by John Benteen
“It’s all right,” Sundance said. He glanced at Ravenal, flanked by his bodyguards, decided this was not the time to tell what he had discovered. “I found the last wounded doe, finished her off.”
“And that brush could have been full of rabid animals!”
“Yeah, they’d been there,” Sundance said. “Now, let’s poison those antelope carcasses up yonder like all the rest. Ravenal—” his voice hardened. “Next time you shoot, make sure you’re in range to kill and kill clean, or else have the guts to finish off your game yourself.”
Ravenal’s face darkened. “Sundance,” he said quietly, “I don’t let anybody to talk to me that way.”
“Well, I just did. I’m runnin’ this operation, and either you do it my way or you stay clear of it.” Ravenal opened his mouth to speak, then closed it without a word, face red. “Gentlemen,” Taylor said uneasily.
But Ravenal relaxed. “No. Sundance is right. I got carried away. I’ve been too busy in town, had too little time for hunting. I’ll take his reprimand this time and—” He broke off as someone shouted in the distance and hoofbeats drummed across the flat. The men twisted in the saddle to see half a dozen troopers pounding toward them.
“What the hell?” Taylor blurted and spurred his horse, running it to meet them. Sundance followed, with the others coming hard behind.
The sergeant in the lead drew up his sweating mount, face working beneath his forage cap, eyes wide with shock and fear. “Cap’n—” he managed and seemed to freeze.
“All right!” Taylor snapped. “Out with it!”
“Jonas!” the sergeant blurted. “Kelly! They’re dead!”
“What? Impossible! They were riding with your detail! How—?”
“I don’t know!” The sergeant shook his head. “Arrows! Injun arrows! They just come from nowhere, made no sound. Jonas and Kelly was standin’ guard while we poisoned a carcass, and then we heard ’em yell and whipped around, and there they lay, each one of ’em with a pair of arrows in his chest! It was like—like they’d been struck by lightnin’!”
“Come on!” Ravenal rasped, his voice commanding. “Let’s take a look. Dammit, when that bastard can strike right under our noses—” He put his horse into a run, Fitz and Maynard swinging out on his flanks. Sundance and Taylor looked at one another, and then Taylor nodded.
“Show us, sergeant!” he ordered, and as the troopers turned their mounts, he and Sundance followed.
~*~
The two soldiers lay where they’d fallen, hard by the carcass of a fresh-killed cow. Sightless eyes stared upward at the hard blue sky. Their shirts were stained with red, the two arrows in each chest protruding not quite a foot. “All right,” Taylor snapped. “You men form a line of skirmishers and keep your heads up. Anything that moves out there, shoot first and ask questions later.” He and Sundance surveyed the land in the direction from which the arrows must have come. Flat, unbroken, covered by bunch grass, but otherwise seemingly without cover for as far as the eye could reach, it appeared impossible that anyone could have come within bow range of the soldiers. “Jim,” Taylor said in a tone of bafflement.
“He knew his business,” Sundance said. “Came up on his belly, used every inch of cover. A damned good stalk—and likely he’s pulled back now to wherever he came from, the same way.”
“I don’t see how he could have done it.”
“He could have,” Sundance said. “I could have.”
“Yeah, you could have,” Ravenal said behind him in a hard, strange voice. “Sundance, you freeze. One reach, and either Fitz or me’ll kill you.”
“Mr. Ravenal—” Taylor swung his horse. Slowly Sundance turned his own mount, to find himself staring into the muzzles of Fitz’s matched six-guns and Marsh Ravenal’s Winchester.
“No, you hold on, Taylor,” Ravenal said tautly. “Those arrows are just like the rest—Cheyenne. And by God, every Cheyenne and half-breed’s been chased out of the territory ... except this one. I think it’s time we put Sundance through the mill.”
“But it’s impossible! He was with us all the time!”
“Except when he was in that draw. How do we know he didn’t circle while we were arguin’ about followin’ him? It’s not but three-quarters of a mile. Anyhow, after what happened to my wife, I’m leavin’ no stone unturned. Get down, Sundance, and unbuckle that weapons belt, slow and easy.”
