Sundance 7

by John Benteen

  “Oh, very well …”

  “Now,” said Jane, “y’all ride on down, and good luck. I’ll see you later. Oh, hold on. One thing more, Lady Bucknell.” She rode up alongside Doris’s mount, reached in the saddle bag and pulled out a whiskey bottle. “Might as well have a little jolt or two while I’m waitin’ …”

  Doris Bucknell laughed. Then she said, “Come on, Jim.” She too used the first name easily. And she followed close behind Sundance as he put the Appaloosa down the slope toward Deadwood.

  Chapter Four

  Winding down a precipitous skein of trails past occasional cabins on the mountainside, presently they reached the town, coming out almost directly behind the heavy-walled log building that was the bank. Rounding its corner, Sundance rode tensely, hand close to his Colt. Behind him, Doris kept her head bent and the hat pulled well over her eyes. Her golden hair was tucked up under it without a lock escaping.

  “All right,” Sundance said, satisfied the coast was clear. He swung down, looped Eagle’s reins around the rack. Doris followed suit, her boots clumping on the board sidewalk, and they went into the bank.

  Like their bars and whorehouses, miners demanded service from their bank around the clock, and it would be open until nearly twilight. Its president ran suspicious eyes over Sundance, then said to Doris, “Calamity, what do you want in here? I—” He broke off as Doris pulled off the hat and her golden hair fell down around her shoulders. “Lady Bucknell!”

  “That’s right, Mr. Hayes. Mr. Sundance and I have some business to transact. In your private office, if you please.”

  Hayes blinked, but he led the way. In there, the transfer of money was soon accomplished, although Hayes seemed dubious about the whole thing. It was obvious that he could barely resist warning Doris Bucknell not to put so much money in the keeping of what was obviously a half-wild mixed blood, but he held his peace. And when Sundance, crisply and with a thorough knowledge of business procedures, arranged for the money to go to Washington, the man’s manner changed. He was respectful when he ushered both of them to the front door.

  Before they went out, Sundance cracked it and checked the street. He saw no sign of Drury, nothing to alarm him, but that did not mean much. “All right, Doris. Mount up, in a hurry, and 111 cover you. Head straight for the hotel and straight up to your room, 111 be right behind. We don’t want to give Drury any more of a chance at you than we can help.”

  He liked the way she obeyed now without question, putting her trust in him. She went quickly to the horse, swung up easily, and spurred it, sending it plunging through the deep mud. Sundance was already on Eagle, following, hand on his Colt, eyes shuttling from side to side. But the Deadwood House was only a few hundred yards away, a two-story frame building freshly painted, nestled against the side of the mountain. “I’ve got my key,” Doris said, and quickly they dismounted and went in, Sundance leading, surveying the lobby as he came through the door. It was empty; the clerk stared as they went swiftly across it and up the stairs, Sundance with drawn gun.

  They reached the second floor without incident; the corridor was empty. Doris unlocked her door. “Wait,” Sundance said and slammed it open so hard it banged against the wall. Gun up, he went in, but the room was empty. Doris followed him, closed the door and bolted it. Then she sighed, pulled off the hat and threw it on the bed.

  “Aren’t we behaving just a little foolishly?” she asked.

  “Maybe,” Sundance said. “But when you’re dead, you’re dead a long, long time. And in a deal like this, you only make one mistake. Drury could have had someone waiting for you in this room.”

  “I didn’t even see him on the street.”

  “That’s one reason I thought he might be here.”

  She took a brush from the dresser, began to pull it through her shimmering hair. “Well, what’s next?”

  “I’ll have to spend the night with you,” Sundance said, holstering the Colt.

  She turned. “Will you, now?”

  “No help for it. We’ve got to get you out of Deadwood safe and in one piece.”

  “You could take an adjoining room …”

  “Too risky. They might take you and I’d never hear ’em. No. I’ll sleep on the floor. Don’t worry, I’ll mind my manners.”

  She shrugged. “As you please. I suppose it is a little ridiculous to be worrying over appearances when a man has threatened my life. But right now, you’re going to have to be the thorough gentleman and turn your back. These clothes of Jane’s have seen better days. They smell as if her horse had been wearing them. I’m looking forward to getting out of them.”

  “Go ahead,” Sundance said, and he faced the door.

