Sundance 13 Page 4

  “Right.” Curdy moved away.

  “And now the other members of our party,” Andre said. “Captain Warren, U.S. Army and ... ” his voice cooled “ ... Mr. Jim Sundance.”

  “Sundance.” Something moved in Steelman’s eyes. “I’ve heard of you.”

  “Yeah,” said Sundance. “I’ve heard of you, too. Where are you bound for Steelman?”

  “That any of your business?”

  “It’s mine,” said Warren. “You’re in the Great Sioux Reserve, Mr. Steelman. This country’s prohibited to whites by treaty without permission of the tribes.”

  Steelman grinned. “Do tell. You’re here.”

  “This is a special expedition of the U.S. Government.”

  Steelman laughed. “Well, this is a special expedition of Steelman’s Raiders. Maybe you have heard of us. We’re a bunch of old soldiers who stuck together, you might say, for business purposes. And right now we’re bound for the Black Hills of Dakota on business of our own.”

  “And I warn you that’s illegal,” Warren said thinly. “I must order you to turn back. The government can’t guarantee your safety if you proceed.”

  “Order us to—?” Steelman blinked, then showed white teeth in a laugh. “Well, I’ll tell ya, Cap’n. I never took orders from a Yankee in my life, and I ain’t startin’ now. You order all you want, but you better have a lot more troopers than I see right now to make your orders stick.”

  “I—” Warren began angrily, then broke off. It was not that he lacked courage, Sundance knew, but simply that they were outnumbered, even counting the Duke and Vasili. Worse, if a fight broke out, Andre might be killed or wounded, and nothing was worth that risk to Warren. “I won’t make an issue of it,” he finished. “I only warn you that you travel in the Great Sioux Reserve at your own risk.”

  Steelman laughed again. “Hell, that’s the way I’ve traveled since I was twelve years old. You jest leave it at that, we’ll have no trouble.” Then Curdy, followed by ten more bearded, dusty gun-hung men, strode into camp.

  Shurka, the Russian cook, didn’t seem in the least upset by having twelve unexpected guests for dinner. Vasili lent a hand as he prepared a tremendous meal with amazing speed. Warren and Steelman joined Andre and Dillon at the Duke’s table. Sundance, the troopers, and Steelman’s men ate sitting cross-legged around the fire, and the newcomers, like the Duke’s party, kept their rifles close at hand.

  At the table, Steelman said, “This vodka’s pretty good likker. Kinda like tequila.” He smeared a piece of bread with a black substance, tried it and frowned. “What’s this stuff?”

  “Caviar,” Warren said.

  “What the hell’s caviar?”

  “Sturgeon roe. Fish eggs.”

  “Fish eggs?” Steelman’s face twisted and he spat a black spray on the grass. “Hell, I never ate no fish eggs and I ain’t startin’ now! Lemme have another shot of that potato booze to wash my mouth.” He swigged vodka, dragged the back of his hand across his mouth. “So,” he said to Andre, “Grand Duke, huh? Big shot over yonder?”

  “Biggest there is!” Dillon put in proudly. “Why his grace lives in a palace twice as big as the Capitol at Washington, eats offa solid gold plates every night—one of the richest, most powerful men in Russia.”

  “He’s damn lucky to have you guidin’ for him,” Steelman said. “Lemme ask you somethin’, Duke. You got it locked like that back home, what the hell you doin’ out here?”

  “I have come to hunt your American animals,” Andre said, making a wide gesture. “The grizzly, the mountain lion—and especially the buffalo. And most especially of all, the white buffalo of the Black Hills.”

  “The white buffalo of the Black Hills, huh?” Steelman picked his teeth with a thumbnail. “Well, you better hurry.”

  “Why should I hurry?”

  “Because,” Steelman said, “that’s where we’re bound. And that’s what we’re after—that white bull in the Paha Sapa. And we aim to get it, too.”

  Andre sat up straight. “But that’s impossible! The white buffalo belongs to me!” Steelman’s laugh was like stones rattling in a bucket. “It belongs to the man who’s smart and strong enough to git in there and git it without the Sioux liftin’ his hair. Sure, Dillon’s a good man, the best—but what else you got? A bunch of Yankee soldiers that wouldn’t know a Sioux if they saw one, and a half-breed skinner that’ll likely sell you out quick as he gets a chance. While me—well, we’re a dozen, and we all know our trade. And our trade is gittin’ what we go after, and God help anybody gits in our way. No sir, Duke, you might as well scratch that white buffalo off your list. It’s our meat. The Pawnees have offered us three thousand dollars for its hide.”

