Sundance 3

by John Benteen

  When the last gun had hit the dust, Horne said, “Fair enough. Ride out, Chessman, and take your Tejanos with you.”

  “Horne, you ain’t heard the last of this—”

  “Don’t get any ideas,” Horne said. “I can put a hundred buffalo hunters up against you if it comes to that. Ride!”

  Chessman stared at him, face pale, then red. He snapped another oath, then whirled his horse around. “All right, Goddammit!” he rasped. “Ride, boys.”

  Horne and his son kept their shotguns up until the Texans had wheeled their mounts and pounded off down the street. Then Horne let out a whistling breath, lowered the weapon. “That was close. Okay, Leroy. We won this round.”

  The younger man dropped the muzzles of his shotgun.

  Sundance stood there motionless, looking from one of them to the other. “I thank you,” he said quietly. “I don’t know what this is all about, but you saved my bacon.”

  “That’s right.” Horne came forward. “And don’t you forget it.” He put out a huge, hard hand. “I’m Clyde Horne, Horne Hide and Cattle Company, and this is my son, Leroy. And you’re Jim Sundance, right?”

  “Right.” Sundance shook hands with them.

  “Hickok was through here last month. He told me about you. I’ve been trying to figure out where to get in touch with you ever since. Then, when I was talkin’ to the freight agent this mornin’, he told me about you storin’ money with him. After that, I heard that you and Chessman had had some trouble and he was out to get you. Leroy and me got our shotguns, just in case Chessman beat us to you. We figured if we hung around here, you’d come back for the gold. Where you bound for?”

  “The bank.”

  “Then we’ll walk along with you. No need to worry, we ain’t after your money.”

  “No,” Sundance said, “I guess not. What are you after?”

  Horne grinned. “I’ll tell you that when you’ve done your business. Then you come to my office and we’ll talk. But this much I’ll say now: I’ve got a proposition for you, Sundance, and if you take it, come next year, you’ll be a rich man.”

  Sundance looked from Horne to Leroy. He was not sure he liked the cut of their jibs, but they had saved him and seven thousand dollars, and— You’ll be a rich man.

  “All right,” he said. “Walk along with me. Then we’ll talk.”

  When the money was on its way East, Sundance and the two Hornes left the bank, walked back down Douglas Street. Ahead, the railroad tracks glittered in the sun; a string of cattle cars was in place, and cowboys whooped and hollered as they worked longhorns from the pens into them. Beyond, on the holding grounds along the Arkansas, the Cowskin, Nin-nescah, and all the way to Chisholm Creek, the flats were dark with Texas cattle. At the same time, the reek of rotting buffalo hides grew stronger. They were almost under the vast piles of them now, heaped around the long, low building that was HORNE HIDE & CATTLE CO.

  Horne did not even seem to notice the stench. He spoke to a dozen hard-faced, bearded men lounging around the yard who seemed equally oblivious to it; Sundance recognized them as buffalo hunters. Then Horne opened the front door of the building, motioned Sundance in. An outer office was filled with clerks and more of the hunters, at least another five or ten. They looked at Sundance curiously as Horne led him to a door across the room. “My private office,” the big, gray man said. “We’ll talk here.”

  They went in. There was a roll top desk, its cover up, a safe, three or four chairs. Horne gestured Sundance to one of them, and Sundance sat down. Leroy hitched at his guns, put up his Greener in a rack, and took another chair, across from Sundance. Horne sat down behind the desk. “Drink?”

  “No,” said Sundance. “Too early.”

  “Good. Never drink in the morning myself. Don’t much like a man who does.” Horne propped his feet on the desk. Then he said: “Hickok told me a lot about you. Mind if I run over it to see if I’ve got it straight?”

  “Go ahead,” Sundance said.

  “Okay. I know how your daddy took up with the Cheyennes, how you grew up among all the tribes. They say you speak more Indian languages, know more about the different redskin customs than anybody out here. Say, too, that you’ve served as adviser to the Government on Indians. To the generals, anyhow. Sherman, Sheridan, Crook.”

  “Yes,” said Sundance. “I’ve scouted for them, know them all. They call me in sometimes.”

  “But the tribes trust you, too.”

  “Most of ’em,” Sundance said. “Some don’t trust anybody with white blood in him anymore.”

