Sundance 11 Read online

  The U.S. Army had its isolated posts—Forts Elliott, Belknap and Concho—in west Texas, and the State had its Rangers, now called the Frontier Battalion, to thwart the red-skinned marauders. But these two forces were far from being able to cope with the powerful Comanche war parties that would strike at some unguarded point and then withdraw back to the Llano Estacado, The Staked Plains, a vast area familiar to very few white men. The ranchers and settlers, the latter in far fewer number, were on their own for the most part, and therefore extremely vulnerable.

  Whenever Sundance sighted other travelers on the road, he took the precaution of holding his rifle across his saddle so it was ready for instant use. If he should run afoul of road agents, he intended to beat them to the punch. But the few riders he encountered seemed to be merely ranchers or cowhands on their way to Weatherford. As wary of him as he of them, they kept well to their side of the road and passed him without lagging.

  Coming to a small stream late in the morning, he decided that his stomach was now settled sufficiently to take some food. He turned off the road and dismounted a hundred yards upstream. To give Eagle a rest, he stripped it of its rigging. The stallion got down and had a roll, then rose to drink and graze.

  Sundance gathered some small rocks into a pile, then kindled a fire against them. From his saddlebags, he took a small coffee pot and a medium-sized frying pan. He filled the pot with water, added some coffee, and set it on the fire. He sliced some bacon for the frying pan, and when it began to sizzle, he stirred in some refrying beans from an earthenware jar he’d bought in San Antonio. With the addition of a couple of stale tortillas, this made a meal. After he’d eaten, he brought out a packet of cigarette papers and a small pouch containing some marijuana. He hunkered down in the shade of some bushes and rolled a cigarette. He’d gotten into the habit of smoking the weed during a sojourn with the Yaquis, down along the Arizona-Mexico border, some years ago, and he believed that the euphoria brought on by such indulgence was beneficial for him. After his smoke now he saddled Eagle and rode on, feeling immeasurably better.

  During the afternoon he saw signs that confirmed that this was indeed the Texas frontier. Coming to a burned ranch house and barn, he paused long enough to see that it had been put to the torch during a Comanche attack. He found the bones of a horse, and the shaft of an arrow still protruded from the skull. He also searched out some iron arrowheads imbedded in the smoke-blackened adobe walls … A few miles farther on he sighted a large, slowly moving dust cloud far to the west of the road. Taking his telescope from one of the bull hide panniers that were, like his saddlebags and blanket-roll, carried behind the cantle of his saddle, he focused on the yellowish haze and saw that it was being raised by a large detail of cavalrymen. A patrol out looking for Comanche tracks, he supposed.

  Toward sundown, Sundance himself came upon the tracks of a sizable war party. The tracks were of both horses and cattle, of about a score of the former and three times that number of the latter. The horses’ hooves had been unshod, which suggested Indian ponies. Animal droppings among the hoof marks told him that this trail was several days old. The picture was clear enough. The Comanches had raided one of the many ranges here in the Brazos River country and helped themselves to about sixty head of longhorns. They had been heading due west at this point, evidently on their way back to the sanctuary of the Staked Plains.

  He had come across this cold trail some miles east of the road, which he had left to strike out across country and save himself a half a dozen miles or so. He was now traveling southeast, and according to the instructions in the letter he’d received from Sam Owens, he would arrive at the man’s ranch headquarters about nightfall. It was located on Arroyo Creek, a small stream flowing into the Brazos. All day Sundance had seen cattle in small, scattered bunches, and he had ridden up to one bunch to look at their brands. Several of these animals had been branded S-in-a-Circle—or Snake-in-a-Hole. Long-horned cattle grown fat on prairie grass, and not nearly so wild as the same breed of animals to be found, by hard looking, in the brush country down near the Mexican border.

