Sun Dance

by John J. McLaglen

  Herne had stopped close by one of these narrow, winding and almost dry streams. Three short pines grew in a tight group and there was a slight rise in the land to the north that gave them some shelter.

  They might well stay there for the night and get a good rest, starting off fresh in the morning. When Herne suggested that to the girl she agreed readily and he realized how tired she must be after her ordeal, possibly close to exhaustion. It was surprising that she had kept going as well as she had. Maybe, he thought, her fear was driving her.

  The coffee was strong but refreshing. They sat a little away from the fire, eating sparingly from the supplies that Carey had brought from the Fort.

  Herne leaned back against the saddle, crooking his arm about the pommel. His boots were crossed over one another, heels pushing gently into the ground. Ali sat slumped slightly forward, her fingers moving the tin mug round and round in a slow circle.

  ‘Your hair,’ Herne began slowly.

  Ali jumped as if he had touched her. Her hands knocked the mug over and the coffee spilled out on to the dry grass. Her face stared at Herne and it was white.

  ‘All right,’ he said quickly. ‘It’s okay. You want to tell it, you do it in your own time. Otherwise, it don’t matter.’

  That night they both slept lightly, aware for much of the night that the other was awake and stirring under their blanket, but still saying nothing.

  Before the dawn they were on their way again.

  It was a slow day. The horse showed signs of going lame and Herne made Ali and himself walk for much of the time, keeping an anxious eye on the animal’s leg.

  The atmosphere altered, thickened. The air grew so heavy that it seemed possible to reach out a hand and touch it. Cloud appeared on the western sky. The heat oppressed them.

  It had all the makings of a storm but there was no sound of thunder and as long as the day lasted there was no rain.

  The prairie stretched out from them on all sides. Ridges of land became more frequent, occasionally dark with timber. But there was no sign of another living soul. No soldiers from the Fort. No one.

  The girl became more and more listless and her skin was pale and running with sweat. Herne kept stealing glances at her, worried that she was going down with some sickness.

  Once she stopped and made a half cry. Then, mouth still open, vomit hurtled from her mouth. Head between her hands she bent forward and retched, shaking.

  Herne sensed that if he went to comfort her she would only feel worse. So he waited until she had wiped her face on the bottom of the shirt and nodded that she was ready to go on.

  When they spotted the shack close to the tree line, both Herne and Ali were glad for a reason to stop early. With the onset of rain likely and the girl feeling the way she seemed, Herne was pleased to be able to spend the night under cover.

  The door hung on by one hinge and several of the boards that had been used to make the walls had been knocked away. There was no floor, just the bare earth.

  Herne stood inside, his head close to the flat roof. Here and there the sky showed clearly through—but it was better than nothing at all.

  ‘We’ll stay here,’ he said. ‘I’ll unsaddle the horse. You rest up.’

  Ali sank wanly into the far corner, her legs splayed out, arms stretching between them. Immediately she closed her eyes and the sleep she hadn’t been able to get the night before claimed her.

  Herne went on with his business, glad that she was asleep at last.

  When she woke, close to two hours later, it was with a scream that seemed to rise from deep within her and tear the heavy stillness of the shack apart.

  Herne jolted upright, dropping the thin piece of oiled material he had been using to clean his stripped-down Colt. The pieces lay on the floor close by his leg.

  He stared across at Ali whose face was white in the dull light of the interior; white and made suddenly ugly by the cries that forced themselves from her mouth.

  Her hands reached out in front of her body, palms upright and fingers spread as if she were fending something, someone off.

  She was looking straight at Herne and although her eyes were open they were blank and unwavering and he knew that whatever she was seeing existed only in her imagination—or her memory.

  Slowly he stood up and went over to her; more slowly he bent down beside her and took her hands in his own. He remembered feeling hands as cold as those before. It had been in a hotel room in New York City and the girl had been a little older than Ali. Herne had looked after her when her mother had died at the same time as his own wife. He had tried to look after her.

  Even he hadn’t been able to stem the wasting disease that had put her young life out.

