by John Benteen
Wolf laughed harshly. “Siwash, you don’t know Billy Mercer. He’s little, but he’s deadly as a damn rattlesnake. He’s already killed two men in Bootstrap.”
“The hell you say!” Sundance shot a fresh look at the boy in the saddle. Then he nodded. Well, Billy Bonney down in Lincoln County hadn’t been much bigger, much older, when he’d started his bloody career. A Colt, as they said, was a great equalizer.
The boy met his eyes. “It was self-defense both times,” he said. “They drew first. I just was quicker.”
“That’s true,” MacLaurin said. “All the same, he’s a killer. And those cartridges nearly clenched it. But ... God damn it, if what you say’s gospel, Sundance, the Big Fifty Sniper’s still on the loose. Hell … ” His head swiveled. “He could be zeroed in on us right now.”
At that, a ripple of panic went through the crowd. It spread out, seeking the shelter of the cottonwood boles. Wolf, though, stood where he was, unafraid. “I say, go ahead and hang him. If he ain’t the sniper, he’s in with him, or he wouldn’t have had that ammo. Now, dammit, let’s get on with it and yammer with the Siwash later.” He raised the quirt to bring it down on the horse’s rump.
Sundance said quietly, “Hit that horse and you’re a dead man.”
Wolf stared, uplifted right hand frozen. Not even MacLaurin, with his rifle trained on Sundance, had seen the half breed’s draw. One instant his right hand had been in the air, near his shoulder; the next, it held his Colt, lined on Wolf, hammer back. Wolf’s jaw dropped. Then he whispered: “MacLaurin, for God’s sake don’t shoot him.”
“That’s right,” Sundance said. “Use that rifle, MacLaurin, Wolf here’s done for, even if you kill me. Throw down that quirt, Wolf.”
The black eyes glittered. But slowly the big hand unclenched. The quirt dropped at Wolf’s feet. “Move away from the horse,” Sundance said. “Easy. Don’t spook him. You there.” He meant the man at the horse’s head, holding the cheek strap of the bridle. “You stand fast!”
Both men obeyed, the one at the horse’s head rigid, Wolf backing away from the animal’s rump. “Now, MacLaurin,” Sundance said, gun still trained on Wolf, “the decision’s up to you, I reckon. Me, if I was you and wanted to sleep nights, I wouldn’t want a hanged kid on my conscience until I was damned sure he was guilty.”
“Ron,” a woman said from the crowd, “he’s right.”
“Hush, Martha,” MacLaurin said. Sundance gathered it was his wife who’d spoken. But the mayor of Bootstrap stood indecisively for a moment. Then he said, “Orin.”
“Yeah,” said the man holding the bridle.
“Hold that horse tight. Wolf, you behave yourself. Sundance, ride up alongside and cut the rope.”
“Damn it, Ron—!” Wolf exploded.
“This half-breed’s right,” MacLaurin said. “New evidence in like that, we don’t want to act hasty. Maybe we’d better re-open the trial. We find a connection between him and the sniper, he’ll hang as good tomorrow as he will today. Sundance, pouch that iron. Nobody’s going to take a crack at you.”
Sundance looked at him a moment. Somebody said, “Jeez!” as the gun was returned to holster as fast as it had come. Then Sundance stepped the Appaloosa alongside the horse Mercer straddled. A big Bowie rode on his right hip in a beaded sheath; its blade glinted as it sliced the rope.
Mercer looked squarely into Sundance’s eyes. “God bless you,” he whispered, and Sundance saw that the boy was crying. “I’ll never forget this, Mr. Sundance.”
“Now,” MacLaurin said. “Orin, you and Smith and Kelly take the kid back to town. Lock him in the calabozo. Ride fast and zigzag in case the sniper’s decided to come rescue him.”
“Right.” Orin mounted; with two other men, Mercer under guard among them, he pounded out of the grove, headed for Bootstrap. “Now, the rest of you,” MacLaurin said. “Scatter out and head on back to town. No hangin’ today. You women and children, don’t linger to pick daisies, you get under cover quick. You men, keep your eyes peeled and your weapons ready, form a shield around ’em. I’ll be along directly.”
Sundance held the spotted horse tight-reined as there was an exodus from the grove. MacLaurin stood planted, the Winchester still in his hand. So did Wolf.
MacLaurin looked at him. “What you waitin’ for?”
