Sundance 3

by John Benteen

  The man looked at him curiously. “You heard me,” Sundance said, and when his eyes met the waiter’s, the waiter moved without any questions.

  Sundance leaned back in the chair, loosened his Colt in its holster, watched the crowd. He had spent the summer down in the Sierra Madre as chief guard for a silver mine, his function not only to ward off the bandits who were like vultures, but to make peace with the Tarahumara and the Yaquis and recruit them for labor in the mines. It had been a rough time with a lot of fighting, not only against the Mexicans, but against the mine bosses, to make sure the Indians were decently treated and well-paid. He had prevailed, though, and there was more than one Tarahumara village now enjoying unaccustomed prosperity. His payoff had been in silver, more than fifteen thousand of it, and he had sent that East, too. Now, six of the seven thousand would follow it.

  The waiter brought the whiskey. Sundance sipped the first drink slowly. Half Indian as he was, he lacked the white man’s tolerance for alcohol. A very little of it could do a lot of damage to him; too much and he lost all control, wanted then only to fight, smash, destroy. So he had learned to limit himself rigidly.

  Twenty thousand dollars he would have sent to his man in Washington so far this year; and still it would not be enough. Justice came high in this country, and you had to have a professional lobbyist to buy it for you. He was buying it for the Indians.

  They had no one else on their side, not in Washington, in Congress, where it counted. Now that railroads had crossed the country, had sent out fingers north and south, settlers were pouring in everywhere. Sundance, half white, could understand, even sympathize with the land hunger that drove poverty-stricken men west to build new lives, but half Indian, he could sympathize too with the tribes being driven off their territory or cheated of their rights to make room for that white influx. Treaty after treaty he’d seen broken, tribe after tribe betrayed. And no one cared. The railroads, the banks, the land developers, everybody who stood to profit by the seizure of Indian hunting grounds, bought and sold Senators and Congressmen like potatoes. It was their influence that had built things up to such a pass that now the Indians were faced with a choice: either come to reservations too barren to support coyotes and prairie dogs, much less human life, or be exterminated.

  Single-handed, Sundance had tried to reverse that policy. Years before, he had hired one of the best lawyers in Washington to act as lobbyist for the Indians. He financed that man with the money he earned—and he had only one way of earning big money in a hurry: with his guns. But the need was limitless, the few thousands he could earn nothing against the hundreds of thousands, even millions, that offset it ...

  He took another drink. Lately he had begun to despair. He had hoped that somehow an accommodation could be reached, that this huge land out here would prove to be big enough for whites and Indians to share and live in peace. He could see now that, unless things changed, and quickly, that would never happen. What loomed ahead, instead, was total war, a showdown. A battle that he knew the Indians could not win, one that would cost a lot of lives on both sides before it ended.

  And yet he would not give up. As long as there was breath in him and cartridges in his belt, he would fight to try to stave off that battle. And if he failed ...

  He drained his first glass. If he failed and it finally came, then he would have to make a choice, decide which side at the end, he would be on.

  He picked up the other glass. Then he saw the woman.

  Chapter Two

  She came out of the gambling room at the rear, tall, slender, full-breasted, and with jet black hair piled high above features as clean-cut as a cameo. Unlike the percentage girls and whores, she wore a long dress that almost swept the floor, and although it was tight over large, round breasts, its neckline was high and its sleeves reached to her wrists. Whoever she was, Sundance realized immediately, she was not one of the girls who worked the bar and the little cubicles upstairs. He followed her with his eyes as she moved through the crowd, slapping off a groping hand here, eluding the attempt of a drunken cowboy there to stop her. At the end of the bar, she ordered a drink, sipped it slowly, running her eyes over the crowd. They met Sundance’s, and they were as black as his own, large and long-lashed. Coolly, boldly, she looked him over: that big, red-skinned, blond man in the buckskin shirt; and something flickered in her gaze. Then she turned her head away.

  Sundance sipped his second drink.

  The girl drained her glass. Sundance judged she was in her late twenties, and she had a regal way about her that he liked; she seemed to place high value on herself, and her attitude served now to shield her from approaches by the men who crowded this place.

