by John Benteen
“All right. He’s got him now, and the point is, where’d he take him?”
“I never been there,” Dillon said. “He says nobody ever goes there, not even the Injuns. A place there ain’t nothin’ but wasteland and him and his raiders could stand off an army comin’ after ’em, white or red. It’s somewhere south of here and east of the Powder. He called it the Hole-in-the-Wall.”
Sundance grunted in surprise. The Hole-in-the-Wall! He had not known that Steelman knew this country that well, but the man had unerringly picked the perfect hide-out. He saw it in his mind, the hidden valley, first given its name by the old mountain men, surrounded by bleak, sun baked hills, walled on the north by a thousand-foot escarpment of red rock, through which a narrow gorge was the only entrance. There were no buffalo and not much other game in there and thus no Indians, and few white men knew of the place at all. And as Dillon had said, a dozen gunmen of the caliber of Steelman’s Raiders could stand off an army there—if, in that broken hell of canyons and ravines and badlands, an army could even find them.
“I know where it is,” he said.
“Well that’s where Clay’s taken the Duke. Along with all the grub, horses, guns and ammo from Andre’s outfit. He figures to send a man down to Cheyenne, send a letter to Laramie from there to Crook, askin’ for a quarter of a million dollars ransom. Crook himself and one other man’s to deliver it to the Hole-in-the-Wall. Then Steelman will give him back the Grand Duke. Maybe.”
“Maybe,” Sundance said.
“And maybe he’ll jest kill Andre—and Crook and the other rider too, and take the money. You know how Clay Steelman is.”
“Yeah,” Sundance said. “I know how Steelman is.” He turned away, face grim. He knew how Crook was, too: brass-bound with guts. If the United States would meet the ransom demand—and what other choice did it have?—Crook would not hesitate to risk delivering the money in person, even if it sealed his death warrant. Which it would, because Steelman was too old, too wise a hand at outlawry not to know that dead men told no tales.
But it was not over yet. Steelman had made one mistake. He had not killed Jim Sundance the first minute he’d had the chance. He’d left the job to a bungler, and now he thought Sundance was long dead, and—and before another week had passed, he’d learn how wrong he’d been.
“Sundance,” Dillon whimpered. “It’s all right now? You’re not gonna let ’em ... hurt me?”
“You’re safe for now,” Sundance answered, looking at him with hatred and contempt. “But God help you if Steelman isn’t really at the Hole-in-the Wall.” He turned and spoke to the guards, telling them to be especially alert. Then, knowing what he must do, he crossed the village to the lodge of Crazy Horse.
“So there it is,” Sundance said. “Steelman has the foreign chief in the place called Hole-in-the-Wall. Give me three good warriors, only three, and I’ll go and find him. Don’t you understand, Crazy Horse? There’s no time to wait for a grand council. There’s—”
“There will not be a grand Council,” Crazy Horse said. “The matter has been decided.”
“What?”
“I sent your whole story to Sitting Bull, and he had already heard something of it. You know, the wind brings things to him that no one else hears. He has already prayed and dreamed about the matter, and in his dream the white buffalo came and told him what to do. I am glad to know where the foreign chief is being held. It will save time in trailing him. I’ll get some men together, and we’ll ride directly to the Hole-in-the-Wall.”
“Good.” Sundance said, relaxing. “I’ll—”
“No.” Crazy Horse held up a hand. “We don’t go to save him. We go to take him, torture him, and make sure that he dies.”
Jim Sundance stood there rigidly for ten seconds, mind and body frozen.
“I am a warrior, but Sitting Bull is a great thinker and dreamer. It was all clear to him,” the chief went on. “You say if this foreign chief is killed, the white eyes will have to fight the people of his country, will have a great war on their hands. Then that is fine with us, it is what we want. The white eyes are powerful, but not even they can fight two wars at once. We found that out when they fought each other ten years and more ago. When their Northern band fought the Southern band, all their soldiers left our country and we had it to ourselves. When they came back later we could have killed them all with ease, but we missed our chance. Next time, we will not miss it.”
