Sundance 11

by John Benteen

  The vaquero laughed mockingly and went away.

  Again Sundance ate the food despite his lacking an appetite. Montoya’s food. He wouldn’t have touched it but for the slender hope that he might have use for his strength before he was handed over to the Noconas. By rights, it should have stuck in his throat—made him throw up.

  The vaquero returned later, this time bringing a bucket of water, for which Sundance was grateful.

  “Muchas gracias, amigo.”

  “Por nada,” the vaquero replied, and took away the two empty tin plates when he left.

  Sundance slaked his thirst, then splashed some of the water over his face and bare upper body. He gave a thought to Eagle, hoping the stallion had been turned out to graze and drink. One thing he knew, none of Montoya’s men would be riding that horse. A one-man horse, Eagle. He’d throw any stranger who mounted him.

  When nightfall came, Sundance gave a thought to Virginia, too. Then he decided not to think of her, and being half-Indian he could turn himself into a mindless stoic when he wished. This he did now, sitting cross-legged on the floor of the barn with the unbreakable chain about his middle. He began to chant as his mother’s people did when seeking tranquility of mind.

  “Hai-yu, Mother Earth, give this son of yours the peace he needs!”

  Because of the teachings of his white father, he knew it would be futile to pray for the strength of a Samson so he could break the chain that held him prisoner. The day of miracles was long past.

  Chapter Eighteen

  When he’d finally become calm of spirit, Sundance stretched out and slept. As always, he woke at the slightest sound. Now, in the middle of the night, he heard someone outside the barn door. He sat up, silently cursing the chain that would make him a helpless victim if, as was his suspicion, Matt Boland had come to kill him. The door was opened partially, and he heard his name spoken softly.

  He burst out, “Virginia! What are you up to?”

  Even as he spoke, he knew she had done what he had told her not to do. And she had discovered, as he had known she would, that her having given herself to Montoya hadn’t worked.

  As she came to him through the darkness, he lashed out at her angrily. “I told you not to do such a thing!”

  “I’m sorry, darling, but it was the only way.” She flung her arms about him. “I had to do what I could.”

  “And the bastard laughed at you afterward!”

  “No, no. I didn’t give him the chance to do that.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I didn’t try to bargain with him,” she said. “I knew he would promise me anything beforehand and then not keep his word afterward. So I waited until he was asleep and then ... Well, I got what I wanted.” She stepped back, taking herself out of Sundance’s reach. “Will you make me a promise—and keep it?”

  He stared at her uncertainly. Her face was a pale oval in the gloom. He couldn’t read her expression.

  “Promise you what?”

  “That you’ll go away without risking your life trying to get even with him. If you don’t promise, I won’t give you this. I’ll take it back to the house. I simply couldn’t bear to see you killed.”

  He couldn’t see what she held, but he guessed what it was.

  “You’ve got the key to this padlock?”

  “Yes. I took it from his clothes. Do you promise—swear—that you’ll leave without seeking revenge?”

  “Damn it, woman! To do such a thing!”

  “Please, Jim. ... If you won’t save yourself for me, then do it for your cause. You have so much to live for—so much work to do.”

  “All right, I promise.”

  She came to him again and handed him the key. He immediately fitted it into the padlock and gave it a twist. The hasp of the lock was released. He removed the padlock from the chain, which fell away from him. Thanks to her, he was free. He owed her his life.

  She said anxiously, “You’ll keep your word?”

  “Yes, I’ll keep it,” he said, reaching for her. “I wouldn’t lie to you. Now I want you to promise me something—that you’ll leave here tomorrow.”

  “I promise.”

  They kissed in a gentle way, almost as though they had just taken their marriage vows, then she held herself at arm’s length.

  “Will I ever see you again?”

  “I’ll be coming to Snake-in-the-Hole to collect what your uncle still owes me. If you are still there ...”

  “I’ll be there. Now go—quickly.”

  He went to the door with her and then, as they emerged from the barn, three gunshots in rapid succession shattered the night quiet. Next a man—Montoya, certainly—shouted at the top of his lungs in angry Spanish.

