by John Benteen
“Yeah. Well, first I put the money away.” Shielding the safe’s combination with his body, Rawlings did that, while Sundance slumped in a chair, turning it first so that he could watch the single window and the door, with his back to the thickness of the station’s adobe wall. Rawlings sat behind the desk, opened a drawer, took out bottle and glasses. Pouring two stiff drinks, he passed one to Sundance. “Mud in your eye.”
They drank. Sundance felt the whiskey promptly. It was something he could not take much of—the Indian blood in him, he guessed. For him it was really firewater, going straight to his head, and he limited himself always to two drinks. Rawlings leaned back in his chair, looking at the half-breed for a long minute. “What Dart said about you—was that all true?”
“Yes and no,” Sundance said.
“The part about knowing the Apaches—Cochise being your godfather. And about your gun being for hire. That’s the part I’m interested in.”
“That part’s true. But my gun comes high.” He took another sip of whiskey. “Yeah, my father knew the Chiricahuas well, like he knew all the tribes. When I was a kid, I was adopted into the band. I know most of the big men; same with the Warm Springs and the Mimbrenos and Coyoteros.”
“And this business of bein’ a renegade—fightin’ with the Indians and against ’em.”
Sundance drew in a long breath. “That’s true, too.” He saw the frown that crossed Rawlings’ face. “All right,” he said. “I’m as much Indian as I am white—and the other way around.” He realized the whiskey was loosening his tongue as he went on. “What I really want,” he said, “is to see both races make peace, settle down. It looks to me like there’s room enough out here for everybody—and there’s plenty the Indians need to learn from the whites, and plenty you white-eyes can learn from the Indians. And that’s ... hell, skip it.”
“No. That’s what you fight for, why you switch sides?” Rawlings leaned forward.
“That’s right. If I think it’ll help, I’ll ride for the troopers. If I think it’ll help, I’m with the tribes. Sometimes a little fight can unsnarl things, keep a bigger one from comin’ off. At least, that’s the way I had it figured. But the whites keep comin in, crowding, pushing, making promises and breakin’ ’em. Sometimes the tribes break theirs, too … Instead of peace, there’s more war all the time.” He drained his glass.
“And you’re caught in the middle,” Rawlings said.
“You could “say that,” Sundance answered.
“This massacre today, what do you think of that?”
“It’s the kind of thing that makes me sick. All the same, what do you expect? A couple of years ago, this was Apache country, they had it to themselves. Then Rucker makes his strike and next thing you know the whites are crowdin’ in. They don’t ask permission from the Indians—they jest shoot everything red that moves. What the Chiricahuas did to that woman and kid today was rotten. But I’ve seen Apache rancherias that white men have raided—and they didn’t spare the women or the kids.”
“I know that,” Rawlings said. “That’s why I’ve tried to deal square with the Indians myself. Yance and I, we made a bargain with ’em—but they reneged, not us.”
“You made a bargain—?”
“With Cochise himself. And we’ve kept it. But he hasn’t, you saw that today. So—” He refilled the glasses. “I might just need a man like you. But first, let me back up and start at the beginning.”
~*~
The two Rawlings brothers had worked for stage line companies since their teens, beginning with Ben Holladay’s Overland Mail and continuing with Wells-Fargo after it had absorbed Holladay’s multifarious operations. “Hell, we been in the stage and express business since we were old enough to walk. Worked at everything, hostler, driver, messenger, station manager, express manager ... there was nothing about the business we didn’t know. And ever since I can remember, all Yance and I wanted was our own company. We saved our money and took a little flyer here and a little one there in this and that and picked up some more—and then Rucker made his strike. So that, by damn, one of our investments finally paid off. We’d grubstaked the old coot to fifty bucks one time, and when he finally struck it rich, he paid us back to the tune of ten thousand dollars flat.”
Art grinned reminiscently. “Well, then we saw our chance. Took that ten thousand plus what we already had, moved to Coffin City, bought some stock and a few second-hand coaches and mud wagons and then we were in business for ourselves. We’ve got a line from here to Tucson—eighty miles, about—and another one to Lordsburg, over in New Mexico, which is a lot longer haul. And no competition, because nobody else wanted to touch either route, on account of the Apaches. You know, once an express company takes over a shipment, signs for it, it’s liable for it, and Wells-Fargo couldn’t see riskin’ the loss of all that money. Because, like you said, the buildin’ of Coffin City right in the middle of their territory stirred the ’Paches up like a swarm of hornets.”
