by John Benteen
They came on, hard and fast, certain of their surprise, contemptuous anyhow of the Indians who waited for them. Their outriders hit the stream, began to splash across. More fell in behind them. Soon all were in the river except Barkalow on the far bank. Sundance signaled: Now!
The Indians, each well concealed, opened fire, the range less than a hundred yards. The raiders should have gone down like wheat before a reaper. But it was a ragged, untrained volley loosed by unpracticed men, and more slugs missed than hit. Sundance cursed, unlimbering trying to make up for the difference. He saw one man taken squarely in the chest fall from saddle, splash into the water, disappear. Another turned just as he squeezed trigger, and he dropped the horse instead. Then the raiders were returning fire themselves, recovering from surprise. Barkalow, still on the far bank, yelled: “Burn the bastards down!”
Trained fighting men hosing lead from rifles, six-guns, laid down a withering sleet of death across the tops of the bluffs. Sundance lined on Barkalow, who raced his horse back and forth. He was about to pull the trigger when a deafening screech of metal sounded just before his face. His hand was wrenched from the trigger guard: he stared for an instant unbelievingly, at the smashed Winchester, caught in the receiver by a slug and ruined. Then, fingers stinging, he cursed, threw the gun away. He rolled, slipped the strung bow from shoulder, whipped arrows from his quiver. “Use your bows!” he yelled in Navajo. “Forget your guns! Use your bows!”
But his voice was lost in the tumult of battle. And the Indians, not expecting such a barrage of gunfire, untrained to hold or endure in the face of it, were dazed, demoralized. Where, with bows, they would have been deadly accurate, they kept on using guns, and now, with only a few men lost, Barkalow’s raiders were surging up the bluffs, and Sundance, as two charged straight at him, loosed only a single arrow that whizzed by one of the rider’s heads, and then his Colt was in one hand, his hatchet in the other, as he was on his feet. The two men loomed above him on their horses; guns came down into line. The Colt bucked, and one rider’s face disappeared in a wash of red. Sundance threw the hatchet with his other hand.
It caught the second raider squarely in the breastbone. The man dropped his rifle, clawed at the blade sunk inches deep into his chest, and slumped forward in the saddle. Sundance yelled in Nez Percé, and Eagle was there then, and he swung up into the saddle. All around him, Navajos were fighting both on foot and mounted. What could have been an easy victory had degenerated into a wild, blurred confusion of hand-to-hand combat. And yet he could not blame the Indians. Too long untested in this kind of war, outnumbered and outgunned, they had let one chance slip.
But they were far from giving up. Shouting, they brought their dogs into action. The fierce and shaggy animals charged the attacking horses. One nearly hamstrung a sorrel, then was kicked into eternity. But the crippled horse went down, and Mountain Cat, tomahawk raised high, charged its unbalanced rider as the man came to his feet. Sundance saw them wrestle there together, saw the gun barrel jammed in Mountain Cat’s ribs, the trigger pulled. But before he died, the Navajo split the man’s head into bloody halves with his axe. Locked like lovers, both men fell dead.
And the dogs were more than paying their way. Their charge and slash demoralized the raiders’ horses, sent them bucking, shying. Navajos seized their riders, dragged them from the saddle. Now the Indians were using their rifle butts as clubs, and knife blades flashed, and hatchet heads glinted in the sunlight. Jim Sundance caught blurred glimpses of all that as he sought a target here, another there, with lead ripping around his head. The six-gun emptied, two men down, he yanked his Bowie, let out a scream, and with knife high, charged another rider.
The man saw him come. His horse plunged as a dog tore at its legs. The sight of that half-breed Cheyenne, copper face contorted, white teeth shining, blond hair streaming, and the long-bladed Bowie at the ready was too much for him along with the battle with the dog-nipped horse. He let out a muffled yell, whirled, and spurred his mount and raced it back down the bluffs.
