Sundance 10

by John Benteen

  And now Sundance comprehended, had it all straightened in his mind. “My Indians have passes.”

  “Which are cancelled by Miles’ orders. And after Fain told us that they were out here, Colonel Forsyth—”

  “Fain,” Sundance said bitterly. “Yeah. Fain.” Then he turned to the sergeant. “Blake, listen. Cochrane hasn’t been out here long enough to understand. But what Miles and I agreed on was that I’d drive these cattle into the Badlands, turn ’em loose, and then the Indians would go to hunting and eating beef instead of making war—”

  Blake shrugged. “Sundance—”

  “Damn it, man, it’s more important than ever now that I make this drive! If I don’t, this whole end of Dakota’ll explode!”

  “You’re right, sure,” Blake said. “But I don’t command this platoon.” His eyes would not meet Sundance’s. “Me, I got to follow orders.”

  Sundance hesitated, controlling the rage that threatened to push him to the brink of violence. He turned back to Cochrane. “All right,” he said. “I’ll get the Indians to the agency. But I’ll take the cattle with ’em. We’ll finish our drive and—”

  “No,” Cochrane said. “I’m rounding up these Indians and taking them in right now. And you’ve got two choices, Sundance. Tell them to move out peaceably, disarmed and in my custody, or resist—which means fighting the United States Army and that Gatling gun.”

  “And what happens to my herd meanwhile? With nobody to watch it, it’ll scatter again—”

  “Why,” Cochrane said easily, “that’s your problem, not mine.” Then his face twisted into a strange mask of hatred. “You’ve got a half hour to disarm them,” he snapped, “before we open fire. Once they’re disarmed, they can have an hour at your ranch to get their goods. Then we strike out for Pine Ridge. Make your choice, Sundance. Tell them to give up their guns—or fight.”

  Sundance did not miss the eagerness in his voice. “Cochrane,” he said. “Cochrane, what’s wrong? What kind of burr you got under your saddle? Why’re you so eager to have it out with me and my people?”

  Cochrane was silent for a full five seconds. Then he said huskily, “Little Big Horn, Sundance. Remember Little Big Horn?

  “Of course you do. You were there. June, 1876, I know. Benteen’s men and Reno’s, up on the bluff while Custer was being slaughtered. They all say the same thing. That among the Cheyennes that day, there was one Indian with yellow hair.”

  He shifted in the saddle, hand still on the holstered Colt. “You see, Sundance, my father was an officer in the Seventh. But he died when I was only six years old. I can barely remember him holding me on his knee, teaching me the bugle calls and how to salute the colors. I just barely—” His voice broke, then he caught it and it turned hard again. “Never mind. June 25, 1876, Sundance, that was when he was killed. Murdered, along with Custer, on the Greasy Grass, by stinking Indians. Including one stinking Indian with yellow hair.”

  For a moment, Jim Sundance did not speak. Then he said, “If anybody murdered your father, Custer did. Disobeying orders, splitting his command, charging a camp full of thousands of warriors with a handful of men. Your father was a soldier, he hired out to fight and take his chances. He didn’t hire out to be sacrificed by a glory-hunting fool. But—”

  “God damn you!” Cochrane roared the words, spurred his horse, and his gauntleted hand slapped out, knocking Sundance’s head around. “Custer was the finest commander the Seventh ever had! You—”

  Two things happened simultaneously then. Eyes watering from the slap Jim Sundance made the quick decision not to fight back. And Blake spurred forward, grabbed the lieutenant by the arm, half jerked him from the saddle. “Cochrane,” he roared, “you’re out of line!”

  Cochrane jerked loose. “Let me go, sergeant,” he said thinly.

  “You wanta get a lot of people killed—?” The sergeant’s face was furious. “You damned kid—” He turned to Sundance. “Jim—”

  “All right, Blake. Ease off. I’ll let it ride for now.” Sundance looked at Cochrane. “Lieutenant,” he said softly. “Miles wants these cattle put where the Indians can get them. It’s more important now than ever. They’re the only thing that can keep war from breaking out.” He paused. “I’m not going to fight you. I could, but it would do no good, help neither the Indians nor the Army. So I’m going to follow your orders. But I want one thing clear, here in front of Sergeant Blake and all the men. If you stop my cattle drive, you are likely starting an Indian war. Do you want to take that responsibility, personally?”