Pouring himself another drink, he offered one to Sundance. The half-breed shook his head. “Well, it was Yance’s idea,” Art went on. “You see, we divided up the duties—I’m the inside man, the businessman. He handles the outside stuff—the stock, coaches, everything connected with operations. And he came up with the idea that maybe we could buy the Apaches off. Well, it took some doin’—first we had to find an interpreter, which old Tom Evans speaks Chiricahua pretty fair. Then we had to start leavin’ presents for ’em. Along our route, we’d lay out stuff we knew they needed and used—tobacco, sugar, a bolt of cloth now and again, and we were pretty generous. After a while, they got the message ...
“One day,” he went on, “a bunch of Chiricahuas showed themselves, stopped a coach. One of ’em spoke a little English. And they had a present for us in return—a fancy, silver-mounted saddle I reckon they took on some raid in Mexico. He got it across that they understood we wanted to make medicine with ’em and they were willin’. So Yance and Tom rode out to meet ’em. Cochise himself was there and that was when they struck the deal.”
“What kind of deal?”
“Plumb simple. They had a list of things they wanted, needed, mostly the sort of stuff we’d been leavin’ ’em. No firewater, no guns or ammo. Maybe a hundred bucks worth of stuff a month; we’d leave it certain places along the trail like we’d been doin’. In return, Cochise promised the Cherrycows would let us alone and he’d divvy the stuff with the other bands and get safe conduct from them, too.”
“If Cochise promised that, you could depend on it.”
“We took that gamble, and sure enough it paid off. No Injun trouble for a long time, while Wells-Fargo was catchin’ hell from ’em north of here. And I won’t lie, we made money hand over fist. These mines started pourin’ out gold and silver, they built a smelter here, and we hauled bullion to the railhead beyond Lordsburg, brought back the currency a town like this needs to run on. It was like havin’ a license to steal until the Garfield gang moved in on us. A bunch of goddam road agents and gunmen, and they hit us four times, killed guards and messengers, cleaned out our express boxes, robbed the passengers ... a damn mean bunch of snakes. Well, the Sheriff here’s a politician, not a lawman and he was helpless. So that was when we figured the best thing to do was bring in outside law.”
He and his brother had sent for Tulso Dart, whose fame as a lawman had already spread, and used political influence to have him appointed U.S. Marshal. “And I’ll say this for him and Pliny and that spooky Doc Ramsey. They cleaned the Garfield gang out in jig time. Them they didn’t shoot, we tried and hanged. That cut out the thievery from white men. As long as Dart’s the law here, like him or not, we won’t have any more trouble from gangs like that. But no sooner did he git the Garfields taken care of than the Apaches went bronco on us. We kept our end of the bargain, but no word, no anythin’, they started hittin’ our coaches. That one today was the third raid they’ve made against us. The first two, luckily, there weren’t so many passengers. Them ther
e was got ... Well, you know what Injuns can do to whites. Along with the driver and the guard, they got burned in the coach or hacked to pieces or … ” He grimaced. “Hell, it makes my gut turn to think about it. Anyhow, the first two raids were on outbound runs, and they took the bullion the coaches carried with ’em. Gold and silver they understand, know what it’ll buy in Mexico. We lost, Sundance, two hundred thousand dollars worth of express in those raids ...”
Sundance whistled.
“Since then, Yance has had outriders travelin’ with the coaches. We got a couple through. Then, today—well, we didn’t lose the money, but it’s the worst killin’ we’ve ever had. Who the hell will ride our coaches when we can’t guarantee their safety? And already the mines are talkin’ about puttin’ together a big crew of gunmen and shippin’ their own bullion in their own wagons.” He frowned. “We’re facin’ ruin, Sundance. Pure and simple ruin. Much more of this and the Apaches will break us!”
Sundance began to roll another cigarette. “What about the Army?”