  Horne shrugged. “Way things are. Anyhow, I hear from Wild Bill that you’re a prime fighting man. They say back when you were a kid, six men killed your mama and daddy out on the prairie north of Bent’s Old Fort. Three drunk Injuns and three white drifters. You found the bodies, way Hickok tells it, went after ’em. He says it took a year, but when that year was up, they were all dead, the hard way. And that you’ve got their scalps.”

  Sundance didn’t answer, but he thought of the hair dangling from his shield. Horne went on. “After that, the war broke out. You fought all over Kansas and Missouri, with guerrillas. Anyhow, you came out of that a first-class gunslinger.”

  Sundance spread his hands.

  “Hickok swears it, swears you’re the best he’s ever seen. Knowin’ him, I’ll take his word.” Horne took his feet down, sat up straight. “Anyhow, it all boils down to this. You’re a fighting man, they say. The best. And you know Injuns. Nobody knows ’em better than you do.”

  Sundance said, “So?”

  “Your gun’s for hire. Word I get is, you’ll hire to either side. Whites against the Injuns, or Injuns against the whites, whoever’ll pay you best.”

  “It depends,” Sundance said.

  “On what?”

  “On what the job is.”

  “I told you,” Horne said. “This job is one that’ll make you rich.” He leaned forward. “What’d you bank today—seven thousand? What I’m talkin’ about will pay you ten times that, twenty, in the next two years.”

  Sundance sat up straight. Horne grinned. “Grabs you, huh?”

  “You just mentioned my kind of money, yeah.”

  “All right,” Horne said. “Let’s get down to cases.” He rose, went to the window, gestured at the mountain of stacked skins. “Horne Hide and Cattle Company. Look at it, Sundance. There’s ten thousand buffalo hides out there, waitin’ to be shipped soon as the cars come in.”

  “They won’t bring much,” said Sundance thinly. “This is the wrong season, the hair’s slipping. Fall’s the time to take buffalo hides.”

  “That don’t matter. I’ll get something for these, make a little profit. But that ain’t the point. There’s the point!” He gestured again, and, through the glass, Sundance saw the lead steers of a Texas trail herd cross the track, great long-horned brutes all the colors of the plains.

  “Beef!” Horne said. “I deal in hides, yeah. But beef is where the money lies, Sundance, and I deal in that, too, buy cattle, ship ’em.”

  He jerked his thumb at the hides. “It all ties together, don’t you see? It don’t matter what time of year they’re killed—the buffalo. The main thing is to get rid of ’em! Because every buff that’s killed off means a steer can graze. And means, too, that the Injuns are that much closer to knucklin’ under. And when the buffalo and Injuns are gone”— He drew in a long, gusty breath— “that’s when the real fortunes will be made!”

  He strode forward. “Look how much good range’s still blocked off from the cattle trade by buffalo and Injuns. The Nations south of here, part of Texas, most of Wyomin’, not to mention part of Kansas, Colorado, Nebraska, all the way clear up through Dakota Territory! Miles and miles of prime range, just waitin’ for cows and sheep to fatten on it while folks back East howl for beef and wool and mutton! And now it all goes into buffalo meat for Injun guts!”

  Sundance said, “That might be one way to look at it.”

  “It’s th
e way I look at it. I buy buffalo hides all year round, profit or loss, it makes no never mind. Anything to keep the hunters out, killin’ buffalo to make room for cattle. The more range there is, the more herds come to Wichita, the more profit I make. And now . . . now, there’s something even bigger.” He looked at Sundance keenly for a moment. Then he opened his desk drawer, took out a couple of sheets of paper. “Sundance,” he said, “I’m going to let you in on something. Read that.”

  The letter was written in a flamboyant masculine hand. Dated ten days before, its heading was: Fort Abraham Lincoln, Dakota Territory.

  Dear Friend Horne,

  Having just returned to this post, I have your letters in hand re my indebtedness. Unfortunately, I am not now in a position to do anything for you in a material way. However, I think you will find the news in this letter of sufficient importance to warrant your canceling my notes which you now hold. To that end, I send it by special messenger authorized to negotiate with you. Upon your turning over those notes to him, he will give you the second page of this letter. Which, I assure you, will be worth a fortune to you.

