Sundance 15

by John Benteen

  Taylor’s voice came huskily in the silence of the clearing. “God almighty, Sundance. He came out of there like a rocket! I shot once and missed and then you were in the way—hell, I’ve never seen a draw so fast!”

  Sundance sucked in breath. He knew now what had made the sign in the brush—not a human mad dog, but this rabid lobo at his feet. “Thanks for yelling, Taylor,” he said hoarsely. “I’m going to wade out in the river and wash this boot. Then I think we’d better get the hell back to the post. There’s nothing I can find here anyhow. If he didn’t wipe out every bit of sign, the patrol that found the body did.” Mounting, he shook out a loop in his riata, slipped it carefully over the dead wolf’s hind paw, and dragged the carcass into the river, letting the current claim it and simultaneously cleanse his boot.

  ~*~

  The town of North Platte was not as riotous as it once had been, but with its strategic position on the railroad, the junction of the two main river forks, and a wagon road west, plus two nearby Army posts, it was still a booming, lively place. Sundance rode in at twilight, after saying goodbye to Taylor at the post, found the livery, left the horse, and asked the hostler: “Ravenal? You know where I could find him this time of evening?”

  “Sure. He’ll be down at the Forks Saloon, biggest place in town. One block down the street—you can’t miss it.”

  Sundance thanked the man and started out. “Close that door tight behind you,” the hostler called. “Don’t want no damn hydrophobia skunk or coyote walkin’ in bold as brass. They’ve done it in two or three places here in town.”

  The half-breed halted. “That bad, eh?”

  “Bad enough so we killed off every dog and cat in town.” The hostler’s voice broke slightly. “Even old Shag, the collie here. Ever’body’s favorite. And ole Tom, the barn cat. God knows how we’ll put down the rats.”

  Sundance nodded. Right now, every living animal with teeth was an enemy. He pushed the door to solidly.

  The music that whanged from the Forks Saloon was muted, for its front door was also closed tightly. Sundance shoved it open, entered a big room crowded with townsmen, railroad men, bull whackers and cowboys, noisy with chatter and laughter. But, as if he himself carried some infection with him, the noise slowly died and he felt dozens of pairs of eyes fastened on him as he went to the bar.

  He knew what the infection was: his red skin. That silence affirmed what Taylor and Crook already had told him—that half-breeds, much less full bloods, were unwanted in North Platte right now. What had only a moment before been an atmosphere of jollity and relaxation suddenly turned tense and hostile at the sight of the big man with the copper-colored face, the beaded war shirt, and the low-slung gun and throwing hatchet on his belt. There was, of course, puzzlement, too; his yellow hair and gray eyes were not normal for a half-blood; in that sense, he was a kind of freak.

  They were still trying to make sense out of what he was when he found a vacancy at the bar. The balding fat man who tended it came to him with cold and appraising eyes. “We don’t serve half-breeds in here,” he rasped.

  Sundance said quietly, “I didn’t ask you to serve me. I’m looking for a man named Marsh Ravenal.” Before the barkeep could answer, a voice said coldly from the room’s far end, “Well, you have found him.”

  Sundance turned. Three men stood there, and the crowd had faded back so that it was as if they and Sundance stood at opposite ends of a long corridor.

  “I’m Ravenal,” the man who stood in front of the other two went on. “And you’re a half-breed. You’re not wanted here. Get out.”

  Sundance’s temper flared, but he held it in check. Ravenal was tall, well-built, his suit tailored to fit broad shoulders and a narrow waist, and it was Confederate gray. In his late thirties, he had sleek black hair, intense black eyes, a cleanly chiseled, handsome face with a black mustache above a wide, thin-lipped mouth. He wore, Sundance saw immediately, a gun beneath the long frock coat; on his left hip, its handle was set for a cross-draw.

  “In a minute, maybe,” Sundance answered, even voiced. “First, I’d like to talk with you. My name’s Jim Sundance—and I’m here I’m here on behalf of General Crook.”

  Ravenal looked at him bleakly for a moment from those black eyes. “Sundance? I think I’ve heard of you. From Crook? Can you prove that?”

