by John Benteen
“I was bored,” Barbara said harshly. “All that money and nothing to do all day long except listen to the same cowardly young men say the same meaningless things. It was dreadful. Like being ... a plant in a hothouse, you understand? And nothing ahead of me but the same boredom for the rest of my life, marrying one of those young men, moving to a different hothouse . . .”
They turned to walk along the river bank. “Then Irene came on the scene. Actually, I rather admired her, would have been her friend—if she’d let me. At least she was real. But she was jealous of me, jealous of any rival for my father and his money. If only she had known that I didn’t want the money. That all I wanted was to get away. But she couldn’t understand how anyone wouldn’t want money.”
“So when you got a chance to go to Santa Fe, you leaped at it.”
“Yes. I wanted to see the West, I was dying for adventure. Father was reluctant, but, of course, Irene threw her weight behind the deal; she was desperate to get rid of me. So finally he agreed. We hid a hundred thousand dollars in gold in the false bottoms of my trunks and suitcases, he hired Tod Brackman and ten men to guard me—and the gold—and we went to Leavenworth, where we met a wagon train bound for Santa Fe.”
They halted; she stared down at the swirling current of the river. “There were thirty teamsters in addition to Brackman and his men. Nobody, not even Brackman, was supposed to know about the gold. Everything was fine for a long while. Then we got to that place called Cimarron Springs.” She broke off, shuddered, and now there was horror in her voice.
“It all happened so suddenly. Brackman was the scout, the captain of the train. He called them all together for council, every one of the teamsters. And he had his own men posted with repeating rifles, and there was no need for the teamsters to be suspicious . . . and then . . . and then . . .” She broke off, and he could see that she was trembling.
But Sundance knew now what had happened. “Brackman and his men opened fire on ’em without warning. Killed them all.”
“Yes,” she whispered. “It was slaughter . . . coldblooded murder. They never had a chance to defend themselves. And Brackman standing there the whole time, shooting and laughing. Laughing like a madman.
“Then they killed the oxen. They killed those with bows and arrows. After that, they shot arrows into the dead men, too, and scalped them.”
“And what about you?”
“I tried to run, hide, but Brackman caught me. He made me watch. Then, when it was all over, he went for the gold. He didn’t even have to ask me where it was; somebody had already told him. They ripped open the trunks, threw things out . . . But they hadn’t got to the false bottoms when the Indians came.”
“The Cheyennes.”
“Yes. Tall Calf, Walking Bear, maybe twenty warriors. They’d been looking for buffalo, heard the shooting. The minute they appeared on the skyline, Brackman and his men opened up on them. Of course, they attacked. They swarmed down off that ridge, swept over Brackman and his outfit, and killed them all. I thought they were going to kill me, too, but they didn’t. Only took me prisoner, tied my hands, threw me on a horse—”
“They didn’t kill them all,” Sundance said.
“What?”
“Brackman’s still alive.”
She stared at him. “That’s impossible. I saw them scalp him.”
“All the same, he wasn’t dead. More than one man has been scalped and lived to tell the tale.”
Barbara fell silent, looking at the river. “He survived. The cavalry found him,” Sundance continued. “He wrote your father that the Cheyennes had taken you and the gold.”
“That’s a lie! They didn’t take the gold! They looted the trunks, but they didn’t know about the false bottoms, and I didn’t tell them. I know they didn’t take the gold!”
“After the cavalry from Fort Union found Brackman wandering in the desert, they went to the scene, checked everything out. There wasn’t any gold in the trunks; it was gone.”
“Then somebody else has got it!”
Sundance was silent for a moment. “Yeah,” he said at last. “Somebody else sure has.” Then he turned to her. “Well, let that ride for now. You’re going back to Ellsworth with me.”