Sundance stared at him.
“Let the two nations of Wasichu fight each other. That will leave no soldiers to fight the Sioux. We will join with your people, the Cheyennes and the Blackfeet and maybe even the Crows will come in. We’ll take back all the land they’ve wrenched from us, and we will never give it up again. Maybe the other nation of the Wasichu will even give us guns. Anyhow, there must be a war between the white-eyes, and to make sure it starts, we go on the war trail now, to the Hole-in-the-Wall. We’ll take your foreign chief and treat him as we would a Pawnee, and then dump him before the lodge of Three-Stars at Laramie and wait for war to start. Sitting Bull says, and I agree, that there must be a war sooner or later anyhow. If not this year, the next or the year thereafter. We cannot take much more pushing. So let it come now, while we are strong and while the American Wasichus fight the Russian Wasichus. That is what Sitting Bull thinks, and I think so too, and that is how it will be. I am sorry that we must kill your friend the foreign chief, but that is how things are. Before the sun goes down, I’ll have two hundred Oglala warriors riding for the Hole-in-the-Wall.”
His eyes met Sundance’s, and they were full of resolve. “You will not go with us. We know you too well. When you are with us, you have proved that you are worth a dozen warriors. When you are against us, you will also be worth a dozen warriors. So, though it makes my heart feel bad to say it, you cannot go with us. You stay here in camp a captive, until we have put the foreign chief’s body where Three-Stars will find it. Then you are free yourself, to fight on any side you choose. But now, if you interfere, we shall have to kill you.”
“I see.” Sundance’s mind, clear now, raced. Damn Sitting Bull! The great Hunkpapa medicine man was the equal of any white general or diplomat. He had sized up the situation quickly, accurately, and had made a decision he saw to be in the best interests of his people. But it was not. What he did not see was that, in a desperate effort to make amends to the Russians, the United States would throw everything it had against the Sioux, simply exterminate them, in the hope of buying peace with the Russians. Whether it would or not, Sundance did not know, but that would make no difference to the dead Indians, and not only the Sioux, but the Cheyennes, the Blackfeet, every tribe in the territory. The Americans would give the scalps of all of them, men, women, children alike, to the Russians as compensation for one Grand Duke.
But there was no way he could explain that.
“So you must let me have your gun,” Crazy Horse said. “You will be disarmed and stay in the lodge with your woman. You—”
“Yes,” Sundance said and did the one thing no sane man would do in the heart of the camp of the Oglalas. He shifted weight and his left fist drove hard and deep into Crazy Horse’s brawny belly. The chief bent double, and Sundance’s right came across with force that jarred him to his moccasin soles. Indians had no conception of fist fighting. The Sioux, caught completely off guard, simply crumpled without a sound, landing sprawled on a bed of buffalo robes.
There was no time to tie and gag him, no time for anything but what he did next. Calmly he left the teepee, dropping its door flap behind him. Casually he spoke to half a dozen warriors lounging nearby, checking their gear for war. “I hear we ride soon.”
“And about time,” one said. “It’s a good time of year for making war.”
“Yes, it is. I go to get my weapons ready.” Sundance strode briskly to the lodge he shared with Ruth. Outside it, Indian fashion, Eagle was tethered, ready for instant use in case of trouble. There was no time to talk to the woman, b
ut Sundance knew they would not harm her. Dillon was another matter, but Dillon had to take his chances. Sundance untied Eagle, swung into the saddle, touched the horse with heels, and cantered through the camp.
On its outskirts, two Sioux policemen, lean but brawny warriors, halted him. “Friend, where do you ride?” one asked. “There is talk of war.”
“I know. I carry a message from Crazy Horse to my people, the Shyela. They are asked to join.”
“Good. They’re hunting in the Judith Basin, you know.”
