Sundance 9

by John Benteen

  The Indian Ring—sticky-fingered Washington politicians and their local bully boys—were looting millions of dollars that should have gone to the reservations, to buy food, blankets, supplies. They knew Sundance was gunning for them, so they tried to make him run. That was about the worst mistake they could make, because the big, silent man with the yellow hair and the Cheyenne face runs from no man. A natural killer with six-gun, rifle, bow, knife, tomahawk, Sundance works for money but for him troubleshooting is more than a profession. It’s a way of life.

  THE PISTOLEROS

  SUNDANCE 9

  By John Benteen

  First Published in 1972 by Norden Publications

  Copyright © 1972, 2015 by Benjamin L. Haas

  First Smashwords Edition: November 2015

  Names, characters and incidents in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information or storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law.

  Cover image © 2015 by Tony Masero

  This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book

  Series Editor: Ben Bridges

  Text Copyright © Piccadilly Publishing

  Published by Arrangement with the Author’s Estate.

  Chapter One

  Plenty of men in Texas were built like that—tall, wide in the shoulders, deep in the chest, flat-bellied and narrow-hipped, with long, lean, slightly bowed legs the product of a lifetime spent on horseback. Nevertheless, as the man in the buckskin shirt strode through the lobby of the hotel in San Antonio, people turned to look at him.

  First of all, there was his face. Hawk-like, with black eyes, big nose, wide, thin mouth and strong chin, it was the countenance of a Plains Indian, Sioux or Cheyenne, and the dull copper color of an old penny. But in startling contrast to those warrior’s features was the hair which spilled from beneath a battered, dust-powdered sombrero to the shoulders of the fringed and beaded shirt, for it was soft and as yellow as gold. The combination of copper skin and golden hair marked him as a half-breed. The weapons he carried and the way he wore them marked him as a professional fighting man.

  The Colt .45 single-action, in a well-oiled holster was slung low and thonged at the bottom around his thigh, in the gunman’s way. Behind it on the same belt, in a beaded sheath, was a Bowie knife, with a blade more than twelve inches long; and people who knew about such things would have seen at once that its hilt had a special guard to protect its user’s hand in close, blade-to-blade combat. On the left, hung from another cartridge belt, was the hatchet, also sheathed, its handle straight, made for throwing, not chopping. An armory like that was unusual even in San Antone, which in the fall of 1877, boasted more than its share of hardcases. The men in the lobby were impressed; so were the few women there, but for a different reason.

  Sundance felt their gazes on him as he went to the stairs; he was always alert to everything around him, with a habitual wariness that was the price of survival. Standing better than six feet, he weighed nearly two hundred pounds, but his motions were catlike as he went up, two steps at a time. When he reached the second floor landing, he turned right, went halfway down the corridor, found the door he sought and knocked. Almost immediately, a voice from within asked: “Who is it?”

  “Jim Sundance.”

  A pause; then there were footsteps. Sundance stood hipshot, waiting, thumb hooked in his gun belt, bringing his hand close to the butt of the Colt. Then the door opened.

  The man in the doorway ran his eyes over Sundance, taking in the weathered, dusty sombrero, the Cheyenne shirt, the weapons, the brown denim pants, and the moccasined feet. Sundance looked back at him with equal curiosity. Despite the cruel autumn heat, the man wore suit, vest, and necktie. He was about Sundance’s age, in his late thirties, though slender and far from as large. His face was lean, handsome, pale, his dark hair slicked back with pomade; he just missed having the appearance of a fop or a dandy. Nevertheless, Sundance recognized in him energy, intelligence, and perhaps a dangerousness of his own.

  “Mr. Sundance,” the man said. “It’s good to see you. I’m Mark Ransome. Please come in.” He stepped aside to let Sundance enter the front room of a two-room suite, gestured to a table in the center. “You’ve come a long way, and I imagine you could do with something cold to drink. Fortunately, the hotel has ice.”

  Sundance paused inside the threshold, looking around with the searching gaze of an animal suspicious of a trap. “You’re alone?”

