Sundance 2

by John Benteen

  Sundance flung out an arm, making Duppa stagger back. Then Sundance hit Gannon again. Gannon was dead weight in his grasp. He laughed, let him drop, stared down at him, sprawled senseless on the sand. He was about to straddle him and choke him when he felt the cold barrels of Duppa’s shotgun in the back of his neck. “Jim, that’s enough. Up.”

  Duppa’s voice was as much cold iron as the weapon. A shaft of reason pierced the red fog in Sundance’s brain. “All right,” he heard himself say, and his voice seemed to come from very far away. He got to his feet, stepped back, moccasins whispering in the sand. “All right, Darrel.”

  Duppa let out a long breath. “That’s better, Jim.” Sundance saw him swinging the shotgun to cover Gannon’s men again. “Nobody moves, nobody takes up the quarrel. It’s over, understand?”

  There was silence. Then a man with a black mustache spat a stream of tobacco juice, stepped forward. His face was weathered; he wore a concho-silvered Mexican sombrero, a red shirt, greasy canvas pants, high boots and big silver spurs. Two Dragoon Colts were slung on his hips.

  “I’m Jessup, Red’s major-domo,” he said. “He and I run together a long time, Duppa. All right, you kept the halfbreed from killin’ him, that stands in your favor.” He looked at Sundance. “But you . . . Once we leave here, you’d better not cross our trail again.”

  Sundance, chest heaving, shoved back blond hair that had fallen over his eyes. “Maybe you’d better not cross mine,” he rasped.

  “Enough!” Duppa snapped. “Jessup, take him inside, patch him up. Come daylight tomorrow, you ride. All of you, whether Gannon’s fit or not.”

  Jessup nodded coolly. “That’s what we’ll do. We got business in Tucson.” His eyes went to Sundance again. “A place you’d do damned well to stay out of, ’breed.”

  Sundance looked at him and laughed. “As a matter of fact,” he said, “that was where I was going, too.” Then he turned away and staggered into Duppa’s house where he washed his face in cold water and buckled on his gun again, as Gannon’s men lugged his limp body in and laid it by the fire.

  The sound of a crowing rooster—one of Duppa’s game chickens—awakened Sundance. He came bolt upright, not used to sleeping past sun-up, but the cabin was flooded with daylight. Like an animal, the moment his eyes were open, he was fully awake. Remembering Gannon, his hand went to the holstered Colt by the saddle he used as a pillow. Then, looking around, he relaxed. Duppa’s house was empty; Gannon and his men were gone.

  Sundance arose, wincing inwardly at the pain it cost him. His face was cut and swollen; cold water would take care of that, and of the bruises on his body. But he knew he’d been in a fight. He slipped into his moccasins, buckled on gun belt, knife and hatchet. As he latched the belt’s tongue, Duppa entered, carrying a wooden pail of water in one hand, a rifle in the other. At Duppa’s station, nobody ever went outdoors without a gun.

  Duppa set the bucket on the table. “Morning, Jim.”

  “Darrel. Where’s Gannon and his gang?”

  “Rode on at dawn. They rode, that is; Gannon was tied to the saddle. That was a terrible beating you gave him. Henry? Henry! Some breakfast for Mr. Sundance.”

  The gimpy oldster scurried in, crouched before the fireplace. “Right away, Mr. Duppa.” He rattled pans.

  “Any Indian sign outside?” Sundance asked.

  “None. The Apaches have gone off to look for easier pickings. Everything’s calm.”

  “Good. While breakfast’s cooking, I’ll take a wash in the river.”

  “Not a bad idea,” Duppa said. “I’ll join you.”

  There was not much water in the Agua Fria, but enough to bathe in. Sundance, brought up in a Cheyenne camp, had acquired the Cheyenne habit of washing every day, summer or winter, if there were a stream around to do it in. Duppa looked at him keenly as he stripped off his clothes. The Mexican boy stood guard beneath the cottonwoods with a rifle.

  “Damn, Jim, I wish I had your muscle. All those scars, though.’’

  Sundance said, “A man fights for a living, he accumulates some scars.”

  Duppa shed clothes from his own lean body, which was pale as a fish’s belly. “You’ve done a lot of fighting, then. What about those two on your chest? They don’t look like bullet or arrow wounds.”

  “They aren’t. Those are from the Sun Dance ceremony.”

