Sundance 12

by John Benteen

  “You!” The word exploded from Billy Mercer. “You’re the seventh man! You killed my father—!”

  “That I did.” MacLaurin swung backhanded, as, forgetting her bound hands, she ran at him. Her head snapped around and she landed hard in the dust. “And you mind your manners, missy, or you’ll get what he got right away instead of later. You’d be dead by now anyhow, if Sundance hadn’t saved you from hangin’.”

  He faced Sundance, eyes glittering; it was obvious that he was not quite sane: the silver-madness, Sundance thought. “When Fowler,” he said hoarsely, “the original discoverer of that mine, brought me the silver for assay in California, I knew then and there that I wouldn’t rest until I had the Lost Pistol for myself. I tried to make a deal with him, but he wouldn’t listen, went back into the Skulls himself and the Injuns got him. Then Clayton showed up, with Fowler’s map, started organizing his syndicate. You bet I joined in a hurry. But you think I aimed to share my mine with all them people? Hell, Fowler would never have known how rich it was in the first place, if I hadn’t told him. Anyhow, when we got up here and I had my chance, I slipped cyanide in the grub—I’ve always carried some for assaying. It killed ’em all, but to make sure, I shot each one in the back of the head. Then I took Clayton’s map, struck out on my own to git the mine.”

  Rage trembled in his voice. “It took me two years of searchin’, rottin’ up here in the hills, nearly dyin’ of thirst and hunger and heat, before I realized the sonofabitch had double-crossed me. That map wasn’t complete, and when I killed him, I killed the missin’ part. I ... I almost went crazy, then. But I set down and figured. And I figured that the only people who could have an original map would be Clayton’s wife and daughter. So I went lookin’ for ’em. But by then y’all had pulled out, left California. I went after you, but I was always one jump behind. Then your trail played out, and finally I gave up. That was when I come here and laid out Bootstrap. I knew sooner or later that map would surface and somebody would come here and use it, and once they did ... I aimed to get my hands on that mine, no matter what.”

  Billy had lurched to her feet, was staring at him with rage and horror. MacLaurin went on, carried away now, boasting, directly to Sundance.

  “The sniping started, and I realized somebody else had found the mine and it nearly drove me crazy. I didn’t dare go up there after the sniper, but I knew I could make him come to me if I could get my hands on all the ammo for that Big Fifty. So I did— and it worked.”

  He glanced at Billy.

  “Later, we found out it was her told him where it was. He’d wanted her to bring him cartridges and she had to explain why she couldn’t. So Wolf—he’s worked for me a long time on the sly—and I caught him cold when he broke into the marshal’s office one night, looking for bullets. And then it was either work with us or die as far as he was concerned. Because we were his only source of ammo and supplies. Of course, if he’d had the map with him that night, we’d just have killed him right off. But he didn’t, so we had to come up here with him and he showed us the mine. And it was clear that he needed us and we needed him … ”

  “I don’t get it,” Sundance said. “Why’d you want to ruin your own town? Once you knew where the mine was, why didn’t you just kill Galax and file a claim yourself?”

  “Because it was too early,” MacLaurin said. “There was still a fortune to be made, and not just out of the mine—out of Bootstrap. I owned all of Bootstrap when I laid it out, Sundance—and then I sold it off, bit by bit. Too cheap, too damned cheap. Lots I sold for a hundred dollars in the beginnin’ would be worth five, ten thousand, maybe more, when word of the discovery of the Lost Pistol got out. Bootstrap itself would be worth near as much as the mine.”

  “I see,” Sundance said thinly. “You wanted the Sniper to make a ghost town out of it. Then you’d buy it back cheap and once the discovery of the Lost Pistol was finally announced—”

  “Sell it again and be half a million, maybe more, richer overnight. There’s nothing like land prices in a silver rush, Sundance. And that money would give us capital to develop the mine ourselves, not have to sell any of it.

  “So,” he said, “we had to wait to register the claim until the sniper had destroyed Bootstrap. Then Wolf and me would cut off Galax’s ammo, take him, bring him in and be big heroes for rubbing out the Sniper. We’d register the Lost Pistol, sell the town again when the rush started, and be sittin’ pretty. The way I’ve dreamed of, for twenty years.”

  His mouth twisted.

