Sundance 9

by John Benteen

  But they made no slip. As his head cleared, he knew that he was in the center of a group of many riders; he could hear the squeak of their gear, the clop of hoof beats, and the click of cartridges in bandoliers; there were soft voices speaking in Spanish. He lifted one lid at a time just enough to see that he was encircled by Rurales with drawn guns. No chance; no chance at all. Then, ahead, he saw the fort.

  It squatted there on the mesa top, a hundred years old and more, its thick, high mud walls built by Indian slaves and still impregnable, its watchtowers looking down over the mesa and all the country around and beneath it. It was an ugly place, with a brooding, sinister quality about it; more like a prison than a fortress. As they approached it, Sundance heard Garcia call out and saw, through barely slitted lids, great gates of new timber swing open. He remained slumped in the saddle, sagging across the horse’s neck, as the procession entered. But he caught glimpses of a wide, dusty plaza surrounded by ancient mud huts that had once been barracks. Then the Rurales pulled up in front of a larger building of adobe bricks, evidently once the commandant’s headquarters. “Hola, Roberto!” he heard Garcia call out. “Coy—”

  A voice, musical and touched with humor, yet deep and virile, answered: “Garcia! What you doing here? Where the hell’s the four men I sent down to the pueblo?” The anger of the words themselves contrasted strangely with the pleasantness of the tone.

  “Your four men are dead,” Garcia said.

  “Dead?” This voice was raspy as slate on slate. “You mean this yeller-haired bastard here killed ’em all?”

  “He and a compadre. We heard the shooting as we approached the village and took them. But the other escaped, thanks to that damned Guiterrez, whom now the worms will eat.” Garcia paused. “I ... I have come back on business.”

  “You want more money?” The slatey voice was angry. “Well, you kin—”

  “Hush, Coy. We got a lot else to find out first. Let’s get this carcass off the horse first and take it inside. Cut the ropes.”

  Sundance felt the bonds on his wrist sawed through, the lashings on his legs severed. Then rough hands jerked him from the saddle. He sagged against them, still playing ’possum. He let himself be dragged inside the big house, thrown down hard and unceremoniously on its dusty brick floor. Above him that pleasant, almost sweet voice, full of humor, said: “The son of a bitch’s still out, huh?”

  “I’ll wake him up,” Coy rasped. “I’ll have him howlin’—”

  “Let him lay. First let’s hear what Garcia’s got to say.”

  They turned away. Cautiously, Sundance risked opening his eyes slightly. As his vision cleared, he saw that the big room was bare of furniture save for a long wooden table and some rough benches. Four bedrolls were ranged around it, and there was a fireplace at which a couple of Mexican girls from the village cooked. Torches on the walls in brackets would provide light when nightfall, which was not far off now, came.

  So much for where he was; there was no chance of escape, not right now with the Rurales lounging around with guns in hand. Sundance’s eyes found the two Chester brothers whom he had come so far to kill, and he knew that even if the Mexicans hadn’t been present, he’d have no chance against these two, not unarmed as he was.

  There was no doubt of which was which. Joker Bob was tall and beautifully built, in his early thirties, fair curls made a kind of nimbus around a face thoroughly masculine, but almost angelic in its good looks and warm smile. His eyes were blue and shone as if he loved and were amused by all the world and bore a grudge against no one living. But the two Colts with notched handles in the low-slung holsters at his hips said otherwise.

  Bob propped one booted foot on a bench and faced Garcia, who sat down on its other end. “Now,” he said, “if you don’t mind, I’d sure like to know exactly what happened to our four men—and why you’re back here so soon after your last payoff.”

  “As to your four men,” Garcia said, “here’s what they told me in the village.” And he gave a fair recital of what had happened. Squatting against the wall, a long sheath knife in his hand, a stick to whittle in the other, Coy Chester listened intently. His body was big and powerful, his legs ridiculously short; his head was warped, flatter on one side than on the other, one eye high, one low, his nose a bashed and poorly healed blob. His skin was gray despite his tan, his mouth a formless slit. Just the sight of him was enough, Sundance thought, to turn a man’s stomach. When Garcia finished, Coy stood up, ludicrous on his short, bowed legs. He took a few awkward steps toward Garcia. “And now,” he grated, “how come you came back?”

