Sun Dance

by John J. McLaglen

  He rounded a bluff and stopped dead.

  The warrior was sixty yards away and facing him; looking directly at him.

  Between them yawned a deep canyon with stretches of silvery sand at the bottom.

  For what seemed an eternity but could have been no more than a couple of seconds neither man moved.

  Then the Sioux reached for his bow and Herne ducked back behind the bluff.

  He could have used his gun and likely dropped the Indian there and then but that would only serve to bring the rest down on him fast. There had to be another way.

  Herne scrambled upwards, using hands as well as feet. The harsh surface of rock scraped at his skin and once he almost lost his footing and slithered back to the bottom. But he held his balance and then continued, anxious for height.

  The Sioux had slipped back from sight also and there was no way for Herne to know whether he had headed back to the camp or had decided to hunt the white man down for himself.

  He hoped it would be the latter. After a successful raid the Indian should be feeling his own strength to the full. His pride would drive him on, knowing that if he caught the white man and killed him it would be extra proof of his manhood and status as warrior.

  Herne saw the ends of scrub move to the right of the canyon.

  He had guessed correctly—the brave was heading in that direction, seeking him out.

  Herne leaned on to his left side and slid the bayonet from his right boot.

  Okay, friend, he smiled grimly, let him who seeks find what he’s after.

  Soundlessly he dropped down on to the ledge below.

  He couldn’t see the Indian but assumed he’d be trying to work his way around the deepest part of the canyon and get to where he’d spotted Herne. The exact thing Herne was doing himself, but in reverse.

  Exact, except that Herne wasn’t going to cross the canyon.

  Yet.

  He choose his spot and waited, the hilt of the bayonet tight in the fingers of his right hand. The Sharps was stretched out on the rock behind him, out of the way.

  He heard the slightest of movements and held his breath.

  Earth shifted and slithered and there was the sound of a man landing on hard ground. Landing and then becoming perfectly still. Herne held his breath. Lines of sweat ran along his arms and rolled from his graying temples into the stubble of his growth of new beard, irritating him.

  His eyes were narrowed into the tightest of slits.

  Across their line of vision moved an arm, a section of dark hair, then the unrelieved rock once again.

  Herne shifted his position silently, taking each fresh step as if he were placing the balls of his feet upon broken glass that would pierce him if he trod too hard.

  He had got himself behind the Indian: now to close up.

  He got to within a dozen paces before the man sensed rather than heard him and whirled round. The Indian’s hand came forward in a blur and Herne threw himself sideways fast. The knife slashed through the space where his chest had been seconds before. Fractions of seconds.

  Herne pushed himself up and began to close.

  The Indian reached for the war club that hung at the left side of his breech cloth. The stone head and wooden handle were both covered with hide and several small strips of colored cloth were fastened to the handle end.

  His face became a mask of hate, two lines crisscrossing over nose and cheeks in bright white paint.

  Herne went right and forwards; another couple of paces and he would be within striking distance.

  Before he could take the second the Indian leaped at him, club swinging above his head. Herne ducked underneath it and flashed the bayonet upwards. The edge of the blade carved through the underside of the Indian’s forearm but he kept hold of the club.

  Both men turned again to face one another.

  Feet spread they began to make a slow circle.

  First Herne feinted to attack, then the Sioux. Each man looked for the slightest chance of an opening, knowing that to move at the wrong moment was as fatal as not moving at all.

  Finally it was Herne who lunged forwards, right arm extended as far as it would go. The point of the blade struck the quills of the Indian’s breast covering but no more. The Sioux jerked his body sideways and brought the war club down at an angle, driving it on to Herne’s wrist.

  Herne grimaced, mouth opened by the sudden shoot of pain; helpless to prevent it. His fingers splayed apart and the bayonet plummeted to the ground.

  Before the blade had struck the Indian’s club had gone into a fresh curve and Herne ducked to the left, riding with the blow, feeling the stone head bruise his side but evading the worst of it.

