Sundance 11

by John Benteen

  As darkness closed down over the badlands, Jim Sundance marveled at both the warrior and his captive. Broken Nose lacked neither courage nor cunning. It had taken a great deal of both to slip into another warrior’s lodge in the middle of the night, knife him to death, and take his woman by force, then later bushwhack the warrior’s vengeance-seeking brothers and afterward elude the searching Nocona and his braves. And the young white woman ... a girl of spirit. So had said her uncle Sam Owens and also Chief Quanah Parker. But she was a strangely submissive captive. When he had watched through his telescope as she bathed, she had been placid of manner. And if she had purposefully done her bathing because she knew he, the intruder in the rock field, was watching and had wanted to keep his attention riveted on her so the Kiowa could strike at him, she was not an unwilling captive. She was conducting herself like a complacent squaw rather than a white woman held in bondage. Of course, she did not know that he, the man Broken Nose meant to kill, had come to rescue her and take her back to her own kind. For all she knew he was just another warrior who coveted her, and she might prefer to remain the Kiowa’s chattel rather than to be taken by yet a third brave who would use her for his pleasure. Or was it possible, Sundance wondered, that she had become enamored of Broken Nose?

  Hours passed, and the night chill came to make Sundance wish for a fire and a warm meal. He began to entertain thoughts of attempting to withdraw from the rock field and back across the river to where he had left his Appaloosa. Dangerous thoughts, he knew. If he acted on them, he would play right into his enemy’s hands—and end up a dead man. A stiff breeze had sprung up, stirring the bushes and giving him reason to be doubly alert. He saw no shadowy figure skulking about, however. Nor did he any longer have a feeling that Broken Nose was close-by. He thought what a joke it would be on him if the Kiowa had taken it for granted he would remain crouched in a hole throughout the night and had returned to the cave and the woman. A sour sort of joke, not one that Sundance found at all amusing.

  Then abruptly he discovered that Broken Nose was still actively gunning for him. He saw a sudden glimmer of light. Instantly alert, but mystified as well, he lay flat on the ground and readied his rifle for action. The tiny flickering light suddenly blossomed into brightly glaring flames. He understood then. The Kiowa had touched off a brush fire, far down the arroyo, hoping the breeze would carry it toward his quarry—which Sundance had to admit he had become—and flush him from his covert. Broken Nose was hidden out there, set to shoot him down when he fled from the gully.

  Sundance made his decision. He wouldn’t leave the arroyo. He crawled away from its bank, where the brush grew, and huddled down among some rocks in the middle of the sandy floor. The flames spread swiftly, along both banks, pushing back the darkness with its ruddy brightness. Smoke was swept along ahead of the fire. He had the smell of it in his nostrils and the taste of it in his mouth. The roaring and crackling created a great din. Then there was the intense heat as the fire burned to both sides of him. Live sparks showered down. But within minutes the brush here was burned out, and the fire raged farther along the arroyo and shot out from it to thickets among the rocks. Darkness closed in again, here where Sundance lay, and he raised himself up cautiously, with ready rifle, on the chance that the Kiowa would venture out of hiding to look for him. Seeing nothing of the warrior, he rose and moved down the arroyo in the direction from which the fire had come, following its twisting course until he came to its end. Deciding to do some stalking of his own again, he left the arroyo and positioned himself so that if Broken Nose moved at all he would see him silhouetted against the now distant ruddy glare. He took up a post with his back to some towering rocks, but nothing moved within his range of vision.

  Finally the fire burned itself out, and total darkness again lay over the rock field. The moon was smudged over by the clouds and few stars were to be seen. As the hours passed, Sundance found his patience wearing thin—and that, he realized, could lead him to some reckless act. He must outwait the Kiowa. Maybe when daylight came ... As he had this thought he was startled by the unexpected. Broken Nose called out to him.

  “One of us will never see the sun rise, stranger, unless you go your way.”

  The Kiowa’s words came from not far off in the darkness. Sundance raised his rifle, but did not know in which direction to aim it. He remained silent, convinced that Broken Nose knew his general whereabouts but could not see him. He had no intention of uttering a reply and giving his exact position away.

