Sundance 9

by John Benteen

  “Only the night,” Sundance said. “Then I must go to San Antonio.”

  She thought about that. “Will you come back?”

  “One never knows. But ... in the long run, maybe it’s better if you forget me. Put me out of your mind, as you did with Joker Bob.”

  “I thought that,” she said, in a strange voice. “Somehow I had the feeling that you were like the wind, always on the move, impossible to capture. In a way, it makes things easier.”

  “Makes what easier?”

  “When, if, you come back again, I shall be married.” She paused. “My husband had relatives in Mexico City. While you were away, one of them came to call on me—his uncle. This uncle has a son, my own age, who is unmarried. He is a very experienced ranchero. The kind of man Hacienda del Carmen needs. Also not bad-looking, and kind and gentle. The uncle spoke in his behalf, about a wedding. He would come here to manage the rancho. I … put him off until you returned and I could speak to you. But now ... I think I must send him an answer.”

  “Which will be yes,” Sundance said.

  “It would not be if you would stay.”

  “Write him and tell him yes,” Sundance said gently. “I’m happy for you.” Then, quite suddenly, he went tense. “Teresa,” he whispered.

  “Si?” She rolled over, looked at him wonderingly in the lamplight.

  “There are no servants in the house?”

  “None. I sent all of them to their own quarters.”

  Sundance threw back the covers, swung out of bed, reached for his pants. He pulled them on, latched his belt, then reached for the gun and knife harness that hung on the bed’s post.

  Teresa sat up, the sheet falling away from her breasts, her eyes wide. “What’s wrong?”

  “I don’t know,” Sundance said. “I heard something.”

  “What?”

  “I couldn’t even tell you that. Only something. In the house.”

  “That can’t be so. I told you, everyone is gone—”

  “Maybe,” Sundance said, and his hand dropped to the butt of his Colt. “But—”

  He had no chance to draw it. The door slammed open, and a man stepped through. He held a revolver in his hand, its bore trained on Sundance. “Jim,” he said, “don’t pull that gun.”

  Sundance stared at the figure in the doorway. His lips formed a single word. “Jesse.”

  “That’s right,” Whitewolf said, holding the Colt with the hammer eared back. “That’s exactly who it is. And if you make a move, I’ll kill you. Take off that belt. Drop it all, gun, ax, and knife. And then turn around and put your hands against the wall.”

  Sundance shook his head. “Jesse, I don’t understand. What the hell—?”

  “It’s the telegraph,” Whitewolf said. “The talking wires, you see? They put temptation in a man’s way. When you don’t have to ride to San Antonio, you can just send a telegram.” His mouth thinned. “Jim, do what I say. Unbuckle those weapons and let ’em drop.”

  Sundance searched Whitewolf’s face. He had seen the half-breed in a serious, killing mood; and he read that now in Whitewolf’s eyes and the set of his mouth. And in the menace of the gun. He was caught cold. Whitewolf, every bit as much Indian as himself, had been quiet and clever enough to sneak into the house unheard and get the drop. Slowly, with fingers that felt numb, Sundance unlatched the weapons belt and held it out.

  Whitewolf took it, threw it on the foot of the bed, well out of Sundance’s reach.

  “Better,” he said.

  Sundance said, “Ransome. You’ve been in touch with Ransome.”

  Jesse Whitewolf smiled. “That’s true. After you left Piedras Negras, I got to thinking. I’ve paid my dues to the Indians, done my share for ’em. I’ve laid my life on the line for their benefit. I don’t owe them a Goddamn thing. The one I’ve got to look after is me. So I sent Ransome a wire. All it said was, How much for Sundance? And the answer took two hours to come back to Eagle Pass, so much faster than a horse can run. You know what it said? Two words, Jim. Two little damned important words. Ten thousand.”

  Sundance did not answer.

  Whitewolf went on. “I’ve got two thousand in the bank. And you would have given me a couple of thousand more. Big of you, out of thirty thousand. And, of course, you tried to show me how I could earn more, a fortune, like you do, only sink it all down a rat hole to line the pockets of the bastards in Washington. But I ain’t made that way. Jesse Whitewolf never had a chance or a stake in his whole life until now. But now he’s got two thousand, and soon he’ll have ten more, and then he can buy a ranch and build it up; on a stake like twelve thousand, a man can get rich. And if he’s rich enough, people forget he’s half Injun. That’s what I want them to do, you understand? Forget the Crow half of me. And for that, I need your corpse. Or at least your head. Turn around.” He drew his sheath knife, the big Bowie, with his left hand. “I promise you, it won’t hurt much. I know exactly where to stick you so it’ll take only one good stroke.”