  “Yes.” As he started forward, the two men behind Ravenal stepped out a little to either side. One was short and squat, with cold gray eyes and a big cowhorn mustache. In range clothes, he wore two guns on separate cartridge belts crisscrossed around his waist, and his hands dangled near them now. The other was tall and hulking, maybe thirty, with a craggy face like a chunk of ill-hewn granite, broad shoulders, a barrel chest, dangling ape-like arms and enormous fists. Standing better than six feet four, he moved with a kind of angular, loose-jointed grace. Bodyguards, Sundance guessed, and his eyes shifted warily from one to the other as he approached their boss.

  “Tell your men not to get skittish. I’m gonna reach in my pocket for a piece of paper.”

  “Fitz, Maynard, ease off,” said Ravenal, his eyes steady on Sundance. His voice was deep, with an almost musical Southern drawl. “All right, Sundance, let’s see your paper.”

  Sundance took out the commission Crook had given him, passed it over. Ravenal read it briefly, and then, suddenly and completely, his manner changed. “General Crook, eh? Well, that makes all the difference.” His voice was raised as he went on. “This man is here on a special mission for the General. He’s not to be bothered, and he’s to be served anything he wants.” He smiled, and Sundance felt his charm now that the suspicion had evaporated. “Sorry.” Ravenal put out his hand. “But you know about the trouble we’ve had lately. We have to suspect everybody with Indian blood until we’ve reason not to.”

  “The Cheyennes have had the same trouble.”

  “Let ’em worry about themselves. Anyhow, we can’t tell one Indian from another. Now, what can I do for you?”

  “I’d like a few minutes’ talk.”

  “Sure.” Ravenal raised his voice again. “Charlie, we’ll be using the back room. Bring a bottle and some glasses.”

  “Yes, sir, Mr. Ravenal.” There was respect in the barkeep’s tone.

  In the back room, Ravenal motioned Sundance to a chair at a poker table that occupied its center. Like watchdogs, Fitz, the gunman, and Maynard stood against the walls behind their master as Ravenal and Sundance sat down.

  Sundance glanced at them wryly. “You don’t take any chances.”

  “No.” Ravenal’s face shadowed, turning grim. “Maybe you haven’t heard what happened to my wife.”

  “Yes, Taylor told me. I’m sorry.”

  “He’s going to be the one to be sorry if I ever get my hands on him.” Ravenal’s voice had the clang of iron on iron. “I’ll tear him to pieces myself—” He raised powerful, uncallused hands. “But if I can’t, Fitz and Maynard will be on hand to help with the execution. I don’t care how much of a superman this mad killer is, I’ll—” He broke off, breathing hard. “Never mind. Where I go, they go. And I just hope like hell that someday he comes after me.”

  The bartender brought the bottle and glasses. After he had gone, Ravenal poured, handed Sundance a drink; “Now. How can I help you?”

  “General Crook’s asked me to do what I can to find the killer.”

  “That makes sense. I remember George discussing you with me now. Since you’re half Cheyenne, half white, and supposed to know Indians inside out—and Crook says you’re the fastest man with, a gun he’s ever seen. Okay, go on.”

  “I’ve got an idea,” Sundance said. “It’s got to be somebody with a hell of a grudge against Cheyennes and the Army both. I know a man who fits that description. He fought in the War Between the States with the Confederates, and he tried to raise the Indians against the Union Army. When he came home—his people had worked for the Bents—the Yankees gave him a rough time. So he went to live with the Cheyennes. They gave him
a rougher one.” Sundance described what had happened at the Renewal of the Arrows. “After that, he swore he’d get even with the Yankees and the Cheyennes both and rode away, but nobody ever figured he would get very far. But maybe he was tougher than we thought. Anyhow, he’s a half-blood like I am. As a white, he went by the name of Cole Maxton, and he was some shakes as a gunfighter himself. As an Indian, he was called Silent Enemy.”

  Ravenal listened thoughtfully, then shook his head. “Never heard of either one of them.”

  “Likely he’d be using different names now. The thing is, the Cheyennes beat the hell out of him. Smashed in his face, just about chopped his body to a pulp. He’d have a lot of scars—and they’d make him stand out like a sore thumb. Do you remember any half-blood around here who looked like he once might have taken that kind of beating?”

  Ravenal took out a long, black cigar, bit off its end, lit it, staring thoughtfully at the cloud of smoke. “No, and I’ve been here ever since this was the railhead. Fitz, Maynard, you ever run into anybody fits that description?”

