by John Benteen
He himself moved with the speed of a striking snake, grabbing the parfleche with his left hand, jerking it up like a shield. The rattler struck, sinking fangs deep into the bull hide. In that instant Sundance’s right hand brought over the drawn Bowie. The keen blade slashed through vertebrae and flesh, leaving the head clinging to the parfleche by its fangs, the body writhing as viciously, but harmless now, as the other two.
Despite the heat, Sundance’s face was beaded with cold sweat. Seizing an arrow, he pried the snake’s head loose. Then, one by one, he used the arrow-shaft to fling the twitching bodies from the nest of rocks, far out into the open where their ghastly convulsions went on and on. Panting, he cocked his head, listening closely, even as he grabbed up the hatchet. Where there were three rattlers there could be more. Keeping down, the hatchet ready, he inspected every cranny of the rocks around him, ears tuned for that deadly buzzing or that faint slither. He heard and saw nothing, but that did not mean that more might not be there, torpid from the heat. It was a chance he had to take. Shoving the fanged heads back into the cranny, he nocked an arrow. Minutes lost, precious ones, and if the man with the rifle were coming after him—
His eyes swept the shimmering flats, the distant ridge, the broken land all around, in a complete circle—and saw nothing. His straining ears heard no sound, saw the slowly diminishing buzzing of the headless snakes beyond his shelter. Yet someone was out there somewhere; he dared not doubt that. He was, as far as the sniper knew, still gun-less, easy prey. And whoever wanted him dead could not afford to wait too long and let him escape in twilight or darkness.
Yet he was puzzled. If he were being stalked, whoever did it made no sound, betrayed himself not in the slightest. It was almost as if there were an Indian out there, not a white man. But an Indian would not have wasted so much lead; ammunition was too hard to come by. Then he knew, and knew too that his answer to the puzzle had been the right one. And that because the rifleman could no longer reach him from the ridge, when he came, it would be with a rush and from an unexpected direction, because this nest of rocks lay in an area wholly without cover for at least a hundred yards around, and there was no height from which it could be fired into.
So the man was circling, using the terrain exactly as an Apache would have. Once as close to the boulders as he could get, he would make that rush, gambling that Sundance was wholly weaponless. But because of the distraction of the rattlesnakes, the stalker had a head start; it would probably not take much longer.
Time dragged by; ten, fifteen, twenty minutes—he did not bother to measure it. All he did was watch and wait, moving constantly within his stronghold to use every bit of vision available to him. without exposing himself. The bodies of the shakes still twitched, but, to his advantage, rattled no longer, providing no masking sound. Even the wind had died; the stillness was total. Sundance kept the arrow on the bowstring.
When the gun roared, it was from behind him and he whirled. And there he was, materializing out of the very earth, charging forward, pumping rounds from the Henry repeater in his hands as he came to pin Sundance down, and he ran like an Apache, hard and fast, legs driving, moccasined feet a blur, body crouched and zigzagging. Apaches were trained to outrun a horse for a short distance, and to a white man the attacker’s speed would have been incredible as he covered that last three hundred feet, and he was only twenty yards away in the space of three swift shots and there were more rounds in the rifle. He thought, hoped, he was taking a man without weapons, but he was not taking any chances either. Lead whined around inside the boulder clump, a ricochet plucking at Sundance’s sleeve. Then the half-breed was on his feet, bow drawn, in the instant that the attacking man had to work the rifle’s lever, and he let the arrow go and nocked a spare held in his hand.
The first arrow hit the rib cage, slicing through buckskin, grating on bone, and it threw the man off balance. The second, in the air before the first one caught him in the belly. Deliberately shot with less force, it lodged in the bowels, just above the groin, a foot of feathered shaft protruding from the body, the barbed flint head lodged in the vitals. The man screamed, fell backwards, dropping the rifle, tugging at the shaft. Hatchet in hand, Sundance leaped a boulder, raced forward. Sprawled in the dust, the man saw him coming, reached for his holstered Colt. Sundance threw the hatchet; it buried itself in the biceps of the man’s gun-arm. The hand fell away from the pistol butt; then Sundance was standing over him, with the man’s own Colt drawn from leather, pointed at him.