She stepped back a pace. “No, I’m not!” she said fiercely. “I’d die first!” She flung out a hand, encompassing the village in a gesture. “I never really knew what it was like to be alive before I came here—to be free, or among people who cared about anything but money. I never even knew what it was like to have a real father, a real mother, like Tall Calf and Magpie Wing.” Her voice dropped. “Sundance, you must understand. I’ve been a Cheyenne woman for nearly three months now, and I’ve made up my mind—I’d rather stay a Cheyenne than go back to being George Colfax’s daughter or Irene’s stepdaughter! For the first time, I feel real! Part of something bigger than myself!” She broke off. “Sure, I’ve chopped wood, skinned buffalo, got all bloody and greasy, even strangled dogs for the pot, sewed hides, worked like—like hell! But at least it’s all useful, not only for me but for everybody else, for the tribe! In New York, I was dead and didn’t know it. Here, I’m alive! And I won’t go back with you to that living death.”
“I think you will,” Sundance said quietly. “Because your father’s promised me ten thousand dollars to bring you back. And I need that money. I need all the money I can get.”
Barbara Colfax looked at him with widening eyes that filled with hatred, contempt. “Why?” she rasped. “So you can have a binge somewhere, wallow in liquor—?”
“Shut up and listen to me,” Sundance said.
“No, I won’t—”
“You will or I’ll shake the teeth out of you!” His voice was low, savage. “You hear? Be quiet!”
She stared at him, swallowing hard. But she fell silent. Sundance went on, whispering. “Listen, you talk about doing something for the tribe. Well, you can do more for the Cheyennes by going back to Ellsworth with me than you can by staying here and cooking dog! That is, if you really care about the tribe.”
“You’re not making sense.”
“I will,” he rasped. “I never told anybody this before, but in this situation you’ve got a right to know. So pay attention.”
He gestured, his outswept hand indicating the plains that stretched away beyond the river. “Do you think this is where the fate of the Cheyennes will be settled? Out here between the Platte and the Arkansas, or the Platte and the Powder, on the prairie? Hell, no! What happens to them, to all the Indians, depends on what happens in Washington, in Congress and the White House.”
With intensity, he went on. “The Cheyennes can fight like wolves, they will fight, but they can never win. There are too many people who want to see them wiped out, man, woman, child, like so many wild animals or ... or bugs. Too many people who want their land—the railroads, the speculators, the bankers like George Colfax! And they’re the ones who have the final say as to whether the Indians will live or die, whether they’ll keep any land at all or lose every acre of it! Because they’re the ones who can afford to make the payoff. Buy Senators and Congressmen, hire lobbyists, influence newspapers . . . The Army’s not the Indians’ enemy—it’s the vultures back in Washington with all the money who want this land out here—not just their share of it, but all of it. And whatever they decide is what the Army will do!”
“You’re trying to tell me—?” She stared at him.
“I’m trying to tell you that money is what will decide what eventually happens to all the Indians. Because money buys political influence. And there are people spending hundreds of thousands of dollars in Washington against the Indians and nobody spending a penny for them—except me.”
“You?”
“That’s right. There’s one soldier out here who really understands the Indians and wants to see them treated fairly: General George Crook. We’ve hunted together, talked about it, and he explained what I had to do, helped me set it up, introduced me to the right man in Washington
. Now I’ve got a lawyer there, a good one, and a Quaker, a man of influence. He’s doing everything he can to get an even break for the tribes in Congress, even if it means bribing people. Anyhow, it takes money, a hell of a lot of money. Well, I make a hell of a lot, one way or another, but there’s always need for more. That ten thousand dollars your father’ll pay for your return will buy a lot of influence in Washington for the tribes. I need it, and I’m going to get it—and that’s why you’re going back with me, whether you want to or not.”
Barbara stared at him. “This is the most fantastic thing I’ve ever heard. A man like you—”
“It takes a man like me, a half-breed with a foot in each camp. Who else would do it?”
She put her hands to her face. “I see. I understand, now.” He could hear tears in her voice. “But I don’t want to leave. I want to stay, I love this life. Even if it changes, I want to be part of it. And there’s something else . . .”
“Walking Bear,” Sundance said.
“Yes. Yes, I want to be his woman. Because I never met a man like him before, a real man. I want to marry him, bear his children—”
“Half-breed children,” Sundance said bitterly. “That’s a curse to put on anyone.”
“Maybe it won’t always be.”
“Listen,” he said, “you know a Cheyenne can take more than one woman. You wouldn’t be his only wife. Have you thought of that?”
“What difference does that make if I love him?”
