Sundance 6

by John Benteen

  He completed his reconnaissance, recalling his conference with Tribolet just before climbing up the ridge. Since the killing of Chavez, he’d had no trouble enforcing discipline, but that did not mean that he could trust these men. Tribolet saw him as a rival, and they were Tribolet’s men. When the time came, it was Tribolet they’d back up. That was something he’d worry about later; the thing was that there’d been no lessening of Tribolet’s hostility and suspicion. If this mission succeeded, Tribolet probably figured, Sundance would take his place with Tanner. Sundance was pretty sure that Tribolet had no intention of letting him get back to Globe alive.

  Down in the arroyo where the outfit waited to move out, Sundance and Tribolet had squatted over a map. “The rough part starts,” Sundance had said. “What I need to know now is exactly where we’re going.”

  Tribolet’s head moved restlessly on his long neck. “No,” he said. “All you need to know is that for right now we head east to Bavispe. You get us across the Bavispe River, I’ll tell you more.”

  “Damn it, I can’t work in the blind like this.”

  “Tanner’s orders,” Tribolet said coldly. “I keep that information to myself until I’m sure you’ve got us where we need to be with no tricks or double-crosses.” He stood up, hitched at his gun. “And we got no time to waste. For all we know, Geronimo may be fixing to give up right now.”

  Sundance had let it ride at that. There was no other way. Sooner or later, he was going to have to abort this mission, destroy the load of whiskey and ammo that he was risking his life to take into the Sierra Madre before the broncos could get their hands on it. But the time was not now, nor were the odds right. Patience was his long suit, something bred into the bone of every Indian. So he shrugged. “Suit yourself. Get ’em ready to move while I look around.”

  Now, having done that, he returned to the arroyo where the others waited, animals packed, men mounted. He swung into Eagle’s saddle, looked at the sky. “All right,” he said, “let’s move out.” And, as the sun went down, he led them into Mexico.

  ~*~

  The night was sprinkled with a thousand stars, but there was no moon. Still, they made good time, for the way led across open flats strewn with cactus. Sundance rode ahead of the column, scouting on the flanks. He was taut as a clock spring, would be that way until they reached the better cover of the hills come dawn. Adding to his tension was the necessity of never turning his back on Tribolet and the others.

  Morning found them in a ravine in the foothills. Sundance, weary now, still could not relax. He posted guards on the high ground, went out on foot to make a scout. They were in heavy timber now, having climbed to a higher altitude, and he loped through the woods soundlessly with a rifle under his arm. He was a quarter of a mile from camp when he heard the wild turkey call.

  Sundance halted, faded quickly behind the bole of a giant pine. He pressed against it, held his breath. Then the turkey gobbled once more, closer at hand. Only, he was sure now, that had been no turkey.

  The gobble came again, answered by another from a different quarter. They were somewhere out there two, three hundred yards in front of him. His mouth thinned. It was not the Apaches—no Apache would have given such an inept imitation. And an American would not even have tried; that meant that it was Mexicans.

  Still in the cover of the pine, he dropped flat on his belly. Then, crawling like a snake, rifle cradled in his arm, he slithered forward soundlessly across the thick carpet of needles that covered the earth. There was fallen timber; a forest fire had chewed these woods up long before. He took advantage of that, never exposing himself, as he crawled for fifty yards. Then, behind a slanted trunk bushy with dead foliage, he froze, for he could see them.

  They were not Indians, but they filtered through the forest almost as soundlessly, for they were barefooted and ragged and had grown up in these mountains. They were, he saw at once, Mexican irregulars, a good two dozen of them, well-armed by the government against the Apaches. Catching the gleam of rifle barrels and of cartridge bandoliers crisscrossed over dirty white blouses, Sundance knew they would use those weapons against anybody if there were loot to gain. It was men like these who’d ambushed an American patrol earlier this year and killed Lieutenant Emmet Crawford, one of the finest Indian fighters in the Army. They had spotted this pack-train of Americans. Without asking who they were or where they were bound, they intended to hit it by surprise, wipe it out, and take whatever was in the packs.

