Sundance 11

by John Benteen

  Boland rushed at him with a bellowed curse, arms flailing as he launched clubbing blows with his fists. Sundance took one punch to the belly to land two of his own to his adversary’s face. Staggered, Boland now tried to catch him in a bear hug. Wanting no cracked ribs, Sundance sidestepped and grabbed Boland’s left wrist with a two-handed grip, jerked him off balance, and whipped him about with all his might so that he was again thrown to the ground. He waited with cocked fists, but Boland was slow getting up this time.

  “When you’ve had enough, say so,” Sundance said, taunting of tone. “Me, I can dance this kind of a fandango all day long.”

  Getting to one foot and one knee, Boland stared at him with mingled rage and hatred.

  “I’ll still nail your hide to the fence, you red-skinned bastard. There ain’t no half-breed born yet that can get the better of me!”

  “You mule-headed fool, I could have killed you long ago if I’d wanted. I’m letting you off with just a roughing-up because Sam needs you to take the dude to that Comanchero’s ranch. But if you want more of what I’ve already given you, come and get it.”

  Boland came to give it, not get it ... heaving to his feet, diving headlong at the ’breed’s knees. Sundance clubbed him to the head a half dozen times but failed to stop him. Wrapping his arms about the half-Cheyenne’s legs, the ramrod toppled him over backward. Jolted, Sundance barely managed to bring his feet up as the burlier man flung himself down with his hands, reaching for a throttling throat hold. With his feet against Boland’s middle, he straightened his legs and sent him reeling away. Recovering his balance, Boland tried charging in low again as Sundance came to his feet. The ’breed drove a knee to his face and at almost the same instant clouted him at the base of the skull with his fist. Knowing this was the end of the brawl, he turned away to retrieve his tomahawk even as the ramrod collapsed unconscious.

  As he picked up the tomahawk, he saw that Sam Owens and Phil Markham had been watching from the ranch house door. They now came across the yard, the rancher asking the reason for the fight.

  “A little misunderstanding on that hombre’s part,” Sundance said. “He made the mistake of rooting in my panniers and then jumping me when I called him down for it.”

  He walked to where Eagle stood and the articles from the panniers lay on the ground. Owens and Markham trailed along, watching with open curiosity as he picked up a Cheyenne war shield painted with the Thunderbird design. From it dangled six grisly objects: human scalps. The hair of three was coal-black: Indian scalps. The hair of one of the others was red, of another brown, and the third yellow: the scalps of white men. He brushed yard dirt off the shield, handling it as a cherished possession, and then slipped it back into the pannier which had been made especially for it.

  “The tally of the men you’ve killed?” Owens asked.

  Sundance’s face clouded and for an instant his eyes mirrored the pain of an old memory. “Only of the six I had reason to hate most. They murdered my parents, my father for his pelt money and my mother after they were done amusing themselves with her. I tracked them down and killed them one by one—and yes, damn it, I took their scalps.”

  He stopped and picked up his bow. It was of juniper wood, bound with sinew and tipped with buffalo horn. Its string was the sinew from the shoulder tendon of one of those great shaggy beasts of the plains. He wiped it clean and shoved it into the other pannier, which was cylindrical in shape, then reached for his quiver of arrows. It was made of panther hide, with the tail still attached. The arrows had heads of flint, as the Indians of old had used. He preferred them to newer iron heads because they caused a more terrible wound and therefore had more stopping power. He dusted the quiver, then placed it in the pannier with the bow.

  Owens said, “Don’t tell me you still use that kind of gear in this day and age.”

  Sundance nodded, his face turned grim. “I use the bow and arrows when the report or muzzle flash of a gun would endanger my life by giving my position away. And I keep the shield with me even though it won’t stop bullets, just as some white men carry good luck charms.” He smiled without humor. “It’s big medicine. Superstition maybe, eh?”

  He strode across the yard and picked up his sack of grub, seeing that Matt Boland had regained his senses and was getting to his feet with great effort. He ignored the still groggy ramrod and went to tie the sack to the horn of Eagle’s saddle. He mounted the stallion and was about to ride out when Phil Markham stepped forward.