Sundance looked at her in the moonlight, his face hard. This was something he had not anticipated, had not dreamed of having to consider. Then he said, “All right. I signed a contract with your father to bring you back, and I always fulfill my contracts. But there’s nothing in it that says that once I’ve done that, you’d have to stay there. Nothing to keep me from bringing you back here.”
She took her hands from her face. “Wait. Wait a minute.”
“When I get you to Ellsworth, I collect cash—on delivery. After that, he and I are quits. Then it would be up to you. If you wanted to come back to the tribe, I’d bring you back.” He put out a hand, touched her. “I mean that. But, Barbara, I’ve got to have that ten thousand. One way or the other, I aim to get it.”
Barbara Colfax, Two Roads Woman, sat down heavily on a hillock of sand and stared across the river. For a long moment she was silent.
Finally she said, “It wouldn’t work. Even if I agreed, they wouldn’t let me go with you. Walking Bear and Tall Calf have already made that clear.”
“I know that,” Sundance said. “I’d have to steal you.”
She drew in a long breath. “And if you did that, they’d come after you. And then you’d have to shoot them, kill them—or they’d kill you.”
Sundance said quietly, “Maybe they will kill me. I’m not going to kill any of them. No matter what happens; they are my people. But if they kill me—well, that’s a chance I’ll have to take. The stakes are worth it.” He hesitated. “If we work it right, nobody will have to kill anybody. We could get away clean, make it to Ellsworth. I’d collect from your father and, as soon as I had the money, bring you back here. And nobody hurt.”
Again the girl was silent. Presently, she said, “How? How could it be done?”
“It has to be done tonight, while everybody’s worn out from hunting. Even the guards will be only half awake. You and I—we’ll both be sleeping in Tall Calf’s lodge. My horse will be tied outside. When Tall Calf and his woman are asleep, we sneak out, mount my stallion and ride.”
“They’ll come after us. Even if we get out of camp, once they find we’re gone, they’ll know what happened. And your horse can’t outrun them, carrying double.”
“I’m gambling that he can, at least long enough to give us a head start they can’t close up. It’s the only way. You can bet that from tomorrow on, Walking Bear will be watching both of us like a hawk. Barbara, we’ve got to chance it. That ten thousand might swing the balance between peace and war out here, between a lot of Cheyennes living and a lot wiped out. If you care anything about the tribe . . .”
She did not answer. Only sat quietly, staring at the river. Then she said, “What time tonight?”
Something unknotted within Sundance. He smiled faintly. “Just stay awake and watch me. I’ll go outside, look around to make sure the coast is clear. Three minutes later, if you hear no alarm, you follow.”
“And you promise to bring me back.”
“I give my word.”
Barbara sighed. Then she arose. “All right,” she said. “Then let’s go back to Tall Calf’s lodge and go to bed.”
The fire had burned down to faintly glowing embers. Under the dew cloth, the liner of the teepee, as Sundance lifted himself slightly on one elbow, Tall Calf and Magpie Wing, his woman, were sound asleep beneath their double buffalo robes. Sundance’s eyes shuttled to the other side of the fire. He saw the yellow blob of Barbara Colfax’s hair. Her head lifted a little. Sundance motioned her down with a wave of his hand.
He guessed that now it was nearly two in the morning. Slowly, carefully, he sat up. He could hear the faint whisper of the breeze around the lodge’s smoke-flaps, the gentle snoring of the Cheyenne couple. He cocked his head. Except for the occasional whicker of a horse or bark of a dog, the village was absolutely silent. Without sliding out of his robes, he fastened on the gun belt, adjusted the Colt and knife, then also buckled on the cartridge belt for the Henry. Then, carefully, he threw aside the bedding, eased to his feet. Neither Tall Calf nor Magpie Wing stirred. Sundance padded in moccasins to the door, bent, went out. Straightening up, he looked around.