  Both men chorused negatives. Ravenal shrugged. “There you are. Wish I could say yes, but the answer’s no.” His lips twisted in a tight smile. “I was in the War myself, of course. Hampton’s Black Horse cavalry. And, of course, it ruined me, like it did most Southerners. Sherman burned the family plantation house, the carpetbaggers took the rest for taxes—but the difference between me and the man you’re talking about is this: I don’t let grudges eat up my guts. Didn’t stand around and whine. I came west to start over again. Sure, I figured the Yankees owed me something, but the way to make it back was to trade with ’em, not feud with ’em. So I settled here in North Platte, started small—now, I’ve got supply contracts with the Army all up and down the U.P. line. And some of my best friends—like General Crook—are people who fought against me in the War. I’ve made my money, Sundance—and that’s why I was the leader behind this movement to put up a reward for the killer. In fact, most of the money the town’s offering comes out of my pocket. And I’ll tell you this right now—you catch the bastard, and I’ll promise you another two thousand bonus, once you’ve proved you’ve got the right man.” He raised the bottle. “Another drink?”

  “Just one more. Two’s my limit.”

  Ravenal’s brows arched. “The Indian blood?” He smiled.

  “That’s right. Can’t take much firewater. The third one makes me mean, the fourth one sends me on the warpath.”

  “It’s a smart man who knows his own limits.” Ravenal’s face shadowed. “I’ve been hitting this stuff too heavy ever since Julia—but a man has to shut out the memory somehow.” He poured his glass full to the brim. “Anyhow, there you are. There’s nothing I want more than to see that murdering, raping bastard caught, but if it’s your Silent Enemy, he’s not hanging around North Platte. But we’ll keep our eyes open for a man answering that description—and if there’s any help I can give you, just holler. I draw a lot of water around here.”

  He tossed off his drink, and Sundance finished his own. “Now, if I were you,” Ravenal said, shoving back his chair, “I’d stay at the Platte Hotel tonight. I wouldn’t even ride as far as the Army post. Not in the dark. The damn hydrophobia animals come right into town. That’s why all doors are kept closed. A week ago, a coyote walked right into my warehouse, ready to bite anything that came his way. Of course, Fitz put a bullet through him, but ... people stay inside at night and keep their eyes open in the daytime.”

  “Thanks for the tip.” As Sundance arose, there was a knock on the door; the bartender came in, his face a little pale in the lamplight.

  “Mr. Ravenal.”

  “What is it, Charlie?” .

  “Jody Carson. He’s drunk and on a tear. Jest came in and heard there was a half-breed in the place. He’s out there now in the main room, waitin’. Swears the minute he sees him, he’s gonna blow hell out of him.”

  Ravenal’s lips thinned. “Hell. Sundance, wait here a minute. Fitz, you and Maynard come with me.”

  “Hold on. Who’s this Jody Carson?”

  Ravenal sighed. “One of the too many gunslingers and hardcases who make this town their headquarters. He’s just a kid, but fast as greased lightnin’, even when he’s likkered up. Already got half a dozen notches on his gun, and he’s not much over twenty.” Ravenal paused. “The first soldier the killer got was his brother. That’s what brought him to North Platte to begin with. You step out there, there’s bound to be a killing. But we’ll handle him—Fitz, Maynard and I. He’s got better sense than to buck us.”

  “Generally,” Sundance said thinly, “I fight my own battles.”

  “All right. If you want to have to kill him or have him kill you, go ahead.”

  Sundance hesitated. “No. See if you can put the damper on him. I’ve got nothin’ against him.”

  Ravenal looked at him oddly. “You sound awfully sure of yourself.”

  “I guess there’s always somebody faster,” Sundance said quietly. “I just haven’t met him yet. Go handle Carson and I’ll wait here.”

  “It won’t take a minute,” Ravenal said. He jerked his head, and the two silent bodyguards followed him from the room.