  “I’d like a word with you, Sundance.”

  “Sure. What’s on your mind?”

  Looking embarrassed, the tenderfoot lowered his voice so Sam Owens wouldn’t overhear. “I just wanted to ask if you think those savages will ... well, you know.”

  “Rape Miss Stevens?”

  Markham flinched at that blunt question. “Well, harm her in any way.”

  Sundance looked down at him with disgust. The tenderfoot wasn’t in the least concerned that his fiancée might have been put to death or was being subjected to barbaric torture. All he could think was that she might be sexually molested ... suffering a fate worse than death, the ’breed thought with sour amusement.

  “You’d better ask yourself a question, mister. That is, do you care enough about her to overlook whatever is happening to her—against her will.”

  With that, he put Eagle into motion and rode across the ranch yard. He was at the edge of it when Matt Boland yelled at him.

  “You, ’breed!”

  Sundance reined the stallion in and twisted in the saddle to look back at the ramrod. Boland was still unsteady on his feet. He swayed back and forth like a drunken cowboy in town to squander his thirty-a-month all in one night. His face was swollen and bloody from the battering he’d taken.

  “Get it said, Boland.”

  “No half-assed Injun gets away with rolling me in the dirt! I’ll pay you back for that if it takes me the rest of my life. Now you know, you yellow-haired, Injun-faced freak!”

  Sundance stared at him a moment, wondering if this was all empty bluster and deciding it was not. Matt Boland was one of those men who bore a grudge until he worked it off, either by killing the object of his hatred or by getting himself killed. He was declaring a blood feud. Sundance nodded to show that he accepted the challenge.

  “I’ll be ready for you when the time comes.”

  He rode away from Snake-in-a-Hole headquarters, telling himself he could add the ramrod’s name to the long list of those men who wanted him dead ... and that if there was one thing he didn’t need it was another enemy. Then, shoving all thought of Boland to a back corner of his mind, he lifted the Appaloosa to a lope. He would need his wits about him for what lay ahead, watching out for renegade Anglos and Mexicans, as well as Comanche war parties, as he crossed this short-grass country to the stretch of savagely broken terrain in which more than a few white men had lost their way, their horses, and their lives. This was a tortuous badlands of red clay, poisonous water holes, no grass for livestock, little game for men, and hardly any brush for cook fires.

  Beyond it reared the escarpments above which lay the plateau called Llano Estacado. These high abutments were “painted” vivid reds, dull yellows, somber browns, and pale purples ... Once he’d climbed them, Jim Sundance would be in the stamping ground of the Comanches and the Kiowas, among which fierce tribesmen he had but one friend, Quanah Parker. Unless he found Quanah’s village before he was found by warriors of other bands, he might well end up dead—with his golden-haired scalp lifted by a brave who would hang it proudly from the highest pole of his tepee.

  Hai-yu! He would have to keep his wits about him, all right!

  Chapter Five

  Late in the afternoon of the fifth day after Sundance left Snake-in-a-Hole Ranch, he had the good fortune to come upon a tiny stream of sweet water deep in the badlands. Grass grew along its banks, and he turned Eagle loose to graze. After having cooked and eaten his supper, he stripped down and, with a bar of soap from his sa
ddlebags, washed himself from head to foot in the little creek. He put on only his faded blue denim pants and moccasins, then got out his razor and scraped away his Indian-sparse growth of beard.

  Still not donning his doeskin shirt, he dug into one of his saddlebags for a small pottery jar of Navajo make. The opening of the jar was covered with a square of thin buckskin kept in place by a sinew cord. Removing the cover, he dipped into the jar with two fingers of his right hand and brought out a dab of a greasy black substance. He smeared the dab onto his yellow-gold hair, then added more of the stuff until the jar was almost empty. He then rubbed the substance into his thick mane until it lost its golden hue and was jet-black. The substance consisted of rendered bear fat into which had been mixed chimney soot. It served as a very good dye.

