by John Benteen
“I’ll tell him, but he won’t see you.” The man, looking over his shoulder, went up the veranda steps and disappeared through the front door.
Sundance waited in the garden, thumbs hooked in his belt. The place was lavish, like something transplanted from Europe. Tanner had done well— very well. The statuary, the components of the fountain, all these shrubs ... It had cost a lot of money to have all this hauled out from the east. But, of course, Tanner had a lot of money.
The front door opened. The ape-man was there again. “He says you can come in.”
“Thanks,” said Sundance dryly. He mounted the veranda, went past the ape-man into a foyer. Beyond it was the main sala of the house—wide, spacious, lavishly furnished with expensive things hauled a long way. Tanner stood in the middle, dressed in white shirt and gray suit pants. His hair was slightly tousled, falling over his forehead. There was a gunbelt around his waist, the ivory-butted, engraved Colt seated in a tied-down scabbard.
As Sundance entered the room, Tanner came forward, handsome face smiling, hand out. “Jim. You’re back, eh? Good.”
Sundance took the hand, shook it. “Mission successful?” Tanner went on.
“The ammo and the whiskey both,” Sundance answered. “Right where they’ll do the most good.”
“Excellent!” Tanner cried. “We’ll drink to that!” He went to a table, poured whiskey into two glasses, passed one to Sundance, raised his own. “To Geronimo. To Naiche.”
“Yeah,” Sundance said. “To Geronimo and Naiche.”
Tanner tossed off his drink. He slapped his hands together, began to pace. “I’ll tell you, Sundance. I was worried, really. I didn’t think you could do it. Get Bob through all those Army patrols, the Mexicans and the Apache scouts. I was afraid you might be too late, that the Apaches would have surrendered before you got there.” He halted, grinning. “Of course, if they had, they’d have spilled the beans about where they got the booze and ammo, and I’d have been up the creek. But I took care of that.”
“How?” Sundance asked, looking at him over the glass’s rim.
“Simple. You feed old Nelson Miles good. Give him the best brandy and you can shove him around any way you please. I suggested—and he leaped at it —that the best way to handle Geronimo and Naiche if they came in was to shoot ’em both once they’d laid down their guns.”
“Assassinate ’em?” Sundance asked, stiffening.
“If you want to dignify Indians by using that term. Exterminate would be a better word. Anyhow, he went for it. If Geronimo and Naiche had come in, Gatewood and Lawton and the others were to disarm them and kill them.” He grinned. “That’s not all that’s happened, either. They’ve already rounded up the rest of the Cherrycows at Fort Apache—all the ones who surrendered and even the ones who didn’t go out at all. They called for a routine headcount. When the Indians came in, the Army surrounded them and threw down on them with rifles. Next thing they knew, all the Chiricahuas were bound for Florida in handcuffs. Every one of them!”
Sundance drained his glass, coolly went to the bottle, refilled it. “Well,” he said, “that’s quite a development.”
“You bet it is. Hell, they even shipped off the Apache scouts.”
Sundance swung around. “They what?”
Tanner chuckled. “The scouts. The very ones who worked so hard to bring the Chiricahuas in. They all got handcuffed and shipped out, too. When Geronimo and Naiche hear about that, they’ll fight to the last gasp. And it’s the first step, Sundance—” he broke off, gestured. “The first step to stripping the Reservation of Apaches. Next you get some Coyoteros to go out. You can do it. And when a few go on the warpath, all the rest’ll be rounded up, too, and headed east. That ought to bring all the tribes up in open rebellion—”
“Yeah,” Sundance said, feeling cold all over. “Yeah, it sure would.”
Now, he thought. Now is the time to pull my gun and blast him!
“Christ,” Tanner said. “There’s no limit to the money to be made. The more Indians hit the warpath, the more I make from the Army; the harder they fight, the sooner their reservation’ll be stripped clean. And I’ve got the inside track on grazing and mineral rights.”
