Sundance 15

by John Benteen

  Sundance did not answer.

  “All right,” Silent Enemy said. “Maynard, you and Fitz take him down yonder to the creek-bottom. Strip them jackboots and leggings offa him and tie him to a cottonwood, and do it good and tight. I’ll be along directly.”

  “Maxton—” Fitz began, but the battered half-breed whirled on him.

  “Goddammit, you do exactly what I say!”

  Their eyes met and slowly Fitz nodded. “All right. Well, he’ll be easier to handle—” Fitz moved swiftly, his speed that of a striking snake. Sundance saw the gun-barrel slamming toward his head. There was no time to duck. A brief flare of pain, an explosion of light behind his eyes—and after that, nothingness, a deep black void into which he hurtled.

  Head throbbing with agony, he was aware of consciousness returning. He tried to move, but something held him. Dazedly, carefully, he opened his eyes. Then his head cleared, and he found himself upright, stripped of chaps and boots, against the bole of a big cottonwood. Ropes bound him to it, arms lashed against his flanks, and Fitz was just tying the last knot as Maynard squatted watchfully, rifle in hand. “Fitz,” Maynard said, “he’s wakin’ up.”

  “Let ’im. He ain’t goin’ nowhere. That does it.” Fitz cinched the knot even tighter, then stepped back.

  “Ain’t you gonna tie his legs?”

  “Maxton said not to.”

  “Jesus.” There was a kind of awe in Maynard’s voice. “I wonder what that crazy half-breed’s got in mind for him.” He stood up, looked at Sundance with hatred. “Whatever it is, I hope it takes you a long time to die.”

  “Don’t worry. With Maxton handlin’ it, it will. I—” Fitz broke off, staring, as there was a whipping of undergrowth, a strange, formless growling. “Hell’s fire,” Fitz whispered.

  Maxton appeared in the late afternoon gloom among the cottonwoods, a loop of rawhide rope around his shoulder, a long steel cavalry-issue picket pin dangling from his belt. And it was taking every bit of his strength to wrestle the great animal that moved ahead of him, snapping at empty air.

  Full consciousness returned to Sundance with a rush as he stared at the huge wolf-like mongrel dog. There was a rope around its neck, biting deep into the fur; that noose was attached to a long, stout oaken pole, to keep the animal from turning on the man behind it. And it was a necessary precaution—absolutely necessary; for the huge gray beast was in the final stages of rabies. Saliva dribbled from its jaws; its teeth clicked together as it snapped mindlessly at bushes, branches, anything.

  “Great God Almighty!” Fitz whispered.

  A chill went down Sundance’s spine.

  “Shut up,” Maxton rasped, “and gimme a hand, take that picket pin off my belt and drive it in the ground about ten feet straight in front of Sundance.” Veins bulged in his forehead as he wrestled the growling animal.

  Suddenly Maynard seemed to understand, and his mouth twisted in a bitter grin. “Right! This is even better’n I hoped!” As Maxton held the dog, he grabbed the pin, found a rock, hammered it securely into the earth, leaving only its metal eye above the surface.

  “Now come hold this critter,” Maxton commanded.

  Maynard hesitated, then took the pole from him. His massive strength, greater even than the half-breed’s, was tested by the creature’s straining at the noose around its neck. “Don’t choke him,” Maxton warned.“I want him in good shape.”

  “What’s all this about?” Fitz’s voice trembled slightly. “Why don’t you let him have a hunk of Sundance, and git it over?”

  “Because,” Maxton said, and grinned. “Because I want to stretch this out.” Carefully avoiding the dog’s slavering jaws, he unrolled the rawhide rope, measured it on the ground, then cut it. “I been savin’ his dog for you, Jim,” he said as he worked. “Had it in the pen up the draw. Brought it across the divide when it was still in the early stages. You couldn’t even tell it was sick. But I caught it eatin’ off the carcass of a wolf that died of hydrophoby, and I knowed the germs was in it. That was weeks ago. You and it just about come out even. Two, three more days, and likely it would be dead. But you got here in time.”