  Ransome grinned. “Totally.”

  “We’ll see.” Sundance crossed the room in a couple of strides, threw open the bedroom door, looked inside, hand on gun butt. Satisfied, he turned, relaxed. “All right. I’ll have that drink.” He put out his hand, took Ransome’s, which was soft, slightly moist. “Whiskey, water, ice . . .”

  Ransome smiled. “I see nothing I heard about you was exaggerated.” He went to the table, began to pour. “You’re a cautious man.”

  “In my business, it pays.” Sundance took a chair. “I got your letter in Del Rio. I was bound for Eagle Pass and San Antone’s a piece out of the way. But you said—”

  “I said I had a profitable proposition for you,” Ransome finished, grinning. He shoved Sundance a glass, sat down across from him with a drink of his own. “Money. You like money, don’t you, Sundance?”

  Sundance raised his glass in a salute, then sipped from it. “I like money,” he said.

  Mark Ransome nodded, leaned back in his chair, looked at Sundance over the rim of his glass. “We’ll get to the money in a minute. First, let me make sure I’ve got my facts straight. As I understand it, your father was an Englishman, his family’s black sheep. They sent him to America, he came West in the beaver days, liked the way the Cheyennes lived, was adopted into the tribe. Your mother was the daughter of a Cheyenne chief. And you grew up as a Cheyenne warrior, a Dog Soldier.”

  “That’s right,” Sundance said.

  “Nicholas Sundance—he took that name because he was the first white man ever to participate in the Sun Dance ceremony with the Cheyennes—was a trader. As a result of his travels, you’ve lived with other tribes besides the Cheyennes. The Apache, the Sioux, the Comanches, even the Yaquis in Mexico. You know their languages and customs, and they know and trust you.”

  Sundance nodded, appraising Ransome as the man talked. First of all, he was wondering how Ransome had known he would be in Del Rio on a certain date. Beyond that, Ransome was obviously an Easterner born and bred; a businessman and, from the looks of him, a prosperous one. Money: yes, he gave off the smell of it.

  “As a matter of fact, probably no one out here knows more about Indians. You’ve scouted for and advised the Army and”—his dark eyes narrowed—“there’s talk that sometimes you’ve fought against the Army, on the Indian side.”

  Sundance set down his glass. “Let’s put it this way. I’m half white, half Indian. The main thing I was—am—interested in was trying to find some way for the whites and Indians both to live together out here.” His voice was bitter. “It looked like this country should have been big enough for both. But—”

  “But it wasn’t. The Indians have been pushed back.” Ransome drank. “And now the Indian wars are almost over. The death of Custer was the tribes’ last gasp. Over a year now since Little Big Horn. And the Cheyennes have all come into the reservations. So have most of the Sioux—only Sitting Bull and a few hostiles hiding, out in Canada. General Crook has whipped the Apaches, and McKenzie’s just driven the Comanches in. The Nez Percés right this minute are t
rying to flee to Canada from Idaho, but they haven’t got a chance; Generals Howard and Miles will bring them in.” His voice hardened. “The fighting’s over, Sundance—and there’s no doubt about who has won. Maybe there’ll still be an occasional outbreak or flare-up, but the day of the free-ranging redskin’s finished; the day of the reservation Indian has come.” He smiled faintly. “Your dream of Indians and whites sharing land has died.”

  Sundance’s eyes narrowed. “Ransome, what—?”

  “Let me finish. You’re no ordinary half-breed, Sundance. Your father was an educated man, and he passed his education along to you. You saw the handwriting on the wall a long time ago, and you knew that what happened in Washington, in Congress and in the White House would, in the long run, be as important as the battles fought on the plains. And so you hired a lobbyist—a lawyer to represent the Indians, try to influence Congress and the government in their behalf. To finance him, you’ve earned money the only way you could.” Ransome pointed. “With your guns. You’re a topnotch fighting man, expert with Indian weapons, too, and you don’t come cheap. You’ve made a fortune hiring out, in your time—and you’ve got nothing to show for it. It’s all gone down the Washington rat hole, and for every cent you’ve spent, the Indians still aren’t a bit better off. As much as you contributed, it wasn’t a drop in the bucket against what the railroads and the bankers and land agents who wanted to see the Indians rounded up on reservations could spend.”