Wolf’s eyes glittered. “Him,” he rasped. “The Siwash. I got business with him.” He stood, feet spraddled, hands dangling at his thighs. “Nobody throws a gun on me by surprise and gits away with it.”
Sundance said, “You don’t want to do that, Wolf. Men with hands as big as yours ain’t usually fast enough.”
“I’m fast enough,” Wolf said. “Don’t you worry about how fast I am, Siwash.”
MacLaurin stepped between him and the half-breed. “That’ll be enough, Wolf. Head back to town. Ride.”
“You may be mayor, MacLaurin, but you don’t give me orders.”
“Maybe I don’t,” MacLaurin said, “but this Winchester does. Now, you heard me. Mount and ride.”
Wolf sucked in breath that swelled his barrel chest. “All right. Two against one. I didn’t know you was such an Injun lover, MacLaurin. Okay, but— Siwash, if I was you, I wouldn’t show my red ass in Bootstrap again. Somebody’s liable to shoot it off of you, and it won’t be the Big Fifty Sniper, neither.” He backed to his tethered horse as Sundance watched tensely, mounted, then lashed the animal and rode out hell-bent for Bootstrap.
Now MacLaurin and Sundance were alone in the grove. MacLaurin sighed wearily. “You’re right. Wolf’s got a bad mouth. All right, Sundance. If you’ve saved me from hanging an innocent man, I’m obliged to you. But that remains to be seen. I’ll ask you to ride back to town with me. We’ll want to examine that saddle and hear your story in detail. Don’t worry about Wolf. I’ll stand good for your protection until you’re ready to ride out.”
“I’m not worried about him,” Sundance said. “But he was sure hell-bent to swing that kid, guilty or not.”
“He had his reasons. It was Wolf’s kid brother Billy Mercer shot two months ago. Clear-cut case of self-defense, like the kid claimed. Besides, Ferd Hargitt had it comin’. Mean as a snake in sheddin’ time. Wolf was gone from here when it happened, or he’d have gunned Billy down right then—if Billy didn’t shoot him first. When he came back, Mercer had cleared out. Now he’s reappeared, with those fifty-caliber rounds in his pocket and—” MacLaurin shook his head. “It’s a mess, Sundance. A rotten mess.”
“Get your horse,” Sundance said. “I’ll ride in with you and answer all questions.” He turned in his saddle, looked at Bootstrap and the shimmering hills beyond. “Me, I’ve got an interest in that sniper, too. The sonofabitch tried to kill me.”
Chapter Two
A sign on a low adobe building in the center of town said: Bootstrap Town Hall. Marshal’s Office. Jail. MacLaurin stayed with Sundance until he had dropped the Appaloosa off at the livery, watched the big stud roll in the corral behind, given strict instructions that he was not to be watered for another half hour. Then a quart of oats, a leaf of hay, no more, no less. The mayor watched as Sundance shouldered two big bullhide parfleches, panniers, that had been slung behind the saddle. One was long, cylindrical, the other round, a yard across. Both were decorated and fringed in Indian fashion. “What’s in those things?” MacLaurin asked curiously.
“Gear that’s important to me,” Sundance answered tersely. Carrying them to the livery office, he dumped them in one corner. His eyes were cold as he looked at the stable man. “I’ll hold you responsible for these, you hear? See that nobody tampers with ’em. They do, it’s your hide.”
The livery man swallowed. “Yes, sir. I’ll keep ’em safe.”
“Good.” Sundance flipped him a five-dollar gold piece. “Okay, lead on,” he told MacLaurin, and they crossed the street to the adobe building.
The man named Orin was there, rifle cradled in his arm. “Mercer’s locked up in the jug.” He jerked a thumb. �
��Back yonder.”
“Much obliged. Now, you go on down to the Bootstrap Bar and have a drink on me. Sundance and I’ll palaver here a spell.”
Orin nodded, went out. Sundance looked around. The room held a desk, a gun-rack, a couple of chairs. The gun-rack was full of Winchesters and shotguns. A door at the rear apparently led to the jail where Orin had put the youngster.
“This is the marshal’s office,” MacLaurin said. “Only we got no marshal. The last two we had, the Big Fifty Sniper cut down. Shot each one square through the badge. So, me, sometimes I’m the marshal, too. The mayor’s office is in the room next door, but this’ll do. Sit.”
