by John Benteen
Who sat motionless, staring into the embers of the fire. Then, suddenly his shoulders slumped and he bent his head and covered his face with his hands. Sundance knew he grieved now for Joseph and for the Nez Percé horses, which he must have counted on having for his own band of free people, and which were a symbol of great importance to him. He knew, too, that he grieved for more than that, for the old days and all the people already dead, everything that had happened to the Nez Percé that could not be undone.
“Jim,” Doris whispered. She was staring at Yellow Wolf strangely, having followed the conversation roughly through Sundance’s oblique translation.
“Hush,” Sundance told her gently.
Presently, Yellow Wolf raised his head. “Sitting Bull is right,” he said, his face holding its iron composure once more. “What must be done must be done. All right, Sundance. What do you require of us?”
“Fifteen warriors,” Sundance said. “To go down to the States with me and help me take the horses from where they are to the American railroad to be shipped across the water.”
“And what will happen to them after that, the men? How will they get back to Canada?”
“If we can dodge the soldiers and Drury and don’t have to fight,” Sundance said, “I don’t think it will be too hard. But—”
“Yes, but—” Yellow Wolf said, face grave. “But it’s a big risk. We’ll have to be prepared not to come back. Maybe prepared to die or go live in Kansas with Joseph like sheep or pigs.” He stood up. “Well, that does not matter. We have decided and we’ll do it. Now that you have my promise, will you tell me where the horses are and what we are to do?”
“Of course,” Sundance said. “They’re in the Absaroka Mountains, near where we crossed them. In what white men call Yellowstone National Park.”
Doris gasped, and Yellow Wolf blinked. “Their National Park? But it swarms with white men!”
“Not where the horses are,” Sundance answered, smiling. “You remember where we came down off the Lodgepole Divide? A canyon with a mouth so narrow only one horse at a time could travel? And straight up and down, so steep and rough—”
“I remember,” Yellow Wolf said. “With seven hundred people, going through there was like a bad dream.”
“And worse for the Army, because they didn’t have Appaloosas. Anyhow, there’s another canyon branching off that one, and you go in by a trail along a cliff, not much more than a mountain sheep path. I know the cavalry can’t follow that one; we had hell’s own time getting the Appaloosas over it. But we did, and they’re at the bottom of the canyon in a big hole with good grass, water, and winter shelter.”
He paused. “When we took the horses from the Bear Paws, I thought hard about where to hide ’em. All the northern mountains are almost wide open, miners, ranchers, the Army patrolling and mapping, timber being cut, and the Bannacks and Flatheads and a lot of other Indians still hunting there. But nobody can hunt or mine or ranch in Yellowstone Park, the Army hardly patrols it. A lot of visitors come, yeah, but only to see the boiling springs that shoot into the air, the geysers. They don’t, nobody does, go back into the Absarokas, and especially not into those two canyons. How can they when only Appaloosas can make the trip?”
Grinning, he went on. “So I hid them under the white men’s noses, and Two Trees and Dead Man Walking are there with them now. We know they haven’t been found, or Drury wouldn’t have been after us. But it won’t be easy getting them out or to a railroad. Still, there’s a way. One that may allow the Nez Percé to get clear and make it back to Canada.”
“And that is?”
“We go back along our old trail through the Absarokas, west. Then we swing west and south, hiding in the mountains, down to Utah. Brigham City’s a fair-sized town not far below the line, and there’s a railhead there. What’s more important, there are Mormons. Do you know about the Mormons?”
“I know that they are not like other white men,” Yellow Wolf said, his eyes lighting with comprehension. “They do not use whiskey or tobacco or coffee, and they have as many wives as they want, which is sensible, and—”
“And they don’t hate Indians and have never made war against ’em,” Sundance said. “They think their mission is to convert them to their religion, not to kill them. But—” he grinned “—they do despise the American Army and the other Americans they call Gentiles. There are only two Army posts in Utah, and they’re there not to protect the Mormons from Indians, but to watch the Mormons and protect the Gentiles from them.”
He lit a cigarette with an ember from the fire. “Anyhow, the Mormons like money and they’re honest. If we can get the horses across the Utah line, I’ll go down to Brigham City and hire Mormons to help us take them to the railroad and get them loaded.
Then you and your braves can swing back through the mountains to Canada.”
“But won’t the Army try to stop me from shipping the horses when we come out in the open?” Doris asked.
“You’ll have a bill of sale by then. As a British, subject, they won’t dare bother you or your property.”
“And what about Drury?”
Sundance let smoke drift through his nostrils. “If Drury shows up,” he said quietly, “I’ll tend to him.” He stood up. “There it is, Yellow Wolf. Help me get the horses out of Yellowstone Park and to the Utah boundary. Once there, if we can get the Mormons on our side, we won’t need you any longer. They control the state, and once we’re in Utah, we’re safe. We can hire Mormons to go with the horses all the way east, for that matter, and see them on the ship, and if they undertake to do it, they’ll do it.”
“You make it sound so easy,” Doris said wryly.
