by John Benteen
“I’ll remember,” Sundance said. “See you, Bill.” He went out, stowing the contracts carefully in a saddlebag.
A half hour later, in the private car, Colfax looked up with respect. “Where did a man like you who’s lived out here all his life learn to write a document like this?”
Sundance smiled. “Oh, I’ve been schooled in more things than how to skin a bear or shoot a buffalo, Mr. Colfax.” There was a faint edge to his voice. “You’ve got some money for me?”
“It’s here, yes.” Colfax, opening a drawer in the table, took out a heavy canvas bag. “Six thousand dollars, gold double eagles, you can count ‘em.”
“I’ll take your word.” Sundance picked up the bag, took the signed copy of the contract, stuck it inside. “I’d like to have the reports from the Army and the letter from Tod Brackman, too.”
“Yes,” Colfax said; from the same drawer, he took an envelope, passed it over. “Those are copies I had made for you.” He looked at the bag of gold. “Isn’t it risky for you to carry all that around with you?”
“Don’t intend to. I’ll leave most of it on deposit with a friend of mine.”
“I see. Very well, Mr. Sundance. I have only one more thing to say. That’s a great deal of money. I don’t pay out money without expecting prompt results. I want my hundred thousand back.”
“And your daughter.”
“Yes, and Barbara.”
“I’ll do the best I can,” Sundance said.
“It had better be good. I’ll remain here in my private car until I hear from you. Are you bound for the fort now?”
Sundance nodded.
“If you see Mrs. Colfax there, tell her to be sure to be back here by dark. Colonel Custer paid a call, is escorting her on a tour of the fort.”
“If I see her, I’ll do that,” Sundance said. He turned to leave.
“Remember what I said, Sundance. Results—and quickly.”
A few minutes later, Eagle loped with long strides up the heights toward the scattering of drab buildings that was Fort Harker. When he reached the top, Sundance reined in, looked southwest. Beyond the Smoky Hill River, the prairie rolled to the horizon like an ocean, a dun-colored immensity of swells and dips, broken only by an occasional line of trees or the sudden up thrust of a butte or sand hill. Above, the sky was enormous, bright blue and cloudless.
What lay within his vision was held by white men; but huge as it was, this country was only a tiny fraction of the vastness beyond the horizon, where the lands of the Indians began. Soldiers could dominate this little area around the fort, but once beyond it, they were strangers, castaways on that mighty sea of grass, the enormous lonesomeness of the Llano Estacado, the dazzling rock-riddled sandy hells that were the deserts. Out there the Cheyennes, Comanches, Kiowas, Arapahoes, Sioux, Apaches and countless other tribes still ruled for thousands of miles, and all the white men had been able to manage so far was to nibble at their great domain, put down a road here, a fort there. But it was still Indian country, and the tribes that had once fought and raided each other had banded together now in an alliance against the invading whites. And somewhere in that emptiness was a girl, one white girl, and he had to find her; he, better than anyone, knew how hard that would be. He had not told Colfax, but Cheyenne Dog Soldier or not, he might not be welcome out there any longer. Just as his coppery skin earned him looks of hatred in the white man’s country, his blond hair could quite possibly get him killed out there in the distance, where Indians, after years of being hunted by whites as if they were vermin, were becoming inclined to shoot first and ask questions later when they saw yellow hair. No, it was not an easy task he’d hired out for; it would be worth every penny he was charging Colfax and more; and he would need all the luck he could get.
But it was the kind of challenge Sundance liked. He could have, long ago, chosen the white man’s road completely. With his knowledge of the country plus the education his father had given him, he could have made a fortune as a freighter, merchant or trader; there were plenty of opportunities for a man like him in St. Louis and New Orleans and Omaha and Kansas City. He could have lived in a big house and slept on a mattress every night and married and had children to carry on his name and have been safe from everything but disease and boredom. He was strong, and disease was not likely to get him. But, he knew, the boredom would surely have carried him off. For him it was necessary—as necessary as breathing—to have space, endless amounts of space, freedom, danger and risk, the stimulation of excitement. Sometimes part of him needed the other, too: the soft bed, good meals, fine brandy, excellent music, beautiful women and cultivated talk, but he had learned far too well how quickly his need for all that could be sated and how much better it was to wander in the enormous, empty, beautiful open country of his childhood.