Sundance dropped into a chair, but not before turning it so that his back was to a blank wall and he could watch the front door. Sitting behind the desk, MacLaurin noticed that and grinned. “Take no chances, eh?”
“Only when I get paid to.”
MacLaurin opened a drawer of the desk, brought out a bottle and two glasses. “Not the best whiskey in the world, but it won’t rot your gut. Drink?”
“Sure.”
MacLaurin drank, sighed, rubbed his eyes as he settled back in his chair. He was, Sundance judged, in his late forties, ten years older than himself. He had a long, lined face, and there were dark bags beneath his eyes, put there by worry and overwork. “Damn,” he husked, “it’s been a rough two months, Sundance. It’s almost like ... like the wrath of God has been visited on Bootstrap. This sniper. The Paiutes claim he’s not a man at all, he’s an evil spirit. Me, I’m damned near ready to believe it. Well, you’ve seen how he operates—no rhyme or reason. Just sudden, unexpected, vicious death.”
Sundance sipped his drink, savoring its bite. “I’ve been around a long time and I’ve never run into anything like it. When did it start, how many has he killed?”
“Started about two months ago. And ... let’s see.” He opened his desk drawer, took out a sheet of paper. “Seventeen, so far, that we’ve found and know about. There may be more, out there in the desert or up in the Skull Mountains that we don’t. The first killing was our Marshal, then, Luke Buckley. He was headin’ east out of town on horseback, was just clear of the outskirts. One of the Paiutes that live over there in hogans at the edge of town saw it happen. Bullet just picked him up right out of the saddle. We had a doctor here, then, and he dug the slug out—fifty caliber. But we ain’t got a doctor any more. He was comin’ back from a call out at the Bit and Bridoon ranch when the sniper got him, too. He plugged Tom Delahanty, took Luke Buckley’s place, while Tom was investigatin’ the doctor’s murder. He shot down two women hangin’ out their clothes on the edge of town. The Paiutes go out huntin’ rabbits in the brush, you know, and he’s plugged four of them. The other seven were shot here and there—prospectors in the hills, cowboys on the Bit and Bridoon, travelers comin’ in and out of town.” He gestured wearily. “No pattern—just like a mad dog bitin’ at anything that moves.”
“You’ve tried to track him?”
“The first few times. But we got nowhere. Then, after a few more killin’s, nobody would go out against him. The Paiutes wouldn’t help us track him, couldn’t raise a posse. Who wants to ride out when he never knows whether a shot from nowhere’ll blow his head apart the next minute? I tell you, Sundance, we’re in a state of siege. And if it keeps up, it’ll ruin my town.”
“Yours?”
“Well, I’m its founder. I laid it out, promoted it here.”
Sundance’s mouth quirked. “A hell of a place to put a town.”
“Not as bad as it looks like. West of here there’s good range, several large ranches. Josh Middleton’s Bit and Bridoon is the biggest. Then there’s minerals up in the Skulls: a couple of silver mines. They ain’t no Comstock Lodes, but they’re fair small producers, and they need a supply point. And then ... Well, I was gambling, too, on the Lost Pistol mine.”
Sundance sat up straight. “The Lost Pistol?”
“You’ve heard of it?”
“Hell, yes, everybody’s heard of it. Like the Breyfogle and the Lost Gunsight … ”
“Right. About twenty years ago, a party of emigrants got lost down here, and wandered up into the Skulls. One of ’em’s pistol dropped out of its holster while he was riding, and he went back to look for it. It was laying up against some funny-looking black rock. There was more of it all around. He had a hunch, packed it in his saddle bags, carried it on to California with him without saying anything to anybody. When he got there, he had it assayed, and it turned out to be damned near pure silver. He went back to try to locate it and maybe he did, he claimed he did —but the Injuns got him. He was wounded bad, rode out hard and fast, finally come up with a wagon train bound out southwest. A man named Clayton and his family looked after him, and he, knowing he was dying, gave Clayton a map, told him about the mine. After Clayton’s outfit got to California, he organized a syndicate, they came back searching for it. But they never did find it and they fell out among themselves and had a gunfight and Clayton got shot to death. Since then copies of the map have circulated and people swarm all through here year round lookin’ for that mine. It ain’t been located yet, but someday it will be, and when it is, it’ll make the Comstock Lode look like a penny-ante poker game. There’ll be a real silver boom then, up there in the Skulls. And when there is, Bootstrap will do just what its name implies—pull itself up by its bootstraps and become a city, maybe the biggest one in Nevada, maybe bigger than Denver. When that happens, I’ll be on the inside.”