  Behind him, he heard the rustle of clothes, first of the harsh fabric of Jane’s garments, then the silky noise of finer cloth. As Doris changed, she talked, a little swiftly and jerkily, as if in response to the relief from tension.

  “I suppose you’re wondering why I’m not wearing mourning with my husband dead so soon. But, of course, I didn’t bring any, and there’s nothing much in the way of women’s clothes to be had here in Deadwood. Anyhow, buying the Nez Percé horses is my way of mourning …” She paused. “Poor John. Twenty years in the Indian Army and never a scratch; he comes to America and is dead within a month.”

  “Twenty years,” Sundance said in surprise. “He must have been considerably older than you.”

  “He was. He never married until he returned from India; that was three years ago. He was in my father’s regiment, and my father arranged the match.”

  “A marriage of convenience?”

  “Perhaps you could call it that. But he was a good, kind man and I ... have much affection for him. I certainly would not let his death go unavenged. For a while, Mr. Sundance, I even had the idea that perhaps I would buy a pistol and seek out Luke Drury myself. But then I thought that this would hurt Drury much worse. There ... Now you can turn around.”

  Sundance did. She wore a dress of green watered silk, and she was a sight to take away a man’s breath. It hugged her bosom, outlining the round, separate mounds, clung to her slender waist, traced the fullness of her hips before the skirt obscured them.

  She read the reaction her appearance produced, and a faint smile touched her lips. Then she sobered. “What shall we do about the horses?”

  “When Jane comes, I’ll have her put them in the livery. She ought to be here almost any minute, if she didn’t go to sleep up on the mountain, sucking on that bottle.”

  “She’s quite a character. Is it true that she was the only woman the famous Wild Bill Hickok really loved?”

  Sundance laughed. “No, but she likes to think it is. I—” He broke off as there was a hammering at the door, and Doris gasped as his gun was suddenly in his hand. He shoved her aside, so that no slug coming through the thin panel would catch her, eased clear of the line of fire himself. “Who is it?”

  “Only me, Sundance,” Jane Canary’s voice said, a little thickly.

  Sundance eased. She sounded as if she’d killed the bottle, but she could hold a lot of booze and still function, and she’d be useful tonight and tomorrow morning. He went to the door, pouching the Colt. “Okay, Jane.” He slid the bolt, turned the key, and opened the door.

  Then he froze.

  “Don’t move, Sundance,” Luke Drury said. His nose was bandaged, his face covered with tape. He stood behind Jane Canary with one arm locked around her throat. In his other hand, he held a gun, its muzzle centered on Sundance’s belly. So were the bores of the Colts of the four men who stood there with him, and under the dead drop of five guns, Sundance knew they had him.

  “Jim,” Jane Canary husked. “I didn’t go to— They caught me comin’ in the hotel and laid their guns on me and made me—”

  “It’s all right,” said Sundance. Slowly he raised his hands.

  Drury said, “Chet. Git his gun and that damn Bowie knife.”

  “Right.” A lanky, bearded man moved forward. He was, Su
ndance saw, a professional, never blocking the line of fire of his mates. He pulled the gun belt loose, let it drop with its burden of Colt and Bowie, and kicked it across the room.

  “Awright, Luke. He’s slick.”

  “Good. Now, one of you take Calamity into that room across the hall. Jane, you like booze so much, you’re gonna git your fill. We got a whole bottle of it for you, and you ain’t leavin’ this hotel until you’ve drunk it, and more if that’s what it takes to knock you out. Me, I’d rather use a pistol barrel, but you’re too popular around here. So you git off light. Sundance, here, he don’t have it so easy.”

  One of the men pulled Jane away. Drury stepped forward then, cut, puffed lips pulling back from his teeth in a kind of snarl. The others followed him, guns unwavering. One closed the door.

  “Now, lady,” Drury said. “If you’re smart, you won’t make a noise. That way, you git to live a while longer.” His eyes met Sundance’s; one of them was nearly shut. They gleamed with hatred. “And you, you God damned half-breed,” Drury rasped, “I still owe you a gunwhippin’.”

  Sundance went tense, but he had no chance to move as, suddenly, Drury’s gun came up and its long barrel lashed sideways. It slammed against his head, and the last thing he heard was Doris’s frightened gasp. Then the world exploded in a flare of brightness and after that there was total darkness.

