by John Benteen
“Hello, gentlemen,” said Sundance coldly.
The glass in Ash’s right hand shook. Mort made a sound in his throat. Sundance allowed himself a snarling grin, as he saw the faces of the brothers go pale beneath their tan. “Jesus—” Ash whispered, staring.
“No, it ain’t ghosts.” Sundance’s voice crackled. “If there’s any ghosts, they’re yonder in the alley where you had those four bushwhackers stashed. They’re dead, Ash; Mort—all four of ’em.”
The few people in the room held their breaths, creating for a moment a total hush. Then Ash, bullet-colored eyes flickering, said: “I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about.”
“No, you wouldn’t.” Sundance’s voice was contemptuous. “Because you and Mort got an alibi. Been sittin’ here drinkin’ while your four gun-hawks came after us. Figured four ought to be enough, didn’t you? Only the odds didn’t work out that way.” His voice rang through the room. “We killed them all, Ash. And now—If you still think the guts pass straight on through and I got none inside of me, here’s your chance to find out.”
Ash licked his lips; Mort made an odd strangling sound. Sundance and Rawlings stood waiting, watching; but Sundance knew there would be no more gunplay. This time they had the Cables at exactly the same disadvantage they themselves had suffered before. Seconds ticked by. Then Ash whispered: “I won’t fight you.”
“Say it louder!” Yance snapped. “Say it loud enough for everybody to hear!”
“I—I won’t fight you!” There was a kind of desperation in the way Ash yelled the words. Yance laughed in triumph, but the laugh broke off as, without seeming to move, Sundance suddenly had Colt in hand, lined on the Cable brothers.
“Good,” he said. “Now. On your feet, slow and easy.”
Ash and Mort looked at each other, then carefully, gingerly arose, under the threat of the half-breed’s gun.
“Now, take off your gunbelts and hand ’em over. And the first one who breaks’ll say hello to his friends in hell right quick.”
“That’s gospel,” Yance put in, also covering them with drawn gun, grinning broadly as, with total docility, they unbuckled their weapons belts and laid them on the table.
Sundance scooped them up. “Watch ’em, Yance,” he said. Pulling their guns from leather, he jacked the rounds from all of them. Then, cocking each, he laid them on another table, unsheathed the hatchet. Next, with its blunt end, he methodically smashed the hammer of each revolver, bending or shearing them. After that, he threw the guns across the room. “Now,” he said. “You want us, you’ll find us at the Rawlings Stageline terminal. Just make it light on yourselves—come any time.” And, keeping them covered, he and Yance backed out the door onto the street.
Chapter Six
Though fairly sure there would be no need for the outriders, still he felt that they owed the passengers that much protection. Meanwhile, with Eagle trotting alongside, he himself rode shotgun up on the seat beside the driver, Yance on guard facing their back trail from the rear of the coach’s top, laden now with baggage. He made sure the vehicle stopped at every place where they had left presents for the Apaches.
All along the line, they had been collected, were gone, including the dried fish. At one place he found evidence that the fish had been eaten immediately: a few bones among some moccasin tracks. That evoked from him a cold grin and a sentence muttered instinctively in Northern Cheyenne dialect. More certain than ever now that there would be no Apache trouble on this trip, he nevertheless scouted ahead on Eagle every time they approached a spot that might offer any danger. There were still the Cables to consider, although he figured that Ash and Mort would be in no mood to tackle Yance, himself, and four good, well-armed outriders after last night.
It had not been the Cables who had come looking for them last night at the Rawlings office, but the town marshal and a pair of deputies. He and Yance knew each other well, and there was no threat in the lawman’s voice when he said, “All right. Judge Holman wants the facts on those killin’s. Folks heard you admit to ’em, and that hatchet pretty well cinches this half-breed was in it—up to his eyeballs. Figured you wouldn’t wanta delay your stage pullin’ out tomorrow, so we’ll have the hearin’ now. We already got those two Cable jokers in custody to hear their side of the story.”
The judge was a plump man in his shirtsleeves and bedroom slippers, the hearing held in the living room of his house. The Cables were there, grim-faced and waiting, under a deputy’s gun. “Now, Yance,” the judge said, “suppose you tell us what this is all about.”