  Sundance set aside his plate and stood up. With catlike grace, Curdy also arose and blocked his way. “Hold on, half-breed,” he said softly. “Nobody invited you in on that conversation.”

  Sundance met those yellow eyes. For the moment, he stood fast, for Steelman was continuing.

  “Yes, sir, the Pawnees. You know they hate the Sioux. Sioux wiped out a bunch of ’em at Massacre Canyon in Nebraska last year. So they wanna get back at ’em—and they figure whoever kills that bull is killin’ the Sioux medicine at the same time. They’ve offered us three thousand dollars for that white hide.”

  “That’s absurd!” Warren snapped. “Where would Indians get money like that?”

  “The Pawnees have been at peace with the whites a long time,” Steelman said. “They know what money is, and all about it. And I’ll tell you, there’s been many a lone prospector, many a small wagon train hit, no survivors, no way to tell who done it. Be that as it may, the Pawnees got cash. And we’re gonna sell ’em that white bull for three thousand dollars worth of it.”

  “You may not!” Andre cried. “I have set my heart on that white buffalo! I—” Suddenly he brightened. “Listen,” he said. “We can make a deal. I will pay you three thousand dollars for the white buffalo. Only not to kill it, but to leave it where it is alive, so that I may kill it. That way you run no risk from Indians, have to do no work, and still you make your money!”

  “Hey,” Steelman said. “That might be an idea ...”

  “All right,” Sundance said quietly to Curdy, “let me by.”

  “I said no. The boss is dealin’. He don’t want to be disturbed.”

  Sundance looked into those yellow eyes. They glinted with eagerness and anticipation, and suddenly he understood. Steelman knew Sundance’s reputation, had sized up the men in this camp at once, and whatever he had in mind, blackmailing Andre about the white buffalo, maybe a midnight raid for whatever cash and goods were in the camp, he wanted Sundance, the chief hindrance, disposed of. That was Curdy’s job.

  “Well,” Sundance said, shrugging—and then his left fist slammed hard into Curdy’s belly. Foul breath gushed from Curdy’s mouth and he staggered back, but even as he did so, his body bent, hand swooping down. Gasping, he straightened up, and when he did, firelight glinted on twelve inches of knife-blade thrust out before him.

  “All right, half-breed,” he panted. “For that you get your guts cut out.” He moved in fast, slashing.

  But Sundance wasn’t there. He’d pivoted, and instinctively, his right hand had drawn his own knife, not his gun. He dropped into a crouch. Fury rose in him, and now he had an object for it. He’d eaten dirt from Dillon, he’d nearly been slashed by Andre’s whip, this whole expedition stank, and now cat-eyes here had come after him with a knife. Well, cat-eyes wasn’t the only man alive who knew cold steel.

  “Jim!” Warren shouted. “Listen, you men—”

  “Leave us alone,” Sundance rasped, as Curdy, back on balance, sucked in another long breath, facing him.

  “Yeah,” Curdy yelled. “I’m gonna feed this Siwash a gut full of steel. Don’t mix in, Clay.”

  “Help yourself,” Steelman called. “Warren, you stand fast. Let ’em have it out.”

  Now they were almost face to face beside the fire, tw
o yards between them. They circled, blades out, low, darting like the heads of bright steel snakes. Sundance felt the juices roiling in him, the exultance of the ultimate adventure: kill or be killed. Curdy would show no mercy and have none from him. He kept his left hand up to guard his gut, his chin tucked in to shield his throat, belly sucked small, right hand, holding the knife, turned over enough to shield the wrist artery.

  Curdy took the same position. Bared teeth shone in his tawny beard, his yellow eyes flared. “I may skin you, half-breed,” he whispered. “Your hide would make a damn fine pair of chaps. I like that red.”

  “More than you’re worth,” Sundance said. “No use for white hide. Ain’t worth saving.” Then he went in.

  A double feint, high, then low, then a pivot on the heel, the real strike from the flank. But Curdy was snake-fast, an old hand at this, and he shifted weight, caught Sundance’s blade on his own. Steel chimed on steel; Curdy laughed, broke his free, pivoted again and now took the offensive. Sundance fended a quick thrust and Curdy’s blade slid off his and sliced his buckskin sleeve. Curdy was a shade off-balance then and Sundance went for his left side, not over his protecting arm but at it. He wanted to hurt Curdy, bleed him, and that as quickly as he could. But Curdy whirled and Sundance’s blade missed, and realizing that, the half-breed threw himself farther in the direction of the thrust, and Curdy’s counterstroke passed behind his back. Sundance jumped, turning, landed lightly, and they faced each other once again.