  Sundance changed pages.

  I have just returned from an expedition into the Black Hills of western Dakota, its purpose both to discipline the Sioux and to explore the area, which, as you know, has been sealed off by treaty with the redskins. We met no Sioux. However, we did make a discovery which will change the entire picture in Dakota Territory.

  Friend Horne, we discovered gold in the Black Hills, vast quantities of it! Indeed, the very grassroots are full of it! And treaty or no, I intend to make this discovery public very soon. But not until I have your word that your plans to capitalize on it and turn it to your own profitable benefit are complete. Please rush any action on this news you intend to take; you are on the ground floor ahead of everyone. When I have heard from you, I will make the discovery public. Meanwhile, I think you will find this ample repayment for the courtesies you have extended me. Yours, etc... Sundance looked at the signature. The letter was signed; George Armstrong Custer, Major General, U.S.A. (Brevet), Commanding, Seventh Cavalry.

  “Well?” Horne asked, voice rising, eyes gleaming. “Well?”

  Sundance folded the letter, handed it back, feeling his face tighten into a mask. “That stupid bastard,” he said.

  “What?” Horne straightened up, blinking. “Custer,” Sundance rasped. “The damned fool has just signed his death warrant.” “Wait a minute—”

  Sundance stood up. “The Black Hills,” he said, “are sacred to the Sioux. The Paha Sapa, they call ’em, and it’s where all the tribe’s medicine comes from, where their gods live. They’ve given up a lot of other land in return for the Government’s promise that no white man will ever be allowed to set foot in the Black Hills. And now, Custer— What this means is war up North. If he makes that announcement, every Teton Sioux in Dakota will band together, the Oglala, the Hunkpapa, the Brules, all of them. The miners will start pouring in, and the Sioux will fight. Custer will be in the middle of it, and he’ll live to regret the day he wrote this letter!”

  Horne looked at him narrowly. “That’s the way I figure it. But that’s beside the point. The point is, the minute Custer hits the headlines with that announcement, there’s gonna be a hell of a gold rush to Dakota.”

  “They won’t find much gold,” Sundance said. “Not in the grassroots, anyhow. Custer’s lying. He was looking for a fight to make some headlines. The Indians wouldn’t give him one, so he took another tack. He can’t stand not being in the newspapers. There may be gold there, but it’s in hardrock, deep in the ground, not placer stuff and dust.”

  “I told you, that didn’t matter,” Horne said and grinned. “But—You want to hear the rest of it now?”

  “Yes.”

  “All right. Come with me. There’s something I want to show you.” He led the way to another door. Sundance followed and Leroy, hitching at his guns, hulked along behind. They entered a warehouse, a storeroom; and then Sundance stopped short as Horne gestured to what occupied its center.

  “You know what that is, Sundance?” he almost crowed.

  Sundance stared at the stubby, ugly gun on its two-wheeled carriage, its gravity-fed magazine protruding high above its fat multiple barrel, a hand crank sticking from its breech. He felt a strange coldness, as if a blizzard wind had blown through the room. “I know what it is,” he said. “It’s a Gatling gun.”

  Horne walked over to the gun and touched its barrel. His eyes glowed as he looked at Sundance. “That’s right,” he said, “a Gatling gun. I got it from Custer last year as part payment on the poker debt he owed me from when he was stationed here in Kansas. He gave it to me, wrote it off the government records. And this thing, Sundance, handled right, will throw one thousand slugs a minute!” His grin widened. “Now, you begin to see?”

  “Not yet.”

  “You will.” They went back to the office. Horne began to pace. “Gold,” he said. “I don’t give a damn about the gold. Fools hunt for gold, wise men sell the fools what they need and get rich.” He grabbed the letter, waved it. “When Custer makes that announcement, every miner in the west will hit Dakota Territory! Thousands of ’em!”

  “And the Army will chase ’em back out again,” Sundance said. “It’s obligated to, under treaty terms.”

  Horne laughed. “Don’t you be a fool, too! Who is the Army in Dakota? Custer!” His face hardened. “No, Sundance. Once the gold rush starts, that’s it. Not the Army, not the Sioux, not all the devils in hell can keep gold-hungry men out of there. If you don’t believe it, look at what happened to Sutter out in California when Marshall found gold on his land. Sutter owned an empire—but the forty-niners ran him off of it and took it over. Nobody can hold land when there’s a gold rush!”