Rawlings told the story, denying Sundance no credit, his whole attitude toward the half-breed changed now. Holman listened carefully, turned to the Cables. “All right. What have you two gentlemen to say to that?”
“Hell, your honor,” Ash grated, “they weren’t our men. They just throwed in with us on the trip to Lordsburg for mutual protection against the Apaches. What they did is no business of Mort’s and me. If they had some kinda grudge against Rawlings and Sundance, that was their affair. Me and Mort, we were killin’ a bottle in the Lordsburg Waterhole whilst the shootin’ was goin’ on—and plenty of witnesses to prove it.”
“Plenty to prove you braced Rawlings and this Sundance, too, first, with those four men backing you,” Holman said coldly.
“We had a little fun with ’em, yeah,” Mort put in. “I’ll admit we got no love for Rawlin’s or anybody connected with Tulso Dart, but we never once drawed a weapon, and nobody can say we did!”
Holman was silent for a moment, looking from Yance to the Cables, then back at Yance again. At last he nodded. “All right, Yance, you and this half-breed are in the clear. Justifiable homicide—self defense. No charges.” He turned to the Cable brothers. “As for you two, you ride out of Lordsburg tonight, you hear? I don’t give a damn where you go, but it better not be anywhere in New Mexico. We got troubles enough of our own without gettin’ mixed up in your Arizona quarrels.” He flapped his hand as if chasing chickens. “Shoo! Skedaddle! Mount and ride!”
Gunless, they strode out, but Sundance saw the hatred glittering in their eyes. Sooner or later, he knew, they would try for their revenge. But not right now, and for the moment he had other things to think about.
~*~
Even with the extra time for precautions, the stage was only a few hours late arriving in Coffin City. Again, expecting the worst, a huge crowd had gathered at the office. When, with Bushrod once more handling the lines and Sundance beside him riding shotgun, the team, whipped up to a run, brought the Concord rolling and swaying down the main street, a kind of cheer went up. Art Rawlings was there, too, his face tense. As Sundance climbed down off the coach, he blurted: “Everything all right? Gold get through? Passengers—?” He looked at the people filing out of the coach.
“No trouble either way,” Yance said, jumping down beside Jim Sundance. “But we had some in Lordsburg. We—”
“Let’s go in the office.” Art led the way through the crowd, and once the three of them were inside, he closed the door. Even before its key had turned in the lock, Yance launched into an account of what had happened. Art listened closely, meanwhile breaking out bottle and glasses. “The sons of bitches,” he said at last, bitterly. “So, Sundance, you saved my brother’s life. Well, by God, you’ve already earned that twenty thousand as far as I’m concerned.” He sipped his drink. “Hell, they weren’t picking up any freight in Lordsburg. They were there to gun you and Yance down, pure and simple. With Yance gone, this stage line couldn’t operate. That’d take care of my backing of Dart, and he’d drift on and they’d have a free hand for any damned thing they wanted to do again.”
“There’s more to it than that,” Sundance said. “The Cables are out to ruin you, all right. I know now why Cochise broke his promise. Because you broke yours first.”
“The hell you say!” Art came bolt upright and Yance stared at Sundance. “We’ve put those presents out exactly as agreed on, and the Apaches took ’em.”
Jim Sundance shook his head. “Somebody took ’em. It wasn’t Apaches. White men, I figure—and stealing the goods right out from under Cochise’s nose!”
Yance turned on him. “How do you know that?”
“Fish,” Sundance said. “Dried salt fish. When I laid those goods out, I left fish with every batch. When we came back the goods were gone, fish and all. I even found where somebody had eaten some of ’em.”
“So? The Injuns could have—”
“The point’s this,” Sundance said. “You’d have to put a gun to an Apache’s head to make him touch a fish, much less eat one—and maybe he’d let you kill him first. Pigs and fish, the real wild Apaches feel about ’em just like Jews do about pork, they’re unclean and profane, and fish are the worst. But whoever took those goods didn’t know that. So it’s white men. A real Apache wouldn’t have touched those fish or anything they’d been in contact with, with a ten-foot pole.”
