Blood Dance

by Joe R. Lansdale

  I walked toward the old man, said, “That’s a nice horse you got there.”

  The old timer grinned. “Ain’t it. Injin pony. Got him off a Sioux warrior.”

  “That so?”

  “A fact. Injin nearly lifted my hair.”

  I couldn’t help smiling. The old man had a perfectly honest face. White hair jutted out from beneath his hat like weeds.

  “Want to sell him?”

  “What? This horse?”

  “You got another?”

  The old timer laughed, spat a greasy string of tobacco in the street. “Well, maybe we could get out of the street and talk.”

  “Seeing how that’s my horse, old timer, I’m going to offer you one hell of a deal. You turn him over to me and I won’t put this Winchester up your nose and shoot it until I run out of bullets.”

  “Wha—?” The old timer turned to look at the horse. “I’ll be damn-fangled. This ain’t my horse, Boss?”

  “You don’t say.”

  “I do, I do. I’ve done you a bad thing. I’m right embarrassed about it.”

  “Thought it was Boss, huh?”

  “Looked just like him, and I’m old and I’ve been drinkin’.”

  “Naturally you got confused.”

  “Size of it.”

  “I’d like my horse.”

  The old timer handed me the reins. “I figure you don’t believe what I told you?”

  “You figure right.”

  “Well, all right, I was stealin’ the nag.”

  “Not mining much gold?” I said sourly.

  “I think I’ll go back to buffalo huntin’.”

  “Best hurry, they’re getting kind of shy.”

  I started to walk away, leading my horse. The old timer tagged right along.

  “That’s true,” he said. “Used to be a lot of them critters. Wonder what happened to ’em.”

  “It’s a mystery,” I said sarcastically. I stopped leading the horse. “What’s your name, old timer?”

  “Honest Roy Chiders.”

  “You’re pulling my leg.”

  “No. I have this tendency to borrow things, so I sort of got this backwards handle. You know, they call a big guy Tiny, a fat guy Slim, a little guy—”

  “I get it, I get it,” I said. “I bet you sell what you borrow, too.”

  “I wouldn’t lie to you. I do just that.”

  I sighed. “Listen, tell me where I can sell this horse. I’ll pick up another when I leave.”

  “I know right where to sell him. What’s your name, by the way?”

  “Melgrhue,” I said. “Red Spot Melgrhue.”

  “Come on, Red Spot. I’ll show you along.”

  I scratched my beard. “You don’t know where I can get a bath and a shave, do you?”

  Roy stopped walking. “Now what you want to do that for? Make you sick to wash off your manly protection.”

  “The only thing this stink protects you from is mosquitoes.”

  “There you are,” Honest Roy said sincerely.

  3

  I got rock-bottom price for my horse, even with the saddle and bridle thrown in. The blacksmith who bought him made a big point about how it was an Indian pony and the saddle was badly worn.

  I made the point that the horse was well fed and in good shape, and that it was bridle-trained, Indian pony or not.

  He still gave me the same price. I kept my blanket and saddlebags, and on the way over to the flophouse, Honest Roy told me that the price I got for the horse was what the blacksmith paid for all horses, except dead ones. And then he still got a good profit there, seeing how his wife, Pickle Nose Annie, ran a restaurant.

  I made a note to mind what I ate in Deadwood Gulch.

  I stowed the gear at the flophouse and went with Honest Roy to a saloon. Roy had promised to buy me a drink. The stuff tasted bad. It did not have the color of honest whisky.

  “You want another, Red Spot?” Honest Roy asked me.

  “This will hold me, Roy.”

  There weren’t any tables, so we leaned against the wall. A few miners had some stumps pulled up around barrels and they were playing cards on those.

  “Well,” Honest Roy said “if you won’t have a drink, that’s good. More for me.” He laughed at his own joke and went back to the bar.

  When he got back, I said, “I’ve had it in here. I’m going to get me some fresh air.”

  “Ain’t much fresher in the street,” Honest Roy said. “What say you and me find us a card game?”

  “Go ahead. Somehow I don’t think there’d be much of an honest deal in here.”

