by John Benteen
Then, from across the canyon, on the slope, there was a scream of agony, rising even above the answering thunder now of Nez Percé guns. A figure lurched from a cleft in solid rock, turned, stumbled, then fell forward, rolled down the slope. Sundance stared unbelievingly. He had expected cavalry or maybe even Luke Drury and his men, but the dead man up there was an Indian.
There was no time to ponder that, they had to break this ambush. He tried to tally the number of guns against them: maybe five across the stream, maybe an equal number on the rim above.
“Stay down,” he rasped at Doris. Shoving her to emphasize the order, he slipped his rifle into his arm’s crook and crawled on his belly toward Yellow Wolf, forted up behind another pile of rocks, his rifle firing steadily. Despite all the lead thrown by the attackers, so far, save for Bear Falling, there had been no casualties that Sundance could see. Like many Indians, those up there were rotten riflemen. Crows, maybe, but this was not Crow range; the Blackfeet were better shots. Flatheads? They had no reason to fire on the Nez Percé. But, of course, there were the Bannacks—
Suddenly he knew. Bannacks hated Nez Percé and they were the worst shots he had ever seen. But what were they doing so far east? Their reservation was in Idaho, around Fort Hall, and they stuck close to it ... Lead pranged around him, missing by a wide margin. Then he rolled behind Yellow Wolf’s rock.
“Listen!” Sundance yelled above the gunfire. “They can’t hit what they shoot at!”
“I know!” Yellow Wolf spat contemptuously. The Nez Percé were noted as the best marksmen in the West. Nor did they waste ammunition the way the attackers were doing. “I think they’re Bannacks.”
“So do I! Anyhow, give me three men and I’ll clear that rim! Who’re your best shots?”
“Tall Elk, Drum, Far Looker!” Yellow Wolf shouted the names. His voice, like a trumpet, rose above the sound of battle, and the three men, ranged along the stream, snugged down in the rocks like so many lizards, looked toward him and caught Sundance’s signal. They nodded as he pointed at the cliff above them.
It reared almost straight up, its walls sheer; indeed, there was a slight overhang which made it hard for the ambushers up there to fire straight down on the Nez Percé below. Whoever had chosen this spot for an ambush had either been a little stupid, hasty, or desperate. Anyhow, those men up there had to lean over the rim to get a clear shot.
Sundance moved out. Leaping from behind the rock, he ran along the face of the cliff, dodging like a frightened panther, bent almost double. The other three came behind him, and the swirling twilight mist along the stream made them even harder targets. Then they had found new positions, and now they could fire up at the men on the rim as those leaned out to shoot. It was just a matter of being quick enough, accurate enough. Sundance, behind a massive boulder, raised his rifle, waited. The others spread out in cover behind him, followed suit. The canyon’s rim was a jagged black line against the sky from this angle, and—
Sundance saw movement. He could shoot a grouse on the wing with a rifle, and the target he had now was not much bigger and just as quick. It was a gun-barrel with a man’s head above it, silhouetted for the instant it took to fire.
The other three had seen it, too; four guns roared at once. That round silhouette literally exploded and a rifle dropped through space to smash on the rocks below. Sundance worked the lever of his Winchester, but the man called Drum saw the next target first. A single round, a scream, a man lurched to his feet, then spun down with flailing arms and legs.
Maybe three more, Sundance thought grimly. And they would be turning fire on this position. Meanwhile, the attackers on the far bank and Yellow Wolf traded constant fire, and Sundance heard a cry of pain from across the stream.
Then he saw it, a flicker of movement, come and gone in the uncertain light too swiftly for a shot. He fastened his eyes on the notch on the rim where it had been; again it came and went and still no target. Sundance grinned coldly. But the side of that notch was made of rock. That was bad luck for the man hiding in it. He loosed a stream of four quick rounds, heard them scream off stone. Then a hand fell from the notch, dangling motionless, with blood dripping from the fingers, and suddenly there was no more shooting from the rim at all. If there were two more men up there, they had decided to lie low.