  With the club held down at the end of its swing, Herne saw his chance. He bent at the knees and then catapulted himself directly at the Sioux. One hand sought the right arm, the other went for the head, fingers pointed straight, aiming for the eyes.

  The Sioux went down under him with a cry and Herne rammed his elbow into the man’s neck, immediately below the chin. He felt the head jolted back and heard a tight gurgling from the Indian’s throat.

  The bayonet was less than two feet away.

  Herne hammered his left fist into the Indian’s face and dived for the bayonet. With one movement he grasped the hilt and brought it back towards his own body. The Sioux’s face was in hard upon him, the white lines inches away from his face. Fingers sought his throat.

  Herne allowed himself to be pushed backwards and down, taking the weight of the Sioux on top of him, the brave’s hand still at his neck. Herne saw the effort written on the Indian’s face. He reached his left arm round behind and pulled him down close. Moved the right...

  The blade struck alongside the spine and slid into the flesh of the back. By Herne’s face another mouth opened and eyes bulged. Herne drove the knife deeper. On top of him, the Sioux struggled like a fish on a hook, like a young deer impaled on a lance, like a desperate, dying man.

  Herne held the bayonet firm until the Indian began to relax and his flailing movements ceased. The head collapsed against his shoulder; the mouth beneath the white painted lines slowly opened and a trickle of red blood dribbled on to Herne’s neck and chest.

  He slid out from under the man and crouched above him.

  Pressing his left hand hard on to the back, Herne freed the blade and cleaned it.

  He hesitated a few moments, waiting until his breathing was back to normal. Then he stood and looked round. There was no sign of any other movement, no sound. He returned the bayonet to its sheath in his boot and stepped over the dead Indian.

  Now he would cross the canyon.

  Herne dropped to one knee at the sound. The Sharps seemed to be at his shoulder without movement. His weather-worn hands eased the long barrel to the left; up and up. Frozen against the eroded rock the outline of a buff-colored coyote showed through his sights.

  Herne released his pent-up breath and relaxed his muscles, lowering the rifle.

  He stood up and moved on.

  The ground seemed to have been formed by something Herne could not guess at into solid blocks, one resting on top of another, making a giant stairway down which he climbed.

  At the other side he saw a rare cluster of trees, mostly red cedar with some smaller juniper mixed amongst them. Somewhere close by there had to be one of the few streams in the area that had not dried up completely, likely fed by some deep underground spring.

  It would not be far from there that the Sioux would have made their camp.

  Herne set his boot on the lowest of the slabs and something alongside it caught his eye. He brushed away at the covering of dust and there against his fingers was the fossil of a skull. Long headed with a mouth like that of a large dog and set perfectly into the stone.

  Herne crossed into the welcome shade of the trees.

  From the other side he could see the beginnings of the hollow. Behind it, layers of rock lifted up towards the sky, culminating in a series of sharp, needl
e points, so fine that their peaks almost became lost from sight against the light.

  Between these strange peaks and the trees was the Sioux camp.

  A number of tipis, some make-shift coverings of branches and leaves; a roughly-hewn corral in which their ponies and the stolen horses were penned. At the center of the space a large rounded construction with what seemed to be a forked pole at its center.

  A number of braves were sitting cross-legged, talking, sharpening knife blades on a piece of stone. More were gathered by the corral. Herne guessed there were others out of sight.

  He looked carefully for the girl but could see no sign.

  It was possible that she was inside one of the tipis, but…

  Herne’s eyes scanned the heights opposite. If they were careful enough to drop one man behind to watch for any followers, then they would be likely to post guards.

  He spotted one on a ledge eighty feet above the hollow, so immobile that he seemed at first to be part of the stone. It was some moments before he saw the second, even higher and resting at an angle with his legs thrust forward, a rifle across his knees.

  Herne knew that their vantage point was far superior to his own and that if he showed any more of himself they would notice him amongst the timber line. He stayed absolutely still, even his breathing controlled, scanning the hollow.

  After half an hour his vigilance was rewarded.

  The flap to one of the tipis was thrown back and a warrior came out. It was the one Herne had noticed riding at the head of the returning group of raiders and he assumed him to be their leader. The same white feather showed clearly at the back of his head.