He poured another drink, a kind of fever in his eyes, a fever Sundance recognized. He’d seen it often enough in his time—not just mineral fever, but the obsession of the treasure-hunter, the lost-mine fanatic. They were sprinkled across the West, full of get-rich-quick fever, trading maps, mounting expeditions, always sure that next time they’d find the pot of gold, the vein of silver, at the rainbow’s end. And that fever infected high and low alike: desert rats and sober businessmen. Once you had it, there was no cure for it. Carefully, Sundance said, “You believe in the Lost Pistol mine, eh?”
“You’re damned right I believe in it. And that’s why I built this town. It’s hangin’ on by its fingernails, but when that mine is found, it’ll be a boom town. Got to be, there’s not enough water up in the Skulls to support a town; if there’s to be one, it must be here, right here.” He hit his desk. “Bootstrap!”
He saw the way Sundance looked at him. “You think I’m crazy, eh? Well, in a way I am and in a way I ain’t. I’m not crazy enough to go scramblin’ around up there in the Skulls lookin’ for it. I’ll let somebody else do that, find it and take the profit. Me, I’ll make my fortune out of this town. If there still is a town when that damned sniper gets through!”
“That’s right,” Sundance said. “Every strike I ever heard of, it wasn’t the miners that got rich. It was the merchants that supplied ’em.”
“Exactly.” MacLaurin smiled strangely. “But you still think I’m batty. Well, I’m not, and I’ll tell you why. The Lost Pistol does exist, and it’s as rich as it’s claimed to be. I know, Sundance. And the reason that I know —” he leaned across his desk “—is that I was the assayer that checked out the ore that hombre brought to California in his saddlebags! And it was rich—the richest silver ore I’ve ever seen. And it’s still up there waitin’— ” he swept out an arm “—for the lucky man. And when he finds it, he’ll be a millionaire— and so will I!”
~*~
He broke off, and except for his harsh breathing there was, for a moment, silence in the office. “But the sniper,” he said at last, “has got to be disposed of first. Whoever the bastard is. And we don’t have a clue. Sundance.”
“Yeah.”
“I said I’d heard of you. Most of what I’ve heard’s about you and Indians. As I said, there was talk that you were stirring up the tribes, years ago. Cheyenne, Sioux, all the Plains Indians. Leadin’ them against the whites. They even say that you were at Little Big Horn when Custer got wiped out—and you
were on the Indian side.”
“I can’t help what they say,” Sundance answered. He stood up, held out his glass, and MacLaurin poured another drink. “I didn’t stir up trouble, I tried to damp it down. But … ” his voice was bitter “ … I got nowhere.”
He faced MacLaurin. “I’m half white, half-Cheyenne. My father was an English remittance man who came to live with the Cheyennes. He married a Cheyenne woman and he became a trader among the Indians. All the tribes knew him and trusted him, from the Crees up in Canada to the Yaquis down in Mexico. Growin’ up, I lived with my parents among all the tribes, learned to speak a lot of languages and dialects, got adopted into a lot of bands. I know a lot of Indians and a lot about Indians—”
“More than any other man alive, I’ve heard,” MacLaurin said.
“I don’t know,” Sundance answered. “I was a Cheyenne warrior, a Dog Soldier, yeah. But I’m half white, too. My father gave me a white man’s education himself, and he taught me the white man’s ways even while I was learning Indian ways. All right. I could listen to and understand both sides of the story — the white man’s and the Indian’s. So when hell broke loose on the frontier after the Civil War, I was caught in the middle.”
He paused and now he was the one who was breathing hard. “Goddlemighty, it looked to me like there was room enough out here for everybody! Whites and Indians alike, I couldn’t see why they couldn’t respect each other’s ways, learn from each other, divvy up the land! That was what I worked for, MacLaurin! A square shake for both sides. When I thought it would bring it about, I scouted for the whites, and Sherman and Sheridan used to ask my advice—and take it when they pleased. And for the same reason, sometimes I fought on the side of the Indian people, too, against the whites—I make no secret of that now. And sometimes in between, I hired out at whatever job I could find to make some money—a lot of money.”