“Watch the rim!” Sundance yelled at Drum, Tall Elk and Far Looker. Then, deliberately, he got to his feet. Lead from across the stream whined around him. He began to run, back toward Yellow Wolf. Up on the rim, somebody could not resist that target. His falling body nearly hit Sundance as it landed with a sickening crunch on the streamside rocks not ten feet away. Sundance flicked a glance at the corpse and knew he’d been right: a Bannack.
He made it back to Yellow Wolf. “The rim’s clear!”
“Right! Cover me! I’m going across the creek!” Yellow Wolf leaped to his feet, gave a signal. Half a dozen Nez Percé rose and followed. Sundance and the rest poured fire into the rocks across the way, forcing the men there to keep to shelter as the Nez Percé plunged into the stream, rifles high.
It was a deadly business, crossing swift water over current-slickened rocks, but their moccasins found sure grips. They made it to the other bank, without casualties, spread out, running low through the mist. That mist shielded them until they were high on the slope above, and then it was brief and bloody, hand to hand. The five or so Bannacks there turned and tried to run. They never had a chance.
All at once, the canyon was strangely silent. No more gunfire echoed and re-echoed. If there were a Bannack left, he was on the rim, but more than likely he had fled.
Then a bloodcurdling sound rose from the slope over there. It was the war cry of Nez Percé counting coup on the bodies of the dead. Sundance peered through the mist. Now the Nez Percé were coming back down the slope. Then he let out a breath of satisfaction; they had taken a single prisoner. That was good. It was important to know why the Bannacks were here off their usual range and why they had attacked with such careless desperation.
~*~
Hands bound behind his back, knowing he was doomed, the Indian faced Sundance with stoic defiance. The Bannacks were a branch of Northern Paiute, and that was a language Sundance spoke. The man understood his questions all right, but he had made no answer since he had been brought back across the stream.
It was nearly dark, now; the horses had been gathered, the casualties counted. Bull Falling was dead; one Appaloosa had run away, but likely they would find it in the morning. Two other Nez Percé had taken minor wounds.
Sundance said, “I’ll ask you one more time. Why were you here, why did you attack us? Where are your horses?”
Still silence. Yellow Wolf made a sound in his throat. “All right,” he said hoarsely, “I’ll take care of him. You remember, Sundance, at the battle of the Big Hole, how the Bannacks served as scouts against us. And afterwards, how they dug up the bodies of our women and children and what they did to them.”
“I remember,” Sundance said.
“Jim,” Doris asked tensely, as Yellow Wolf drew a knife. “What—?”
“Maybe you’d better not watch this.”
“Torture?”
Sundance said, “Revenge.”
“Even so, will he tell you what you need to know?”
“I doubt it. Likely he’ll die without a word—when he does die.”
“Then why don’t you let him go?”
Sundance stared at her.
“Maybe he’s not afraid of torture. But maybe he wants to live. Maybe he’d trade you the information for his life. This way, he has no hope of living no matter what.”
Sundance drew in a long breath. “Do you know what, Doris? Sometimes I’m almost too much Indian for my own good.” He turned to Yellow Wolf. “Wait.”
The Nez Percé looked at him blankly. Sundance spoke rapidly in Paiute. Slowly the Bannack’s face changed. But Yellow Wolf, who also understood the language, was enraged. Sundance had to talk swiftly, with all the
authority at his command. Presently, Yellow Wolf spat, turned away, and sheathed the knife. Then a cascade of words sluiced from the Bannack.
Sundance listened closely, and as he did, his heart sank. When the man was through, he drew his own Bowie with a swift motion. The Bannack’s eyes widened, but Sundance only spun him around, slashed his ropes. For one astounded second the Bannack stood there. Then he began to run. Yellow Wolf whirled, raising his rifle. Sundance knocked it up. “I gave a promise to him!” he roared. “Let him go! He doesn’t count, now! Maybe nothing counts, now!”
As the Bannack vanished into the mist, Yellow Wolf sucked in a long breath. “I did not want to hear his filthy voice. What did he say?” His tone was saner.
All the Nez Percé were listening intently now.
“He said,” Sundance answered, “that there’s no way we can get to the Nez Percé horses. In fact, unless the Army’s blind, it’s likely found them by now.”