  Sundance licked his lips. “Stick me?”

  “I don’t want to have to use the gun if I can help it. You got Clinton and those others on your side in Eagle Pass. I’d rather make it look like she done it. You know . . . mad at you for havin’ killed her boy friend, Joker Bob. Mexican women are handy with knives. I figured to stick you, then, I’m afraid, dispose of her … It’ll look like she stabbed you and you broke her neck. Me, I get out, and when they find you, I claim your body, because everybody knows I’m your friend. Then I take you to San Antone for burial and Ransome gives me the ten thousand and I buy a ranch.” His voice hardened. “Goddamn it, Jim, do you want it in the belly, where it takes a long time to die?”

  “Jesse,” Sundance said, “lay down that gun. You’re drunk and—”

  “No. No, I’m not drunk. I just know where the big money lies, now, the chance I’ve never had. Jim, will you—”

  That was when Teresa leaped. She came out of the bed, seized his gun hand, pulled with all her strength. In the same instant, Sundance sprang. His big fist smashed into Whitewolf’s face, sent the half-breed reeling back; his other hand pulled the gun from Whitewolf’s grasp. Whitewolf brought up against the wall, leaned there rubbing his face with his right hand, the knife still in his left, as Sundance turned the Colt on him. Teresa had been knocked to her knees, was half sprawled naked on the floor.

  Whitewolf stared into the muzzle of the gun. His eyes betrayed no fear. “God, you’re fast,” he said. “All right, Jim. Go ahead and shoot.”

  “I ought to,” Sundance said. “Just like that.”

  “Then do it!” Whitewolf yelled, as if he were suddenly afraid. “Do it and get it over with! Damn it, it’s better than livin’ with everybody kickin’ you around, white and red!”

  Sundance stared at him, with the hammer of the Colt eared back. Then he said, harshly: “Teresa, get up and get out of here. Take my gun with you.”

  She clambered to her feet, stood there looking at him blankly. “You heard me!” Sundance roared. “Get out and take the gun.”

  “Si.” Under the force of his command, she obeyed, drawing the pistol from its holster. Then she fled the room.

  Sundance moved toward the bed, keeping the Colt trained on Whitewolf. His left hand moved out, pulled the huge Bowie from the weapons belt. Then his right flicked, and Whitewolf jerked as the gun flew past him, out the bedroom door and into the hall, its hammer down. Sundance transferred the Bowie to his right hand, as Teresa, in the hall, scooped up the other Colt. “Woman,” he called, “you keep out of this. Throw on something and run. This is between me and the Absaroka.”

  Whitewolf looked down at his own Bowie, still in his hand. He shook his head. “Jim, I don’t get this,” he whispered.

  Sundance said harshly, “You saved my life at Presidio Infierno. You did a little bit, anyhow, for the tribes. For that, you get an even break—more than you were gonna give me.”

  “Jim.” Whitewolf put his knife into his right hand. �
��You’re a fool.”

  “I know it,” Sundance said. “That makes two of us. Do you know how to use a knife?”

  Whitewolf’s eyes gleamed. “Know how? I killed two Cheyennes with one before I was sixteen years old.”

  Sundance went into a knife-fighter’s crouch. He held the blade out, with the flat of his hand and wrist up, his other hand and forearm as guard, his chin down, his chest and head reared well back. “Then come ahead,” he said. “Ransome told me I might be too old. Now’s the time to find it out. If he’s right, you get the ten thousand. But, by God, you’re gonna have to work for it!”

  Whitewolf was already in a position similar to Sundance’s. Sundance saw at once that Jesse knew the knife as well as he knew the gun or bow and arrows. “Jim,” Whitewolf whispered, “like I said, you’re a nice guy, but you’re a Goddamned idiot.” Then he lunged.

  Steel chimed on steel as Sundance parried. The thrust and force of that knocked Whitewolf’s blade back and up. Sundance came in and Whitewolf sidestepped like a shadow and slashed at Sundance and opened a thin cut on his upper bicep. Sundance stepped back, feeling warm blood trickling down his arm.

  Whitewolf, crouched, also backed away a pace. “You see?” he grinned. “First blood for me. You’re good, damned good. But you’re gettin’ old, Jim. I’m young. And a hell of a sight hungrier.” Then he came in again.

