Sundance 2

by John Benteen

  “I hope so,” von Markau said fervently. He was a vastly different man from the one who, less than a week before, had ridden out of Tucson. He had lost weight, his body seemed shrunken on its frame, all surplus water and extra fat boiled out of it. His face was sun-blistered, his lips cracked and swollen. Still, he was tough, did not complain, even though Sundance knew that saddle galls were festering on his thighs; and although he must have longed for a drink, he had not touched the bottles in his saddlebags.

  They moved on, into the rough country of the Peloncillos. Uklenni and Sundance conferred, turned south through a devil’s broth of broken rock and cactus and stunted juniper. They wound through a narrow defile so rugged that von Markau had to dismount, the horses and mules had to be led.

  “Gott in Himmel!” von Markau panted. “How much farther?” He squinted at the brazen sky, in which the sun seemed pinned like a fiery medallion. It was just past noon, the hottest time of day. “Can’t we rest awhile?’’

  Sundance grinned, white teeth flashing in a face burned by the desert to a deeper bronze. “If we keep on, by nightfall we ought to have the jewels. Time enough to rest then.”

  The Baron pulled at his horse’s reins. “In that case,” he said determinedly, “let’s go.”

  The gorge narrowed, became even rougher. The Apaches scouted ahead, soundlessly, tirelessly, like wraiths. Sundance led Eagle over piles and barriers of boulders, through thickets of every sort of spiny growth. Von Markau stumbled along behind, and more Indians brought up the rear.

  That nightmare journey lasted for two hours more. Then, suddenly, the gorge turned, widened. In its east wall, a great split appeared, a gap, the mouth of a lateral canyon. Above towered rugged, saw-toothed peaks and ridges.

  Uklenni halted atop a rock, a figure seemingly carved from mahogany. He waited until Sundance and the Baron came up. Then he pointed. “There,” he said. “I think that is the place you seek. Once the Apaches, the old men say, killed very many men there, strange men with iron shells upon their bodies. Since then, it has had its name. That is the mouth of Dead Man’s Canyon.”

  Von Markau leaned against the rock, panting, gasping, sweat running down his face in rivulets. “At last,” he whispered. He jerked his horse’s reins, staggered forward, moving ahead of all the rest toward the dark, forbidding place to which his Emperor had ordered him. But Sundance stopped him. “No,” he said. “Wait. Let me and the Apaches scout the place first. We’ve come too far to take any chances now.”

  Sundance rode cautiously, rifle at the ready, while the Chiricahuas loped ahead. A quarter of a mile beyond the entrance, Dead Man’s Canyon fanned out to a width of a half mile; it stretched on, as Sundance remembered, for five or six times that in length, boxed at the other end. The walls above it were steep, jagged piles of rock, although its floor was comparatively level and sandy.

  He kept his eyes on the right wall. Somewhere up there, about halfway down the canyon, was a boulder bigger than a house, shaped like a cone. Above it a hundred yards, there should be a ledge. And twenty paces east along that ledge, there was a crack too narrow to be called a cave. In that, concealed by a small landslide of stones and gravel, Father Tomas had supposedly hidden the jewels of Maximilian.

  But the jewels could rest for now. Indians fanned out on either wall, disappeared into the rocks. Sundance watched the skyline, saw nothing suspicious on it. But an army could hide up on that broken rim. He crisscrossed the canyon floor, seeking sign of passage by any white man, found none. Then, from far away, there was the sound of a hunting hawk. Thin, mewing, it quavered once, twice, thrice in the silence.

  Sundance wheeled Eagle, galloped back along the canyon. Then he signaled with his rifle to von Markau, waiting with a few Indians at the mouth. The coast was clear, and as von Markau read that message, he spurred his horse, put it into a dead run. The map was in his hand when he pulled up beside the halfbreed.

  “Have you seen it yet? The rock? The landmark?”

  Sundance pointed with the rifle barrel. Just before he had turned around, he had caught sight of it, high on the canyon wall. “Down there,” he said; touched Eagle with his heels; and rode. Von Markau galloped beside him. When they were at midpoint in the canyon’s length, he reined in. “That’s it!” he cried. He stood in his stirrups, pointed. “That’s it!”

  “Yes,” Sundance said. “Let’s go up.”

