Sun Dance

by John J. McLaglen

  Carey grinned. ‘So we get her out?’

  Herne nodded shortly: ‘We try, Carey. We sure as Hell try.’

  ~*~

  White Eagle squatted on his haunches inside the tipi. His belly still felt full from the previous night’s meat. He made a grimace, opened his mouth and belched.

  Curled in upon herself, the girl slept on undisturbed.

  White Eagle reached down and took hold of the end of the blanket, slowly folding it back. Ali Henderson was naked except for a small white garment below her waist. Her back was arched forwards, her left arm bent at a sharp angle, the hand resting on her cheek. The other arm lay alongside her, the wrist against her hip, fingers curling in between her legs.

  The Indian stared down at the whiteness of her body, marveling at it. The bend of her left arm framed her breast, the small swelling of soft flesh and the pink, relaxed nipple.

  White Eagle touched the breast with the first two fingers of his hand and immediately the girl stirred and shifted slightly but still did not wake.

  White Eagle stroked her breast gently and as he watched the nipple grew erect.

  Ali’s thumb moved inside her mouth.

  White Eagle lifted his hand away lest his growing lust should become uncontrollable.

  The first night he had pulled the flap of the tipi closed and knelt beside her. Almost blinded by tears she had removed her dress and shift. Her limbs had shaken so much that White Eagle had been worried that she might be stricken with a fever.

  But it had been nothing more than fear.

  When she was almost naked, White Eagle had removed his own breech cloth and Ali had turned from him, her whole body racked with sobbing.

  Slowly he had tried to calm her, to get her to trust him as a man would a wild animal. He had stroked her shorn hair, her arms, her back; talked to her softly, all the while desiring her more than he had ever thought possible.

  More even than Light-of-the-Stars whom he had thought he wanted more than any other woman. Worth many, many ponies.

  But this white girl...

  He had made her lie down, her arms at her sides, legs tight together. Eyes closed. When he laid his hand upon her belly she had cried out and he had set his other hand tight over her mouth.

  With difficulty he had prised her legs apart.

  Moved the thin material aside with his fingers.

  Ali’s teeth bit into the hand that kept her silent and White Eagle made no attempt to move it away, enjoying the sharp, intense pain.

  White Eagle pushed his middle finger inside her and almost at once pulled it away, releasing his hold on her mouth and pushing himself up on to his knees.

  He stared at the end of his finger, stained with the bright menstrual blood. He looked at Ali with sudden hatred and his left hand grabbed at her arm, lifting her forwards. His other hand slapped across her face, back and forth, many times until her cheeks were smeared with patches of her own blood.

  Then he stood quickly and left the tipi, wanting to cleanse his hand. To touch a woman there at those times was to make himself impure, to lessen the powers he had gained from the sun, to make him an ordinary warrior once again.

  White Eagle had rubbed at the remains of the blood, washing and scrubbing until it had disappeared.

  When he had returned to the tipi, Ali had fallen asleep in her fear and he had lain opposite her. Now he could touch the upper parts of her body, while his own body stirred and waited for her time to be over so that they might lie together under the one blanket.

  Ali stirred once again, thumb still in her mouth.

  White Eagle turned away and left the tipi. The sun had begun to rise behind the ranks of red cedar. Later that day Crooked Snake would bring his followers from further north in the hills to join his own. Then they would be truly strong, a great force to sweep the white man from the land and reclaim their rightful place.

  White Eagle started to walk towards the sacred lodge.

  ~*~

  Herne pointed at the figure of the lean Sioux as he walked across the hollow, the white feather bobbing behind him as he moved. Carey followed the direction of Herne’s arm and nodded.

  There was only one guard posted on the peak opposite, a blanket draped over his shoulders. He had probably been sitting there, cross-legged, since the middle of the night and the cold would have seeped into his bones.

  Apart from White Eagle, no one was stirring. As Herne had suspected they had feasted well the night before.

  Inside the lodge, where White Eagle now stood, the fresh scalps had been added to the other objects at the head of the pole.