  Again Broken Nose spoke. “What is it you want here, you who are no Nocona or any kind of Comanche?”

  He was off to the left, and Sundance peered in that direction but saw only a jumble of rocks. The half-breed maintained his silence. Now a bellow of rage came from Kiowa.

  “If it’s the woman you want, say so—if you have a tongue!”

  With that he opened fire, shooting as fast as he could work his rifle’s lever and trigger. The slugs struck the rocks behind Sundance, high up. Dropping flat, he cut loose at the muzzle flashes of Broken Nose’s weapon—once, twice, and a third time. A scream rose from the Kiowa and his rifle cracked no more. The quiet that followed the burst of shots and his wild outcry was so total it seemed a tangible force to the half-breed. He waited, unconvinced that the showdown could have been all this easy. After many minutes had passed, he at least partially decided that the Kiowa had indeed been that easily defeated—but only partially. He had no intention of going there to make sure he’d done him in. He laid his rifle aside and drew his Colt’s revolver, then settled himself more or less comfortably to wait for daylight.

  Dawn was a long time coming when a man stayed awake to welcome it, as he had found on other occasions such as this. The last hour, when the darkness always seemed deepest, was the hardest to get through. By then his eyelids felt leaden, and every few minutes he caught himself about to doze off. Finally the eastern sky grew gray with the first faint light of the new day. He now could see that a hundred yards of comparatively open space lay between him and the rocks from which Broken Nose had done his shooting, and he decided that his crossing it was exactly what the Kiowa was hoping for—if he weren’t lying dead over there.

  He debated with himself for a moment, coming to the conclusion that he didn’t need to determine if the squaw-stealer was alive or dead. If Broken Nose hadn’t been killed in that exchange of fire, he would turn up later without Sundance’s having exposed himself.

  Holstering his six-shooter and picking up his rifle, the big half-breed went in the opposite direction when leaving the rocks beside which he had spent the night. In the thin light of false dawn he searched out the little rise where the cave was located, then made his cautious way toward it. Arriving at the tinaja a hundred yards from the mouth of the cave, he knelt to drink the spring water that flowed in a small trickle from the rocks. Something, perhaps some sixth sense, since he neither saw nor heard anything, warned him that his life was in jeopardy. He dropped flat, and almost the same instant a rifle cracked. The slug passed so close he heard the shriek of it.

  He raised himself on his left elbow and lined his rifle on the mouth of the cave, seeing a little cloud of yellow-gray powder smoke coming from its mouth. He held his fire just in time, for he could make out the person who had fired on him. It was not Broken Nose, but Virginia Stevens.

  As Sundance realized joltingly that the pair—renegade warrior and captive white woman—had again worked together in an attempt to bring about his death, he heard a scurrying of moccasined feet behind him. He swung around as best he could while flat on the ground and saw Broken Nose charging at him with a knife aimed at his throat.

  Chapter Ten

  Sundance swung his rifle like a club, having no time to line it up on his would-be killer. Its barrel struck Broken Nose’s arm and kept him from driving the long blade of the knife into his throat. But the Kiowa came down atop him, trying a second thrust. Letting go of the rifle, Sundance got a two-handed hold on the wrist of his knife han
d. Straining fiercely against each other, they began what had to be a contest to the death—with the woman the prize.

  Broken Nose’s lips were drawn back and his teeth bared, and a continuous snarl emerged from his throat. He was bare to his waist and his copper-colored body was corded with muscles. Except for the crookedness of his nose, whence came his name, he was a handsome man—and a powerful adversary. Sundance rolled him aside, then, still holding his wrist in a viselike grip, heaved to his feet. The Kiowa came with him—and spat in his face.

  “You are a dead man!”

