by John Benteen
Sundance left the slope in a mighty leap, with all the power of his hardened legs behind it, soared out and down, and landed on the back of a Nez Percé stallion that snorted with surprise. He gripped its mane with one hand, held on as it reared and plunged. As it came down, he heard a man shout: “Injuns!” Another screamed, “Hey, Luke!” That cry ended in a moan of pain. Then a rider loomed up beside Sundance, face contorted, drawn Colt leveled. Sundance passed the Winchester across his body one-handed, pulled the trigger. The heavy slug caught the man and knocked him from the saddle.
The pass was full of mounted Indians, now, and they swung the stallions and mares they rode bareback and attacked the outriders. Sundance saw a sorrel horse go down under the assault of a spotted stallion, heard its rider’s despairing cry. It was drowned in Nez Percé war whoops and the roar of guns, as the Indians loosed all their pent-up rage and frustration and hatred. Sundance glimpsed more than one red man fall, but under that assault Drury’s men never had a chance.
Sundance knew the stallion under him: Moon Rising, and it had been trained by Yellow Wolf himself. Steady in warfare, superbly responsive to signals and knee pressure, it lanced forward through the turmoil as he touched it with his heels.
He was seeking Drury, whom he’d let go on lest he be killed by mistake. Down the pass, as Sundance broke clear of the melee, he found him. Drury had reined around, was staring, face working. When he saw Sundance thundering toward him, his eyes lit with recognition. “You!” he bellowed. He raised his rifle, fired.
Before he pulled the trigger, Sundance dropped, falling beneath the stallion’s neck, hanging by a heel across the withers, one hand gripping the mane. The slug cracked through the air where his head had been. Then, gaping at the disappearance of his target, Drury gave way to panic. He jerked Cold Wind around with brutal force, jammed in his spurs. Cold Wind screamed and sprang forward like an arrow from a bow. Sundance came back astride, kicked Moon Rising hard.
Then it was a race. The hooves of the two spotted stallions drummed on the road. Behind, the sound of combat faded. Drury crouched low in the saddle, flogging the big Appaloosa, raking it with spurs. Sundance dared not shoot for fear of hitting the horse. Moon Rising ran superbly, but Cold Wind drew slowly away. He was, after all, the greatest stallion the Nez Percé had ever bred.
Sundance’s heart sank as the gap widened. Now Drury led him by two hundred yards, increased that by a length and by another. It was murder on both horses, that almost straight downhill race over rutted terrain, and only master horsemen could have kept them on their feet. Sundance was that—but so was Drury.
A mile, two miles, three, it went on and neither horse faltered. The pass was far behind, now, the road twisting and turning like a snake. Once, behind a bend, Drury risked a shot as Sundance charged into sight, but it went wild. Then, confident of escape, Drury wasted no more time.
On either side, thick growths of lodgepoles hemmed them in. The road was hardly more than a gully, dropping straight down. Four miles, now, and nearing five, and a straight stretch ahead, and then Sundance saw it, saw the washout, where water sluicing down the mountain had cut a deep gap a full five feet wide. But that would be no barrier to either horse, an easy jump for both.
Should have been. But as Cold Wind approached it at a dead run, Drury reacted instinctively, tried to pick him up on the bit. The high, sharp port of the cruel spade bit tore at the already lacerated mouth of the stallion that, until a few days before, had never felt anything harsher than a jaw bridle made of rope.
Instead of jumping, Cold Wind screamed and reared and pawed. Taken by surprise, Drury almost fall backwards. Instead, he regained his balance, and instead of falling quit the saddle in a graceful leap, landing like a cat. He made a grab for the stallion’s reins, but Cold Wind laid back his ears and his massive jaws nearly chopped off Drury’s hand. Drury jerked it back just in time, and then he turned and ran, with Cold Wind right behind him. He made a rock outcropping, scrambled up, and the stallion’s charge missed him. Sundance lined his gun, but Drury rolled backwards, disappearing into the woods. The stallion whirled away, pawing at the dragging reins. Sundance caught a glimpse of Drury running through the lodgepoles.