  Whatever Ransome was leading up to, that was true. The twelve years since the end of the Civil War seemed like a century, so much had happened, so many things had changed. The beginning of that period had found Indians in possession of the country from the Mississippi to California; now, after countless broken treaties and savage battles, they had nothing left but what the white men chose to give them. In that interval, Sundance had seen all his risk and striving come to nothing. And yet—

  “That doesn’t mean my work is finished. Now more than ever, I’ve got to swing influence in Washington. The Bureau of Indian Affairs has made the tribes a lot of promises. It’s going to take money to see that they get a square deal. According to the letter you sent me, you’ve got a job that pays big money.”

  “Oh, I have,” Ransome said. “Maybe more money than you’ve ever dreamed of.” He leaned back and looked at Sundance intently. “Tell me—how does fifty thousand dollars sound to you?”

  Jim Sundance felt his pulses start to pound, but he managed to keep his face expressionless, not to betray his sudden eagerness.

  “Fifty thousand would buy a lot of influence in Washington. What do I have to do to earn it?”

  Ransome chuckled. “Nothing. Nothing at all. That’s the whole point.”

  “Wait a minute,” Sundance snapped. “I didn’t ride a hundred miles out of my way to play games.”

  Ransome’s face sobered. “I assure you, I didn’t come all the way from Washington for games. I’m here to offer you fifty thousand cold cash. And all you’ve got to do to earn it is take off for Europe or South America or anywhere, settle down, and never set foot in the United States again.”

  The room was silent for the long moment while they stared at one another. Sundance let out a long breath.

  “All right,” he rasped. “I know who you are now and who sent you.”

  “Do you?”

  “You’re damned right!” The anger that filled him was unmasked, his voice harsh. “The Indian Ring.”

  Ransome’s eyes shuttled away, unable to meet the half-breed’s fierce gaze. “That,” he said, “is an ugly name for it.”

  “It’s an ugly bunch.” Sundance’s mouth twisted in contempt. “A bunch of stinking vultures. The Indian Ring—fat-cat politicians who’ve got their claws on the Bureau of Indian Affairs. A lot of new reservations are gonna be set up, a lot of new agents appointed. And a hell of a lot of government money’s going into Indian support—to be funneled through each agent. And the Indian Ring wants to get its hands on that money, take its rake-off, and to hell with the tribes it’s supposed to help!”

  “You’re exaggerating,” Ransome said, but his face had paled.

  “The hell I am. The Ring sells appointments as Indian agents for hard cash and a percentage of the take. A corrupt Indian agent can get rich in a hurry. And there are a dozen other rackets the Ring works. They’re turning Indian Affairs into one big hog trough!”

  Ransome stood up. “I won’t be talked to that way!” he snapped. Then he mastered his temper, and his voice was smooth again, reasonable. “Very well. Certain people in Washington who’re active in Indian Affairs did authorize me to deal with you. Your lawyer and the Colfax woman are making nuisances of themselves. You support them; without the money you send them, they couldn’t do a damned thing.”

  “So the idea’s to bribe me to stop working for the Indians.”

  “Bribe’s a nasty word,” Ransome said. “Let’s just say we’re concerned for your welfare. No man’s worked longer, harder, or risked his life more often in the Indian cause. But now you’re entitled to a rest—and certain rewards for your efforts.”

  He went to the window, stood there with his back to Sundance, looking out. “We know more about you than you think, Sundance. For instance, your relationship with Barbara Colfax. Years ago, you hired out to her father—a wealthy, influential financier back then—to find her after she’d disappeared on the way to Santa Fe. She turned up in a band of Cheyennes. You brought her back to George Colfax and claimed his reward—then turned around and helped her escape from him again, return to the Cheyennes.”

