by John Benteen
Duppa let out a long breath. “I’ve always had the policy that any man could find sanctuary at this station. I’ll hold with that for you, Gannon; but if there’s any trouble, Indians or no, you ride on. Peaceable travelers are one thing, outlaws are another.”
Gannon’s grin faded. “Who says we’re outlaws? Okay, maybe we’re wanted in California. But there’s no warrants out against us here in Arizona.”
“At the rate you’re going, there will be soon,” Duppa snapped. “I’ve heard too many stories of stagecoaches robbed, wagon trains ambushed.”
“Injuns, all Injuns, and people put the blame on us.” Gannon’s grin was sardonic; he spat again. Then his blue eyes went hard. “It works both ways, Duppa. We got you outnumbered. Don’t you give us any bad time, neither, if you know what’s good for you. We’ll be peaceable as long as you are; come mornin’, we ride out to Tucson. All we want tonight’s water and a place to sleep. We’ve got our own grub.”
“All right,” said Duppa. “We’ll leave it at that. Come in the house.” He hesitated. “Don’t you want to go out and bring in that body?”
Gannon snorted. “Charlie Jakes? To hell with him; he was never any account no-how. Let the buzzards have him.”
“Then I’ll send out my own men. He’ll have a decent burial,” Duppa said.
“Suit yourself,” Gannon said. “Don’t expect me to dig. Christ, I’m dry! Duppa, you got any whiskey?”
“Not enough to go around,” Duppa said, and Sundance knew instantly that he was lying.
“Makes no difference. We got some of our own, but it’s lousy rotgut. Come on, boys. Bailey, you and Jimson see to the animals. Rest of you, let’s git out of this sun.”
Duppa held back as they filed into the house, spurs jingling. Sundance stood beside him. “Jim,” he said quietly, “we’ve got to watch that bunch. Gannon’s a bad lot. Used to be a member of the Hounds, the waterfront gang in San Francisco. They ran him out of California, he came here, built up a bunch of drifters and gunmen. He’s right, nobody’s pinned anything on him here yet, but he’s dangerous as a rattlesnake, and he’d cut his own mother’s throat for a ’dobe dollar. Don’t turn your back on him.”
Sundance laughed softly. “Didn’t aim to.”
Duppa sighed. “It’s going to be a long night. I’d almost rather have the Indians.”
Chapter Two
Outside, coyote howls mixed with the mournful cry of a big lobo wolf. Occasionally, fights broke out among the scavengers feasting on the dead horses of the Indians, and even at this distance the snapping, snarling, barking was audible. Inside Duppa’s house, a fire crackled against the desert chill, and Gannon’s men, except for a few on guard, were ranged around it, while Gannon sat with Sundance and Duppa at the table.
The red-bearded man had been drinking steadily from a bottle of raw whiskey. The cartridges in his bandolier winked in the firelight and their brassy glitter matched the gleam in his pale eyes. “We was comin’ down from Prescott,” he said thickly. “Figured on makin’ your station and Phoenix all in one haul. Seen the smokes, allowed we was strong enough to stand ’em off if they hit us. But even with all of us keepin’ our eyes peeled, damned if they didn’t hit us by surprise. One minute, nothin’. Next the whole damn canyon full of them red bastards.’’ He laughed hoarsely. “Well, there’s six or eight ain’t gonna pull a trigger again in this life. Wish I could wipe ’em all out!”
Sundance, at the table’s end, said nothing. With a whetstone, he was carefully sharpening knife and hatchet. Gannon shoved the bottle across the table. “Here, halfbreed. I don’t include you in that, because you helped save our skins. Have a drink.”
Sundance looked up, lean face expressionless. The firelight struck gleams from his yellow hair. “No, thanks,” he said tersely and the whetstone went on making its squeaking sound as it slid across steel.
Gannon’s eyes changed, went cold. His mouth thinned. He sat up straight. “What’s matter? You think you’re too good to drink with me?”
“That might be it,” Sundance said. He was a patient man, Indian upbringing had bred that into him. But there was a temper within him, too, fierce as a ravening wolf, and though he had taught himself to keep it chained, there were times when it took every ounce of will to hold it. When it finally went, he smashed, killed, the object of his anger. He did not like to kill except for a reason, an urgent reason, and a quarrel with a drunk was not one. Still, Gannon rasped him, had all night long. He fought back anger. “But the main reason is that I can’t take much whiskey. Two drinks are my limit, and I’ve had those. More, and I get mean.”