  Sundance made no response, knowing better than to waste his breath on shouted threats. He attempted to jerk the squaw-stealer about and wrench his arm up between his shoulder blades so that the pain of strained muscles would force him to let go of the knife. Broken Nose pivoted in the opposite direction and drove a knee to the half-breed’s groin. Momentarily paralyzed by pain, Sundance lost hold on the Kiowa’s wrist. To save himself from the knife thrust that lashed out almost the same instant, he took a backward leap, letting himself fall where he would, and dropped into the little pool of water from the spring. Broken Nose lunged after him with a wild yelp, like a man gone berserk. His right arm rose and fell time and time again as he lashed out in a frenzy with his knife.

  The water was no deeper than a foot in the center of the pool, but it hampered Sundance’s movements as he flung himself one way and another to escape the slashing blade. Finally he got his arms about the Kiowa’s legs and toppled him over. As Broken Nose splashed about frantically, trying to close with him again, Sundance drew his own knife. They scrambled to their feet, and Broken Nose was wary now that he was faced by a blade wielded as expertly as his own. The two of them thrust and parried, and the clash of steel against steel rang out sharply above the gasping of their labored breathing. The Kiowa drew the first blood, the point of his knife slicing through the half-breed’s doeskin shirt and into the flesh of his left shoulder. The next instant he took a long, shallow cut across his own heaving chest. He backed off then, taking himself clear of the water. Sundance lunged at him, feinting with his knife at his lower belly and then clubbing him between the eyes with his left fist.

  Stunned, Broken Nose reeled backward off balance. Sundance pressed his advantage by driving his blade into his adversary’s right forearm. The Kiowa uttered a howl of pain and his weapon dropped from his suddenly useless hand. He stooped to grab it up with his left hand, but Sundance, moving cat-quick, placed a moccasined foot on it and at the same time pressed the point of his blade to the squaw-stealer’s throat.

  “Give it up, my friend,” he said, gasping for air as he spoke. “I don’t want your life.”

  Bloodied, dripping water, smeared with dirt that had turned to mud, Broken Nose stared at him incredulously. For the victor to offer quarter to the vanquished was unheard of. His eyes, as gleaming black as a pair of glass trade beads, mirrored sudden hope.

  “Why would you spare me, stranger?”

  “My name is Sundance, Broken Nose. And I’m not the enemy of any man who has Indian blood in his veins. As I said, I don’t want your life. I want only the woman.”

  Giving up his attempt to retrieve his knife, the Kiowa came erect. “If that’s how you would have it. I’ll ride out and leave her to you—after she has bandaged my wounds.”

  He turned and started walking around the tinaja, toward the woman. She stood outside the cave entrance, still holding the rifle but making no attempt to use it again. Sundance sheathed his knife and followed him. Suddenly Broken Nose uttered a yell and darted toward her at a run. She threw the rifle to him. He plucked it out of the air and swung around to line it on Sundance. The half-breed drew his revolver, thumbing back its hammer as it cleared its holster. The Kiowa got off his shot, but too fast. The slug missed Sundance by inches. He took careful aim, but when he squeezed the Colt’s trigger no report came. The gun was befouled by water or dirt. He dropped the gun and reached for his tomahawk, hurling it with all his might as Broken Nose got off a second wild shot. The blade of the tomahawk struck the Kiowa in the center forehead, cleaving his skull. Broken Nose died as he collapsed to the ground.

  Saddened by his having had to kill the warrior, Sundance looked beyond him to Virginia Stevens. She was staring at her fallen captor with a stricken expression. Her lovely green eyes mirrored horror. She looked as though she were fighting to hold back a scream.

  Speaking his father’s tongue, Sundance said, “If you hadn’t thrown the rifle to him, he would still be alive. I had given him his life.”

  Without taking her gaze off the dead Kiowa, she said in a hollow voice, “He called to me to throw it to him. He was my man. I had to do as he wanted—always.” At last she looked at Sundance. “Now that he’s dead I belong to you.”

  “No, you don’t belong to me. I’ve come to take you back to your own people.”

  A look of alarm crossed her face, and it turned into one of consternation. “No, no ... I can’t go back to them. Not after what has been done to me.”

  “You were a helpless victim. No one can condemn you.”

  “They will look on me as though I’m the bearer of a loathsome disease. My mother, and the man I was to marry ... all my relatives and friends back East, once they know that I have been the squaw of two warriors. No, I can’t go back. I won’t go back—ever!”

