose! Let him go link up with that bastard! And, by damn, you’ll have a real fight on your hands then!”
Sundance turned slowly to face Horn. “Tom,” he said, “you’re a killer. Ever since I’ve known you, you’ve been a killer. Another time, another place, I might.” He looked at Horn contemptuously, then turned back to Lawton and Gatewood.
“Look,” he said. “I made a promise to General Crook. That was that I’d try to bring Geronimo in without bloodshed. I think I can do it. I’ve known him for a long time and he doesn’t like me worth a damn. But he knows I tell the truth. More important, Naiche’s with him—and Naiche is the son of Cochise and hereditary chief of the Chiricahuas. And ... a long time ago, Cochise was my godfather. That makes me Naiche’s brother. Naiche will listen to what I say. And if he decides to come in, Geronimo will have to come, too.”
Again the officers were silent. Lawton chewed his mustache. “No,” he said. “No, it’s too risky. With all you’ve said, how can we trust you, a half-breed? By your own admission, Cochise’s godson.”
“You trust these Apache scouts, don’t you?”
“By God, yes!” Lawton snapped. “They’ve been with us through thick and thin.”
“Then keep my weapons,” Sundance said, “until I come back. And send Martine and Ki-e-ta with me to stand guard on me.”
“And have them ambushed,” Lawton said heavily. “We can’t … ”
“Wait,” Sundance said. He turned to the two scouts, who watched him impassively. He spoke quickly in Chiricahua. “My brothers,” he said, “you’ve heard my story, and I think you understand it. Three Stars sent me because enough Chiricahuas have died already. I want to bring in Geronimo and Naiche and
their women and children without more deaths. It is dangerous, yes, but I think I can do it. Will you go with me to Geronimo’s camp? We may all die—or we may save many deaths.”
Martine and Ki-e-ta looked at one another. Then Martine turned to Gatewood. “It’s dangerous,” he said in faltering English. “But ... you want it ... ya. We go.”
Gatewood and Lawton looked at one another. Then Gatewood nodded. “Henry,” he said, “it’s worth a try. Anything that would save a battle is worth a try.”
“It’s throwing three lives down the drain,” Lawton rasped. “Sundance’s I don’t care about. But Martine, Ki-e-ta.” He broke off. “All right,” he said at last. “You go, then. We’ll move the outfit along your trail and follow you. But God help you once you’re in Geronimo’s camp—we won’t be able to.”
~*~
They left at once, Sundance and the two Apaches, as the whole camp readied itself to move out. Totally unarmed, covered by their guns as he rode Eagle, Sundance led the scouts east into the high country beyond the valley. They rode in silence, wholly alert, as they entered the Torres range. This was Geronimo’s country now, and they could be taken by surprise at any moment. It was necessary to keep guard and search for signs. Tribolet had given Geronimo’s approximate location, but it would be necessary to find a trail to pinpoint the stronghold itself. Sundance was confident they could do it. Thirty Apaches might easily hide their trail from white men, but not from men of their own color.
Sundance watched these two Apaches with admiration as they scoured across the country, up and down ridges, through canyons. Neither of them would know when a bronco’s bullets might blast him from ambush. These were men, real men—and when this campaign was over, they deserved great rewards of the government. Whether they would get them was a different matter. Crook would have seen to it, but Miles.
