Sun Dance

by John J. McLaglen

  One of the Indians came and stood above her, so that his legs were almost astride her fallen body. She saw the muscles of them taut and strong; looked beyond them to the chest, the strangely decorated shirt with what looked like the rising sun emblazoned upon it. The face, young and painted and cruel: the end of a single white feather which hung over his shoulder from where it was fastened to the back of his hair.

  Around them the other Sioux were fetching horses from the corral; food and weapons from inside the blazing buildings behind the cabin.

  White Eagle reached down and put his arm beneath her, lifting her up. All kicked and hit out with her fists and elbows but the Indian ignored her, throwing her over his shoulder as one might a sack of grain. Swiftly he carried her towards his waiting pony.

  Chapter Six

  The bugle call shrilled through the cascade of dust which burst about the galloping horses.

  Twenty yards short of the burning Agency buildings, Lieutenant Patten brandished his sword high and brought his platoon to a halt.

  As the dust faded and fell the blackness of smoke showed clearly through it. The timbered ruins of the long cabin, the twin storehouses, the corral.

  ‘Dismount!’

  Patten himself remained in the saddle, his mount shifting from side to side, the smell of fire drifting into its nostrils and bringing fear.

  ‘Sergeant! See that those buildings are thoroughly searched!’

  Lattimer found Henderson first. He kicked aside a smoldering section of wood and stared down at the body. What remained of it. Most of Henderson’s clothes had been burned away and in patches where skin remained it was gathered into tight, wrinkled parchment. For the rest there were huge blisters, pink and red, pushing up against one another in clusters.

  None of this fully obscured the gaping wound first inflicted by White Eagle’s hatchet.

  Lattimer cursed and leaned forwards, turning the man over with his gloved hand.

  Even a hardened Indian fighter like Lattimer wasn’t fully prepared for what he saw.

  The face was one gigantic blood blister and as it gazed up at Lattimer, the surface burst. He could see the deep incision across the face, sheering flesh from bone; could see the eyeless socket.

  Further down the body the fingerless hand sought to point at him but was unable.

  Sergeant Lattimer turned away with rage. He ran outside from the remnants of the cabin, feeling for the butt of his pistol.

  ‘Lieutenant! You see what them bastards’ve done? They’ve butchered that man! Butchered him! Ain’t no other way of sayin’ it. Lieutenant, we got to get after them savages an’ run ’em down before they take their murderin’ somewhere else. Before they get off this reservation.’

  The young officer looked down at the Sergeant with a mixture of excitement and distaste. ‘I appreciate your feelings, Sergeant, but first we must see if there are any other bodies in need of burial. There will be time...’

  ‘Time! Sweet Jesus, Lieutenant! How much time d’you think those bastards gave these folk? How much time d’you think they’ll...’

  ‘Sergeant!’ Patten’s voice was strong and clear.

  Lattimer stood there with pistol in hand, anger barely controlled. But for now he was held in check.

  Two of the other men were carrying Jamie Henderson’s body towards them. He had escaped the worst of the fire; only his trousers had caught light, only his feet and legs were scorched. At the back of his shirt the blood was dark and thick and kept the material stuck to the skin. The back of the boy’s head was like an egg which had been shattered with a stone.

  When they lay him on his back, his eyes were still open.

  ‘He ain’t more’n a kid,’ said one of the soldiers.

  One of the others knelt slowly beside him and used his thumb to push the boy’s eyelids shut.

  And then they found Martha Henderson. The section of the cabin in which she had been killed had fallen in upon her and at first all they saw was a shoe and a length of dress material. The timber was yet smoldering and hot and it took several men a deal of time to clear it away. When they did so, it was not easy to lift her body clear of the blackened ashes.

  It was still possible to tell that the corpse was that of a woman, although there was little else to determine.

  Except that she had been scalped.

  ‘Lieutenant! Now we goin’ to get after these heathen bastards!’

  Lieutenant Patten turned in his saddle and looked about As far as the eye could see there was nothing but empty land, a few trees, patches of bush. They had seen a number of roughly built cabins on their ride in, some distance off to the west; the tops of tents close by. But no Indians: no Sioux.

