Sundance 13

by John Benteen

  Now the crowd was absolutely silent. Warren cleared his throat. “Ready?”

  “Ready,” Dillon whispered.

  The captain’s hand jerked.

  The dime was only a tiny wink of light, glittering in the sun as it arced high above the creek bed. Dillon drew and fired. At the first shot, the coin jumped like something living; the second sent it spinning across the wash, and the third was a genuine marvel. When, at long range, it smashed the dime and hurtled it far across the creek to land in the brush, men yelled, and even Sundance said, “That’s shooting!”

  Dillon seemed to swell. Confident, cocky as a rooster, he turned, grinning. “All right, half-breed, let’s see you beat that.”

  “It’s gonna be hard to do,” Sundance said, and meant it.

  “You never will,” Dillon scoffed.

  And maybe he was right, Sundance thought, stepping to the creek bank. Maybe he had over-reached himself. Dillon had already had practice shots, was well warmed up, and he himself was cold, body stiff after his long ride, and the Duke’s crushing handshake hadn’t done his fingers any good. But worry would only compound the other disadvantages, so he relaxed, was perfectly cool as he took up stance near Warren.

  The afternoon was silent as Warren fingered the last dime.

  “Ready?”

  “Throw!” Sundance snapped.

  The dime arced up, a duplicate of the throw made for Dillon.

  What happened next took the crowd by surprise. As the dime went straight up, Sundance drew, at the same time falling on his back. He fired straight up, and the bullet caught the dime at the height of its rise and sent it spinning even higher. Sundance fired again and drove it even higher, as it started to fall. This time it was hit on a skew, sailed out over the creek bed, and the half-breed’s third shot caught it at an angle, both from the side and underneath and it jumped crazily. His fourth shot sent the tattered bit of metal spinning laterally, to twinkle out across the wash and vanish.

  Then, like a big cat, Sundance was on his feet, sliding fresh rounds from cartridge belt into guns. The crowd along the wash was absolutely silent, awed.

  “Four hits to three,” Sundance said and allowed himself a crooked grin. “I think I take the money.”

  Dillon stood there, face chalk-pale beneath its tan, mouth working like that of a stranded fish. Then words burst from him. “Not fair, godammit! You—”

  “Nobody said what position we had to fire from. You drove your dime away from you. Me, I kept mine where I had time for an extra shot. Captain Warren, if you will pay the winnings—”

  “Right,” Warren said briskly in a tone that left no doubt that he was glad to see Sundance the winner. “General Crook ... Mr. Sundance ... ”

  “But, dammit—” Dillon burst out. “I—” The Duke laid a big hand on his shoulder. “Enough, Six-gun Sam. He did not outshoot you, but he outthought you. He earns the money. Mr. Sundance, I congratulate you.” But his voice was harsh. “Perhaps you will have a drink with me.”

  “Later, your grace,” Crook said, before Sundance could speak. “First I have business with Mr. Sundance in my office. Perhaps you and Mr. Dillon will join us there in half an hour.”

  “Of course,” said the Duke coldly.

  “Come on, Jim.” Crook took Sundance’s arm. They walked up the hill together toward Sundance’s stallion. “Thank God,” the General whispered, “that you beat him. That will help a little, anyhow.”

  “Help at what?” Sundance almost snapped the words, the tension of reaction building in him.

  “At stopping an Indian war,” Crook said tersely. “A bad Sioux outbreak. And maybe even preventing war between the United States and Russia.”

  “What?” Sundance stopped and stared at him.

  Crook pushed him on. “Not here,” he whispered. “I’ll tell you all about it in my office.” Then an orderly brought him his saddle mule. He swung up, gestured toward the Appaloosa. “Come on, let’s ride.”

  Chapter Two

  Outside, on the parade ground, a troop of cavalry drilled, hoofs thundering. In his office, General George Crook poured two fingers of whiskey into a glass, handed it to Sundance, lifted his own.

  “Cheers,” he said.

