by John Benteen
Someone had to fight for the tribes there as well, and he’d hired the best lobbyist he could find. Money was the key to justice in Washington, and supporting the Indians’ cause took a lot of it—so Sundance had earned a lot of it, hiring out his guns. He kept only a fraction for himself; the rest went East, to buy Congressmen for the Indians ...
But it had not worked, he thought bitterly, as he neared the scatter of buildings that was the town. It had been like trying to hold back the Missouri in flood time with a dam of twigs. Now, in 1879, it was nearly over. Little Big Horn had been the high water mark of Indian resistance—and all it had accomplished was to make the American Army fight more determinedly. So now, by and large, the Indians were beaten; Crazy Horse was dead, Sitting Bull escaped to Canada, the great Cheyennes Little Wolf and Dull Knife dead or neutralized, only a few Apaches still holding out in Mexico. And his dream of both races sharing the great land equally was as dead as the buffalo whose hides and bones were shipped east in boxcar loads every day.
But that meant more, not less, work for his gun. The need for money, for bought Congressmen, was greater than it ever had been. Tribe upon tribe was starving or dying of sickness on crowded reservations, while the Government sat on its hands.
So there was still work for his lobbyist to do, the need for money was unending, and he could earn it only with his weapons. That, after all these years, he was still alive, proved that he was the best; and the best came high. Right now, he was headed for Colorado, where the mines were still pouring out vast quantities of silver, where a man like him was needed and people could afford his fees. So—a quick stopover in Ganntsville to replenish his supplies and grain his horse and he’d be on his way even faster than he had counted on. He had no intention of being delayed by being caught up in a two-bit sheep-and-cattle war ...
~*~
Not much of a town. His eyes took wary inventory as he rode in. A livery and corral, a general store, a cafe, a combination barbershop and funeral parlor, and a long, low building with a row of log cubicles behind it that could only be cribs, the place serving, he guessed, as combination saloon, gambling hall, hotel, and brothel. There was a sawmill, too, its blade making a high-pitched whine as it converted Ponderosa pine into raw pitch planks, and a few houses, some of board, some of logs. Add it up and that was Ganntsville.
Turning in at the livery, he was met by a gaunt, stoop-shouldered man with tired eyes that came alive a bit at the sight of the tall man in the buckskin shirt and the fine spotted Nez Percé stud he rode. Dismounting in the barn, Sundance said, “I’ll want some grain for the horse and a couple of leaves of hay. I’ll see to him myself. He’s a one-man stud and likely to hurt a stranger.”
“Then you do just that, friend.” The man went for grain while Sundance unsaddled Eagle, turned him into a box stall, wiped him down with corncobs and a gunny sack. He let him drink, sparingly, then fed him, and left the saddle and the things hitched to it in one corner of the stall. Nobody, he knew, would get past Eagle to bother his possessions in the two buffalo-hide parfleches that had ridden strung across the horse’s rump behind the cantle. They contained, those Indian-made panniers, things of vast importance to him, one long and cylindrical, the other round as a dollar, about a yard in diameter, both ornamented with the sacred Thunderbird. He left the rifle, too, in its scabbard, with them. “I’ll be back for him in a couple of hours. Just stay away from him,” he told the hostler, “and make sure other folks do, too, or they’re likely to get hurt.” Scratching the horse between its ears, he went out.
~*~
What he craved most of all right now was a drink, two of them, in fact. The pair, of course, would be his limit; he was not good at handling whiskey—the Indian blood in him, he reckoned. Two drinks he could handle, the third made him proddy, mean; a fourth and fifth and he lost all control; after that many, he’d fight a grizzly barehanded. But after his long ride, he had to have some whiskey to cut the dust.
