Sundance 4

by John Benteen

  Then there was a hole in the floor big enough for a man’s body. Sundance dropped through it, head first, crawled into the space beneath the house, which was boosted on stone piers. Holding the bow beneath his arm, he worked his way toward the rear. Nearby, there was the shelter of the hay wagon. He poised himself, sucked in a long breath. Five yards of open moonlight to cross. He squirmed out from underneath the house, gathered himself and ran, bent low, and sprawled in the shadow of the wagon. No one shot at him. No one expected a man to crawl out from under the house.

  Immediately, weight landed across his legs—Nehlo. Sundance rolled, tapped the Indian on the shoulder. “Go out to the right,” he snapped. “I’ll take the left.”

  Nehlo’s eyes and teeth gleamed in a flash of moon as he nodded. Then he was gone, like fog.

  Sundance gathered himself. Archie’s voice had come from the left, and Archie was the one he wanted. He pulled an arrow from the quiver, loosely nocked it to the bow so he would have it when he wanted it. His eyes checked the location of each gun-flash out there in the woods along the river. Then he began to crawl.

  He went on his belly like a snake, head down, buttocks and heels flat, levering himself along with his elbows. He made straight for Wade’s woodpile, and not a bullet came near him as he gained that cover. There, behind the chopped billets of oak and cottonwood, he gathered himself up, peeped out. The gun-flashes were like snakes’ tongues out there in the darkness, flickering constantly. Sundance located the one nearest him, a hundred yards away. The man, as near as he could tell, was behind a tree, firing from around it. He left the woodpile, scuttled to a clump of bushes. Again that gun flame tongued; and now he could see the dim outline of a man’s kneeling form in the shadows. Sundance bared his teeth in a wolfish snarl and took up bowstring slack, drawing the weapon so that arrow-end and string alike touched his cheekbone. The deadly missile only whispered as it coursed through the air. A man cried out hoarsely; Sundance saw the shadowy form fall backward, move in the dark, then lie still.

  No one even noticed as the Hell, Yes! men drowned out that sound with gunfire. Sundance picked his next clump of cover: a forked tree, twenty yards away. When he judged the time was right, he ran for it. Sprawling flat behind it, arrow in hand, he had still drawn no fire. He notched the arrow to the bow, found another gunman. This one was in a clump of shrubbery thirty yards away. His form was invisible behind the brush that broke his outline, but his gun-flame wasn’t. Sundance tagged it, calculated, then loosed the arrow. Before it was in full flight, he had drawn another, sent it after the first. He never knew whether it was the first or second deflected by the bushes, but when the man screamed and stood erect, he had only one arrow in his body. He flailed the air and fell, and then there was no more gunfire from that source.

  But that scream had risen even above the gun-thunder. Somebody yelled: “Marty? Hey, Marty—” Sundance recognized Archie’s voice. “Goddam it, Marty—” Then Archie turned; instead of firing at the house, he levered off five spraying rounds from his Winchester as fast as he could shoot, burning lead protectively across his flank. Sundance hugged earth as bullets made their ripping sound above him.

  He had spotted Archie now. Ahead, the ground rose slightly, and Archie was on the hillside, behind a huge, dead log. Sundance pulled another arrow from his quiver.

  As he did so, a man cried out hoarsely from the opposite side of the house. Sundance’s mouth curled. Score one, he thought, for Nehlo.

  Even so, that left at least nine men ringing the house; and they had chosen cover where they were invulnerable to the fire of the defenders. That meant it was up to him and Nehlo, and Sundance was under no illusion. The two of them together could not take out all of them. And for all he knew, there might be reinforcements somewhere nearby.

  Still, he had Archie located, anyhow. And Archie was the one he wanted. Maybe taking Archie would break their spirit. If it didn’t, and if he died tonight, Archie was the one he had to take with him. Sundance nocked the arrow, took another fix on Archie’s gun flame, and went out wide to his right, crawling on his belly.

  He took his time: five minutes, but it seemed an eternity. Crawling under fire changes and distorts the quality of time. Lead slapped the underbrush and tree trunks—lead from the house, and those bullets were impersonal, unable to distinguish the flesh of Sundance from the flesh of Archie’s men. Moreover, Archie seemed alarmed now. From time to time, he twisted, sprayed more of those random shots out on his flank. Under that dual barrage, Sundance kept his head cheek-flattened to the ground, moved inch by inch with hunching elbows and knees, and it seemed to him that his circling journey, designed to bring him around and behind Archie, would never end.