“It’s not easy. Utah’s our sanctuary, but before we get there, we’ve got maybe five hundred miles of the roughest country in the world to travel and the whole U.S. Army to dodge. Or, if it comes to that, fight.”
Sitting Bull, who had been silent for a long time, said, “I think I can help, perhaps.”
“How?”
The Sioux grinned. “Our young men are getting restless. A few sharp raids across the border on both sides of the Black Hills should draw a lot of soldiers off.”
“Won’t it make trouble for you with the Queen?”
“Who knows where they come from?”
When Sundance had translated this, Doris looked uneasy. “Jim, no. I won’t have innocent people killed just to help me get those horses.”
Sundance told this to Sitting Bull. Bull nodded gravely. “Say this to her, Sundance. That it is not for the horses; my people would raid anyhow, it is only a matter of timing. And ... innocent? When they have stolen a whole land from us and chased us from our homes to a strange country, killed our buffalo, imprisoned our warriors, killed our own women and children with their soldiers ... how can it be that they are innocent?”
When he had said this, Doris did not answer; there was no answer possible. Yellow Wolf went to the teepee door.
“Sundance, when will you leave?”
“As soon as possible.”
“By tomorrow just after sunrise,” Yellow Wolf said, “I will have myself and fourteen other warriors, horses, guns, ammunition, and all necessary. Then we can ride.” He turned, went out, and his voice, firm but still tinged with sadness, seemed to linger in the room for a moment after he had gone.
Sitting Bull also arose. “You and your woman have traveled far and you are tired. A lodge has been made ready for you and there is more food cooked. You are the guests of the Sioux. What we have is yours. Come.” And he led the way and Sundance and Doris Bucknell followed.
Chapter Six
It was good, he thought, to be riding as an Indian again with such a party, the cool air from the mountains blowing sweet and fresh into his face, the laughter, joking, and constant watchfulness of the Nez Percé around him, his shield on his arm, his bow ready for action across his saddle, arrows clicking softly in the quiver on his shoulder with every movement of the big spotted stallion.
Except for the blue eyes, there was nothing left in his appearance of the white man. He had rubbed blacking in his hair until it was as dark as any Indian’s; he wore a blanket coat with a hood; there were feathers in his hair and paint on his face. Beside him, also on a strong Appaloosa, Doris Bucknell was disguised as a warrior, too, her hair also blackened, a blanket around her shoulders and over her head and face, her legs encased in buckskin leggings and moccasins, her cheeks, sun bronzed to a tan nearly as dark as an Indian, smeared with paint like his own. She carried no bow or shield, but there was a pistol on a belt around her waist, and she had fired a few practice rounds with it and Sundance saw that indeed she knew how to use it.
The disguises were necessary; the Northwest Mounted Police were like ghosts, materializing when least expected without warning. They would not question too much what seemed a hunting party of Nez Percé, but the presence of a white woman with such a band would have to be explained, and, besides, the reputation of Jim Sundance, the blond and blue-eyed Indian had spread this far north, and he would also have to account for his presence in Canada.
And there was no arguing with the Mounties. Every Indian knew that. To defy or disobey one, much less to hurt or kill one, would bring prompt vengeance against the Sioux and cost them their sanctuary here. They had to be avoided, and when they could not be avoided, tricked.
They met, on their way south, one constable. In red coat and red pillbox hat, he traveled alone except for a packhorse on a long patrol. Fortunately, he was bound in the opposite direction; Sundance and Doris hung back with blankets muffling their faces, hiding their blue eyes, while Yellow Wolf respectfully explained that they were going to the mountains to hunt. Satisfied, the Mounted Policeman went on his way. Turning in his Indian saddle, Sundance watched the lonely scarlet dot vanish into the immensity of the country, and he felt a thrust of admiration. Yonder went a man.
They followed the Milk up to its headwaters, then swung south, and they were across the boundary line. Ahead, the Shining Mountains, the Rockies, divided into a dozen different smaller ranges, bulked against the sky, snow gleaming on the flanks of peaks. And now the ordeal really began.
Sundance led the way, for, better than any of them he knew this country, which had not been Nez Percé hunting grounds. And this was where the Appaloosas proved their worth.
They had to avoid the passes and the river valleys. To escape detection, it was necessary to keep to the flanks of mountains, in thick timber, choose the roughest going, the places where no white men and probably no wandering Indians either would be. Where they traveled, nothing lived but mountain goats and sheep and eagles. And though this was summer, at night the cold was bitter.
Only the Appaloosas could have done it. Their legs were strengthened and their hoofs as hard as flint from a lifetime in the mountains, their big lungs especially adapted by years of selective breeding to extract the necessary oxygen from the thin, clear air. Their summer pelts were thicker than a lowland horse’s, and proof against the cold. They knew how to live off the scant forage of the rocky slopes and deep woods, and most important of all, they had a mountain goat’s sense of balance. More than once they traveled paths that made even Sundance’s stomach knot and Doris, expert horsewoman that she was, cling tightly to her mount’s mane and avert her eyes, but they rarely stumbled, if they did, recovered quickly, and never refused the challenge of a narrow ledge or dizzying jump.