  At sundown, Sundance stopped for an hour to rest Eagle and while waiting fixed himself another skimpy meal. Later, when he was on the move again, he watched darkness spread over the land and a huge blood-red moon appear. The latter was so low in the sky that he had the illusion that he would ride right into it. Then, abruptly, he saw the buildings of Snake-in-a-Hole lined against the nearly perfect crimson disc. He reined in at once, peering uncertainly at the ranch headquarters. Not a light showed anywhere, and this was too early for even ranch people to be in bed. Nobody here? Sam Owens and his hands gone, having abandoned the place because he, Jim Sundance, hadn’t come in time to lend the rancher the helping hand he so desperately needed?

  Sundance had been handed Owen’s letter at the post office in San Antonio upon his return from a ten-day trip in Mexico. The postal clerk had said the letter had arrived a week earlier. After reading it, he had decided that Sam Owen’s job of troubleshooting, which would pay him two thousand dollars, was worthwhile. He had left San Antonio the following morning, but now it seemed that he had arrived at Snake-in-a-Hole too late.

  He touched Eagle’s sides with his moccasined feet and rode toward the dark buildings at a slow walk. He was about to hail the place, when a gunshot cracked against the quiet night.

  He flung himself from the saddle, taking his Winchester with him, and lay prone on the ground. A harsh voice called out an arrogant challenge.

  “You there, hombre—name yourself! Sing out, or I’ll plug you dead-center!”

  The voice of a man with a hair-trigger temper that under the circumstances needed to be answered in a hurry.

  “Hold up, you!” Sundance yelled. “I’ve come to see Sam Owens!”

  He’d hardly gotten that little said when another shot came striking the ground so close to him it kicked dirt into his face. He’d have to do something fast or there would be another shot from that short-tempered fool—and it would almost certainly target him.

  Chapter Three

  Sundance heaved over in a frantic roll a split second before the third shot came. The slug struck the spot he had just vacated. This time he saw the muzzle flash of the rifle. The man shooting at him was on the roof of the ranch house. He drove three slugs up there, as fast as he could work his Winchester’s lever and trigger.

  “You want a shootout,” he shouted, “I’ll damn well give you one!”

  “I told you to name yourself, hombre!”

  “Jim Sundance!”

  “All right, ’breed. Get up and come on in.”

  “Not until you stand up with your empty hands held high, mister!”

  Anger burned in Sundance. He had to calm himself for fear he would put a slug in the trigger-quick bastard.

  The house was a sprawling, one-storied structure built in the Mexican fashion. From its adobe walls there protruded the ends of the vigas that supported its roof. These pole ends were about three feet down from the top of the house, which told him the walls extended about the roof to form a parapet. The house was actually a fort, which was not unusual in the Southwest or in Mexico. The man who had fired on him was now crouched down behind the parapet.

  The door of the house was opened, and a man called out. “Pull in your horns, Matt! Quit going off half-cocked!”

  From the roof came a half-apologetic reply. “That hombre was Injunnin’ up on us, Sam. He wouldn’t name himself.”

  Sundance now had the picture. These people showed no lights and Matt was posted up there because they were scared witless. He had been expected, but Matt had opened fire on him before he could identify himself because he was edgy with fear. Now Matt did show himself, coming erect from behind the parapet with his empty hands held high.

  Sundance rose, shoved his rifle back into its saddle boot, then walked into the ranch yard with the stallion following him.

  The man at the door supported himself on a pair of homemade crutches so he
could keep his weight off his left leg. He was pint-sized and old, with a shaggy, grizzled beard. He wasn’t wholly incapacitated, however, for there was a six-shooter stuck in the waistband of his pants. And he looked Sundance over with keen eyes.

  “By damn, you’re a big hombre, ain’t you, Jim?”

  “The bigger a man is, the easier a target he makes, Sam. If your boy up on the roof was a little better with a rifle, I’d be a dead man now.”

  “Sorry about him. Matt Boland always shoots first and asks questions after. Come on in, son.”

  Owens turned awkwardly on his crutches, clearing the doorway for his visitor. Sundance stepped inside, closing the door behind him. The house was dungeon-dark, for the windows were shuttered. Somebody else was there. Sundance sensed his presence, then saw him as a shadowy shape in a doorway across the room he had entered. “Phil, make a light now, eh?”