Art Rawlings cursed disgustedly. “First of all, there ain’t no Army. Not stationed here—And what there is north and west of here couldn’t catch an Apache if he walked right into the middle of ’em. Do you know what Washin’ton’s sendin’ out here against the Indians, Sundance? Not cavalry, but infantry, for God’s sake! A regiment of infantry for every troop or so of horse soldiers! They still think they’re fightin’ in Virginia, for God’s sake! It’d be funny if it wasn’t so damn serious!”
“I’ve heard rumors Crook’ll be sent down from the Northwest to command here. He knows Indians.”
“Rumors, yeah. But before he gets here, we’ll be long since broke. Meanwhile, we’re stuck with soldiers that couldn’t tell a Chiricahua from a chuckawalla! Which is why I asked you to stay after the others left!” Rawlings leaned forward across his desk. “I think I could use you, Sundance!”
“Do you know?” Sundance lit the cigarette. “How?”
“As a special messenger, a guard, on every coach. Or a scout ahead of it. Then, if the Apaches come again, maybe you can palaver with ’em, talk ’em out of raidin’, and find out what the hell is going on, why Cochise broke his bargain!”
Sundance stood up, went to the window, looked out. The lights of Coffin City flared in darkness; tinny music jangled, men laughed raucously, women squealed flirtatiously. Despite death, hell-raising went on as usual. “It would be simpler,” he said, “if I went straight to Cochise.”
“Could you do that?”
“I could try. I don’t know. Sounds to me like he’s lost control. Indians will only follow a chief so far. He can reason with ’em, but he can’t order ’em around like a General does an army. If a bunch of Chiricahuas have decided to go bronco, break the peace, all Cochise could do would be to try to persuade ’em. Sounds like that worked for a while, but the arrangement’s fallin’ apart. They might take my hair before I ever got to him. But for a price, I’d take a stab at it, see what I could do.”
“How long would it take?”
“A week, maybe; a month—I don’t know.”
“We can’t wait that long. Our coaches have got to have protection now! And by somebody who knows Apaches! While you’re out there tryin’ to find him, they could hit us two, three times more. And if they do, it’ll break us sure as fate! No! We need you ridin’ shotgun on our coaches or out in front of ’em on scout right away! Anyhow, that way, you don’t have to look for Apaches! They’ll come to you!” Rawlings stood up. “What about it, Sundance? You want gunmen to help you, there’s plenty in Coffin City and they’re for hire—you can take your pick. There’s a stage goin’ out tomorrow—and it’ll be carryin’ bullion. When it rolls, I want you with it! Yes or no?”
“You make decisions in a hurry,” Sundance said.
Rawlings grinned. “You got good references. First of all, you brought that money back. Second, I could see that Tulso was more than just a little bit scared of you. Anybody that can scare Tulso Dart has got to be a prime fightin’ man. And if you’re Cochise’s godson, who can know the Apaches better than you?” He sobered. “What’s your price, Sundance?”
The half-breed ground out the cigarette. “What time your stage leave tomorrow?”
“Ten in the mornin’.”
Sundance picked up the long parfleche. “I’ll give you an answer by nine. Meanwhile, you better talk it over with your brother. He’s liable to have some objections. I don’t think he exactly shares your confidence in me.” He opened the office door. “Where’s a hotel I can leave my gear and git a room?”
“I’ll handle Yance. And you don’t want to stay at any hotel in this hellhole. You’d better try Martha Fenian’s boardin’ house, big two-story wood house at the end of Rucker Street on your left. She don’t sleep but one man to a bed and there’s no graybacks in her sheets. And sets a top-notch table. Tell her I sent you.”
“Obliged,” Sundance said.
“You can leave that stud in our corral,” Rawlings added. “We’ll take good care of him.”
“I’ll do that. But I’ll see to him myself. He’s a one man horse until he’s been properly introduced.”
“All right. When you bring him around, I’ll show you where to put him. Maybe a box stall would be better if he’s mean.”
“He’s mean, all right,” Sundance said.
“Nine in the morning,” Rawlings said.
“I’ll be here,” Sundance said, “and I’ll name a price, if I want the job. Then you and Yance can say yes or no. See you later, Rawlings,” and he went out, closing the door behind him.
~*~
Though lamps still burned, the outer office and waiting room were deserted now. Sundance had just passed through the gate in the railing when the front door opened and the towering figure of Yance Rawlings entered. Seeing Sundance, he stopped short.