  Cochrane looked back at him, face pale. Slowly, fiercely he grinned. “Why,” he said softly, “do you think I joined my father’s old regiment? A war, Sundance? The ghosts of Custer’s men cry out for it.”

  Sundance saw the glint of insanity and grief in Cochrane’s eyes. For a moment, he could almost feel pity for the youth. “Boy,” he whispered, “you’ve never seen a war, have you?” But Cochrane only stared at him without answering. Sundance bit his lip. “All right,” he said at last. “I’ll try to disarm the men. I’ll try to persuade them to go along with you. But you and all your people, you stand fast, you hear me? One hostile move from you and my riders will give you all the war you want.” He started to rein the Appaloosa around. “One more thing,” he added. “I’m riding to Pine Ridge with you and I’m getting on the telegraph to Miles. And when he hears what you’ve done, thanks to Martin Fain, you’d better be prepared to take the consequences.”

  Then he touched Eagle with his heels and rode swiftly toward the herd.

  Chapter Seven

  It was a dangerous, a deadly, business.

  By now every Indian on Thunderbird realized what was happening, and guns were out and ready as Sundance rode among them, called them into council. They circled him warily, as he explained what Cochrane demanded, after he had told them of the death of Sitting Bull. When he had finished, they sat in silence.

  Then Sam Walking Calf, the Minniconjou, made a sound in his throat. His face was bleak, his eyes like flakes of volcanic glass as he stared at the soldiers in the distance. “I remember,” he said, “after the Greasy Grass hearing how the one called Cody killed the Cheyenne chief Yellow Hand. And he cried out, ‘The first scalp for Custer!’” Walking Calf’s grip tightened on his rifle. “I think I shall be the one who takes the first scalp for Tatanka Yotanka.”

  “No,” Sundance said. “Hear me out. All this is the doing of the man named Fain. General Miles, the big soldier, has his headquarters in Rapid City, and he’s unaware of this. You’ll go to the agency, as the soldiers demand. I’ll ride with you, and once there I’ll use the talking wire to tell Miles of this. And I know that when he hears, he’ll send us back to get the cattle. It will take time, yes ... But it’s better than fighting now. If you fight now, many of you will die, along with the long knives. And the cattle will never reach the tribes—”

  He could see that they did not believe him. He was not even sure he believed himself. With Sitting Bull dead at the Standing Rock Agent’s command, with the Army having fired on the Hunkpapa who’d tried to protect their leader, it was too late, time had run out. There would surely be fighting now, and these men were in a mood to let it begin here. For that matter, so was he; the grief and rage he felt at the murder of the old Sioux medicine man was not one bit less than theirs. Everything Cheyenne in him cried to sound that old slogan: It’s a good day to die! And then to throw himself in combat against that arrogant, half-crazed young soldier and his troops, win or lose.

  But his brain was trained to work, too, as a white man’s brain, and it held him back. Such sacrifice would be useless, more than useless. There was still a chance of salvaging a little. If he could get to Pine Ridge, get telegraphic clearance to bring the Indians back with him and get that herd on the move again, although there would be war, maybe that much beef would help contain it, keep it from spreading. And besides, if he died here today, that left no one to deal with Martin Fain.

  Sundance st
raightened up. Fain, he thought. Yes. That was why he had to stay alive. Not only to get this herd through, but to confront and settle scores with Martin Fain ... The hatred he felt in that moment confirmed his knowledge of what he had to do.

  There had been, he thought, so many Fains in the past, and there would be more in the future—the greedy men who enriched themselves while women and children died. But, he vowed silently to himself, no matter what it cost him, there would be one less of that breed soon ...