“Evans,” Sundance rasped.
With eyes full of pain, despair, the man in greasy buckskins looked up at Sundance. “I never thought … “ he whispered. “I seen you lost your guns ... Didn’t know about the bow … “
Sundance said, “Who sent you after me?”
Tom Evans, the scout who had made the Rawlings Line’s deal with Cochise, husked: “Christ, I’m gut shot.”
“Who sent you after me?” Sundance’s voice was merciless, lips drawn back in a snarl. “You can die quick or slow ... damned slow. That depends on if you answer. Who hired you to kill me?”
Evans drew his knees up in agony. The first arrow was still lodged just under his right arm, point barely buried after glancing off the bone. “Was it the Cables?” Sundance roared.
“Cables, yes ... and—” His voice faded in a gasp of agony.
“And somebody else?”
Mouth open, gasping, the head moved in a nod that could only mean assent.
“Who was it?” Sundance made as if to reach for the arrow shaft protruding from the belly. Any movement of it would redouble Evans’ pain. It was no more than a threat, he did not want to kill the man or render him incapable of speaking. But it was a mistake. Evans screamed as Sundance’s hand went out, and convulsively he rolled, and when he did he drove the arrow protruding from between his ribs straight on through. Its flint head must have sliced his heart. Suddenly his legs kicked out and he lay still.
Sundance stared at the corpse a moment, then turned, spat thickly into the dust. Scooping up the Henry, he jerked rounds from his own cartridge belt that fit it, quickly reloaded it. His eyes searched the skyline, but he knew Evans had been alone. After a moment, he went back to the pile of boulders, unstrung the bow, restored it to the parfleche. Then, fully armed once more and leaving the body where it lay, he went to find where Evans had left his horse.
Chapter Eight
There were four of them in Art Rawlings’ office—the two brothers who owned the stage line, Tulso Dart, and Jim Sundance.
Yance’s face was pale, he shook his head in disbelief. “Goddlemighty, not Tom Evans! Tied in with the Cables? After all he’d done for us, making peace with Cochise for us, scouting? Hell, when it come to Indians, he was our right-hand man.”
“That’s why it had to be him,” Sundance said. “I figured it out not long after I talked to Cochise. When he swore it wasn’t the Apaches, that only left one answer. Those raids were rigged by somebody who knew Apaches inside out, how they dressed, rode, operated—a real expert. And besides me there was only one man in Coffin City I knew of who had that knowledge. After all, Evans lived with the Chiricahuas for years after they captured him when he was a kid. Long enough to have learned everything about ’em.”
He paused to sip the drink Art had poured for him.
“He went rogue on you, Art, turned renegade. Way I hear it, there’s thirty, forty men hang around the Cable ranch, a lot more than they need to run what cattle they got, and all of ’em gunslicks. Plenty, after Evans trained ’em, to make up a raidin’ party Apache style. A lot of black horsehair to cover their own, some face paint, the calico and rags Apaches mostly wear, some moccasins. In a week of real hard practice, I could teach any one of you to use bow and arrows well enough, though not as good as a real Apache, and you wouldn’t need any training to use old cap-and-ball weapons or ride bareback or with an Indian saddle and jaw bridle. Likely you’ll find somewhere on the Cable ranch a remuda of barefoot mustangs like
the Apaches ride when they can’t steal better horses—and more than likely a lot of your bullion cached out there, too.”
Art’s eyes turned cold, his jaw set. Yance struck the desk in fury. “Then, by God, let’s get some men together and ride! You, Dart, you form a posse, deputize the whole goddam town you got to do it! We can be in the saddle by midnight, hit the north end by dawn and wipe out that whole nest of snakes!”
Tulso Dart, dressed in impeccable gambler’s clothes, rolled a thin black cigar across his mouth, shook his head. “Yance, it ain’t that easy. I can put together a big posse any time to go after Injuns. But one big enough and with the guts to take on that bunch at Cables—all those gunmen? That’s a different story. Not without more proof than Sundance has come up with so far!”
