by John Benteen
The Home of Great Western Fiction!
CONTENTS
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
About the Book
Title Page
Copyright
The Sundance Series
About Piccadilly Publishing
About the Book
A range war was brewing, and even though Sundance wanted no part of it, fate dealt him in anyway. But right from the start, the odds were stacked against him.
To begin with, there was the vicious land baron Lem Barkalow and his hired killer, Beecher Strawn. Then there was Col Garvey and his wild bunch—Ear-cutter Jack, who had killed at least thirty men and taken an ear from each victim, dried it, and strung it on a necklace he wore draped around his neck; Weasel—tall, unbelievably slim, almost chinless, his eyes a strange red-glinting hue and as blood-thirsty as his namesake; Chico Lopez, the artist with the knife; Garth, the powder-man, who could take a can of Hercules, or this new-fangled dynamite, and open any safe anybody had ever built.
But Sundance didn’t care about the odds. He was going to play the game right down to the last, bloody hand.
One
The big man on the Appaloosa stallion passed through a gap in the rock-faced, pine-clad mountains and reined in the stud on the high ground above the valley. Gray eyes in a hawk-nosed, high-cheekboned face the coppery color of an old penny swept the view below, and although his expression did not change, he felt a certain awe. He had been traveling through rugged high country for four days after leaving the desert, and the enormous stretch of green and gently rolling grassland of the sprawling basin below, threaded with silver seams of shallow creeks full of good, clear water, was a kind of marvel, a contrast to the brutal terrain he had been traversing that took him by surprise. He had thought he knew Arizona fairly well, but when you came down to it, its vast, rugged territory was too big for any one man to know in detail, and he had never, with his own eyes, seen this basin before, though he had heard of it. But not even the glowing descriptions that had reached his ears matched the truth of its great extent of fertile lushness.
Letting the stallion get its wind, he sat there a moment, fishing makings from a pocket and rolling a cigarette. Dismounted, he would have stood inches over six feet, his body massive in the shoulders, thick through the chest, narrow at the waist, his legs the long lean ones of the born horseman. His sombrero was battered, weather-stained, with a beaded band and a single eagle feather stuck in that, its tip painted red; his shirt was of soft-tanned buckskin, richly fringed, beaded, and worked with porcupine quills in the Cheyenne style; he wore canvas pants and high-topped beaded Cheyenne moccasins. The hair spilling from beneath his hat was long, silky, the blond color of new wheat, and, like his eyes, in jarring contrast to the rest of his features, which were wholly those of the Plains Indian—a Cheyenne Dog Soldier, for instance, which, in his time he had been. He was a half-breed—and he was also a fighting man, as evidenced by the Colt Peacemaker on his hip, the Bowie with the twelve-inch blade in the beaded sheath behind it, and the Winchester ’73 in the fringed saddle-scabbard beneath his thigh. On his left hip he wore a hatchet with its head cased, and one who knew about such things would have noted that its handle was straight, not recurved at the end—which meant that it was a weapon, too, made for throwing.
Smoke dribbling from his nostrils, he continued to look at the basin, memorizing its terrain in detail, taking in the grazing herds of cattle—Texas longhorns—scattered across its greenery as far as he could see, the occasional line-shack, and, of more interest to him right now, the scatter of board or log buildings not an hour’s ride away: a town, where he could replenish his supplies, eat a meal at a table, and maybe have a drink or two before moving on. The stallion, too, could use some grain. Then, finishing the cigarette, he ground it out carefully, stripped it, and put the spotted horse, which he had got from the Nez Percé of Idaho, the best horse-breeders in the West, on down the slope.