“Yeah,” said Sundance. He was ready for the kill and let his right hand drop.
Just before it touched his gun, the girl appeared— Jan Farnum.
~*~
She stepped out of a corridor into the living room. When she saw Sundance, she halted. “Jim? You’re back, eh? I’m so glad.”
“And bringing good news,” Tanner said. “Everything’s fine.” He put his arm around her, squeezed her to him. She was very lovely in a sea-green dress cut low to reveal the upper hemispheres of her breasts. She held a big green handbag in one hand. “It—”
He broke off as the ape-man shambled into the room, an envelope in one hand. “Boss, a soldier just brought this for you.”
Tanner took it, arm still around Jan Farnum. “Thanks, Willie.” He ripped it open, read it, smile widening. “Just a thank you note for entertaining the General last night,” he said. With his free hand he slipped the note in his pocket. “Hold it, Willie,” he said. “I’ve got something for you to do.” Then his face changed, turning savage. Suddenly he swung Jan Farnum around in front of him, like a shield, and clamped her to him. His right hand moved. Sundance instinctively started to draw, then froze with Jan blocking his aim. In the next fraction of a second, Tanner’s engraved Colt was up, hammer eared back, muzzle pointed straight at Sundance. “You bastard,” Tanner grated. “You lyin’, double-crossin’ bastard! Willie! Lay that rifle on him!”
Before Sundance could move, the Winchester barrel rammed hard into the base of his spine. “Like this, boss?”
“Like that.” Tanner’s eyes were hard, cold. “Hands up, Sundance. High up.”
“Gil—” Jan began in a high, frightened voice. “Gil, I don’t understand.”
“You will,” Tanner rasped. He released her, shoved her, and she landed half-sprawled on the sofa. He took a step forward.
“That note was from Miles, Sundance. A message sent by heliograph. You rode fast, didn’t you, but you couldn’t outrun the sun. Naiche and Geronimo have surrendered to Gatewood and Lawton. They’re all coming in. Miles has sent word to kill both chiefs.”
“They won’t do it,” Sundance whispered.
“They’re junior officers; they’ll do what their General says.” Tanner twitched the gun barrel. “And Tribolet—he’s dead—the whiskey and the ammo dumped. You did that, didn’t you?”
Sundance did not answer.
“I see it now. Crook—his hand in this, the goddamn Injun lover. You’re another of his secret service agents. Well, it makes no difference, Sundance. It makes no difference at all. There’s always more whiskey, always more Tribolets, always more thirsty Indians. I’ll find someone else to raise the Coyoteros. What the hell. Without you, we’ll still have another Indian war. The Coyoteros and the Tontos.”
Jan sat up straight on the sofa, face pale, looking from Tanner to Sundance. “Gil—”
“Just sit easy, honey. I’ve got to deal with Sundance.”
“You’re not going to kill him,” Jan whispered.
“I sure as hell am. And you and Willie are gonna be my witnesses—that he came here and tried to murder me and I dropped him in self defense. Just sit tight, sweetheart. This won’t be long. Then, whatever it was you came down here to see me about, we’ll get it settled. I’ve been thinking about taking you back anyhow, making it just like the old days before we fell out. You swear to what I want you to swear to, that’ll prove you love me and—”
“Gil, wait.”
Tanner laughed. “No. This has to be done quick. You don’t like the sight of blood, you shut your eyes. In just a second it’ll be all over.” He took one more step forward. “Willie, keep the gun on him, but get out of the way.”
Willie stepped aside. Tanner raised his Colt, lined it. “Now, Sundance—”
&n
bsp; Sundance stared into the muzzle. At that instant Jan Farnum yelled from the sofa, “Gil! Here, quick!”
The urgency in her voice made Tanner turn. Jan’s hand, plunged deep in the open bag on her lap, came out. Her face was pale, her eyes wide, and she held a tiny, two-barreled Derringer. Its little popping sound in the big room was faint, almost comic.