He quit his own stallion in a leap, knowing Moon Rising would stand. Crouched low, he ran up the hill, and Drury snapped a shot at him, but Sundance was already plunging into the trees, and the bullet chugged into a trunk. There was another flash of motion, as Drury retreated farther. Sundance went after him, inexorably, still holding fire.
Drury’s big spurs jingled as he ran, it was not hard for Sundance to trail that sound. Crouched low, he whipped around the tree trunks, himself an impossible target in the dimness.
He was used to running, as accustomed to it as riding. He wore moccasins. Drury was a horseman, unseasoned at this kind of footwork in the mountains, and his feet were shod in high-heeled boots. It was no race, no race at all. Once more Drury turned to fire, and Sundance marked the location by the powder smoke and without answering the fire went out swiftly to the left, knowing that Drury would work back down the slope, make another break for the horses. Sundance made absolutely no sound on the thick pine duff, and he heard the jingling spurs on the slope above and when he was in position took cover behind a fallen tree. He crouched there, motionless, waiting, rifle ready; and then he saw Drury coming down the slope. The big man had thrown away his empty rifle, pulled both six-guns, and the sound of his panting was almost like a locomotive making steam. His head swung from side to side, his eyes wild, his mouth open, gasping. Sundance let him go by, so close to the log he could have hit Drury with the rifle barrel. Then he stood up.
“Drury,” he said, voice ringing through the woods. “Drop those guns or you’re dead.”
Luke Drury froze. “Sundance,” he husked, in the voice of a man facing doom.
“Drop ’em,” Sundance said harshly.
For a moment, as Drury stood tensely, it could have gone either way. Then, slowly Drury opened his hands. The two guns fell to earth.
“Turn around.”
Drury obeyed. Terror was written across his craggy, broken face. His mouth worked soundlessly. Finally, staring at Sundance’s rifle muzzle, he whispered, “What are you? Some kind of goddam ghost —?” He sucked in his belly, waiting for the inevitable. “Sundance, please …”
Sundance only grinned, a grin like the snarl of a hungry wolf. He shoved the rifle forward. “Drury ... how would you like to stay alive?”
“I’m gonna make a deal with you,” Sundance said. “Did the Army give you a formal title to those Nez Percé horses?”
Drury licked his lips. “They gimme a paper, yeah.”
“Then you’re gonna sign it over to me. In a way that will be completely legal. I want title to those horses. After that, if you’re man enough to walk out of these mountains on foot, you can make a try at it.” Sundance knew that by then he could have the horses safely in Utah, under the protection of the Mormons, and, as well, signed over to Doris Bucknell. With the full weight of the British government behind her, the Army would not challenge her title. Drury tried to comprehend this. “You mean—”
“I mean I’m trading you your life for legal title to the horses. And if you try to repudiate it, I’ll come after you and hell itself won’t be big enough to hide you. You’ll never know when or where I’ll take you. And when I do, you’ll die slow and hard. Don’t forget, I’m half Indian and I know all the tricks.”
Drury’s knees almost buckled. “My life ... for God’s sake, yes, Sundance. You can have it, you can have those God damned horses.”
“Where’s the title?”
“In my saddle bags down yonder on the stallion.”
“All right,” Sundance said. “We’re going down slow and easy. If you break, you’re dead.”
~*~
Drury was too smart to break. With lifted hands, he marched down the slope, Sundance right behind. Out on the road, the two stallions waited, Moon Rising calm, Col
d Wind still nervous, blood dripping from jaws and flanks. Sundance had Drury stand fast, keeping the gun on him, as he went to the stallion, spoke softly to it, touched it soothingly, then unfastened the saddle bags. It flinched, but otherwise stood fast.
Sundance tossed the saddle bags to Drury. “You got pen and ink in there?”
Drury nodded. His hands shook as he fumbled with the bags. Sundance watched him carefully. Drury took out a folded paper. “Read it to me,” Sundance said, and Drury did in a shaky voice. It was long and legalistic, and it was signed by the adjutant of the Regiment that had found the horses, and it gave Drury absolute ownership of the spotted stallions and their mares. “All right,,, Sundance said. “Get ready to write.”