The town’s name, if he remembered right, was Ganntsville, after its founder, and it could not be over two or three years old. Because up until then this whole area had been held by the Apaches until the American general, Crook, had cleared them out in a hard campaign and sent them to the reservation. And their name for this vast hollow in the hills, he also recollected, had been translated by the whites and taken over by them. They called it Bloody Moon Basin. It seemed a violent name for so tranquil a place. But in his thirty-odd years he had ranged the West from Canada to Mexico, and he knew how deceiving the appearance of tranquility could be. Even as he loped the stallion down toward Ganntsville, he was totally alert, in the manner of the professional, loose in the saddle, free hand near his gun, eyes constantly checking the terrain, even to the rough blue rise of the Mogollon Rim in the distance. Jim Sundance had not stayed alive all these years, fighting for pay, by being careless. And so, even as he entered the basin, he saw the riders coming from the pines, three of them, a mile away, the instant they broke cover, and spotted the sunlight gleaming on the barrels of unsheathed rifles as they galloped toward him. Cowboys, he judged: Texans by the look of their gear, at least originally; for he could see every detail in the thin, pure air. And, knowing at once that he was in for trouble, he turned the Appaloosa stud, Eagle, and put it back toward the broken country, halting it in a defensive position in a draw shielded by some scattered boulders, until he knew what kind of challenge he faced. As he did so, he pulled his own rifle from its scabbard.
When they saw him do that, they reined in, a half mile away, conferred briefly. Then one of them sheathed his rifle, lifted his hand in the sign for peace, and trotted his bay horse forward. The others also put away their long guns, and, spreading out slightly, followed.
Sundance watched them come, his own Winchester ready, but some of the tautness in him ebbing. Any Texas cowhand was a fighting man when he had to be, but these were not obviously gunmen. A real professional he could spot as far as he could see one, and, good targets, they would not have kept on coming if they had been pistoleros first and cowboys only secondly. Still, he did not leave his own position, but let them come to him.
A few hundred yards away, they reined in. Then the one in the lead bellowed: “You, in there! On the spotted horse! We don’t aim to hurt you, but nobody enters Bloody Moon Basin without accountin’ for hisself. Come on out and tell us who you are!” A wiry young man in a black hat and checkered shirt, he went on, “It won’t do you no good to hole up. And if you shoot at us, Barkalow’ll have your hide!”
“Who the hell is Barkalow?” Sundance yelled back.
The young cowhand looked surprised, as if everybody should know Barkalow. “Hell, he owns this range—all of it! And he’s fussy about who comes on it. But if you’re just passin’ through, you got nothin’ to worry about. Anyhow, come out and talk to us! It’s for your own good!”
Sundance considered. Then, without sheathing his gun, he yelled, “I’m passing through, all right. Bound for Colorado. I’ll come out, but the bunch of you keep your hands on your saddlehorns. Because when I come, I’ll be carryin’ my rifle naked. It’s the only way I powwow with the odds three to one.”
“Sampson, I don’t like that,” one of the other cowboys said.
Sampson, the man in the lead, disregarded him. “Come on out, stranger.”
Sundance hesitated a moment longer, then made his decision. Lifting rein, he put the big horse over the draw’s rim and walked it toward the three waiting mounted men, Winchester across his saddlebow. Every muscle in his body was tense, and his eyes ranged over them unceasingly. But the
y made no hostile move. Presently, fifty feet from Sampson, he reined in. He felt their gazes on him, cold and hard. Then Sampson said, “You’re a half-breed.”
“That’s right,” Sundance answered evenly.
“The red half better not be Navajo,” the cowboy who had protested the parley said, urging his horse forward. He had a broad, red face, freckled skin of the kind that never really sunburned, and blue eyes, squinted, mean, as if he were angry with the world.
“Northern Cheyenne if it’s any of your business,” Sundance said.
“Dade, you hush,” Sampson said. He rode on up to Sundance. He wore, Sundance noticed, only one gun and that an old, converted cap and ball. About twenty-three or twenty-four, he consciously hoisted his torso straight up, to give himself more height. His eyes, brown beneath shaggy black brows, looked Sundance up and down. “Yeah,” he said at last. “You’re no Navajo. Who are you?”
Sundance said, “I’ve seen men hurt bad for asking such a question. But my name’s Jim Sundance, and I’m bound from Mexico to Colorado. I aim to stop over in Ganntsville, yonder, and grain my horse and have a drink. Then I’ll strike up through the Mogollon country and be on my way.”