  Becky.

  Herne closed his eyes for a moment and when he opened them again Ali was looking at him. Seeing him now, her horrific vision gone. She looked into his face, into the faded color of his eyes, and then down at the strong, calloused hands that enclosed her own. Something broke inside her and she flung herself forward, her hands breaking from his and clinging round his neck, her face buried in his chest, the shorn ends of her hair against his mouth.

  After a few seconds Herne tightened his arms about her and held her to him and she cried softly, continuously, every now and again catching her breath with a convulsive sob.

  It grew darker and Ali began to talk, not lifting her head so that Herne could barely hear the words, his shirt damp with her tears.

  ‘He talked to me, the Indian, the one who took me away. He speaks our language well. He ...’ She trembled and he tightened his hold of her. ‘... he learnt it on the reservation, from my mo... my mo...’

  Herne moved one of his hands and stroked her ragged fair hair.

  ‘He changed his name from Running Deer to White Eagle. He said that the Indian had been like a deer that runs from its hunters for too long and now, and now he should be like the eagle. He should become a hunter himself.

  ‘That was why he ... why he took me with him. He wanted—I didn’t really understand but he kept saying that he’d looked into the sun—he wanted to use my hair. He cut it off with a knife and put it in that round thing they used for their … Oh, God! It was with the scalps! The scalps they’d taken! My...’

  ‘Ssh!’ Herne shifted so that she was leaning on his right arm, her legs kneeling as she rested her weight upon him.

  ‘This White Eagle,’ said Herne after a while. ‘How did he... ? I mean, did he... treat you okay?’

  Her head moved away from his chest and her eyes flickered towards him, knowing the question he had avoided asking outright.

  ‘He didn’t … he …’ Blood rushed to her cheeks and the line of her mouth tightened at the moment of remembering. ‘He tried, but, but...’

  Ali threw herself against him once more, the same racking sobs shaking her body, the sound filling Herne’s mind.

  By the time the door had been kicked open it was too late.

  The bulky figure filled out the sudden space and without being able to see the features of his face Herne knew who it was.

  ‘Ain’t that cozy! Real sweet! Makes a man go all soft inside to see such lovin’ ways.’

  Chance Lattimer took another step inside the cabin. He had a Spencer carbine in his hands, held low by his hip, and it was pointed at Herne and the girl. At that close range he couldn’t miss hitting his target; he’d as like as not put a bullet through both of them at the same time.

  Herne was unable to move, the weight of the girl resting heavy on his right arm.

  Lattimer’s eyes took in the interior of the cabin. They saw the dismantled Colt .45 close to the wall next to the door; the long-barreled Sharps resting in the corner.

  Lattimer took another step closer and Herne could see that he was smiling.

  ‘Mister, looks like you was too interested in cuddlin’ up girlie here to be ready for company.’

  He laughed loudly and jerked the Spencer in his hands and Herne felt the girl shake against
him. Herne knew Lattimer was right and cursed himself for being so unprepared. His mind raced, calculating distances, times in seconds and fractions of seconds. The only weapon to hand was the bayonet stuck down inside his boot and even that was separated from him by Ali’s legs. To reach it he’d have to move a whole lot further than Lattimer would ever let him—and he would have to move the girl as well.

  ‘Thought you’d seen the last of me, didn’t you, Injun lover? Reckoned you’d got me locked away for good. Well, you were wrong ’bout that like you was wrong ’bout most things.’

  He pointed the carbine at the girl. ‘This here’s the one from the Agency, is she? The one whose folks those Injun friends of yours butchered. Knew that, did you, girlie? Knew that the man you’re snugglin’ up to so lovin’ was a friend of them as scalped your ma?’

  Ali shouted and made as if to jump up, but Lattimer’s finger tightened on the trigger and Herne held her fast.

  ‘Maybe,’ Lattimer went on, ‘you ain’t so fussy. Or then again, maybe you got used to the taste of an Injun buck. Wherever them Sioux took you I bet they was humpin’ you night after night, one of the red bastards right after the other. Ain’t that so?’