  “Hombres! Come to me! The half-breed is escaping!”

  Virginia gripped Sundance’s arm. Her voice shaky and off key, she said, “He woke up and guessed when he found me gone!”

  That instant a shadowy figure came running around the front corner of the ranch house, heading toward the barn. The Comanchero pulled up short upon seeing them, raising his six-shooter to open fire. Sundance pushed the woman back through the doorway.

  “Stay there, for God’s sake! He’s gone loco!”

  Even as he spoke Montoya fired again. He heard the slug splinter a board in the door. This was the fourth shot, Sundance realized. The Comanchero could have no more than two rounds left—and maybe only one if he took the precaution of keeping an empty chamber under the hammer of his gun.

  Sundance ran toward him, then dived to the ground as he saw Montoya trying to bead him. The shot came as he went down, and the slug missed him. He got up and charged at the Comanchero again. Montoya stood his ground, readying another shot. This time Sundance darted to one side. The maneuver was unnecessary. No report came from the revolver. Its hammer had fallen on an empty chamber. Sundance rushed on, closing the distance between them. He ducked as Montoya tried to club him to the head with the six-shooter. Having missed his first blow, the Comanchero struck again. This time Sundance took the barrel of the weapon on his left shoulder. He absorbed the pain and with his right hand got a hold on the gun. At the same instant he drove a knee to his enemy’s groin. Montoya gasped with pain, grabbed himself with both hands, and, doubled over, reeled this way and that. Sundance hit him to the base of the skull, dropping him to the ground.

  “Virginia!”

  When she came running from the barn, he said, “The vaqueros will be here any second—armed for bear. I’ll have to play it another way until I figure out how to get my horse. The only thing I can do is use this hombre as a hostage.” He picked up the gun from beside the unconscious man and handed it to her. “Hang onto that. There should be cartridges for it in the house.”

  “Hurry, Jim! They’re coming!”

  He too heard voices shouting. The vaqueros, roused from sleep by the shots and their patron’s shout, were coming from their ’dobes.

  Sundance grabbed Montoya’s limp person, hauled him up, and took him over his shoulder. Carrying the Comanchero, he followed Virginia to the front of the house, through the gateway in the wall, and across the patio. The door to the main room of the house stood open and lamplight spilled from it. Several vaqueros, partially dressed but armed with revolvers and rifles, burst into the patio. Sundance turned in the doorway and called out to them in their own language.

  “Hear me, amigos! Your patron is my prisoner now. He’s only unconscious, but if you don’t follow my orders he’ll be a dead man pronto!”

  They halted midway through the patio, held by uncertainty. Two of their companeros joined them.

  Sundance told them, “I want my horse saddled, and I want my weapons returned. After you bring the stallion, fetch four more mounts. Remember, it’s Don Esteban’s life. Don’t gamble it away. Now get going!”

  They withdrew from the patio but stood outside the gateway to talk it over.

  Sundance kicked the door shut, then looked about the room. Although spacious, it wa
s furnished in the sparse Mexican manner. Three straight-backed chairs, a couch, a tall cabinet, and a center table. The floor was covered with gerga cloth. The walls were whitewashed, and in one was a fireplace that took wood standing on end as was the Mexican way. The beams of the ceiling were uncovered. Sundance dumped the owner of the house onto the couch. Montoya uttered a groan and began to stir with returning consciousness.

  The door was flung open, and Matt Boland burst into the room with his gun in his hand. Before he could take in the situation and make use of his weapon, Sundance grabbed the revolver Virginia held and covered him with it.

  “Drop it, Matt—or I’ll drop you!”

  Boland’s hatred of the half-breed was such that he didn’t obey immediately. But he saw the relentless look on Sundance’s Indian face and evidently thought himself very close to death. He dropped his gun, then, on Sundance’s command, kicked it across the floor. After picking it up, Sundance laid Montoya’s empty six-shooter beside the lamp on the table.

  “Now shuck your gun belt and toss it over here, Matt. I may need the cartridges in it.”

  Boland muttered an angry oath but obeyed.