  “Oh,” Duppa said. “I’ve heard of that. How old were you?”

  “Fourteen,” Sundance said. “But I had already done my dreaming, had my medicine. I wanted to prove myself. They cut the skin, slipped rawhide ropes through the cuts, tied buffalo skulls to the trailing ends. I danced until the ropes pulled through the flesh. Then I went on my first war party.”

  Duppa waded out into the stream, shivered. Sundance followed; the cool water felt good on his bruised flesh. “You’re a full-fledged Cheyenne Dog Soldier, aren’t you?” Duppa asked.

  Sundance nodded, immersed himself, began to swim.

  “I know more about Apaches than Cheyennes,” Duppa said. “The Dog Soldiers are the chief fighting society of the Cheyennes, right?”

  “One of ’em. There are several.” Sundance floated on his back. “It depends on how well they distinguish themselves. Sometimes the Dog Soldiers rank highest, sometimes the Red Shields, sometimes the Kit Fox Men . . . or one of the other societies.”

  “Still, you’re a big man with the Cheyennes.” Duppa submerged himself, paddled around. “And I’ve heard the Apaches talk about you and your father. They haven’t forgotten you. But for that matter neither have the other tribes around here.” He stood up, dripping, and Sundance saw that he had scars of his own, remembered that Duppa had taken at least three wounds from Apaches, and yet did not hate the Indians who wanted to kill him and whom he’d had to kill so often himself. Darrel Duppa, Sundance thought, was a remarkable man.

  They climbed out, rubbed themselves down with clean sacks. The sun felt good on their naked flesh. “And so,” Duppa said, “maybe you’re the last man in the West with yellow hair who can walk into any Indian camp anywhere and still be welcomed—and trusted. I’ve known you for a long time; I don’t see how you do it. You can think like a white man, then you can shift over and think like an Indian. And bridge the gap between the two races. I wish ... I wish to the devil there were more like you. Maybe if there were, there’d be some peace.”

  Sundance’s face was grave. “There won’t be peace anymore, Darrel. It’s like you said; for the next ten years, it’s war.”

  “The Indians can’t win.” Duppa began to draw on dirty socks.

  “No,” Sundance shrugged into his shirt. “They don’t see that yet, but I do.”

  “Then it must be hell,” Duppa said quietly. “Where does that leave you, half red, half white?”

  “Not much of anywhere,” Sundance said. He pulled on his pants. “Not much of anywhere at all, Darrel.” He reached for the revolver, buckled it around his waist, looked out across the river at the desert shimmering beyond. “There ought to be room,” he said. “There ought to be room in a country as big as this for both peoples, red and white. Maybe, somehow, somewhere, there’s an answer, a way of making people see that. Anyhow, I keep on trying. I’ve made friends with the Army, a lot of generals. Sherman, Crook—the important ones. And I’ve kept my friendship with the chiefs, the tribes.”

  He would have liked to talk to Duppa; Darrel was an intelligent, a cultivated, sensitive man. He himself had had the best education Nicholas Sundance could give him, and that had not been insignificant. Sometimes he hungered for association with people like Duppa. But this was not the time. Then Sundance said, “I’m tired of talking. Let’s go eat. I’ve got to strike out for Tucson.”

  Duppa stared at him. “Not yet. That’s where Gannon and his bunch headed. You run into them, next time you might not get off so easy.”

  “I can’t help that,” Sundance said.

  “Why?”

  “Because I’ve got a job there.”

&nbs
p; Duppa stood silent for a moment. Then he spat into the river. “Okay, Jim, it’s your affair. Breakfast ought to be on the table.”

  Chapter Three

  The ride to Tucson was a long one, and Sundance did not hurry. Traveling south, he entered the country of the Chiricahuas, and they were far more dangerous than the Tontos. He sacrificed speed to safety, using desert craft learned from the Apaches themselves to mask his passage. Besides, he had no desire to run into Gannon and his band, whose sign he read on the trail ahead of him, two days old. Occasionally, he saw smokes. Once he passed a deserted ranch, its inhabitants fled to town and the safety of the Army. Presently, he reached the valley of the Santa Cruz, and the city that lay within it.