  He moved his leering, ugly face towards her and Ali jerked back from the sight of his open mouth and twisted ear and the light of lust in his eyes.

  ‘I guess that after all them bucks this old man here must smell about the same. Well, girlie, I’m goin’ to give you a taste of what a real white man’s like.’

  He shifted the gun until the barrel was pointing straight at Herne’s head. ‘An’ this time you won’t be interferin’ like you did back in town.’ The carbine prodded at him. ‘But you’ll be watchin’, you bastard. You’re goin’ to watch every lovin’ minute and when it’s over I’m goin’ to kill you like the Injun lover you are.’

  Lattimer laughed out loud and spittle sprayed out over Herne’s face.

  Let the gun come just a little closer, he thought, let it poke a foot more and I can go for it with my left hand and likely knock it away before he fires.

  But, as if reading his thoughts, Lattimer stepped backwards and nodded: ‘I ain’t so dumb as you think.’

  Herne looked up at the big sandy haired deserter and wished that he’d killed him back at the reservation when he’d had the chance.

  ‘Get up!’ snapped Lattimer to the girl. ‘Get up and get away from him!’

  Ali moved slowly, terrified that she would do something to provoke the man’s anger to the point where he would go out of control.

  ‘Go on! Over by that side wall. Move it!’

  Ali glanced back at Herne as she went.

  Lattimer caught the movement of her head and laughed. ‘He ain’t about to do nothin’ for you, girlie, nothin’ at all.’

  He looked back at Herne: ‘Okay, hear me good. You move one inch out of line an’ I’ll drop you dead!’

  Herne stared up at him, expressionless.

  ‘Right. Now set your hands flat on the ground on either side of your legs. Flat! Flat! That’s it. Do it! Do it!’

  Herne knelt forwards, fingers splayed apart, head down.

  ‘That’s right. Now spread those hands further. More! More! Get that damned head down to your knees!’

  Herne felt the cold barrel end of the carbine push against the top of his skull. For an instant he thought that Lattimer was going to squeeze down on the trigger and blow his head clear off his shoulders. But the carbine moved away and Herne released his pent-up breath. He peered upwards and could see nothing but the bottoms of Lattimer’s pants, the toes of his boots.

  Too late he heard the swishing movement and the despairing upthrust of his left arm missed the mighty swing of the rifle through the close air of the cabin.

  The metal-edged stock smashed into the side of his head and with a muffled shout he rocked off his knees. Jolts of red sprang in front of his eyes and pain burned through to his brain. His hand clawed at nothing and Lattimer stood over him and drove the butt of the Spencer down on to his left temple.

  Herne heard a voice that might or might not have been his own and as he fell heavily sideways and back the red behind his closed eyes became deep black and then there was nothing.

  ~*~

  For several seconds when he awoke, Herne couldn’t remember what had happened. Then he moved his head just a couple of inches and he knew.

  He tried to move his arms but they had been tied tight behind his back. The wrists fastened first, rope burning his skin, then the arms themselves bound to the small of his back. His legs were fastened above the ankles, several rounds of rope knotted fast.

  He didn’t know how long he had been unconscious but he guessed it wasn’t that long. The sky that showed through the holes in the roof was not altogether dark.

  Ali was cowering in the opposite corner of the cabin. Her right leg was pulled tight across in front of the left, her arms folded over her chest and tears were running soundlessly down her face and dripping from the edge of her chin on to her arms and the tops of her breasts.

  A few feet in front of her, his shirt open and one hand to the top of his pants, stood Lattimer. He still kept the Spencer in his right hand. He was laughing.

  Herne glanced round. The Sharps was no longer where he had left it; he couldn’t see it anywhere. Neither could he see his Colt. The only weapons were the carbine in Lattimer’s grasp and the pistol that was in his army holster … and Herne’s bayonet.

  Ali’s eyes flicked over Lattimer’s shoulder then swiftly away again. It was enough.

  Lattimer turned, his laugh changing to a scowl.