  Sundance caught the cartridge-studded belt and buckled it about his middle. He kept the gun in his hand, and now, as Phil Markham appeared at the doorway, covered him with it. The handsome young Easterner had also come with a revolver: a short-barreled firearm. Unlike Boland, who was in only undershirt, pants and boots, Markham had taken the time to dress completely except for his hat. Always the proper gentleman, Sundance thought with sour amusement.

  “Put your gun on the table, friend,” the half-breed said. “So we don’t have any accidents.”

  “What’s going on here, anyway?” Markham demanded as he obeyed. “How did you get loose?”

  “I picked that padlock, is all.” Sundance had no intention of telling anyone that Virginia had brought the key to him.

  Montoya pushed himself to a sitting position on the couch, cursing feebly in Spanish. He stared at Sundance with the hatred of a proud man who felt he had been ill-treated by an inferior.

  “I should have put a bullet between your eyes the day I took you prisoner, you half-breed scum. As for the woman who is no better than a puta—”

  He broke off on that insulting word, for Sundance had moved toward him with his gun raised threateningly.

  “You call the lady that again, I’ll knock your teeth down your throat!”

  Montoya glowered at him but held his tongue.

  Reining in his temper, Sundance went to the doorway. Two vaqueros with rifles stood by the patio gateway. The others were gone from sight.

  “You, hombres ... Are the horses being brought around?”

  “Si, senor—muy pronto.”

  “No tricks, or you’ll have Don Esteban to bury.”

  “No tricks,” came the reply.

  Sundance moved away from the door and looked at the four people there in the room with him.

  “This is how we’ll work it. We’ll all ride out together, and we’ll head for Fort Sumner. We’ll take Montoya along as our hostage. He’ll be our safe-conduct pass. Virginia, you and Phil go to the kitchen and gather together some grub. Take everything that’s already cooked, so we won’t have to do any cooking on the trail.”

  Virginia left the room by a doorway at the left side of it. Markham followed her with an uneasy look on his face. Sundance had the impression that the dude had no liking for the situation. Matt Boland didn’t like it, either. He still stood where he’d been when Sundance disarmed him. He wore a black scowl, and his eyes, like those of the Comanchero, were full of hatred for the half-breed.

  “You, Matt, sit down,” Sundance told him. “If you keep on standing there, you’ll take a notion to jump me—and that would get you beefed. Take that chair by the couch, so I can keep an eye on both you and the Comanchero at the same time.”

  Boland obeyed, but in the manner of a man who was merely biding his time until he could play out his own hand. Sundance went to the cabinet and opened its doors. As he had expected, he found that it held a collection of long guns. Two Winchester rifles, a double-barreled shotgun, a single-shot Ballard, and a Harper’s Ferry rifle of Civil War fame. Holstering his revolver, he took out one of the Winchesters and worked its lever. It held no rounds, but on pulling out one of the cabinet drawers he found boxes of cartridges for it. He broke open one of the boxes, loaded the rifle, and also stuffed some rounds into his pants pocket.

  Turning from the cabinet, he eyed Montoya and Boland sourly. They stared back at him malignantly, as though willing him to drop dead. He went to the doorway and had another look outside.

  One of the vaqueros called to him, “We have your horse ready, senor. As for your knife, tomahawk and guns, they have disappeared. We think they were left behind the day we took you prisoner.”

  Sundance doubted very much that his weapons had been left behind, but he didn’t argue the matter. “Right now, amigo, I want my catch-rope and a piggin’ string. Bring them to me, but leave your guns out there.”

  Keeping watch on the two men in the room as well as the pair by the gateway, he saw the vaquero he’d talked with turn to Eagle and take the coiled lariat from the stallion’s saddle. After laying his rifle and revolver on the ground, the hombre came across the patio. He halted ten feet from Sundance and tossed the rope so that it fell close to the doorway. He pulled a piggin’ string from his pocket and threw it after the lariat.

  He said, “How do we know our patron is still alive?”

  “You’ll know it when the other horses are brought around,” Sundance told him. “He’ll walk out to them with me. He’ll have my rope about his neck and my gun aimed at his back. He’ll mount up, and so will I. And the three gringos as well. We’ll ride out, and if a shot is fired at me, Don Esteban will die—even if the bullet hits me. Do you savvy?”