  She ordered another drink, and she looked at Sundance again, frowning slightly. When the bartender refilled her glass, she took it and came slowly toward his table.

  “Hello,” she said, standing over him. “Mind if I sit down?”

  He rose, pulled out a chair for her. As he did so, her eyes raked him up and down. “Yes,” she said. “I think you’re the one. Your name’s Sundance, isn’t it?”

  “That’s right. Why?”

  “There were some men in here a little while ago looking for you. Three Texans, one named Chessman. Loaded for bear. They came in, checked, went out again, but they told me if I saw a half-breed with yellow hair, in a buckskin shirt, to let ’em know.”

  Sundance said, “Who’re you?”

  “My name’s Lucille, Lucille Hinton. I own a half interest in this place, deal faro in the back. Chessman was mad as hell, had blood in his eye. What did you do to him?”

  “Took some money off him at poker.”

  “How much?”

  “Seven thousand.”

  She whistled. “No wonder he was sore. Straight game, or did you—?”

  “It was straight,” Sundance said.

  Her red lips compressed. There was contempt in her voice. “He claimed you cheated.”

  “I didn’t. He’s a sore loser. It wasn’t his own money that he lost.”

  “I figured that. I hate cheapjacks like him. Well, you’d better keep your eyes peeled. He’s ranging up and down Delano and Wichita, apparently, trying to find you. As a matter of fact, you just missed him.”

  “I’ll worry about him when I see him.”

  She nodded. “Yeah, you look like you could take care of yourself, even against three Texans. Sundance. Some name. You are half Indian, then.”

  “My mother was Cheyenne. My father came from England.”

  “Remittance man?”

  Sundance nodded. “Black sheep of the family. They paid him to clear out, stay out. He came out here in the beaver days, liked the way the Cheyennes lived, married a Cheyenne woman, was adopted into the tribe. Gave up his real name, took the name Sundance, because he was the first white man the Cheyennes had allowed to join in their Sun Dance ceremony.”

  “You don’t sound like a half-breed. Usual half-breed you see, he’s a drunk, a bum ...”

  “Maybe you would be, too, if you were caught in between two worlds, and neither one would accept you.”

  “But you sound like you’ve had education.”

  “My father had. He taught me everything he knew. He was a trader. All the tribes knew him, accepted him. When I was a kid, we lived among them all— Cheyennes, Sioux, Apaches, even the Yakimas and the Bannacks. He made me learn everything they could teach me, but he made sure I learned everything a white man had to know, too.”

  “I see. Only ...” She hesitated. “Well, they’re kind of dirty, aren’t they? The Indians?”

  Sundance grinned thinly, looked around the room. “They don’t run places like this,” he said.

  Lucille’s face turned pink. “Yeah,” she said. “I see what you mean. Well, sometimes people do what they have to do, whether they like it or not.”

  “If I’m no ordinary half-breed, you’re no ordinary bar girl, either.”

  “No. I come from a good family back in Richmond. Even went
to a finishing school. But I ... made a mistake. Fell in love with the wrong man. Girls do that sometimes, when they’re young and foolish.” She sighed, was silent for a moment. “So I wound up here. My family doesn’t know whether I’m alive or dead. I guess it’s better that way.” Then she brightened. “What about another drink? It’s on the house.”

  “Thanks, but two’s my limit. More than that, I get ornery.”

  Her brows lifted. “That does make you a freak out here.”

  “Let me buy you one.”

  “No. I buy my own. I don’t like people to have a claim on me.”

  “That makes two of us,” Sundance said.

  She was silent for a moment. Then she said, “I’m off shift for tonight. I think maybe I’ll have my next drink upstairs, in my room. Maybe … maybe you’d like to come and talk to me while I do.”

  Sundance said, “Maybe.”

  “But you’d better get one thing straight. I call my own shots, you understand? If I like you, I’m nice. If I don’t, you get out.”

  Sundance smiled. “That makes two of us again.”

  She stood up. “But I think I’m going to like you,” she said.