  And now they knew one another, each man lightning-swift, each a master of his blade and art. Neither could afford a single mistake. Again they circled, like two fighting roosters in a pit, and Curdy crouched low, edging closer to the fire.

  Then he lunged, with lightning swiftness, and at the same time his left hand dragged through the fire’s edge, scooped up ash and glowing coals and threw them, unmindful of what pain it cost his palm. With a younger, less experienced man the trick might have worked. Sundance was already dodging, and the cascade of hot sparks aimed for his eyes missed, and as Curdy’s following blade sliced his shirt, he came back on balance and went in. Curdy jerked, and Sundance’s knife passed beneath his outstretched arm. Sundance struck again and Curdy parried, locked; Sundance braced his legs, pried with all his strength. He and Curdy were now face to face, eye to eye. He saw the veins bulge in Curdy’s forehead. Then Curdy yielded, blade sliding aside. Sundance drove in, and this time it was Curdy’s shirt that was slit, and more than that. Sundance felt the knife touch meat, grate on a rib, bounce off. And then blood was pouring from beneath Curdy’s shirt, running down his leg.

  Curdy did not even flinch. “Hah!” he grunted, and as Sundance drew back and thrust again, he made as if to parry, then reneged. Instead, he raised his knife high, chopped down at Sundance’s wrist. If the blow had landed, Sundance’s right hand would have been at least half-severed.

  It did not land. His hand came back in time, and Curdy’s blade hit his, again with that bell-like chime. Sundance broke free, jumped back, grinned. “Hurt a little, huh, Curdy? You’re losin’ a lot of blood. And that left hand. Be a long time before those burns heal. Got to end this fast, huh?”

  “I’ll end it, gut-eater,” Curdy panted. But now something flickered in his eyes. He felt the pain all right, and Sundance counted on that. Himself untouched, he knew the pain was bound to distract Curdy, the knowledge that his strength was bleeding out of his side make Curdy reckless. It was like building up a pot in poker. He had hurt Curdy a little, and that would enable him, maybe, to hurt him some more. And when Curdy hurt enough, he would be vulnerable.

  Then, as Sundance guessed he would, Curdy came in with the speed, deadliness and strength of a cougar at the kill. In that quick charge he had everything except sufficient caution. And Sundance saw the chance to deal another hurt and did it, quickly and efficiently. Falling to one knee, he let Curdy’s blade slash past, inches from his cheek. Then he was up, swift, lithe, and all in the same motion, brought up his arm, turned his hand, and his blade cleanly severed Curdy’s right ear from the head.

  Curdy squawked oddly as blood gushed down his face, and he shook his head, but that only threw blood in his eyes, blinding him a little, and then he lost the rest of his caution. He came in fast and low and slashing, but it was easier this time to dodge him. Sundance took a rake on the back of the left hand, hardly more than a scratch. He pivoted, then drove home his knife, quartering into Curdy’s back. Again the blade hit a rib, slid off, gouged out through the buckskin shirt, but Curdy, jarred and shocked, tried to turn, and sodden now with blood pouring from three wounds, strength and coordination ebbing, dropped his right knee too low on his pivot. At the same time, his body spasmed with involuntary reaction to the pain, and Sundance saw his chance. Like a matador going over the horns of an exhausted bull, he went in over Curdy’s slower blade, and his Bowie drove home under Curdy’s chin, into Curdy’s throat, slicing artery and windpipe simultaneously.

  Curdy blinked in surprise and terror at the knowledge that he was killed. Blood spouted from him, and his attempt to scream yielded only a strangled gurgle. Dropping the knife, he straightened up, both hands at his throat, trying to stanch the scarlet flood. Sundance had pity then, and the next thrust went accurately into Curdy’s heart. The blade slipped free and Curdy toppled backwards. He hit the ground with jarring impact, kicked once, twice, and was dead.

  Sundance stared down at him. Then, trembling from the intensity of the fight, he dropped to his own knees, wiped his blade clean on a clump of grass. The camp was absolutely silent, save for the whinny of a horse which had caught the scent of blood.