Walking down the dusty single street of the town, he thought about Sampson and the others. With the horse-chewed red-faced man on their hands, it would take them a long time to walk down their horses; he would be long gone before they hit town to spread the news, report to Barkalow and Strawn. About Barkalow he knew nothing; but Beecher Strawn was, like himself, a kind of legend wherever men spun yarns about the gunfighter breed. A cold-blooded killer, a gun-notcher, hiring his twin Colts to the highest bidder, he would not come cheap. Which meant that if the cowman named Barkalow had hired him, he was paying through the nose. Which meant that the sheepman, McCaig, was no minor threat, and opposing him was worth the money Strawn would cost. Which meant that even though his herders were Navajo Indians, McCaig must have gunmen of his own ... Or if he didn’t, he would need them. Sundance toyed with that thought a moment, as he turned into the saloon, then put it away. There might be an opportunity there, but he had no desire to hire out to a sheepman. It was not, as his British father had used to say, his cup of tea. Besides, a man running woolies likely couldn’t afford him anyhow. But he did feel sorry for the Navajo herders, who’d be caught in the middle ...
There were not many people in the bar at this time of day. A pair of men in flannel shirts, corduroys, boots, whom he tagged as loggers drinking it up after bringing a load of pine down to the sawmill, a professional gambler with no one to fleece, clad in a derby, dark suit, boiled shirt, dealing himself a game of solitaire; that summed it up. They looked curiously at the big man with the Indian face and white man’s eyes and hair, belt loaded with weapons, as Sundance strode to the bar, not knowing what to make of him.
Neither did the bartender, who, despite his copper skin, served him a shot of whiskey with a glass of water on the side without protest. Sundance carried both, by instinct, to a corner table where his back would be against the wall and he could watch the door. Then he sipped the whiskey, letting it caress the fatigue from his nerve-endings, rotten as it was. He was halfway through the drink when the saloon door opened and the five men came in. And Jim Sundance sat up straight, right hand slipping beneath the table to his gun. He recognized one of the quintet, though he had no idea how he’d got to town so fast—but it was Sampson, the leader of the group with whom he’d had the upscuttle on the range.
Two
Sundance tossed down the rest of the drink, set the glass down slowly with his left hand. His eyes flashed over the group, taking the rest of them at once—and knowing instantly that the one in the lead was Barkalow.
It had to be—a short, thick-set man pushing forty, maybe just past it, face square, eyes black, decades of hard life in blazing sun and raw winter weather written on it. Flat-crowned Texas sombrero, white shirt tight across massive shoulders and barrel chest, leather vest, shotgun chaps over Levis, and a Colt low-slung on his right hip. Long hair was touched with gray, so also a black cowhorn mustache, and the man seemed to radiate power and authority, a harsh, strong-willed attitude toward life, the way a depot stove gave off heat. Of the five, he was the most imposing, but the other four looked tough enough—like Sampson, leathery Texas cowhands who’d won their spurs long ago in battle against Indians, wild cattle, raiding Mexicans, and shoot-outs on Saturday night in hard-bitten trail towns. None, though, had the professional killer’s look; Sundance guessed that Strawn was not among them.
Standing there spraddle-legged, Barkalow raked his gaze over Sundance. His voice was deep, harsh. “That him?” he rasped, without turning his head.
“That’s him. The big half-breed in the buckskin shirt.” Anger and maybe a touch of fear gave Sampson’s answer a choked sound.
Barkalow strode forward, the others following, spurs jingling. Planting himself before Sundance’s table, he looked down at the half-breed with hard, glittering eyes. Then he jerked a thumb. “All right, you,” he said. “Up and out, now. Don’t let the sun set on you in Bloody Moon Basin.”
Sundance said quietly, “You’re Barkalow?”
“I’m Lem Barkalow. And I know who you are,
too. I don’t want you around. You’ve already hurt one of my men, but I’ll let that pass for now. Just get up off your hunkers, mount that stud of yours, and be on your way. You’ve twenty minutes to be saddled and gone.”
“I was kind of counting on another drink, first. And time to buy some grub.”
“You got no time for anything. Move out. I’ll put it this way. You got maybe twenty minutes to go on living, if living interests you.”
Sundance reached for the glass of water with his left hand, took a sip. “And I’ll put it this way.” While their eyes had followed the motion, his right arm had twitched almost imperceptibly. “If living interests you, you got about thirty seconds to keep on doing it.” The sound of a Colt coming to full cock was loud in the silent room. “Barkalow, you’re covered from under the table. You and the rest of your men peel off your weapons and throw ’em in the corner. Then you sit down right here with me, while I finish my other drink. Bartender! Bring me another shot of that rotgut!”