  His blade was like a snake’s tongue, flickering, darting. The narrow space between the bed and wall was full of the ringing sound of fine, tempered knives clashing as Sundance parried his every thrust. They were close together now, as their Bowies darted, slashed, and neither had the advantage. Back and forth across the ten feet, fifteen, of fighting room they had, they worked, and Sundance felt sweat coursing down his body. It was true, he knew; like boxing, knife-fighting was a young man’s game. He was fast, as fast as ever, but he could feel the strain in his legs, his lungs. Whitewolf intensified his assault, and there was nothing for it but to guard and fall back before it.

  Whitewolf’s gray eyes were enormous in Sundance’s sweat-blurred vision as the younger man drove him back toward the wall. Whitewolf’s teeth were very white in his dark face, split in a triumphant grin. “You see? You ain’t got the wind, the depth.” Whitewolf lashed in with a corkscrew thrust; Sundance barely managed to get his blade in place in time. Whitewolf’s knife slid off, flickered in again, and Sundance parried that, too, but his hand was sweaty and the hilt slipped in it, and Whitewolf managed to draw blood from his wrist.

  Jesse drew back, not even breathing hard, and left room between them. “Jim,” he whispered, “time’s up, now. I’ve worn you down. Now I’m comin’ after you.” And he came in like a streak of lightning, and it called for every ounce of Sundance’s skill, accumulated over decades, to beat off his attack. But he managed that, and all at once he had Whitewolf’s blade locked, hilt to hilt, and he shoved back, and suddenly their knives were between their torsos as Sundance crowded up to Whitewolf, using all his strength to bow his arm and hold Jesse’s blade. Their faces were close together, and they looked one another in the eye. Whitewolf met Sundance’s gaze for an instant, then his own flickered away. He exerted every ounce of strength in his young, wiry body to break the lock, but Sundance’s torso was heavier and thicker and more strapped with muscle, and he held Whitewolf’s blade immobile. “Jesse,” he rasped, “throw down that knife now and you can live.”

  Whitewolf strained again against the lock and Sundance’s thicker muscles checked him. Sweat rolled down Whitewolf’s cheeks. “Go to hell,” he husked.

  Sundance did not say anything else. He broke the lock and stepped back, left himself wide open. It had to be ended before his legs and lungs gave out completely; and this was the only way. Whitewolf caught the opening immediately, and he did not even halt for an eyelash’s flicker to assess it as a trap. Instead, he lunged, ready for the easy victory, assuming that Sundance’s strength was gone. Sundance gathered the last of his legs’ vigor and his wind and whirled, fast as light’s shimmer on a salt flat and Whitewolf’s blade missed, shooting between his outflung left arm and body. Sundance came in low and hard while Whitewolf was off balance.

  He felt the great weight and impact slam against his hand, his arm. Suddenly, Whitewolf’s face was cheek to cheek with his. Jesse opened his mouth and said, gustily: “Ahhh . . .” His other hand fell down behind Sundance’s back, as if in an embrace. Then Sundance, having no alternative, turned the knife and Whitewolf screamed. He dropped his Bowie and, impaled, sagged against the hilt of Sundance’s, and only the strength of Sundance’s wrist held him upright. The blade had gone in just under Whitewolf’s breastbone.

  Jesse Whitewolf’s eyes opened wide. He stared full into those of Sundance. His lips parted. “Jim, you’ve killed me.”

  “Yes,” Sundance said and he pulled out the knife and stepped back.

  Whitewolf clamped both his hands over the coursing wound, lurched backward a few paces, hit the bedroom wall, then slumped down it into a sitting position. His belly and crotch turned to scarlet with the cascade pouring between his fingers.

  He betrayed no fear. Instead, he lifted his head, and in a voice shaky with stress and weakness, he began to sing.

  Sundance stepped back farther, knowing there was nothing he could do.

  Whitewolf kept on singing softly, in a minor key; the singing lasted for five seconds, ten, as his life bled away from him. He sang, Sundance knew, the Absaroka death song.

  Then, suddenly, the sound choked off. Whitewolf said, harshly, “Dammit, Jim— I wish— Claim me, bury me, take the … two thousand and send it … on …” He drew up his knees in a sudden convulsion; then his legs straightened out and he was dead.

  Sundance, feeling no triumph, was still standing over him when Teresa, clad in a robe and followed by half a dozen of her vaqueros, burst in.