Indeed, the village slept soundly. A few old women detailed to guard the drying meat were huddled snoring in their blankets in the center of the circle of lodges; the dogs, having feasted on offal and gnawed bloody bones, were comatose. Beside the teepee, Eagle, fully saddled and equipped, as was customary with the best horses of the Cheyennes, was tethered to a teepee stake. Overhead, the stars sprinkled an enormous sky. The moon was going down, and Sundance saw no reason for alarm. He tightened the cinch on the Mexican saddle, after sliding the Henry, which he had brought from the lodge, into its scabbard. Then he heard a whisper of sound behind him and Barbara Colfax was there.
Wordlessly, she looked at him with inquiring eyes. He nodded and, holding Eagle’s reins, boosted her into the saddle. He passed the reins around her, was about to vault up to the appaloosa’s rump. Then, behind him, a voice rasped in Cheyenne: “You lying white man. Don’t you move, or I’ll kill you!”
Sundance froze. Slowly, keeping his hand well away from his Colt, he turned to stare into the eyes of Walking Bear. The Cheyenne brave held a rifle pointed at Sundance’s belly. His face was contorted in a snarl of rage mingled with something else, maybe grief. He whispered: “I told myself that you were a friend and a Cheyenne and that you would not do this thing. But I could not believe it, I could not sleep, and so I came to keep watch over my woman’s lodge. And now—” He moved in closer, not more than a yard away, and his finger tightened on the trigger. “Now—”
There was nothing for it. Sundance sprang, like a panther, but not toward Walking Bear. He leaped aside, and the gun roared, spending—because it was a .50 caliber Sharps—its single shot. That was what Sundance wanted, and as the lead slapped by him and whined off across the camp, he changed direction. Walking Bear brought up the empty gun to club him, and Sundance fended it with his left arm. His right fist shot out and slammed with terrific force against the brave’s chin. He heard Walking Bear’s teeth click together; the man dropped. Sundance did not even wait to see him hit the ground; he whirled and in a single bound was on Eagle’s rump and had seized the reins and slammed the stallion with his heels. From a standing start, the big horse went into a dead run through the camp. Barbara cried something, but Sundance’s hand clamped over her mouth. He knew which way the guards would be most thinly stretched, on the side opposite the horse herd, and he turned the stallion that way. Ah
ead, the meat racks loomed, and an old woman screamed as she awakened to the thunder of hooves and saw the huge horse bearing down on her. Eagle swerved, crashed into the flimsy structures of lashed wood, and they went helter-skelter into the dust, meat and all, but he had not touched the woman. Behind them, somebody yelled, giving alarm. Eagle pounded between lodges, then was in the clear. Now he was galloping across open prairie. Sundance pushed Barbara low in the saddle, her face almost in the stallion’s mane; he bent to shield her with his back. A gun thundered, but the bullet was wild; he did not even hear its zing. The big horse pounded on, running like an antelope despite its double burden. Now they had opened a wide gap between themselves and the camp, enough so that Sundance straightened up. The shouting behind them grew in volume. He cursed. He had not counted on Walking Bear’s love for Two Roads Woman, on his friend fighting off fatigue and hiding behind a lodge to keep watch. Now his hoped-for lead was gone, wiped out. Eagle would have to outrun Cheyenne pursuers; and if he could do it at all, it would be a close race. Already Sundance thought he could hear hoof beats behind him. He dragged the Henry from the saddle scabbard, turned, fired high into the air, two, three, warning shots. Every Cheyenne in camp knew what a master with a rifle he was, better than any full-blooded brave, for they lacked the powder and ammunition with which to practice. Maybe that would hold back the pursuing guards a little.
It did; the sound of hoof beats dimmed. Then Sundance bent forward again and lashed Eagle with the rein ends. The big horse ran joyously and swiftly, and now, for a little while at least, until the confusion in the camp cleared up and pursuit could be mounted, they were in the clear.
Chapter Seven
Two days later, Sundance lay flat on a ridge-crest, staring at a worm of dust wriggling swiftly across the prairie five miles off. His lips thinned in a face gone gaunt and haggard. The Cheyennes were still coming on.
In the beginning, they had outrun the Indians. It had taken long enough for the confusion to ebb and for Walking Bear to come back to consciousness, to give them a clear lead of five miles, which, while Eagle still was fresh, Sundance had, by clever use of ground and cover, widened finally to ten. For a while, he had even thought they might make it, but now he knew better.