Sundance drew in breath. He glanced at Taylor, saw doubt in the face of the officer. Hands upraised, he slid from the saddle, and very carefully unlatched the belt that held his weapons.
Maynard, with a grunt of satisfaction, swung down and picked them up. “Keep him covered, Fitz.” Ravenal also dismounted. “Now,” he said. “I’ve been wonderin’ what’s in these bull hide bags he carries everywhere behind his saddle. By God, we’ll see.” He reached for the long, cylindrical pannier.
“I’ll tell you what’s in it,” Sundance rasped. “A bow, a quiver full of arrows, a war bonnet, and some other things I’d rather you didn’t touch.”
'“What you want don’t make any difference now.” Ravenal opened the pannier, shook its contents onto the ground. One of the nearby troopers grunted something as the short, powerful bow, unstrung, slid out, followed by the panther-skin quiver, its arrows spilling into the grass.
Something glowed in Ravenal’s eyes as he picked up an arrow. “Same markings, almost. Just one stripe of color different—”
“Likely there’s another difference,” Sundance said. “Push one of those arrows all the way through one of those dead soldiers yonder. Take a look at the point.”
“I aim to. I aim to take a look at everything, Maynard—”
The lanky giant went to a corpse, tried to pull an arrow out. Its barbed head held it, so he did as Sundance had said, pushed it on through. Disregarding the blood that coated it, he yanked it free, held it out to Ravenal.
The tautness in Sundance relaxed. “Steel point,” he said. “Most Indians use ’em nowadays. They’re easier to make.”
“So what?”
“Take a look at my arrows. They’ve all got flint points. I make the heads myself. They’ve got more shocking power, more stopping power than the iron points. Captain Taylor, if you’ll compare ’em, please.”
Taylor picked up one of the arrows from the panther-skin quiver, held it next to the one from the dead soldier. “Wholly unlike. And a difference in the painted stripe.”
“Every Indian has his personal mark,” Sundance said. “That one’s mine. I don’t know who the other one belongs to.”
Taylor shook his head and said to Ravenal, “Call off your gunman. As far as I’m concerned, Sundance is in the clear.”
“No,” Ravenal said. “How do we know he didn’t have some steel-headed arrows in the quiver?” He looked at Sundance with eyes like chips of stone. “I ask that you hold him under arrest until you’ve contacted General Crook.”
Sundance grinned faintly. “Any of you got the guts to follow me back down into that draw where I killed the antelope? There’s something there I want to show you.”
“It ought to be burned out first,” Ravenal snapped.
“No,” Sundance said. “Come with me now, Taylor, Ravenal. Bring along a guard.”
Fitz and Maynard will be guard enough,” said Ravenal.
“I want soldiers,” Sundance said.
“Of course,” Captain Taylor said. “Sergeant, I want a detail of four men. The rest of you return to the post with the bodies. I’ll take no more risks until this whole thing’s ironed out.” He took Sundance’s weapons from Maynard. “These are in my custody until I decide to release them.”
~*~
A half hour later, with the soldiers standing guard, Sundance showed Taylor and Ravenal the moccasin print in the bottom of the draw. Deliberately, he pressed into the sand a print of his own foot. “Jackboots, not moccasins. He was down here watching what was going on. When he saw his chance, he left, stalked one of the teams, put his arrows into th
ose soldiers from maybe two hundred and fifty or three hundred yards. Bellied down so they couldn’t even see him.”
“Impossible,” Ravenal snorted. “At such a range—”
Sundance met his eyes. “Ravenal,” he said. “You give me two arrows and my bow, and I’ll meet you at three hundred yards anytime, with you armed with a Winchester and two rounds. You want to try it in case you don’t believe me?”
Ravenal’s eyes flickered. “No. Anyhow, this moccasin track proves—”
“That it was somebody else, not me,” Sundance said. “And whoever it was, he made a mistake. Because I know where he is now, and sooner or later I will find his sign and trail him down.”