And that began it, as a crack in a dam makes way for a flood. Disciplined to ride into gunfire, most of these Texans were not cold-steel men. Their horses uncontrollable, which made their guns unuseable, and knives and axes flashing all around, was more than they could take, and this time it was their turn to panic. “Back!” somebody yelled, and another rider raced back down the bluffs, a dog snapping at his horse’s heels. And then another swung, and another, and all at once their charge was broken. A blood-curdling whoop of triumph went up from those Navajos that were left. Sundance leaned all the way from saddle without ever slowing Eagle, scooped up a dropped Winchester. “Hoka hey!” he yelled above the uproar. “We’ve got ’em on the run! Come on!” A few mounted Navajos raced behind him. But with the panic that gripped the white raiders, it might as well have been every warrior of the tribe.
Across the river, Sundance glimpsed Barkalow, staring in disbelief. “Goddammit!” the cowman roared. “Stand fast! Stand fast, you cowards!” But he had not joined the battle himself, and as his demoralized men, no more than half of what he’d started with, splashed across the river, he knew he could no more stem their flight than turn back a stampede single-handed. And then, seeing Sundance bearing down on him, he swung his own horse and led the flight, racing back across the Basin toward the town. Sundance checked Eagle, jumped down, knelt, aimed and pulled the trigger of the Winchester. He cursed. There was only a dry click, the gun was empty, and then Barkalow had disappeared into the draw.
Meanwhile, up there in the center, Strawn’s men, made of harder stuff, were still fighting. There was no time to pursue Barkalow’s raiders; Easy Dreamer would need all the help he could get. Sundance yanked shells from cartridge belt, crammed them in the rifle. He swung the stud so hard it reared and signaled. “All right! Let ’em go! We’ve got to help Easy Dreamer!”
A few of his men heard him, followed. Under the bluffs, beside the river, Eagle ran tirelessly, four or five Navajos on their shorter-legged mounts trying to keep up. As they neared the scene of the battle in the center, the sound of gunfire gave Sundance some idea of the pattern of what was happening. Easy Dreamer and his men were still holding the bluffs, much steeper there. Strawn and his men had not been able to get up and over. Maybe they were not even trying very hard, depending on Barkalow’s raiders to come around and sweep the flank from the easier elevation.
Horses lathered, they whirled around a bend, and Sundance saw that he was right. Strawn’s men had made one charge; a pair of sprawled bodies between the river and the bluff showed that. Now, having fallen back, they had taken cover in the scrub along the river, were pouring fire at the crests of the bluffs. Easy Dreamer and his men returned it steadily.
Sundance grinned and then began to fire, even as the big warhorse pounded toward the battle. He chose the puffs of smoke each shot made along the river as his targets. Behind him, his few Navajos, spreading out, followed suit.
The men along the river were caught in a cross-fusillade, taken by surprise. Under it, they broke, headed for their horses, held by one man at the stream’s edge. For the Navajos on the bluffs, for Sundance below, it was good hunting. As the gunmen smashed from cover, running for their mounts, Sundance himself dropped two, saw another pair go down. Then the rest were mounted, including the black-clad Strawn. He whirled his horse, pale, pouchy face contorted, stared at Sundance, his rifle raised. For a moment, Sundance thought he’d charge, that this would be it, the final duel they’d promised one another. But Strawn yelled, voice barely audible above the gunfire: “Later, Sundance!” He spurred his mount, and then, bent low, was leading the retreat back across the river, losing one more man as he did so. Only four of the ten men he’d started with raced after him.
Sundance reined in the blown, lathered stallion. It, the Navajo ponies, would be too exhausted to give chase. There was a moment when, dismounting, taking careful aim, he could have blown Strawn from the saddle, even though the man was riding hard, widening
the range. Almost, his finger applied the fatal fraction of an ounce to the trigger. Almost; not quite: he had made Strawn a promise, and he would keep it. Instead, he changed his aim, dropped another rider, and then the retreating gunmen were out of range.
Sundance stood up, whole body shaking with reaction and fatigue. Then, waving at Easy Dreamer, he led Eagle up the bluffs, to rest and assess the damage.
Ten
“By The Changing Woman!” Easy Dreamer swore on one of the holier Navajo gods, his eyes glittering with triumph, his face streaming sweat. “We beat them! Oh, how we did beat them! We’re warriors still!”
“Yes, you’re warriors. But it’s not over yet.”