  “I can’t command you,” he said, “to go in with the troops. If you want to fight, that is your affair. I myself must stay alive until I have killed the man who sent these soldiers here to block our drive. But I say this—if fighting is your decision, then go back to your own people and join them and fight along with them, and not here today in this valley.”

  They looked at him, and he thought he saw something strange in their eyes, and then they did something they had never done before—they turned away from him, drew apart, to hold council among themselves, leaving him separate from them and alone. He stood there tensely for minutes, acutely aware of the surrounding soldiers, as the Indians conferred in whispers.

  Then Walking Calf turned. “We have decided.” His face was grave. “We will give up our weapons and do as you say, go along with the soldiers to the agency. But if they will not let us return and move this beef to feed our people, then we will go to our tribes—the Oglala and the Brulé and the Minniconjou and the others. And then, if our tribes fight... we fight, too.”

  Sundance nodded. “It is good,” he said, feeling relief wash over him. The hell of it was, he thought, he loved them, every one of them. They were not employees, hired hands; they were his friends and his kindred. And he could not bear to see them waste themselves in a futile gesture. “It is good,” he repeated. “Then lay down your guns and let us ride.”

  Barbara had seen them coming: that band of forty horsemen, the Indians encircled by blue clad men with carbines at the ready; and she stood tensely outside the long log ranch house as they came up, Sundance in the lead with Cochrane and Blake.

  “Jim!” Her eyes were wide, looking at the soldiers; “What’s happening?”

  “Let’s go inside,” he said, swinging down.

  “Blake,” Cochrane commanded, “take these people to their bunkhouse or wherever they stay. Let them get their gear. Keep them under heavy guard.”

  “Uh-huh,” Blake grunted sourly. He turned away, barking orders. “Mrs. Sundance,” Cochrane went on. “Let me introduce myself. Lieutenant Cochrane, Seventh Cavalry. I’m afraid there’ll be some inconvenience—”

  “Inconvenience,” Sundance rasped bitterly. “Yeah. All right, Cochrane. Come inside.”

  Cochrane followed them into the big living room, looked around impressed. Sundance closed the door. “Barbara,” he said, “Sitting Bull is dead.” And then he told her what had happened.

  When he was through, she stood motionless for a moment, stunned. Then her face regained color; she swung furiously toward Cochrane. “You?” she snapped. “You child! You foolish child—”

  “Madam?” Cochrane, flushing, drew himself up.

  “Don’t madam me!” Barbara went on, biting off the words. “Don’t you understand what you are doing? This herd’s ready to move, right now! You and your soldiers—with our Indians, you could have it at the Reservation in two, three days! Maybe less with all those men pushing, and yet—But, now, it’ll be ten days, two weeks before we can get it there if you persist in this idiocy! And how many people, including your own soldiers, are likely to die in that space of time?”

  “I said, madam—”

  “Be quiet. You don’t know anything. All the Indians want, need, now, is an act of good faith. This herd is it. It will prove to them that even if Sitting Bull was murdered all hope isn’t gone—” Suddenly she was pleading, begging. “Don’t stop it now. Instead, help drive it. Help push it to Pine Ridge as fast as possible! If you want to be a hero, try to stop the war, not start it—!”

  “I have my orders,” Cochrane said. His eyes glittered. “And I assure you, madam, nothing in them includes driving cattle to feed stinking savages.”

  Barbara almost threw herself at him. Sundance’s hand on her shoulder restrained her. “Easy,” he began. At that moment someone hammered on the door and Blake said, “Lieutenant. I’ve got the Indians out here. They’re ready to ride—but I think you oughta take a look at ’em first. They—”

  Cochrane stepped to the door, flung it open. “Sergeant—” Then he fell back, staring, face overspread with awe.

  They filed in, fifteen of them, the warriors. Before, dressed in range garb, they had seemed nondescript and tame. Now, though, they were something wholly different. What filled the living room at Thunderbird was a band of braves ready for the warpath.