“Not yet,” Taylor said, rubbing his face. “Not until I get in touch with General Crook and get orders to clear up this whole affair.” He gestured. “Let’s mount and ride. Things are finished for today. The men wouldn’t go out any more even if I ordered them to, and I don’t want a mutiny on my hands.”
Chapter Six
He would have to go into the draws and washes, the breaks and badlands; into the thickets and woods, and the high grass, and there would be danger everywhere, so he made his preparations carefully. In addition to the thick jackboots that reached above the knee, he donned heavy bull hide leggings that would cover the rest of the body to the waist, and despite the summer heat, a bull hide jacket and wrist cuffs and gauntlets over his buckskin shirt. All that swathing slowed his movements a little, made him just a trifle awkward, but there was no help for it. None of it would turn the full power of a bite from the massive jaws of a lobo wolf, but it would shield him from the smaller animals, up to and including, he hoped, coyotes.
Then there was the horse to think about. Again, he’d not risk Eagle, the Appaloosa stallion, though that cut his advantage even more. A trained war-horse, the stud’s keen senses, iron-shod hooves, and crushing jaws had saved his life more than once, but he could not bear the thought of its being bitten. So he had to settle for Bourke’s gelding, superb but no match for Eagle. And it, too, must have protection. He wrapped its legs to knees and hocks with shields of bull hide, and draped it with a kind of bull hide apron he devised, the sort of thing he had seen Mexican vaqueros in the brush country use to protect their mounts from the thorns of the Brasada. Crook and Bourke watched all this and lent a hand, and Bourke said wryly, “You look like a member of King Arthur’s Round Table going out on a quest.”
The General gave his aide a reproving glance. “It’s no joking matter. It’s only common sense.”
“I know. I wouldn’t do it for a million dollars—unless, of course, you gave me a direct order, sir.”
Crook shook his head. “It’s not anything I’d give anyone a direct order to do. But I agree with Sundance. There’s no other way. We decided that at the conference—Sundance, Taylor and I. After those two men took those arrows and the word spread, the troopers simply won’t go on with the poisoning program until that madman’s laid by the heels. So there’s no way around it—Jim has to go out and find him. Sundance, would it be any help to you if I rode with you? You’ve hunted with me; I’m a fair hand at this kind of thing myself, you know.”
They were in the stables at the North Platte post, to which Crook and Bourke had come immediately upon receiving Taylor’s wire. Sundance straightened up from his final inspection of the horse. “Three-Stars, there’s nobody I’d rather have. But this is a different kind of hunt and a one-man job—Cheyenne against Cheyenne. Good as you are, you’re ho Cheyenne, and you’d only slow me down.”
He paused. “I’ve got a place to start from now. I’d have lined out after him yesterday and might even have caught him if Ravenal hadn’t pulled his little caper of disarming me and checking my arrows. That gave him plenty of time to get away. But he left one track and he’ll leave more. Nobody can hide his trail all the time. I’ll find him—and then we’ll see what happens. Meanwhile, if you’d do what I said about Ravenal—”
“Yes. I’ll check into everything about him very carefully—and quietly. I don’t see what connection he could possibly have with this madman, but—”
“Neither do I. All I know is that he stopped me yesterday at the wrong time, and then there was that business with Jody Carson ... You keep an eye on him. It’ll be like watching my back.”
Crook nodded. “Well, good luck. I’ve got to get back to my office.” He and Bourke put out their hands and Sundance shook them, and then they left the stable.
Sundance looked around. Everything was complete, except for—he picked up a tow sack full of tallow balls, each containing a cyanide pellet. These he would sprinkle as he went, get that much poisoning done. Then a sudden thought hit him. Fishing out one of the balls, he broke it open, extracting the pellet carefully. He held it in his hand, looking at it with a kind of awe. A small thing to be so deadly; swallowed, it would produce instantaneous, painless death. He remembered the man beneath the restraining sheet, the howling, the gnashing, drooling jaws ... and if he himself were bitten, he had no intention of going like that. He found an empty cartridge box laid aside after cramming his belt and weapons full of loads, slipped the pellet in if, then dropped it in the side pocket of his jacket. Only a precaution, but he was almost literally about to enter the valley of the shadow, and a man had to be prepared for anything.