  Herne motioned to Carey and the two of them pulled further back into the trees.

  ‘That tipi where the Sioux come from, that where you reckon the girl is?’

  Herne nodded. ‘Yeah.’

  ‘An’ you reckon now?’ Carey’s husky whisper was uncertain.

  Herne nodded again, spinning the chamber of his Colt.

  ‘How shall we play it?”

  ‘The horses. If we can spook them and turn ’em out of that corral, those Sioux are goin’ to get after ’em like there was no tomorrow. Might give us a chance to sneak in and get her out.’

  Carey stuck his tongue through between his gums and reached up to scratch his gray beard.

  ‘You got a better idea?’ asked Herne shortly.

  ‘Can’t say I have. One thing, though. Which one of us is goin’ in there first to get at them mounts?’

  Herne grinned: ‘You’re the one who’s so all-fired smart at creepin’ up on folk without ’em knowin’. You go. I’ll keep back here with this Sharps an’ watch out for you.’

  Carey scratched a little more, then cleared his throat.

  ‘Thanks, Jed,’ he said ruefully. ‘Thanks a lot. You made an old man real proud.’

  But he didn’t look as though he altogether meant it.

  ~*~

  The top of the needle-like peak was slowly lit by sunlight. Below it the Indian shucked off his blanket and stretched, rifle balanced on his knees. A couple of cliff swallows chased one another in mazey circles.

  Herne waited, chewing on the flesh inside his lower lip.

  More of the Sioux had begun to move about, several of them making for the scrub to the left of their camp and squatting to relieve themselves. A fire was lit. White Eagle remained alone inside the sacred lodge.

  A pony inside the corral tossed its head and neighed suddenly.

  On the rock, the guard looked down. One of the braves close to the tipis pointed and spoke. Herne shifted the barrel of the Sharps. But the animal walked a few paces and nudged into another pony, making no further sound,

  Herne relaxed a little.

  He guessed that Carey must be less than twenty yards off, although he could see no sign of him. He would have been worried if he had.

  Then he did see him, or rather an arm looping round the bottom length of timber at the side of the corral. From that point there was nothing to protect him from being spotted. If one of the animals sensed danger and drew attention again he would be out in the open.

  Herne shivered slightly with the early cold the sun not having reached either the hollow or the tree line.

  First one, then a second piece of wood was quietly lowered to the ground. Herne watched as Carey ghosted between the slowly turning horses.

  He was still good, Herne thought. Damned good.

  As one of the animals snickered, Herne brought the Sharps to his shoulder. The guard high on the rock was fingering his own rifle nervously, obviously unsettled but not sure of the cause.

  Herne started to squeeze back on the trigger.

  At that moment Carey let out a whoop and fired his pistol twice, sitting astride one of the larger horses and waving his hat in his free hand.

  The guard had time to move a whole six inches before Herne fired. The .55 shell slammed him back against the white rock, tearing the left side of his rib cage apart. The rifle toppled away and started to bounce down the
rock face. The Indian’s arms went outwards and back and blood began to cover the front of his buckskin shirt. He flailed his arms a couple of times, like a young bird whose mother pushes it into the air too soon, then followed the rifle down the cliff.

  At the first distant but sickly thud of the brave’s head meeting a jutting ledge. Herne fired his second shot.

  It snapped through one of the smaller bands of wood which formed the frame of the lodge and deflected upwards, missing White Eagle’s head by a clear couple of feet.

  Inside the corral, Carey turned and turned the horse under him, yelling and shouting at the top of his voice. As Herne pushed a fresh shell into the Sharps, the old scout slapped the animal on the rump and dropped low on its back, rolling his body round on to the far side and clinging to the neck with one arm. Mostly hidden from the Sioux, he galloped in the wake of the stampeded herd which was charging away from the hollow, heading for the space between trees and cliff.

  White Eagle stood outside the lodge, pointing, yelling orders.

  Herne had already moved on, passing between the trees and keeping his eyes on the rest of the Indians as they started to run after the disappearing horses.

