by John Benteen
Another ten minutes and he knew beyond doubt that the messenger had left. Outside, the temporary furor had died down; once more the street was deathly silent. It was as if people sensed the coming of a storm—perhaps one of lead—and took shelter from it before it arrived. The town, the street, the cantina itself were all hushed and deserted—only one fat fly buzzing in the silence and Guiterrez, going to the door constantly and then returning, sweat streaming down his face beneath the bandage.
The silence stretched on, many minutes more of it. Sundance did not move, still lay with head on table, snoring from time to time, while Guiterrez kept watch.
In that silence, it was possible for him to hear them even before Guiterrez gave his warning. The hoof-beats pounding toward the town shattered the hush. Sundance tensed. Four horses anyhow, and coming fast. His act had worked; they were sure of themselves. Four against one, and that one drunk.
Guiterrez whirled away from the door. “Señor—” he hissed.
“I hear them.” Sundance did not move and his voice was low. “All right. Take cover.”
Guiterrez dodged behind the counter. Sundance stayed head down, snoring. He kept his eyes closed, lest the least flicker of them betray him. Outside the store, the horses stopped. There was the squeak of leather, the jingle of spurs, as men dismounted. “One horse,” somebody said in English. “And a damn fine stallion. We’ll match for him later. Come on.”
He was aware that they were in the store. Yes, he thought, four of them, and of course they would have their guns out covering him. He did not raise his head, but he knew that they were standing over him. One seized the rifle, pulled it from beneath his arms, and only then did he appear to waken. He sat up groggily, blinking in surprise as he stared into the muzzles of four Colts pointed at him. And he knew a certain disappointment. None of the men here answered the description of either Chester brother. “What—?” he began thickly.
“Freeze, ’breed,” one of the men said. “You make a move, you’re a dead man.”
Sundance slowly raised his hands, ran his eyes over their faces. They were all Anglos in cowboy garb, Stetsons, neckerchiefs, chaps and boots, and they were as tough a crew as he had ever seen. If the Chesters were tougher than these, they were something special.
The man who had spoken was the oldest, maybe pushing forty, with a growth of salt and pepper stubble on his leathery face and eyes like chips of slate. “You’re gonna answer some questions, friend,” he said. “Will, you edge around there and unload his hardware. And don’t git in my line of fire.”
“Right,” Will said. He holstered his own Colt, stepped around the table while the other three kept Sundance covered. He reached out to take Sundance’s gun. It was now or never and Sundance hoped Whitewolf realized that.
He did. Just before Will’s hand closed on the butt of Sundance’s Colt, the door to the bedroom in the rear slammed open and flame and smoke spurted through it. The roar of the gun was thunderous in the room, and the slug smashed into the man with the salt-and-pepper beard and sent him spinning. In the same instant, Sundance hit Will squarely in the face and rolled sideways out of the chair, drawing his own gun. It was out before he landed and coming up as Will staggered back. Sundance pulled the trigger, felt the weapon buck in his palm. Will screamed, clutched his belly, dropped to his knees. There was no time to finish him; Sundance rolled desperately, just as a slug chopped dirt where his head had been. Coming up, he saw a man above him about to pull the trigger a second time, and got off another shot himself. He rolled, not waiting to see its effect, came up on his feet lithely as a cat and shooting as he did so. For a second, maybe two, the roar of gunfire jarred the little room, and everything was veiled in powder-smoke. A man cried out in pain; then, as quickly as the fight had started, it was over. Sundance stood there with one round left in his smoking gun and looked through the haze. “Whitewolf!”
“I’m here, Jim!” Through the powdersmoke, Whitewolf’s laugh sounded. “By damn, it worked! It worked as slick as calf slobber, just the way you said it would!”
Sundance stood there a little shakily, staring at the carnage on the floor. Three bodies sprawled motionless in pools of blood; a fourth man, Will, whom he’d gut shot, lay doubled up, moaning softly. Sundance went to him, rolled him over with a boot. Will stared up at him with terrified and pain-filled eyes in a face pale as paper. Though he was in agony, neither his courage nor his defiance had deserted him.
