by John Benteen
Then they were out of town, pounding through the darkness. Wade pulled up, and Sundance reined Eagle to a halt. They listened, straining to catch the sound of hoof beats, of pursuit. There was none. “I told you,” Wade said. He put the mule into a high lope. “Let’s ride on. I know a canyon where we can camp that they’ll never find.”
Chapter Three
The two of them rode across rough country in silence and darkness. Sundance was not in good shape: the battering he had taken in the fight; the rope burns on his neck; a throat rapidly swelling closed; he felt all that. But his body had a rawhide resilience, nor did he worry about pain or feel self-pity when it persisted. In that, he was like a wild animal, some hunting beast, wolf or panther. He kept up with Wade, and though the man had rescued him, Sundance watched the shadowy shape that galloped alongside him warily. He still did not know why the man had mixed in, risked an odds-against battle for the sake of a half-breed. Wade had his motives, and Sundance wondered what they were. In due time, he would find out, he supposed; meanwhile, he took nothing for granted, no one on trust.
Presently, the walls of a narrow canyon closed him in. Wade halted the mule. “We’ll camp here tonight. Come morning, we’ll head for my ranch on Lost River. You’ve taken a hell of a beating; you’ll need a spell to rest. My wife’s good at doctoring. Likely she can fix you up first class.” He swung down. “You take it easy. I’ll rustle up a fire, some grub.” Then he laughed, an easy, pleasant sound in the darkness. “And you can take your hand off that gun. If I meant you any harm, I’d have let you swing back in Hell, Yes!”
While Sundance unsaddled Eagle, turned the big horse loose to roll and graze, he heard Wade gathering firewood. By the time he had stacked his gear, a small blaze lit the grassy bowl in which they were camped. In its glow, Sundance got his first good look at his rescuer.
What he saw was a handsome, rangy man in his early thirties, gray-eyed, with a mouth that looked as if it smiled a lot, but which still held warning that its owner was not a man to be trifled with. Wade was dressed as an ordinary rancher: Stetson, flannel shirt, vest, denim pants, high-heeled boots. Sundance had already seen that he knew how to use the Colt on his right hip.
“I haven’t said yet that I’m obliged.” Sundance’s voice was a husky croak. “You hit Hell, Yes! just in time. I’m Jim Sundance.”
“I know who you are. I’m Glenn Wade. And it wasn’t an accident I rode in when I did. I saw you at the fort this morning, been following you all day. But that damn big stallion outpaced my mule.”
Sundance tensed slightly. “Following me?”
“That’s right,” Wade said. “I’ll tell you why later. For now, all you need to know is that I was a friend of Captain Jack’s. Man, you look like somebody used you to plow with. Let’s get some coffee and some food in you.” He unstrapped a bag from behind his saddle, took out jerky, cans of beans, a coffee pot and coffee.
The strong, black brew not only helped revive Sundance, but it also soothed his throat, brought back his voice. He had already rubbed the rope burns on his neck with bear fat from a first-aid kit in his gear. Now, with food in his belly bringing back strength, he and Wade, sitting cross-legged, looked at each other across the flame. “Suppose you tell me now why you trailed me from the fort?”
Wade nodded. “Right. Well, I’ve got a spread over on Lost River, near the lava beds. Been there about two years, my wife and me. Tough going, but maybe it’ll get better. Anyhow, we were there when Captain Jack and Hooker Jim came back down from Oregon and set up their villages on the river.”
He drank some coffee. “They didn’t bother nobody, any of ‘em. And one day while I was out on the range, Susan, that’s my wife, went to get some firewood and there was a rattler in the woodpile; he got her on the arm. She’d be dead now, if Captain Jack hadn’t ridden up lookin’ for a free meal. He doctored that wound slick as a whistle, cut it open, sucked out the poison himself, used some kinda Indian remedy on it. He saved her life. Me, I don’t forget things like that. After that, I did my best to see that the Modocs got a fair shake.”
“You weren’t one of the ranchers, then, that hollered until the Army came to take ‘em.”