He took out a cigar, clamped it between his teeth. There was another way he could have gone, too—the way of Charlie Bent, son of the famous trader William Bent. Charlie was also a half-breed, his mother a Cheyenne woman; and Charlie had turned against the white part of himself completely, had renounced it, become not only wholly Cheyenne, but a vicious, brutal enemy of any white man who crossed his path. No full blood could match Charlie Bent in his hatred of the whites, his determination to be totally Indian and to stay that way.
Sometimes he knew how Bent felt. But that road was not for him, either. Something within him would not let him take it. Just as he was too much Indian to become all white, he was too much white to become all Indian. He was himself, a thing apart, different; and that was the way he would live. And, when the time came, die.
He reined the appaloosa around then, and sent it galloping to the fort.
The sutler’s store was a weathered building as forlorn as all the rest of Fort Harker, which was only a square of such buildings around a dusty parade. Snyder was blocky, middle-aged, intelligent, and had been out here a long time, had known Sundance’s father. His face lit up when he saw the blond man, and he thrust out a hard hand. “Sure, Jim,” he said, when they’d greeted one another, “I’ll keep your money for you. I got me an iron safe now. I can’t promise you no interest on it, but it’ll be here waitin’ for you when you come back.” He frowned. “If you come back. It’s hell out yonder now, they tell me, and gettin’ worse.” He lowered his voice. “All that damn Hancock and Custer have done is stirred up a hornet’s nest. And they ain’t swatted no hornets, neither. Custer’s chased Indians all over Kansas, Nebraska and Colorado, and he ain’t caught the first one. They’ve even learned now how to derail the locomotives. You reckon even you can keep your hair out yonder?”
“I’ve got friends among all the tribes,” Sundance said.
“Yeah. But thanks to Hancock and Custer, you’ll have enemies, too. Even half-white’s too much for some of the Injuns now, and it’s gonna get worse instead of better. I reckon you know the price of buffalo robes is goin’ sky-high back East.”
“That’s bad news,” Sundance said.
Snyder nodded. “The hunters’ll be comin’ in, just like the mountain men came after beaver. And when they start wipin’ out the buffalo, you know. the Injuns’ll go plumb crazy. And then there’s the Texans. They’re drivin’ cattle north, now, up to Missouri. But with the railroad out this far, they’ll swing their drives, because it’s shorter, come straight up through the Injun nations. By next year”—he swept out his arms—”there’ll be strings of them Texas longhorns out there as far as your eye can see.”
He broke off. “It all adds up to war,” he finished. “War to the hilt. You watch your hair, Jim.”
“I’ll do that,” Sundance said. He waited while Snyder put the gold away, save for a little over a thousand dollars, then accepted the receipt the sutler gave him. He said good-bye to Snyder, turned to go.
Then he halted. Beyond, on the parade, a man and woman walked together: Custer and Irene Colfax, deep in conversation. And behind them a respectful distance was the giant Irish sergeant, O’Malley. As Sundance spotted hi
m, so the big man saw Sundance through the open door of the store. He said something in a low voice to Custer. The officer raised his head, looked toward the store. Then he smiled, answered. The sergeant laughed, and then he was striding forward.
Sundance turned back to Snyder, put the rest of the gold on the counter. “Watch this for me. I think there’s gonna be a little bit of trouble.” He swung back to the door and at that instant the opening was blanked out as if it had been closed; O’Malley stood on the top step, his bulk filling it entirely.
His little eyes glittered as they raked over Sundance. His froglike mouth twisted in a grin, showing snaggled yellow teeth. “Well, sure, here’s the lousy bigmouthed redskin, walkin’ around over good military ground jist like he was a decent white man.” O’Malley locked a huge hand around each jamb of the door, planted his feet.
Sundance said, softly: “Sergeant, let me by, please.”
“Oh, and it’s let him by, please! Don’t he talk purty for a bloody Injun!” The smile disappeared from O’Malley’s face. “And ye’re the one that gave the General a hard toime, eh, me bucko? Well, fer that ye answer to First Sergeant Sean O’Malley, personal orderly to the commander of the Seventh Cavalry.” He jerked his head. “The General hisselfs right out there to take yer apology, Injun. Maybe if ye make it purty, ye’ll git off light.”
