Sundance 8 Read online

  Someone wanted Sundance dead, and they wanted it bad enough to pay eight hard cases to trail him into the hell-hot Texas desert and risk their lives for one yellow scalp. There was only one way for Sundance to save himself—and that was kill them all ... and that’s what he did.

  But plenty more bodies would litter Sundance’s trail before he could discover the identities of the men behind the mysterious ‘S & S Concern’. Then there came a final reckoning, with the fate of the entire Indian Nation depending on the outcome!

  BRING ME HIS SCALP

  SUNDANCE 8

  By John Benteen

  First published by Leisure Books in 1973

  Copyright © 1973, 2015 by Benjamin L. Haas

  First September Edition: September 2015

  Names, characters and incidents in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information or storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law.

  Cover image © 2015 by Tony Masero

  This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book ~ Text © Piccadilly Publishing

  Series Editor: Ben Bridges

  Published by Arrangement with the Author’s Estate.

  Chapter One

  He’d never counted on dying in bed. Sliding more rounds into the .44 Winchester, Sundance squinted through the heat glare. Down the slope, the six men had taken good cover behind the boulders, some as big as houses, littering the hill’s flank. Occasionally they loosed a round at him just to make him keep his head down. They were in no hurry. They had him penned up here like a calf in a barnyard; there was no escape, and they knew it. He knew it, too.

  What he did not know was who they were or why they wanted to kill him. For the moment, that made no difference. Their intentions were clear, attested to by the bullet slash across his shoulder, the hunk of meat another slug had taken from the hindquarter of the big Appaloosa stallion which, nickering softly with excitement and thirst, was just behind him in the shallow cave. Whoever they were and for whatever reason, they wanted Jim Sundance dead.

  Well, Sundance thought, sliding down behind the rocks that shielded the cave’s mouth, he was not dead yet. Maybe by nightfall or come tomorrow morning, he would be. But, he vowed grimly, in that case he would not be the only one.

  With the rifle ready, himself lying in the prone position, he watched the slope. He was a big man, his sprawled body inches more than six feet in length, shoulders bulking wide beneath a buckskin shirt fringed and beaded in the Cheyenne way. Beneath his old Stetson, his face was that of an Indian warrior, high of cheekbone, big of nose, wide of mouth, strong of chin, and his skin the color of weathered copper. Startlingly, his eyes were blue, the hair that fell to the collar of the shirt blond, almost the color of gold. The hair and eyes were his legacy of his English father, the skin and features from his Cheyenne mother.

  There were other weapons beside him on the ground behind the rocks. He had laid them out to be ready for whatever came: a short, recurved bow of juniper, powerful enough to drive an arrow clean through a bull buffalo—or a man—and a quiver full of shafts for it, their heads of barbed flint or obsidian, ugly and razor sharp. Then there was the Colt in the gunbelt, which he had taken off but left close at hand, and the Bowie in its beaded sheath. There was, too, a steel-bladed hatchet with a straight handle, perfectly balanced for throwing. A canteen lay nearby, too, but it was useless, punctured by a bullet, its contents long since drained away.

  He had been here on this slope in the Godforsaken wasteland of the deep Big Bend country of Texas for four hours, now, ever since the wound in the Appaloosa’s leg had forced him to go to ground after a long chase. The sun, as always down here at any season, was as brutal as a sledgehammer, the temperature better than a hundred even in the mouth of the shallow cave, maybe twenty degrees hotter outside. But they—the six attackers down the slope—could stand the heat indefinitely, for they had plenty of water left. He had none, and he could feel the moisture baking out of his body with every minute that passed. It had been six hours since his last drink. The sun would not go down for at least another six. There would still be life in him by then, but not the kind of fighting energy he would need. He had been trained by Apaches in desert warfare and could go a full day without water, but he knew what twelve hours in the sun without a drink would do to his vision and coordination. By then he would lose his alertness, see movement where none existed, and his hands would no longer be rock steady. And, of course, if they could hold him here for another twelve hours beyond that, through the night, come morning he would be all theirs.