“No. There were two or three of us wanted the Modocs left alone, but we were outnumbered. The rest of the landowners around there wanted ‘em moved out. In fact, I rode with the Army the day the whole thing started—most of the ranchers did. The biggest bunch of ‘em was there to back up the soldiers, maybe get a chance to kill an Injun or two. Me, I went along to try to help iron things out.”
He looked glum. “It didn’t work. There was two Modoc villages, one on either side of Lost River. They made us stay in Hooker Jim’s village on the east and then they crossed into Captain Jack’s. Next thing we knew, all hell broke loose. They say the one called Scar-faced Charley went for a gun, I don’t know. All I know is that when they heard the shooting, the ranchers I was with lined down on Hooker Jim’s people and they started fighting back, and the Modoc War was on. The Injuns hauled tail into the lava beds and stayed there.”
He shrugged. “You know the rest. Six months, it dragged on. The Modocs were sittin’ pretty until their ammunition was captured. They had water in all those caves, and there’s plenty of game in there, not to mention the tules in Tule Lake—they eat the roots, you know. Me, I worked like a bastard trying to bring about some sort of settlement. Even in the middle of the war, Captain Jack and Hooker Jim’d slip out of the lava, come to call on me. Sometimes they needed salt, stuff like that. I gave it to ‘em. If the other ranchers had ever found out about it, I’d have been swung higher than you were gonna be tonight. But what the hell. Sometimes a man has to stand up for what’s right.”
Sundance watched his face in flickering light and shadow. “Like you did this evening,” he said softly. It had been, he thought, a long time since he had met a man like Wade. He had almost forgotten his kind existed.
Wade spread his hands. “I never had much use for that Hell, Yes! bunch, anyhow. Rustlers, saddle-tramps, not a man among ‘em wouldn’t slice your throat for a nickel.”
“All the same, you made a bunch of enemies on my account.”
“Anybody that stuck up for the Modocs through that war is used to enemies. I’m not worried about my enemies; that’s not why I followed you.” He paused. “You talked to Captain Jack before they hanged him. Sundance, did he tell you there’s still Indians hiding out in the lava?”
Sundance put down his coffee cup. The last five, he thought. Cautiously, he said, “Not accordin’ to the Army. The Army claims they’ve all come in.”
“The Army don’t know what it’s talkin’ about. I still say there are Modocs in that lava. A handful, maybe, but they’re there. And that’s why I had to get hold of you.”
Sundance said, “Go on.”
“I don’t know how many there are, not many. But there’s some men and women both; I know because I’ve seen them. They’ll sneak out at night, and they’re beginning to hit the ranches around the lava beds for what they need. They’ll kill a calf here or a sheep there, butcher it, haul it back into the lava before daybreak, maybe bust into a cabin or a ranch house when nobody’s home, make off with cartridges or flour. They’ve left my stock alone, partly because my ranch’s too far from the lava beds, maybe a little because they remember that I did my best for ‘em before the war. But they’re raisin’ hell with Roane’s cattle.”
“Who’s Roane?”
“Big man in the Lost River district. He’s got a spread that adjoins the lava beds, runs more cattle than anybody around here, and damn if I don’t think he knows all of ‘em by name. Just like he does every dime he ever got his hands on. He misses a leppie calf, you’d figure it was his right leg gone. Anyway, he’s all worked up about the disappearin’ cattle—and he’s got the idea in his head that I’m the one to blame.”
Sundance took out makings, rolled a cigarette. What he put into it was marijuana, not tobacco. He had learned from Mexicans to sm
oke the weed, usually used it as a substitute for the liquor he could not handle. Right now, it would help the pain from the beating he’d taken in that pile-up in Hell, Yes! He drew in the harsh smoke, relaxed a little. “What gave him that idea?”
“I reckon because he and I’ve had trouble. He’s the one I bought my land from; he still holds a mortgage on it and he’s pressin’ me hard. I underbid him on a beef contract up at Fort Klamath and he didn’t like that so he chopped the hell out of prices for the Indian agency. And—Susan’s had some trouble with him.”
“What kind of trouble?”
Wade’s lips thinned. “I was away from home one time. Roane dropped by while I was gone. Gave her a big song and dance about how he’d had his eye on her a long time, why didn’t she leave me for him? What did she want to stick with a failure for when she could cut loose and marry a man who could give her everything she wanted? He made a reach for her and she grabbed the fryin’ pan and threatened to smash his head and run him off.”
