Sundance 5

by John Benteen

  Sundance looked at him steadily. “You’re lying, Colfax.”

  “Am I? I’ve got documents to prove—”

  “No. I don’t doubt what you said about having the power to make the railroad stop or go. Where you’re lying is when you say you’d stop it. I know you too well. You wouldn’t throw a fortune like that away—not for anything, not even your own daughter.”

  Colfax leaned back, looking as smug as a poker player with a royal flush called by everyone on the board. “Maybe you’re right, Sundance. But then again, maybe you’re not. I’ve got millions, Sundance, lots of millions, more than I can keep track of. But I’ve only got one daughter. Maybe I’d let more millions go, pass them up, for a chance to see and talk to my daughter again.”

  “Not likely. I’d bring her to Bismarck, you’d have a bunch of strong-arm men there, they’d try to take her—”

  “I give you my word.”

  “Your word isn’t worth a buffalo’s fart in a blizzard, Colfax.”

  The financier’s face went hard, his eyes were angry. Then he masked that expression. “All right. That’s for you to decide. But I’ll tell you this. It’s the only chance the Cheyennes have got. The only one. Otherwise, next spring the Army will come in, and not just a patrol, not just a regiment. But a real Army, led by the best generals there are—Crook, Custer, all the experienced Indian fighters. With artillery and Gatling guns, cavalry and infantry. And they won’t leave that country until every Indian is dead or surrendered.”

  He shrugged. “Two men have the power to prevent that happening, Sundance. Me and you. I can block it in the banks and brokerage houses and you can block it by bringing my daughter to Bismarck. There it is and there it lies. Take it or leave it.”

  A coldness settled on Jim Sundance as he stared at Colfax. That much he didn’t doubt; like the cigar, the man held in his hand the power to make war or keep the peace. To destroy or spare the Cheyennes. But would he? Would he keep his word? And for that matter, was he right? Was Barbara tired of the hardship of the Cheyenne way, could she be lured into choosing another road? There was too much to think about, far too much, for him to speak now.

  Colfax seemed able to read his mind. “I’m in no hurry, Sundance. I have to be in Bismarck in sixty days anyhow. This is September fifteen. Say the fifteenth of November. Have her there by then, give me two days to talk to her, be with her. You do that, whether she stays with me or goes with you, there’ll be no railroad through the unceded lands for years. But if you’re not there, I’ll send a telegram to New York—just one, a few words, is all it’ll take—and it’s the end of the Cheyennes.”

  For a moment, the two men looked at each other, eyes locking. Then Sundance rasped, “You son of a bitch.”

  Colfax laughed. “November fifteenth. By midnight.”

  Sundance stood up. “No,” he said hoarsely. “No, damn you. It wouldn’t do any good. You’d only double-cross us both, take her and send the Army in anyhow.”

  Colfax’s face did not change. “Maybe you’ll feel different about it later on. Anyhow, I’ll be there, Sundance, in Bismarck. Whether you and Barbara come is up to you.”

  Sundance looked at him, then holstered his Colt and turned away.

  “Where’re you going?” Colfax asked.

  “North,” Sundance said. “North to the Yellowstone, before the winter settles in.” He strode out of the bar, aware of Colfax’s eyes on him, hearing Colfax’s laughter behind him.

  Out on the sidewalk, the wind was like a knife. In the lee of a building, in an alley, Austin Shell lounged, clad in a buffalo-hide overcoat, picking his teeth. He looked at Sundance, not speaking, with eyes like bits of ice. Then he threw the toothpick aside and went into the bar while Sundance strode up the sidewalk to where he’d hitched the stallion.

  He rode directly into bitter weather, coming prematurely down from Canada. He crossed the Niobrara and swung west toward the headwaters of the Cheyenne River. Once past that, he began to see buffalo, traveling in the same direction, headed into the wind as they always did. There was rime ice on the edges of the Powder, and by the time he hit the Tongue, a light snow was falling. He crossed the divide and entered the valley of the Rosebud, and in a sheltered canyon there, he found the village of Tall Calf, eighteen lodges, and fifty more of the band of Two Moons.