  Wichita ran around the clock. When Sundance woke up, he could hear the whinnying of horses, the crunch of wagon wheels, the whoops of drunken cowboys, the tinny music from downstairs and outside. The croupiers and barkers kept up their droning spiels, and everything went full blast, although it was seven in the morning.

  As he swung out of bed, Lucille awakened, sat up, brushing back a lock of black hair that had fallen over her eyes. Even emerging from sleep, she was very lovely. Looking at her, Sundance remembered last night. It had been good, very good. “Where do you think you’re going?” she murmured.

  “Daybreak,” he said. “I’ve got to be on my way.”

  “No.” Her gaze ranged up and down his scarred, naked body, coppery and muscle-banded. “No, not yet.”

  “I’ve got things to do,” Sundance said.

  Lucille sat up, and the sheet fell away from naked breasts, ripe, pink-tipped. “But not so soon,” she said. “Not yet, please.”

  Sundance looked at her. He smiled. “Well, maybe I could stay a little longer.” He went back to the bed, and as he did, she smiled too and held out her arms.

  Later, face dazed with satisfaction, she watched him strap on his weapons: gun, knife, axe. “You’re not leaving Wichita?”

  “That depends on what kind of action I find today. I need some money, lots of it, quick.”

  “Come and buck our games tonight. They’re square.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Please do,” she whispered.

  “We’ll see.” Sundance went to her, bent, kissed her. She clung to him for a long time. Then he straightened up, reached for his hat. “If I go, I’ll see you before I leave.”

  “Yes,” she said. Then, as he turned to the door, she said, sharply: “Sundance.”

  He turned.

  “Chessman,” she said. “Chessman and his Texans. Don’t forget them.”

  “I won’t,” Sundance said. Then he went out.

  Behind him, Lucille called: “Be careful. For God’s sake, be careful.”

  He was. As he walked through Delano, crossed the bridge into Wichita, he scanned both sides of the street and often checked his back. He moved slowly, careful to see what he looked at, in the Indian fashion, but nothing gave him cause for alarm.

  He went to the livery stable, checked on the appaloosa stallion, Eagle, saw that the big horse received plenty of good hay, only a little grain. The stallion came to the fence, nuzzled him, and he patted it and scratched it between the ears. It whickered lonesomely as he left it to find a restaurant and have some breakfast.

  He ate heartily, but not enough to slow him or dull his reflexes, and he picked a table in a corner, where his back was protected and he could see everyone who came in. By the time he had finished, the bank was open, and he went down to the freight station to reclaim his money, which he would arrange to have transferred to Washington. Still he saw no sign of Chessman or his Texans. “Anybody been here lookin’ for me?” he asked the agent.

  “No sir.” The man put the bag of gold on the table, slid Sundance’s receipt in the file. “But if you’re gonna tote all that up Douglas Street, you’d better watch out. Somebody will be.”

  Sundance only grinned. With the bag in one hand, his other on his gun butt, he went out on the platform. The reek of buffalo hides struck him like a blow as the wind changed; he felt his breakfast heave inside him. But there was no sign of any trouble. He went down the steps, started up the street. But he had not made five paces when he halted. Before he could even take cover, they were pounding toward him, a dozen horsemen, riding hard, making for the freight station; and he recognized Chessman in the lead.

  Sundance sucked in a long breath. He drew his gun, held it down by his side. Those were Texas cowboys behind Chessman and every one was armed. Sun glinted off of rifle barrels, or on six-shooters in their hands. Chessman himself carried a Winchester across his saddle bow.

  He saw Sundance standing there, reined in so hard that, behind him, horses reared. Then the dozen Texans fanned out, and that many guns were lined on Sundance.

  Chessman put his white-footed sorrel forward, the Winchester aimed, its hammer back. “Sundance,” he said.

  “Hello, Chessman.”

  The trail boss’s eyes flickered to the canvas bag. “You got something there that belongs to me.”

  “I don’t see how you figure that,” Sundance said.

  “I figure it because that deck last night was stacked.”

