by John Benteen
Getting to his feet, he went to a pile of buffalo chips, brought back a couple and put them on the fire. Then he sat down again.
“Your parents were murdered. You and they’d gone to Bent’s Old Fort to trade, and you stayed to watch the horse races while they headed north again. When you caught up with them, you found them dead. And the signs of six men.”
“Three Pawnees,” Sundance said, “and three drunken white men.” His voice was cold, his eyes bleak, as he remembered.
“Yes. You took up the trail. They split up, but you followed them, hunted them down, every one of them—and they didn’t die easily when they died. You took their scalps.”
“I’ve never taken any since.”
“But those you had to have, and I don’t blame you. Then the war broke out. You had a kind of mad on at the world, all you wanted to do was fight, so you joined the bushwhackers on the Kansas-Missouri border. And you learned everything there was to know about fighting the white man’s way in that hellhole. You came out of that a top-notch gunhand.”
“Get to the point,” Sundance said.
“I’m coming to it now,” Crook said patiently. “If you’ll remember, it wasn’t long after that that we met for the first time. I saw the potential in you then. Here was a man who could be at home in two worlds—the Indian’s and the white’s. A man who could fight with weapons of either kind, and who knew more about Indians, spoke more dialects, than maybe anybody else this side of the Mississippi. And I didn’t want to see you go to waste, not the way the James boys or the Daltons have. In dealing with Indian matters, we, the Army, needed your help. Sherman’s consulted you, Sheridan; they trust you, you have influence with them.”
“I did have, once,” Sundance said bitterly.
“Besides, you and I wanted the same things. To find some way whites and Indians could live together out here, at peace, learn the things each had to teach the other. And we both knew that couldn’t come about without taking Washington, Congress, into consideration.”
“So you introduced me to that lawyer. I hired him to lobby in Congress for the Indians. I’ve been paying him a hell of a lot of money to get as much justice for them as he can, with the President, in the Senate—money I’ve earned with my gun. But it hasn’t been enough. The banks and railroads and land agents have got more.”
“And you’re growing bitter,” Crook said.
“I’ve seen one promise, one treaty, broken after the other. Ten years ago, most of the high plains was Indian country. Now they’re crammed back into the north. All they’ve got left is the Great Sioux Reservation in Dakota, west of the Missouri, and the unceded lands north of the Platte and east of the Big Horn mountains, land never covered by any treaty, never sold or released by the Indians. Yes, by God, I’m bitter.”
Crook nodded. “That’s why, when you passed through Fetterman on your way north, I asked you to make this hunt with me. I wanted to size you up ... and talk to you. How long since you’ve last heard from your man in Washington?”
“A spell. Like I said, I’ve been down in Mexico. I telegraphed him from Laramie to send me a full report at North Platte, thought I’d swing down that way to pick it up, then head for Montana.”
“Well, I can tell you some of the things his report will contain,” Crook said quietly. “Jim, the responsibility for the Indians is being turned over from the Bureau of Indian Affairs to the Army again. Do you know what that means?”
Again that lobo howled. He was answered by another from a distant ridge. The deer liver sizzled in the pan as Sundance looked across the fire at Crook. Instantly, he comprehended the significance of Crook’s words.
“So,” he said at last. “It’s finally happening, eh?”
“It’s happening.”
Sundance stood up. He turned away from the fire, staring into darkness. Then, thickly, he said, “God damn Custer.”
“It’s not all Custer’s fault,” Crook said.
Sundance whirled. “Enough of it is!” he rasped. “The tribes made a treaty with the Government seven years ago at Laramie. They gave up everything else they had, but they were to keep their hunting grounds in Dakota and Montana, and no white man could set foot on it without their permission. Then, last year, Custer and his Seventh Cavalry up at Fort Abe Lincoln ... they weren’t getting enough headlines. So he mounted an expedition, violated the Sioux Reserve, went into the Paha Sapa, the Black Hills, sacred Sioux territory, and then spread word that there was gold there.” His mouth twisted. “That got him headlines, all right. It started a gold rush to the Sioux lands.”