“Why, you damned gut-eatin’ Injun—” Barkalow’s face reddened even more beneath its tan. His body tensed.
“Go ahead, draw,” Sundance said. “The first bullet will go up through your balls and blow your guts out the way the gun’s pointed. The rest may get me, but you’ll be a long time dyin’.”
He saw Barkalow’s thick chest swell, as the Texan sucked in breath. Saw too the redness beneath the tan replaced by a sudden paleness as their eyes locked and Barkalow understood that Sundance had meant every word. Silence, for a moment, was like a stretched rope in its tautness in the room. Then Barkalow let out his breath. “All right, men,” he said, voice steady. “He’s got me cold. Do what he says. Shuck your guns.” And his own hand went to the buckle of his cartridge belt.
Sundance’s eyes were unwavering as the cowmen slowly, reluctantly, unbuckled weapons belts. When they had been, as ordered, thrown in the far corner of the room, Sundance said, “Now. The rest of you get out. Barkalow, you stay.”
Barkalow licked his lips. “Do what he says, goddammit.”
“Boss—” Sampson began.
“I said, follow his orders!” Barkalow snapped. “Dammit, if Strawn was here—”
“Well, it don’t look like he is.” Sundance watched the others back out of the saloon. Then, in a motion so swift it made Barkalow gasp, he had the aimed and cocked Peacemaker above the table. “You sit down,” he said, “right across from me. Then, if any of your boys have any idea of comin’ back with somethin’ like a scattergun, you’ll go as fast as I do.”
Wordlessly, eyes unwavering, Barkalow hooked out a chair with a spurred foot, eased himself into it, both hands on the table.
“I figured it would take some time before all this happened,” Sundance said.
“You figured wrong. I had another rider up in the hills He saw what happened and caught up their horses and they burned the grass gittin’ in to see me. That was your first misjudgment, Sundance. This is your second.”
“We’ll see. Bartender, where the hell’s that second drink?”
Trembling slightly, the man brought it. Sundance tossed it off at a gulp. Its quick burn warmed his belly, made him yearn for more. He thought about another, forced the idea from his mind. Another and he’d pistol-whip Barkalow. That would be a mistake. Besides, for what lay ahead, he needed a clear head.
“Now,” he said. “Like I told you, I got supplies to buy, my horse to get. You’re gonna be a good little boy and march right ahead of me while I do that. And this gun will be on you the whole time, cocked and with my finger on the trigger. If any of your hands get big ideas about rescuin’ you or bushwhackin’ me, there won’t be no way that you won’t be snuffed out the same second.”
Barkalow was breathing more regularly now, and something calculating had come into his eyes. “Sundance. This whole affair might take a different turn. How’d you like to work for me?”
Sundance’s mouth only quirked.
“I mean it,” Barkalow insisted. “By God, I like the way you handle yourself. And I could use a man like you—”
“You’ve got Strawn.”
“Could use you, too.”
Sundance laughed shortly, a barking sound. “Sorry. There’s room for only one top dog with a gun in any outfit. Strawn’s a top dog and so’m I. Besides, even if you like my style—” his face was deadly serious “—I don’t like yours worth a damn.”
“I’ll pay top wages—”
Sundance shoved back his chair. “Save ’em for Strawn. You get crosswise of me one more time and he might have to earn ’em.”
“So that’s it. That damn McCaig and his Injuns have sent for you—” Barkalow’s eyes hardened. “All right, you hire on with McCaig and his Navajos. You jest do that. Then we’ll bury you along with the rest of the Injuns.”
“Up,” said Sundance. “I got business to tend to.”
He jerked the gun barrel. In obedience to its threat; Barkalow got to his feet. “Now,” Sundance said, “you turn around and march ahead of me, hands behind your head, like a good little boy.”
“Goddamn you—”
“Move, I said.”
Barkalow moved, silent, body trembling with rage and shame as they went out the door. Just before he did so, Sundance said, “Your men will be waitin’ there with more guns. You’d better call ’em off.”
