Sundance 6

by John Benteen

  Then, as they entered the mouth of a wide canyon, Ki-e-ta made a sound. He pointed, and Sundance and Martine saw it immediately, the first Apache sign. It was nothing more than the remains of a squashed beetle, almost invisible in the sand. Ki-e-ta swung down, fingered the insect, satisfied himself that it had been killed recently. He swung up and they trotted on, the two Apaches watching the ground, Sundance watching the rimrocks above.

  Soon the trail grew plainer. They found a hoof-print, then another. That meant they were nearing Geronimo’s stronghold. Closer to home, the Indians could afford to be more careless. Then Martine pulled up, grunting. He gestured up the canyon and Sundance saw how the defile narrowed to a mere slit. He and the two Apaches looked at one another. It was a forbidding place, maybe the one in which they would meet their deaths. The chances were good that the Apaches were in there somewhere.

  Ki-e-ta fished in his saddlebag, brought out an old shirt. He tied it to the end of his rifle, then raised it high like a flag. “Well,” he said wryly, “now we find out whether they’ll talk or shoot.” He rode forward, ahead of Sundance and Martine who followed slowly. With the white flag waving, Ki-e-ta made a marvelous target for any rifle on the rimrock.

  But nothing happened until they reached the narrow slit of the entrance. Then, quite suddenly, the Apaches were on the rim above them, a half-dozen broncos with rifles aimed and ready, the sunlight glittering on their naked torsos. Instantly Sundance, Martine and Ki-e-ta threw up their hands and waited breathlessly, at the Indians’ mercy.

  ~*~

  Geronimo’s face was like a mahogany carving, only the black eyes alive, gleaming with hatred as he looked at Sundance.

  “You,” he rasped. “I remember you from the old days. There was a time when we wrestled and.

  “And I threw you, and you came up with a rock and I used my fists on you,” Sundance said. “Yes, I remember that. But that was young men fighting. We are not young men now, and it should be forgotten.”

  “Forgotten? When you ride with the Army—with our enemies!” He whirled on Ki-e-ta and on Martine, a rifle in his hands. “And you! Pet dogs of the white men!” He spat.

  Sundance and the two scouts stood motionless in the middle of the rancheria, the Apache camp. Behind the narrow cleft of entrance, the canyon widened. Here the dome-shaped brush wikiups of the pitiful remnant of Chiricahuas dotted the canyon floor. Before their doors, tattered, emaciated women went listlessly about their work, staring curiously at the captives who had been brought in by the guards at the rimrock. Ribby children also stared in silence.

  The armed men who encircled Sundance and the others were hardly less gaunt or weary-looking, but they were dangerous as wolves. It had been a toss-up as to whether they’d open fire or listen to Sundance when he and the two scouts had proclaimed their peaceful intentions and begged to be taken to Geronimo and Naiche. There had been a tense moment when at least one Indian had been about to shoot. But the leader of the guards, who called himself Coriotish, had snapped an order. Apaches had swarmed down off of rocks, encircled the three and disarmed them. Then they’d herded them through the cleft into the rancheria beyond. A messenger was sent, and then two men came striding across the camp. One was short, blocky, with small, black eyes in a lined face—his mouth was like a trap, with ferocity in every movement. The other—taller, younger—was less savage-looking. It had been he whom Sundance had greeted. “Naiche. My brother.”

  “I know you, Sundance,” the son of Cochise said tersely. There was no friendship on his face. “What brings you here?”

  “I come from Bay-chen-day-sen, Big-nose.” That meant Gatewood. “He waits outside with a strong force of soldiers and Apache scouts. He wishes to talk peace. I have come to ask you to meet him.”

  Geronimo’s thin mouth twisted. “Meet him? Oh, we’ll meet him, all right! In a day or two when.”

  He broke off.

  Sundance said, “This is not the place to talk. Bring your head men and let us find a wikiup in which we can sit in council.”

  Naiche said, “I talk for this band. And Geronimo sometimes.” His cold eyes roved over Sundance’s face. “Yes, we’ll go to my lodge.”

  Geronimo stiffened, jerked up the gun. “We’ll not talk at all! We have nothing to say to these traitors! These two—they are not Chiricahuas! They are white men painted red! And the one with yellow hair is worse!” He eared back the hammer of the Winchester, rammed the barrel in Sundance’s belly. “I say I talk with this!”