  Sundance nodded, and as he drank he looked at the gaunt, shrewd old man sitting down behind the desk. Since the murder of his own father, Crook had been like a parent to him, the best friend he’d ever had among the whites. A man of guts, integrity, imagination, the General’s hopes for the future of the West coincided with Sundance’s own. Both for years had sought some way to make peace between whites and Indians, to make it possible for the two races to live together and share the vast bounty of the land beyond the Mississippi without exterminating one another. They were failing. Every year the whites took more and more, left the Indians less and less, and the Indians fought back. But that was not Crook’s fault, for he had done all any man in his position could have done.

  And it had been he who’d made Sundance see that the final battle would not be won out here at all. It was already being fought in Washington, where the laws were made, in the halls of Congress, where Indians had no voice in the making of those laws—until Sundance had given them one.

  It had been Crook who’d introduced Sundance to the brilliant lawyer who now served there as lobbyist for the Indian cause, bucking the banks, railroads, land developers and promoters who had senators and representatives in their pockets and wanted to see the tribes wiped out like vermin. Supporting such a lobbyist took money—lots of it—and Sundance had only one way of earning it—with his gun. But money was not a consideration between Crook and himself. Sundance waited for the general to tell him why he had been summoned.

  Crook lowered his glass. “Jim,” he said, “there is a white buffalo bull in the Black Hills.”

  Sundance sat up straight. “How did you know that?”

  “I didn’t,” Crook said. “Until Sam Dillon and the Grand Duke told me.”

  Setting down his glass, he arose, went to the window, looked out on the parade ground. “A white buffalo,” he said. “Sacred to all the plains tribes—because a white buffalo is a one in a million thing, maybe one in five million. I’ve been out here for years and I’ve never seen one myself. But I know that the hide of one is big, big medicine to the Sioux, the Cheyennes—”

  “Even to the Cherokees,” Sundance said. “Down in Indian Territory, their tribal council has one, and they’re probably the most civilized tribe in the country.”

  “But,” said Crook, turning, “I’ve investigated. And this one in the Black Hills is even more sacred alive than dead. Is that right?” Sundance looked at him a moment. Then he also arose.

  “The Black Hills, the Paha Sapa, are themselves sacred to the Sioux,” he said. “And by the treaty of 1869, whites are supposed to keep the hell out of there. Nobody’s supposed to go into the country north of the Platte and east of the Big Horns without permission from the Sioux. Anyhow, the Black Hills are the special country of the Great Spirit, and it’s where they hold their Sun Dances and—yeah, four years ago, right after the treaty was signed, this big white bull suddenly appeared up there, and it caused a lot of excitement among the tribes. It’s hard to explain the significance to the white man, but a sign maybe that the fighting was over, that good times were on the way again for the Indians, that the treaty had been a wise decision. Anyhow, the word went around that it was not to be killed, but left alive, and as long as it lived, there would probably be peace.”

  Crook nodded.

  “And what,” he asked, “would happen if a white man went in there—into that sacred country—and killed that buffalo?”

  Sundance stared at him.

  “In the first place, no white man could. He’d lose his hair long before he got there, unless he was somebody the Sioux knew and trusted. And in the second place, if he did, if he managed somehow to kill that bull ... why, hell. It would be like a declaration of war. There’d be the biggest damned Sioux upris
ing you ever saw. The tribes would come down out of their reserve and off their reservations and agencies, and there would be hell to pay all the way from the Missouri to the Arkansas.”

  “Exactly,” Crook said bitterly. “I tried to tell Dillon and the Grand Duke that, tried to tell Washington as well, right on up to President Grant. And they won’t listen, Sundance. Nobody will listen.”

  “Wait a minute!” Sundance snapped, “Are you saying—?”

  “I’m saying that Duke Andre Romanov is a dedicated hunter. He’s killed every kind of big game there is to shoot in Europe and Asia. Now he’s here to shoot American game, and the, first thing on his list is that sacred white buffalo in the Black Hills.”

  “Hell’s fire,” said Sundance. “That’s impossible. And even if he did it, I just told you, it would start the worst Indian war you’ve ever had out here.”

  “I know,” said Crook. “But Washington’s faced with a choice. War with the Sioux—or war with Russia. And Washington would rather have war with the Sioux.”

  Jim Sundance finished his drink. “Three-Stars,” he said quietly, “you’re not making sense. Maybe you’d better explain.”