  He spoke harshly to someone still inside the tent and then stepped back inside, bending low. When he re-emerged he was dragging the girl after him.

  From that distance Herne could not see her face clearly but her whole manner suggested a mixture of despair and terror. She was wearing a blue dress that was torn at the top and which she kept trying to hold together with her free hand. Her hair had been cut savagely close to its roots.

  Only her ankles, Herne noticed, were tied, the hide allowing her room to hobble.

  The Indian shouted something at her and half pushed her, half struck her arm. She staggered sideways and tried to prevent herself falling but to no avail.

  Herne’s hand moved back down to the trigger of the Sharps but he made no attempt to raise the rifle to his shoulder.

  The Indian dragged the girl back to her feet and began pushing her towards the other tipis. In front of them were the makings of a fire and close by the partly skinned body of some animal, most likely a mule deer, was impaled on a stake.

  The Indian shouted at the girl and pointed.

  When she seemed not to understand, he raised his arm as if to strike her. Instead he gave a curious laugh and pointed once more at the animal.

  This time the girl nodded and went over to it, slowly and with difficulty sitting down opposite the brave who was working on the skin. This second Indian started to demonstrate what she should do.

  Herne nodded with satisfaction.

  For whatever strange reason they had accepted her for the present. At least they were keeping her alive. He wondered how long and at what price.

  If that was the tipi of the brave with the white feather, he could guess what demands were being made upon her.

  The beast with two backs.

  Herne shook his head, clearing the image from his mind.

  The girl was fourteen.

  Herne backed slowly away. It was coming close to the end of the day. The Sioux would be feasting their victorious raid. He would draw back and make camp himself. In the morning, with the coming of first light, then he would make up his mind what to do.

  Chapter Ten

  Herne rolled over beneath the blanket, the same beautiful, terrible dream haunting him. His young wife’s body there beside him, yearning, pleading for him. And when he reached out his hands towards her and touched her, the smooth young skin began to flake away, her arms and thighs festered with sores; her neck—her neck was twisted and burnt by the rough hemp of a hanging rope.

  Yet he had to touch her: and she him.

  Thin, strong fingers pressed into his shoulder.

  Through the blanket.

  Through...

  The realization snapped the final thread of his dream and he turned under the grip, eyes opening, hand pulling at the Colt .45 at the same time.

  ‘Christ!’

  Herne continued to stare, unbelieving, the Colt halted in its movement. Above the strong, thin fingers of the hand that still held him, a mostly toothless face grinned down at him, the beard and mustache seeming even grayer and more straggly than Herne remembered it.

  ‘You stupid bastard! You’re goin’ to get yourself killed if you keep sneakin’ up on folk when they’re asleep.’

  Carey’s grin grew wider.

  ‘Now I’d say that depended a whole lot on how good I was at it. Looks to me mighty like you’d’ve been the one doin’ the dyin’ this time.’

  Herne blinked and sat up as Carey removed his hand. The old man was right. It could have been one of the Sioux.

  Carey sat down and began reaching into a leather bag that hung from his shoulder. He took out a roll of oatmeal biscuits and offered them to Herne. Next he found a piece of cheese wrapped in muslin and a length of greased paper which he unrolled to reveal several strips of cooked meat.

  Herne broke off a piece of the cheese and held it close to his nose; it smelt ripe enough to bite back, sweat covered it like a film. He closed his eyes and pushed it into his mouth to join the partly chewed biscuit.

  ‘You didn’t come all this way to bring me some food,’ he said between mouthfuls.

  Carey shook his head: ‘That’s a fact. I come out just to see if I could get up to you while you was asleep one time. Thought if I could do that then there was some hope for me yet in this life.5

  The eyes twinkled in the grizzled old face.

  ‘Yeah, wait till I tell folk how I snuck up on the famous Herne the Hunter an’...’

  Herne had the old man by the throat and was shaking him hard.