  City, though, was perhaps an overly impressive designation for the Territorial Capital of Arizona. It was a sprawling mass of adobe huts and older stuccoed Spanish houses, with a population of about three thousand, its narrow streets littered with trash and swarming with burros, dogs, and rooting pigs, as well as the traffic of men and wagons from the High Plains, or come north from Sonora. Soldiers, gunmen, bullwhackers, gamblers, traders, settlers driven in by Indians: all thronged the place, along with its impassive original Mexican population. The men looked at the tall rider in buckskins on the magnificent spotted stallion with curiosity; there was something more than that in the eyes of the women, the Mexican girls swathed in rebozos and velos, the brassy American honky-tonk harridans who called from the doorways of the numerous saloons and gambling halls. Despite the Apaches, Tucson was booming, Sundance thought. He rode through it with his rifle across the saddle horn, his hand dangling near his pistol, his eyes searching the street for any sign of Gannon or his men.

  He saw none, and he passed on through the town, took the trail to nearby Camp Lowell. It was less a fort than Tucson was a city, only a cluster of mud-plastered buildings outside town. An American flag dangled listlessly in the middle of its dusty parade. Nobody challenged him as he rode in. He turned Eagle toward the biggest building: that had to be headquarters, and that was where he would find General Crook.

  He reined the appaloosa up, swung down, hitched the stallion. A guard on the building’s porch spat tobacco juice and shifted his carbine to his right hand. “General Crook here?” Sundance asked.

  “This is where he hangs out,” the soldier said. He spat again. “See the adjutant.”

  Sundance entered the building. A captain, sharp in heavy woolen blues, sat sweating behind a desk. He looked at Sundance with dubious eyes, taking in the red skin, the Indian features, and the blond hair. There was hostility in his voice as he asked, “Something you want?”

  “Yes. To see General Crook.”

  The captain frowned. “General Crook’s busy. Far too busy to see a —”

  “Halfbreed,” Sundance said, smiling faintly.

  “Well, yes. He’s just arrived, is organizing the Department for combat.”

  “That I don’t doubt,” Sundance said. “All the same, you tell him Jim Sundance is here.”

  The captain’s eyes changed. “Wait a minute. Sundance?” Suddenly his manner was respectful, almost obsequious. “Just a moment, sir.” He sprang up, whirled, went quickly through a door behind his desk. Almost immediately, he reappeared. “Mr. Sundance, I’m sorry I didn’t recognize you. General Crook will see you now.”

  “Thanks,” Sundance said dryly, and he went in.

  General George Crook hadn’t changed a bit. As Sundance entered he arose from behind his desk, a man about six feet tall, bearded, with a hawk’s beak of a nose and piercing eyes. His face was deeply tanned, weathered; as usual, he wore no blouse, was in shirt sleeves, and they were cuffed back. “Jim!” he exclaimed, grinning, and thrust out a big, hard hand.

  “General.” Sundance shook that hand vigorously. He had known a lot of Generals. He admired Sherman for his cold common sense and practicality; he despised Custer for his stupidity and arrogance; but he loved George Crook. He had seen Crook in action against the Northern Indians, the Rogues and Pit Rivers, had seen how quickly the man comprehended Indian psychology and turned it against the Indians themselves to minimize bloodshed. He had hunted with Crook; the man was a superb outdoorsman, totally fearless, with a keen, incisive mind and great powers of observation. In fact, except for Nicholas Sundance, Crook was the closest thing to a white Indian Sundance had ever known; and he stood out like a giant among the mediocre pigmies who commanded most of the Western forces. He and Crook had shared too many campfires, too many canteens, for there to be less than total regard between them.

  Crook gestured Sundance to a chair. “Sit down, Jim, sit down. Will you have one drink? I won’t offer you any more, knowing your propensities.”

  “One would be fine, General.”

  Crook took a bottle and two glasses from a desk drawer, poured, shoved the glass to Sundance. He leaned back, sipping his own whiskey, strong face glowing with the pleasure of reunion. “By Jove, Jim, it’s good to see you again. So you got the letter I sent to Laramie.”

  “We reached there on the same day,” Sundance said.

  “Good. Laramie is the place, of course; everybody in the West touches there sooner or later. It was a shot in the dark, but lucky things broke right. Well, Jim, shall we reminisce, or shall we get down to business?”

  “Maybe business would be better.”

  “Sure. Well, you know I’m Commander of this Department now.”

  “Yeah,” Sundance said. “And I’m glad of it. If anybody can make headway with the Apaches, you’re the one.”