  ‘They’ll still be here somewhere, Lieutenant,’ said Lattimer hoarsely. ‘Let’s get after ’em!’

  Murmurs of approval from the rest of the platoon.

  Patten gazed down at the three bodies: something that he did not recognize turned and twisted within him, some feeling he had never experienced before. It hadn’t been written about in any of the Army training manuals he had studied.

  ‘Corporal, stay here with one man and see to it that these folk are buried. Sergeant, you and I will divide the rest of the men between us. We’ll take the reservation in two broad sweeps, south and west, north and east.’

  Lattimer smiled grimly: ‘And if we find ’em, sir.’

  Patten gripped his rein firmly in the glove of his left hand. ‘Then, Sergeant, I’m sure you will know what to do.’

  ‘Yes, sir!’

  In two groups of four the soldiers galloped away, leaving Corporal Clarke and Private Howarth with the task of disposing of the bodies of those so far dead.

  So far.

  Chance Lattimer knew well enough where the Indian cabins were situated. He wasn’t going to forget it and didn’t have the least intention of wasting time making fool sweeps through open country.

  Not when he knew where some of the savages would be.

  A hundred yards from the collection of buildings, he reined in.

  ‘Okay, we’re ridin’ in there and we’re shootin’ any damned Injun we see!’

  ‘But, Sarge!’

  Lattimer pulled up his pistol and pointed it at the Private’s face. ‘Boy, you can stuff your buts up your ass! You let me see you holdin’ back an’ I’m likely to put a bullet through you as well.’

  He grinned and swung his horse about.

  ‘Let’s go!’

  The four men charged down the gradual slope towards the wooden cabins that had been erected for the Sioux. It was part of the process of civilizing them, getting them to live in proper houses like the white man.

  The superior, civilized white man.

  When the first cavalryman was only thirty yards off, the door to one of the cabins opened and a squaw showed herself in the doorway. She saw the men approaching and threw up a hand to her mouth, stifling her own shout.

  Lattimer fired once and struck the timber alongside the door frame, splintering it into a hundred needles. The squaw turned and started to run back inside and the Sergeant’s second shot slammed high into her back, driving her headlong.

  By the time she had pitched to the ground before her three young children, her eyes were screwed tight and she was dead.

  Lattimer swerved his horse past the cabin and raced towards the next. The sound of gun fire had fetched what Sioux remained out into the light. Mostly women and children; a few old men. What braves had not ridden off with White Eagle had taken care to withdraw further from the Agency. They had thought their absence would save bloodshed.

  Lattimer reined in his mount too hard, its front legs rearing up and then skidding on the parched soil, almost tumbling the Sergeant from the saddle.

  Behind him, on either side, there was the sound of carbine fire.

  Lattimer thumbed the hammer of his Colt and took aim at the running figure of a young squaw. He missed by more than a couple of feet, pulling at the trigger too hastily in his anger
and frustration.

  ‘Bastard!’

  The Sergeant dropped from the saddle and steadied his gun arm with his left hand. He shot the squaw through the back of the right leg, but somehow she carried on running. More hopping than running, finally dragging herself to safety behind a pile of logs.

  Lattimer whirled round and rushed towards another cabin, kicking at the door and splintering it aside. He jumped inside, moving the gun from right to left and back again.

  An emaciated old man lay stretched out on a blanket. The eyes that gazed up at the intruder were brown, dark and brown and watering. The old Indian saw the look on Lattimer’s face and the pistol in his hand and started to chant, his voice eerie, seeming already to be coming from some spirit land in the wastes of eternity.

  Lattimer came close to him and raised the pistol, bringing it down on the old man’s face, striking him on the cheekbone, splintering it like rotten wood, stopping the chanting. He smashed the gun down the other way, breaking the nose.

  Then he set the end of the barrel against the old Indian’s temple and squeezed the trigger.

  A morass of gray matter, threaded through with pink and red, as if by worms, splashed across the blanket.

  Lattimer coughed phlegm, hawked from the back of his throat and spat down on to the ground. Then he stormed outside.