  He tied one end of the rawhide rope to the picket pin. A hole had been drilled in the nooseless end of the pole that held the dog, and Sundance watched in horror as Silent Enemy fastened the rope’s other end securely through that. “Okay,” Maxton said. He took the pole again, worked the dog forward until the rope was taut. Sundance shrank back against the tree as the slavering jaws came nearer and nearer. When they were less than an inch away, the dog straining to get at Sundance’s unprotected legs, the rope had reached its limit. Blindly, the dog growled and slashed at Sundance, but it lacked that three-quarters of an inch of reaching him, for all its desperate straining at its harness.

  Maxton let go the pole and hastily ran out of reach. The dog paid him no attention, but with single-minded madness kept lunging at Sundance, ready to rip him if it could only reach him. Sure he was in the clear, Maxton dusted his hands in satisfaction at a job well done.

  “You see, Jim,” he went on conversationally, “that’s good manila hemp you’re tied with. Even when it gets wet, it don’t stretch. But rawhide—you know how that is. It picks up every little bit of dampness, and the wetter it gits, the more it gives. Now, every night there’s a wet mist that rises from the creek and fills this bottom. I figure that some time not long before the sun comes up, what with that critter pullin’ on it, that rope will stretch jest enough for him to git in one good bite—and one good bite is all it takes. Come mornin’, I’ll drift on down here and you oughta be pretty well slashed up. But it’ll take a while for the germ to work in you—several weeks, maybe. Meanwhile, you’re still dangerous. So I figure tomorrow I’ll take the back side of an ax while you’re still tied and work you over—break both your arms and legs. You won’t be much harm then. After which, you go in the pen where I’ve kept the dog—with enough food and water to make sure you don’t starve, until you reach the point where you won’t go near either one. When that time comes, you’ll be as mad as it is—” he pointed to the dog. “And I’ll be around to watch you die. The great Jim Sundance, bitin’ at himself and ever’thing else that moves. I’ll take pleasure in that, Jim. Great pleasure. It’s somethin’ I’ve been thinkin’ about ever since this epidemic started.”

  Sundance, his throat clogged with horror, made no sound.

  “Too scared even to beg? Well, beggin’ wouldn’t help you nohow. And when you’re dead, I’ll pull out—head on north, kill me some more Cheyennes and keep the pot boilin’. And me and Ravenal’ll have us a big Injun war ere long, and stand back and laugh whilst the People and the Bluebellies kill each other off.”

  Sundance still did not answer. He could only stare in fascinated shock at those drooling fangs so close to his flesh. Instinctively he tried to pull his legs farther back around the trunk; even that slight motion caused the glaze-eyed dog to lunge. The sound its jaws made, snapping on air within less than an inch of flesh, was like that of a big steel trap springing.

  Maxton chuckled. “Git used to it, Jim. You’ve got about six hours, the way I figure, before that rope gives enough to let him git the first bite in. Maybe you’ll get used to it. I did, roamin’ the country full of critters like that. But me, my hate was big enough so I didn’t much care, and I reckon Maiyun, the Great Spirit, figgered I’d had enough. I never even come close to bein’ bitten. But—” His ghastly face turned hard. “You’ve never suffered the way I have, so now it’s your turn.”

  The dog howled, a strange, choked, hideous sound. “By mornin’, I wouldn’t be surprised to see your hair turned snow white,” Maxton said. “Fitz, you bring that horse and everything on it on up to camp. In the mornin’, we’ll come down here and make sure it’s got him good. Then you and Maynard can start on back to North Platte. Ravenal will want to hear all about it.” His voice was a rasp in the thickening twilight. “Okay, Sundance. Now it’s just you and him.”

  Sundance
twisted his head. The fear was ebbing now, replaced by a white-hot rage. “Silent Enemy!”

  “Yeah.”

  “If you’ve got any sense, you’ll kill me now.”