  The cave was a dead end, not more than a big hole fifteen or twenty feet deep in sun baked rock. It held a few old bones and flints, relics of Indians who had camped there, but there was no water.

  Picking up a small pebble, Jim Sundance slid it beneath his tongue to generate saliva, waited, and tried to make sense out of what had happened. At first he’d thought they were simply robbers, highwaymen ready to ambush any random traveler for horse, gun, and whatever money might be on his person. Now he knew better. They were going to too much trouble for that. They had another reason for wanting him.

  Whatever it was, they had been waiting for him on the north side of the Boquillas crossing of the Rio Grande.

  He’d had business down in Mexico. He had business wherever there were Indians, and this had involved the Yaquis, who were still treated as hostiles by the Mexican government. It had been the matter of a negotiation of a new treaty with the government, and the Yaquis had wanted Jim Sundance on their side. He had done the best he could for them, although he knew all about treaties by now. Governments made them with Indians only to be broken, and in that, Mexico was no different from the United States. Still, he had got the terms he asked for, after a lot of hard bargaining and the meeting had ended with apparent good will on both sides. Maybe, for a little while anyway, this one would hold.

  After that, he had ridden north. He knew people in Mexico, a lot of them, ranging from Yaqui and Tarahumara villagers to rich haciendados. Most of them were glad to see Jim Sundance, whose business was doing what he could to solve the problems and iron out the conflicts between Indians and whites, a man noted for his honesty, his fairness, and his services to both sides. Feared, perhaps, too, for he was, after all, not only an expert gunman, but a Cheyenne Dog Soldier in good standing, as much professional fighting man as peacemaker. But then, sometimes, it took a lot of fighting before you could make peace …

  Anyhow, the ride north had been uneventful, even pleasant. He had stopped in the sleepy little village of Boquillas, in the shadow of the great, colorful escarpment of the Del Carmens, for the night, and early in the morning, he had put Eagle, his big Appaloosa stallion across the shallow ford.

  As always, no matter how apparently peaceful the surroundings, he rode alertly, with his rifle across his saddle. He had not lived until his middle thirties by being careless or taking anything for granted. In this case, as it had more than once, that habitual caution saved his bacon.

  The north bank of the Rio here was edged with reeds, and there were some woods along the stream. The eight Americanos, Texans all, had been in ambush there. They must have taken station in the night, or the Mexicans would have known about them. The wind was in their favor, or the stallion would have scented them and given the alarm. As it was, they still did not quite catch Sundance cold.

  As the big stallion headed for a well-defined trail leading up the north bank through reeds and brush, a mockingbird flew across the river, and, a fl
ash of gray and white, spread its wings and tail to land. Then it gave a mewing cry, veered away. Even as the stallion reached the bank, Sundance knew that something was in that thicket. He reacted instinctively; he jerked the horse around with its hind legs still in water, and he lined the gun.

  That action saved his life. In that instant, the whole bank of the Rio Grande seemed to explode in gunfire.

  Lead whipped through the air where Sundance’s head and body had just been. He turned in the saddle, working the Winchester’s lever, returning fire. The stallion plunged upstream through the shallows, close by the bank—no chance of crossing back to Mexico, Sundance knew. They’d burn him down in midstream.

  And now they themselves poured down the bank and out into the river, eight of them, all well mounted, and the first to hit the water caught a slug from Sundance’s rifle and lurched sideways from his saddle, arms flung wide, gun dropping. That slowed the others, and Sundance grunted something to the stallion and touched the reins, and the big horse made a fantastic leap.

  The bank was high, sheer, here, but its forefeet caught, and like a cat it brought its hind legs up. Sundance leaned low, the others were out in the middle of the river now, and a sleet storm of lead whipped around him, chopping reeds and bushes along the bank. Then the stallion gave one more great shove and it was up and out and plunging into the cover of the undergrowth, and as the brush closed behind Sundance, the ambushers turned their horses and raced back for the trail at the ford to cut him off.