  “But this slut was a joker in the deck. She was seein’ Galax, and he was gettin’ what he needed off of her—and we were afraid he’d spill the beans to her about us. Besides, she knew where the mine was, and we didn’t want to risk her gettin’ there ahead of us by a slip-up. So we sicced two gunmen on her and she killed ’em both. Then we hustled her through for a hangin’, but you balked that. On top of which, you made that offer to find the sniper, and if I’d turned you down, I’d have tipped my hand to the town.”

  “So the easiest way to get rid of both of us was to send us up here against Galax, figuring he’d kill us.”

  “He would have, too, if you hadn’t run into those rock rats and got hold of a Big Fifty,” Wolf Hargitt cut in. “But me, I’m kinda glad it worked out the way it did. Glad we come up here as insurance against a slip-up. Now you’ve taken care of Galax for us, and I, by God, will take care of you. Both of you.”

  His eyes shuttled to the girl.

  “But first we got a use for you, Siwash. Ordinarily, I’d have dropped you the minute I had you in my sights. But that damned fool Galax didn’t know nothing about mining. He was picking away at the shaft this week and he caused a cave-in. Well, Siwash, you’re gonna clear it for us. The way it’s layin’, it’s risky as hell. I’m not about to take a chance of the roof droppin’ in on me. If it falls in on you, I won’t cry too damned hard. But it’s cuttin’ us off from a fortune in high-grade silver ore Galax already picked out and had stored in the mine. So ... maybe you get a few extra days to live. But, damn your red nigger’s soul, you’re gonna pay for every day with the hardest work you’ve ever done!”

  Uncoiling a rope from a saddle, he laid aside his weapon. “Watch ’im, Ron.” Cutting off a length of rope, he hobbled Sundance’s ankles, leaving only about a foot and a half of slack between them. Then, with a Bowie, he cut the ropes on the half-breed’s wrists. “And you’re gonna start right now! Now, git in there!” And he shoved Sundance roughly toward the mine.

  Chapter Nine

  So this was the fabled Lost Pistol mine, Sundance thought as Hargitt prodded him into the hole with the rifle. It was hardly more than a crudely gouged-out cave high as a man’s head, maybe seven, eight feet wide, picked-and-shoveled into the hard wall of the mountain by an amateur. It was, in fact, so shallow that enough sunlight fell in to show Sundance the rock-fall itself, only about eight feet from the entrance. Then he stiffened, staring at the black veins and streaks in the sides of the shaft and in the pile of rubble. No miner, he nevertheless recognized nearly pure silver in its natural, unrefined state— and the Lost Pistol was shot full of it, every bit as rich as the stories claimed!

  Which, he thought bitterly, would do neither Billy Mercer nor the Indians one damned bit of good now. But he wasted no time berating himself for having let himself be caught. What he had to do now was figure some way out of this mess. But for the moment, he could think of nothing. All his weapons were stacked well across the bench, his legs were hobbled, and Wolf Hargitt squatted in the entrance to the shaft with a leveled Winchester.

  “Now, Siwash, you’re gonna haul that stuff out, barehanded, and stack it out there on the bench. Then, if you’re a good boy, we’ll let you put new shorin’ in tomorrow. And—” Wolf chuckled throatily “—when that’s done, we’re finished with you. And then ... I can’t make up my mind. Use the knife, or use a Big Fifty to shoot you to pieces bit by bit. Likely a knife. Sharps ammo’s powerful expensive. Now, git to wor
k!”

  There was nothing for it. Sundance pitched into the rock pile, wrenching loose big chunks, lugging or wrestling them toward the entrance, tussling them out on the bench. It was hard work, and dangerous; one wrong move could bring down a new cave-in on his head. Once several big chunks of rock did fall, but he managed to jump clear, awkwardly because of the hobbles, just in time.

  Wolf never moved farther inside than the entrance. As the light shifted, he ignited torches, set them in brackets on the wall. Sundance looked at their blazing heads, itched to seize one, ram it in Wolf’s face. But that would be suicide .

  Presently Wolf called: “MacLaurin!”

  When he appeared, Hargitt said, “Take over now, for a while. Me, I got business with that hunk of stuff out yonder.”

  “Make it quick,” MacLaurin said. “You got to cut that new shoring for the shaft and haul it up here,”

  “Hell, the Siwash can cut it.”