“The Army’s tried to keep the miners out in accordance with the treaty. That’s been my job—”
“And you’ve done it as well as anybody could. But it’s like trying to hold back the Missouri with your hand. They’re coming in anyhow, and so— What you’re telling me now is that the Government’s decided to let them. It’s going to break that treaty too and take the last of the Indians’ hunting grounds.”
“It’s not just the gold,” Crook said. “It’s the railroad, too, the Northern Pacific. It runs as far as Bismarck, Dakota, now. Stopped there because of the financial panic back East, last year and year before. But money’s loosening up now, and it’s ready to go on, and the route’s already been surveyed. Jim, it’s to pass through the unceded lands—the Cheyenne hunting grounds.”
Crook broke off, took the pan from the fire. The liver was done. He sliced it with a hunting knife, forked it onto tin plates. “So they want Dakota for its gold and Montana for the railroad,” he said. “Meanwhile, the Indians won’t stay at the agencies that have been set up for them. They’ve all gone north, into the Sioux Reserve and the unceded lands. Crazy Horse, Gall, Sitting Bull, Two Moons, Tall Calf ... The word is that they’re gathering to talk war.”
Sundance’s voice was low and furious. “Talk war? Hell, man, they’ve got to eat! The damned agents don’t issue half the rations they’re supposed to and cheat the tribes every way they can. What are they supposed to do, starve? There’s no law that says they’ve got to live at the agencies. Under the treaty, they can hunt all through western Dakota and eastern Montana as they please, and they’re killing game for winter—”
“I know that and so do you. But the fact remains that the excuse of war will be used. Soon, the word will be passed for all the tribes to come in from those lands and report to the agencies. And those that don’t, after a decent interval, will be considered hostile and brought in by force.”
“Or wiped out,” Sundance said.
“Yes,” said Crook. “If they fight.”
Sundance stared at him. “Don’t be a fool,” he said. “You know they’ll fight. They’ve given up everything else they had. This is all that’s left. Of course they’ll fight for it. If that order goes out, it’s war all right. Big war. A different kind than anybody’s ever seen before.”
“I know that,” Crook said. “And that’s why I wanted to talk to you. The question is, which side will you be on?”
Sundance sat down. He took the plate of liver that Crook, staring hard at him, passed. But instead of eating, he set it aside.
“I might ask you that same question,” he said.
Crook’s face was grave. “You know the answer. I’ve been a soldier all my life, and when I joined, I took an oath. When war comes ... Well, it will be me from the southwest, I expect, and Custer moving in from the northeast. And both of us will have to do what we are ordered to.”
Then he went on, his voice low and urgent. “But you, Jim—it’s different with you. You don’t have to go anywhere, do anything. That’s why I’m telling you all this in advance. So you’ll have time to get clear, stay out of it.”
Sundance laughed, a metallic sound, like iron chiming on iron. “Stand clear?”
“Have your winter on the Yellowstone with the Cheyennes. Then take your woman and go East. Stay there until it’s over, no matter which way it goes.” His voice rose. “Because I’m afraid,” he said. �
��There was a time when I thought you were so much white man that when the final decision came, there was no need to worry, that you might even ride with me. But then ... this afternoon, when you cut off that bear’s head and put it in the tree. I saw how much Indian you were, too, and it scared me. It made me afraid that someday I might be fighting Cheyennes and see one coming toward me who had yellow hair ... that the last time we see each other might be over gunsights ... ”
He broke off. “The Army would love to have you on its side. You’d be worth a regiment. But it can’t afford to have you on the other side, against it. So, if and when the last big fight comes, I’m begging you, stay out of it. Don’t turn renegade.”
Again Sundance laughed, without mirth. “Renegade,” he said harshly. “I’m half Cheyenne, remember? How can a man fighting with his mother’s people be a renegade?”
Suddenly, Crook looked weary. His shoulders slumped. “Is that what you’re going to do?”