  Sundance lay there a moment longer, watching them edge slowly, very carefully forward. Then he began to crawl backward, keeping his head low. He shoved himself that way until he made the bole of the big pine again. Occasionally gobbling like turkeys to maintain contact, the line of Mexicans moved forward in the direction of the ravine.

  Behind the pine, he turned and crawled swiftly another twenty yards until he had the shelter of another giant tree. There, he rose to his feet. Then, bent low, he began to run.

  He had warned Fielding, who had the guard post on this side, and the man held his fire as Sundance appeared from behind the trees. Sundance halted briefly beside the abatis of fallen timber Fielding used for cover. “Listen,” he told the skinny man with the double-barreled shotgun. “There’re Mexes out there and they’re gonna hit us. We’ll all be up here to support you; you see anything move, you cut loose with those blue whistlers!” Before Fielding could answer, Sundance ran on, skittered down the slope into the hole.

  They would have to fight for it. The animals were already unpacked and there was no time to pack them up again and make a run. Tribolet and the others lay sleeping; Sundance ran up to the boss gunman’s blankets, kicked him not too gently in the side. Tribolet sat up instantly, reaching for the rifle leaning against the saddle that made his pillow.

  “All right,” Sundance rasped. “You’ll get a chance to use that gun. Get the men together. We’re about to be hit.” Tersely, he told Tribolet what was happening, and the man’s snake-eyes gleamed briefly with battle light. He sprang to his feet, and he and Sundance rousted out the others. Sundance felt a twitch of liking for Tribolet; no matter what else he was, he was a fighter, his lust for battle unmistakable.

  Then they were all together, only Warfield left on guard on the opposite slope. Sundance, Tribolet and the Johannsens climbed the wall of the ravine where Fielding waited. “Spread out,” Sundance ordered. “Take good cover. They’ll be along any minute. When you see a target, fire.” Pulses pounding, he threw himself down behind a stump on a rise. It commanded a fine field of fire and he jacked a round into the Winchester.

  He had spent a lot of his life in Mexico, and he knew and liked the country’s inhabitants. But, he thought bitterly, so many of them were so damned poor and had been brutalized by their government, the big landowners and the church, that they lived lives of constant desperation. And that was why backwoodsmen like these would kill anybody for a dollar; why, when they came at him, he must kill them to save his own life.

  Sundance was under no illusions. These men, savage as they were, were fighters. People with nothing to lose were always fighters. And they outnumbered him and Tribolet’s crew at least two to one. Worse, a gun battle might bring the American Army or regular Mexican troops—or Apache scouts. But there was no help for it now. They had to fight.

  He watched the woods ahead, big pines widely spaced, branches hanging low, needles thick underfoot, open spaces cluttered with fallen timber. He lined his gun. The Mexicans thought they would be taking a sleeping camp. Then he saw it—a flicker of white in the trees beyond. It disappeared and he held his fire. Then it showed again, resolving into the torso of a man, and Sundance laid a front sight on it, lined the notch of the back one, held his breath and pulled the trigger.

  The thunder of the gun rang through the silent forest, mingling with a scream. Then, as if it had been a signal, all hell broke loose. Nearly two dozen rifles opened up from in the woods, and the air suddenly sang with whining lead. In reply, Tribolet’s men began
firing. The crack of rifles and the deep cough of Fielding’s shotgun were deafening, and white powder smoke bloomed and drifted through the pines.

  Taken by surprise, the Mexicans were hesitant only for an instant. Sundance saw them scatter and take to cover. For a full minute the two camps traded lead and no one scored.

  Then, from Sundance’s right, there came a yell. “Damn it!” Tribolet bellowed, “charge the bastards.” Sundance jerked his head around in time to see Tribolet spring to his feet, hosing bullets from his Winchester. “Let’s go!” Tribolet screamed and ran into the teeth of the fire from the enemy. As if he had jerked a string, the others leaped to their feet, ran after him, shooting as they went.

  It was crazy, foolhardy—and it was just the right tactic the situation demanded, given guts enough to carry it out. And, Sundance saw with admiration, Tribolet had the guts. You could say that for him: he was a fighting man to the bone. He charged straight into Mexican guns, shooting as he went, and the others followed. Sundance leaped up himself, ran forward in a crouch with his rifle ready.