  “She was adopted into the tribe,” Sundance said. “She liked the Indian way.”

  “Indeed. And since then the two of you’ve been very close. Not that you ever bothered to get married.”

  Something in his tone brought Sundance to his feet. “Ransome, if your people try to smear Barbara Colfax—”

  “I’m telling only the truth.” Ransome turned, and there was iron beneath the smooth, handsome structure of his face. “She was your woman, your squaw, but not your wife.” Before Sundance could speak, he went on. “We know, too, that both of you were with the Cheyennes at Little Big Horn, the Custer massacre. We know there had been bad blood between you and Custer for a long time previously. And we’ve got a pretty good idea that among the Indians on that ridge where he made his last stand, there was one with blond hair. Believe me, if we could prove that, it wouldn’t be money we’re offering—it would be a prison cell, or a hangman’s noose. And not only for you, but for Barbara Colfax as accessory.” His eyes met Sundance’s. “You think about that before you turn me down. If the truth comes out, if a single Indian swears you were there, we can hound you and her until you’re both dead or broken.”

  Then his voice was reasonable again. “But we’re not vindictive people, only businessmen. So look at it this way, Sundance—as pure business. You’re broke, and so’s Barbara Colfax since her father lost all his money and died. After the Cheyennes gave up, you sent her to Washington to help your lobbyist . . . while you go on scratching for a gunfighting job here, another there, risking your life—and the two of you a thousand miles apart.”

  He came back to the table, picked up his drink. “Don’t you think it’s about time you forgot the Indians and started thinking of yourself and her? Suppose something happened to you—what would become of her then? Do you think any decent man would want to marry a woman who has . . . been an Indian squaw? Do—”

  Before he could go on, Sundance had stepped around the table. His big left hand shot out, gathered the slack of Ransome’s shirt; his right moved in a motion magically swift. Ransome squawked, but Sundance held him tight.

  “Do you know what I’m holding against your belly, Ransome?” Sundance’s voice was cold as the ring of iron on iron. “It’s a Bowie knife. With a blade fourteen inches long. And I’m just before opening you up wide with it and spilling your guts here on the floor!”

  “Sundance—” Ransome whispered.
“For God’s sake—”

  Then the half-breed released him, stepped back. Ransome collapsed into his chair, trembling. What he saw in Sundance’s face brought a look of horror to his own. He stared at the knife, still outthrust. Then, his hand moving so fast it became invisible, Sundance returned the weapon to its sheath.

  “Now,” Sundance rasped, “if you’ve got anything else to say, you can say it. But you’d better keep your mouth off Barbara Colfax.”

  Ransome licked his lips. But as Sundance had judged earlier, there was a not inconsiderable streak of courage in him, and he pulled himself together. When he spoke again, his voice was steadier. “All right. They warned me that you were a dangerous, violent man, and I shouldn’t have ignored that warning. And maybe I should have been more careful in my choice of words.”

  He drank from his glass as if he needed it. “All the same, what I’ve said makes sense. You’ve tried and failed; why go on with it, Sundance? Suppose I upped the ante, made it seventy-five thousand? With that kind of money, you and Barbara Colfax could finally marry, you could go to South America, say, buy a ranch, the two of you live out the rest of your lives in peace and prosperity.”

  Sundance’s grin was like that of a wolf stalking prey. “I haven’t had a report from Washington lately. But whatever Barbara and the lawyer are doing, they’ve really got your outfit scared, haven’t they?”

  “Not scared. We can handle them. But they’re pushing for a Congressional investigation that could be most . . . inconvenient. It would delay some of our plans, that’s all. But you can’t stop us, Sundance. We’re too powerful. If you have any sense, you’ll come to terms. Seventy-five thousand. Give me your word you’ll take Barbara Colfax, leave the country, never come back, and I’ll give you a certified bank draft for half right now. You’ll get the other half when you’re established wherever you choose to go.” He paused, and now, control fully regained, his voice was persuasive, wheedling. “A fortune, Sundance—and you can walk away with it two minutes from now. All you have to do is say the word.”