“She sounds like quite a woman.”
“She’s a hell of a lot of woman,” Wade said, with quiet pride. “When she told me about it, I went over and braced Roane. Before I got away from his home ranch, I had to put a bullet in one of his men. He didn’t dare push the issue, but ... well, you can see how things stand between us. He’s missin’ cattle, so are a few other ranchers, and he’s tryin’ to pin me for it. If he can, he gets two things, maybe. My ranch back, in default of the mortgage ... and Susan.”
“You’ve got troubles, then. If you know it’s the Modocs who’re doin’ it, why don’t you tell him so?”
“Because”— Wade stared moodily into the fire— “because, if I did that, he’d round up a lot of men—he’s on good terms with that crowd from Hell, Yes! and they’ll do anything to make a dollar, broke as that town is—and go into the lava after ‘em. Or send for the Army and have ‘em do it. And they’d wipe ‘em out, all of ‘em. Somehow that goes against my grain. I ... had another thought in mind.”
“Let’s hear it.”
“Well, I know there are at least five of ‘em, I saw that many. What tipped me off, I saw where they’d been diggin’ tules along the lake. Jack showed me how they did it, and sometimes Susan and I—Well, when the larder gets low, we make flour out of the roots, the way they do. When I saw the fresh sign, it went all over me—Modocs! Later on, I laid out by the lake at night and watched ‘em. Then I knew who was gettin’ Roane’s cattle.”
He also rolled a cigarette, lit it with an ember, then went on. “Sundance,” he said, leaning forward, “I owe my wife’s life to Captain Jack. In all this mess, I’ve never been able to do anything to repay him. Now he’s gone and ... But maybe I can get square somehow. Maybe these last Modocs will give me the chance.”
His voice was low, earnest. “I don’t want Roane or the Army to kill ‘em off or even capture ‘em and ship ‘em East to rot. I want these last ones, anyhow, to have a chance. I saw you at Klamath this mornin’. I’d heard about you, knew you were a friend of Jack’s—and then it hit me. You’re the one man who could go into the lava after those Indians, talk them into coming out peaceably. And if you did that, you and me could smuggle them out of this territory without anybody ever knowin’ they existed. There must be another tribe somewhere that you could arrange for them to go and live with, a tribe that would take ‘em in, one they’d fit into and be happy with. If ... if you and me together could do that, I’d feel like ... well, somehow I would have partway paid my debt to Captain Jack.”
Sundance was silent for a long time, looking at Wade across the fire, unable to help the flicker of suspicion stirring in him. But, no. Jack had said no one else knew about the gold, not even the other Indians. So that could not be it.
He tossed the end of the cigarette into the fire. No, Wade made sense. Of course he had an ulterior motive, in addition to wanting to pay his debt to Captain Jack. He wanted the inroads on Roane’s cattle to stop, get that pressure of suspicion off him. But that was sensible. Slowly, Sundance smiled, touching the rope burns on his neck. “That might be arranged,” he said, “if I can find the Modocs in the lava and get them to talk. The Nez Percé, up in Idaho. Their way of life is about halfway between the Modocs and the Cheyennes, and they’re friendly people. Yes, it could be arranged.”
“I know you work for money. I ain’t got much, but maybe I could scrape up some—”
“I think you paid in advance at Hell, Yes! tonight,” Sundance said.
“Then you’ll try it? It would take a load off me and Susan’s minds, get Roane off my neck about that rustlin’ ... And maybe Captain Jack’ll sleep a little better.”
“I’ll try it. I’ll go into the lava, see if I can find ‘em and parley with ‘em. The trick will be getting ‘em out and up to Idaho.”
“I know that. If the ranchers around Tule Lake ever get wind that there’s five hostile Modocs left, the minute they can get their hands on ‘em, they’ll lynch ‘em all. It’ll have to be a slick operation, but we can bring it off. By God, we will bring it off! I’ve been on the short end of the stick a long time myself, and I know how those Indians feel! Now you know why I followed you from Fort Klamath; I had to have your help.”
