Overkill (Sundance #1)

by John Benteen

  He turned his back on Custer, strode past Snyder into the store. He found a bucket of water, washed himself off with a rag, put on the shirt, the hat. Strapped on gun, knife, cartridge belt. When he turned, pocketing his bag of gold, Custer had disappeared, and four men were lugging off the unconscious O’Malley. But Irene Colfax was in the store with Snyder.

  Even battered as he was, Sundance could not help admiring the figure she cut in tight silk blouse, broad brimmed hat and long, divided leather riding skirt. She looked at him with glowing eyes. “Mr. Sundance, shouldn’t you go to the post dispensary?”

  “I’ll take care of myself,” he said harshly.

  “Maybe there’s a doctor in town.”

  “I’ll be all right,” Sundance insisted.

  “There’s a spare bed in our private car. I’m sure George would be glad—”

  “Thanks. I’ll camp up the river a ways, though. Better if I’m not where I have to cross a bunch of soldiers again. Anyhow, I’ll be pulling out in the morning on your husband’s business.”

  She looked disappointed, then shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

  “I generally do,” Sundance said. “So long, Mrs. Colfax. Snyder, thanks.”

  Snyder laughed. “Jim, it was my pleasure. I only wish that fancy-dan had given me an excuse to pull the trigger.’’

  Eagle waited at the hitch rack before the store. Sundance took his reins, mounted. The woman stood in the doorway of the store. She raised her hand. He tipped his hat to her, then pulled the horse around and sent it into an easy, rocking-chair run.

  Sundance rode far up the river, well away from the fort. Two hours before sundown, he found a site in the heavy brush that edged the Smoky Hill, off saddled Eagle after unloading his gear. He turned the big Nez Perce loose to drink and graze, knowing it would not stray and would come to him at the softest call. Then he stripped, waded into the stream, thoroughly washed the dust of travel and combat off. Returning to his camp, he wrapped a cloth around his loins, tied it, and stepped back into his moccasins. Then he built a small, smokeless fire of squaw-wood and carefully began to unroll his blankets.

  When he had spread them out, it lay there where it had been stored inside the roll: a Cheyenne war bonnet, resplendent with beadwork and eagle feathers, its beaded headband decorated with conchas and the tails of ermine. Delicately, he picked it up and shook it out, the painted feathers tipped with tufts of down rustling softly. He looked at it for a moment; few men among the Cheyennes had earned such a bonnet by the age of twenty, which was when he had claimed the last coup feather needed for its completion. But by twenty, he had seen much fighting against the Crows, Shoshones, and Assiniboines. Each feather had been earned in war, except two for killing grizzly bears. Not all of them marked an enemy’s death, though. Some had been awarded for the even greater feat of touching a live enemy, and others for feats of horse stealing, at which he had been an expert, and which was an art that ranked high among Indians.

  He smoothed the feathers, then carefully laid the war bonnet aside. Next he unlaced one of the parfleche bags, the long, cylindrical one. From it he took a short, curved bow made of juniper wood lashed with sinew and tipped with buffalo horn. He caressed its curve, making sure no split marred it, ran his finger down the dangling bowstring plaited of dried sinew of the shoulder tendon of a bull buffalo, searching for defects; found none. This was the first weapon he had ever learned to use, and one of tremendous power. With it, he could send an arrow four hundred yards and, at closer distances, had more than once driven a shaft all the way through a running buffalo—or the body of a man.

  Satisfied that it was intact, he laid the bow on the grass beside the war bonnet, reached deeper in the bag, and pulled out a long quiver of panther skin, the tail still attached. It was crammed with arrows, and Sundance took them out one by one and checked each carefully. Arrows took a long time to make, and they were precious, especially superb ones like this, each shaft perfectly and painstakingly straightened, feathered with wing quills of a buzzard, points razor-sharp chipped flint. Steel arrowheads were favored by most Indians now, and the flint ones were becoming rare. But they had an advantage over steel, for the stone points dealt more grievous wounds and were deadlier; and that counted for a lot with Sundance. Thus he had paid a premium to the expert arrowmakers of the Cheyennes—who were the best in the West, for arrows were the sacred medicine of the tribe—for the old-fashioned kind. Carefully, Sundance replaced the arrows and put the quiver beside the bow. He prized his bow and arrows as much as his rifle; both were indispensable. The rifle could reach out farther, and it was more accurate. But an arrow made no noise to betray its source.