  The woods flashed with the white-clad figures of the enemy. A veil of powder smoke drifted through the trees. Sundance, caught up in the same battle-madness that had claimed Tribolet, gave a Cheyenne war whoop. He worked the lever on his Winchester, firing from the hip. A white-bloused Mexican stepped out from behind a tree and lined a pistol. Before he could shoot, Sundance pulled the trigger and the man’s face dissolved in scarlet. He pitched forward in a heap. Sundance leaped over his body, ran on.

  As he sought another target, he saw Tribolet. The gunman had taken shelter behind a pine’s bole and was lining on a Mexican who turned to flee. Tribolet squeezed off the shot. The man screamed and pitched forward. Then Tribolet stepped into the open, swung the rifle and shot another bandit straight through the throat. The man had been charging him with a gun in one hand and an upraised machete in the other; he still clutched his weapons in lifeless hands.

  Those flashes impressed themselves on Sundance’s vision. Then lead whined around his head, plucked at his shirt. He fell forward and saw three of the white-clad enemy clustered behind a fallen log, half-veiled by powder smoke. All three were firing at him. He rolled, found better cover, lined his rifle, squeezed off a shot. One enemy head disappeared. He knew the bullet had gone home. When he raised himself to fire again, a slug hit the Winchester’s barrel and jerked it from his hand.

  Sundance cursed and dragged his Colt. He caught a glimpse of Tribolet running forward, Winchester discarded now, a smoking pistol in each hand. The sight somehow jerked Sundance to his own feet. He sprang up and ran toward the two men behind the log, ignoring the lead they sent flying at him. Keeping the hammer of the Colt working, he returned slug for slug. Then he had reached the log. As he leaped, they came up to meet him, swarthy faces contorted. He poked his gun in one of them and pulled the trigger. When the weapon roared, one man’s head seemed to vanish as he fell backward. At the same instant, the other sprang forward, seized Sundance’s gun-hand. He was bull-strong, forcing Sundance’s gun down left-handed and bringing up a pistol with his right.

  Sundance kneed him low, instinctively; the man groaned, fell back. He did not let go of Sundance’s wrist, though his own shot went wide. Sundance’s left hand swooped down and shoved the hatchet from its sheath. He swung back to gain momentum, the short axe in hand, then brought it forward. The Mexican’s eyes widened as he saw its edge slamming toward his face. When the blade sank in deep between his eyes, he loosed his grip and fell backward. Sundance wrenched the hatchet free, ran on.

  But there was no more work for him to do. Even as he dodged behind a tree, thumbing rounds to reload the Colt from his belt, he heard the thunder of Fielding’s double-barreled ten-gauge. Two charging bandits crumpled and almost came apart beneath its twin loads of buckshot. One white-clad figure fled through the trees; Bob Tribolet stepped out from behind a pine, lined his pistol and pulled the trigger. As it roared, the Mexican fell. Then the woods were very still. Tribolet laughed, snakelike head shifting back and forth. “Ends it!” he yelled. “Cease firing!” He whirled. “Sundance. You still alive?”

  “I’m here,” Jim Sundance said. “And well.”

  “We beat ’em!” Those snake-eyes now were alight with the fire of battle triumph.

  Sundance nodded. He looked at Tribolet, now having a better measure of the man. He knew what he would face when it came time to abort this mission; it would not be easy. “We beat ’em,” he said, “but there’s no time to crow. We got to pack up and move out fast before all this noise brings somebody else.” Then he wiped the bloody hatchet on the grass and slid it back in its sheath.

  Tribolet laughed, then nodded. “All right! Come on, you men, let’s go!” They’d come out of the fight unharmed except for a bullet scratch on Pete Johannsen’s shoulder, and now they gathered loyally around Tribolet and followed him down the hill to pack the animals.

  ~*~

  The battle had thrown off their timing. They had to ride all day, and when nightfall came they were all exhausted. They slept through the darkness on a chilly ridge top. There was no choice but to travel by day. Sundance didn’t like it, but he couldn’t help it. Their only protection now was good scouting.