  “Not an honest game in the Gulch,” Roy said, “But I cheat.” He patted the .36 Navy on his hip. “And if they cheat…”

  “I’ll just go out for some air, Roy. Good night.”

  “Have it your way, Red Spot.”

  Like most of the men in the saloon, I had carried my weapon in with me. So, I left out of there with my Winchester. I had stowed my saddlebags and the Sharps back at the flophouse and I wanted to get back there before Moses decided to sell them.

  Out in the street, swinging his way along on the other side, I spied a familiar face. I recognized all three men. One of them was a Crow Indian in cowboy dress. The other was Taggart. And the man leading them was none other than my old friend, Mix Miller.

  I felt a hot flush. Suddenly I thought of Bucklaw falling from his horse, his face half blown away.

  I swung-cocked the Winchester and started across the street.

  “Mix!” I yelled.

  Mix stopped, turned, and looked at me. He didn’t seem to recognize me. Which was understandable. My clothes looked worse for wear and my hat was drooped down in my face. I had a thick beard and mustache as well.

  “I know you?” Mix asked. The Crow and Taggart had stopped in their tracks behind him. They were really putting the eyeball to me.

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, can’t say as I recall the face.” His hand drifted down to touch the butt of his revolver even as he smiled.

  “We met in Custer.”

  “I met a lot of people in Custer. Sorry, don’t remember you.”

  “Sure you do. We robbed a train. Got a hatful of watches and some change.”

  Mix’s eyes narrowed. “Melgrhue?”

  “Melgrhue,” I said, and jerked the Winchester up even with Mix’s chest.

  He was fast, but not fast enough. My shot caught him in the chest and shattered his breastbone. He twisted on his heel as if it were nailed to the ground, and wound down to the ground.

  His two companions drew down on me. A shot sent my hat spinning. I dropped and cocked two quick shots at them. One knocked the Crow’s right eye out but the other missed Taggart.

  Taggart’s revolver was right on me. I knew Taggart had a bullet with my name on it, but suddenly the side of his head went to pieces and he went sideways into the street.

  I wheeled to my right. Honest Roy was holstering his .36 Navy.

  “Figured I owed you one,” he said. “‘Sides, I was losin’, and it was a fair game.”

  “Glad to see you.”

  “I think one of them’s still alive.”

  The streets had been half full a moment ago, but when the gunplay started it had cleared out. Pedestrians poked their heads out from behind barrels and saloon doors now. They went back about their business, not even curious. They had seen this plenty of times before.

  Roy and I walked over to the trio, and I saw that Mix was still alive, but in a very bad way.

  “Want me to finish him?” Honest Roy said.

  “He’s finished enough.” I squatted down. “Where’s Carson?”

  He opened his mouth and tried to spit on me, but all he managed was a gurgle of blood on his chin. I grabbed his hair and lifted up his head. “Where’s Carson,” I repeated. But Mix was dead.

  I stood up. “There a sheriff in this town?”

  “No. Old Man Williams will bury them for the change in their pocke
ts. Leave them.” Roy reached down and took Mix’s hat, tossed his own on the ground. He placed it on his head. “Fits,” he said.

  4

  “Tell me, Red Spot,” said Honest Roy as we walked over to the flophouse. “What did you have against them fellers?”

  “They killed a friend of mine. Tried to kill me. Double-crossed me on a deal.”

  “Reckon that’s reason enough,” Honest Roy admitted. “But if you don’t like double-dealin’, you’re in the wrong place, son. And it’s gonna get worse. When this gold fever gets spread good, every debtor, gambler, hardcase and two-bit double-crosser in the country will be here.”

  “Horse thieves, too,” I said.

  Honest Roy slapped his knee. “Hell, son, they’re already here.”

  Inside the flophouse, I reclaimed my gear and Honest Roy got a place for the night. He paid Moses.

  “Don’t stink up my blanket,” Moses warned him.

  “Shut up, puss-belly,” Roy snapped.

  We went on back to the sleeping quarters. I said to Roy, “He sure is a cantankerous sonofabitch.”