  “No,” MacLaurin said. “Haven’t you learned your lesson about this man yet? He doesn’t get his hands on an ax—not on any kind of weapon.”

  “Okay,” Hargitt grunted. “But first I have my fun.” They traded places, MacLaurin squatting in the entrance, covering the half-breed with a Colt. Wolf shambled out, grinning lewdly.

  Sundance stood rigid. “MacLaurin, goddammit, have a little mercy on the girl … ”

  MacLaurin grinned faintly. “Why? She’s got to die anyway, just like her old man did.” The grin faded and the Colt clicked back to full cock. “Get to work, Sundance. And don’t get any ideas. I ain’t as hairy as Wolf, but I’m twice as mean. And twice as smart. Any time you think I’m softer, remember: I poisoned six men and watched ’em die. And I may not be a Jeff Galax, but I’ve been around long enough so that when I shoot at something as big as you, I don’t miss ... You make a break, you’re dead.”

  Sundance let out breath, turned back to the rock pile. Outside, on the bench, Billy Mercer screamed. “No! No, damn you, let go of me!”

  Sundance’s hands tightened on a rock as the screaming went on for a moment, then died in a sobbing moan. After that, there was silence. It endured for a good ten minutes. Then there was only the sound of a girl crying softly. Sundance went on lugging rock.

  Wolf reappeared in the entrance, buckling on his gun belt. “Damn, what a wildcat! Well, me I like ’em full of chili peppers. Tamin’ ’em makes it more fun. I’m goin’ to cut that shorin’ now, MacLaurin.” He disappeared, and presently Sundance heard the sound of an ax in the junipers along the edge of the bench.

  “Keep moving, Sundance,” MacLaurin said.

  He did, with no alternative. By noon, his hands were swollen, bleeding, from the punishment of moving the sharp stones ungloved; he could hardly flex his fingers. His heart sank. Even if he could get his hands on a weapon, he doubted if he could use one. “Look, MacLaurin, what about lettin’ me put on my gauntlets? At least wrap my hands.”

  MacLaurin grinned at the skinned and puffed fingers, the scraped palms. “You just keep on at it barehanded. Another hour and you won’t even be able to hold a sixgun. I like it better that way. Don’t worry, Sundance. By dark tomorrow night, you won’t feel a thing. Believe me.”

  Now Sundance had half the rubble cleared away. Through the hole he’d made, he saw the rest of the shaft—hardly more than another ten feet gouged into the mountain, its far end stacked with a pile of ore that was almost unbelievable in its richness. And, he could see, the vein, rich and deep, went on into the mountain.

  What was left of the rockslide centered around a huge boulder that had fallen from the roof. “Now,” MacLaurin ordered, “get that big rock out.”

  Sundance tugged at it, but it would not move. MacLaurin watched in silence for a moment as his efforts continued. “Hell,” he said at last. “Get behind it and push it.”

  Sundance looked up at the uncertain roof. It was cracked and jagged, and tons of rock might cascade down at any moment, burying him alive.

  “Move!” MacLaurin snapped.

  Carefully, Sundance crawled over the pile of rock, deeper into the shaft. As he wriggled across the rubble on his belly, he froze for a pair of seconds, staring.

  They lay there on the mineshaft floor, behind the rock pile, their brass hulls glinting in the torchlight—three rounds for a 50-caliber Sharps. Left there by Jeff Galax, certainly, and irretrievable because of the fall of rock.

  Heart beating faster, Sundance squirmed down to the far side of the slide. His battered hands, as he did so, fumbled with the bullets. If they had been .44 or .45 cartridges, he could not even have picked them up. But the fat, long Big Fifty rounds were large enough for his wounded fingers to grip.

  MacLaurin had stood up, to watch him more closely. Sundance squirmed, dropping the cartridges in his jacket pocket. It seemed to take forever and he was sure MacLaurin must have seen him do it, but apparently he had not. Sundance drew in breath. What good those three bullets would do him, he had no idea. But they were the closest thing to a weapon he had so far. And maybe, just maybe, he could find a use for them. His mind worked swiftly as he shoved at the rock.

  It took a long time to get it out of the way. By the time, exhausted, hands bloody horrors, he had it out on the bench, Wolf had reappeared, was building a fire. “Man,” he said, grinning at Billy Mercer, “the exercise I had this mornin’ sure give me an appetite.”