Tanner stepped sideways, staring. Then he looked down at the bloodstain on his chest. “Why—”
Sundance saw no more for an instant. Willie stood frozen, disbelieving, and Sundance whirled, lunged, knocked the rifle aside with his left hand. His right flicked down and came up with his Colt. When it licked flame and thundered, Willie was slammed back by the impact of the slug. He fell and Sundance whirled, Colt up, ready to shoot again.
Tanner’s shirtfront was a blotch of scarlet. His body swayed. The gun in his hand seemed too heavy for him to hold; he tried to raise it and then it dropped. “Jan,” he whispered thickly. “You shot me. With that damned little popgun.”
“Yes,” she said. Tears were streaming down her cheeks and she aimed the Derringer again. “Learning to use it was part of the education you gave me. Like sleeping around and running a saloon.” Then she pulled the second trigger.
Tanner’s knees gave way. He fell forward, twisting. Sundance saw the little hole between his eyes before he hit the floor with a jarring impact. Jan Farnum got to her feet. She looked at the Derringer, then suddenly threw it savagely to the floor, covered her face with her hands and began to cry.
Sundance looked around the room. Willie was dead, but there might be others in the house. He went quickly to Jan, pistol ready, and put his arm around her. He held her to him, eyes shifting warily. “Cry later. Is there anybody else here?”
She shook her head, pressing against him. “Nobody,” she managed between sobs. “Willie was the only one.” Then she pulled away from Sundance, sucked in a long, choked breath. Numbly, she went to the sofa, got her handbag, took out a handkerchief and began to dry her eyes. Then she turned, face tear-streaked.
“That wasn’t what I came here to do,” she whispered. “I didn’t want to kill him.” She shook her head uncomprehendingly. “I loved him. I came here to beg him to take me back. And now.”
She looked at Sundance. “It happened, you see? I looked at him and heard him brag about what an Indian war he’d start, and then ... it was all buried in my memory. Blacked out, I couldn’t remember what the Apaches did to my mother and father. Suddenly it all came back. I saw it all over again. I understood, you see? What Gil was doing was not a game, not a business—but people dying, like my parents. Then I knew what I had to do. ... ”
Sundance looked down at Tanner’s sprawled body.
“You saved a lot of lives,” he said.
“But he was so powerful, so important. I guess they’ll hang me, now. I don’t really care.” She made an aimless gesture.
“They won’t hang you,” Sundance said. His voice was crisp, harsh. “Listen, you used to live here with him. You know this house. Where did he keep his money?”
“Most of it is in the bank.” She was coming out of her fog now. “But ... yes, some of it’s here—in the bedroom.”
“Show me,” Sundance ordered.
They went quickly down the corridor. The bedroom was big and lavish. Jan went to a painting hanging on the wall, shoved it aside. Behind it there was a wooden panel with an inset lock. Sundance drew the big Bowie, drove it into wood and twisted. The wood splintered. He pried a foot-square panel out. Then he pulled out a heavy strongbox. It was padlocked, but the padlock could not resist his hatchet.
The box, when he had wrenched it open, held fifty thousand dollars. He divided it meticulously. “Twenty-five,” he said, “for the Apaches who’re being shipped to Florida. The other twenty-five is yours.”
Jan raised her head, looked at him wide-eyed across the strongbox. “Mine?”
“You’ve got a new life to start.” Sundance crammed the money into her handbag. “Now you’re going out the back. You’ll take the stage to Willcox, the train to Omaha from there. When you reach Omaha, see General George Crook, commandant of the Department of the Platte. Tell him what happened. He’ll take care of you. And ... give him a message for me.”
“A message?”
“Yeah,” Sundance said. “Tell him that Sundance said he’d better use all his influence for his Apache scouts, and that Geronimo and Naiche had better stay alive. Or I’ll see to it myself that eagles fly again, all across the west.”