  The shooting had stopped.

  The other three soldiers stood close by, their Spencer carbines in their hands. Here and there, dead bodies were scattered.

  ‘Not a young buck among ’em,’ said one of the Privates.

  ‘Okay,’ said Lattimer. ‘They got to be somewhere. Let’s get after ’em.’

  ~*~

  Herne rode in slowly with Morning Cloud and the procession of Sioux. He led them directly to the Agency, what remained of it. By the time they arrived, Corporal Clarke and the Private had got half way through their second deep, long hole. The bodies of the massacred whites lay close by on the baking earth.

  Herne got down from his mount and walked over to the bodies. One look was enough.

  ‘Where’s the Lieutenant and the men?’

  ‘They’ve gone lookin’ for them as did this.’

  ‘They reckon they’re goin’ to find ’em still on the reservation?’ asked Herne sourly.

  The Corporal looked at him and then turned his face away, saying nothing.

  Herne shook his head. ‘You carry on here. I guess when they find the braves have jumped the reservation, the Lieutenant’ll come back.’

  Corporal Clarke, twisted the shovel round in his hands, hesitating. Seeing the gesture, Herne took a pace closer to him.

  ‘You got somethin’ on your mind? Best spit it out now. While you can.’

  Clarke spoke only half looking at Herne’s face. ‘The Lieutenant, he split the men into two. Sent one half off with Sergeant Lattimer.’

  For a moment Herne said nothing, taking in what that meant.

  Then: ‘Which way did he head out? Lattimer.’

  The Corporal turned and pointed. Herne nodded and ran to his horse, pulling himself up into the saddle. He swung it round, then back, pointing down at the Corporal.

  ‘You better see that nothin’ happens to these Indians here. The ones we brought in. If it does I’m holdin’ you responsible an’ it’s you I’ll come looking for to make account. You understand that?’

  Clarke nodded his thin head.

  Herne rode to where Morning Cloud was waiting a little way off at the head of his line of followers.

  ‘What has happened here,’ he said. ‘It is bad. It is not the way I would have chosen for my people.’

  Herne stared at him: ‘An’ now it’s taken?’

  Silence, and then, softly: ‘It is still not the way.’

  Herne began to ride away. ‘I’m ridin’ after some of the army. I don’t trust that Sergeant when he gets the smell of blood in his nostrils. See to it that your people are kept here. If any of these bucks take off I can’t be responsible for what happens to ’em.’

  Morning Cloud lowered his head. ‘I know this to be so.’

  Herne touched his heels to his horse and set off in the direction Corporal Clarke had pointed out. He hadn’t ridden far to the north-west before he heard the sound of rifle fire.

  ~*~

  Lattimer charged his horse at the space between the tents, saber drawn. He slashed down, first to the right and then the left, the blade tearing through the canvas, pulling the tents apart. As the saber scythed through one tent it struck something solid, some object that moved and screamed with bewildered pain.

  Turning in a small circle at the end of the line, the Sergeant whirled the saber about his head and yelled for blood.

  Two of his men were kneeling on the ground to the west, aiming the Spencers towards the tents and firing at anyone who emerged.

  ‘Show yourselves, you bastards! Show your butcherin’ hides!5

  A woman ran between the fallen canvases, bent low, clutching a small child, a baby, to herself as she went. Lattimer saw her with a glint in his eyes, waited until she had cleared the tents and got on to the open ground.

  He wiped the sweat from his face with the sleeve of his army coat and let out a roar. Holding the saber at an angle before him, close by the horse’s head, he gave chase.

  He was thirty yards off when Herne came into sight.

  Twenty five when Herne reined in his mount and drew his Colt in the same breath.

  Twenty when Herne’s shot sailed across in front of him.

  Lattimer ducked low instinctively, turning his head towards the sound. He recognized Herne immediately and his mouth set into a grim line. As far as he was concerned Herne was as much to blame as any Indian for what had happened to the family at the Agency.

  More so, on account of how he was supposed to be white.

  Supposed to be.

  Lattimer forgot about the fleeing squaw, who stumbled on over the dry ground, terrified that the pursuit would be taken up again.