  The long bag held more items. One of these was an ax—tomahawk, white men called it—nothing exceptional except that it had not been made for chopping; it had been perfectly balanced for throwing, another product of the New Orleans craftsman who had made the Bowie. He pulled it from its buffalo-hide sheath, balanced it by its short hickory handle in his hand, then ran his thumb over the cutting edge. Not satisfied, he brought out a small whetstone, spat on it, burnished the edge a little, found it once more keen as any razor, and replaced the hatchet in its sheath. After that, he took out the pipe. With it was a waterproof pouch made from the bladder of a calf. What it contained, however, was not the usual Cheyenne mixture of tobacco and red willow bark, but a weed called marijuana. Now Sundance loaded the clay bowl, made in the shape of a man’s head, lit it with an ember. When it was going, he tilted the pipe to the sky, the earth, then in the four directions of the compass. After that, he drew deeply of the smoke.

  As he had told Hickok, his capacity for whiskey was limited. More than two stiff drinks changed him completely from a cool, self-possessed professional fighter who always knew what he was about, into a kind of reckless maniac, a madman wanting only to destroy, lost in a fog of violence, not responsible for his actions. So he was careful never to carry a bottle with him, only to buy it by the drink. Instead, after a long day, he smoked the pipe. The marijuana relaxed him, but it did not madden him, nor interfere with his senses or slow his reflexes.

  He was feeling the effects of the battle with O’Malley, but after a few drags on the pipe’s cherry wood stem, he was better. Presently he laid it aside, and then he unlaced the round bag. What he took from it was very important to him: his shield.

  Not quite three feet in diameter, it was a circle of steam-warped juniper over which the tough neck hide of a bull buffalo had been dried and shrunken until it was nearly as hard as iron. Next came a thick layer of dried-out grama grass and then another layer of hide, deerskin this time, on which had been painted a Thunderbird. In battle, a shield such as this would stop an arrow, slow a lance point, even thwart a musket-ball, though it would not stand against the more powerful rifles coming into use. But there was more to it than that: to a Cheyenne Dog Soldier, a shield was powerful, sacred medicine, especially a Thunderbird shield, which required much time, skill, and ceremony to prepare. It was a warrior’s luck, his spiritual as well as physical protection in combat, like a white man’s Bible or St. Christopher medal. Sundance handled his with a certain reverence. And when he held it up, from its lower edge dangled six long tufts of hair: scalps. He looked at them. Three were black, coarse, the scalp locks of Indians. The other three were softer, finer and a little shorter. One was brown, one reddish, and the third as yellow as his own.

  He touched them with one hand, lips thinning, eyes growing hard as he remembered. It had been almost ten years since he, his father, Nicholas Sundance, and his mother, Smiling Woman, had traveled to Bent’s Fort to sell a load of furs and buckskins. There had been a lot of action at the fort, as there always was, and Jim Sundance had stayed for the horse races while his parents rode north to rejoin the band of Smiling Woman’s father. The next day, young Sundance had set out, riding hard, to catch up with them. He had found them, all right, thirty miles north of the Arkansas; and the buzzards had already been at their bodies. They had been shot
and scalped, but that was not the worst of it. The worst of it was what they had done to his mother before they killed her.

  He had read the sign. Six men. Then he remembered the three drunken Pawnees and their three white companions, derelicts who had once been mountain men, but who were now only prairie tramps, since the beaver were gone. They had left the fort ahead of him, not long after the departure of his parents.

  Sundance killed buffalo, wrapped the bodies in their hides, placed them in the branches of trees in a creek bottom. Then he struck the trail. The six had ridden together for a while, then split up, each in a different direction. That made no difference to Sundance. He knew who they were, and he would hunt them to the end of time.