All at once Sundance felt compassion for this man whom he loved like an older brother. He knew how Crook was torn between the oath he had taken and his own love for justice and admiration for the Indians. “Three Stars,” he said in a gentler voice, “I don’t know what I’m going to do. On the day the Army marches on to Indian land, I’ll make my decision. Meanwhile, if there’s any way to keep the Army from marching, I’m going to try to find it.”
“There isn’t,” Crook said. “I’ll tell you that now. The die is cast. Come next spring, it’ll be war.”
Sundance looked at him. Then he nodded. “At least I’ll promise you this much,” he said. “If it comes to that, I’ll never look at you over a gunsight. Never.”
There was silence. Then Sundance picked up his plate. “Let’s eat,” he said. “Tomorrow, I’ll help you lug the meat back to Fetterman. Then I’m on my way to North Platte. It looks like I’ve got a lot to do before winter comes.”
Chapter Three
A leaden sky hung low over the horizon as Eagle, the big appaloosa, came down off the bluffs and loped across the flat toward the town, following the twin fingers of steel rails that glittered dully in the murky light. Alongside the railroad, a line of telegraph poles marched into the distance, the wire above singing in the bitter wind. The same wind roiled dust along North Platte’s main street as Sundance entered it. He slowed the horse, thinking that he would do well to remember what Crook had said.
At Fort Fetterman, they had shaken hands, in a silence strange between two such old friends. Crook’s weathered face had worn a kind of sadness, as Sundance turned away, swung up into Eagle’s saddle. “Jim,” the General said.
Sundance looked at him. “Yes, Three Stars.”
“North Platte. That’s a rough town, not a good place for a man in your mood.” He hesitated, looked embarrassed. “Watch your step,” he finished softly.
Sundance nodded, smiling faintly. “I will. Goodbye, General. I enjoyed the hunt.” Then he had swung Eagle, touched him with moccasined heels. The big horse had rocketed out of the fort, and as they passed through the gate, Sundance had turned in the saddle. Crook still stood before headquarters, one hand half-lifted in farewell.
Now Crook’s warning lingered in Sundance’s mind. North Platte was a hell-town, all right, crammed with railroad men, settlers, soldiers, buffalo hunters, and Indians—Pawnees who had long since thrown in their lot with the floodtide of whites against their bitter enemies, the Sioux and Cheyennes. Attired in cast-off white man’s garb and wrapped in blankets, they lounged between buildings, out of the wind, and followed Sundance with expressionless black eyes. They knew who he was, and because he was a friend of their enemies, he was their enemy, too. He would have to watch them. He turned up the collar of his wolfskin coat against the chill, then let his right hand ride close to his holstered six-gun as he headed for the post office at the center of town.
A long, low log building, it also served as a general store. Inside, a potbellied stove glowed, as bearded buffalo hunters in from the plains and more Pawnees swathed in blankets savored its warmth. Sundance halted just inside the door, sizing up that bunch. Then his eyes came to rest on one man among them who stood out like a sore thumb. The others were the usual ragtag and bobtail of any frontier town, but everything about the lean man in black clothes and horsehide jacket howled gunman.
He, too, was in his thirties, sitting in a chair somewhat apart from the others. His face was thin, almost bony, yet there was muscle aplenty beneath the wool pants and shirt, both the color of ravens’ wings. His hair, the lock of it escaping from beneath a black sombrero, was the color of hemp rope, his eyes a pale, cold blue. Those eyes flicked over Sundance briefly, then moved away. The man rolled a cigar across a curiously red and full-lipped mouth, then sat up straight. He hitched at the thonged-down Colt he wore and threw the cigar into the sandbox around the stove. Then he took out a fresh cigar and clamped it between his teeth.
While he lit it, Sundance went to the window. He gave his name. “I’m expecting a letter from the East.”
The clerk stared at him strangely. “What was that name again?”
“Sundance! Jim Sundance!”
“Oh, yeah. Jim Sundance.” The clerk repeated it loudly, then turned away. “Yeah, you got a letter here.” He came back to the window, passed a thick envelope through. Sundance took it, slipped it in a pocket. When he left the window, the man in black had lit the cigar, was tossing his match into the stove. Sundance was aware of those pale blue eyes on him as he went out.