“I apologize to no one,” Sundance said. “Much less some officer’s big fat Irish dog-robber. Get out of my way, paddy.”
O’Malley’s face turned to reddish stone. “And without that gun on yer hip, or yonder butcher knife, would ye talk so big?”
Sundance smiled faintly. “Snyder will hold my gun. And my knife.”
“Ahhh,” O’Malley said, with deep satisfaction. “Then he’ll hold moine, too. Snyder, catch—!” And his Colt flew through the air. Snyder caught it deftly and O’Malley backed down the steps.
Sundance unlatched the belts that held the pistol, Bowie, and rifle cartridges. Coiling them on the store counter, he laughed softly, feeling a kind of exultancy. Then, soundlessly, on moccasined feet, he went down the steps to confront O’Malley on the parade.
Chapter Three
Custer and Irene Colfax had moved up close now. “General,” the woman said, “you’ll not permit this, will you? This man’s working for my husband.”
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Colfax. But roughnecks like this have to be taught respect for the military. O’Malley!” Custer called. “Teach him a lesson, but don’t hurt him too badly.”
“I’ll jist rough him up a tad, sor,” O’Malley answered, grinning, and now he was stripping off his blouse to reveal a great torso banded with muscle in thick clumps. At the same time, Sundance tossed aside his hat, with a quick motion pulled off the buckskin shirt, threw it after the sombrero. He heard a little gasp from Irene Colfax, and even O’Malley’s eyes lit in grudging admiration at the sight of the coppery torso, leaner than his own, the muscles longer, less knotted, but deep-chested and powerful. “Sure,” he said, “and ye’ve got a little bit of muscle. Where’d ye git all them scars?”
“Places you’ve never dreamed of,” Sundance said. He stood loosely, waiting, as O’Malley dropped into a kind of crouch. Then, with startling speed for a man his size, O’Malley charged.
He was fast, but Sundance was more than fast, a blur. As the Irishman bore in, Sundance pivoted, stepped aside, and great flailing, chopping fists missed him. Sundance hit O’Malley hard, above and in front of the ear, one of the most vulnerable spots on a man’s head.
It was like hitting granite. O’Malley’s head jerked, and as he went past, Sundance slugged him in the kidney, the muscles there rocklike, too. His fist bounced off and then O’Malley turned, shook his head. “That kind,” he snarled. “A Goddamn dancer.” Then he came in again, and Sundance saw that he had science, hard-learned in hundreds of behind-the-barracks brawls.
And now, with guard up, O’Malley’s huge fists were hammers, threatening, feinting, and anything caught by them was dead, smashed. Sundance went in quickly his own fists up, O’Malley lashed out at him fiercely, and Sundance, again with that dazzling speed, ducked low. He was fast, incredibly fast and coordinated, and counted on it as he teased O’Malley into swinging, got him off balance, let the fist whiz overhead and slammed a hard right into the Irishman’s gut.
The blow would have felled an ox, but O’Malley only hesitated, grunted, hit out again, and Sundance rolled his head as just the grazing of O’Malley’s knuckles on his cheek opened the Crow arrow scar and drew blood; he felt it wet and warm, but no time to worry about that. While O’Malley was off balance again he had a chance at O’Malley’s nose. He went in with his left over O’Malley’s arm and felt his fist crush cartilage; blood sprayed and O’Malley roared like a gut shot buffalo. He shook his head, dampening Sundance with the crimson, and Sundance hit him again, this time on the cheekbone, and then he misjudged. O’Malley got in his first good blow.
It caught Sundance on the jaw, literally picked him off his feet and threw him backward. He landed hard against the side of the store, dazed, and then O’Malley was on him. Sundance ducked instinctively, and O’Malley’s big fist slammed into wood instead of flesh, but O’Malley’s body crushed against his and pinned one arm, as with the other, he chopped at O’Malley’s kidneys. The Irishman’s bloody breath was foul in his face, and O’Malley husked happily, “Now!” He got his arms around Sundance and crushed him to him like a bear, big head under Sundance’s chin, forcing it backward. Sundance felt ribs giving, knew in a moment his bones and entrails would be pulped into bloody mulch by that terrible hug. Lights danced before his eyes; he quit chopping at O’Malley’s kidneys with his one free hand. Instead, savagely, he jabbed upward with his thumb and found O’Malley’s little eye under its ridge of bone, O’Malley cursed and jerked his head aside, Sundance brought his own head forward hard, and his skull slammed into O’Malley’s face, crushing the already bloodied, broken nose. The pain must have been sickening, and O’Malley slightly unclenched his hold for just a moment, and Sundance twisted, putting every ounce of strength he had into that effort with his torso, and then was free, gasping for air and feeling as if a mountain had fallen on him. Through a kind of red mist, he got a glimpse of Irene Colfax watching raptly, eyes gleaming, one hand on her breasts. Custer shouted, “Confound it, O’Malley, get him!”