  Sheathing the knife, Sundance arose, faced Steelman and the others. “All right,” he husked. “There’s your knife man, Steelman.” He stalked forward. “Now, out—you and your men. Out of camp. Ride on.”

  “No!” The Grand Duke jumped to his feet. “You have fought nobly, Sundance. But you are not in command here. I am. And I am going to make a bargain with Mr. Steelman. No matter what, I shall have that white buffalo! Three thousand dollars, Mr. Steelman? Three thousand dollars cash and you promise not to hunt it? That is all you have to do, give me your word of honor that you will leave it for me to kill! Vasili!”

  The Cossack manservant came to him. Andre handed him a key, and spoke in Russian. The man bowed, turned away, and climbed into the wagon.

  Sundance stared at Andre., “Your grace, you’re a goddamned fool!”

  Andre flushed. “That, too, we’ll settle later. Anyhow, what does money mean to me? Three thousand dollars, that is nothing! I can lose ten times that gambling in a single night and never feel it! But the white buffalo? That is everything! Ah, Vasili ... ” He took the sheaf of bills the servant, returning, handed him. Sundance stared: the Duke held a thick wad of five-hundred dollar notes. With a flourish he counted out six. “There, Mr. Steelman! And our bargain is sealed, is it not?”

  Steelman stared at the bills, then at the sheaf remaining in Andre’s hands. For a moment Sundance expected him to ask for more. Instead, grinning, he said, “Yeah, it’s sealed.” And he picked up the money. “Easiest cash I ever made. Okay, Duke, your white buffalo is safe. You’ve got my word on it.”

  “Thank you. I shall expect you to keep it.”

  “Absolutely,” Steelman said. “All right,” he bawled. “We ain’t wanted, so we won’t stay. You men saddle those horses and we’ll ride out. Duke, much obliged for your hospitality. Sundance ... you’ll be better off if our trails don’t cross again. You understand?”

  Sundance said, “Take Curdy with you and get out.”

  “Take him with us, hell. He’s your kill, your dead meat. You can do with him whatever you take a mind to—skin him, eat him, bury him, or leave him for the coyotes, I don’t give a damn. Dillon, good luck.” Grinning, keeping his eyes on Sundance, he backed out of camp. Someone brought him a horse and he swung up into the saddle. Touching his hat brim, he laughed sardonically. “Adios, gents. Enjoyed the supper and the company.”
Then he swung the tall black, signaled with his hand, and thundered off into the night, his Raiders stringing out after him. Gradually their hoof beats faded.

  Under his breath, Captain Warren muttered an obscenity. The Duke looked at him sharply. “Six-gun Sam? What do you think? Was I wrong?”

  Dillon licked his lips. “No,” he said hoarsely. “What else could you do? It was either pay him or lose the white buffalo.”

  Sundance grinned coldly. “You’re the great gun hand, Dillon. Maybe you shoulda got the drop on all of them and chased ’em outa camp, or mowed ’em down the way you do on stage.”

  “Mr. Sundance,” the Duke said, “you are talking like a fool. The white buffalo is important, but not important enough to kill for—though you have done so.”

  Sundance stared at him and spat. “Before you ever get that white bull in your sights, your grace, there’ll be more bodies than that one there dead on the prairie.” Then he turned his back on all of them and went down to the river to wash the blood from his hands.

  Chapter Four

  Warren’s troopers buried Curdy that night in an unmarked grave; like thousands of others who had died out here, he was gone like a puff of smoke, as unremembered and unrecorded, and whatever relatives he might have would never know his fate.

  When Sundance returned from the river, the atmosphere in camp had changed. Duke Andre looked at him with new respect, and some of Dillon’s arrogance was dampened, replaced by fear. “Well,” the Duke said, “we must hold a council of war, and I think you should join us, Mr. Sundance.” He paused. “I am beginning to think it was a good thing you stopped that whip in time ... a good thing for me. You handle a knife like a Cossack.”

  It was the first time Sundance had been allowed to join the group around the table. Andre poured vodka all around. “Now,” he said decisively, “we have no time to waste. We know that others are aware of the white buffalo and that these Pawnees are willing to pay three thousand dollars, which seems to be a fortune to men like Steelman, for its skin. We shall not allow anyone else to beat us to it. Six-Gun Sam, I demand that we strike out tomorrow for the Black Hills, a forced march if necessary, and not spend one extra hour on the way. Other game I can hunt after we have the white buffalo.”