He left Eagle at the hitch rack with full confidence that nobody would tamper with the gear on the one-man horse and live, and went on down the sidewalk until he reached a saloon. He pushed open the door sealed against the wind, entered a musty room smelling of spilled beer and liquor, stale smoke, and unwashed bodies. There were a few men at the bar, a poker game at a table in the rear. Sundance ordered a drink, took it with him to another table, where his back could be against the wall, sat down and opened the letter from his man in Washington.
Crook had been right. Sundance’s hired lobbyist was as good as they came, a reputable man of vast influence, and over a decade, Sundance had earned with his gun and sent on to him uncounted thousands of dollars. But it was in vain, all in vain.
I wish the news were better, but the fact of the matter is that all that can be done has been done and it is not enough. General Custer’s finding gold in the Black Hills has tipped the balance. So have his letters to the newspapers describing that part of Dakota as a kind of paradise. The truth is, Custer, through his irresponsibility and his desire to build his own reputation, has fallen out of favor with the Army and the War Department. He is desperately trying to stir up an Indian War in which he can regain lost prestige.
And he has an ally. Someone has been pouring great sums of money into Congress in an attempt to procure authority for the Army to break the Indians once and for all. I have been unable to prove this person’s identity, but I have reason to believe it’s George Colfax, banker, financier, and a major force behind the Northern Pacific Railroad. Besides the matter of the railroad right of way, Colfax has personal reason to hate the Indians and want them broken, as you well know, since his daughter has deserted him and chosen to live with the Cheyennes ...
Sundance tossed off his drink, face going bleak. Colfax. He folded the letter, put it in a coat pocket. Yes, Colfax had reason enough to hate Indians ... and Sundance had given it to him. For a moment he had a quick vision of Two Roads Woman, Barbara Colfax: blond hair, blue eyes, a fine skin that not even the prairie sun could harm, a milk-white body beneath her buckskin dress, its curves ripe and full ... He felt a longing, a hunger; he had been apart from her too long.
Then a cold wind blew across him as somebody opened and closed the door. He heard the shuffle of feet, the jingle of spurs, looked up, and suddenly went tense. The men who had just come in were led by the man in black he had seen in the post office, and they were coming purposefully toward his table. Sundance’s right hand slid d
own, resting on his thigh close to the gun, and he shoved back the chair.
“You’re Sundance,” the man in black said, halting before him.
“That’s right.” Sundance’s gaze flickered over him and the two behind him. One was a Pawnee, gunless, but with a knife on his waist; the other was a bearded, shaggy-headed giant with great shoulders and thick arms encased in an old coat too tight for his massive frame. His nose was an oft-broken hulk, his face a square, red chunk of flint like flesh.
“I’m Shell, Austin Shell,” the black-clad man said. His voice was soft, Southern; Texas, Sundance guessed. “We been waitin’ for you.”
“Have you now?” Sundance asked softly.
Shell’s red-lipped mouth smiled faintly. “There’s a man here who wants to see you. He sent us to bring you to him.”
Sundance asked, “Who?”
“That you find out in due time. Come along.”
Sundance also smiled. “Just like that? With you three?”
“Nothing to be afraid of, you come easy. If you come easy, I said.”
“I’ll decide that,” Sundance said. “Let’s put it this way. I’m known in North Platte and I have enemies here. A wolf doesn’t let the trapper lead it by the nose into the steel, and I don’t lead easy, either; I’d rather wait and size up the bait. Tell you what, I like it here, with my back nice and covered by this wall. A man wants to see me, all he’s got to do is come.”
“No,” Shell said. “He doesn’t come to you. You go to him. Willingly, or we take you. Those are our orders. Me, I learned to follow orders in the Confederate army.” His hand dangled loosely by his gun.
“And you know what happened to the Confederate army,” Sundance said. “Tell him to come to me. I’ll see anybody wants to take the trouble.”
Shell’s eyes changed, as the big man stepped out to one side, the Pawnee to the other. “Listen—” he said; but that was when Sundance moved.