  It had to be now.

  He broke cover and sprinted towards the tipis.

  A brave turned to meet him and before he could use any weapon Herne had driven the stock of the Sharps hard into his face, breaking his nose with the force of the blow and sending him stunned to the ground.

  Herne yanked aside the flap of White Eagle’s tipi and saw the girl huddled at the far side, a blanket pulled about her.

  ‘Come on!’

  Herne reached out a hand towards her but she cowered back, shaking her head from side to side.

  Herne heard footsteps closing fast.

  He shifted the Sharps to his left hand and drew the bayonet. With a single sweep of his arm he slashed an opening in the rear of the tipi.

  ‘Get goin’!’

  He dragged her half way to her feet and pushed her through the gap.

  ‘Get!’

  Herne turned, saw a shape break across his vision, ducked away and ran after the girl.

  She was miming now, left towards the trees, naked save for a pair of white drawers. Herne pushed the bayonet into his belt and drew his Colt. As he did so a volley of pistol fire echoed across the hollow and after a couple of seconds doubt Herne realized that it was Carey.

  ‘Run!’

  He went after the girl, his shouted command unnecessary now. He fired past his left side and one of the Indians chasing him threw up an arm and fell. The other kept coming.

  Somehow Carey had got himself into the trees and was giving covering fire. Herne struggled to increase his stride, but the Sioux seemed to be gaining on him.

  Finally he swung round and brought up the Colt.

  He got off one shot before the running body crashed into him and he was knocked backwards. For a moment the face of White Eagle came close to his own and Herne saw a fierceness burning in the Indian’s eyes, the equal of which he had rarely known.

  Fingers squeezed at his throat and Herne struggled to free himself. He let his right hand fall and jabbed the barrel of the Colt into White Eagle’s stomach. In the split second between then and firing the Indian threw himself sideways and the shell went harmlessly into the air.

  ‘Jed! Jed!’ he could hear Carey calling from the trees.

  In the corner of his vision the other Sioux were returning fast.

  His eyes met White Eagle’s for an instant, then he seized the fallen Sharps and ran.

  They pulled the girl through the trees between them and untethered their own horses. Herne threw her on to his own animal’s back and vaulted up behind her, kicking it into action.

  For ten minutes they rode as fast as they dared through the tortuous arroyos until they and their horses were panting and covered with sweat.

  Inside Herne’s arms the near-naked body of Ali rolled and rocked as she kept her legs tight around the galloping horse and clung to its mane with her hands, terrified that she would be thrown off.

  Eventually Carey raised an arm and slowed them to a trot.

  ‘They ain’t comin’ now,’ he gasped. ‘They’ll be gettin’ their own ponies back. Time to look for us later.’

  Herne nodded agreement and sat back in the saddle.

  In front of him, Ali slowly turned her head and looked at Herne’s gaunt face and lank hair, uncertain as to whether she was any less afraid of him than she had become of White Eagle.

  Chapter Eleven

  ‘Coffee’s ready!’

  Ali turned her head in the direction of the men at the fire and then bent back to the ground. She set her fingers against the thin stem of the pink meadow rose and snapped it. Carefully she pushed the end of the stem down into one of the buttonholes of the shirt Herne had given her and lowered her face towards it, smelling its light fragrance.

  ‘You comin’ or not?’ called Carey. ‘’S gettin’ cold.’

  She stood up and walked towards the small fire. Carey stood behind it, holding out a tin mug for her to take. Herne had his back to her and she looked again at the hair that fell to his shoulders from under his hat and the deep stain of sweat that ran the length of his back.

  The older man she already liked and trusted but Herne somehow seemed to hold himself apart from her and maybe it was for that reason that she continued to feel uncomfortable with him.

  ‘It’ll taste a mite bitter,’ said Carey, ‘but at least it’s wet an’ hot.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Ali took the mug from him and sat close to him, averting her eyes from Herne.

  ‘Biscuit?’

  She shook her head, but as Carey continued to hold them out towards her, she relented and took one. Then a second and a third.