“You’ll have it,” Sundance said. “We’ll ride on to your place tomorrow, and I’ll go into the lava soon as I can. Right now, let’s get some sleep.” He arose, spread out his blankets. “And, Wade.”
“Yeah?”
“Sleep across the fire from me. No matter what you do, don’t come near me in the night. The stallion, that’s the way he’s trained. He thinks you’re sneaking up on me, he’ll be down on you like a landslide, take you apart before you know it or before I could stop him.”
Wade laughed. “Thanks for tellin’ me. I wouldn’t want to tangle with that hunk of horseflesh.”
“And put out the fire. We won’t need a guard. Eagle will smell that gang from Hell, Yes! long before we could see ‘em, if they try to follow us.” Sundance rolled up in his blankets. His pistol belt, with Colt, knife and ax was draped around the horn of the saddle on which he laid his head, his Winchester in his arm’s crook. He liked Wade and owed him his life; but all his long, hard years of fighting had taught him this: never trust anyone but yourself.
When daybreak came, they roused, ate jerky, drank coffee, saddled and rode. They watched their back trail as they headed southeast, but nothing moved along it. Apparently the bunch at Hell, Yes! was still licking its wounds or had settled back into boredom.
When, at ten o’clock, they reined in on a ridge crest, the magnificent country lay spread out before them. This was a land of contradictions: the shimmering surface of Tule Lake, beyond, the distant glimmer of Clear Lake, the loop of Lost River through a fertile valley, timber-clad hills, high bluffs—and the lava beds.
They lay south of Tule Lake, and from this distance, that savage fortress, that jumbled malpais, blended with the plain, looked almost innocent. But Sundance knew what a hell of ridges and pits and caves and trenches they were; he knew, too, how hard it would be to find five Indians in that fastness, if those Indians did not want to be found. Knew also the danger of it; that, probably, their first response would be to try to kill any intruder. Wade’s judgment was good. No white man could possibly have entered the lava and lived with the Modocs there, and even he, Jim Sundance, would be taking long risks. Well, that was all right. Risk-taking was his business; he was used to danger. He could not live without it; he had in his time fought against Crows and Blackfeet as a Cheyenne warrior, soldiered with the savage guerrilla bands on the Kansas-Missouri border in the Civil War, and hired out his gun ever since to earn the enormous sums he sent East in the Indian’s behalf. Danger had been his whole life, and he was addicted to it, as another man might have been to narcotics.
Wade lifted the mule’s reins. “Let’s ride on down. My place isn’t far.”
As their mounts loped down into the valley of Lost River, they passed grazing cattle, and Sundance looked
at them with experienced eyes. Branded Running W, which was Glenn Wade’s iron, there weren’t many of them, and they were, despite the lush range, underbred and scrubby stock. Wade must have read the expression on Sundance’s face. “Not much to look at, huh? Maybe someday I can afford a good bull to breed ‘em up.”
They hit the river near its mouth at Tule Lake. This was where, the year before, the war had started in the two Modoc villages on either side of the stream. Sundance saw remnants of their beehive shaped houses, almost obliterated now by wind and weather. Then, two miles on, in a grove of trees, he saw an unpainted, boxy little wooden house, a few scabby outbuildings, some rickety corrals. Sundance’s mouth thinned. Wade’s layout was as poverty-stricken as his cows were scrubby. He checked Eagle suddenly.
“You’ve got company,” he said tersely.
Wade pulled in the mule. Now they were close enough to see, through the trees, three riders before the house’s porch. The one in the lead was a giant of a man in a white Stetson, blue shirt, batwing chaps. Wade’s face went grim. “Roane!” he rasped. Then he jerked the double-barreled shotgun from its saddle scabbard and spurred his mule.
Sundance followed him into the yard of the ranch. At the sound of hoof beats, the three turned their horses. Sundance saw that the two behind the man in the white hat wore Colts strapped around their waists, had Winchesters on their saddles. Hardcases, he thought: Roane paid wages to gun hands. Something was familiar about the man on Roane’s left, tall, lanky, slightly stoop-shouldered. He sat his horse like a great, predatory bird at rest, and his posture triggered something in Sundance’s memory.
Wade pulled up the mule, facing the man in the white hat. “Roane, what are you doin’ here?”