“Goddamn you,” he whispered, “you ambushed ... us. But … there’s still … four left. And you’ve showed your hand … now. You’ve killed … me, but they’ll pay you back, you … bastard.” He broke off, teeth clenched.
Whitewolf looked down at him. “Low in the belly. Done for, but it’ll take him all afternoon to die, and damned hard.”
“No, it won’t,” Sundance said; and he lined his Colt and fired the last round in it, in this case an act more merciful than ruthless.
Guiterrez popped up from behind the bar unharmed. He stared in awe at the shambles his store and barroom had become. Meanwhile, Sundance and Whitewolf reloaded their weapons. “Cristo!” the storekeeper whispered; and he crossed himself.
Whitewolf snapped shut the loading gate of his .45. “Well, that’s half of ’em gone. But I’ll swear, I thought they’d never come. It was hot back there in that room, and I wanted a drink so damned bad—” He reached out, took the tequila bottle still on the table, drank deeply. “Ahhh … Now what?”
“Now we mount Eagle, ride double back to where I left your horse. You have any trouble getting in place?”
“Not a bit. Did just what you said: loped across those flats, using all the cover, got here just before sunup. Made Guiterrez let me in, holed up in his bedroom while you rode up big as brass, pretended to drink yourself blind. They never suspicioned there was two of us. But it was close, damned close. I was peepin’ through a crack, saw that hombre reaching for your gun, figured I’d better open up the ball before he got it.”
“You did, just in time.”
Whitewolf’s grin flashed. “Now, what? Think the same trick’ll work twice? More of ’em come down here to find out what happened to these?”
“No,” Sundance said. “They’ll have the word before we can even mount up. Somebody in this village spies for ’em. But now, at least, we can—” He broke off, cocked his head.
“What—?” Whitewolf began. Then he heard it, too, and swore. “Hell’s fire! Horses comin’! A lot of ’em! Who—?”
At that instant, a cry went up from the street. “¡Rurales! The Rurales come!”
“Come on!” Sundance snapped. “We’ve got to ride for it!” He snatched up the Winchester the bearded man had yanked away from him. Then he and Whitewolf ran for the door. If they could make Sundance’s tethered appaloosa and Whitewolf could take a dead man’s horse—
But even as they cleared the doorway, Sundance saw they were too late. He stood frozen for an instant, staring at the half dozen big-hatted, heavily armed men sweeping into the street on galloping horses from the south end of town, then whirled to see six more pounding toward them from the north. The Mexican police were already on them, could cut them down before their feet touched stirrups, each band like the jaws of a swiftly closing trap. Sundance seized Whitewolf, jerked him back. “Inside the store!”
They made it back inside the building and Sundance slammed the door, threw the bar into place. Whitewolf dodged to the rear door, did the same. As he ran to the front to join Sundance again, orders were shouted outside; the drumming of hooves slowed; there was the squeak and jingle of gear as the Rurales drew to a halt.
“Señor, in the name of God—” Guiterrez quavered.
“Take cover,” Sundance snapped. The storekeeper dodged back behind the counter. Sundance ran to one window, rifle in hand, peered out cautiously. The troop had dismounted. They could not know yet what had happened here or who was inside the store, but, approaching the town, they must have heard the gun battle from a distance
and would know that something was going on. It would not be many minutes before the informer here told them what it was and who was in the store.
At the other window, Whitewolf made a sound in his throat, raised his Colt. “I can drop a couple before they catch on.”
“Hold your fire,” Sundance snapped.
“Dammit, they’re in with the Chesters! We let them take us, we’re finished!”
“I said don’t shoot. We drop two, there’s still a gracious plenty more. They can fort up behind those huts and make this place a sieve. We’ll go down fightin’ if we have to, but maybe we won’t have to.”
“I’d rather go down fightin’ than be captured.”
“Just remember this,” Sundance said. “The longer you stay alive, the better chance you got. A captured man can escape, maybe. A fool that gets burnt down against odds he can’t beat is finished—forever. And—” He broke off, as a voice rang out from the street, calling to them in Spanish.
“You in there, los Indios! This is Teniente Garcia of the Rurales! You are under arrest in the name of the Republic of Mexico and the state of Coahuila! Lay down your weapons and come out with your hands up!”