“Eagles?”
“It’ll take him a while to understand. But he will.” They stood up. Then Jan said, hoarsely, “Jim—”
He grinned at her, and when she came to him he took her in his arms and kissed her. “Now,” he said, releasing her. “Out the back way and get on the night stage.” They went through the house. He saw her out the back door, through the gate, hurrying into the darkness. Once she stopped to wave, and then she was gone.
Sundance went back into the house, walked to the big front room. There in the flickering light of an enormous, expensive candelabra, the bodies of Tanner and Willie lay stretched out. Sundance looked at them.
He had averted war—yes. But he was not proud of it. The Chiricahuas would go east. Whether they would ever see Arizona again was an unsettled question. He would use Tanner’s twenty-five thousand, anyhow, to do all he could for them. But he had no real hope ... there was no right or wrong any more, no clear-cut choice. Not for him, anyhow.
Maybe it came from being neither one thing nor the other. Maybe he was too much Indian to be white, too much white to be Indian.
Anyhow, with Geronimo coming in, it was probably over. The Indians had lost the war. They had lost their country. But it was possible that someday they would take it back. When the white men had ruined it, maybe the Indians would show them how to salvage it.
He went to the table, poured himself whiskey and tossed it off. Then he helped himself to a fine cigar from Tanner’s humidor. Biting off the end, he thrust it between his teeth. Then he went to the big candelabra and lit it from the flame. He drew in smoke, let it out.
He picked up the candelabra, then threw it on the lush, horsehair sofa that had crossed a continent. The sofa flared into flame at once, rising to the curtains and exposed wooden beams overhead. At the same time it spilled down the sofa to the expensive carpet.
When the house was burning satisfactorily, Sundance tossed the half-smoked cigar into the fire. It flickered around the bodies of Tanner and Willie. Then he went out the front door and mounted Eagle. Touching the big horse with moccasined heels, he sent it galloping down the street.
Behind him, the windows of Tanner’s house grew bright. Flames erased the evening’s events.
Soon Sundance reined in the Appaloosa. He watched the glare at the other end of the street, heard the excitement of rushing hoofbeats as a fire-wagon galloped by. No one paid attention to the tall man on the spotted roan—the man who quietly turned and headed north.
Jim Sundance was tired of Arizona. He hungered for the high plains of the Sioux and the Cheyenne. Behind him, fire bells clamored in the night as Eagle moved out smartly.
Author’s Note
All Sundance books are based on fact; this one clings especially close to it.
There really was a Bob Tribolet who sold whiskey and ammunition to the Indians. He was responsible for getting Geronimo drunk and sending him on the warpath after he’d surrendered to Crook. Gatewood, Lawton, Tom Horn, Sieber, Ki-e-ta and Martine all really lived—the two Apache scouts played key roles in Geronimo’s final surrender to Gatewood. There was a “Tucson Ring,” too, and Crook hired undercover agents in an effort to break it.
Whiskey, indeed, played a big part in Geronimo’s depredations, a main cause of his leaving the Reservation in 1885 and his refusal to come in again in 1886. The first thing he asked Gatewood for at their surrender conference was a drink. Whiskey finally killed him—drunk, he fell out of his buggy in Oklaho
ma in 1909 and died of exposure.
All the Chiricahuas were rounded up and sent to Florida. In violation of the Army’s promises, they were kept there for years. Later they went to Indian Territory, and a remnant of them eventually joined the Mescaleros on their Reservation in New Mexico. None was ever allowed to return to Arizona. Even Ki-e-ta and Martine, along with all the Apache scouts, were handcuffed and sent to prison with the rest.
The other Apache tribes kept their lands in Arizona. In contrast to other Indians, they now prosper.
The Sundance Series
Overkill
Dead Man’s Canyon
Dakota Territory
Death in the Lava
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The Bronco Trail
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