  The Appaloosa went through the brush like a wild hog, smashing what it could not slide past, at a dead run. Then it broke out into the open, less than a hundred yards from the ford. At the same time, only slightly behind, the seven riders now boiled out of cover, still firing. Sundance turned the stallion, bent low in the saddle, sent the spotted stud racing across the bottomland, sand dunes and thin grass, heading for the cover of another line of trees. Behind him, the riders came just as hard, the three in the lead still firing. Sundance knew there was no time to shoot back; he had to gain distance.

  The stallion, eight years old and in its prime, gained it for him. Long legs stretched, mane and tail flying, it devoured ground at a dead run, making nothing of the drag of deep sand beneath its hooves. The band of trees neared, where a small stream ran down to join the Rio. The stallion had gained two hundred yards when they broke into it.

  Sundance did not halt. The big horse leaped the narrow wash, landed at full speed, raced on without faltering or slacking. Sundance reined him north, away from the river.

  In that direction, heat waves shimmered like a veil before one of the most brutal wastelands in the West. Miles away, the great blue hump of the Chisos Mountains reared, like a giant island in a sea of sand and rock and gravel. Other mountains, raw and naked, reared to the east, rock-strewn flats, arroyos, canyons, baking in the sun, clad only with cactus, a few sparse junipers, occasional thin grass. A vast land and an empty one, until recently domain only of Apaches, men on the dodge from the States, and the Comanches whose war trail to Mexico led straight through the Boquillas Ford and which Sundance had intended to follow north.

  But they had him blocked from that and they were coming hard, and he put the stallion toward the Chisos. He knew those mountains well; if he could make that sanctuary, there were a dozen places where he could lose them or, if necessary, stand them off.

  But they stuck to him, even though the Appaloosa widened the lead, taking him well beyond a stray pistol shot, making it unlikely that anyone could drop him with a rifle. Now, for the first time, he had leeway to turn in the saddle, look back, trying to make sense of it all.

  He had the vision of a hawk, and even through the heat and boiling dust, he did not think he had seen any of them before. They were strung out in a long line, and the man in front wore a checkered shirt, blue and white, a good target, Sundance thought, when and if he had time to snap off a shot. For now, though, more leeway, the sanctuary of the Chisos, room to fight in.

  He was full into the desert now, and they were still behind him. But as the lead widened, the checker-shirted man yelled something that came to Sundance as a tatter of sound. He saw checker-shirt pull his horse aside, while the other six came on inexorably. Checker-shirt dragged his rifle from its scabbard, dismounted, knelt, took a rest, tracking Sundance. Then he fired.

  Sundance felt the impact of the bullet striking home. The horse grunted, missed a stride, ran on. Something warm and wet ran over Sundance’s leg. He looked down, saw water pouring from the canteen that had taken the bullet. He had a lead now of about four hundred yards. Checker-shirt was steadying himself for another shot.

  Sundance whirled the stallion. He snapped an order; the big horse stood fast. Checker-shirt’s second bullet missed. Sundance raised his own rifle, as Checker-shirt levered in another round, got off a snapshot. With marksman’s instinct, he knew even before the gun recoiled that his aim was good. Checker-shirt sat down hard, then fell over on his back. But the remaining six didn’t even slow.

  Sundance had no time for another shot. He pulled the stud around, sent it into a run again.

  Good as the stallion was, not he, nor any horse, could keep up such a pace for long in this heat. Already his body was white with lather, Sundance’s denim pants were soaked with it. Five more minutes, he thought, knowing the horse’s capacities as well as he knew his own. That much time and then he’d have to slow. But, surely, by then their mounts would be exhausted, too.

  In five minutes, the stallion had bought him another hundred yards. A glance back showed that the pursuers were slowing down. Beneath Sundance’s thighs, the great Appaloosa’s huge barrel pumped and Sundance could feel the beating of its heart. It would run until that heart broke if he asked it to, but that would do him no good.