  It was like coming home. The heavy winter lodges sent their multiple curls of smoke up into the iron-colored sky. The big horse herd was spread out up and down the creek, taking full advantage of good grazing before the deep snows came. The canyon walls, timber-clad and sloping, broke the wind, and in furs and blankets and thick hide clothing, the Indians moved about freely, gathering wood and buffalo chips before real winter settled in. Here, on their own land, in their own country, they were free from fear of the white man’s soldiers, with no enemies but their ancient one the Crows, who would not be traveling at this time of year. For a little while at least, they could know peace and security and, if the fall hunt had been good, plenty. There would be well-stocked larders of dried buffalo meat, a store of prairie turnips gathered before bad weather, fresh dog to vary the diet, and what deer, moose, elk. bear and buffalo they could kill as the winter went on. When Sundance rode into the camp, he was spotted immediately by the Dog Soldier and Kit Fox fighting society guards. They and the warriors of the Bowstrings and Red Shields galloped up to him, laughing and joking and greeting him, and shook his hand and embraced him. He knew them all, and it was good to see them again, but he had not much time for them. He wanted to be with Two Roads Woman. They knew that and fell away and let him ride on through the concentric circles of the camp, toward the lodge of Tall Calf on the inside.

  It was a big teepee, of heavy bull hide, double-staked and ornamented with picture writing and sacred symbols. Tall Calf’s best war horse was short-tethered outside, shaggy withers hunkered against the wind. Sundance halted Eagle on the lee side, dropped his reins, turned toward the bull hide doorway. As he did so, its flap lifted and a figure scrambled out and straightened up. Bareheaded and clad in wolf fur, she stood there poised, yellow hair dangling to shoulders in twin braids. Blue eyes lit, gleamed. Barbara Colfax, Two Roads Woman, cried out and ran to him. “Jim!”

  He gathered her into his arms, kissed her. She pressed her body hard against him, as a few random snowflakes drifted down. Her lips and tongue were warm and eager, and he could feel the soft richness of her breasts even through all the furs. The kiss lasted a long time; then she broke away a little. “Oh, Jim,” she whispered. “I hoped you’d come back this winter.”

  He looked down at her. Life on the prairie did not blunt her beauty, only accentuated it. Her skin was tanned as dark as any Indian’s, but it was still smooth, velvety. Her nose was straight, her lips full, red. She smelled faintly of campfire smoke, and of the perfume of dried flowers Cheyenne women used. It was a good, clean smell; even in the dead of winter, most Cheyennes bathed every day. Her hands were rough, hard, as they stroked his cheek, but that was only token of the fact that she paid her own way. Sundance pulled her to him again. “Yes,” he said. “I’m here to winter.” But even as he spoke the words, other words rang in his mind. Crook’s. It may be the last free winter the Cheyennes have ...

  “Where’s Tall Calf?” he asked when he had kissed her again.

  “Inside. He’ll be so delighted.”

  They went into the lodge. In the center of its vast diameter, a bed of coals and small flames provided warmth. The smoke went straight up through the hole at the apex, where flaps could be changed to insure a draft. There was plenty of room; Tall Calf had only one wife and Barbara—two women were enough to do the work. As Sundance dropped the entry flap behind him, the chief sprang to his feet, a tall, massive, impressive man past middle age. His hawk like face lit with pleasure. “Sundance, my son!” Blanket-swathed, he sprang across the fire, embraced Sundance.

  Then his woman was there, too. Since Sundance and Barbara were not, even by Cheyenne standards, married, there w
as no prohibition on his looking at her or talking to her, and she hugged him. “This is an occasion,” she said happily. “I’ll go strangle a dog.” She threw on a blanket, left the teepee.

  When she had gone, Tall Calf gestured to a buffalo robe spread before the fire. “My son, sit.”

  Sundance did, cross-legged, with Barbara beside him, holding his hand. Tall Calf fumbled in his gear, brought out pipe and tobacco. They smoked ceremonially, and then Sundance gave the chief a package of white man’s Bull Durham and some papers, and Tall Calf deftly rolled a cigarette with one hand. When he had it lit, he looked from Sundance to Barbara. “I think it is good to have you back again,” he said. “I think you must have much news to tell us—me, Two Moons, and the council. I think we have some to tell you, too. But, first ... ” He smiled. “I just remembered. My war horse has not been watered this morning. I think I will take him to the creek. Also, I will see to yours, Sundance. Your gear I will leave outside the teepee for you to get when you’re ready. You must spread your robes in my lodge.”