“Yes, I know,” Sundance said. “It’s a long way. I must hurry. Good hunting to you.” He sent Eagle into a run.
They sat their horses, watching him go. Not until he was well out of rifle range did the muscles in his back relax. Then he made the Appaloosa stud give everything it had in it. They would be after him in no more than a half hour. And somehow, with no more head start than that, he had to outrun the whole bank of Oglala Sioux, make the Hole-in-the-Wall, tackle Steelman and his Raiders, and get the Grand Duke Andre out alive and back to Laramie.
A half hour later, he pulled the stallion up behind the crest of a high ridge. Lathered, barrel pumping, it sucked in wind through flared nostrils as Sundance slid off, rifle in hand, ran up the slope, threw himself down on the crest.
Levering a round into the chamber, he scanned the rough country he’d just crossed. He’d zigzagged, doubled, taken every slight advantage of terrain to hide his trail, and they would have to pick up his tracks and follow them and that would slow them down.
But they were Sioux and they could follow any trail and do it at a lope, and they were coming. Even as he watched, they galloped up out of a coulee onto a flat—six of them, and, Sundance knew, all prime warriors, the best the tribe had to offer. And he knew what tactics they would use: they would follow the trail in relays, always pressing hard, until his horse was worn out. Then, when they overtook him, there would be at least three of them on fresh mounts, and they would have the advantage. They would kill him without hesitation; but he did not want to kill them, not if he could help it.
Well, maybe he could help it. Carefully he scanned the terrain. These outthrust foothills of the Paha Sapa were partly open, partly wooded with the heavy stands of pine that had given the Black Hills their name. He knew which way his trail led, and, anticipating such pursuit, had made one big bow that had taken precious minutes, but which now must pay off. It was time to double back, and he must ask an extra sacrifice of Eagle.
The big horse made it, summoning reserves of strength. At a high lope, it carried Sundance through broken country, eastward, roughly paralleling the trail he had laid down. Once or twice it slipped on the treacherous carpet of pine needles as they entered the woods. Then Sundance judged he was in position.
Ground-reining Eagle, he worked up a rock-strewn slope through thickly-growing trees, rifle in hand. Presently he found a place that could not have been better if he had designed it in advance. It gave him the shelter of both rocks and timber, yet afforded a clear view and a fine field of fire over the country he had just traversed in his escape. He settled down, getting comfortable. The six men out there in the open, coming fast, were still only dots. They stuck to his tracks like glue, one doing the trailing, the others keeping watch on both flanks.
Sundance waited. Five, ten minutes passed, and each minute seemed an hour. Now, on their spotted horses, the five Oglala braves were almost in range. In a minute, as they kept to his tracks, they would swing even closer to this stand of trees.
On they came, moving smartly, sun glinting off the barbaric splendor of their trappings and their weapons. As the trail swung sharply, leading them closer to the woods, they sensed danger, and they slowed. Reining in, they consulted. They were almost four hundred yards away, but it was now or never. Sundance opened fire, not at the men but at their horses.
A horse was a much bigger target at four hundred yards. And besides, men without their horses were nothing, no threat at all. He hated to kill the animals, but it was better than killing his brothers of the Sioux.
The first bullet struck squarely. The tracker, on a white and chocolate pinto, was thrown off as his horse reared and fell. Sundance shifted aim, squeezed off another round and another. The three shots merged into one. Two more horses dropped. In that spread of seconds, the other three mounted men realized what was happening. They whirled their mounts, but not before the men on foot had leaped up behind them. Sundance laughed softly, without humor, waited to see no more, rushed down the hill, hit Eagle’s saddle running, sent the big horse loping on, its wind restored by the brief rest. Six men on three horses could not keep up the pursuit. If three dropped off and three came on, the pursuers would come much more slowly now, testing every possible ambush. He had a chance.
Three hours later, he and Eagle drank at a waterhole in broken country. While the stallion rested, Sundance smoked a cigarette, considering the situation.