  Maxton grinned. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

  “I mean it,” Sundance rasped. “You don’t, somehow I’ll get you. Somehow—”

  “Yeah. Well, I’ll worry about that tomorrow,” Maxton answered mockingly, and, followed by Fitz and Maynard, he left the cottonwood grove, and Sundance was alone with the mad dog.

  ~*~

  Pressing back against the cottonwood, he forced his mind clear of fear, made it work. Six hours, Maxton had said; no more than that, maybe less. He had to think of something. Hopeless as it seemed, he’d not give up—not until the breath of life was gone from him.

  He tested the bonds with which his torso was bound to the tree. Half-inch manila, and Fitz had done an expert job, all right. His whole upper body, hands at his sides, was clamped like iron against the cottonwood, and there was no hope of the seasoned manila stretching. But a dank mist from the creek was already invading the cottonwoods, and Silent Enemy was right about the rawhide. It would absorb the dampness, and with the great dog tugging against it with all its strength—

  He shut out that thought, blanked his mind to those jaws so close he could feel hot breath against his naked legs. At least they had not stripped his upper body, but of course he was without any sort of weapon except the cyanide pellet in the empty cartridge box. His hands flexed and strained, but the box might as well have been in Fort McPherson. Tied as he was, there was no chance of getting hand in pocket, much less withdrawing it.

  Darkness filled the grove. The dog, in agony, not from malevolence, kept up its lunging and snapping. One thing certain, Sundance thought, body cramping. He must not move his legs. He had to guard against that every minute. Let one leg edge forward three-quarters of an inch—

  He twisted his body against the ropes with all his massive strength, built up from years of hard life outdoors. Useless, absolutely useless. Nevertheless, he kept on doing it, and then, as he strained this way and that against the hemp he suddenly realized that there was a chance. Insubstantial, maybe, as the thickening mist, but the only one he had. And now, methodically, he went to work. Despite the unyieldingness of the ropes, he strained against them constantly, not forward, but doing his best to flex his body from side to side with all his muscle.

  He had to do that, yet keep his legs and feet well back. Despite the dankness of the night, his body beneath the jacket was soaked with sweat. He was almost used now to the constant menace of the dog.

  The moon rose, sending shafts of silver through the cottonwoods as time wore on. His torso ached with effort—and yet, with the passage of an hour, then another one, it seemed to him that, perhaps, he was making a little progress. Back and forth he twisted, sawed, as best he could, torso protected by the heavy bull hide jacket, but, beneath it, skin going anyhow from friction as he ceaselessly kept it up.

  If skin would go, he thought, if the bull hide would wear, so, maybe, would the bark of the cottonwood. They were soft trees, with soft bark, and if he could move those ropes at all, keep them sawing into it, some of it might give. When it did, when it wore away, maybe the ropes would slacken just a little. It seemed to him that even now they were not quite so tight—but maybe that was just the bull hide jacket wearing away.

  Sometimes he had to stop and rest, his body bathed in icy sweat. Sometimes even the dog did so as well, stumbling and lurching to one side on its rawhide and oak-pole harness, but always picking itself up and coming back to him and trying again to get him, to close that tiny gap—

  And it was doing it. The rawhide was getting wet now, yielding slightly. The jaws were a fraction of an inch closer already. Sundance went back to work, panting with the effort. Twist and strain, this way and that, keep pressure on the ropes, and hope—

  Three hours passed before it happened. Then he sucked in his breath. He could not be sure, but it seemed to him that, when he pressed back tightly against the tree and twisted, the ropes seemed to slide a little across his body. Encouraged, he redoubled his efforts—but that damned rawhide was stretching, too ...

  Another half hour, three-quarters. And now, when the dog snapped, its teeth came together less than half an inch from his flesh. The tree bark had to give before the leash-rope did; it had to, or he was finished. Gasping, he summoned all his strength—not, this time, to twist at the rope, but to try to withdraw his right arm from the bonds.