  Garcia looked at him narrowly, gaze darting to the knife. Then he said, coolly, “Señor, this is my district to patrol. I go where I want, when I want. And I remind you that you and your brother are here on my sufferance.” He smiled thinly. “I made certain investments with your contribution last time, and I’m afraid they turned out poorly. So I have come back to request another gift.”

  “The hell—” Coy began. Bob interrupted him.

  “Forget that. We’ve got other things on our mind now. Four men dead, and one of the hombres that did it on the loose, eh, Garcia? And how did they find out about us, huh? How did they know we were here?”

  Coy’s short laugh was like a burro’s bray. “How you think? You must have talked to that slut in Piedras Negras. Soon as you were gone, he moved into her bed and she spilled her guts to him.” He turned, legged over to where Sundance lay. He still carried the knife. Sundance closed his eyes, did not move.

  “I think it’s time to wake him up and make him sing,” Coy rasped. “Who is he, and what about that other one? He’s liable to try to spring this feller.”

  “No need to worry about the other one,” Garcia said. “He escaped from us, yes; our horses could not catch the big stallion. But he has no guns, so he is no threat. Not at once, anyhow.”

  “Maybe. Maybe not. We’ll find out when this one talks.” Suddenly, without warning, a boot toe slugged into Sundance’s ribs with tremendous force. His whole flank flared with pain, and, involuntarily, he stirred, groaned. The boot kicked him again, lower down. “I said wake up!” Coy rasped.

  Slowly and with unfeigned agony, Sundance sat up, opening his eyes. He stared into Coy’s gray parody of a face, saw those puckered lips peel back from rotting teeth in a ghastly smile. Coy tested the point of the sheath knife with his thumb. “Now,” he said.

  Then his brother was standing by him. “Not yet. Put up that toad-sticker. The idea’s to get him to talk, not chop him into tacos filling.” He drew a gun, let it dangle by his side, gave Sundance that charming smile. “Good afternoon, sir. Welcome to Hotel Infierno, located in the healthful climate of the Mexican uplands. And we, sir, are its proprietors, the Chester brothers, at your service. We do hope your stay with us will be a pleasant one. Now—suppose you sign the register and tell us who you are.”

  Not at all deceived by that smiling, almost innocent face, Sundance only shook his head mutely. He had to stall, garner every possible second of time. Whitewolf had got away clean, and that meant that there was a chance. One man, unarmed, against sixteen, was not likely to have much luck at rescuing him, and for that matter Jesse even now might be long gone for the border. But if he were not, Sundance had to buy all the time he could to give him a chance. Besides, when he had told them what they wanted to know, they would kill him. As long as he could stay alive, he could make a break on his own if it came to that.

  “Well, now, that’s right unkind of you after all the trouble we’ve done went to to make you comfortable.” Bob was still smiling. “But you see, there’s certain things we got to know. Like how you found out where we were and who else might be comin’ and what that buddy of yours might be up to and— Oh, a whole lot of stuff. You see, we aim to do it all again next year when the bank in Eagle Pass gets full, and we got to find out who the weak link was. So, you got ten seconds.”

  Sundance squared his shoulders, stood there motionless in the center of
the big adobe room, unspeaking, Bob smiling sweetly at him. “Five,” Bob said cheerfully. “Four, three, two, one!” Then he hit Sundance hard with the back of his hand, knocking his head around.

  Sundance gasped; Bob hit him again from the other side. Sundance staggered back against the wall. Bob moved in and punched him hard in the belly. Sundance dropped to the floor and Bob kicked him brutally. That angelic smile never left his face. “There now,” he said, stepping back. “You see? And that ain’t a patch to what my baby brother’ll do to you if you don’t cooperate. With me, it’s just business. But with him, hurtin’ people’s a pleasure. He’s a mean little cuss. Well?”

  Sundance, bleeding from the nostrils, looked up at him. He sucked in breath. “Go to hell,” he whispered.

  Bob laughed. “Infierno? We’re there already—all of us. But especially you.” He stepped back. “All right, Coy. You can work on him. You gonna use the knife?”