  “I appreciate that compliment. I hope to. The former Commandant made his headquarters in Los Angeles; me, I like to be on the scene. You know my theory, Jim; the Indians are like everyone else. Give them full stomachs, something constructive to do, work they can see is in their own interest, and they would rather prosper than fight. I hope, eventually, to put those policies into effect in this Department. Of course, there will be some fighting first.

  “Maybe you can scout for me eventually. I would like to enlist some Apaches as scouts, once I can convince them that it’s in the best interests of their people. But that’s not why I sent for you. Scout’s pay wouldn’t interest you right now.”

  “No,” Sundance said, “it wouldn’t.”

  Crook was suddenly serious. “You’re not having much luck with your lawyer in Washington, are you?”

  Sundance arose, went to the window of the office, looked out on the parade. “No,” he said, “but I keep trying. He does the best he can. He’s a good lobbyist.”

  Crook sighed. “But not good enough. Not with all the other people who have influence in Congress and want to see the Indians wiped out. The railroads, the land speculators, the banks—”

  He arose, too, came to stand beside Sundance, put a hand on his shoulder. “Well, for a while there, it seemed there was a chance. There was genuine sentiment in the East for a humane peace policy toward the Indians. But, of course, everything’s blown up now. The way Custer slaughtered Cheyennes on the Washita after the Medicine Lodge Treaty, the way the railroads have rammed on through Indian lands in violation of other treaties . . . But I hope you won’t give up.”

  “I won’t,” Sundance said. “The fate of the Indians won’t be decided out here in the West. It’ll be decided in Washington, in Congress, in the White House.”

  “But you can’t outbid and outspend railroads and banks—”

  “No,” Sundance said. “They’re throwing millions into trying to get the Government to adopt a policy of extermination. But there are people on the other side. The Quakers, a few other groups—”

  “And you,” Crook said softly.

  “You and my lobbyist are the only two who know where that money comes from,” Sundance said. “You’ll keep it quiet.”

  “Of course. I only wish that there were more.”

  “Well, there isn’t. I earn what I can taking on tough jobs, charging all the traffic will bear. I know it’s still a drop in the bucket, but I h
ope—General, I realize now the Indians can’t win. Maybe I don’t even want them to. But when they lose, I want them to have a square shake. That’s why I do it.”

  “I know,” Crook said. He went back to his desk. “That’s the reason I sent for you. I see a chance for you to earn maybe twenty thousand dollars; anyhow, a lot of money.”

  “Twenty thousand?” Sundance’s brows went up.

  “Not only that,” Crook said, “but solve a problem for me. Get me off the hook. It’s a matter, Jim, of international importance. But dangerous; dangerous as hell. You interested?”

  “For twenty thousand,” Sundance said, “you’re damned right I’m interested.”

  Crook smiled faintly. “I thought you would be.” Then he went to the office door, opened it and stuck his head through. “Captain Bourke. Would you be good enough to go upstairs and ask Baron von Markau and the Baroness to join us?”

  When he closed the door and turned, Sundance looked at him blankly. “Baron von Markau?”

  “Personal emissary from His Excellency, Franz Joseph, Emperor of Austria,” Crook said. “I told you it was of international importance.”

  “But what—?”

  Crook held up a hand. “Wait. I’ll let them explain it. You’ll find the Baron is a most impressive man.” A strange expression crossed his face. “His wife is an even more impressive woman. Be careful of her.”

  “Listen,” Sundance said, but before he could go on, somebody knocked at the door. Then Bourke, Crook’s young aide, opened it. “General,” he said, “the Baron and Baroness von Markau.”

  As Bourke stood aside, Sundance turned and carefully sized up the man and woman who entered.

  Crook made the presentations gracefully. “Your Excellencies, may I present Mr. Jim Sundance? Mr. Sundance, Baron Walther von Markau.”

  Von Markau was a big man in a dark suit and white shirt. He was as tall as Sundance, wide in the shoulders, thick in the torso, narrow in waist and legs, his beard and temples silver-gray, his face square and rugged. He clicked his heels with a sound like a pistol shot and put out a big hand, shook hands vigorously with Sundance. “Mr. Sundance. A great pleasure. I’ve heard much about you from the General.” His English was good, almost unaccented. “May I present my wife, the Baroness. Herta my dear, Mr. Sundance.”