  “Sure, Sam,” the shadowy shape replied. That one moved back into the room beyond the doorway, and a moment later a match flame flared. A lamp was lighted, and Sundance saw that he was not in a room but in a wide entrance hall. It was nicely furnished, even to rugs on the plank floor and pictures on the plastered adobe walls. The furnishings were so fine they must have been freighted out from the East.

  “Let’s go in here, Jim.”

  Sundance followed Owens into the lighted room, which was to the left of the hall, and found it furnished as a combination office and den. A roll top desk, a center table, a brown-leather couch and chairs, a cellaret. The lamp hung from the ceiling, directly over the table. It had a pale yellow glass shade, and its flame was turned high. The man who had lit it stood by the end of the table. He was youngish, and handsome in the sleek way of a townsman. He wore a fine white silk shirt, a blue string tie, gray whipcord riding breeches, and black boots with a high shine. He was without a gun-rig, but a revolver and a rifle lay on the table within easy reach of his hand. He gazed at Sundance with a frown that was almost a scowl, as though not liking the formidable appearance of the yellow-haired, Indian-faced stranger. Sundance had the impression that the younger man was looking down his nose at him.

  Sam Owens said, “Jim, this is Philip Markham from Philadelphia. He came out here to visit with me, along with my sister and her daughter. Martha, my sister, is laid up, having took sick from being so upset about what happened.”

  “And your niece, Sam?”

  Owens’ bearded face clouded, and his voice was choked-up as he said, “Virginia was carried off by the Comanches.”

  Phil Markham burst out, “That’s why Sam sent for you, Sundance. We begged the commanding officer at Fort Belknap and the captain of the company of Texas Rangers at Weatherford to rescue Virginia, but they didn’t do a damn thing. They—”

  “Easy, boy—easy.” Owens spoke in a more tolerant voice. “Jim, Phil just doesn’t understand how things are out here. He doesn’t know how strong and fierce the Comanches are. I can savvy that neither the Army nor the Rangers don’t dare go charging into the Staked Plains to bring back a girl that’s been stolen. It would get them massacred. Hell, the Comanches would call on the Kiowas and the Arapahos and the Cheyennes to help them.”

  “A strong enough force could be sent, damn it!”

  “Sure, it could,” Owens told the young man. “And only the Good Lord knows why the War Department doesn’t send the whole U.S. Army to clean out those red devils. The Comanches have been carrying off women and children from as far back as the day of the Spaniards. But since the military won’t do the job and the Texas Rangers ain’t strong enough, I figure maybe you, Jim, can get back my niece—one way or another. I’ve been hearing about you for years … about how you take on troubleshooting jobs that nobody else can handle. Will you try to bring Ginny back?”

  Before Sundance could reply, young Markham said angrily, “You can’t trust him, Sam. It’s clear that he’s a half-blood. He’s probably in league with those savages!”

  Although stung, Sundance held onto his temper by reminding himself that Markham, being an Easterner and a city man, was out of his element here on the frontier. The young man was ignorant of the nature of things in this world that was totally alien to him.

  “I’ll decide whether or not I’ll take the job after we’ve talked this over calmly, like reasonable men. I’ll want some questions answered. First you, Markham … What is the girl to you?”

  “She was my fiancée.”

  “Was?”

  Markham’s handsome face reddened with a deep flush of embarrassment. “Well, she may be dead now. And if not that, you can imagine what indignities she’s been subjected to by those savages.”

  Sundance stared at him poker-faced. He understood what was bothering the man. Markham was not so much worried that the girl had been put to death as he feared she had been raped by “those savages.” He was troubled about whether or not he should still marry her when and if she were returned to him, a virgin no longer. If he did the gentlemanly thing by her, he would be tormented forever, remembering that she may have been forced to submit sexually to one or more Comanche warriors—and the marriage would be doomed to failure. Basically a sanctimonious bastard, Philip Markham. Sundance looked at Sam Owens, a more sensible man.

  “How long have they had her?”

  “More than six weeks now.”

  “How did they get her?”

  “Let’s sit down while I tell you about it, Jim. This game leg of mine is killing me. Phil, drinks all around, eh?”