  “I will,” Sundance said. And then Tall Calf went out, and he and Barbara were alone together.

  “Oh, God,” she said in English. “I’ve missed you so much. Where have you been? What have you been doing?”

  “I’ve been down in Mexico. And then—” He broke off. No. No, this was not the time to mention her father. “And then I headed here.”

  They looked at one another. Then Barbara touched his cheek again and laughed. “I think it’ll take Magpie Wing a long time to find a dog and Tall Calf a longer one to water the horses.”

  “Likely,” Sundance said, and grinned. He watched her stand up, go to her bed, spread the buffalo robes. She stood there on them, looking at him gravely, her eyes lambent, swirling. Then she threw off the wolfskin coat; after that, she pulled the hide dress, with all its fringe and beadwork, over her head, and then she was naked, save for the rope. Of soft deerskin, it was like a chastity belt, wrapped around her thighs and swathing her loins. Sundance looked at it. “You still wear that,” he said thickly.

  Her eyes met his. “While you’re away, yes,” she said. “But when you come back—” She unknotted it, threw it aside and sank down on the blankets. Where her flesh was exposed to weather, it was a tawny bronze in color; where it had been sheltered, it was smooth and white as ivory. Sundance went to her, stripping away his own clothes swiftly. He lay down beside her, and she pulled the top robe over them, and its warmth encompassed them. She turned her face to his, lips parted. “Jim,” she breathed.

  In its circle of stones, the fire crackled faintly.

  By nightfall, the lodge was crowded and the women had left to let the men talk. The chiefs were there: Tall Calf and Two Moons, the latter stocky and full-faced; and the leaders of the warrior societies, and the better medicine men and the other influential old men of the tribe. Tall Calf spoke first. “They wanted us to go to the agencies. There they said we would draw our annuities and rations and learn the white man’s ways so we could prosper. But the annuities and the rations did not come and we were hungry. And when we said that, they said we must farm.” He laughed bitterly. “We have often fought the Shoshones. But I have heard a story about their chief, Washakie. The white men told him that his people must plant the ground and raise potatoes, and Washakie, standing up, said this: ‘God damn a potato!’ That is how we feel, too. So we have come to our own lands, what they have left us, to hunt, to live. So far, we have not been bothered. The Sioux have trouble with the whites because of gold, but there is no gold here. The Crows come in sometimes and we fight them. But that is nothing, we have always fought them. It is going to be a hard winter. This is a better place to spend the winter than the agencies.”

  Two Moons spoke when Tall Calf had finished. “I think we can get along here. There are not so many buffalo as there used to be. But if we don’t kill too many and the whites don’t come in, there are enough. We’ll take only what we can use and guard the rest, and I think if they will leave us alone and keep the treaty, we can make out all right. Besides, here, when summer comes, we can hold our Sun Dance. At the agencies, they won’t allow it, I don’t know why. We don’t try to stop them from going to their lodges with the cross on top, but they try to stop us from worshipping the Big Spirit. Anyhow, all we want is to stay here and be left alone.”

  “I know,” Sundance said. He looked around the circle, at the intent, black eyes fastened on him. He thought about what Crook had said, what was in his letter, what Colfax had said. He started to tell them that, and then his courage, for once, failed him. This was their last hope: the Laramie treaty and their unceded hunting grounds. Once they had roamed the whole west, but now they had adjusted to being pushed back, beaten; as long as they had the land around the Yellowstone, they thought they could survive.

  He licked his lips. They were living in a dream, a fool’s paradise, and he knew it. But this was the last winter they had. After that came war. But the Army could not move ’til Spring. Why destroy their peace of mind now? Later would be time enough. Besides, maybe there was an out. His mind went back to Colfax’s offer. No, he thought. No, it wouldn’t work ... He would only double-cross us. But the hope in their voices pierced him like an arrow. And he heard Colfax’s words again: What I’m offering you, Sundance, is the Cheyenne hunting grounds ...

  “Have you heard anything to make you believe they will break their word again?” Tall Calf leaned forward across the fire. “What do the white men say out there?”

  Sundance looked into his eyes. He drew in a deep breath. “I have heard nothing.” he said.