And that, Sundance thought, was why the Nez Percé had stayed ahead of the Army for nearly two thousand miles. In fact, the soldiers would never have caught them in the Bear Paws if they had not thought they were already in safety across the Canadian border ... No Army could catch the Appaloosas in their own country with Nez Percé in their saddles.
They sheltered under overhangs of rock or in deep timber and were careful with their fires; they hunted with their bows for the sake of silence, but game was scarce at this altitude, and more than once they went hungry because there was no time for a long hunt, or because a rifle shot was too risky. It was a grueling journey, rough on the men, and brutal for a woman. Yet, lying in Sundance’s arms with their robes pulled over them at night, Doris Bucknell seemed strangely happy. “Jim,” she whispered once, “what a magnificent adventure this is. What marvelous horses and horsemen. And what country! After this, England will seem so small and dull ... I wish—” She broke off.
“What do you wish?”
“Never mind what I wish. It’s impossible. Oh, I was going to say I wish I could stay here and not go home at all. But, of course, I must. I must see John’s relatives, and there is his estate, his affairs, to be settled, so much to do, and I must be on hand to do it. And yet … Jim.”
“Uhmhum?”
“Why don’t you come with me? To England. After all, it was your father’s home …”
“No,” Sundance said. “This was his home. As soon as he saw this country, he knew this was what he had been looking for all his life. He gave up his family name, started absolutely fresh. He was the first white man ever allowed to join the sacred Sun Dance, and he took that for his name. No, this was his home, not England.”
“England could be yours, though.” She paused. “Jim, do you have any idea how enormously rich my husband was? And he had no brothers; most of it will come to me. You can’t conceive of ... well, it’s many millions of your American dollars.”
“I guessed it would be, since he could spend forty thousand on a whim. But what’s that to do with me?”
“You ... we ... could live very well there, Jim. Anything you wanted, it could be yours. There would be no more fighting, no more danger, no more killing ... a manor in the country in the summer, London in the season ... and horses. The Appaloosas, and not only those, but all the others, you should see our stables, Jim. Our racers and hunters and hackneys and polo ponies; the Spanish barbs and the big Walkers ...” Her body pressed itself against his. “If you came home with me …”
Sundance was silent for a moment. “Doris, I’m sorry,” he said at last.
She sighed. “I didn’t really expect you to, but I had to try. You’d be a caged animal there, wouldn’t you? You’d have to be a house cat when you’ve been a mountain panther all your life ...”
“That’s the size of it,” Sundance said gently. “And I’ve got work to do here. It’s more important to me than anything.”
“Yes, I know that, I understand …” She laughed softly, with a touch of bitterness. “I guess I understand. And so I shall be happy with what I have now and make every moment count.” Her hand moved across his body. “Every moment …”
They swung west and south of the Flathead Indian Reserve and after that the going was trickier and more risky. There was gold in this country, too much gold, and it had brought in white men, even to the most remote parts. Little towns that had not been there a year before studded the river valleys and the canyons: Yreka, McClellan’s Gulch, Beartown and New Chicago. Each had to be scouted, bypassed, and the going was slow.
And then the Bannacks hit them.
~*~
There was no warning. Deep in the mountains, moving through a cold mist of twilight, they crossed a divide between two nameless creeks, came down a canyon where the sound of rushing water made a cold, constant thunder. On either side, sheer cliffs or steep, rock-strewn slopes loomed above them. Yellow Wolf and a warrior named Bull Falling had scouted on ahead, found nothing, nor had Sundance expected them to. The place was so remote and barren, the going so rough and brutal, that no one not fugitives like themselves would be here. For once, knowing that soon they would camp, Sundance almost relaxed. He was content with their progress so far; with luck, another week would see them in the Park and in possession of the Nez Percé horses.
They went in single file along a narrow, uncertain trail beside the stream. Yellow Wolf rode in the lead, Bull Falling just behind, then Sundance and Doris Bucknell, and the others strung out behind.
Then Bull Falling, just in front of Sundan
ce, sighed strangely, twisted, pitched from his saddle. He had almost hit the ground before Sundance heard the thunder of the gun. For only one half second, he hesitated; then, as the canyon roared and boomed with the sound of many rifles, he wheeled Eagle, unslinging the Winchester looped to his saddle. Lead ricocheted, whining and zinging off of stone. “Take cover!” Sundance howled, and he left Eagle’s saddle in a long jump, seizing Doris and dragging her along. She screamed as, savagely, he pulled her off the horse, threw her behind a rock, dived in on top of her, shielding her with his body. All around him bullets slapped and rang, and now he saw the powder smoke on the slope across the stream and on the rim almost above his head. They were trapped, whipsawed between two fires in the canyon.
Horses reared and plunged as their riders left their saddles, pulling them around to use as shields. Yet, which was surprising, none of the mounts went down. Sundance had no time to wonder at that as the Nez Percé took shelter wherever they could find it. It was up to him to cover them, and he edged around, got to his knees, sheltered by the rock, and opened fire on the marksmen across the way, firing at the plumes of smoke that betrayed their positions.