  Having changed the color of his hair, he braided it into two pigtails, one at each side of his head, and tied their ends with bits of red ribbon that he also carried in his saddlebags.

  This was far from being the first time he had hidden the bright color of his tresses, and he did so now because tomorrow he would be riding across the Llano and would sooner or later encounter warriors to whom yellow hair might be an irresistible temptation. He did not want a fight, at least not before he found Virginia Stevens, for if he killed even one brave he might have the entire Comanche nation—and the Kiowa nation as well—gunning for him.

  With darkness, he wrapped himself in his blanket, smoked a marijuana cigarette, and, as he grew drowsy, thought of the young woman he must find and rescue. She would be in some warrior’s tepee, perhaps being bedded by him on a buffalo robe this very moment. Maybe not a mere brave, but a chief or a medicine man had her. With her coppery-bright hair and exotic green eyes, and her youth as well, she would be regarded as a choice prize by her captors. And the girl herself ... ?

  Sundance gave Virginia Stevens some thought. Would she want to be rescued after being a Comanche’s squaw? Maybe she would be too ashamed to return to her own world and face her fiancé and kinfolk. Maybe she would find that life as a squaw appealed to the primitive side of her nature. All humans and animals possessed a dormant feral instinct that permitted them to return to a wild state, Jim Sundance believed. Some white women captives of the Indians had not fitted into their old way of life when returned to their homes. Cynthia Ann Parker had been one such woman.

  In his euphoric state of mind that had been brought on by the marijuana, Sundance was titillated by the thought of Virginia, whom he knew only from her photograph, as the squaw of a Comanche. Ivory white flesh mingled with copper red flesh. He experienced a sudden ache of desire in his loins ...

  ~*~

  By midmorning Sundance was well into the Staked Plains. He rode bareheaded now, his old Stetson rolled up and hidden in one of his saddlebags, and he looked like a full-blooded Cheyenne. He held his rifle across his saddle and kept watching the distances in every direction for roving warriors.

  This land that was marked as The Great American Desert on the maps ... although he had ridden it on other occasions, he found himself again viewing it with a sense of awe. Table-flat, seemingly totally barren, dull gray in color, it stirred the beholder with its immensity and grandeur—much as the sea did. Extending westward to the Rocky Mountains, it did indeed seem a desert. Nothing broke the monotony of its landscape. It was without trees, bushes or rocks.

  That it appeared barren was merely an illusion, for this was one of the great buffalo ranges. To Sundance it seemed that its lush grama grass was sufficient to graze all the cattle in Christendom. He saw even now a vast herd of buffalo against a far horizon, and glimpsed a free-running band of mustangs. Sooner or later he would also see antelopes in great numbers, he knew.

  No, this was not a lifeless desert. He knew that it was the watershed of several great rivers. Deep canyons drained the country to form the headwaters of the Canadian, Red, Brazos, and Colorado Rivers. And in these same canyons the Comanches and Kiowas had their villages, for there water, grass, wood, and game were plentiful. And there too they were sheltered from the severities of the weather and hidden from their enemies.

  Sundance rode northwest, heading for the greatest of these gorges, the deep, long chasm called Palo Duro Canyon, which all but divided the Plains in two. At the time of his last trip here, he had found Quanah Parker and his Quahadis living there.

  At midday he stopped to rest Eagle. He gave the stallion a little water, again letting it drink from his Stetson and afterward returning the hat to his saddlebags. He too drank, sparingly. While the horse grazed, he munched on some jerky. This was a skimpy fare, indeed, but he did not cook a meal for fear the smoke of a buffalo-chip fire would attract the attention of some Indians on the move. He hoped to reach Quanah’s village without running into trouble.

  This was not to be. At mid-afternoon he looked back the way he had come and saw five tiny, moving specks on the horizon. He reined Eagle in and watched to see if the specks were coming in his direction. They were. As they drew closer, they took the shapes of horsemen.