  With Sam Walking Calf in the lead, they faced Sundance, their faces painted, streaked with white, yellow, black, in wild patterns, according to their individual medicine, their clans, and tribes. Eagle feathers rode in the hair of every one, straight up, in the sign for war, and Walking Calf himself wore a full war bonnet, ermine side-hangings dangling, its feathers rustling softly. Little bells jingled at his moccasined ankles, and, like the others, he had shed his shabby pants and white man’s coat; now every Indian was in buckskin, and most wore breastplates of bone and necklaces of bear claws or wolves’ teeth. But that was not what made Sundance, Barbara and Cochrane stand for a full ten seconds in total silence.

  Barbara broke it. “Jim, look—”

  Sundance nodded. Although their clothes varied according to their tribe, there was one garment common to them all—the white cloth shirts over their buckskin: shirts decorated with painted moons and stars and crosses, fringed and hung with eagle feathers.

  Ghost Shirts. And what left Sundance wordless was that they must have had them all along and kept them secret from him—as if he were the enemy.

  “They say,” Walking Calf said, stepping forward, “that we cannot wear our Ghost Shirts to the Agency. I have told them that we will not go without them. I think you had better make that clear. Otherwise, we shall have to fight them.”

  “Walking Calf, don’t be—They’ve disarmed you.”

  Walking Calf smiled. “But we would take our weapons back. They could not stop us. With our Ghost Shirts on, their bullets could not touch us.”

  “You don’t believe—”

  Walking Calf shook his head slowly. “We believe. It is you who do not believe.” There was a kind of sadness in his voice. “That is the white man in you.”

  Sundance looked at Walking Calf and Walking Calf looked back, and as their eyes met, suddenly Sundance realized that what Walking Calf had said was true, and it had been true all along. It was the White Man in him. He was not Indian enough. He had never been Indian enough.

  He saw that now, saw how he had deceived himself through all these years. He had counted himself Cheyenne, but if he had been real Cheyenne, he would have been on the reservation, sharing the starving fortunes of his people. Or he would have died in battle long ago, resisting, gone down in war bonnet, with his war shield on his arm.

  Or he would be wearing his Ghost Shirt now and ready to sing his death song and fight against hopeless odds.

  It did not matter that he had risked his life countless times for the benefit of the tribes, was ready to risk it again now. It did not matter that he had poured a fortune into Washington to ease their lot. It did not even matter that he had fought and killed Custer at the Greasy Grass, for there had been no way out of that. All of that he had done with a white man’s calculation, and even now his white man’s mind was figuring the odds, scheming and planning again. But because they were Indian, wholly Indian, as he was not, they were through with calculating odds and through with talk and through with reason and through with the slow death of not only their bodies but their pride. Now they had moved into a different world, a magic world, a spirit world, in which they were willing to trus
t themselves to their own Gods, to the sun and moon and earth and air and water, and it was not one into which he could follow, because, no matter how he might want to, he just was not Indian enough.

  He stood there in total silence for a long time. Then he said quietly, and with a sadness that equaled Walking Calf’s, “You are right. I do not believe. But you will not have to take your Ghost Shirts off. I’ll see to that.”

  He turned to Cochrane. “Lieutenant,” he said firmly, “these men wear these shirts and nobody takes them from them. Otherwise, you’ll have to kill them all. And myself and my wife.”

  Cochrane’s jaw dropped. “Sundance. Have you gone crazy?”

  “I’m telling you,” Sundance said. “They keep their Ghost Shirts on, or you’ll have to kill us all. Make up your mind. You want that responsibility?”

  Before Cochrane could speak, Blake cut in. “Lieutenant, let ’em wear those shirts.”

  Cochrane licked his lips. “Sergeant, you know they’re forbidden—”

  “Goddammit, I don’t care what they are!” Blake’s voice was cutting. “I know Jim Sundance! And he’s still armed! These men, the troopers of this platoon, are my responsibility. I’ve been with them for years while you were still in three-cornered pants. They have their honor, too, to think about and I have mine ... If you want those Ghost Shirts off, you take ’em off, alone, single-handed. But this platoon’s not going to murder unarmed men because of what they wear.”