  The girl, still bound, her clothes almost in shreds, turned her dust and tear-stained face away.

  “Better let the Siwash knock off a while, Ron,” Wolf continued. “Don’t want him to die from overwork. I got other plans for him.” His mouth twisted. “And you standin’ there that night and lettin’ him beat me down without raisin’ a finger.”

  “I told you,” MacLaurin said. “It was for your own good. If you’d gone up against him with guns, you’d be dead by now.”

  “Maybe.” Wolf grinned, staring at Sundance’s hands. “But I bet you could put a Colt in his fist right now and he couldn’t even pull the trigger.”

  “That’s the way we want him,” MacLaurin said. “All right, Sundance. You can knock off for a spell. You sit right there by the fire, where we can watch you.”

  Meekly, obediently, Sundance did, his whole body aching with the reaction to the brutal work he’d done this morning. But his mind was clear, still functioning, and, covertly, he surveyed the camp Hargitt and MacLaurin had set up.

  They had left nothing to chance. All the gear and weapons taken from him and Billy were piled far away; there was no chance of even getting near them without being immediately slaughtered. The horses had been tied at even a farther distance. The only weapons within reach were those his two captors wore or held, and, especially with his stiff and bloody hands, there was no chance of seizing those.

  Sundance twisted. Hargitt had chopped a hole in the screen of junipers along the bench. Sundance could see now that, past the rim, the slope fell away sharply, cluttered with rock, boulders, gashed with draws. Plenty of fine cover, if a man could only get into it. But, weaponless, with feet bound and hands almost ruined, it would do him no good.

  Wolf cooked side meat, beans, made coffee. The portion he gave Sundance was skimpy, and the half-breed ate it all; Wolf and MacLaurin laughed at the way he gobbled it off the plate like a dog, unable to manage a spoon with his swollen fingers. He tried to move his body as little as possible, to keep those cartridges in his pocket from clicking together.

  Finished, Wolf wiped his beardy mouth with the back of his hand. He looked at Sundance a moment, strangely, then grinned. “Fire’s gettin’ low,” he said, got up and walked to the pile of weapons far down the bench. When he returned, he carried Sundance’s bow, arrows, and—Sundance stiffened —the Big Fifty Sundance had taken off the rock rat and used on Galax.

  “Cheap firewood,” Wolf said, and he threw Sundance’s bow into the flames.

  Sundance made a sound in his throat. Wolf saw the flare in his eyes, laughed. “And more where that come from.” He tosse
d the arrows into the fire. Their dry wood and feathers blazed up immediately.

  Then Wolf inspected the Sharps, opening the breech, making sure it was empty. He looked through the bore. “Man, this is a fine gun. This is the one I’ll use to do the snipin’ with, Ron.”

  “Yeah.” MacLaurin passed it back. Seeing the expression on Sundance’s face, he grinned. “The real sniper’s dead, but Bootstrap don’t know that. So Wolf takes over—until the town’s plumb empty. Wolf, I’ll bring up a scope sight next trip, and we’ll boresight her in.” And now Sundance waited, hand in pocket, knowing what he would do if he only got the chance.

  “Good. Lessee what else the half-breed had in his gear.” Wolf leaned the gun against a rock across the fire, breech open, shambled across the bench. Colt in hand, MacLaurin drank coffee, watching Sundance over the rim of the cup.

  Sundance sorrowfully took his hand from his pocket, reached for the bow that lay across the flames. It was already half burned through. He picked it up, but MacLaurin jerked the gun. “Put it back, half-breed. You’ll never use it again anyhow.” He watched as Sundance slid the flaming piece of wood back on the fire, then drained his cup. Sundance released the round of ammunition he had painfully managed to palm as he laid down the bow. It fell into the fire, pointed in MacLaurin’s direction.

  “Hey, Ron. What you reckon this is?” Across the bench, Wolf raised high the otter skin medicine bag, sacred to Sundance. “Looks like a damned dead rat. Some kinda Injun witchcraft. Well, I allow it’ll burn ... And this.” He picked up the shield with his other hand.

  Wolf was tearing into the medicine bag, now, violating everything sacred to the half-Cheyenne. Sundance fought down his rage, waiting, every muscle tensed.

  “Dammit, Hargitt,” MacLaurin snapped, “let that stuff go. It’s time to git back to work. We-”