  Sundance went to the door, cracked it slightly. “By God,” he heard a youthful voice, thick with drink, yelling, “somebody show me that gut-eatin’ half-breed! You hear? Where’s he hidin’? Tell him to come out and I’ll do to him what he did to my pore brother Tom!” Through the crack, Sundance saw the boy standing in the middle of the room—only twenty-two or twenty-three. He was small and slender, and the two guns he wore looked enormous on him, but Sundance was deceived neither by his size nor his youth. Those two equalizers of Colonel Colt strapped low on his hips were not for show, and men his age had the fastest reflexes. What they generally lacked was judgment—which made them twice as deadly, for they were more unpredictable. “Gimme another drink, Charlie, while I’m waitin’!”

  “You’ve had enough.” Ravenal’s voice was sharp, commanding. “Now, out of here.”

  “Why, you—” But Ravenal’s right hand was poised to move across his body and Fitz had stepped aside, both hands on gun butts. “So thass it. A whipsaw. You on that red nigger’s side. And—” Before he could finish, the big man, Maynard, had stepped behind him while the other two held his attention, and suddenly one giant arm clamped Carson’s body, pinning both arms tight. Fitz moved in, whisking Carson’s guns from leather. “Out with him,” Ravenal commanded. The boy twisted, squirmed, but it was no use; he was as helpless as if hog-tied. Maynard dragged him out on the street, and Fitz and Ravenal followed, the later closing the door tightly.

  A couple of minutes passed, during which Sundance thoughtfully rolled a cigarette. The front door reopened, the trio stepped back inside, Maynard dusting his huge hands. Sundance stepped out into the main room.

  “Sorry,” Ravenal said. “Yet, if you’d seen what that madman did to the kid’s brother—and with this new killing, everybody’s strung like a wire. Anyhow, I think we made it plain to him to leave you alone. Anybody else gives you any trouble, you let me know. Sure you won’t have another drink?”

  “No, thanks,” Sundance said.

  “Well, good luck. And we’ll keep an eye out for this beat-up half-breed you talked about. I’ll make some inquiries.” Ravenal put out his hand. “The Platte Hotel. Tell them I sent you and you’ll have the best room they’ve got.”

  “Obliged,” Sundance said, and left the Forks Saloon.

  ~*~

  Closing the door behind him, he looked warily up and down the street, easing out of the light, pressing back against the wall. There was no sign of young Jody Carson. Nevertheless, Sundance’s hand hung near his gun as he crossed the street toward the hotel diagonally across the way. He entered the unexpectedly spacious lobby and went to the desk. The night clerk, half asleep, came awake quickly and stared at the big man with the coppery skin, gray eyes and blond hair. “My name’s Sundance. I’d like a room.”


  “We don’t cater to—”

  Sundance checked his temper. “Marsh Ravenal said to give me the best in the house.”

  “Mr. Ravenal? Oh, in that case—” The clerk’s face changed and he shoved a register across the desk. Sundance took the pen from its well, was about to sign his name when the front door opened. “Half-breed,” a voice said harshly.

  Sundance sucked in breath, laid down the pen, and turned. The young gunman, Jody Carson stood there, and he seemed miraculously to have sobered. His hands dangled near his Colts’ butts, his eyes were clear, his mouth twisted, his spraddle-legged stance steady as a rock.

  “Carson. I thought Ravenal—” Sundance drew himself erect.

  “I don’t always do what Ravenal says. I ain’t like everybody else in town. And I want you.”

  “I’ve got no quarrel with you,” Sundance said quietly.

  “But I got one with you. The goddam Injuns killed my brother, tortured him to death ... ” Something blazed in the blue eyes.

  “I’m here to try to find the man who did it.”

  Jody Carson spat an obscenity. “You got red skin. That’s enough for me. Blood for blood—” Something changed in his eyes.

  Sundance never saw the draw he made. The gun was simply there in Carson’s hand, lined, but that difference in the eyes had been the tip-off. And Sundance had also drawn, and his own gun, clear of leather a crucial fraction of a second quicker than the other’s, roared. Its slug plowed into Carson’s chest, whirling him around, and his own bullet chugged into the desk front. Carson’s mouth dropped open, his eyes widened with astonishment. “You—How could you outdraw—?” He tried to raise the gun again and Sundance shot once more. That pitched him against the glass door of the hotel, and it shattered and he fell through it, sprawling half on the sidewalk, his legs inside the room. Above him, an enormous shard of glass groaned, then fell like the blade of a guillotine, chopped into the dead man’s legs, and smashed on the floor.