“Like all Injuns.” Gannon laughed again, but his handsome face had no mirth in it. “Okay, halfbreed, suit yourself.”
Sundance laid down the knife, picked up the hatchet. “My name is Sundance,” he said.
“I don’t give a damn what your name is.” Gannon drank again.
The wolf howled again, outside. Duppa had been cleaning his revolver in lantern light. Now he poked brass caps on the nipples of the cylinder, laid the gun on the table so its barrel pointed toward Gannon. “Gannon,” he said, “ease off. You’re getting out of line.”
Gannon stared at him. “What?”
“So you don’t know Jim Sundance, eh?” Duppa’s voice was soft. “Maybe if you did, you’d pull in your horns.” He laid one big hand over the Colt, still pointed at Gannon. “Jim won’t talk about himself, but let me tell you—”
“Darrel,” Sundance said.
“No. He ought to hear.”
Sundance ran his hand over the ax’s blade. “Suit yourself.” He turned away, went to the fire. Gannon’s men stared at him as he edged between them, poured himself a cup of coffee.
“His father came to America in the beaver days,” he heard Duppa say as he straightened up. “A man of education, cultivation—one who had been a soldier, served with distinction in His Majesty’s Army. He liked the way the Indians lived, the freedom, the simplicity. That’s why he married a Cheyenne woman, was adopted into the tribe. He got the name Sundance because he was the first white man ever to participate in the ceremony. It’s the big religious ritual of the Plains Indians.”
Gannon spat on the dirt floor, took out a cigar, bit off its end. “He’s just another halfbreed to me.”
Duppa’s grin was cold. “Old Sundance traveled among all the tribes, was known, respected, traded with them all. Jim’s lived with all of them, speaks their languages, knows their ways. They respect him, too.”
Gannon only rolled the cigar across his mouth.
“If you’re smart, you won’t tangle with him,” Duppa said.
“That’s enough, Darrel.” Sundance came back to the table.
“No, let me go on.” Duppa leaned forward. “One little instance, Gannon. It was a long time ago, outside Bent’s old fort. Six men—three Pawnees, three white toughs . . . they caught Nick Sundance and his wife out on the plains; when Jim found his parents, they were dead.”
“Darrel!” Sundance snapped.
Duppa went on, disregarding him. “Six men, Gannon. Jim struck their trails, alone. It took him a year to run down all of them. But he did it.” Duppa gestured toward the bullhide bags from behind Sundance’s saddles. “Their scalps are over there right now.”
Gannon’s eyes shuttled to the bags, then to Sundance’s face. “White men’s scalps?”
Sundance said, “Murderers’ scalps. Darrel, hush.” Duppa had been drinking a little, too; his tongue was loosened. He paid no attention to Sundance. “After that, Sundance drifted. The War came, he fought with the bushwhackers and Jayhawkers in Missouri and Kansas for the hell of it. A tough school, Gannon. Only the best gunmen came out of it alive. That’s why I say, don’t crowd Sundance. He can take you apart with rifle, pistol, knife, or any other weapon you might choose. Including bow, arrows, lance or tomahawk. So you’ve been warned, Gannon.”
Sundance picked up the hatchet, sheathed it. “Darrel, you talk too much.”
But everything that Duppa had said was having an opposite effect. Gannon ran his gaze over Sundance curiously, taking in the more than six feet of height, the wide, sloping shoulders beneath the buckskin shirt, the deep chest, the long, hard legs; and Gannon’s eyes, muddy with drink now, also were lit with challenge. The knife Sundance had been sharpening still lay on the table. Now Sundance picked it up.
“Don’t start with that damn whetstone again,” Gannon rasped. “The sound of it gits on my nerves.”
“I’m through,” Sundance said. He was about to sheathe the knife when he saw the flicker of motion on the wall, ten feet away. A vinegaroon, a big scorpion, had crawled out from beneath the gunny sacking that covered the wattles. Sundance smiled faintly. His hand hardly seemed to move, but suddenly the thrown knife gleamed in the firelight. Its blade chunked into the wall. Split, impaled, the scorpion twisted frantically, lashing with its venemous tail. Then it died.