  ~*~

  At first, there was only pain. It seemed as if an iron rod ran clear through his skull, in one temple, out the other, and it was as if someone were pulling on it, trying to pry the top of his head off. The pain sickened him and made him retch, and he heard from far away a voice. “Luke, I think he’s wakin’ up.”

  “Good,” said Drury’s voice. “Throw some water on the bastard and make it faster. I’ve waited long enough.”

  Sundance lay motionless. With an effort of will, he gathered up the tattered ends of faculties and senses, forced his mind to work. He lay on a floor of hard-packed dirt, and there was, in the room, the smell of burning wood and coal oil. That meant a fireplace and lamps; added to the floor, he knew he was in a cabin. Drury was here and several other men and—tentatively, he moved his hands and found them bound behind his back.

  Then a cascade of icy water sluiced over him. It nearly strangled him, but it jerked him back to full consciousness and his eyes came open. He looked into the face of one of Drury’s men, who, grinning, sloshed the rest of the bucket on him. “Okay, Luke,” the man said. “He’s all yourn.”

  It was a cabin, all right, one room of unpeeled logs; and it was night; Sundance could see moonlight through the gaps in mud chinking. Stiffly, he sat up; it cost him another wave of sickening pain, but when that faded to a dull throb he was fairly sure it would not come again.

  Drury was coming to him, in the firelight, battered lips grinning without mirth, nose still encased in bandage wrappings. His four gunmen were ranged around the walls. Then Sundance stiffened. Doris Bucknell was slumped in one corner, face smudged, hair awry, the green dress ripped to tatters around her breasts. She looked at Sundance with dull hopelessness, and Sundance guessed immediately the ordeal she had endured. He fought back the white, knife-edged anger that sprang up in him, knowing he would need all his coolness and clarity if he were to survive at all.

  “Well,” Drury said thickly, towering above him. “The great Jim Sundance wasn’t so hard to take after all. Eh?” His mouth twisted and his boot lashed out, and pain flared in Sundance’s flank as the toe smashed against his ribs. He fell back, gasping.

  “Now,” Drury said, thumbs hooked in gunbelt. “We got some things to settle, Sundance. I got one Appaloosa stallion now, yeah, that horse of yours. But there’s six more and a bunch of mares I got to git my hands on. You’re gonna take us to those horses. Every time you raise a fuss, you’re gonna git the livin’ hell beat out of you. And, wherever they are, if they ain’t there when we git there, you’re gonna die awful slow and awful hard. With that in mind, Sundance, suppose you tell me where they are and how long a trip we got to rig out for.”

  Sundance knew nothing but to play for time. His philosophy was this: when you were dead, all chances were ended. As long as you remained alive, there was, down to the last crucial second, some chance anyway. He shook his head as if thoroughly dazed, which was not far from the truth. “It’s … long,” he said thickly.

  “Damn you, I figured that!” Drury kicked him again. “Now, git down to cases! Where? Here in the Black Hills? Is that why you had Bucknell come to Deadwood?”

  “No. No, they’re a long way from here.”

  Drury let out a breath. “That would mean west and likely north. The Bearpaws, the Bitterroots, the Absarokas, Montana, Idaho, Washin’ton, Or’gon— Where, damn it? Answer me!”

  Sundance said, “For God’s sake, Drury. I can’t think. My head hurts. You’ve near kicked in my ribs. I got to have some water.”

  “Awright, Leroy,” Drury said after a moment. “Bring the dipper.”

  “Jim.” Doris Bucknell said thickly from across the little room. “Jim, don’t tell them, do you hear? Those horses are mine, now!”

  Drury whirled on her. “Shut up, you damn Limey bitch! Or—” He grinned savagely. “You want some more of what you already had?”

  Doris raised her head and looked at him. “I’m not afraid of you, Drury. I was taught to have nothing but contempt for scum.”

  “Scum?” Drury roared the word, clenched big fists, took a step toward her. “I’ll have you lickin’ my damn boots before I’m through with you!”

  “Doris,” Sundance said, and he meant it. “Be quiet. Drury’s right. He’s got us cold.” He drank water from the dipper, felt a certain amount of strength return. As Leroy straightened up, he said, “All right, Drury. I’ll deal with you.”