For a moment, there was nothing but the sound of rushing water in the canyon. Then, after he had wearily translated this for Doris, she said, unbelievingly, “Found them?”
Sundance was suddenly very tired and he sat down on a rock. “The one thing I wasn’t counting on was another Indian war in the same territory. But it’s happened. While we were bound for Canada, the Bannacks went off their reservation in Idaho, killed some whites, and— It’s almost the Nez Percé thing all over, except that the Bannacks aren’t the soldiers the Nez Percé are. They’ve already been whipped a couple of times, and they’re scattered and spread out from here to Idaho. The whole American Army’s out against them, moving into these mountains from every side. The Bannacks that we just fought—they tried to use our old trail through Yellowstone Park. There were soldiers everywhere. They had to turn around and run again, and they wore out their horses. That’s why they tried to take us, to get fresh mounts. But ... if what he says is true, and it sounded true, the soldiers are patrolling the whole trail across the Absarokas. They’re checking every side canyon and cut off and there’s no place to hide, he said, and that means, by now—” He broke off. “I was a fool,” he said dully. “I was a fool to hide them there. I should have taken them up to Canada.”
Yellow Wolf looked down at his moccasins. “You could not know. If you had taken them to Canada, the Army would have asked the Queen to give them back, and maybe she would have. They would have been safe in the Absarokas if only— Last year, the Bannacks helped the soldiers against our people. Who would think that this year they would turn and fight them? It is not your fault. It is Wyakin, the great power, Fate. But ... What should we do now?” He was shivering with cold from his wet clothes.
Sundance looked down the mountain stream, mind working swiftly, checking the alternatives. At last he said, “You and your people and the woman hide. We’ll pick a safe place tomorrow, and if you have to leave there while I’m gone, leave me a sign to say where; I’ll find it.”
“While you’re gone? Gone where?”
Sundance rubbed his hand through his hair, looked at the blacking on his palm. “I’ve got to travel as a white man again for a while. I’m going into town, I think Virginia City at Alder Gulch. I’ll hear the news there and find out what has happened and where the soldiers are. If the horses have already been found, they will know that too.”
“And if they have?”
“Sooner or later,” Sundance said, “the Army will turn them over to Drury. Once they have them actually in their hands, they will pay no money to Joseph for them, either. Drury will take them to his stud farm in Oregon and—”
Yellow Wolf raised his head, and his eyes lit again. “And it’s a long trip from here to Oregon,” he said. “If we can strike their trail …” He sucked in his breath. “It is a long time since I have been on a raid to steal some horses. That will be much pleasure. Especially since the horses are our own.”
“That’s the idea,” Sundance said. “Now, we need a better place to camp. Let’s ride.”
Chapter Seven
It lay sprawled across one of the richest gulches in the world, but now it was beginning to run down as most mining towns did when the easy-to-mine placer gold was exhausted. They had been digging gold out of Alder Gulch since the early 1860’s, and until last year Virginia City had been the capital of Montana Territory. That had been moved to Helena, now, but there was still life left in the rip-roaring collection of log huts and frame houses and every other building was still a saloon that ran around the clock. Sundance rode in at midday, his hair yellow again, his dress as it had been when he had left Deadwood, the Colt low slung around his waist, his Winchester across the bow of a stock saddle borrowed from one of the Indians who had taken it as loot during the long retreat. As always, people watched him with curiosity, for he stood out even in the motley crowd of this mining camp, and he watched them with equal alertness and curiosity. He was not surprised to see a lot of blue uniforms vivid among the flannel shirts of the miners. The Bannack had been right in that respect; the mountains were alive with soldiers; he had dodged two patrols coming in.
He knew the town, of course, and his first destination was the office of the Montana Democrat, its newspaper. The woman behind the counter in the unimposing office was startled at the sight of the blond, blue-eyed half-breed, and even more startled when he bought a newspaper and quickly read it. Having digested what it contained, Sundance threw it back on the counter and left.
The news, of course, was several days old, but it verified everything told him by the Bannack. The Bannacks had signed a treaty with the Government which gave them the stretch of land called Camas Prairie. The camas root, growing there in abundance, was a staple of the diet of the Northwestern Indians, and once the Nez Percé had claimed it as their own. Anyhow, a clerical error in the treaty document listed the land as “Kansas Prairie,” and, taking advantage of that, white settlers had moved in.