Sundance went to it, pulled the knife, and the creature dropped.
Duppa, understanding the gesture, smiled. “See what I mean, Gannon?”
Sundance kicked the dead scorpion aside, wiped the blade on the sacking, put it in its beaded sheath. Gannon’s eyes followed the gesture. “You’re fast with that. Good with it.” He poured more whiskey, drank deeply. Then he leaned back on the bench, looked at
Sundance, and his mouth twisted beneath his beard. Then his own hand moved, a blur. Suddenly a knife whistled past Sundance’s head, missing it by a fraction of an inch, thudded into the wall beyond. “But you ain’t the only one,” Gannon said.
Duppa jumped to his feet. “Gannon, that’s enough!” His face was furious.
“Hell, if I’d meant to hit him, I would have.” Gannon shoved back the bench, rose. He was nearly as tall as Sundance, perhaps even longer in the arms. His chest was bigger, a great barrel, but there was a softness in his paunch which Sundance lacked, and his legs were shorter. He stood there with hand dangling by his holster. “Bring me my knife, halfbreed.”
Sundance stood motionless.
“Goddammit, move when a white man talks!”
That wolf within Sundance fought furiously to get loose. He exerted every ounce of will to check it. “Sure,” he said quietly, and went to the wall, tugged the blade free, a Bowie like his own. Then the wolf got loose. Suddenly he threw the knife. It landed hard, point embedded in the wood, hilt quivering, in the table in front of Gannon’s belly. Gannon jumped back.
“There,” Sundance said quietly. But he’d had enough of Gannon now; the man seemed to shimmer in a red haze that danced before his eyes. Suddenly he went to the table, took Gannon’s bottle, drank long and deeply from it, set it down. The raw whiskey seized him at once, heightened what was building in him.
Gannon’s face twisted furiously, then smoothed itself in satisfaction. Gannon had finally found what he sought. He reached out slowly, took the bottle. Then, with great ostentation, he poured the whiskey on the floor. “I wouldn’t put that to my mouth,” he said, “now an Injun’s drunk out of it.”
Duppa made a sound in his throat. He swung to the wall, and when he whirled away, he held a double-barreled shotgun. “Gannon,” he roared. “Stand hitched! This thing’s loaded with nine buckshot to the barrel!”
Gannon did not move or speak. Duppa went on furiously: “Damn your eyes, Sundance was my guest before you came. He helped save your dirty skin from Indians. And all night long you’ve done your best to insult and taunt him.” He broke off, breathing hard. “Take off your gun, Gannon!”
“I don’t do that for nobody, Duppa.” “You’ll do it for me, or you’ll get blown to hell—and any of your men that makes a wrong move.” Duppa’s breath rasped in the silence of the room. “Jim, you disarm yourself, too. There’s moonlight outside, plenty of it. You want a try at Sundance, Gannon, you’ll get it. But not with guns or knives. Try him with your hands!”
Suddenly Gannon grinned. “Maybe I’ll do that, Duppa. And when I’m through, I have business with you.” His eyes fastened on Sundance’s black ones. “What about it, halfbreed?”
Sundance felt a leap of exultation. The whiskey had him in its grip now; he wanted nothing more than to get his hands on Gannon. He unlatched his gunbelt. Gannon was doing likewise. His men got to their feet. Gannon said, “Stand fast, boys. This is between me and halfbreed here. I’m gonna chop him into cowbait. I don’t want Duppa hurt. I’ll deal with him myself, later, when I’m through with the redskin.”
Sundance put down knife and hatchet. “Come on, Gannon.” He strode outside. The night wind was cool on his face; as Duppa had said, the moon rode high, and the sandy level ground before Duppa’s house was flooded with silver light. Gannon came after him, and the others crowded out, too. Duppa, holding the shotgun ready, said: “All right. It’s between the two of you, no holds barred. But any man that reaches for a gun gets blasted.”
Gannon laughed. “Cold day in hell when I can’t take a redskin with my fists.” Then, with no warning, he came at Sundance.