  ‘Good to see her appetite’s comin’ back,’ commented Carey to Herne, nodding his head towards Ali.

  Herne finished his coffee, ignoring the remark. There were more important things on his mind.

  They had ridden east beyond the Badlands and not stopped until they were far enough out into the plain to avoid being ridden up on by surprise. But with three of them and just two mounts, even though the girl was light, they weren’t going to be making the kind of progress Herne would have liked.

  Carey drained the dregs of his coffee down on to the ground. ‘What’s eatin’ into you, Jed?’

  ‘We ought to get Bradley in here as soon as possible. Every minute wasted is likely goin’ to count for lives.’ He glanced at the old man. ‘One of us ought to ride on ahead.’

  ‘I ain’t so certain. We run into any Sioux, two’s a whole lot better’n one.’

  Herne shook his head from side to side. ‘It’s too slow. Ain’t right.’

  ‘Okay. You get goin’ soon as you’re ready. I’ll stay with the girl.’

  ‘Uh-uh. The Army’s more your business than mine. It’s you the Colonel’ll listen to most. You go. We’ll follow on.’

  Ali clenched and unclenched her hands; if she had to stay with one of them, she wanted it to be Carey.

  ‘Can I...’ she began.

  Herne stood up and started to kick dirt over the fire. ‘No, you can’t,’ he said sharply. ‘You just rinse that coffee pot and get ready to move.’

  Ali wasn’t able to hide her annoyance or disappointment, but Herne didn’t care. He went over and tightened the cinch on his horse’s saddle.

  Carey tended to his own mount, then climbed up on to its back. ‘I’ll find the Colonel and get him back here with the whole damned outfit if’n I can. Maybe he’s headin’ this way already.’

  ‘Maybe.’ Herne looked up. ‘We’ll meet up with you in a day or so. Get movin’.’

  Carey turned his horse towards the east.

  ‘Jed. Ali. Be seein’ you.’

  He waved his arm and set off across the plain, increasing his speed as he went. Soon he was little more than a dark spot that moved against the horizon.

  Herne gave Ali a leg up
on to the horse and set his foot in the stirrup.

  ‘You ain’t too sure ’bout me, young lady, are you?’ he asked as he swung his leg round behind her.

  She looked over her shoulder but said nothing. Herne glanced at her short, patchily cut hair and then her light brown eyes. She was scared of him right enough but he didn’t think the reason why was as straightforward as she might reckon.

  ‘C’mon!’

  They began to ride slowly after Carey as the sun rose in the sky above them. The edges of the plain began to waver in the tremulous light.

  They made slow progress. At regular intervals they dismounted and rested up, then walked a while before getting back on to the tiring horse.

  Neither Herne nor Ali said very much; conversations about the country they were moving through didn’t seem to yield a great deal and they steered pretty clear of the subject of the girl’s capture.

  Yet the fact that the Indians had kept her alive nagged away at Herne just as surely and regularly as he felt the girl’s body swaying back into him with the movement of their ride.

  At one point they startled a small herd of antelope away to their right on the prairie. Instantly the timid animals turned and sped towards the horizon, the white patches of their rumps like so many bright lights.

  Herne had pointed them out to the girl and Ali smiled then laughed with pleasure as she saw them run. It was the first time that Herne had seen her at all relaxed and he realized that despite her savaged hair she was as young and pretty as a girl of her age should be.

  It marked a shift in their relationship.

  When they stopped later that day, the sun losing its heat, the air beginning to cool, Ali was no longer afraid to look him in the face.

  Herne got the coffee pot which Carey had left with them from the saddle bag and began to gather together the makings of a fire. Ali, the ends of Herne’s shirt tied across in front of her, went to helps

  Less than a day’s ride from the Badlands, they were already in far more fertile land. Although the prairie grass had been burned a yellowy straw color by the sun, it was speckled through with wildflowers of many colors. Streams ran with little water, but were not entirely dried up. Clumps of ponderosa pine were dotted here and there over the immediate landscape.