Art was silent for a moment. “And you think it’s the Cables.”
“I think Ash and Mort were trailin’ right behind us, gatherin’ up those presents as fast as we put ’em down.”
“But how’d they know where they were?” Yance protested. “Hell, they were all hidin’ places picked especially so that nobody else would stumble on ’em and steal the stuff—”
Sundance snorted. “How many passengers have you hauled to Lordsburg who might have made notes about where you stopped to leave the goods?”
“It couldn’t have been a passenger,” Art said. “They’re not allowed to leave the coach when we drop the stuff off. A passenger might know approximately, but he couldn’t have known the exact places, and you know yourself some of ’em are nearly impossible to see, even if you’re looking right at ’em.”
Sundance nodded, acknowledging the truth of that. “Then you’ve got a spy in your outfit. One of your drivers or shotgun guards—”
“Tied in with the Cables,” Art said bitterly. “Hell, it’s no wonder the Apaches turned against us, with no way of knowing we didn’t renege on our deal.” He struck his desk with his fist. “We’ve got to find him, the bastard! Sundance, how—”
“I don’t know, yet. Anyhow, it doesn’t matter right now. There’s something else I’ve got to do first—find Cochise and strike a new deal for you with him, if I can. Which means I’m gonna be gone a few days, maybe more than a few days. And nobody but the three of us is to know where, understand?”
Art stood up. “But what about our stage runs in the meantime? There’s currency to be picked up at Lordsburg, bullion to be hauled from the mine. We’ll have passengers now that we’ve made two runs through ...”
“Then you put together a small army in the meantime and let Yance lead ’em, every trip. Not just a few outriders, but a half dozen, anyhow, more if you can find ’em. Yance saw how I scouted that run this time; I pinpointed every danger spot Indians might hit from. Anyhow, you get enough good men together, with plenty of firepower, and you’ll have no trouble from Apaches.”
“How can you be so sure?” Art asked.
“Because Apaches are different from other Indians. Now if it was Cheyennes or Sioux you were up against, it wouldn’t make any difference how many men you had—a Plains Indian don’t worry about the odds or gettin’ killed in warfare. They fight for the sheer love of fightin’. Not the Apaches, though—they fight for one thing: loot. A Cheyenne considers it a great thing to take long risks just for the hell of it, but a Chiricahua or any other Apache figures that a man that gets himself hurt or killed just showin’ off is a damned fool. They figure the odds in the way other Indians don’t, and they see no honor in tacklin’ something that ain’t worth the cost. The sign I read around that last killing shows they haven’t got much in the way of guns—at least the broncos who’re doin’ the raidin’. You got six or eight prime fightin’ men, all armed with repeatin’ rifles, there’ll have to be something on that coach they want mighty bad before they’ll hit you, because they’ll know they can’t do it without losin’ a lot of men. They’ll leave you alone. And so will any white road agents.”
“Goddlemighty,” Art protested. “Hiring a crew like that for how long—a week?—as many runs as we make ... that’ll cost a small fortune!”
“Then we’ll pay it,” Yance said firmly. He turned to Sundance. “All right, Jim, I hated your guts at first and I figured you’d sell us down the river to the Indians the first chance you got. But what happened in Lordsburg made a Christian outa me. I’m backin’ you all the way. You do whatever you figure’s best. I’ll see that your orders are carried out.”
Art bit his lip and Sundance could see him calculating cost. “Yeah, but couldn’t Tom Evans find Cochise like he did before while Sundance rides with us?”
“We do it Sundance’s way,” Yance snapped.
Art sighed, spread his hands. “So be it. Okay, Jim, you find Cochise, you’ve got a free hand to make another deal. But it’s up to you to see that this one’s kept.”
“If the Apaches break it,” Sundance said, arising, “I’ll be the first to lead all the volunteers you and Dart can put together against ’em. Now, like I said, I’ll be gone by daybreak—and nobody’s to know where.”
“You can count on that,” Art said.