  “Deal?” Drury spun toward him. “Deal, hell. You’ll tell me what I want to know. That’s all there is to it. You’ll take me to the horses!”

  “Only,” Sundance said, “if you let Lady Bucknell go.

  “Lady Bucknell.” Drury stared at him, and one corner of his battered mouth curled up. “She ain’t no lady, now, Sundance. Not after—”

  “I said, you let her go, I’ll take you to the horses.”

  Drury snorted. “No chance. You think I’d turn her loose to run to some British consul and raise a stink? Uh-uh. She goes with us out of town, dressed like a man, the way she come in a while ago. Maybe we’ll haul her along for two days, three, maybe for a week or so, if she’s real nice to me and the rest of us. But sooner or later …” He made a gesture. “I can’t afford to have her found dead here, not after her husband was already rubbed out, that would make too much of a stink. But if she just disappears, then nobody can prove nothin’. She went off with that half-breed, eh? If they ever find her bones, they’ll figure that half-breed killed her. That’s how it stacks up, Sundance. Now ... you talk, with no more waste of breath. If you don’t, you git hurt. And you can holler all you want, because this ole cabin’s a long way down the gulch. Ain’t nothin’ around us but a few Goddam Chinamen, and they don’t see, hear, nor speak nothin’. Not when it’s white man’s business.”

  And that, Sundance knew, was true. No help could be expected from that quarter, even if they were heard.

  “Now,” said Drury. “Let’s have an end to all this yammer. Where did you take the horses, Sundance, when you left the Bearpaws?”

  Sundance drew in a long breath that made his battered ribs ache. “All right,” he said. “They’re in the Bitterroots.”

  Drury blinked. “The Bitterroots? Hell’s fire, that’s clean across Montana from here! Where in the Bitterroots?”

  “No way I could tell you,” Sundance said. “I’ll have to take you there. I could draw you a map and you’d still never find it.”

  Drury looked at him a moment, chewing his lip. Then he nodded. “That figures. You goddam Injuns still know a lot of secret places. You wouldn’t have put those horses in any place a white man could find.” Suddenly
his boot lashed out again, smashing against Sundance’s ribs with terrible force. Sundance grunted and fell back.

  “Okay,” Drury said. “We’ll line out first thing in the mornin’. That means I got a lot to do tonight. Got to git together horses and an outfit, have that big Appaloosa of yours sent west to my ranch—I don’t aim to lose him, he’s worth a fortune in stud fees—and ...” He turned. “Leroy, you and Chet stay here and watch these two. Take turns, I want somebody awake the whole damned time. This half-breed’s as slippery as calf slobber and as dangerous as a rattlesnake. Fred and Mart’ll come with me. We’ll be back at first daylight with an outfit and ready to haul tail outa here.”

  Leroy said, “Boss, what about Calamity Jane? She’s got an awful big mouth.”

  Drury laughed. “She’s got more’n a quart of whiskey in her, too, and I left twenty dollars in her pocket. She’ll wake up tomorrow mornin’ so damned addled she won’t know what happened and she’ll take that twenty and head for a bar to clear her head. By the time she starts to spout about what happened, nobody will pay her no never mind. It’ll be like that tall story of hers about bein’ Wild Bill Hickok’s woman.” He shrugged. “It would be easier to kill her, yeah, but she’s kinda a town pet. That would make some stink. No, she’s a drunk whore and everybody knows it and nobody believes nothin’ that a drunk whore says. Don’t worry about her. You just keep your eyes on Sundance and this English bitch. You hear?”

  Leroy nodded. “We’ll do that.”

  “You better, for the premium wages I’m layin’ out. Come on, you fellers.” Drury went to the door, and there he paused. “Sundance.” He touched his bandaged nose. “You hurt me bad today. But that’s all right. I aim to hurt you just as bad from time to time. You’ll live to rue the day you ever whipped Luke Drury.” Then, followed by two gunmen, he went out.

  After the door had closed behind him, the man called Leroy came to stand over Jim Sundance. He drew his gun and aimed it at the half-breed’s head. He was slat-thin, with a hard, pockmarked face and an enormous Adam’s apple in his scrawny neck. “Roll over, half breed,” he said.