“Sampson, the rest of you!” Barkalow bellowed. “I’m comin’ out! He’s got a dead drop on me. Don’t try anything! You hear?”
~*~
Sundance had been right. Sampson and the others had come back, were waiting to bushwhack him when he came through the door, Sampson holding a double-barreled sawed-off. But they were obedient to Barkalow’s orders, especially when they saw that killing Sundance amounted simultaneously to killing their boss. The lined, cocked Colt he held on Barkalow’s back would have gone off reflexively, even if the half-breed had died instantly.
So they made no further tries. Still, it was one of the longest half hours Jim Sundance had ever lived through, as, with Barkalow as hostage, he bought the scant supplies he needed at the general store. By now, the whole town had seemed to come alive, buzzing like the saw mill at what was happening. But there was nothing anyone could do.
Carrying the grub in a gunny sack, Sundance marched Barkalow to the livery. This time, he spoke to Eagle, and the horse stood with bared teeth, laid-back ears, not liking it, but allowing the hostler to saddle him. When the rig was in place, with its parfleches, the supplies stowed, Sundance led the horse out of the box stall, still marching Barkalow ahead.
“I hope those boots are made for walkin’,” he said. “Because you got a couple of miles to cover before I turn you loose.”
Beyond speech with rage and humiliation, Barkalow didn’t even try to answer. Sundance mounted, and they left the livery, the big horse at a walk, Barkalow marching ahead. The whole town watched in silence as they traversed its street. There was no way Sundance could erase a twitch between his shoulder blades, knowing what a perfect target he made for a back-shot, but he had to trust to Barkalow’s power, which seemed complete, over the town.
It was a long two miles they made that way in silence, out across the grasslands. Then Sundance suddenly eased down the hammer of the gun, holstered it with a quick gesture. “All right, Barkalow,” he yelled, “you’re in the clear.” He touched the stallion with his heels, and the big horse, fed, refreshed, lined out in full run. It nearly bowled over Barkalow as it raced past him.
Turning in the saddle, Sundance saw Barkalow standing there, hands dropped, face working. He saw, too, the riders, awaiting their chance, swarming from the town in hot pursuit. He laughed aloud. With a two mile start, they had as much chance of catching Eagle as of seizing the wind. Still, he needed cover, and needed it fast, and so he turned the stallion at an angle across the basin, making for the towering, rugged bulk of the Mogollons by the shortest route. Once up there, he knew, and with darkness coming on, he could lose the pursuers without any difficul
ty. Behind him, there was the distant rattle of gunfire. Sundance ignored it, knowing the range was too great, as the big stud made straight for the broken country of the rimrock.
The Nez Percé Appaloosas were mountain horses. Surefooted as goats, they could find a way no plains mustang could follow. With sundown nearing, Sundance, high in the tangled, slashed country of the Mogollons, well over the rim, reined in Eagle in a thicket of juniper, confident that Barkalow’s men had long since given up. Loosening the cinch of his center-fire saddle to let the stud breath, he squatted on his heels, had a cigarette, but, with the Winchester cradled in his arm, he did not relax his vigilance. For the first time, now, he had time to think.
As far as he was concerned, it should be over. What had happened back there had rubbed him wrong, but there was no profit in pursuing the quarrel, and profit was what he had to think about. The lawyer in Washington needed money, and there was none in trying to get even with Barkalow. Anyhow, he already had; the man had been humiliated before the whole town he seemed to rule and in front of his own riders, too. So the smart thing was to call it even, forget it, ride on north to Colorado as he’d planned
And yet something bothered him. Barkalow’s words rang in his ears again. All right, you hire on with McCaig and his Navajos ... And we’ll bury you with the rest of the Indians ...
Sundance frowned. That implied that McCaig, the sheepman, had hired Navajos to work his flocks. Which was not surprising, since he would hardly be able to find white herders, and the Navajo had been handling sheep and goats since the Spaniards had brought in the first flocks, long before the coming of the Anglo white man. In fact, sheep were the chief source of livelihood of the Navajos on their vast barren reservation in Arizona and New Mexico Territories.