  He did not have to go quite that far, but he covered a thousand miles. A year passed before he killed the last one—neither swiftly nor painlessly. One by one he caught up with them, and one by one they died, hard. He had not, since then, taken another scalp, although he had killed other men. He had no need of other scalps; these six were enough.

  One way of life had ended then and another had begun; rootlessness and drifting and fighting. There was plenty of fighting for a man like him; Kansas and Missouri were full of bushwhackers, white men fighting whites; farther west, red and white were in almost constant combat. Fighting was the trade of every Cheyenne man, and Sundance had had the chance to become a master in those hard years after the prairie north of Bent’s Fort. Those years were a blur of violence; it had not mattered much to him which side he fought on or whom he fought against. Now, though, he was older, and the turmoil within him had, to some extent, subsided. Now he picked and chose his fights and tried to make them profitable. He knew the value of money and he needed it, a lot of it. Not much of it was used to pleasure himself, though there were times when he liked the good things of life. Most of it went for another purpose entirely, one known only to himself and two other men.

  He lit the pipe again, inhaled deeply. Then, from beyond the brush, where he was grazing on the short-grass, Eagle, the stallion whinnied.

  Sundance came up like a panther. One hand snatched the Henry from its saddle scabbard, the other jerked the Bowie from its sheath. The appaloosa was as good as any watchdog, and his trumpet call meant a stranger coming—a white stranger. Sundance edged soundlessly to the rim of the brush, peered out. Then, softly, he cursed.

  The valley of the Smoky Hill stretched away in twilight toward the fort, barely visible on the heights. Along the river bottom pounded a rider on a pinto horse. And even at that distance, Sundance recognized the figure in the saddle—Irene Colfax!

  Eagle was a fighting horse, and now he stood with legs planted wide, ears laid back, head snaked forward. A word from Sundance and the stallion would have charged the woman. Instead, Sundance snapped a command and the horse eased, though remaining alert. Irene Colfax saw and recognized Eagle and turned her mount toward him.

  “Sundance,” she said, reining up as she saw him beside the stallion. Her sea green eyes flared again as she ran them up and down his body, naked save for the loincloth, moccasins, and a small bag of otter skin hung around his neck on a buckskin thong.

  Sundance said, “Mrs. Colfax, you’re a fool, riding ‘round by yourself at this time of night.”

  She smiled. “General Custer assured me there were no Indians near the fort.”

  “No. But there are a lot of whites who’d like to get their hands on you.”

  “Really? I’m not afraid of them, either. I go where I please, Mr. Sundance, when I please.” Then her smile faded. “And I need to talk to you before you leave. It’s important.” She swung down before he could answer. “Where’s your camp?”

  Sundance hesitated. Then he pointed to the brush. “In there.”

  “Ah, yes, well-hidden, very secret. All the better.” She led the pinto into the thicket, tied it. “Better, too, if nobody sees the General’s horse out here.”

  Sundance looked her up and down. She was aware of his gaze and met it boldly as it raked over the ivory profile, red lips, full breasts, narrow waist, curving hips. “All right,” he said. “Come to the fire.”

  He led her through the brush to the little clearing where his bed was spread, his gear laid out. She looked around curiously, eyes lingering on the war-bonnet, bow and arrows, shield. “You really are an Indian, aren’t you?” she murmured.

  “Sometimes,” Sundance said.

  She sat down on his blankets, took off her hat, shook her head and the coppery hair spilled down her shoulders. “Whatever you are,” she said softly, “I think you’re the most fascinating man I ever met. When I saw you take that big Irishman this afternoon, I wanted to . . .” She broke off.

  “You wanted to what?”

  Irene smiled. “Cheer,” she said, and they both knew that was not what she meant. Then she asked, “Where did you get those scars?”

  “Fighting and hunting,” Sundance said. “Except for these two.” There were livid ones on each side of his chest. “They’re from the Medicine Lodge, the Sun Dance ceremony. Initiation. They cut the skin, slide ropes through it. They tie buffalo skulls to the other end of the ropes. They drag behind you while you dance, and you dance until the ropes break out of the flesh.”

  Her mouth curled. “Ugh. How gruesome. Savage.”

  “Well,” he said, “no Indian ever built a religion around crucifying somebody. Mrs. Colfax, what do you want?”