Squatting in the shade of the rim wall, Sundance took reports from Easy Dreamer and Greasy Shirt, and other Indians sent out to count the dead and bring in the Indian wounded. There must have been white wounded, too, but they did not bring in those; and he did not ask what they had done with them; he knew. Lighting a cigarette, he forced his tired mind to work. Somehow it kept drifting back to stories his father had told across the fire in the Cheyenne lodge in which he’d grown up. Nicholas Sundance had been an officer in a British regiment before coming to America; now it was almost as if his son could hear his voice. The main sin of every general I ever saw except Wellington was that they quit fighting too soon. They’d win one smashing victory and then stop to rest and regroup. But, of course, the enemy was doing the same. When you’ve got somebody beaten, you’ve got to muster that last ounce of strength, keep after him until he’s destroyed. Never slow down, never give him any rest ...
Well, he thought, they had whipped Strawn and Barkalow all right and whipped them good. Between last night and today, they had surely cut the enemy’s forces by more than half and had taken nowhere near the same number of casualties themselves. Now the edge was on their side. But if they rested too long, Barkalow could recruit more men, and those he had, recovering from battle shock, would be ready to fight with a new ferocity. Meanwhile, though the Navajos were exhausted, too, they had the wine of victory singing in their blood, were drunk on triumph. Stiffly, he got to his feet, setting aside the coffee Delia Gannt had brought him, the cup drained.
“And that woman!” Easy Dreamer went on, gesturing toward Delia. “She fought like a man! When we shot, half the time we missed. But when she fired—well, she brought down her game every time!”
Sundance looked at her smudged, weary face. “You did well.”
“At least I evened the score for Tom,” she said fiercely.
“That and more; but we’ve got to keep on going. Delia, you said there were people in the town who would rise up against Barkalow and Strawn. They’ll know you’re back by now. And they’ll know that Barkalow’s taken a bad licking.” He gestured. “You think they’d have the guts now to move into the open, fight on our side, if we went in there after those bastards?”
“I know they would. All they were waiting for was help from outside.”
“Then we’ll give it to ’em,” Sundance said. “Right now.”
“Now?” She blinked. “But, Jim, you’re so tired. All the men are. And I’m exhausted ... ”
“It doesn’t matter. We’ve got to make one more try while the signs are right.” He turned to Easy Dreamer. “Call in the men. We’re riding into Ganntsville.”
“Jim, we can’t do it!” Her jaw dropped. “Now they’re the ones who’re holed up, who have the cover. And in broad daylight—? They’d cut us down before we ever reached the town.”
“Not if the people there do what you say. Not if there’s enough of them that have had a belly full of Barkalow. They’ve seen now that he’s not immortal, him and Strawn. Besides, those gunnies will never figure that we’d come in after ’em. They’ll be lickin’ their wounds, takin’ tongue-lashings from Strawn and Barkalow, and lappin’ up booze in saloons. Now. It’s got to be done now, and we’ve got to push.” He turned to Easy Dreamer. “One more afternoon of war, and it’s finished. Call in the men. I want all who can still ride and shoot. The others stay with the sheep, and so do the dogs.”
Easy Dreamer looked at him with a kind of awe and nodded. “I’ll do it right away.” Then he grinned. “Yes. We’ve got one more battle in us.” When he had gone, Sundance said: “Delia, you’ll stay here. You’ve done enough, risked enough, today.”
“Like hell I will!” she flared. “When you hit Ganntsville, I’m going to be riding right there up front with you. Let the people—Tom’s friends—see me; let them have proof I’m back. No, Jim Sundance! I’ve come this far, you won’t stop me now.”
He opened his mouth to lace into her, then closed it. “All right,” he said finally. “You’re right. We do need you where you can be seen; otherwise, they might think it’s an Indian raid of some kind. But you stay by me, all the way—you hear? That’s an order!”
~*~
The sun was at high noon, blazing from its zenith on Bloody Moon Basin. The enemy’s exhausted fighting men would be bandaging themselves and resting and tossing off hard liquor in the cool saloons—Sundance hoped. And the more they drank, what with their fatigue, this heat, the less effective they would be as fighting men. With Delia on the best horse the Navajo remuda could boast riding beside him, Sundance led the way down the bluffs, fourteen Navajos still capable of combat strung out behind him, armed to the teeth with captured weapons and the knives and axes they had, like himself, retrieved.