  “All right. It’s not public knowledge, but lately there’s been trouble between the United States and Russia. Russia sold us Alaska for a song, and now she’s having second thoughts about it. She may be seeking an excuse for war, a chance to get it back. She’s been complaining about treatment of Russian nationals there, and there’ve been a lot of clashes between American and Russian fishermen and sealers around the Bering Straits. Russia’s pushing us, and we’re doing our best to settle it peaceably. After all, our Army’s not big enough to handle even the Indians, much less a power like the Czar’s, and we’ve got only a handful of Navy ships in the Pacific, not much of a garrison in Alaska. So we can’t afford a war.

  “At which time,” Crook continued, “Grand Duke Andre decided to come here on a hunting trip. Actually, it was at the invitation of our ambassador. Andre’s very influential with his cousin the Czar, and it was hoped that if he had a good hunt, he’d use that influence on our behalf. So my orders were to pull out all stops, make sure he got everything he wanted, cater to his every wish, meet his every demand. Unfortunately, as soon as he arrived in New York, he met Sam Dillon.”

  “What was Dillon doing in New York? And what the hell’s come over him? Those fancy buckskins, all this ‘Six-gun Sam’ business?” Crook smiled wryly. “It’s all Buffalo Bill Cody’s fault. You know Cody fell in with this hack writer Judson, who uses the pen name Ned Buntline, and Buntline wrote a lot of dime novels, pure trash, about Bill, and made him famous. Then Buntline wrote a play, a crazy blood-and-thunder melodrama, and Bill went East, starred in it in New York, and made a pile of money. Since then, half the plainsmen out here have got the fever. Even Hickok tried it for a while.”

  He poured another splash of whiskey into Sundance’s glass.

  “Well, Sam Dillon, tinhorn that he was, thought he’d get in on a good thing while it lasted. He’s no plainsman, but he is a marvelous shot. He went East too, had a writer hash up some kind of play, including a lot of trick shooting on stage, and he did well. ‘Six-gun Sam, Prince of Plainsmen,’ he called himself.”

  Sundance snorted. “Prince of tinhorns.”

  “Exactly. But Andre had no way of knowing that. He saw Dillon’s play, was fascinated, met Sam. Dillon passed himself off as the best scout since old Jim Bridger, wrapped the Duke around his little finger. Andre hired him to guide him on his hunt, offered him some fabulous price. Money means nothing to a nobleman like him. And what clinched the deal was when Dillon told him about that white buffalo and promised to make sure he got it. Now here they are, outfitting for an expedition up to the Black Hills, and me—I’m caught in the middle. I’ve tried to explain it to the Duke, but he’s accustomed to having his way, and he won’t listen. I’ve tried to make Dillon see it would be sure death to go there, but he’s too stupid to understand. I think he’s a little crazy. He must have swallowed his own guff about what a hotshot plainsman he is. I can’t order them not to go, because that would sour negotiations with Russia. On the other hand, if the Sioux kill Andre, that might mean war with Russia. If they don’t, and he kills the white buffalo, that sure as fate means war with the Sioux. You see the bind I’m caught in?”

  “I see.” Sundance set down his glass. “Well, there’s only one thing to do.”

  “What?”

  “I don’t like to work that way, but I reckon I have to pick a fight with Dillon, call him out and put a bullet in him.”

  “No!” Crook snapped. “That would be suicide!”

  “I am pretty sure I can take him.”

  “Of course you can take him! But the way Andre feels about him, he wouldn’t rest till he’d seen you hanged. And if it would make him happy, the government would do it, swing you high as Haman! No, Jim. There’s another way.”

  “What?”

  “Something harder than killing Dillon. Something I hate to ask you to do. But I want you to go along on this expedition. Dillon’s going to buck and kick, but I’ll insist. Otherwise the first time Dillon bumps into Indians, he’ll get himself and the Duke both slaughtered. But with you along there’s a chance. If you can get the Sioux to accept Andre as a guest and let him see how they live and what the white buffalo means to them—and what he’ll be up against if he tries to shoot it—maybe he’ll change his mind. He is, after all, no fool. Anyhow, you’re the only chance I’ve got; the only one the Sioux have, too. Because if Dillon triggers off a war, the Sioux will eventually lose. And then they’ll lose what lands they’ve got left, Black Hills and all. But if you can keep Andre out of hot water until he’s really met the Sioux and understands the situation, I’m sure he’ll see reason. After that, he can shoot some regular buffalo, a grizzly, a mountain lion or two and he’ll be happy. But I know and you know that if they go without you, with Andre’s life in Dillon’s hands, they’ll both be dead before you could spit.”