  His heart leaped. He could slip his hand upward a little. But there was a foot to go before he could get it in the pocket of the jacket. He twisted at the ropes again, and the dog let out an eerie howl and lunged once more. This time its muzzle was not much more than a quarter of an inch from Sundance’s leg.

  He sucked in his breath, then let it out, all of it. Pumped every bit of air from his lungs, sucked in his belly, put all his strength into the lifting of his arm. And now it was happening! Slowly, surely, his arm was working upward through the ropes!

  Fraction of an inch by fraction of an inch, it came. Then it was clear of the lowest bond, as Sundance sucked in breath, exhaled again. The dog lunged as usual, and sweat poured down the half-breed’s face. Doubling his wrist, his upper arm and forearm still bound, he groped for the jacket pocket and still could not reach it. So he pulled upward with the arm again.

  The ropes had done it, had sawed into the soft bark of the cottonwood. Not much, only a fraction of an inch—but that fraction was enough. Sundance let out a gasp as his arm slipped free of another wrap—and then he could reach the pocket that held the cartridge box. His cramped hand closed over it.

  This, he thought, was his last card to play—and God help him if it failed!

  Awkwardly he worked the box from his pocket, the miniscule poison pellet within it rattling faintly. Even that much motion made the dog lunge with redoubled fury. Sundance flipped his wrist, threw the box.

  It hit the animal in the face, fell inches from Sundance’s bare feet, and the dog growled eerily and as it landed on the ground snapped it up, out of that mad reflex of biting anything that moved. Box and pellet—both were crunched between the foaming jaws.

  What happened next was awesome in its quickness. As its saliva carried the poison down its constricted throat, the huge mongrel simply dropped motionless to earth, without a growl, whimper, or a single death-throe kick. As it had the soldier in the ward, the cyanide had killed it instantly, and it lay, tongue lolling, fangs bared in death, with its muzzle not a quarter of an inch from the right foot of Sundance.

  Sundance let out a long, shuddering gasp. For—three minutes, five, he never knew how many, he sagged exhausted against the ropes. Presently he felt strength returning and straightened up. Able to move his feet, he had more leeway now, could work his left hand free of the lower wrappings, and he did that. Again he began to twist and turn, and this time it went much more swiftly. Another wrap fell loose and then another and now his arms were free and the rope slack and he could work the upper loop over his head, push the lower ones down around lean hips, and at last, taking care to avoid the dead dog’s bared fangs, step free, stumble away from the tree, collapse on the cold sand. After a while, he arose, staggered to the creek, drank long and deeply. That revived him and he stood erect, legs steady now, and flexed his arms.

  Within him hatred burned, white-hot as the sun. It was far from over yet; he was half-naked, weaponless, and up there in that dugout were three first-class fighting men, armed to the teeth. That did not matter. Somehow he would take them. But first he had to rest and think, and he eased into hiding in the brush along the river and lay there for a half hour, until he felt about to begin what he had to do.

  Chapter Eight

  There was still a pair of hours of darkness left after he had worked his way like a shadow through the juniper thicket, crawling the last few feet until he reached its edge. Peering cautiously through the brush, he
searched the bowl in which the dugout was hidden. The moon was down, the only light faint star shine. In it, he could make out four horses tied to a rope stretched between two scrubby trees; one of them was his. All were unsaddled, and there was no sign of any weapon he could use left outside. He had not expected any. That was why he had been careful to erase all marks of his passage behind him. He knew that all the weapons were in the dugout with them, including his own. The main thing was that they had posted no guard. He made a sound of satisfaction deep in his chest, and then very carefully he climbed the wash’s wall, again meticulous about leaving no traces to show that he had passed. Once up on the rim, he climbed steadily until he judged that he was almost directly over the dugout. There, taking cover behind a pile of rocks, he stretched out waiting patiently for the dawn.

  It seemed to take forever before the first pale light streaked the eastern sky. As it did, the bull hide curtain of the dugout stirred and Cole Maxton—Silent Enemy—emerged. He stood there warily, looking all around, then urinated. Then he went back inside and Sundance heard the mumble of voices.