Sampson was silent for a moment. Then he said, “Indians ain’t too well liked in Ganntsville—even half-breeds. And you’re bound for the Mogollon Mountains? Man, you’d better give me the straight truth. Did McCaig call you in?”
“I’ve never heard of anybody named McCaig. Just like I never heard of Barkalow.” Sundance’s voice harshened. “Now, you hear me out, and you hear me good. I travel a lot and generally I go and come as I please. I—”
“Jim Sundance!” Dade’s voice cut in, and the red-faced man spurred his mount forward. “By God, I’ve heard of you—a hired gun and not particular about who you hire out to, a damned renegade that’s fought for the Injuns against the whites, and—” He shoved the horse between Sampson and the half-breed. “You’re lyin’! You’re here to throw in with McCaig and his goddam Navajos and—” his hand streaked down toward the holstered Colt on his hip.
Sundance touched the Appaloosa stallion with a heel. A trained warhorse, Eagle responded immediately. Charging forward, it slammed into Dade’s horse and sent the lighter Texas pony reeling. At the same time, its mouth opened, its iron jaws seized Dade’s shoulder, lifted him from the saddle. The spotted stud shook its head, and Dade screamed, dangling from its mouth like a rat from that of a terrier. Sundance snapped a Nez Percé command; the stud’s mouth opened and Dade dropped flat on his back on the ground, shirt stained with red where the horse’s teeth had crunched through flesh. The other two men, Sampson and the remaining rider, had reached for their guns, but as the stallion swung around, they found the muzzle of Sundance’s Winchester trained on them. Dade, in shock, writhed on the grass, clutching his wounded shoulder.
“The man that pulls a gun is dead!” Sundance snapped.
Sampson and the others froze, eyes wide with awe. “Christ,” the man behind Sampson whispered.
Dade was out of action: no need to worry about him. Sundance rasped: “You, Sampson, and your companero! Slow and easy, shuck your weapons—all of ’em!”
“Mister,” Sampson began, eyes glittering.
“You heard me.”
Under the muzzle of his rifle, they had no choice. Sundance watched intently, both he and the stallion motionless as if carved from stone, as slowly Sampson and his companion unbuckled gun belts, let weapons fall, then withdrew rifles from their scabbards and dropped them in the grass.
As he threw away his Winchester, Sampson’s mouth curled. “Half-breed, this ain’t over. You’ve done broke bad, and you know what that means? You’ll come up against Barkalow and Strawn. And, by God, you’ll find ’em both tougher bites to chaw than we are.”
“I’ll chaw what I have to. Now, turn your horses and ride ahead of me, and if you got any friends that might show up to back you up, you’d better preach some gospel to ’em in a hurry, or you’ll be in a worse state than Dade.”
“There won’t be nobody. We were patrollin’ this end of the deadline.”
“Deadline,” Sundance said. “So there’s a deadline, huh? Well, we’ll worry about that later. Move out.”
Shoulders slumped, leaving Dade moaning behind on the grass, they moved their horses at a walk ahead of Sundance. When they had covered maybe two miles, he said, “Pull up. Get down.” His tone brooked no disobedience. They did as ordered, but there was hatred in the eyes of both of them as he gathered up their horses’ reins. “I’ll leave the horses about three miles along,” Sundance said. “You can walk back to your guns and Dade. Then you can come and get your horses, if they’ll stand ground-hitched that long, which I doubt. But I’d see to Dade first if you care anything about him. Likely his shoulder joint’s in damned bad shape. You got further business with me, I’ll be in Ganntsville, or on my way out.”
“No,” Sampson said. “Barkalow and Strawn’ll take care of you.”
“That’s up to them,” said Sundance, “whoever they are. I believe you said Barkalow owned this whole basin.”
“You’re damned well told he does. And you may be some shakes as a gunman, but you can’t shade Strawn. Nobody ever has so far.”
Sundance’s brows went up, the name finally ringing a bell. “That would be Beecher Strawn?”
“The same. And in his time he’s backed down John Wesley Hardin. He won’t have no trouble with you.”