Through the red mist of rage, his contorted face swam in Sundance’s vision. Sundance had a half second to judge Gannon’s style, back off. Then Gannon was after him ferociously, aggressively, full of killer instinct, hard fists flailing. Sundance got up his guard just in time to shunt fists off his arms and shoulders, weave his head aside so Gannon’s whistling blow just passed his ear. Gannon was fast, savage, furious, and the force of his battering fists sent Sundance rocking back, though they did not hurt him. Gannon did not slow, kept coming in. At the same time, he jerked up a knee. Sundance saw it coming, caught it with the hard muscles of his thigh. Then he landed a blow on Gannon’s jaw.
Gannon grunted, but with miraculous speed seized the opening Sundance’s swing gave him; his own fist smashed in, chopping Sundance’s mouth. Sundance’s head jerked back; and in that instant Gannon hit him in the belly and, before Sundance could recover, had crowded in, and now his thumbs were in Sundance’s throat.
Sundance’s head swam, but a wild joy rose in him. Even as Gannon tried to crush everything inside his neck, he swung his arms wide, brought both fists in like sledgehammers. The blows caught Gannon in the kidneys, and his choking hold on Sundance’s throat relaxed; he tried to knee Sundance in the groin again. Sundance blocked that try as he had the first and hit Gannon in the kidneys once more, but Gannon butted and rammed with his head and caught Sundance beneath the chin. Sundance almost went out; his knees sagged. Off balance, he fell. He heard Gannon’s grunt of triumph, and then he was on his back and Gannon was on top of him, this time trying to get thumbs in his eyes.
Sundance rolled, got slack, and it was his knee that came up now, and it caught Gannon unprotected. Gannon moaned with agony, but he raised his hands, clubbed his fists, struck down at Sundance. Sundance grabbed his wrists. The red-bearded man twisted, and they rolled over and over on the moonlit sand. Gannon’s thighs came up to lock Sundance in a scissor-hold; Gannon squeezed, and Sundance snorted with pain. He butted his own head into Gannon’s face, heard Gannon gasp. His hair was wet with blood from Gannon’s smashed nose when he jerked his head back. Gannon wriggled away, brought up a booted foot, got it between them, planted it in Sundance’s belly, shoved. That broke the halfbreed’s hold on Gannon’s wrists; the two men rolled apart, rebounded, were on their feet in the same instant. Both were insane with fighting fury, neither hesitated; they ran at each other, and then it
was a slugging match.
Sundance took punishment and felt it. Fists on flesh filled the night with a sodden rhythm as he and Gannon slugged it out. Both men were powerful, both were tough. Gannon’s blows rocked Sundance’s head, exploded fireworks behind his eyes. But he dealt back the same, feeling his knuckles ache with their impact on Gannon’s jaw.
Less than a minute of that was all flesh and blood could stand. Panting, Gannon and Sundance backed off from each other. Gannon stood, barrel chest heaving, smashed nose pouring blood, eyes gleaming. His fists had opened an old scar on Sundance’s cheek, and blood sluiced over coppery skin. But there was a difference between them, now, and Sundance caught it. Gannon was hurting and could not deal with hurt as Sundance did. Indian trained, Sundance was like an animal, ignored pain, refused to be frightened by it. But Gannon felt enough of it so that he was afraid of feeling more; he was distracted by it. And that, Sundance realized in triumph, was going to make the crucial difference. He summoned all his strength to go after Gannon again.
When he lunged, even though Gannon raised his hands, Sundance saw fear flicker in his blue eyes. Sundance laughed, went in hard and mercilessly, and scarcely felt a blow that should have knocked him sprawling. He took it to give Gannon two like it; his right came over and then his left came up. They made sounds like a butcher’s chopping with a cleaver. Gannon’s head snapped back, then rocked around. Sundance gave him not a second to recover, kneed him, slugged him in the belly. Gannon cried out, bent forward.
Sundance brought up a right upper-cut— again that butcher’s cleaver sound. Gannon moaned softly and his knees buckled. Sundance was lost in the red mist of fury, caught up in savage triumph. He grabbed Gannon by the slack of a bloody shirt, jerked him upright with his left hand, hit him again with his right. And again, and again and again.
Then Duppa’s fingers dug savagely into his shoulder.
“Sundance, for God’s sake! The man’s out, don’t kill him. I’ll not have him killed here at my station! Sundance!”