  Sundance stared into the coal-black, lambent eyes. Then he said quietly, evenly, “Don’t waste a cartridge on me, Geronimo. You won’t be getting any more bullets. Before you decide to fight, let me tell you something. Tribolet’s dead. And the ammunition you’re expecting is in the Bavispe River. And all the whiskey you were supposed to get is soaking in the ground.”

  A moment passed. Sundance was within a whisper of death.

  Geronimo’s eyes widened, his mouth opened and shut. “What?” he grated. “What did you say? Our ammunition? Our whiskey—?” His voice rose. “Gone, you say? All gone? Our whiskey gone?”

  Sundance nodded.

  Fury contorted Geronimo’s face. “Then, by the Mountain Gods!” he roared. “Now, you die!” And he pulled the trigger.

  But Naiche’s hand flashed out, thumb blocking the hammer’s fall. “Stop it!” he snapped. Then, with tremendous strength, he jerked the Winchester from Geronimo’s hand. His impassivity broke, his own face was full of rage. “I give the orders to kill here! I’m Naiche, and I am chief!”

  Geronimo, mouth still working, turned, stared at Naiche. He was trembling. Suddenly Sundance knew why. “But didn’t you hear him?” he cried. “He poured out our whiskey!”

  Naiche’s mouth set. “I heard him. And now I say that indeed we have to talk, and this we’ll do in my lodge. And if you try to kill them before we’re through, I’ll kill you myself. I almost did it once and.” Suddenly his face was weary. “Maybe I should have,” he said. “Maybe I should have, a long time ago.” Then he handed the rifle back to Geronimo. “Come,” he said. “Let’s go into council.”

  It was hot inside the brush shelter. The few blankets spread there were old and tattered. There was no food in sight. Sundance and the two Apache scouts sat cross-legged, opposite Naiche and Geronimo, who kept rifles trained on them. Outside the door, Coriotish squatted, gun in hand.

  “Geronimo will be still for a while,” Naiche said. “Tell me what message Gatewood sends.”

  “This—from General Miles—this and no more: Come in, now. If you do, peaceably, you and your families will be sent east to the place called Florida for two years. That is your punishment. After that, you may return to San Carlos. Otherwise, if you choose to fight, all will die. Your women and children as well as your men.”

  Naiche’s face was expressionless. “Hard terms.”

  “But I think you should take them. I have talked to Three Stars—Crook—and he thinks so, too.”

  “Crook no longer commands here!” Geronimo rasped.

  “But he still loves the Apaches and wishes them well.”

  “That may be,” Naiche said presently. “But here we are in our own country. If we surrender and go to this strange place called Florida, maybe we will never come back.”

  “The Army promises that you will,” Sundance said.

  Geronimo spat. “And when has the Army kept its promises?”

  “Crook always did,” Naiche said. He rubbed his face tiredly, then went on. “We have been fighting for so long. It seems an eternity since Geronimo came to us—to me, to Nana, Chihuahua and some others on the Reservation—and told us that Lieutenant Davis had been killed and that we’d all hang for the murder. We had to take our people and run.”

  “Geronimo lied,” Sundance said flatly. “He planned to kill Davis, but he couldn’t bring it off.”

  “I know,” Naiche said. “When we were in the Sierra and found that he had lied, we almost killed him ourselves. We had farm
s, all of us. I worked hard on mine, had the best one at Fort Apache, made the finest crop and I was proud. Then I was frightened and thought I would be executed. Lies … ” He spat. “Yes,” he went on, staring at Geronimo stonily. “Lies.”

  He swung back to face Sundance. “Then last spring, we met with Crook. We agreed then to come in. He trusted us, let us travel alone toward the Reservation with our weapons. On the way, near the border, we met the man Tribolet. He had whiskey and ammunition and he gave us plenty of both. And told us that the minute we crossed the line into Arizona, the Army would kill us. More lies … Geronimo believed him, or said he did—made me believe him, too. Once more we fled. But the others came in and they were not hurt.”

  He let out a long breath. “And now,” he said, “the final lie. Geronimo promised us that Tribolet would bring more ammunition—and more whiskey. And none is coming.”

  “It would be,” Geronimo snapped, “except for Sundance!” He whirled to Naiche. “Anyhow, we can get ammunition at Fronteras. We can trade there with the Mexicans!”