“You still here?” His voice was a hostile rumble.
“Just leavin’.”
“Not yet you ain’t,” Rawlings said, taking two long strides forward. “Not until you bring in all your gear off that stud and open it up and lay it out. I’m gonna shake you down, halftreed. That money you brought in was a thousand shy.” His eyes went to the parfleche. “I got a pretty good idea where it’s at.” Another stride, and he was reaching for the pannier. “We’ll start with this,” and he grabbed the bull hide bag before Sundance could jerk it back. His fingers fumbled with the drawstrings.
Sundance hit him then, with a long right jab. His whole body jarred as his fist slammed into Yance’s chin. Yance dropped the bag, fell backwards. The room shook when, with tremendous force, he hit the floor. Sundance’s voice was a harsh rasp. “You keep your goddamn hands off my personal stuff, you hear?” He fought to control his rage; there were things in that bag no hands but his must touch.
Yance lay there dazed for a pair of seconds, looking up at him, blinking. Then, suddenly, he was on his feet, thick lips twisting in a kind of grin, fists clubbed. “Well, you jest hit the wrong man, gut-eater!” he roared, and then, like a charging bull, he came at Sundance.
The half-breed dropped the pannier behind a desk, braced to meet the onslaught. A kind of joy rose in him despite all the weariness of the day. From the moment he had seen those buzzards, tensions had piled up within him; now, at last, here was release. Fatigue was gone as he blocked a swinging roundhouse right, drove home a left to Yance’s belly.
Yance grunted, but he never faltered. Even off balance, his own left fist, slamming into Sundance’s face, whirled the half-breed around, knocked him back a step. Yance, regaining balance, came in fast. Sundance dropped into a crouch, Yance’s left passing just by his ear, grappled Yance. Yance’s right hit him in the ribs, and then Yance’s arms closed around Sundance in a bear hug to match the half-breed’s own.
Sundance applied every bit of strength he owned, felt Yance’s ribs creak and give beneath his arms. But his own torso was being crushed in an iron vice. Desperately, he got his head under Yance’s
chin, forced up and back. Yance’s head bent backwards, and Sundance stretched himself. An inch, another—as he fought for breath, he forced Yance’s head on backwards and in a moment something would surely snap.
Just before it did, Yance let go his hold, got both hands in Sundance’s face, clawing for the eyes. Sundance let go, too, jumped back, and Yance shook his head and came at him. The panting of both breathless men filled the room with a husky sound. Sundance ducked a left, sank home one of his own just above the buckle of Yance’s belt. Yance’s right caught him on the shoulder, whirled him and knocked him back against the rail. Sucking in breath, Yance leaped at him, hands outstretched to seize his throat and throttle.
Sundance got his foot up just in time. His leg uncocked in a brutal kick, his back braced against the rail. It caught Yance in the chest, knocked him back across the room. Rawlings hit a bench, just at knee level, fell, the bench collapsing beneath his massive weight with a sound of rending wood. But, rolling, he was on his knees in an instant among the flinders, and as Sundance came at him seized with one big hand the half-breed’s ankle, jerked. Sundance fell backward, landing sprawling, dazed. Yance was up, then dropping on him. Sundance used his feet again, got both of them between himself and Yance, shoved his own shoulders against the floor, arched his back. The power of his legs threw Yance somersaulting across the room to crash into the rail. It gave way, too, posts snapping. Sundance scrambled to his feet, panting, needing breath before he could follow up. Yance got dazedly to his own knees; then, as Sundance went after him, was on his feet. But now his hard right lacked steam as it just raked Sundance’s jaw. The half-breed, as exhausted as Yance, shook his head, braced moccasined feet. As Yance tried to grapple with his left, he uncocked a right of his own, and it had to do it, for it contained all the strength left to him.
Yance rolled his head, but a shade too slowly. The right connected on a jaw like iron. The impact shook Sundance himself to his heels. But in that instant he saw the dullness glaze Yance’s eyes, was aware of big hands falling laxly away. Then Yance toppled backward amidst the wreckage of the railing. Sundance, panting, gasped in thankfulness, backed away, rubbing his aching right hand. He spat dryly on the floor, then raised his head to see Art Rawlings standing there, gun in hand.