  Coy made a thick sound in his throat. “I’ll show you what I’m gonna use. Rosita, bring me that bull whip!”

  One of the girls arose, wide-eyed. “Si,” she murmured fearfully.

  Bob reached down, grabbed the slack of Sundance’s shirt, jerked him upright. Coy stood to one side, and when the girl returned, he reached out to take what she carried—a sixteen-foot drover’s whip of braided leather. He shook it out, let it flick to full length, almost all the way across the room, then popped it loudly; he was clearly expert with it. “Bring him along, Bob. I need lots of space to swing this thing. We’ll do it outside.”

  “It’s gettin’ dark,” Bob said.

  “Makes no difference. Rosita! You and Constanza bring torches. Garcia, what about puttin’ some of your men up on the walls to help Abe and Deuce keep a lookout? We like to have each tower manned come dark—especially with that other half-breed runnin’ loose out there.”

  “Si.” Garcia barked orders and a couple of Rurales left the room. Then, with a gun in Sundance’s back, Bob shoved him toward the door. Coy followed, whip rolled, and the two girls came along, holding high torches ignited at the fireplace. Garcia and the rest of the Rurales trailed behind.

  Sundance was shoved out into the plaza; cool air struck his face and helped clear his throbbing head. It was almost dark, and the flickering torches cast an eerie light.

  “Over there,” Coy rasped. “That post.” It sat in the center of the barrack-rimmed plaza—a high, thick mesquite trunk with a crossbar spiked to it. Bob’s gun barrel bored deeper into Sundance’s spine. “In case you’re interested in the scenic wonders of Presidio Infierno,” he murmured, “that’s a floggin’ post. The original one put here by the Spanish colonel. Nothin’ in this country ever rots. Take off your shirt, half breed, and drape your arms over that cross.”

  Sundance stopped short, planted his feet, stood unmoving.

  “Gonna be hard about it,” Bob said tiredly. “My, my, you’re a tough one. Come on, Garcia, you and your men gimme a hand.” A bunch of Rurales seized Sundance, wrestled him. He fought savagely, but they were too many for him. Finally they pulled his shirt off him, crowded him up to the post, drew his arms over the bar. “All right, somebody tie his hands,” Bob rasped. “Look at all them scars on his carcass. He’s had punishment in his time. He’s gonna be a tough ’un to crack.”

  “Never mind about his hands,” Coy said, eagerness in his rasping voice. “He ain’t goin’ nowhere, nowhere at all. Rosita, you stand in close with that torch. Rest of you git back. If he tries to run, I’ll hamstring him with this whip.”

  They fell back in a wide circle, giving Coy plenty of room to use the whip. Sundance pressed against the post, the big flame of the flickering torch of desert-dried wood shining on his coppery torso. The sun was down completely, and the wind that blew across the mesa was chill, but sweat rolled down his flanks. He felt the rough wood against his belly—the wood to which hundreds of Indian slaves had been pinned to be beaten as he would be beaten now, and he knew that his time was running out. Coy could maim him for life with a few blows of that whip, and Whitewolf or no, he would make a break and die before it came to that.

  He looked up at the stars, just coming out in the velvet sky. Bob Chester and most of the Rurales had guns pointed at him; when he chose to make his try, there was no doubt that he’d be cut down in an instant.

  “Now,” Coy Chester rasped, and Sundance tensed, hearing the sing of the lash.

  It wrapped around his torso like living fire, and the girl near him with the torch gave a kind of sob. But Sundance did not move or betray any pain.

  “Like beatin’ a cigar-store Injun,” Bob Chester said with a mixture of amusement and admiration. “You’ll hafta do better than that, baby brother.”

  “I aim to,” Coy said confidently. “This time I’m takin’ off his right ear. Next time, the left one goes, if he ain’t talked by then. Then I’ll move around and take out his eyes.” Sundance heard the lash flip back, hit the dust, preparatory to the next blow. Now, he thought desperately, despairingly. He was already reaching for the torch when, from behind him, there was a strange, thin, gurgling scream.