  Owens hobbled to a chair, eased himself down into it, and laid his crutches on the floor beside it. He heaved a huge sigh of relief. Sundance took another of the brown leather chairs. Markham went to the cellaret, took two glasses and a bottle from it, and poured a pair of drinks. He carried one to the old rancher, then brought the other to Sundance. He had a look of distaste for the half-breed, who had removed his hat to bare his long golden mane. Jim Sundance was handsome only to those who made allowances for the strangeness of his hybrid features. Taking the drink, he murmured a polite thank-you. Markham merely grunted in reply, then went to seat himself on the couch.

  After a long hefty swallow of whiskey, Owens said, “I have to take the blame for the Injuns taking that poor girl. I shouldn’t have let her go riding at all. I knew how spoiled and headstrong she is—always wanting to have her own way. A girl with far too much spirit …”

  Sundance listened attentively as the aging man told how Virginia Stevens, a great lover of horses and an expert rider, had kept begging him to let Markham and her have mounts until he had given in, even though he had his frontiersman’s fear of the Comanches. He’d had Matt Boland, his ramrod, and two of his Mexican ranch hands ride after the young couple at a distance. Those three had been armed so they could protect them if Indians were sighted. He had told Virginia in no uncertain terms not to venture out of sight of the ranch buildings.

  The girl had obeyed the first two days and not ridden far. But on the third day she had suddenly lifted her horse to a hard run and headed across country. She had left Markham, a poor rider, and also the three Snake-in-a-Hole men far behind—and she had galloped right into a Comanche war party. During an attempt to save her, both Markham and Boland had their mounts shot from under them and the two vaqueros had been killed.

  When Markham and Boland returned to ranch headquarters and told Owens what had happened, the rancher had ridden out with the foreman and his three other vaqueros in an attempt to overtake the war party. They had ridden into an ambush, losing two of the Mexicans to the Comanche fire and having to take cover. They’d fought until nightfall, when the latter had slipped away.

  Owens had brought in his dead, and buried them. The last vaquero on his payroll had quit and vamoosed. He had sent Boland to Weatherford for the Texas Rangers and to Ford Belknap for the military. Both the cavalry and the Rangers had come. They’d picked up the Comanches’ trail and followed it as far as the escarpment of the Staked Plains—without having overtaken their quarry.

  Next Ow
ens had sent Miguel O’Reilly, a citizen of Weatherford, to New Mexico with a letter for a Comanchero named Esteban Montoya.

  The rancher looked at Sundance inquiringly. “You know about the Comancheros?”

  Sundance nodded. He did indeed know about the Comancheros. For the most part they were Spanish-speaking people who lived beyond the Staked Plains in the Territory of New Mexico and traded with the Comanches. For longer than any living man could remember they had ventured into the high plains, by routes known only to them, to rendezvous with the Indians. In earlier days they had carried their trade goods by packhorse, but now they used carretas—crude, solid-wheeled, ox-drawn carts—and conventional light spring wagons pulled by horses. Their merchandise consisted of beads, trinkets, calico, bread, knives, hatchets, guns, ammunition, and whiskey—especially whiskey.

  Long ago they bartered for pelts and buffalo robes, then they had accepted, eagerly, cattle stolen in Texas and Mexico. Sundance had heard it said that New Mexico was overrun with cattle bearing the brands of Texas ranches and Mexican haciendas. Sometimes the traders would also take stolen horses. Occasionally, not often, they were able to barter for captives of the Indians and then return them, in the hope of a reward, to their homes. Yes, Sundance knew about the Comancheros. He’d known several personally.

  Owens said, “O’Reilly brought back a reply from Montoya. The Comanchero said he’ll try to get my niece back—for ten thousand dollars.”

  “Can you raise that much money?”

  Owens nodded. “I authorized O’Reilly to offer a reward up to that amount. I’ll go even higher, if need be. In fact, I’ll sell off all my cattle and even my ranch if I have to. The trouble is, I don’t trust Montoya. He wanted half of the ten thousand in advance. I’ve sent it to him, by Miguel O’Reilly, but … well, how can I be sure that the Comanchero won’t just pocket the money and do nothing at all about getting Virginia back?”