But O’Malley was hurt, wary, now. He backed off, shaking his head, droplets of blood still flying. He knuckled at his eyes, cleared his vision. Sundance could hear him panting like the chuffing of a locomotive. Then the frog-mouth twisted, and O’Malley came at him with savagery and speed, great hands flailing. Sundance stepped away, circling, but Custer put out a boot behind him and tripped him, and he fell on his back; and as he hit the ground, he saw the grin of triumph on O’Malley’s face as the Irishman changed direction. “Now, by damn!” O’Malley shouted, and his boot slashed through the air straight at Sundance’s head. Sundance threw up both hands, caught the huge, leather-shod foot, and Sundance’s body coiled and every muscle bulged as he stopped its swing, heaved back on it, and then O’Malley was staggering, off balance, and Sundance twisted and O’Malley fell with an impact that seemed to shake the earth. Before he could move, Sundance was up, uncoiled, leaping like a cat. He came down hard with both knees on O’Malley’s belly and the man’s breath whooshed through his mashed nose. Before O’Malley could fend him off, Sundance seized the Irishman’s hair, jerked his head up, slammed it against the ground savagely, clubbed his other fist squarely between O’Malley’s eyes simultaneously. O’Malley sighed, gagged, his body twisted, he tried to raise his arms, but Sundance battered his head against the ground again—and again and again. Suddenly, O’Malley vomited and went limp, blood pouring from nose and mouth and ears.
Through a kind of fog, Sundance heard Snyder’s voice. “Jim, that’s enough.” Hands were pulling him off O’Malley. “You damned near killed the man. Likely, he’ll be addled for the resta his life.”
“Good.” S
undance gained his feet, wrenched loose from Snyder, whirled on Custer. “Now, you,” he rasped. “You tripped me. It’s your turn now.”
Custer backed away. His hand went to his holster, came up with a Colt. “Stand back, you savage.”
“I saw you do it, General,” Irene Colfax said icily.
“It was an accident.” Custer kept the gun lined on Sundance. “And you, half-breed, you’re under arrest.”
“I don’t think so,” Snyder’s voice said from behind Sundance, as Sundance, breathing hard and bloodied, stood there poised and, in this moment, not quite sane, ready to jump straight into the muzzle of the gun. “Mrs. Colfax, you step aside. Custer, you put up that gun, unless you’re proof against a load of buckshot.”
Custer looked up. Sundance stepped aside, turned. Snyder was on the steps of the store. After lifting Sundance to his feet, he had dodged inside, snatched the shotgun from its rack. Now, its hammers eared back, the percussion caps on the nipples winking in the light, it was trained squarely on Custer.
Irene Colfax stepped wide, and Custer licked his lips. “Snyder, put up that thing or I’ll report you to the commandant.”
“I’ll put it up just as soon as Jim Sundance has got his Colt back on. Then you and him can settle your differences on your own.”
Custer hesitated. “This is absurd.”
“Jim’s daddy was a friend of mine. Nick Sundance would come back and haunt me if I let you pull that trigger. But if you want to try it with Jim fair and square—”
“I said it was absurd!” Custer flared. He backed off two paces. Then, swiftly, he holstered the pistol. “I think the best thing for all of us is to forget this incident.”
Sundance rubbed his face, vision clearing, reason returning. His voice was hard, cold. “You forget it, Custer, if you want to. I don’t forget things like that. But, all right, I’ll wait to settle up with you. Right now, I’ve got a job to do and I can’t be hung up for shootin’ something like you. But don’t cross me, you hear? Don’t you ever cross me again.”