  “Guess it runs in the blood,” Honest Roy said, spitting his chaw on the floor. “He’s just like the rest of my brothers. For that matter, all my kin.”

  “Moses is your brother? I don’t believe it.”

  “Don’t like it much myself,” Roy said. “But don’t make it no less true.”

  I lay wide awake to the sound of snoring and twisting and belching. The place stank too much to sleep. My mind was too full. A sort of strangeness had crept up on me like an Indian.

  I had a taste of revenge and I wasn’t sure I liked it. But there didn’t seem to be anything else I could do. Eyes wide open, staring at the rough plank ceiling, I waited for daybreak.

  Chapter Five

  1

  Come sunup, I got out of the flophouse, leaving Honest Roy asleep, and went out to find some breakfast at any place that wasn’t Pickle Nose Annie’s.

  I ended up with flapjacks and buffalo rump, the meat being ripe enough to poison a creek with.

  After eating, I rented a horse and saddle gear, and started for a ride. I felt like getting out of Dead wood Gulch for awhile, clear my nostrils of the stink and do a little thinking.

  I had brought both rifles, and had talked Moses into the loan of a revolver. I wished right then that I had gone ahead and taken Mix’s. Some miner was probably selling it in a saloon for booze. But I didn’t spend much time harping on it.

  I was about to ride out when Honest Roy came up. He was scratching obscenely and cussing. “That’s the most louse-ridden house I’ve ever slept in,” he said.

  “The little buggers are all over me. Where you heading Red Spot?”

  “Just doing some riding.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t ride too far, or you’ll not have any hair to part. Sioux and Cheyenne are all over the place.”

  “Not going far.” I scratched my beard. “Thought I might find a stream somewhere, wash up.”

  “I told you about that,” Honest Roy said.

  “I’ll remember that you did if I get sick.”

  “Well, Red Spot, I got to get me some breakfast, the keep-down kind.”

  “I certainly do not recommend Uncle Billy’s pancakes. I would just as soon eat a buffalo chip.”

  “Maybe you did.”

  “See you later, Roy.”

  “Hey, uh, Red Spot… you wouldn’t be able to sort of loan me…”

  “Yeah.” I still had a bit left over from the sale of my horse; which, bad price and all, had turned out better than boarding him. “There.” I tossed Honest Roy a coin. “You won’t eat big with that, but you’ll eat.”

  “Watch your top-knot!” he yelled as I rode down the street and out of Deadwood Gulch.

  2

  It was beautiful country out there, and I enjoyed it. Got me away from the stench of Deadwood Gulch and the thoughts of blood and revenge that thundered through my head like a stampede of wild horses.

  I don’t know what I had expected from killing Mix, Taggart and the Crow, but I sure wasn’t getting it. Can’t say as I regretted it. If I had it to do over, I’d do it again. But it left something hollow in me. But not hollow enough for me to let Carson go.

  Riding around, I started to formulate an idea. Mix had been pretty much like a tick on Carson’s hide. If Mix had been in the Gulch, maybe Carson was, too. Or, most likely, they had split up and would meet up again.

  Even if Mix were not incentive enough for Carson to come to Deadwood Gulch, gold would be. It was the boom spot of the country. It was like Honest Roy had said; gold fever brought them all out of the woodwork—debtors, gamblers, hardcases and double-crossers. Carson was in that group. More than once, by my figuring.

  I could pound a horse all over the country looking for him, but most likely I could just wait and let Carson ride into my hands. He’d come to Deadwood Gulch, if he wasn’t there already. And if he was, I’d know soon enough.

  If he didn’t show, then I’d be no worse off. I could still ride that horse all over the country, and by Bucklaw’s dead eyes, I would; ride that beast to death if I had to, and then another and another and another till I tracked down that double-crossing, murdering sonofabitch.

  Gold had brought Bucklaw and me to this country, and in an indirect way, it had killed Bob. With luck, it would do the same for Carson. That which he worshipped would see him dead.

  Gold did strange things to me. I could still remember that newspaper and the ad that got me and old Bucklaw going.