  Sundance stared at him. “You want me to play nursemaid to Dillon and the Grand Duke both?”

  “Yes. And the rough part is you’ll have no authority. I’ve already arranged to send Captain Warren and a detail of men along as my representatives. Dillon kicked about that; he’ll buck like a mule when I insist you go too. I’ll be lucky if he agrees to accept you as a skinner or camp flunky. You’ll have to take his orders and eat a lot of dirt from him, at least at first.”

  “That’s a lot to ask of any man.”

  “I’m asking it of you, Jim,” Crook said softly. “With the hope that sooner or later the Duke will see Dillon for the charlatan he is, and realize that you’re the one to whom he has to listen. It will take patience, humility and diplomacy, not gunplay. But I know of no man besides yourself to turn to.”

  Sundance looked at Crook. The thought of taking orders from Sam Dillon made his gorge rise. If it had been anyone else but Three-Stars who was begging him ...

  Sundance let out a long breath. “All right, General,” he answered quietly. “I’ll do it. For you—and for the Sioux.”

  ~*~

  “No!” Dillon exploded. “Hell, no!” Standing there in Crook’s office, he was furious, big body in flamboyant buckskins taut. “I’ll pick the men for this expedition! And we’re not hirin’ any half-breed renegade who’ll sell us out to the Injuns behind our back!”

  Sundance clamped his jaw and said nothing. As expected, Dillon had hit the ceiling the instant Crook had proposed hiring him. Now he only rolled a cigarette and watched Grand Duke Andre.

  The giant Russian stroked his whiskers, tapping his riding crop thoughtfully against his boot as Crook faced him. “Your grace, I’m afraid I must insist. And I’m insulted at the intimation that I’d recommend anyone unreliable or treacherous!”

  “Yes,” Andre said. “Well ... exactly who is this man Jim Sundance? That he can shoot I already know, and that counts for much. But what are his other qualifications?” He spoke a
s if the half-breed were part of the furniture.

  Before Sundance could answer, Crook did it for him. “Jim Sundance,” he said, “is the son of a well-born Englishman who came West in the old fur-trapping days. He fell in love with this country, married the daughter of a Cheyenne chief, and was adopted into the tribe. He took the name of Sundance; the Sun Dance is their most sacred religious ceremony. He became a fur trader. He dealt with tribes from Canada to Mexico, and was known and respected by all of them. Growing up, Jim Sundance lived with nearly every major tribe in the West, learned their languages, was himself adopted into many of them. He is personally acquainted with all the important chiefs and medicine men, and is an expert hunter and guide. You’ve seen him handle a pistol; well, he’s not only as good with a rifle, but he’s expert with Indian weapons, too—bow and arrow, lances, and the like. You’ll find him a valuable man.”

  “Hmmm.” Andre ranged his eyes over Sundance as if examining a horse.

  “He’s also an expert in skinning game and knows all the Indian ways of tanning and preserving hides,” Crook added. “He’s helped me save a lot of excellent trophies.”

  Interest lit the Duke’s eyes. “Well, Six-gun Sam, what do you think?”

  Dillon spat into a cuspidor. “I still say no.”

  “Your grace,” Crook said, “it would be a favor to me.”

  Andre said, “Well, then ... if you put it that way.”

  “All right,” said Dillon, and he faced Crook and Sundance. “If that’s the way it is, he comes along. He can skin out and butcher, and wrangle horses and anything else there is to do around the camp. But he’d better git one thing through his head, here and now. I’m chief scout and guide on this trip—me, Six-gun Sam Dillon. And he takes my orders and gives no backtalk. If I tell him to scrub the cookpots, he scrubs the cookpots. And you’ll back me up, won’t you, Duke Andre?”