  Ki-e-ta shook his head. “We have just come from Fronteras. They send you offers to come in and trade. But two hundred Mexican soldiers are there, waiting to rub you out when you do.”

  Naiche’s mouth thinned. “Everybody wants our scalps it seems.” He looked at Sundance. “Maybe we would come in. But. Florida. Do we have to go there? Away from our own home? Can’t we join the other Apaches?”

  Martine spoke up harshly. “The other Apaches don’t want you,” he said.

  Naiche jerked up straight. “What?”

  “You heard me,” Martine said. “You and Geronimo—you’re costing them everything they’ve gained over the past ten years. Even the other Chiricahuas don’t want you. The longer you stay out, the harder the white-eyes deal with them.”

  Slowly sadness crossed Naiche’s face. He looked at Ki-e-ta. “This is true?”

  “It is true,” Ki-e-ta said. “We, none of us Chiricahuas, want the son of Cochise as our chief any longer. Not unless he surrenders.” He shook his head. “Their farms have already been taken from them, and it is your fault and Geronimo’s. Everything is lost, for one drunken Apache who brags how much fighting man he is.” Ki-e-ta slowly stood up, a squat but impressive figure. “Geronimo says he fights for freedom. I don’t think so. The only freedom he fights for is the freedom to drink.”

  Geronimo made a sound in his throat. “You are red white-man—”

  Ki-e-ta spun on him. “Be quiet! I am as much Apache as you, and more! I was in Josanie’s band when we first jumped the Reservation and rode with your brother. The things he did turned my stomach: he took a little girl and rammed a steel hook through her head, and ... is this the way an Apache fights? I asked myself that. Then I left and went back to the Reservation. I saw there what damage you—we— had done to all our people by running away. I made up my mind that you must come in. But if you think I’m less Apache than you, give us both knives and we’ll go out in the desert and we’ll see—”

  He turned back to Naiche. “I can see it all now, for Sundance explained it to Big Nose. The white men are using you—Tribolet used you, and the man who sent him is using you. He stirs up war so the Apaches would be forced off their land.”

  “No man uses me!” Geronimo snapped.

  “Whiskey uses you!” rasped Ki-e-ta. “It was because of whiskey that you jumped the Reservation the first time. I know, Josanie told me. You got whiskey from Tribolet, and then Lieutenant Davis found out about it. You were afraid he’d cut you off from it, so you planned to kill him and leave the Reservation. You couldn’t bear not having your white man’s rotgut.”

  “I—” Geronimo began.

  “Be quiet!” snapped Ki-e-ta. “It was whiskey again, Tribolet’s whiskey, that made you break your promise to Crook to come in. Tribolet guaranteed you plenty if you’d stay out, didn’t he? And you took him up on it.” His mouth curled. “Look at you, look at your hands, shaking like a leaf because you don’t have whiskey and you know you’ll get no more.” He swung toward Naiche. “He’d sacrifice you, your people, your whole tribe for whiskey. While he stays free, he has a chance of getting it. Once he surrenders, he knows he won’t. And you ... Cochise’s son. You have sacrificed your father’s people because you listen to a drunkard!”

  He spat. “That is why the Chiricahuas despise you now!”

  Then he sat down.

  The wikiup was very quiet, save for the rasping breathing of men caught up in emotion. Geronimo’s eyes glittered, the rifle swung from Martine to Sundance to Ki-e-ta. Then Geronimo got slowly to his feet. Suddenly he let the gun drop.

  “Very well,” he said. “That is what you think. You say it so easily, because it seems true to you. And maybe it is true—some of it. But there are many sides to everything, and the reasons in a man’s heart are his own.” He swung his head to look at all of them. “I like whiskey, yes, but maybe I like freedom more. Maybe I think it is better to die in the mountains with a rifle in my hands and a horse between my legs than to live in a sunless prison that the white-eyes have sent me to. Maybe I should have been born a mole, blind in the ground—but I was born an eagle, and an eagle must fly high and free.” He drew in a great breath. “And maybe there is no more room for eagles and I have been wrong.”