“Well, I never claimed to be John Wesley Hardin,” Sundance said quietly. But he knew now: Beecher Strawn’s name was written in red all across Texas—like himself, a hired gun. He swung the rifle barrel. “Suppose you do some more talkin’. Who’s McCaig and what’s he got to do with the Navajo tribe?”
“McCaig’s trying to bring sheep into this basin. He’s usin’ Navajo herders. This is cattle country and Barkalow’s a cowman. He ain’t about to let the damned woolies come in and ruin the graze. That’s why Barkalow has laid down a deadline. There won’t be no sheep in here if he has to kill McCaig and every Navvie on the reservation.”
Sundance digested this. Sheep. He shook his head. Now, anyhow, he had some glimmer of what this was all about. Disgustedly, he spat. A buffalo Indian, he hated sheep and longhorns with equal intensity, for it was to make way for them that the buffalo had been and were being systematically wiped out, and the Indians, the wild hunters who had lived off the great bison herds, forced on to reservations.
But, he thought, given a choice between cattle and sheep, he’d choose cattle. At least they did not ruin the range, but sheep were a plague, devouring the grass down to its very roots, trampling and packing the soil with their little hooves so what scant graze they left never came back. Sheep made deserts; cattle didn’t, and if somebody were trying to bring sheep into this basin, it was no wonder the cowmen were set on a hair trigger.
“You see this Barkalow and Strawn,” he said, “you tell ’em I ain’t here to help any sheepman. Like I said, I’m just passin’ through. But you tell ’em, too, not to come at me while I’m here. Anyhow, if a range war is what they want, they can have it without me; I’ve got business in the north.”
Then he swung the stud and galloped off, leaving the two of them standing there staring after him as he led away their horses.
He meant that, he thought, as he rode across the basin toward the town, presently releasing the led horses. The cowmen and the sheepmen were both enemies of the Indian, and ever since he had come out of the guerilla fighting along the Kansas-Missouri border during the Civil War years before with a reputation as a top gunfighter, the Indians, all the tribes of them from Canada to Mexico, had been his main concern.
His father, an English remittance man, had come West in the old fur-trapping days, fallen in love with the enormous country and the way of life of the Indians who ruled it, had married the daughter of a Cheyenne chief. Then Nicholas Sundance had become a trader, known and beloved among the tribes across the West. Well-born, educated, a forme
r soldier, Nick Sundance had given his only son a white man’s education and made sure he knew intimately the white man’s way of fighting and how to use his weapons. Simultaneously, Jim Sundance, growing up as a young Cheyenne warrior, battling Crows, Blackfeet, Pawnees, achieving high rank in the Dog Soldier fighting society, had also become an expert at the Indian’s way of war. And, traveling with his father, he had come to know and speak the language of most of the important tribes beyond the Mississippi, had been adopted into some.
By then the white men were already pushing west, Bent’s Fort in Colorado one of their chief trading posts. It had been on the prairie not far from there that young Jim Sundance had found the bodies of his parents—murdered, robbed, the woman raped. The sign was clear to read—three drunken white men and three Pawnees who had left the fort not long before. The six of them, after the crime, had split up, each going his own way. It had taken Jim Sundance a year to track them down, one by one, and kill them—not swiftly—and take their scalps. After that, more than a little crazed by the experience, the blood lust still in him, he’d plunged into the guerilla fighting that had accompanied the Civil War then raging.
With his reputation as a fighting man, he might have turned outlaw—Jesse James had begged him to join his gang. Instead, head clearing, he found another outlet for his talents, a mission that had engaged him wholly. Now the railroad was coming, the whites pushing west full force. Half white himself, he could understand the urges driving them, the land-hunger, the need to support themselves. But he understood as well the Indians, and their opposition. A man caught in the middle, he strove to make peace between red man and white—this was such an enormous country with room for both. He had even scouted for the white man’s army against rogue Indians; he had fought with the tribes against the blue-coated Long Knives, in turn, when they broke treaties and began to rob the Indians of the grass that grew, the waters that flowed, which, the Government had promised, would be theirs forever. And he’d soon learned that the real battle was not on the plains, but back in Washington, where greedy, money-hungry land speculators and railroad barons bought and sold Congressmen like apples in a store.