  Sensing that she was on the verge of hysteria, Sundance shrugged and said, “We’ll talk about it later—after I’ve buried this man. But first I have two wounds that need to be cleansed and bandaged. Will you do this for me?”

  She had herself under control, her hysteria contained. “I have learned to do exactly as I’m told,” she said, her voice again so devoid of feeling it seemed hollow.

  She turned and went to the cave, and he followed her. Although low ceilinged, it was as roomy as the interior of a tepee. He saw evidence that Broken Nose had planned ahead. He had no doubt known about this place before killing Running Wolf and carrying off Virginia. He had laid in a store of ground corn, flour, salt, and other staples available to the Comanches and Kiowas only from the Comancheros. There were also blankets, spare articles of Indian attire, cooking utensils, tin cups and plates. By hunting for meat, as the Kiowa had done, he and the girl could have lived here indefinitely in primitive comfort.

  As servile as though she did indeed now belong to Sundance, Virginia washed and bandaged the cut on his shoulder and the bullet crease in his side. For bandages she used strips she tore from a small roll of unused calico. Her touch was gentle and his wounds did not cause her to flinch as he would have expected of a girl of her sheltered background. She seemed to have adapted completely to the life of a squaw. He noticed that once she had finished ministering to him she gazed at his naked torso in a speculative manner. He at first thought her attention was held by the old scars that marked his coppery hide like hieroglyphics telling the story of his violent life. Then she spoke and he realized she was actually seeing him as a man who might be won over to replace Broken Nose as her owner.

  “Stay here with me instead of taking me back to the whites,” she said. “You’ll not be sorry.”

  “Later. We’ll talk about that later.”

  He picked up his doeskin shirt, then saw that it was badly stained with blood. He handed it to her.

  “Wash that and spread it out on a boulder to dry. I’ll go bury the Kiowa.”

  Outside he found an axe that Broken Nose had used for cutting firewood. He used it to break open the ground for a grave out beyond the tinaja. Lacking a shovel, he had to scoop out the earth with his hands. Finally he had a shallow grave ready, and he laid Broken Nose, now wrapped in a blanket, in it. He pushed the earth in atop the body with his hands and then, to keep the varmints from digging up the remains, he gathered rocks and raised a cairn over the mound. With the Kiowa laid to rest, he washed up at the spring and returned to the cave. Virginia had washed his shirt, and it was laid on a boulder to dry in the sunlight. She was busy at a fire she
’d kindled, fixing breakfast.

  “Go inside,” she told him. “I’ll bring the food in a moment.”

  He noticed that she had changed out of the shapeless blue calico dress into a fine doeskin garment decorated with dyed porcupine quills and trade beads. She appeared lovely in it, and he realized she was aware of this and wanted to impress him with her desirability. Deeply ashamed of what had happened to her, she was terrified of being taken back to her people. She would rather remain here, living this primitively, than face her mother, uncle and fiancé. His heart ached for her.

  Squawlike, she sat apart from him while they ate but her gaze remained on him the entire time. When he had finished the meal, he rose and spread one of the blankets on the earthen floor. Stretching out on it, he rolled and lit a marijuana cigarette. His big frame was weary, understandably. It had been a rough night, and the fight with Broken Nose would have tired any man. Soon the weed relaxed him, however, and he felt at peace—ready for sleep. When he disposed of the butt, she came and knelt beside him on the blanket. She spoke in a whisper.

  “You don’t want me?”

  He barely managed to keep from saying, “Ha- yu! I want you with every fiber of my being! I’ve wanted you since I saw that picture of you!” But he resolved not to have her like this, with her attempting to win him over into not returning her to her own kind. He had made a bargain and he kept his bargains. He also wanted a woman to want him to have her, which this girl did not.

  “I have to sleep now.”

  Stung, she was quick to anger. “Oh, you are not really a man, then!”

  He laughed softly, deep in his narcotic euphoria. “You’re a silly little fool, Virginia Stevens. For all your having been the squaw of two warriors you have learned nothing about men.”