  “You will turn him loose later—unharmed?”

  “Yes. When we get in sight of Fort Sumner.”

  “But can we take your word for this?”

  “You’ll have to, won’t you, amigo?”

  “Si,” said the vaquero and turned away.

  Sundance stepped outside, picked up the rope and the length of rawhide cord, and turned back into the house. He was just in time, for Matt Boland had leapt from his chair to get Phil Markham’s revolver from the table. Although he fired his rifle one-handed, his aim was true. The slug struck the gun and set it skittering across the table to fall to the floor. Boland swung around with a startled look on his tough face. Sundance levered another cartridge into the Winchester’s firing chamber.

  “If you still think you can outshoot me, Matt, go pick it up.”

  “To hell with you, half-breed! I’ll nail you yet, don’t think I won’t!”

  Sundance knew this wasn’t all bluster. For no logical reason, Boland bore him a grudge and would keep trying to work it off until one or the other of them was dead. For a moment the half-breed thought he had better leave the ramrod behind when he rode out with the others, then he decided against that. Boland would have to come along to see that Virginia and Markham got safely back to Snake-in-the-Hole from Fort Sumner.

  Virginia came running into the room. She looked frightened. She was followed by Markham, who carried two flour sacks bulging with food for the trail.

  “What happened, Jim?” she asked. “Who fired that shot?”

  “It was nothing,” he told her. “Matt just thought he was a lot quicker than he is.” He noticed tardily that she was wearing the green silk dress, which wouldn’t do for the trail. “You’d better change into something more suitable for traveling,” he told her. “And you, Phil, get Matt’s shirt and hat. Your own hat too. We’ve got to have you two making a decent appearance when we get to that army post.”

  “I quite agree,” Markham said, giving him a sour look. “But the same thing applies to you. Do you have to go half naked, like a benighted savage?”

  Grinning, Sundance said, “Hal
f of me is a savage, remember. But I’ll put on my shirt and hat first chance I get. Now do as I tell you. The vaqueros will bring the horses any second now, and I want to be ready to make tracks.”

  “What about the luggage I brought along?”

  “Leave it. Just be glad you’re getting away with Virginia—and a whole skin.”

  Minutes later, when the vaquero who had brought the lariat and piggin’ string called out that the horses were waiting, Sundance and the others were ready to leave. He had Boland take one of the sacks of grub and Markham the other, saying that they should tie them to the horns of their saddles. Both men were now fully dressed. Virginia had changed into a dark gray riding outfit. It had a jaunty little hat, a short jacket, an extra wide skirt that would permit her to ride astride with a degree of modesty, and black boots. Sundance held his rifle in the bend of his left arm and with his right hand made a throw with his lariat. When the loop dropped over Montoya’s head, he jerked it tight about the Comanchero’s neck.

  “I’ll treat you as you did me,” he said. “I’ll keep this rope on you and I’ll tie your hands to the horn of your saddle. That’ll keep you from trying to make a break. As for your vaqueros, you’d better make them savvy that your life is in their hands. One shot from them, and I’ll shoot you. Now let’s go.”

  Matt Boland left the house first, then Phil Markham and after him Virginia. Sundance ordered Montoya to walk ahead of him. He held the coils of the lariat in his left hand and carried his rifle in his right hand.

  As they crossed the patio, he called out, “Step back, hombres! Don’t think you can jump me and save your patron!” When Virginia had passed through the gateway after Boland and Markham, he asked her, “Are any of them hiding behind the wall?”

  “No, Jim. They’re standing off at a distance.”

  Once he was outside, he first of all tested the cinches of Eagle’s saddle. He found them tight. The vaqueros hadn’t tried to trick him by leaving them loose so the saddle would slip when he tried to mount. A half a dozen in number, they stood in a group a hundred yards away ... so many shadowy figures in the darkness. He knew that each and every one of them was itching to bring his gun into play. He had a fear that one or more would be foolhardy enough to give in to that itch.