  Sundance said, being carefully casual, “That might be true. Anyhow, where do I come in? And the Gatling gun?”

  “On the fat end of the stick if you take my deal!” Horne struck his desk. “You know how buffalo hunters operate? They go out, find a herd, take a rest for their rifles, and if they shoot clean every time, they can knock out maybe twenty, thirty, even fifty animals before the herd stampedes. And that’s with a Sharps single shot!” He laughed softly. “The Dakotas are one of the last big buffalo ranges left. The size of the summer herds up there, you could shoot all day with a Sharps and never make a dent in ’em. But, Sundance, suppose you got that Gatlin’ gun into position on a herd of two thousand, three. A gun that shoots from six hundred to twelve hundred big slugs a minute! You could wipe a herd like that near plumb out before it even knew what hit it! A thousand, two thousand prime buffalo hides in an afternoon, a whole wagon train full of ’em! And the best part is, that every time you killed a buffalo, you’d make room to graze a steer!”

  “I’m beginning to understand,” said Sundance.

  “Of course you are! Thousands of miners pouring into the Black Hills! And men need meat! The Army reinforced to watch ’em, and it needs meat, too! We slaughter buffalo, take the hides, sell the meat! Everything turns into money! And as we clear the range, Leroy here brings up cattle from Kansas to take their place. When the buffalo are gone, the range is full of cattle, Clyde Horne’s cattle! And when the miners want meat, they’ve got to buy it from Clyde Horne!”

  “And the Sioux?” Sundance said. “What are they supposed to do while all this goes on.”

  “What difference does it make what they do? Do you think that Gatling gun’s choosy? It’d as soon kill Sioux as buffalo! Let ’em come! A few good doses of that gun in yonder, and they’ll beg for mercy!”

  He paused. “Anyhow, that’s where you come in, Sundance. Your job is to take care of the Injuns. I’m putting together a column, Sundance, an expedition. A hundred of the toughest buffalo hunters and skinners and teamsters I can lay my hands on. Outfitting them with all the repeating rifles and ammo they can use. Plus fifty wagons. And I’m sending along the Gatling gun! I’ll be rolling in a week, and when the miners ge
t there, they’ll find me waiting. And what I want you to do is take charge of that column! No Sioux’s gonna get the jump on you, and you’ll know how to use that gun in yonder to the best advantage. You do that, Sundance, you’ve got thirty percent of all the profits. And two years from now, if you ain’t made two hundred thousand dollars, I’ll eat that buckskin shirt of yours!” He broke off, breathing hard. His gray eyes fixed Sundance’s black ones. “Well?” he asked. “Well, what do you say?”

  Chapter Three

  “I say, no,” Sundance answered.

  Horne blinked. The room was silent for a moment. Then Horne said, “What?”

  “No.”

  “Now, wait a minute . . .” Horne made a gesture. “We’ll leave aside the fact that you’d be dead now if it wasn’t for me and Leroy. But...” Then he smiled. “Oh, that’s it. You want some money up in front. Cash on the line. Well, that can be arranged, too. What about five thousand as a starter?”

  “Sorry,” Sundance said.

  Leroy Horne shuffled around to face him. The younger man’s square features, harsh and rugged, twisted. His eyes, gray and deep-set, were like two polished steel balls. “Sundance—” he began.

  “Hold it, Leroy. All right, Sundance.” Horne’s voice was sharp. “Ten thousand on the line and thirty-five percent.”

  “Make it a million and the answer’s still the same.” Sundance looked from Horne to Leroy, then back again. “It’s not my kind of deal.”

  “Dammit, Hickok said—”

  “There’s a lot about me Hickok don’t know. Sure, my reputation is that I hire my gun to the highest bidder, red or white, and I don’t care which. But the word that gets around is wrong, Horne. The kind of jobs I hire out for are ones that’ll maybe build a peace, not tear it down. This”— He gestured to the letter—“will blow the whole Dakota Territory plumb apart. It stinks, Horne. It stinks like your goddamned off-season buffalo hides rotting in the sun out there. And if you try it, you and your men will be rotting, too. Because the Sioux will kill you.”