  The woman was silent for a moment. Then she said, “I came here to make you a business deal. One that could mean an extra five thousand dollars in your pocket.”

  Sundance looked at her across the fire. “Money’s something I’m always interested in. Let’s hear it.”

  “All right.” Her eyes met his. “Sundance, my husband offered to pay you ten thousand dollars to find his daughter and bring her back. Well, I’ll pay you fifteen thousand if you don’t.”

  Jim Sundance stood up. “Well,” he said, “that’s interesting. Go on.”

  “I won’t until you swear that you’ll never tell my husband what I say.”

  Sundance smiled. “Even if I did, you could call me a liar and make it stick.”

  “Then you’ll give your word?”

  “I’ll give my word. Let’s hear about the extra five thousand.”

  Irene Colfax relaxed. “All right. I told you, I don’t want you to find Barbara.” Her eyes glinted. “Sundance, you’re an adventurer. You see what you want and you take it, even if it’s dangerous. Well, maybe you and I are a lot alike. We ought to understand one another.”

  “I expect we do.”

  “Do you know where, how, I started out? As a child, working in a textile mill in Lowell, Massachusetts. At ten years old putting in a twelve hour day, six days a week. And even then I knew, Sundance, that there had to be something better, something different. I saw the rich men with their fine ladies, and I made up my mind—I swore—that someday I would be married to a rich man myself, be a fine lady like the others.”

  “And now you are.”

  “Yes. And it wasn’t easy. I worked to get where I am, worked long and hard and schemed and took risks, and finally, three years ago, it all paid off; I married George Colfax.” Her breasts were rising and falling under the tight blouse; her mouth had thinned. “And I’m not going to have everything I’ve done ruined by that little bitch—”

  “Hard words for your stepdaughter,” Sundance murmured.

  “She deserves them. She’s hated me, done everything she can to poison George’s mind against me, told him nasty stories. And she’s—”

  “Heiress to part of his money in case anything happens to him,” Sundance said.

  Irene’s face flushed slightly. “Yes, there’s that. Anyhow, when she got this idea of going to Santa Fe, I encouraged it. I wanted her as far away from me as possible. I . . . hoped that something would happen to her, and it did. Anyhow, it’s worth fifteen thousand to me if you don’t bring her back.” Irene Colfax paused, looked directly at Sundance. “I do
n’t know whether she’s alive or dead. But for my fifteen thousand, I want your guarantee that even if she’s alive, neither George nor I will ever see her again.”

  Sundance met her gaze, and those green eyes were hard as agates. “The only way I could guarantee that,” he said quietly, “would be to find her and . . .” He broke off, looking at the woman.

  “Yes,” Irene said. “I think we understand each other. Is it a deal?”

  “I signed a contract with your husband. You’re asking me to break it.”

  “And I’m offering you five thousand more than he is. And something else.”

  “What?” he asked softly.

  She looked at him for a moment, and then she smiled. “What do you think?”

  Her hands went to the buttons of the blouse.

  Sundance did not move, only squatted across the fire, watching her with eyes as expressionless as chips of volcanic glass. Still smiling, wholly confident, she opened the garment, then shrugged it off. There was another one beneath it, but she stood up, unfastened the skirt, pulled it over her head, and then, quickly, the underclothes came off, and clad only in her riding boots, she stood there on the blankets in the dusk, nude, looking at Sundance with eyes that smoldered. “This,” she whispered. And she touched breasts that were high and firm and round and sharply tipped with pink. “And this . . .” She ran her hand down her belly.

  Sundance sucked in his breath. He arose and, without speaking, came around the fire. Irene looked up at him, mouth a red, beckoning, wet softness. “Sundance,” she whispered, holding out her arms.

  He pulled her to him, and she came eagerly, face up tilted, lips parted, rubbing her body desperately against his. He felt her nails sink into the skin of his back. Then, as she clung to him, they dropped together onto the blankets.

  Much later, when it was almost dark, Irene Colfax stirred lazily, contentedly. Her fingers stroked his yellow hair. “Ahhh, Sundance,” she whispered. “Now. Now, we understand each other, don’t we?”