“Under arrest for what?” Sundance called back.
“For murder! I have the full story! The cold-blooded execution of four American citizens under my protection! Will you come out peaceably? I warn you, I will waste no time if you do not, nor risk any of my men. If you do not surrender at once, I’ll burn that building down around you!”
Behind the bar, Guiterrez whispered. “Mary, Mother of God—”
“All right,” Whitewolf said harshly, “that does it. Only now my targets are gone. While you farted around, they all took cover. But let a Mex show himself and I’ll blow him to hell.”
Sundance risked a look through the window again. Now the street was wholly deserted; the police had sheltered behind the adobe huts across the way. There would be twelve or more guns lined on them, weapons which could pierce the thin board walls of the store, as their own lead could not penetrate the thick mud ones of the houses. And the sun-dried wood of this place would burn like wax.
He shared Whitewolf’s frustration. Surrender was not his style; everything in him cried out to fight to the bitter end, the last bullet. But he had spoken the truth to the Crow half-breed. Death ended everything; and if they resisted here and now, they would certainly die. But while life could be stretched out, there was a chance.
He drew in a long breath. Then he smashed the window glass with the Winchester barrel and shoved the rifle through.
“All right!” he yelled back. “We’ll throw out our weapons and surrender! Don’t shoot! We give up peaceably!”
Whitewolf turned from his window, his face twisted in an incredulous snarl. “What? Maybe you’ll give up like a damned old woman, but not me! No Mex is gonna take my gun and—”
Sundance was already unbuckling his weapons belt. “It’s your privilege to die here if you want to. I’m going out and I’m taking Guiterrez with me. When he helped us, he didn’t bargain on being burned alive. You stay here and fight if you’ve got a mind. I figure you’ll last ten minutes if they set the place on fire; then you fry or they cut you down when you come out.”
Whitewolf stared at him. “I figured you for a lot of things, but not for a Goddamn coward!”
“Maybe you don’t play cards,” Sundance said, “but we’re holdin’ an inside straight and they’ve got a royal flush. Me, I aim to wait until another hand is dealt before I stake everything. Okay, Guiterrez. You come out just behind me. I figure they won’t shoot me—not right away. They’ll want to ask a whole lot of questions first, and so will the Chesters.” He waited until the storekeeper emerged trembling from behind the counter, and then he went to the door.
Whitewolf stood there, face twisted, Colt in hand. “Sundance—” he said oddly.
“You’re a good man to ride the river with, Jesse,” Sundance said evenly. “See you in hell. You’ll get there first, so wait for me.” Then he started to unbar the door.
Behind him, Whitewolf made a strangled sound. Then he said bitterly, “Oh, hell. When you let me throw in with you, I promised to follow your lead.” There was a crash of glass, and Sundance turned to see him throw his Colt through the window. “I’m coming out, too,” he called in broken Spanish. “There’ll be three of us—don’t shoot!” Then, unarmed save for the knife on his hip, he strode across the room to join Sundance.
Sundance unbarred the door, cracked it a bit. “Lieutenant Garcia! We’re coming out with hands up! We are your captives!” With a stomach clenched in involuntary expectation of a bullet, he flung the door wide open and stepped into the hot, bright sunlight that shone down on the dusty street. Guiterrez and Whitewolf followed him.
The town of Infierno was as quiet as any grave, save for the nicker of Eagle, the stallion, as Sundance came into sight. The appaloosa, reins looped around the hitch rack, was not ten feet away, and behind him were the mounts of the four dead men. But all five horses might as well have been on another planet; Sundance knew he could not cover that ten feet without being chopped down by a dozen guns.
Guiterrez ranged himself on one side of Sundance, Whitewolf on the other, and the trio stood there with hands held high. Five seconds passed, ten, and no one spoke and nothing stirred. Then Garcia’s voice snapped: “Take them!” And the Rurales appeared, a rag-tag bunch in big sombreros with bandoliers of cartridges across their chests, their rifles lined and leveled. Like ghosts, they emerged in silence from behind the adobe huts, enough of them to encircle the three men; wordlessly the ring tightened. Then their teniente appeared.