  “Garcia!” Bob Chester roared. “What the hell—?” Then another man screamed. Sundance jerked the torch from the startled girl, whirled with it and plunged forward. Something whispered by his ear and he heard a third man cry out, but all his hatred, all his determination was focused on Coy Chester. The dwarfed man stood there motionless, gape-jawed, on his bowed and absurd legs, the whip thrown back. He opened his mouth to yell, even as he brought the whip forward. The yell turned to a scream when Sundance rammed the flaming torch full in his face and turned and ground it. Coy Chester went over backward, his very mouth full of fire, and the scream choked off when he sucked flame down his throat. By that time, Sundance had flung himself flat on the ground, his hand raking the Colt from Coy’s holster. As it came out of leather, he cocked and fired it into Coy’s side, then rolled.

  Three seconds, five, it had taken no longer than that from the first scream, and even as Sundance came around, earing back the hammer again, he saw a Rurale stagger back clutching at something embedded in his chest. Sundance let out a whoop as he recognized the arrow protruding from between the man’s clenched fingers. There was a sodden thunk as another shaft whizzed across Sundance’s line of vision, caught a running policeman in the back. And three other corpses already lay scattered around the plaza, with Cheyenne arrows in them, and one of them was Garcia.

  The Rurales broke, ran. A bow made no sound, no muzzle flash, and there was no way to fight back against it. They ran for cover behind the barracks, forgetting Sundance, wanting only to be shielded from that accurate, invisible avenger who poured arrows in on them as fast as if they were bullets from a Winchester. But it was Joker Bob that Sundance wanted.

  He came up off the ground, in a single bound, like a great cat. The Rurales ignored him as they fled. Another fell with an arrow vibrating between his shoulder blades. Sundance looked for Bob Chester, saw the tall figure running across the plaza toward headquarters, zigzagging in the darkness and a tricky target. Sundance aimed, fired, missed; then Bob dodged inside the adobe headquarters and the door slammed shut.

  The raw cut of the whip he had taken made a line of fire across Sundance’s naked back as he himself bent low, ran across the plaza. Vaguely, he was aware that something was going on at the fortress gates; there was a strange, hoarse shouting of many voices there and the big wooden panels shook as something slammed against them. But Sundance had no time to wonder; as he cut toward a barracks on one side of the plaza, flame tongued from the window of the headquarters, and a slug whined past his ear. Sundance laughed, and completely without volition, a Cheyenne war whoop, high, shrill, ululating, broke from his throat as he dodged behind the corner of the building. It was answered by another, slightly different, from a watch tower at the fort’s east corner. Then, as Sundance pressed against the barracks wall, the gates crashed open, and a flood of men poured in. Most were dressed in the dirty, tatt
ered white of villagers, and they were screaming with hatred as they surged into the plaza, brandishing what poor weapons they had—pitchforks and shovels and clubs and knives and hoes and even cow horns tied to pieces of chain to serve as maces. The Rurales began to shoot at them from the shelter of the barracks, and the villagers fanned out, charging into the gunfire.

  A couple of them fell; Sundance had no time to see more. The plaza seethed with fighting men; he ran clear of it, behind a barracks. He circled its rear, saw a policeman aiming his rifle from that shelter to fire into the mob. Sundance fired a single shot and the man went down. Sundance ran on angling toward the building into which Joker Bob had vanished, but not its front, its rear.

  He was a little late getting there. As he rounded the corner of the house, Bob Chester’s tall form emerged from the back door at a dead run, a pair of saddlebags across his shoulder, a gun in either hand. Bending low, he made straight for the horses of the Rurales in a corral only a few yards away. Just as Sundance aimed his gun, Bob slipped between the mesquite rails; then he was among the frightened, plunging animals and Sundance’s shot missed.

  But now Chester knew that Sundance was there. As Sundance ran zigzagging toward the corral, a tongue of flame lanced out of darkness, and he heard the whisper of a slug near his ear. He threw himself forward, landed hard on the dirt as Bob Chester fired again. Sundance did not fire back; he had one gun with three rounds in it; Chester packed two and at least one must still be fully loaded.

  Instead, the moment he hit the ground, Sundance rolled desperately, seeking the cover of the shadow of the wall behind the corral. He made it into a pool of darkness that was like the bottom of a coal mine, but Chester punched another bullet after him and plowed up dirt just behind his back.