  Once Sundance saw another party of Mexicans riding single-file through a distant valley. Another time he spotted four, blue-clad figures winding up a slope; through his telescope he recognized that the man in the lead—tall, big-nosed and lanky—was Lieutenant Gatewood. He was called “Beak” because of his great nose. Two of the men with him were Apache scouts; the other, Sundance saw, grinning, was Frank Huston. Huston he’d known a long time; they’d been at Little Big Horn together ... on the Indian side.

  But the soldiers were bound in another direction and were no threat. Sundance rejoined the pack-train and they rode on. Tribolet, Sundance noted, was now impatient with the fear that someone else would get to Geronimo first, kill him or talk him into giving up. And, with the fight over, his shirt was starched with a new arrogance. It was a quality that rang a warning bell in Sundance’s head.

  After another day’s travel they camped on a bench above the foaming, Bavispe River. Sundance knew it was time to act. They had to be close to Geronimo’s camp now, and he had to find out the war chief’s hiding place. Once he’d learned it, he could take the pack-train away from Tribolet, destroy it so the Apaches couldn’t lay their hands on the whiskey, guns and ammo.

  But first, of course, it was necessary to reconnoiter. He went up and down the Bavispe, saw nothing suspicious, then returned to the bench. As he rode down the hill to the shelf above the river, he suddenly reined in Eagle. Down on the level Tribolet was squatting on the ground. The other four were circled around him and all of them were in deep conversation.

  Sundance held the Appaloosa tight-gathered. He waited in the lee of a pile of boulders until the conference broke up. Then he lifted rein and rode on down, loosening his Colt in its holster.

  The packs had been unloaded and were stacked under the cover of a rock, shrouded with tarpaulins. Tribolet had a smokeless fire going and was making coffee. In the canyon below, the river rushed noisily over boulders, foaming white. Fielding and Sven Johannsen had taken guard posts again; Dade Warfield leaned against a stunted tree with his rifle across his lap; Pete Johannsen sat cross-legged by him, cleaning his Colt. They looked up at the sound of Eagle’s shoes clicking on the rocks.

  Tribolet’s head moved restlessly. “Sundance.” He indicated the smoking coffee pot. “Light and have some Java. See anything?”

  “Nothing,” Sundance said. The other horses were unsaddled. But he did not even loosen Eagle’s cinch or slip the Appaloosa’s bridle, only ground-reined the animal. Tribolet’s eyes shuttled to the stallion and noticed that.

  “The stud’s big and tough,” he said, “but he’s been rode hard. You ought to rest him.”

  “Not until I’ve had another look around later,” Sundance said. He ran his hand over the pannier
s behind the saddle, made sure they were still lashed tight. Then he slapped the horse’s rump and came toward the fire. He was acutely aware of the empty scabbard on the saddle; the Mexican’s bullet had ruined his rifle. He squatted by the fire, careful to keep his back to the rock shelf that rose up behind him. He hitched his Colt around. “Tribolet,” he said, “here’s the Bavispe. Now I want to know where we’re headed. Exactly where’s Geronimo holed up?”

  Tribolet poured coffee into a tin cup. He passed it to Sundance and then poured a cup of his own. “Not far from here,” he said.

  “But exactly where?”

  Tribolet did not answer, only blew on the steaming coffee. Sundance waited, masking his tenseness. If he could only get a shred of direction. His eyes shuttled from Tribolet to Warfield. The handsome, smiling young man had turned his rifle. Now it pointed in the general direction of Sundance. Then Sundance looked at Pete Johannsen. Johannsen snapped shut the .45’s loading gate. But he did not sheathe the weapon. It lay cradled in his palm. The short hair prickled on the back of Sundance’s neck.

  “Tribolet—” he began.

  Then it all happened at once. Tribolet threw the coffee. Steaming, the hot, brown tide splattered in Sundance’s eyes. The pain was furious, terrifying, and he thought certainly he must be blinded. He grabbed for the gun as he fell backward, off balance, but Tribolet was on him then and had him pinned. As he fought, the ox like weight of Johannsen crushed down on him. Johannsen’s big hand closed over his wrist, wrenched it away from the Colt’s grip. Then Sundance was down and helpless.