  “You killed him,” she whispered. “Oh, thank God, you killed him—”

  Sundance threw the knife into a corner. “No,” he said. “Being half Indian killed him.” Then he turned away and sat down, shaking and panting.

  Chapter Ten

  Having read his mail and the numerous telegrams that day, Mark Ransome felt pleased with himself. It was all shaping up very nicely. The Nez Percés were almost defeated; soon they would be shipped to Indian Territory like the other tribes who had preceded them—the Modocs, the Apaches, the Cherokees, the Osages, the Comanches, the Southern and Northern Cheyennes. Indian Territory; it was the worst land in the west, of no value to the railroad and banking interests that he represented.

  But standing at the window of his San Antonio hotel room, he knew that Indian Territory was a gold mine. For every tribe, there was a different agent, and each agent had to pay a huge sum in hard cash for his appointment. Then there was the matter of the goods. By law and treaty, certain things were to be furnished to the defeated tribes: blankets, tools, food, seeds. And each corruptly appointed agent was bound by agreement to buy those from special sources. And if those special sources invoiced twice what was shipped and the difference went into the agents’ pockets, why that was what justified the price the man paid in the first place.

  It was worrisome, of course, that a certain amount of the huge proceeds had to go to Senators and Congressmen to keep them quiet. But, after all, that was the way things were done. Another overhead expense, and the volume of profit could easily absorb it. Indians, Ransome thought, were a far better investment than either cattle or sheep, both items he had once been tempted to sink his own substantial funds into.

  Turning from the window, he went to the table and fingered the three yellow flimsies that were copies of telegrams. The first read: How much for Sundance? and was signed by one Jesse Whitewolf in Eagle Pass. His reply, sent immediately, said simply: Ten thousand. And then the third, the one that filled him with triumph. Merchandise you ordered ready. Meet me at forks San Antonio River twelve noon day after tomorrow.

  Ransome thumbed a watch from his pocket. Almost
eleven; just time to make the appointment. He slipped the thick packet of bills in his pocket. Ten thousand cash. But he was no fool; he would not go to such a meeting unarmed. He might be an Easterner, but he had served his time in the Army in the War, and he was no stranger to guns—nor to killing, for that matter. Carefully he adjusted the short-barreled .38 in the shoulder holster beneath his coat, made sure it did not show. Given any cause for suspicion, he’d not hesitate to shoot first, ask questions later.

  The livery rig was waiting in front of the hotel. He whipped the horse and sent the buggy hustling out of town. It was not far to the forks of the sandy little stream that did not merit the name river, as rivers were known in his home state of Connecticut. He was almost there when he turned, looked back through the rear window of the buggy. Then he tensed; there was a dust cloud on the road behind him, and what raised it was a single rider, coming hard.

  Somehow, in that moment, Ransome knew, and he whipped up the horse. It ran faster, the buggy jouncing, swaying, but the rider kept gaining. Ransome looked behind again, and now he could recognize the broad-shouldered form in the buckskin shirt, pounding down on him like vengeance itself. He forgot about money, forgot about Indians, forgot everything except getting the most speed possible out of that livery nag. He lashed it mercilessly, screamed for it to get on. At the same time, he drew the .38.

  But there was no way for such a horse to outrun a fine young stallion from the herd of the best horse-breeders among the tribes. It gave its best, straining every muscle, and the buggy bounced, lurched precariously, never made for such speed. As it reeled along, Ransome turned, fired the .38 through the rear window.

  He missed. The sudden shot terrified the livery horse. It seized the bit in its teeth, and ran away. Ransome turned, tried to fight the reins, keep the animal on the road, but it was heading in crazy panic to the left, toward the river. Ransome yelled and pulled on leather with all his strength but it did no good, and the buggy leaped into the air, smashed down, as the livery nag raced across rough ground. And suddenly the riverbank was there. The crazed horse jumped out into space, came down tangled in harness. Shafts snapped; Ransome screamed as the buggy went flying through the air and his body hurtled out of it. The vehicle hit the riverbed with a snapping of shafts, a ripping of harness; Ransome kept on going, sailing in a high, long arc. Then he was falling, saw the stones of the riverbed rushing up to meet him, slammed into them headfirst, knew one instant of excruciating pain as his neck was bent fantastically by his body’s weight. After that, his concern with Indians, money, or anything else in the world of the living ceased.