  STRUCK IT AT LAST

  Rich Mines of Gold and Silver

  Reported Found by Custer

  PREPARE FOR LIVELY TIMES!

  Gold Expected to Fall 10 Per Cent—

  Spades and Picks Rising—The National

  Debt to Be Paid When Custer Returns.

  Yeah, I remembered it. I had read it enough times. It sure had hooked me and Bucklaw. And now even more gold had been found. The Hills would soon fill with white men, greedy and ready for gold. I hoped that greediest of all sonofabitches, Carson, was with them. If so, it would damn sure be his last camp.

  I found a creek a little later on, one with the signs of having been heavily panned. There were tracks all around it and a lot of the bank had fallen into the water from being torn down by boot heels.

  It was cold, but I’d carried my stink around long enough. I tied up the horse. Stripping off, I carried the Winchester out toward a rock in the middle of the creek. I put the rifle on the rock, balancing it within easy reach. Then I sat down in the icy water and washed. After about ten minutes I was used to the chill, and another ten or fifteen minutes had me clean. I got my Winchester and walked out of the water.

  I squatted on the bank and washed my shirt and pants. While they were drying on a pine limb, I stretched out my blanket and lay naked in the sun with the Winchester at my side. It felt good, as good a feeling as I’d had in ages.

  My clothes were just the slightest bit damp when I finally dressed, and I was thinking about stretching out on the blanket again and letting the sun finish the job when I heard gunfire.

  3

  Gunfire wasn’t too uncommon around Deadwood Gulch, but I guess I’m part busybody. As my pa used to say, “I knew it wasn’t any of my business, so I checked into it.”

  I saddled up quickly and rode toward the sound. Not fast, just easy. I was curious, not stupid.

  I came upon a place where the land sloped off pretty steep. Down about four hundred yards away I could see a party of men riding in my direction, in such a way that they would cross in front of me by about two hundred yards. If they saw me, they didn’t show it, so I figured they didn’t. Not from that angle. There were just enough trees to the right to make that difficult.

  I got off the rented horse and tied him back in the trees a bit, took the Winchester, went over to where the ground sloped and lay down.

  The riders were Indians. One was just a bit out in front of the others, and he
was riding like hell. Behind came about a half dozen whooping Sioux. The man in front was a Crow, and even from that distance I knew it was Dead Thing. In a moment, his name was going to be more appropriate than ever.

  I balanced the Winchester on the ridge and took aim at the Sioux in the lead. I owed Dead Thing and I was about to make a down payment.

  Dead Thing turned halfway, swung down to the side of his horse and fired an arrow back at the leading Sioux. Got him in the chest before I could bead in my shot.

  I picked out the next one, took my time, and fired.

  It was a head shot, and it knocked the Sioux off his horse. Wasn’t any doubt he was dead.

  I shot another of them, and that left three.

  Dead Thing wheeled his horse, and like a madman he rode back toward the Sioux.

  I had heard that the Crow would fight like hell one day, and run like hell the next. I had also heard that they are terrified of the Sioux.

  Either that is all lie, or Dead Thing was damned different. It took quite a man to ride back toward three men with rifles when he himself had nothing but a bow and arrows.

  If Dead Thing felt like I had evened the odds, then his arithmetic was a lot different from mine.

  I’ve heard that a lot of the Plains tribes could shoot arrows from horseback steadier than a white man could shoot a rifle, and I came to believe that myself. Dead Thing had three arrows in the air before the Winchester was cocked good. He held them in the same hand he held the bow with and fed them to his firing hand as fast as a Gatling gun belt. Two of the arrows found the same Sioux’s chest, and the third struck his horse in the throat. Both man and animal went down.

  One of the Sioux, as he passed, leapt off his horse and tackled Dead Thing from his.

  I dropped another Sioux with my Winchester.

  There wasn’t any way to help Dead Thing from where I was, not with him and that Sioux wrestling one another up close. All I could see was bodies spinning and knives in the air.

  I got my horse and rode down there. By the time I arrived, the Sioux was lying on the ground and Dead Thing had the man’s scalp in his hand. The Crow’s face was raised to the sky and he was yelling like a crazed coyote.