Drury took out pen, an ink bottle, opened it, laid the paper on the bags, and Sundance dictated. When he was through, he said, “Sign it.” The pen scratched as Drury obeyed. Still keeping the rifle on him, Sundance said, “Bring it here.” Drury came to him with the saddlebags over his arm, the paper in his hand. It shook as he held it out to Sundance.
Drury’s scrawl was hardly readable, but it was in order, Sundance saw, letting his eyes flick over it, but still keeping tight watch on Drury.
“All right,” he said. He held the paper out to dry in one hand and lowered the rifle. “You can turn around now and start walking.”
“Sundance, for God’s sake, I’ll need blankets, grub.”
“That’s your worry,” Sundance said. “You’re alive. Be glad of that. Maybe you can find your guns up in the woods. If you’re as smart as an Indian, Drury, you’ll be all right. Now, on your way.”
Drury’s face worked, but he turned, the saddlebags still across his arm, and began to walk. Sundance watched him teeter down the slope for twenty yards in his high-heeled boots, and then he let out a long breath and turned toward Moon Rising.
At that instant, the other stallion, Cold Wind, snorted. Something in the sound made Sundance whirl. Down the slope, Drury had turned, was on his knees. He held in his right hand the short-barreled Colt he’d taken from the saddle bags, steadied his aim with his left. His face was contorted with rage and hatred. “Goddam you!” he yelled, and Sundance raised the rifle.
He was too late. Drury pulled the trigger.
But he was too late. At the sound of Drury’s voice, Cold Wind Blowing had already pinned back his ears and charged straight down the hill for Drury. The sight of twelve hundred pounds of maddened Appaloosa made Drury jerk, threw off his aim.
Then he swung the gun barrel toward the stallion, but he was too late.
There was nothing Sundance could do. Drury’s treatment of the big horse had set a flame of hatred burning in the Appaloosa’s brain. It had flickered low, but not gone out, and that wild shout had made it flare. Drury jumped to his feet, tried to run, but then the stallion had him.
Its great head stretched out, its huge jaws seized his arm. Drury screamed as Cold Wind reared, shaking him like a terrier with a rat. He kicked as he dangled from the horse’s mouth, and his scream died, as a huge, hard forefoot caught him in the ribs. Then Cold Wind let him drop. Drury fell limply and Cold Wind pawed at him, and Sundance heard something crunch. Then the stallion turned and kicked at the thing on the ground and whirled again and savaged it with his jaws some more, and Sundance stood clear. Cold Wind would kill him just as quickly if he went to the big horse in its rage. Instead, Sundance swung up on the other stallion.
There was nothing he could do but wait. Cold Wind Blowing’s rage lasted perhaps five minutes. Then he was satisfied with what he had done. He snorted, and red drops flew from his jaws as he shook his head, turned and trotted back up the pass. Sundance let him go, knowing he was headed back toward where he had last seen his mares. Cold Wind went swiftly, and Sundance followed on the other stallion.
Chapter Ten
Doris was pale-faced and shaking with reaction. “Jim,” she whispered. “Oh, it was terrible …”
Sundance already knew that. He had seen what the Nez Percé had done to Drury’s men, of whom, they claimed, none had escaped. All he could say as he held her tightly was, “They had a lot of long overdue debts to pay.”
He looked at the band of spotted horses grazing on the floor of this small, well-hidden canyon in the Bitterroots, to which they had been brought immediately. With them were most of the mounts of Drury’s men, carefully rounded up by the Nez Percé after the battle. It had been important to leave no trace of what had happened. Drury and all his gunmen were buried under tons of rock beneath a cliff where shale and talus had made it easy to start a slide. Carefully, the Indians had cleaned up the battle site. It would be to any investigators as if they had started over the mountains and then had simply vanished from the face of the earth.
Now he and Doris were here beside a smokeless fire with most of the Nez Percé ranged around them, and it was the first chance he and she and Yellow Wolf had had to talk. Sundance released her and fished in the pocket of his pants, bringing out a billfold from which he took a document.
“It’s been rough,” he told her, “but anyhow, it’s all in order now. Here’s a legal bill of sale to me from Drury for the horses. I’ll sign it over to you, and after everybody’s rested, we’ll strike out for Utah.”
“Yes,” she said. “Please. Sign it over to me right away.”