  The sun was like a torch as, on foot, they scrambled up the nearly vertical slope, Apaches climbing with them. Above, the great boulder pointed toward the sky like the crown of an enormous hat. They reached its base, stopped for breath; even Uklenni was winded, chest heaving as they paused in its shade. He grinned at Sundance, pointed. “Look,” he said. “One of the old iron shells.”

  Sundance followed his gesture. There, lodged in rocks on the canyon wall, the cuirass of a suit of Spanish armor, now hardly more than an arch of red rust, lay among the cactus. A few white bones, protruding from the sand around it, were stark.

  Impatiently, the Baron scrabbled on up the wall, sending down a fall of talus. “Dammit,” Sundance snapped, “you want to start a rock-slide?” But he and Uklenni hurried after. He was feeling an excitement that matched the Baron’s own, a strange, greedy eagerness.

  “Here’s the ledge!” von Markau crowed. He stood erect on a shelf about four feet wide, lined himself with the center of the boulder, faced east and, as Sundance and Uklenni came behind, began to pace. “One, two, three . . .” His voice was tense as he stalked carefully along. Sundance at his heels. “Seventeen, eighteen, nineteen . . . twenty!” He halted, whirled and faced the cliff. There, a pile of rubble, no different from a thousand others like it along the canyon walls, had fallen down, lodged on the shelf. Von Markau made a sound in his throat, fell to his knees, began to dig with his bare hands, throwing rock aside. Sundance and Uklenni joined him. Rock crashed and rebounded off the shelf as they made their excavation. Then von Markau crowed again. His hand disappeared through the rocks, he leaned forward, his arm vanished to the shoulder. “We’re through!” Hastily, they rammed the remaining stones aside, to reveal a cleft perhaps a yard long, half that high.

  “Wait!” Sundance snapped. “We’ve got to probe that for snakes!”

  But he was too late. Sweating, von Markau was already reaching in with both hands. The Austrian grunted, tugged. Sundance and the Apache scrambled back, gave him room. Von Markau tugged harder. Then it came: a great leather bag, an aparejo of the kind used by Spanish packers. It seemed to be very heavy, and it was cracked and split with dryness. Through one of the splits, Sundance caught a dull, golden gleam.

  Then it was free, coming so swiftly that von Markau nearly went back off the ledge. He jumped to his feet, picked it up, showing the strain of its weight as he did so: at least a hundred pounds and likely more. His face was wreathed in smiles, glowed. He gave a triumphant laugh. “Sundance! Look! We’ve got it!” He bent to unfasten its lashings.

  “Wait,” Sundance said. “Let’s get it down the slope. Lay it out on the level.” Despite himself, his own hands trembled as he helped von Markau pick it up. What he held was truly a king’s ransom. Together, Uklenni following, they lugged the rotting bag down the canyon wall, slipping and sliding. As they reached the level, where their horses were tied, the other Apaches came running, as excited as themselves. They clustered around, chatting excitedly, as Sundance and von Markau gently laid the aparejo down. Then they stood back as, with trembling fingers, von Markau unfastened the straps. He seized the bag and lifted, and it came tumbling out into the sand: the treasure of the House of Hapsburg.

  Sundance stared, awed, as diamonds, opals, rubies winked in the desert sunlight, as beautifully wrought gold and finely crafted silver fell into the dust. A crown, a chaplet, a brooch, a crucifix, a sceptre, medallions: all rich metal, magnificent jewels. And more, it tumbled out seemingly without end, until the space all around von Markau’s booted feet shone with its glory. The Apaches gasped, put their hands over their m
ouths. Sundance licked his lips involuntarily.

  Von Markau backed away, stood there a moment, staring down at that vast treasure in a kind of awestruck reverence. Slowly, he crossed himself. He seemed in a kind of daze. Then he turned away, went to his own saddlebags. Sundance hardly noticed, kneeling to touch a great, cold-glittering diamond set in a cross of gold and ivory.

  Then von Markau’s voice rang out in the silence. “Gentlemen!” he cried exuberantly, “I give you the Archduke Ferdinand Maximilian, crown prince of Austria, Emperor of Mexico, God rest his soul!”

  Sundance looked up, too late, and froze, as he saw von Markau pull the cork from the cognac bottle, put it to his mouth and drink.