  Sundance said, “Chessman, that deck was straight. You’re a little late complaining. But if you think you got a case, go swear out a warrant against me with the law.”

  Chessman’s hard mouth curled. “Kansas law? You know what kind of shake a Texas outfit’s got with that. Law ain’t our long suit, Sundance. I want my money.”

  “Try to get it.”

  “You can’t fight a dozen men.”

  “Eleven,” Sundance said. “If there’s a fight, you’re the first man dead. See how much good your money does you then.”

  Chessman raised the rifle. “Sundance, this is your last chance. You got until I count five to hand that money over.”

  Sundance tensed, hand tightening on his gun. One, at least, he thought; maybe two or three. But the others would surely blast him down. A smart man would have given up the gold. But he did not feel smart this morning. Every nerve, every muscle, came alert, primed for action. Maybe if he stood fast, he could bluff a little. If not—

  “One,” said Chessman. His sorrel curveted, but his gun muzzle never left Sundance. His mouth was a slit. “Two—” The other Texans put their horses forward slightly, their guns trained. “Three—”

  And it was hopeless, Sundance saw. He changed his mind, understanding that he had no choice. And yet, something would not let him speak until the last second. “Four,” said Chessman, reining closer, the Winchester at point-blank range, now. He grinned, opened his mouth to make the last number.

  Then a voice came from Sundance’s left. “Don’t say five, Texas. If you do, you’re dead.”

  And another voice from the right: “All of you are dead if you say that word.”

  Chessman froze. His face changed. He stared at Sundance, and Sundance stared back.

  “You’re whipsawed, Texas,” came the voice again, from the left. “I’ve got a double-barreled ten-gauge riot gun on you, and so’s my boy across the street. First man busts a cap, there’s gonna be thirty-six blue whistlers in your crowd, and damn few of your cowboys will ever herd a longhorn again.”

  Chessman only sat there, gun trained. Then, slowly, he lowered the Winchester, and for the first time, Sundance dared to look toward right and left.

  The man on his left was in his middle, maybe late, forties. He was big and thick-bodied, with close-cropped, grizzled gray hair and a gray mustache. He reminde
d Sundance of a silvertip bear, all power and savagery, as he held the ten-gauge high, swinging it back and forth to cover the Texans.

  Sundance’s eyes shuttled to the right. The man there was a younger duplicate of the one on the left. Unlike the older man, he was not dressed in business clothes. He wore a broad brimmed hat, a leather jacket, chaps and high-heeled boots. Two Colts were tied down to his thighs, holstered on crisscrossed belts. Everything about him shouted the one word: gunslinger. And the short-barreled shotgun that he held was exactly like the one across the street.

  Chessman let out a long breath. “Horne,” he said. “I don’t get this. We just done business together. Only yesterday, you paid me for my herd. What put-in is this of yours?”

  “That’s my business,” the silvertip grizzly of a man said. “Yours is to drop your guns and ride out of town. This time, Chessman, you’re the one with five. If you ain’t called off your wolves by then, there’ll be a lot of Texas blood in this street’s dust.” The thick lips beneath the mustache smiled. “One, Chessman.”

  “Boss,” the man called Wes said, “we can’t buck all them blue whistlers.”

  “Shut up,” said Chessman furiously.

  “Two,” the man called Horne said. “Leroy, you ready?”

  “Ready, Daddy,” the gunman across the street said clearly.

  “Three,” Horne said.

  Chessman’s head swiveled. He looked from one leveled shotgun to the other. Then he snarled a curse. “All right, Horne.” He eased down the hammer of the Winchester, let it drop. “Boys, they got us whipsawed. Throw down your guns.”

  “I’ll turn your weapons over to the Marshal,” Horne said. “You can git ’em tomorrow. Drop ’em, Texas men.”

  “Dammit,” Chessman snapped, and his voice broke. “You heard him! Throw down your guns!”

  There was muttering. The cowboys looked at the four shotgun bores, and those black muzzles spoke more eloquently than Chessman’s orders. One by one, they pitched their Colts and Remingtons to the street, unsheathed their Winchesters and dropped them, too.