  He debated whether to make a run for it, being sure that the Appaloosa could outdistance ordinary Comanche ponies, or to wait and try to parley with the five. If he ran for it, he might encounter other tribesmen. If he stood his ground, he might get no chance to talk but be forced to fight. Since this wasn’t an easy decision to make, he made it the white man’s way. He took a silver dollar from his pocket and flipped it into the air. Heads he would run, tails he would sweat things out. The coin came up tails when it fell to the ground.

  Dismounting, he picked up and pocketed the coin. He got his war shield from its pannier and slipped his left arm through the bull hide hooks on its back. From the other pannier he pulled his quiver of arrows and slung it over his back by its strap, then got out his bow. He was arming himself as a warrior to look as much like a full-blooded Cheyenne as possible.

  They were within rifle range now, spread out in a line abreast and holding their ponies to a walk. He held his bow in his left hand and raised his right arm in the universally acknowledged signal of peace. This drew no response from the five. They continued to ride toward him. He called out to them in their own language.

  “I come in friendship to see the great chief of the Quahadis! I am Sundance, his Cheyenne brother!”

  Still no response, only that slow, threatening advance.

  All five were bare to the waist, and two wore only breechclouts. The warrior in the middle of the line carried a shield and a lance. Three of the others were armed with rifles, and the fifth with a bow. None wore war paint, but that, he knew, did not mean they weren’t ready for a fight.

  Deciding they had come close enough without having accepted his friendly gesture, he fitted an arrow to his bow and sent it in a high arc through the air so that it fell to the ground directly in front of the brave in the middle. It landed so close to him that his mount, a skewbald paint, erupted into a wild bucking. The others pulled up and waited for him to bring his mount under control, then all five charged ... coming at a gallop, brandishing their weapons, shouting their war cries. Sundance fitted a second arrow to his bowstring, making ready to kill all five of them if necessary to save his scalp of dyed hair.

  Chapter Six

  Although the Comanches were charging at him at a gallop, Sundance was reluctant to let loose his arrow with lethal intent. To kill the five or even one of them, would surely bring the wrath of the entire Comanche nation down on him. He waited almost too long, then shot the arrow so it struck the shield of the warrior on the skewbald pony—as a warning. He dropped his bow and grabbed his Winchester rifle from the boot on Eagle’s saddle. Firing rapidly, he put several slugs so close to the warriors that they suddenly turned cautious and changed their course to ride around him in a wide circle. They continued to utter their unholy war cries and brandish their weapons, but as yet not one had shot at him.

  Finally the one with the lance and shield made the peace signal and rode toward him for a parley. Booting his rifle, Sundan
ce drew his six-shooter for possible close-in fighting. The lance-bearer reined in twenty feet from him.

  “You there, Man-Who-Rides-Alone, there is no need for us to kill you.”

  “What you mean, friend, is that you don’t want me to kill any or all five of you—as I can easily do.”

  “That is still to be proved. For you to kill all of us, you would have to be the greatest warrior that ever lived.”

  Hai-yu! I am that—the greatest of all warriors. Have you a name, Man-Who-Could-Die-So-Easily?”

  “I am White Buffalo, one of Nocona’s band. And the Noconas are the greatest of all warriors.”

  Sundance knew that this formality of braggadocio must be adhered to, meaningless though it was. Aware that the four other warriors were edging furtively closer, he gestured toward them with his revolver.

  “If they come any closer and there’s a fight, you, White Buffalo, will be the first to die.”

  White Buffalo raised his lance in signal and the others instantly halted their forward movement.

  “There is no need for a fight, my friend.”

  “Sundance is my name. I’m a Cheyenne dog soldier and a friend of the great Quanah Parker. I’m on my way to see him, and your entire Nocona band can’t keep me from going to his village.”

  “As I was saying, Sundance, there is no need for a fight in which you would surely die. As a token of our friendship for each other, you and I will trade ponies. I will give you my paint, and you in turn will give me your Appaloosa.”

  “My Appaloosa is worth half a hundred crow bait nags such as your paint.”

  White Buffalo’s dark eyes examined the Appaloosa with admiration and greed. “So it is. But I am offering your life to boot. It is a fair trade, my Cheyenne friend.”

  “And you, my Comanche friend ... I will show you something.”