  Then at last he was in place. Below him, in the tricky shadow of the woods, he could see Archie plainly. Hunkered behind his log, Archie had just finished cramming a full new load into his rifle. Now, clad in black, blending with the shadows, he lined the gun, aiming toward the house.

  Sundance sat up, fitted the arrow’s notch to the bowstring. Archie was a full and easy target. He drew the bow, thumb touching cheekbone. Then the bowstring broke.

  He could not see whether he had missed some worn spot in checking it or whether a bullet had nicked it. All he knew was that the bow went slack in his hand, and the arrow tumbled uselessly from it. Sundance cursed, laid the bow aside. Well, he would have to use his Colt. But that, of course, would make him a prime target. The minute he pulled the trigger, every gunman on this side of the house would hear that shot behind them and turn, maybe rake the woods with lead.

  He hesitated, then grinned. There was an alternative. His hand clasped the hilt of the Bowie, pulled the blade from its beaded sheath. With the knife in his hand, he eased forward slowly, inch by inch.

  Archie went on firing. Apparently he felt his flank was secure now, for he hosed lead straight into the building as fast as he could work the lever of his carbine. He did not turn or look around as Sundance inched down the slope toward him, the Bowie ready.

  Ten yards, eight, six ... now that much distance separated them. Sundance was close enough to hear Archie’s Winchester click on empty. He heard Archie’s muttered curse. The man rolled over on his flank. He reached for an open box of cartridges beside him. There were several empty boxes scattered about; Archie might have had to go on credit for a dollar’s worth of whiskey, but somebody had financed him to a lot of ammunition.

  Then, while Archie had both hands full, he seized his chance. He was on his feet, covering the last five yards in a soundless run and leap. But just as he launched himself, Archie twisted his head. He caught the shadow’s movement as it hurtled toward him, the glint of moonlight on knife blade. He grunted, rolled, and Sundance’s stroke missed, and then Archie swung the Winchester.

  Its sight raked Sundance’s shoulder, its barrel slammed against his arm with numbing force. Archie leaped to his feet in that instant, as Sundance’s blade sank into the ground. “Goddam!” he snarled, and then Sundance was up and coming after him.

  Archie danced back, clubbing the Winchester by the barrel. Moonlight hit Sundance’s face for an instant, and recognition lit Archie’s eyes. “You!” he rasped and swung the gun with whistling force.

  It would have smashed Sundance’s head if he’d not caught the receiver with an upflung left hand. His fingers closed desperately around the gun, just forward of the trigger guard, broke the blow’s force, then yanked. The gun came free of Archie’s grip, and Sundance threw it away and lunged in with the knife.

  Archie fell sideways, rolled, and Sundance missed; it was the darkness, the tricky, checkered shadow and moon silver beneath the trees. His charge carried him a step past Archie and then he whirled, crouched, knife ready again. Archie was bounding to his feet. He back pedaled as Sundance came at him, and his hand dropped to his sixgun holster. It came away empty, for the Colt had slid from leather as he dodged.

  Archie made a sound in his throat, backed faster. Sundance came on, knife out, left
arm guarding, right fast as a striking snake. But Archie was fast, too, and he rolled behind a tree, and Sundance, thrust missing again, stepped sideways, and then he saw Archie crouch, fumble at his boot. When Archie straightened up, he held a knife, too, a Bowie, not an inch shorter than Sundance’s.

  Archie’s eyes gleamed in the moonlight. “Sundance,” he whispered, lips curling back from teeth, “so it’s steel you want to play with.”

  A wild joy flamed in Sundance at the sight of Archie’s blade. Although the fusillade roared on all around them, it seemed to him in that instant that he and Archie were the last two men alive in the world. He did not hear the guns; all the intensity of his being was focused on that other knife and the man who held it expertly. Archie, Sundance saw, understood cold steel. “Yeah,” he whispered. “Steel.”

  “Good,” Archie said and leaped from behind the tree. He and Sundance faced each other now, crouched, circling in a deceptive leaf-pattern of shadow and silver. Then Archie charged, blade flicking, and Sundance caught his Bowie on his own, and iron chimed like tiny bells, and Archie’s knife slid aside; but before Sundance could strike, Archie was out of range. Then he came in again, a great bull, sure of his invincibility. His knife was a flickering, hacking silver gleam, and his guard was good.