  Herne watched the Sergeant carefully, his pistol still drawn.

  From the corners of his eyes he could see the destruction that the soldiers had carried in their wake.

  Lattimer pointed at him, shouting to the three men. ‘I want that Injun-lovin’ bastard an’ I want him now!’

  One of the soldiers raised his rifle to his shoulder; the other two hesitated.

  Herne clicked back the hammer of his gun.

  ‘I’m an Army scout on Army business. You men bear that in mind. You done enough this day for anyone’s conscience.’

  The Spencer was lowered a few inches.

  Lattimer cut the air with his saber.

  ‘Damn you to Hell, Herne! I give the orders here.’ He pointed with the blade. ‘That man’s a murderin’ renegade an’ I want him dead!’

  The carbine moved back to the soldier’s shoulder, but no attempt was made to fire.

  Herne set his horse in motion.

  ‘Set up that damned sword, Lattimer, an’ ride along with me. I’m takin’ you back.’

  ‘The Hell you are!’

  The Sergeant dug his spurs hard into his horse and set off in a charge directly towards Herne. He held the saber forwards, keeping his body low in the saddle, making himself as small a target as possible.

  Herne leveled the Colt and bided his time.

  The ground beneath him began to shake and tremble with the impact of galloping hooves. He could see the glint of the saber edge as it caught the sun; the sweat glistening on the few inches of Lattimer’s face that he could see.

  He knew that he didn’t want to kill Lattimer. Not here and then. Not quickly. There were dues that the big Sergeant now had to pay. Scores to be settled.

  As it seemed he must be ridden down or hacked apart by the flying saber, Herne moved his mount aside and fired. The .45 shell tore through the flesh of Lattimer’s right shoulder, exiting cleanly through the far side.

  The saber plunged to the ground, the point embedding itself in the soil, blade
and hilt quivering.

  Lattimer pulled on the rein, trying to turn the horse so that he could come back at Herne a second time. But now Herne was moving himself. He raced at an angle towards Lattimer and freed his boots from the stirrups; the Colt he pushed back into the holster, flicking the loop of leather about the hammer.

  The two horses seemed about to crash when Herne’s mount swerved aside and Herne leaped from the saddle. He landed right shoulder first against Lattimer’s chest, driving the soldier from his animal’s back.

  There was a thump and a cloud of dust as the pair hit the ground and then Herne was pushing himself up, giving his arm enough room to swing back. He punched Lattimer hard on the point of the jaw and saw his head jerk back; punched him again as the head came forward.

  With a grunt of effort he hauled the big man to his feet and landed a left into the pit of his stomach and another right to the face, alongside Lattimer’s mouth.

  When the Sergeant hit the ground he flung back one arm and then was still.

  Herne reached down and disarmed him.

  He tucked the Army-issue Colt into his belt and turned.

  ‘You men’d do well to ride back with me. If this mad bastard led you into this, maybe the Army’ll see to it that he gets most of the blame. Maybe.’ Herne coughed and spat. ‘I ain’t sayin’ for sure. One thing’s certain, though. Any of you got ideas ’bout stoppin’ me takin’ him in, I’ll put a bullet in his belly before I say a word. You got that?’

  And Herne picked up Lattimer like a freshly slaughtered pig and flung the dead weight over the saddle of his horse. He tied him down securely and mounted his own horse, keeping hold of both sets of reins. He began to ride slowly back towards the Agency.

  ~*~

  Lieutenant Patten’s face was suddenly young: younger than it had seemed since before West Point. The neat mustache seemed out of place—a disguise worn by a kid trying to play at being grown up. And failing.

  He kept his gloved hands before him, shifting them one into the other and then out again. Neither of his boots stayed on the same patch of ground for long.

  Eventually he summoned up the courage to look Herne straight in the eye.

  ‘I’ll see to it that Sergeant Lattimer is taken back to the Fort under armed escort. He will stand disciplinary charges for what he did here today.’ The clear eyes blinked. ‘I know that none of that exonerates my own behavior. I know that the ultimate responsibility is mine and mine alone.’