“Proof! Goddlemighty, can’t you see it? It was Evans knew the location of all those caches where we left the presents—he arranged ’em! And it was him that sent the Cables to rob ’em so we’d think the Injuns was still takin’ the goods and had turned against us! Only Sundance outfoxed him there with those fish on the presents. That day they trailed us to Lordsburg, Ash and Mort took the stuff fish and all, not knowin’ any better. And the minute Evans heard about that, he knew the jig was up. When Ash and Mort missed gittin’ us in Lordsburg, he knew he had to git Sundance himself before Sundance caught on!”
“Wait a minute,” Art put in. “There’s something about all this that still don’t make sense. You found nearly fifty thousand dollars in currency still in the strongbox, Jim, after that last raid. You can’t tell me the Cables would have passed that up!”
“Evans wouldn’t let ’em take it, and the Old Man must have seen the sense in it,” Sundance answered. “It might have killed the goose that laid the golden egg. They’d already robbed you of a fortune in bullion and plenty more to come. But by pullin’ off a raid and massacre and leavin’ that much cash behind, that double-cinched it in everybody’s mind, including mine, that it had to be Chiricahuas. They took a thousand and left the rest. Who could even imagine white men leavin’ a fortune like that behind?”
“But they let another load of bullion get through, that one that you and Yance took to Lordsburg.”
Before Sundance could answer, Dart took his cigar from his mouth. “Sure. Once Evans knew you’d hired Sundance, he figured that fake Apache operation had better stop until Jim here was taken care of. So he had Old Man Cable send Mort and Ash and all those gunnies to Lordsburg to do that. Only it backfired … “
“Then,” Yance said, “you hauled out of town. I remember now, Tom asked me where you’d gone, and I told him we’d sent you to Tucson on a special job. But he must have guessed you’d gone to find Cochise and get the straight of things. And he laid out in the desert, waitin’ for you on the way back.”
“Yeah.” Sundance lit a cigarette, looking at each man through a veil of smoke. One thing he had not told them—that final word gasped by Evans before he died. “Cables, yes—and—” That and could mean much or little. Maybe only: “And now put me out of this misery—” But Sundance had not taken it that way, was almost certain Evans had been about to gasp another name, someone tied in with the Cables in all this. The Sheriff maybe, who was on their side—but maybe not. Anyhow, something worked in his mind; that single word was like the scent of the buried trap to the lobo wolf. For the moment he was ready to trust no one, and he kept it to himself, a hole card. “All right,” he said, as the smoke cleared. “Any trouble while I was gone?”
“No. They must have been layin’ low until Evans could fix you and bring back the word.”
“Well, they’ll know that Evans didn’t fix me, right enough. A lot of people saw me ride in. The next move’s up to them.”
‘No, it ain’t.” Art stood up. “It’s up to us.” He turned to Tulso Dart. “Tulso, Yance’s right. You’ve got to do something about the Cables and their outfit and do it quick. Between now and day after tomorrow. We’re facing a deadline, and the Cables have got to be taken care of by then.”
Dart frowned, arising. “What do you mean?” Art went to the door, opened it, closed it, made sure it was locked. Then he did the same thing with the office windows while the rest stared at him. Presently he turned, and when he spoke, it was with lowered voice. “All right,” he said. “Up until now, nobody has known about it but me. And after I tell you, nobody but us in this room had better know it. But day after tomorrow, we’ve got to haul the biggest gold shipment that has ever gone to Lordsburg, that maybe has ever gone anywhere by stagecoach.”
There was silence in the room as they all looked at him.
“I’ve been negotiating with the management of the Coffin mine. They’ve kept it secret, but a while back they struck a brand new vein, a whole big lode in itself. It’s taken ’em a long time to crush and smelt everything they took out, but now it’s ready, and it makes everything that’s gone before look like peanuts. They’ve got two hundred and fifty thousand dollars in bullion that’s got to travel to the railhead for shipment east. All in one haul.” Yance made a sound in his throat. “A quarter of a million? On one coach?”