  ‘Hey, Jed! Jed!’ Carey squawked. ‘Let go! I didn’t mean …’ He rubbed at his neck as Herne released his hold. ‘I didn’t mean nothin’ by it. It was just a joke, that’s all.’

  ‘Tell you what,’ said Herne, pausing to bite off a chunk of meat. ‘Next time I wake up to see your ugly old face leerin’ down at me I’m goin’ to blow it off that scrawny neck of yours just the same.’

  ‘Sure, Jed, sure,’ Carey chuckled. ‘Sure you will.’

  Herne picked at a piece of meat that had got lodged between his teeth, then spat sideways.

  ‘What’s been happenin’?’

  Carey shook his head. ‘Tell you, Jed, it’s like all Hell’s near bust loose.’

  ‘Okay, let’s have it.’

  Carey swallowed the last of the cheese and wiped his fingers on the front of his shirt.

  ‘These Sioux you come after. They rode out of the Badlands an’ attacked some settlers. Least I guess it was them.’

  Herne nodded. ‘It was them all right.’

  ‘Thought it had to be. These folk, name of Parrish, tryin’ to farm out past the beginnin’s of Cedar Creek. Just lived in an old soddy. Parrish an’ his wife an’ two little uns. Not above six the pair of ’em. Sioux rode in and tore that sod hut to the ground. Butchered the family ... no other word for it. Plain butchered ’em. Poor bastards!’

  Herne thought back to the bodies laid out by the Agency; he could guess what had happened to the Parrish family.

  ‘Kids, too?’ he asked.

  Carey nodded, his eyes looking away. ‘Boy an’ a girl. Near to cleaved their heads off their little bodies.’ He slapped one hand hard into another. ‘Damn it, Jed! What is it makes an Injun run mad-dog wild like that?’

  ‘I don’t know. Bad medicine, I guess.’ He looked up. ‘They know ’bout this back at the Fort
?’

  ‘Yeah. I was scoutin’ with a patrol when we come across it. They rode back to Fort Rice an’ I come on in lookin’ for you. Thought you must have tracked ’em down by now. Less’n they’d caught you first.’

  Herne shook his head. ‘Come close a couple of times, but I’m still in one piece. Found their camp, though. Mile or so west of here.’

  Carey set his head on one side. ‘Hear there was a girl...’

  ‘She’s still with ’em. Least, she was yesterday. Maybe we can...’

  Carey put up a hand. ‘I ain’t through yet.’

  Herne sighed, then stretched. ‘Let’s have it. Whatever it is, it sure can’t be good.’

  ‘You mind that Chance Lattimer?’

  Herne’s eyes narrowed. ‘Go on.’

  ‘He busted his way out of the place they shut him up in at the Fort, waitin’ on a court martial. Got hold of a gun somehow. Bribed one of the guards most like. Maybe the same one he shot gettin’ out. Stole a horse an’ shot another man on his way past the stockade. Colonel sent some men after him but they never caught up with him.’

  ‘Maybe they didn’t want to.’

  ‘Could be, Jed. Lots of folk thought what he did back at the reservation was okay.’

  ‘Yeah.’ Herne shook his head in disgust. ‘Women an’ kids.’

  Carey said nothing for a few moments and then his husky voice said, ‘Women an’ kids, all right, Jed. Like at the Parrish place yesterday.’

  Herne stood up abruptly. ‘I know, damn it! I know what you mean an’ I know there ain’t no easy answer. Maybe there ain’t no answer at all.’

  He strode away and fetched the last of his water to give to his horse.

  ‘What’s your thinkin’?’ asked Carey a short while later.

  ‘We could wait until the Colonel sends troops from the Fort and lead ’em in. Keep an eye on the Sioux meanwhile so’s we know where they can be found.’

  ‘We could,’ Carey agreed, doubtfully.

  ‘Thing is, if we play it that way, two things are likely to happen. The Sioux are likely to make another raid, maybe more than one. And they’re gettin’ stronger all the time. Second thing is the girl. Right now I guess she’s alive but I don’t reckon her chances over much. Least of all if the Cavalry go chargin’ in.’