  Chapter Six

  So far there had been no killings. A big fire burned in the center of the canyon like a beacon. One Indian sat pounding on a saddle bag as if it were a drum; another rhythmically hit an empty cognac bottle with a knife blade. Five more danced unsteadily around the fire; two lay sound asleep, and one of those was Uklenni. The rest of the Apaches giggled and quarreled over a monte game like kindergarten children, their weapons laid aside. Sundance stared in fury at von Markau. “You see?” he rasped in English. “Now do you see what I meant?”

  The Baron stared at the spectacle of fifteen Indians roaring drunk on four bottles of cognac. “Sundance, I am sorry, I did not realize—”

  “Realize! I—” He stopped. “Well, the damage is done.”

  Von Markau’s hands caressed the huge bag between his feet. “Perhaps not so much. The cognac’s all gone. One night’s carouse. Is that so harmful?”

  “You’d better hope it isn’t.” Sundance cast an eye at the shadowed rimrock all around them. “You’d better damned well hope there’s nobody else on the track of this treasure or even in these mountains. Because that fire and all this racket will bring ’em like buzzards to a carcass.” He spat disgustedly. “And I can’t even leave you to scout. If I did, I’d probably come back and find your throat cut.”

  Von Markau touched his pistol. “I can take care of myself.”

  “Oh, sure. You saw how they went for that booze.” The minute the Apaches had seen the bottle in von Markau’s hand, they had been like wolves on the hot scent of game. And Uklenni had been the first and worst of all. Even as the Baron had lowered the quart of cognac, still nearly full, the Apache leader had, quite without ceremony, snatched it from his hand. “Thank you, brother,” he grunted in his own dialect, rammed the bottle in his mouth, drank long and deeply. And in that instant, the others had already swarmed about von Markau’s horse, rummaging in his saddle bags.

  He had brought four bottles, and they found them all. And there has been nothing Sundance could do. Once someone was his friend, an Apache would die before stealing from him. But whiskey was different. That was a rare treat, to be seized and shared, and they swarmed all over the four quarts, arguing, laughing, drinking greedily, everything else forgotten. The cognac was high proof, the sun strong, their bodies dehydrated and their systems unused to alcohol; the effect was instantaneous. Fifteen white men sharing four bottles might have become a little tipsy; the Apaches were quickly dead drunk.

  “Yeah,” Sundance grated, “you can take care of yourself, all right. Listen, they’re mean, now, not responsible for their actions. One comes at you, you’d have to put a bullet in him to stop him. Then the rest would be all over you and—” He made a chopping gesture. “You’d better just hope they don’t decide they want to divvy up all that pretty stuff in the bag. They’re liable to kill both of us if they do—and then be sorry in the morning when it’s too late.”

  He sat down beside von Markau. “Well, I’ll side you.” His rifle was cradled across his knees, and Eagle, the warhorse, guarded his rear. “Let’s hope they just stay good-humored. And tomorrow morning, they’re gonna feel like hell and—” He stiffened. One of the Apaches, a brave named Bu, the Owl, had left the card game, was lurching across the firelight toward them. His voice was thick, his eyes glittering, as he mumbled in Chiricahua dialect:“Tiswin. More tiswin.”

  “There is no more tiswin.”

  Bu knew a little English. “Goddammit,” he growled, “you give me one time tiswin. You got more. Pletty damn much more . . .”

  “I said there is no more!” Sundance snapped.

  Bu swayed, mouth a slit in a mask of a face. “Lie,” he grunted, in Apache language once again. “Yellow-headed Apache is no Apache, only white-eye liar. And wants tiswin for himself.” His hand dropped to a sheathed knife. Sundance swung the rifle muzzle around, centered it on his chest.

  The gunshot was thunderous in the confines of the canyon.

  Bu stood on tiptoes, eyes wide, clutched his back. He opened his mouth and blood poured from it. Then he fell sideways, dead before he hit the ground.

  “Sundance!” von Markau cried in horror.

  Sundance stood frozen for a split second, the unfired rifle still in his hand. Then he roared: “Out of the light!” He fell backwards, too, hit von Markau, seized the man’s shirt, dragged him over. They rolled out of the circle of yellow fire gleam just as the canyon wall to the right came alive with spitting orange gunflashes, and the sound of rifles crashed from rock to rock like thunder.