“That’s the size of it,” Art said tersely. “At first they wanted to make the haul themselves with their own men to guard it. I had one hell of a time talkin’ ’em into letting us carry it—but we’re guaranteeing ’em against any loss. If we get it through, we’ll collect a premium that’ll really put us in the big-time. But if we lose it—” He dropped his hand. “It’ll wipe us out,” he said. “Lock, stock, and barrels”
“Goddlemighty,” Tulso Dart whispered. He looked at Sundance.
“Now,” Art said. “You see why the Cables have got to be taken care of? Sundance says we’re safe from the Apaches. I have to trust him on that. But that still leaves the Cables and all their gunhawks. If we don’t take ’em out before that coach rolls, if they get the least word of what’s on it, they’ll hit it with everything they’ve got. Tulso, goddammit, I insist. You’ve got to swear out Federal warrants against ’em on the strength of what Evans told Sundance when he died, put together one damned big posse, and ride out there to the North End tomorrow and hit ’em before they can hit us. There’s no other way around it, to be sure that gold gets through safely. And if it don’t, we’re finished—and without our backing, so are you as far as Coffin City’s concerned.”
The room was silent for a moment. Then Dart took his cigar from his mouth and shook his head. “And I tell you, Art, it’s beyond all possibility. My God, don’t you think I’d have already done it if I could? But in the first place, there ain’t time. I’d have to go all the way to Tucson. Second, the minute I did get the warrants, the Sheriff’d know and notify the Cables. Third, their place our at the North End is like a fort, and you know it. It would take a whole army to git in there and git ’em. They could fight—or they could drift away into the badlands. It can’t be done, not that way, Art.”
“Then you’d better figure out some way,” Art rasped. “You and Sundance. And before that coach rolls. Because somebody at the mine is bound to talk and the Cables’ll hear and we won’t have a prayer of makin’ that hundred and twenty-five mile haul without ’em hittin’ us with everything they’ve got. They won’t worry about disguisin’ as Apaches—not for a quarter of a million. They’ll take that plus what they’ve already stole, divvy it, and head for Mexico. Anyhow, you figure out something—Sundance, too! That’s what I brought you in for, Tulso, and hired you for, Jim. And I’m countin’ on y’all to see that the gold gets through!”
Tulso Dart looked at Art Rawlings for a moment, and then he shook his head. “Art, I don’t like people talking to me in that tone of voice. How long have you known about this big shipment?”
“Five days. But I didn’t dare open my mouth about it until it was set.”
“Then,” said Dart evenly, “you’re a damned fool. With five days time, I could have worked something out. Sucked the Cables in somehow to come to us and taken ’em. But by not taking us into your con
fidence, you’ve left us all between a rock and a hard place.”
“Hell,” Yance said accusingly. “You didn’t even tell me?”
Art turned to him. “You hit too many bars. And you sleep with the wrong woman.”
Yance’s face flushed darkly. “You keep your mouth off of Ellie—”
“Ellie’s a goddam gold-digger, and she’ll sell out to the highest bidder. For all I know, she may be on Cable’s payroll right now!”
Yance took a step forward, halted. “It’s a good thing,” he said at last, “that you’re my brother. And if you don’t trust me enough not to tell her about our business matters—” He broke off. “Hell,” he grated, turned, unlocked the door, strode out, slamming it behind him.
Art stared at the closed door for a long moment, eyes hard.
“That was pretty rough talk,” Sundance said.
“Maybe. But he had it coming; I hope it’ll bring him to his senses. He already spends too much money on that chippy. I don’t see where he gets it all. We don’t pay ourselves that much. I sure as hell couldn’t afford her.” He paused. “That’s between Yance and me. But when it comes to a shipment like this, I don’t take any chances.”
“You just did,” Dart said thinly. “By keepin’ this all under your hat so long. Now you want us all to commit suicide by trying to take the Cables on their own home ground when we coulda arranged it different. You haven’t handled this the smartest way, Art.”
Rawlings bit his lip. “All right, maybe not,” he said tiredly. “But ... damn it, this stage line is my whole life. I’ve put everything I’ve got into it and now this shipment will make or break it and—” He broke off, and the door opened again, and Yance was there once more, a strange expression on his face.
“Sundance!”
The half-breed whirled.