He knew Crazy Horse, how his mind worked, and knew what Crazy Horse would do. Those six warriors were all he would waste on Sundance. His main objective was to get to the Hole-in-the-Wall and wipe out Steelman and capture Andre. Right now there would be a hundred, two hundred warriors riding for Steelman’s stronghold, determined to get there before Jim Sundance. Once Crazy Horse had Andre, he would not care one way or another what happened to Sundance. He was not the type to hold a grudge.
So what he had to do, Sundance thought, was beat those war-trail Sioux to the Hole-in-the-Wall at whatever risk to himself. He had a few hours leeway, no more than that, because it took time to assemble a force as large as Crazy Horse would need. From now on, regardless of the risk to himself, he must ride straight for the Hole-in-the-Wall and hope he got there before the Indians. He flipped the cigarette butt into the mud. And already a plan was forming in his mind. Sitting Bull had said the Americans could not fight two wars at once. Well neither could Clay Steelman.
Ignoring the hunger growling in his belly, Sundance mounted and rode on, hard southeast now, straight for the Hole-in-the-Wall.
Thank God, he told himself, he rode a Nez Percé horse.
Of all the tribes west of the Mississippi, only the Nez Percé practiced selective breeding of horses the way the white men did. Other Indians captured mustangs or stole mounts and they had some good horses in their bands. But the Nez Percé had bred these Appaloosas lovingly, cleverly, and for generations, weeding out the culls, aiming for speed and endurance along with intelligence. A war party of Sioux could travel no faster than the average of its horses, and the average of its short legged, undersized, mustang-bred mounts was slow. Far slower than the time this, one of the best stallions ever to come out of the stud of the Nez Percé of Idaho, could make; and that was another edge.
Checking his back trail, he saw there was no pursuit. He stopped only once to hunt and let the stallion graze and rest. An old rogue buffalo bull, ousted from the herd, crossed his path; Sundance shot it. The meat would be as tough as leather: Indian style, he ate the liver sprinkled with gall, not bothering to cook it. Its rich nourishment gave him strength as he rode on, its tongue in one of the panniers behind his saddle to make another meal.
By moonrise he had crossed the Powder. In concealment in an arroyo, he let the stallion rest and caught an hour of sleep himself. Now was his chance to pick up more of a lead.
Full bloods were spooky about traveling at night. That was partly superstition, partly caution. He had no such inhibitions. By now he should have as much as five or six hours advantage over Crazy Horse and his braves.
Broiled tongue, another two hours sleep, rest for Eagle, and he hoped he could widen that. The pine-clad, rolling hills of the country east of the middle Powder had given way to badlands as he struck further south, end-running the great rock barrier through which the notch that was the main entrance to the Hole-in-the-Wall ran. Dawn found weary horse and rider climbing through great, jumbled, brutal hills that dwarfed man and animal alike to the size of insects. Round, humped ridges lik
e enormous whales breeching from the ocean of the plains reared above them; grass was sparse, the only trees stunted juniper; deep arroyos and high scabs of rock made it impossible to strike to a single direction and keep it. This was the southeastern barrier to the basin called the Hole-in-the-Wall, and it was country Sundance had never crossed before. No one in his right mind would have, without overwhelming reason.
Sundance had overwhelming reason, but neither he nor Eagle was made of iron. By ten in the morning the horse was traveling head-down, flanks white with foam, and its rider was swaying with fatigue. And from now on, alertness was everything. Steelman would have guards out on the high ground; Steelman was not a man to take chances. Reluctantly Sundance dismounted, led Eagle into a beetling shelter of overhanging rock, and there, in shade, they rested. The big horse stood guard over him like a faithful dog, ready to give the alarm if wind brought it scent or sound of strangeness while Sundance slept.
Two hours and thirst awakened him. A couple of swallows from the canteen on his saddle and the remainder of the water given to Eagle, who drank from Sundance’s hat, and he was alert again.