  Sundance caught Archie’s blade again, and then the ringing went on for seconds as steel clanged on steel, each man trying to get through the other’s guard. The firing continued, both from the woods and from the house. Lead occasionally ripped past them, but both men were concentrating now on the death in each other’s hand, not the random blow that might catch them by accident.

  Archie lunged again, and grunted when he missed, and Sundance went in fast in the opening, and thought he had the other man, but Archie parried quickly, professionally, and Sundance missed. Archie laughed. “You red-skinned bastard! I cut my teeth on an Arkansas toothpick! Think you can take me?” Suddenly he charged in, and this time he was hacking, swinging like an ax-man, only with more guard and cover. It was a ferocious attack, relying on brute strength and tremendous speed, Archie’s blade a blur, leaving no opening. If Sundance tried to parry, that razor-edge might hack his wrist, chop his tendons, and the fight would end there and then.

  So he gave way before Archie’s assault. He backed, and Archie came on, grinning, hacking, huge blade swinging. Then Sundance came up short. Archie had forced him back against the big dead log that he had used for cover. Sundance could retreat no farther. If he tried to jump backward, Archie would cut his guts out in one slicing swing.

  Sundance didn’t jump, he fell, sprawling back over the log, landing on his shoulder blades, legs out flung awkwardly, arms wide open, belly vulnerable. Archie saw the rag-doll way in which he hit, and Archie laughed again and launched himself in a dive across the log, blade slicing down.

  Sundance was ready; that last, desperate tactic had worked. He shoved his body, flinging left arm out wide, and Archie, aiming for the heart, missed. His blade went between Sundance’s arm and ribs and sank into the ground, and Sundance, with his right, brought his own Bowie in low and hard and mercilessly.

  Archie screamed as it slid beneath his last rib. He jerked his knife out of the ground, but it was too late. Sundance pulled the big blade around like a woman using a can opener in her kitchen. It opened Archie like a can, and Archie’s contents gushed out, and Sundance rolled clear and was on his feet.

  Archie got to his knees, all fight gone, intent now only on trying somehow to close that dreadful, gaping wound. He clasped both hands to it, reared up. He twisted his head, stared at Sundance with anguished eyes. The firing went on, remorselessly, gun thunder filling the woods. The whole fight had not taken two minutes, but it had seemed forever.

  “God damn you,” Archie gagged, life running out between his clasping fingers. Then he fell forward, kicked, was dead.

  Sundance dropped to his knees, giving himself ten seconds to recover, ramming the blade in soft earth to clean it. Then he was on his feet, taking shelter behind a tree, dragging his Colt. There were still a lot of men shooting from behind the trees, and there was no more time to waste. He eared back the hammer, heard the cylinder click around.

  But there was no time to fire before a new burst of gun thunder broke out to his right, from an unexpected source. The woods behind the attackers were suddenly winking with flame. Sundance cursed and his heart sank. Reinforcements! More men from Hell, Yes! coming up, pouring fire over the heads of the first ones. At least six, maybe eight more. And how could he fight them all?

  Then hoof beats added their drum roll to the turmoil. Sundance held his fire as riders charged along the river, shooting as they came. “Spread out!” a voice bellowed. “Spread out and cut ’em down!” Sundance blinked. That trumpet sound came from Roane. He and five men charged through the trees, mounted, shooting as they came. But their target was not Wade’s ranch, it was the men from Hell, Yes! who held it under siege.

  Sundance realized that as a Hell, Yes! man leaped to his feet, whirled, fired, and was slammed over by a bullet not twenty yards from Sundance’s cover. Another broke out of a brushy covert, tried to run. Sundance saw a big man yank a tall horse around, ride after him. The Hell, Yes! man staggered, stumbled, turned and fired. Sundance heard Roane’s laugh, as Roane put a bullet in him, then wheeled the bay again, so close and short it reared, and sought a new target.

  With none close at hand, he rammed home spurs, charged along the river bank. Sundance saw the flicker of his Colt-flame as he rode. He hunkered low, in shadow, as Roane’s men pounded after, whooping. He heard the cry: “Lazy R! Lay it on the bastards!”

  Now the Hell, Yes! men were caught in a crossfire: Roane on one side, Wade and the Modocs on the other. In that position, they had no chance, none at all. As they sprang from cover, like hares coursed by hounds, bullets sought them out. They went down, only a couple managing to make it to horses, briefly visible in the moonlight as they fled across the river. The firing dwindled until only a few sporadic shots sounded in the woods; then it was over and there was a silence that, after the ferocity of the battle-sound, was almost eerie.