Then he was ready, swung into the saddle, bull hide gear creaking, turned the strangely armored horse, and rode out of the North Platte post, beneath a high sun.
~*~
Circling the town, keeping within the burnt area, he struck the North Fork of the river, followed it west a few miles going away from where the murders had taken place the previous day. Then he doubled back, swinging northeastward, and now he was on the hunt in earnest. In a wash beneath a sandy bluff, he reined in, opened the long parfleche, withdrew the short, recurved bow of juniper tipped with buffalo horn, and, without dismounting, strung it, slipping it and the panther-skin quiver full of arrows over his shoulder, where he could get it into action in a couple of seconds. The killer yesterday had proved the advantage of bow and arrows over rifle in certain circumstances: a good Cheyenne warrior could drive home an arrow as accurately as a bullet at three hundred yards, and there was no gun sound or muzzle flash or cloud of powder smoke to give away his position.
Thus armed, and with his Winchester across the saddle bow, he worked his way back toward the scene of the killing. Now he traveled slowly, taking advantage of every bit of cover as only an Indian could do, and always on the alert for any scrap of sign, either of man or animal. Of animals he found enough, including that of a kit fox apparently in the last stages of rabies. Usually a fox placed its feet so that all its tracks fell in a straight line; this one had been lurching and sprawling, with paw prints going everywhere. Here and there Sundance dropped a few of the poisoned tallow balls. The fox itself would not take them, was too far gone even to swallow, but any animals it might have bitten would. Sundance fingered the cartridge box in his pocket, then rode on.
Mid-afternoon found him at last in the draw where the dead antelope’s body had already been savaged by scavengers, and where the moccasin track still showed. This wash or one running into it would have been the logical place of retreat for the killer while Ravenal was delaying him. Maybe somewhere further down it, before it broke into the Platte bottomlands, he could find more sign. He unslung the bow, held an arrow at the ready. If he encountered any rabid animals, he did not want to betray his own presence with a gunshot. These, he figured, would probably be the chief menace; it was not likely that the killer was hanging around the scene of the crime.
Carefully, on foot, leading the horse, stopping often to search the brushy edges of the draw, he worked his way along it. Half a mile, a mile, and still no sign of man or horse beyond that one print. Maybe he was barking up the wrong tree, should move out on the flats, search the bunch grass where the killer had lain when he’d loosed those arrows. Instead, he redoubled his watchfulness, taking it even slowe
r, and making sure not to miss even the slightest sign of human passage.
Another mile, traversed along the winding wash, with a patience that would have sent the average white man into fits. Then Sundance tensed, dropping to his knees. Moistening his finger, he dipped it into a tuft of grass. A long breath of satisfaction came from him as he examined the brown flecks clinging to it when he brought it up. Carefully he searched the grass and at last he found it—a tiny wad of paper, hardly larger than a pinhead, rolled up tightly, dropped there along with the tail end of the tobacco the cigarette had contained when someone had stripped it and hidden its remains.
Getting to his feet, he dusted off his hands. So he was on the right trail after all. A little more swiftly now, he moved along, bow up as he edged around a sharp bend in the draw.
Here the whole floor of the wash changed, turning from sand to rocky, sunbaked hardpan. Jutting from the wall was a scrubby juniper—and Sundance searched its limbs painstakingly until he found the stripped bark where the reins of a tied horse had chafed a branch. His eyes searched the wash’s floor, and finally picked out the faint scars made by the hoofs of an unshod horse. Again, these were things few white men would have noticed; but if the killer had been mounted, that would have been the logical place to leave his horse. It was easier for a man to hide his own tracks in the sand of the wash’s upper end than those of his mount.