  He stared at Sundance. “You, Cheyenne, with your people already conquered, those still alive turned into moles ... you say I am wrong. But I say no man is wrong to fight for freedom. I say it is better to die an eagle than to live a blind creature safe underground. Yes, eagles make better targets, but—” His trap like mouth curled. “Never mind. I am a Chiricahua and the Chiricahuas want me to surrender. I say now that I’ll surrender no matter what Naiche does. But I say this to you, Cheyenne. Maybe someday you will wish we had died fighting here. And maybe you will wish, too, that you had died here with us, with your wings spread and fully feathered, not clipped and useless.”

  He chopped the air with his hand. “Go tell Gatewood to come in and talk to us. We will keep Ki-e-ta here as hostage until he comes, but you and Martine are free to return to him. Go tell him Geronimo said this—Geronimo, the old, mean, Apache drunkard—he is welcome in this camp in peace. Whether Geronimo stays out or comes in to go to prison, he will always be an eagle.” He stood for an instant longer. Then he dodged out of the wikiup and was gone.

  A profound silence stretched tautly in the wikiup.

  Then Naiche said tiredly: “And that is it. The way it will be. We are all Chiricahuas, and we will live or die together. Martine, Sundance ... go tell Gatewood to come. From this day on eagles fly no more.”

  Sundance only sat unmoving.

  Naiche’s face twisted with rage. “I tell you,” he roared, “go say to them to come to talk to us! Get out of here, both of you! Go! Get out!”

  And he also left the wikiup.

  In the silence that followed, Sundance, dazed, sat motionless for a time. Then Ki-e-ta said softly: “Go. I will stay with them until Gatewood comes. I am not afraid. These are my people.”

  Chapter Ten

  Sundance rode through Tucson.

  The town had grown since he’d last been there. Once a tiny cluster of adobe buildings without a hotel, now it was a real city, Territorial capital and trading center. With every lessening of the Apache threat, it had expanded. Its main street was thronged with traffic. Sundance put the big stallion, Eagle, down it on his way to find Tanner. He was going to kill once more.

  The big horse single-footed gracefully through the close-crowded wagons, buckboards and other horse-backers. Sundance rode erect in the saddle, right hand dangling near his Colt, bleak face turning from side to side. Men looked curiously at the dusty, buckskinned form on the lathered, travel-gaunted stud. They gave him the right of way. He hardly saw them.

  By now, he thought, Gatewood would be on the way to Fort Bowie with Geronimo, Naiche and their pathetic band. The last fighting Indians of Arizona had come in. The war was over. The eagles would fl
y no more. His thin mouth clamped in a hard line. He had helped bring the eagles down and clip their wings. That was something that would haunt him the rest of his life. But one thing he could make certain of—if the eagles ever flew again, it would not be for Gil Tanner’s benefit.

  He reined the stallion over to a saloon, swung down, looped the reins around the hitchrack. He strode into the place and shoved up to the bar. The bartender came over, saw his red, hawk-nosed face, frowned. “Mister—”

  Sundance said quietly, “If you’re fixing to tell me you don’t serve whiskey to Indians, I won’t argue with you. I just want one piece of information. Where can I find Gil Tanner?”

  The barkeep blinked. He turned, looked at a clock behind the bar. “Almost sundown. He’s at his wagon yard during the day, but I reckon he’s at home by now. Straight down this street two blocks, then right, then left. Almost in the shadow of the Governor’s Palace. You can’t miss it—big Mex-style house with a red tile roof.”

  “Thanks,” Sundance said, turning away. Men looked at him as he walked out, mounted the Appaloosa stud, and swung away from the hitchrack.

  It was just as the bartender had said. Tanner’s house, made of stuccoed adobe roofed with red tile, sprawled behind a high wall inset with a wooden gate. Sundance dismounted, tried the gate, found it locked. But there was a bell; he jerked its cord.

  For a while nobody answered. He rang again and somebody appeared behind the wooden leaves. The gate swung open. A short, squat man built like an ape stared at Sundance, a rifle cradled in his arm. He was low-browed, bearded, slope-shouldered and powerful, and his voice was guttural. “Who’re you?”

  “My name’s Jim Sundance. Tell Mr. Tanner I want to see him.”

  The big, ugly head shook. “Sorry. He’s got company. Says he don’t want to be disturbed.”

  Sundance said, “You go tell him Jim Sundance is here and it’s important.”

  The ape-man looked into his eyes. “Jim Sundance?”

  “That’s right.”