Lieutenant Garcia was a real dandy, tall and slim and not over thirty, face smooth and handsome, slender body clad in brightly conchoed and braid-decorated leather. He even affected a cavalry saber, which he held in his left hand as he came forward with a pistol in his right. White teeth flashed beneath a small black mustache as he grinned in satisfaction, raking dark eyes over the three of them. “So. A strange group. A blond Indian and another dressed like a Tejano. And you, Guiterrez—”
“Teniente, I swear—”
“Guiterrez was helpless. We forced him to let us use his store. We’d have killed him otherwise.” Sundance’s voice was harsh and full of authority. “We’ll take our medicine, but let him go.”
Garcia’s thin brows arched. “Let him go? On the contrary. He’s always been a troublemaker and now he’s pushed his luck too far. You and the other Indio I need for questioning, but what can this fat storekeeper tell us or say in his defense? Why, once he even wrote a letter to Mexico City about me. It is bad for a man to have too much education. I do not like the people of my district to read and write. No. No, I think this is the end of Guiterrez.” Suddenly the smile left his face, and now it was like something hewn from flint. “Fat man, down on your knees in prayer. You have one minute to ask your God’s forgiveness for your crimes against the state.”
Guiterrez’s jaw dropped; his flabby body shook. “Surely, Teniente—I ... I beg of you!” His voice broke, tears suddenly streamed down his round, brown cheeks. “In the name of God,” he howled, “mercy! Mercy, sweet Lieutenant Garcia!” Then his knees gave way and he dropped into the dust. “Mercy,” he whimpered. “I beg of you …” He began to crawl on hands and knees like some wounded insect, straight for Garcia’s dusty boots. His intention was plain; to kiss them.
Garcia looked down at him and grinned. “Go ahead,” he said. “They’re dirty. Lick them clean, maybe it will soften my heart. But don’t count on it.”
“Teniente, por favor—” Guiterrez threw himself forward, locked his arms around the Lieutenant’s ankles, pressed his face against Garcia’s feet. Then, suddenly, with amazing strength, he jerked. Garcia squawked as he went over backward. Every Rurale whirled, staring in amazement. Guiterrez’s voice was a triumphant trumpet as he yelled: “Save yourselves! And kill the son of a goat for me!” He threw himself on Garcia, smothered the man
with his vast weight. Then a corporal’s paralysis broke, and he ran to Guiterrez, put a gun against his head and pulled the trigger.
Simultaneously, Sundance and Whitewolf saw their chance. Sundance whirled, seized the barrel of a Mexican’s rifle, jerked the weapon from his hand, swung it and pulled the trigger as another policeman raised his weapon. The gun roared and the man dropped and Sundance yelled, “Run for it, Whitewolf!” He levered in another round. “Hightail it, I’ll cover you!”
He got only a glimpse of Jesse Whitewolf making like a streak for the horses, heard Eagle whinny as Whitewolf seized his reins and hit the saddle. Then Sundance fired again as Whitewolf jammed big rowels into the flanks of a horse unused to spurs. Eagle reared and came down plunging, and the two or three shots at Whitewolf missed as the horse bucked down the street, straightened out, began to run. Sundance jerked up the rifle again, catching from the corner of his eye the way Whitewolf slipped under and behind the horse’s neck, warrior style. He lined the gun for another shot, but he was too late. Another Mexican swung his rifle like a club, as Garcia writhed out from under the storekeeper’s body and screamed: “Take him alive!” The gun barrel slammed into Sundance’s head and suddenly blackness quenched all consciousness, drowning out the shouting of men, the slam of rifles, and the fading drum of Eagle’s hooves.
Chapter Eight
Vaguely, he was aware that he was on horseback, with his wrists bound to the saddle and his ankles lashed by a rope beneath the horse’s belly. The animal was climbing, laboring up a steep and slippery path, and its every step sent a jolt of agony through Sundance’s head.
The horse climbed for a long time, while Sundance kept his eyes shut, unable to come completely back to consciousness for the pain. The animal reached the level, and the hurt was less. He felt reason coming back, but he did not betray the fact; he wanted to lie low until he had all his faculties again and knew where he was being taken and what would be done with him. Besides, there might be a chance for an unconscious man that they would not grant to one awake, some careless slip that might enable him to escape.