There was no need to explain to them the circuitous route he took; they understood cover and concealment as well as he. Not one advantage of the lay of the land in the western half of the Basin, between the river and the town went unused. And everything that would glitter in the sun had been removed—their fancy turquoise and silver jewelry and horse trappings; and their guns and blades were sheathed.
He set the stallion at a slow lope, one the Indian horses could match. Ahead, ten miles across the Basin, half veiled by heat waves, lay the town. It would be about right if they reached it in an hour, the heat still at its worst, the whiskey taking hold in the white men’s brains and bellies ... Delia kept pace beside him, silent, tense.
“Jim, if I’m wrong, what happens?” she said once. “Suppose I’m wrong?”
“Then we can beat them anyway, if the townspeople just stay neutral.”
“If I can just get to Howard Fain who owns the general store ... He’s the mover and the shaker and was the best friend of Tom’s. If I can get to him, he’ll lead the others.”
“Then we’ll get you to him,” Sundance said. “You stay by me and lead the way to his store. It’s our first objective, yours and mine.”
After that, there was no talking. They rode along a draw, came up a side arroyo, kept low behind a rolling ridge ... Longhorns grazing raised their heads to look at them with curiosity; one bull shook his horns; a cow went rocking off in fright, tail raised and curled. Somewhere, and it was close at hand now, a burro brayed. They were near the town. Sundance dismounted, leaving the others in defilade behind the ridge, edged to its crest. Only two miles away, that damned sawmill was still running, blade whining as it bit through Ponderosa logs. Something about its steady, metallic sound sent a chill down Sundance’s spine.
Anyhow, they had come as far as concealment would take them. The two miles that separated them from Ganntsville were open flats. And, except for the mill, the town itself seemed wholly asleep. If you did not know that it was full of gunmen, it would have seemed any Arizona village at siesta time.
“All right,” Sundance told the Navajos. “We’re goin’ in, and we’re goin’ hard and fast. No yelling, no war whoops—and remember what I told you, don’t shoot at anybody you don’t know is one of the enemy—unless he tries to shoot you first. If we kill innocent civilians here, we’re in trouble with the Army and the Grandfather in Washington both. If any one of you shoots a woman or a child, I’ll personally tie him up and skin him while he’s still alive.” From the tone of his voice, they knew that was not merely a figure of
speech. It was a threat that he was Indian enough to carry out.
Easy Dreamer repeated the orders in explicit, detailed Navajo. The men grunted, nodded. Sundance mounted Eagle. He made sure Delia was close by his side. Then he lifted his hand. “All right. Let’s go!” And he sent the big horse plunging over the ridge.
Spread out wide, the Navajos charged the town behind him. Hoof beats drummed, dust roiled, but none of the Indians made any sound. Sundance had to keep the Appaloosa reined in, so as not to outdistance Delia and the others.
They made it halfway across the flats, were only a mile from town, before Ganntsville showed any sign of awareness of their presence. Sundance caught sight of a couple of horsemen riding out; they caught sight of the charging Indians, checked their mounts in astonishment, stared, then wheeled and galloped back into town.
But it would take minutes to make the dazed gunmen there understand what was coming at them, and in those minutes, that last mile could be covered. Sundance put Eagle in a dead run, Delia close beside, the Navajo ponies giving everything they had. Still, they kept their weapons sheathed, and there was not a sound, not a war whoop, from the charging Indians.
And then, veiled by their own dust, they were upon the town. Sundance, in the lead, with Delia’s horse pounding to keep up, finally pulled his Colt. “Delia!” he shouted as they entered the main street. “The store—where?”
“There!” She pointed to the general store beside the saloon where Sundance had first met Barkalow. Even as she yelled the word, gunfire crackled from the saloon’s windows and Sundance heard the ugly whine of lead. He punched a couple of slugs through a window and hurtled by, and then, reaching out, yanked Delia from the saddle, held her close against him, and yanked Eagle to a skidding halt. Kicking feet free from stirrups, he plunged up on the store’s porch, whirled just in time to see a face in the saloon window, a Colt lined before it. He loosed another shot, and the slug hit the Colt, whined off, and a chunk of forehead, in a spray of brains and blood, flew from the face; it disappeared. Then, as the town seemed to explode in gunfire, he slammed against the door of the general store and knocked it open, dragged himself and Delia inside.