  The main thing was simply to keep ahead of them until he made decent cover. Gain a few yards here, a few there, and when he had room to turn and fight—

  He slowed the stallion to a hard gallop and then to a trot. Behind him, the pursuers eased off, too. They had missed their quick chance, the mockingbird had cost them that, and now they were settling down for a long run. Sundance watched as three of them matched their pace to his and the other three dropped behind, reining in to let their horses blow.

  His mouth tightened. They were professionals. They would follow him in relays, three at a time, the way coyotes followed a swifter antelope. With half their horses always rested, soon they would run the big stallion into the ground.

  It was an eerie sort of race now. Sundance looked back, pacing the stallion’s gait to that of his pursuers. They came on at a determined trot, and he held the stallion in, saving it. Three or four miles of that, and then the others made their play. With a man in a red shirt in the lead, they came up from behind and as the first three dropped back, reining in blown horses, they lashed their mounts into a gallop.

  Sundance asked the stallion to give some more. It did, rested by the slower pace, stretching itself, drawing away easily. The men behind made no real effort to overtake; they knew the accuracy of that rifle. All they wanted to do was keep on pushing him.

  They did, and when their own horses were done in, the first trio came up again in relay and demanded that the stallion run again. Amazingly, it responded vigorously, but Sundance knew that this could not go on. He looked toward the blue hulk of the Chisos, closer now, but still too far away. But he knew a place in the foothills where a spring came out of living rock and he could command the low ground with a fine field of fire, and if he could make that... The thing to do was to make the try right now, ask the stallion for all it had.

  He did, and the horse seemed to find another notch to let itself out. With seeming effortlessness, it drew away from its pursuers, although they began to lash their mounts. Confidence rose in Jim Sundance. It would work, he would make it work, Eagle would carry him to safety—

  And then they began, in rage and frustration, to shoot again. It was not their marksmanship, only luck: but as Eagl
e raced across a flat, he suddenly grunted, faltered. He tried to regain step, go on, but now there was a bad limp in his off hind leg, and Sundance, twisting in the saddle, cursed.

  The slug had torn a huge chunk of meat from the horse’s ham, chopping the great muscle there. It was not a permanently crippling wound, if given time to heal, but right now it could mean the death of Jim Sundance. No horse could run with a wound like that. The race was over, and the Chisos were far away.

  So now he had to go to ground wherever he could. He reined in the bleeding stallion, ignoring the riders coming hard behind, rose in the stirrups, surveyed the land. A map of this desolate back corner of hell seemed to unreel behind his eyes. Then he remembered the butte and the cave.

  A mile away, the butte thrust up out of the level desert floor, its lower slopes like a vast gravel heap strewn with enormous boulders. Thrusting out of the gravel was a tower of solid rock, soaring straight up for another forty feet. And there was, Sundance recollected from days spent down here with the Apaches, a hole in that rock big enough to shelter man and horse. But there was no water there, and once in, no way out if they chose to guard the slope.

  But at least he would have the high ground, a field of fire that would make it costly for them to come after him.

  He whacked off a couple of shots at them to slow them, missed, and then he patted the stallion’s neck. Then he touched it with the heels of his moccasins and it broke into a gallant, shambling awkward run.

  Sundance heard, behind him, a yell of triumph. They saw now that the horse was wounded. He cursed them, and as Eagle made the best progress he could, turned in his saddle and began to lay down fire to slow them.

  That tactic worked. Realizing they had no further need to take chances, they dropped back. With what seemed to Sundance dreadful slowness and heart-breaking effort, Eagle made it across the flat. The graveled, boulder-studded slope loomed up just ahead, its only living growth a few prickly pear, some cholla and some wands of ocotillo. Where the rock tower emerged from the gravel, Sundance saw a thin dark line that, he knew, was the cave beneath a beetling overhang.