“Right.” Yance grinned. “And now—” he licked his lips, also stood up “—I’m headin’ for the Occidental. Ellie’s waitin’ for me there and I’m long overdue for some lovin’.” He thrust out his hand. “Jim, I’ve put my bet down on you and I’m gonna let it ride all the way. Good luck with Cochise.”
“Thanks,” Sundance said. “I’ll need all I can get.” And, thinking of what lay ahead of him, he knew that was true.
~*~
He saw Eagle fed, watered, and put him in his stall. Then, lugging his gear, he had started toward the boarding house when Tulso Dart, coming up the sidewalk, saw him, raised a hand. “Sundance. I wanta talk to you.” He jerked his head toward the doorway of the Occidental. “Come on in. I’ll buy the drinks.”
“A cold beer’ll suit.” He raked his gaze over the marshal. Dart was still in range clothes, eyes reddened from desert sun-glare, face showing lines of weariness.
“Ease off,” Dart said. “I mean no harm. But there’s some things we need to get straight.”
Sundance nodded, followed him into the coolness of the saloon. At the bar, Yance was unashamedly kissing and caressing the girl named Ellie, pawing the rich roundnesses of her breasts. Dart, seeing that, said, leading Sundance to a table: “She’s a piece of something, ain’t she? But Yance is welcome to her. She’s the kind that makes a sucker out of every man she gits her claws into. I hope what he’s gettin’s worth it, because it’s bound to be costin’ him a fortune. She don’t know what the word love means. All she’s interested in is who’s the highest bidder.”
So, Sundance thought, Dart had tried his luck with her and failed. He made no comment as he and the lawman sat down at a corner table and Dart ordered beer. Sundance noticed how he kept one hand beneath the table, always near his gun, the shifting wariness of his cold blue eyes. Like himself, Dart was a professional—and a professional always had enemies who only waited to catch him at a disadvantage.
When the drinks came, Dart tossed his off, poured another, sighed. “Well, we rode all over hell and back and never saw a sign. They must’ve really covered their tracks when not even Tom Evans could pick up their trail.” His eyes shuttled to the buckskinned, bearded plainsman at the far end of the bar. “But that’s not what I wanta talk about.” He drank again. “Yance told me what happened with the Cables in Lordsburg.”
“So?”
“So I say let’s declare a truce. We’re gonna need each other—you, Pliny, Doc and me. From now on the Cables won’t rest until you’re dead.”
“That,” Sundance said, “I figured.”
“Okay. Now, I know you don’t think much of the way me and my people operate. And you’re right in one thing—any time we can drag in some extra
money, get a rake-off, by God, we do it and we ain’t ashamed of it. Look at you—I know you made a big money deal with the Rawlings outfit. Me, Pliny, Doc, we take the same risks you do—and do you know what a U. S. Marshal’s pay is? Hell, his salary and his fees wouldn’t buy my cartridges.”
Sundance nodded; that was true enough.
“But when we hit a bad town, we do what we hire out to—straighten it out and tame it down. And what we draw in what you call graft is really only the money we’re entitled to for the risks we take, the job we do. You want gunfighter’s pay and you get it; well, so do we. But the rake-offs the only way we can collect it.”
“Maybe,” Sundance said. “There’s one little difference, Dart. I don’t keep what I make. I send it east, to Washington.”
Dart nodded. “Yeah, I’ve heard that. You’ve hired a high-priced lawyer, they say, to lobby in Congress for fair treatment for the Injuns. Me, I got my own notions about how they oughta be treated, but what you do with what you earn is your own business. Anyhow, your man is usin’ your money to pass out bribes and graft, so you’re no cleaner than we are.”
“I never said I was.”
“Then let it ride. The point is—sooner or later the Cables are gonna come against you. Sooner or later they’re gonna come against us. So I want to strike a deal. When that time comes, we’ll back your play if you’ll back ours. What we think of each other don’t matter. It’s what the Cables think of all of us that does.”
Sundance looked at him a moment, reading that hard face. Dart’s eyes were unwavering—and what he said made cold, clear sense. “It’s a deal,” Sundance said, and put out his hand.