  Sundance had seized Archie’s Winchester, crammed some rounds in it, taken cover behind a tree, but had held his fire. Now Roane’s voice bellowed through the darkness: “Wade! This is Don Roane! It’s over, now! You and your wife are safe! The Hell, Yes! crowd’s finished!”

  There was silence from the ranch house; Sundance held his breath. Had Wade and Susan taken bullets? Then Wade yelled back: “Roane! You think I’m a fool to fall for a trick like that?”

  “I tell you—” Brush crashed; Sundance saw Roane’s big silhouette, tall in the saddle, as Roane’s bay sidled closer to Sundance’s hiding place. “It’s no trick. My men and I hit that crowd from behind. Are you all right? What about Susan?” Now the nervous horse was within ten yards of Sundance, curveting, champing at the bit. Roane held it tight-reined. Sundance eased forward, the rifle up. He took cover behind another tree, not a dozen feet from the rancher. Then he said, loudly, harshly: “Roane! It’s Sundance and you’re covered! Don’t move! You or your men try to pop a cap, you’re a dead man!”

  Roane froze. “Sundance . . .” Then he eased. “Hold your fire. Didn’t you hear what I just told Wade?”

  “I heard it, I saw what happened. All the same, get down off that horse, slow and easy, and come here, hands up.”

  Roane hesitated. Then he swung down. Hands raised, he turned slowly, and Sundance stepped from behind the tree.

  Roane looked at him. “Now,” Sundance said, “you tell me how you came to be here, and why you took Wade’s side. When I understand what’s goin’ on, maybe I’ll take this gun off of you, but not before.”

  Roane laughed shortly, coldly. “You take no chances, do you? All right, it’s simple enough. When you saw me today, I was bound for Hell, Yes! to lay down the law to that crowd. I figured they’d be wanting to make a try for you and Wade, and I aimed to block it. When I got there, they’d a
lready pulled out, and I knew where they were bound for. I sent one of my riders hell-for-leather back to my ranch to bring some more guns. We met up a piece back, and hightailed it here to bail Wade out.”

  “That don’t hang together,” Sundance said. “Why would you want to bail Wade out?”

  “Maybe because I don’t like seein’ men lynched by a lousy bunch of bums like that Hell, Yes! crowd. Or, maybe—” He broke off. “My reasons are my own damned business.”

  Sundance hesitated. “Susan Wade,” he said then, thinly.

  “Maybe. Maybe I don’t give a damn what happens to her husband, but maybe I don’t want to see her hurt.”

  Sundance looked at him steadily; and then he slowly lowered the gun. “All right, Roane. Why you did it doesn’t make any difference. The fact is, you saved our bacon. We appreciate it. Now, ride on.”

  “Not until I go down yonder and make sure Susan’s safe.”

  “She’s safe. You ride on.” Sundance’s voice was full of authority. He did not want Roane to go to the house or enter it; the rancher must not find out the Modocs were there.

  In a shaft of moonlight, Roane’s face was furious. “What the hell? After my men and I risk our lives—” Before he could finish, a voice rang out through the night, from far away, from the trees on the other side of the ranch house. “Hey, boss! Boss, we’ve got somethin’! Either I’m crazy or we’ve captured a God damned Modoc!”

  Roane stared at Sundance. “A Modoc?” he whispered.

  And now the cat was out of the bag, and there was no help for it.

  “A Modoc,” he said and raised the rifle again. “All right, Roane. Tell ‘em to take him to the house. And you come along, too. And if anybody harms that Indian, you won’t see the sun come up tomorrow.”

  Chapter Eight

  In obedience to Roane’s bellowed orders, his men drifted out of the woods toward the clearing around the ranch house. When Sundance and Roane reached it, the latter marching ahead of Sundance’s leveled Winchester, three riders had just come into the moonlight, and they held drawn guns trained on Nehlo, who, face sullen and furious, strode ahead of them with hands tied behind his back with piggin’ strings. Roane halted. “By God,” he whispered, “it is a Modoc! Hell, I know him! That’s the one used to work in Yreka at the livery stable, the one they called Jimmy! I thought he was dead, killed in the war.” Then he broke off. “So that’s why you didn’t want me down here, Sundance. You’re hidin’ out some God damned Injuns!”