There was so much urgency in her voice that Jim Sundance looked at her curiously. But he had Drury’s pen and ink, and he laid the document on a flat stone and began to write. Presently, he straightened up. “Here it is. Maybe it wouldn’t stand up for an American, but your government will make sure it’s honored.”
“Yes,” she said. “The Queen will see to that. Let me have that pen, please. And is there any more paper?”
Sundance stared.
“I want to write a draft for the other twenty thousand dollars,” she said. “You’ve fulfilled your bargain.”
Sundance gave her paper from Drury’s saddle bags. She wrote carefully and passed it to him. “It will take a few weeks for it to clear New York,” she said, “but the money’s on deposit there. Thank you, Jim.”
Sundance said quietly, “The thanks are due to you. Even if this doesn’t buy Joseph’s way back home, it’ll buy the Nez Percé better land than they’ve got now. At least they’ll survive.” He started to reach for the pen, but she drew it away.
“One moment,” she said. “I’m not through yet.”
She unfolded the bill of sale, and in the last clear space on it, began to write. When she was finished, she waved it to dry it, and then she handed it to Yellow Wolf, who looked at it blankly.
“Tell him, Jim,” she said, “that the Queen will honor it. When he gets the horses back to Canada, no one will take them from him.”
Sundance frowned. “Canada?”
Doris smiled. “Remember? The night before the battle, I talked with Yellow Wolf alone. I told him then that I couldn’t do it.” Her voice faltered. “I simply couldn’t, Jim. These aren’t my horses and they never could be. They could never be anybody’s horses but the Nez Percé’s.”
“I don’t understand,” Sundance said. He looked at the draft.
“Yellow Wolf did. He wanted those horses desperately, but he told me that Joseph wouldn’t allow it. A bargain had been made, and Joseph would insist that it be kept. So would he, because he had given his word. So …” She shrugged. “The bargain’s kept. You’ve delivered the horses and title for them to me, and I’ve chosen to give them to the Nez Percé.” Her voice deepened. “They don’t belong in England, Jim, and they don’t belong in India. They belong here, in the mountains, with the men who bred them. They are ... my memorial to John. He died here for them, and this is where I want him honored and remembered. This way he’ll have more dignity in death than if I had taken them home to be curiosities, just the fruit of a rich man’s whim. John deserved better than that. So do the Nez Percés and so do the spotted horses.”
Sundance looked at her and at the grinning Yellow Wolf, a
nd translated to make sure Yellow Wolf understood, and then he groped for words. All he could find to say was, “I had already judged you as a thoroughbred. I was right.”
She smiled. “In the circles in which I move, that is a high compliment indeed.”
Sundance looked at Yellow Wolf. “You can get the horses to Canada?”
“I’ll get them there,” Yellow Wolf said. “Jim, you come too and bring her with you. She is much woman.”
Doris understood that, and she shook her head. “No. No, we have to go on to Utah.” She paused. “I wish I could stay here. Oh, how I wish it. I would like to go to Canada with the Nez Percé and live there and ... But I told you, Jim. I must go home. I want you, if you will, to take me to Utah where I can take a train.”
“Brigham City,” Sundance said.
“Yes.” Doris paused and her eyes met Sundance’s. “But... I hope it’s not too short a trip.”
Slowly Sundance grinned.
“We can drag it out,” he said.
Doris smiled. “Good. I am in no hurry at all. Absolutely none.”
Yellow Wolf had put the paper in his medicine bag, a sacred place where it would be absolutely safe; he wore it around his neck on a bear claw chain. Now, he said, “Wait a minute.”
Sundance and Doris looked at him as he swung up on his horse. “What—?” she asked.
But Jim Sundance already understood. “You just gave him a present, the greatest one possible. He has to give you something in return.”
They watched as Yellow Wolf rode into the horse herd: When he returned, the stallion Moon Rising, a fine, broad hipped breeding mare, and a filly followed him like trained dogs.
Yellow Wolf drew himself up and gestured toward the three horses. “These three,” he said, “the woman must take to Utah and then across the water. If anyone has questions, you can say they came from Lapwai. It is something you can manage, Sundance.”
“Sure,” Sundance said. “I can manage it.”
Doris’ face lit with delight. “May I?”