  Tall Calf relaxed. “Good,” he said. “Then perhaps we will not have to fight again. I hope not. My heart is sick with fighting.”

  “No,” Sundance heard himself say. “If everything goes well, you won’t have to fight again.”

  Tall Calf stood up. “Then I think we have heard everything there is to hear and said what we have to say. The council is ended.”

  Chapter Five

  When winter gripped the northern plains, life in an Indian camp came almost to a standstill. The horse herd—the animals’ shaggy hides rimed with ice—pawed constantly, desperately, in the deep snows for scant mouthfuls of grass and even gnawed the bark from trees to fill their bellies. The buffalo scattered into small groups in hidden hollows; the deer and elk and moose yarded wherever there was browse; gaunt wolves and coyotes hunted ceaselessly through the deep snow, their howls and yapping as loud and steady by day as by night. In the Cheyenne camp, the old men sat by the fires, smoking, yarning, gambling, and making arrows or shaving bow-staves; the old women sewed endlessly. When the wind abated, the younger women ventured out in search of firewood; the young men cleared snow to find fodder for the horses and broke ice to keep holes clear so the animals could drink. A few of them, heavily robed, on snowshoes, kept guard around the camp, though there was not much danger in this season, and others wandered off into the hills, also on webs, hunting the yarded animals. Sundance had been out yesterday, had killed a cow elk, and there had been feasting in Tall Calf’s lodge that night.

  Now, with the two big bull hide panniers that always rode behind Eagle’s saddle beside him, he checked his weapons.

  He had already cleaned and oiled the Winchester, Colt, and the Bowie and hatchet blades, returned those weapons to their scabbards. After that, sitting beside the fire in Tall Calf’s teepee, he opened the long, cylindrical pannier, took from it an unstrung bow of juniper tipped with buffalo horn. It was short, powerful; with it he could drive an arrow through a running bull at short range or send one a full four hundred yards at a distant target. Inspecting the stave, the buffalo sinew string, he laid the bow aside, satisfied, and took out the quiver.

  A panther skin with the tail still attached, it held dozens of arrows, brightly painted. Unlike those of Tall Calf, which hung from a lodge pole in a quiver of their own, these had stone points instead of iron. For decades, most Indians had preferred the more easily worked
steel points, but Sundance stuck with flint, even though he sometimes had to make the points himself, a somewhat tedious process. Barbed flint points, with blood grooves, made a deeper wound and were harder to extract; thus stone-pointed arrows packed more stopping power. For a professional fighting man, that was important. When Sundance hired out his gun, he hired out his bow and arrows, too, and more than once his skill with them had given him an edge that had saved his life. Arrows killed silently and made no muzzle flash in darkness.

  He had plenty left, he decided; he had worked hard in the past month to fill his quiver. He laid them aside, opened the big circular pannier. It held his war shield, made of bull-hump hide stretched across a round frame, padded with grass, covered with antelope skin painted with a Thunderbird. It would turn an arrow or a musket ball, though not a bullet from a modern weapon, but that was not the point. More important than the toughness of its layers of hide was its magic; its construction had involved a long and complicated ceremony which, the Cheyennes believed, gave it power to protect its owner in battle. Sundance held it up, looked gravely at the six tufts of hair dangling from it. Three of the scalps were coarse and black; one was brown, another red, and a third as yellow as his own hair. His mind lanced back in time; he saw again the sprawled bodies of his parents on the prairie. Those scalps had belonged to their murderers.

  Then he became aware of Barbara Colfax across the fire, staring at him curiously. They were alone in the lodge; Tall Calf and Magpie Wing had gone visiting around the camp. Outside, the wind howled like a ravening wolf, and more snow was borne whipping on it. Sundance laid the shield aside, got to his feet, went to the entry flap of the lodge, lifted it, peered out. On the hills, the snow lay more than belly deep to a tall horse, and it had drifted even deeper elsewhere. Sundance’s mouth thinned. He was grateful for the snow. It relieved him of the burden of decision. He knew from the notched stick calendar he’d been keeping that today was the fourth of November. But even if the desire had been in him to take up Colfax’s proposition, travel was impossible, likely would remain so from now ’til spring. There was no question of getting to Bismarck.