The same old story, Sundance thought bitterly. The Bannacks had scouted for the Army against the Sioux and Nez Percé, but the whites had no qualms about betraying even their closest Indian allies. Enraged, Buffalo Horn, the Bannack chief, had killed some settlers and jumped the reservation. Most of the fighting had taken place in Oregon and Idaho, but some of the badly beaten Indians had tried to retreat across the mountains to Montana. The Department of the Platte had moved out troops to block the passes, especially the trails the Nez Percé had used the year before. The question was, had they found the horses and if so, where had they taken them?
As in any other Western town, the real source of up to date news was the saloons. The next move was to make the rounds, keep his ears open.
There was plenty to hear, but most of it was rumor or downright hysteria, the kind always generated among the whites by any Indian outbreak. There were the usual bored drunks wanting to form a militia and go out and kill some redskins—any redskins, soldiers, plenty of them, boasting about exploits that had never happened, and yet, amidst it all, there was also a definite undercurrent of sympathy for the Bannacks. They had not earned it; it had been earned for them by the Nez Percé a year ago. On their long retreat, Joseph had, by and large, held his column to the rules of civilized warfare and he had tried hard to negotiate a peaceful journey through Montana. The skill with which he and his war chiefs, Jim Sundance among them, had outwitted the Army time after time, or wiped its nose in battle, had earned admiration even from the whites; so had his nobility in defeat. Now that the Indians were no longer strong enough to present a real threat of reclaiming their stolen land, the whites could allow themselves an understanding of their feelings and their motives.
Most of all, though, Sundance watched the soldiers. If the horses had not been found, the word would still have been out: get Jim Sundance, the half-breed with the yellow hair. But if the Army had them, then all interest in him would probably have been lost. The soldiers in the bars paid him little or no attention, and a certainty began to build in him ...
His technique was to buy a beer, sit a lon
g time over it, listening, leave most of it behind. He was still clearheaded and cold sober when, in the fifth saloon, a big man in a leather jacket and buckskin pants and high jack boots detached himself from the bar and came toward him as he entered. With long brown hair and keen brown eyes and a heavy mustache, the man was white, though his skin was sun-bronzed. His voice was soft and almost cultured. “Hello, Jim,” he said. “I thought you’d show up where the action was.” He put out his hand.
“Luther,” Sundance said.
“Let’s have a beer. Been wanting to talk to you since the Nez Percé trouble last year. I’m glad you got clear before the surrender.” Luther Kelly, usually called Yellowstone Kelly, gestured to a table.
Sundance nodded and they took chairs and Kelly signaled for two beers. Yellowstone Kelly was, with Hickok dead and Cody in the east, perhaps the best white scout in the West now. Unlike most frontiersmen, he rarely drank, had little taste for carousing; he was thoughtful and a great reader. He was also, as Sundance well knew, hell in a fight. He had been Chief of Scouts for Miles throughout the Nez Percé war. He and Sundance had been on opposite sides then, but they had worked together in the past, and they liked and trusted each other.
“If you’re aiming to join the Bannacks,” Kelly said, “they’re pretty well whipped. You’re too late, Jim.”
Sundance only shrugged. Let Kelly think that was what drew him to this region. The beer came and both men toyed with it. Then Kelly said, almost casually, “And that might not be the only thing you’re too late for.”
Sundance sat up straight. “Meaning?”
Kelly looked thoughtfully at his beer. “You know, I’ve gone out against a lot of Indians in my time. But I never really hated to win a battle against ’em until last year in the Bear Paws when Joseph came in. That speech he made …” He leaned back, quoting. “‘I am tired of fighting ... Our chiefs are killed ... He who led the young men is dead ... It is cold and we have no blankets. The little children are freezing to death. My people ... have run away to the hills ... no one knows where ... perhaps freezing to death. I want time to look for my children and see how many of them I can find. Perhaps I will find them among the dead. Hear me, my chiefs. I am tired; my heart is sick and sad. From where the sun now stands, I will fight no more forever.’”