  Sundance rolled again, landed on his belly, tilted up the Winchester, worked the lever. Around the fire, the dancing Apaches halted dazedly. Then every one of them went down beneath a withering sleet of lead. The man who beat the saddlebags screamed, fell backward. The cognac bottle in the hand of the other dissolved in shards as a bullet struck it. Then the next blew off the top of his head.

  Sundance saw that much as he returned the fire from the slope above, pumping round after round from the Winchester at those orange flashes. He heard a man cry out up there, a thin, reedy sound, but the shooting went on. The card players had scrambled to their feet, leaped for their weapons. None made it; he saw them whirl, crumple, fall. It was as if a mighty hand had slapped them all. Then Uklenni and the other sleeping Indian were on their feet. Uklenni, dazed, took one step forward. A rifle bullet caught him in the mouth. He was jerked backwards into darkness beyond the firelight. The last Apache fell across his feet, three bullets in his chest; and now Sundance’s gun was empty. He rolled over, scrabbling desperately for cartridges from his belt, shoving them through the loading port. But while he did that, the canyon fell silent, save for the frightened snorting of the animals.

  Sundance rammed in the last cartridge the gun would hold, rolled back into firing position. “Von Markau,” he began, “swing around outside the firelight. See if you can get Uklenni’s rifle. Don’t try for your own, it’s where they can see you. There’s ten, maybe fifteen men up there and—”

  A voice sliced through his words. “Sundance,” it roared from up above, and in the chill night, the echoes bounced it back and forth from cliff to cliff. “Sundance, Sundance ...”

  Sundance froze. “They know your name,” von Markau whispered.

  The voice came again. “Sundance! Von Markau! This is Gannon!”

  “And yours,” Sundance rasped.

  “Gannon? Who—?”

  “The one man I was afraid of. In Tucson with a bunch of hardcases when we left. Somehow he got wind—”

  “Sundance! We know you’re down there, you and the Dutchy! We know you got the treasure, too! You might as well give up! All your Injun friends are dead, and we got the canyon mouth blocked. Neither one of you has got a prayer! We can come and take you any time we want to.”

  Sundance clenched his teeth. Wild fury flamed in him. “Then come ahead!” he roared back defiantly. “Maybe you’ll get us, but we’ll get some of you!”

  “Shore!” Gannon yelled back from the slope above. “But there’s a joker in the deck. A damn purty one! Her name’s Miz von Markau, and if you and that Dutchman don’t give up, we’re gonna cut her throat! You see, we got her with us up here, and either you throw down your guns, or you and her husband can listen to her scream awhile before we finish her!”
>
  Beside Sundance, von Markau made a strangled sound. “Herta? How—? Mein Gott—”

  “You don’t believe us?” Gannon bellowed. “Listen!”

  There was a second’s silence before the night was shattered by a woman’s scream. “Walther!” she wailed. “Walther, in the name of heaven—”

  “It is she!” von Markau rasped. “How did they get her?” Then he got to his knees. “Herta!” he cried. “Herta, are you there?”

  His answer was another scream. “Walther, please—”

  “Get down,” Sundance rasped. “You can’t help her now.”

  “Yes. Yes, I can.” Suddenly Sundance felt a hard pressure in his ribs. He recognized it at once, the muzzle of a pistol.

  Von Markau’s voice was hard, cold. “Those fiends up there have my wife. I don’t know how they got her, but I’ll not have her tortured. Drop your gun, Sundance. We give up.”

  “Von Markau, don’t be a fool. We can get out of here in the dark, then have a chance—”

  “And Herta may be dead.” The Baron’s voice rose, quavered, and the pistol barrel burrowed harder into Sundance’s ribs. “No . . .” Von Markau’s voice broke. “I have ruined it, ruined everything, and for that I am very sorry. But now I must think of my wife. On your feet, Jim, without your gun.”

  There was nothing to do but obey.

  Sundance let go the rifle. As he got up, he felt von Markau pull revolver, knife and ax from his belt, throw them out into the firelight. Then von Markau rammed the pistol in his back. The Austrian’s voice was full of grief. “Out where they can see us, Jim.”

  “All right,” Sundance said thinly. He raised his hands and, prodded by von Markau, walked slowly into the firelight, bracing himself for the bullet that he was sure would come. To his astonishment, it did not.

  “You’re a smart man, Dutchy!” Gannon yelled. Then Sundance heard him say, “All right, boys, let’s go down.”