  ‘So you’ve come round. An’ at the right time.’

  He leered in Herne’s direction and turned back from him towards the girl.

  ‘Stop pretendin’ you don’t know what it’s all about. Those bucks plowin’ you night after night. You little whore!’

  He sprang at her and slapped at her face, knocking aside her hand as she tried to stop him. Herne could see a trickle of blood at the corner of her mouth. He strained at his ropes but they refused to budge.

  ‘Little whore! Indian’s whore!’

  He slapped her again, three times, fast: crack, crack, crack.

  Ali’s tears became crying sobs and she held her bruised face in her hands, leaving her body exposed. Lattimer set the Spencer down so the barrel rested on the wall close beside her. He seized both of her hands and yanked her forward, shaking her.

  ‘Get down! Get down, you bitch!’

  He applied pressure to her arms, forcing her to her knees.

  ‘Down!’ His voice roared out as he stepped sideways and kicked savagely at her thigh, knocking her to the ground. He leaned over her and pulled at her ankles until she was stretched out beneath him.

  Then he finished unbuckling his belt. With fumbling fingers he undid the front of his pants and started to lower himself down. Herne saw the beginnings of his white buttocks. Behind them he caught sight of Ali’s face, screwed up, tight.

  Herne wedged his shoulders back against the wall and moved his shoulder blades, levering himself upright.

  ‘C’mon, you stupid bitch!’

  Lattimer pulled at her arm, dragging her hand away from where she had been trying to protect herself.

  ‘Stupid little whore!’

  He raised himself above her again and, holding her legs apart, thrust himself down. Ali screamed and threw back her head as Lattimer’s sandy hair pushed against her cheek.

  Herne saw the buttocks lift and fall and heard the girl scream again and managed to hop about six inches away from the wall.

  Another thrust: another scream: another six inches.

  Another and another and another.

  Suddenly Ali was pulling at Lattimer’s hair with both her hands, her strong little fingers seizing it and yanking it back and as Lattimer shifted his body across her she sank her teeth deep into the flesh at the top of his shoulder.

  Now Lattimer shouted out with pain and Herne did three h
ops, nearly losing his balance with the final one.

  Lattimer heard him and swiveled round, pushing himself up with his right arm.

  Ali brought her left knee up hard into his groin.

  Lattimer’s shriek was high and loud; water rushed to his eyes.

  Ali pulled back her knee and rammed it home a second time.

  As Lattimer gasped and doubled forward, Herne dropped flat on top of him. Two hundred pounds falling without hindrance winded Chance Lattimer completely. Herne forced his body down hard, seeing that the girl had wriggled out from underneath.

  ‘The gun!’ he called breathlessly. ‘Get the gun!’

  Herne felt Lattimer beginning to struggle and did his best to increase the pressure but he could feel the big man getting free.

  Out of the remotest corner of his vision he saw Ali’s naked body moving by the rifle.

  ‘Ye—’

  Lattimer punched Herne in the unprotected stomach and thrust him away. As Herne wriggled backwards and tried to get to his knees, Lattimer struggled to his feet and came for him. Herne saw the man’s right leg swing back and tried to dodge but he only partly evaded the kick to the head. The side of the boot struck him in the same place that he’d taken the blows with the rifle butt and Herne went on to his side fast.

  Lattimer closed and the second kick started to come in.

  An explosion rocked the cabin and Lattimer’s right leg seemed to jerk suddenly sideways in a parody of a dance.

  Then the man pitched forward and landed alongside Herne’s bound feet. There was a large hole in the center of his back, large and dark and spreading. Blood began to run liberally over the torn ends of flesh.

  Herne looked from the gaping wound to where Ali stood, quite naked, the carbine still tight in her hands, the stock pressed against her side, staring down at the man she had just killed.

  Chapter Twelve

  Colonel Phillip M. Bradley rode at the head of the long column of Tenth Cavalry. His body seemed somehow too small for the large chestnut mount; shrunken inside a uniform that looked at least two sizes too big for him.