Sundance 6 Read online

  They looked at him with expressionless eyes. Nobody spoke. They were not impressed by him, but they would not challenge him—not yet. He turned the stallion and inspected the five pack-horses closely.

  “They’re overloaded,” he told Tribolet. “They’ll never make it.”

  Tribolet’s mouth twisted. “You tellin’ me how to pack a horse?”

  “I’m tellin’ you that the way they’re rigged now, they can’t haul it all. I want another pad under each packsaddle and then I’ll show you how to rig ’em. My way, they can carry more than you’ve got on ’em now.”

  For a moment, he thought Tribolet would flare. Then the man yielded. “All right, show us. Chavez, you go back to the house and bring five more pack-saddle pads.”

  Repacking the horses in a way that Crook had devised in the early 1870s, and which Sundance had learned from him, took a full hour. When it was done, the loads were better balanced and the animals moved easily beneath them. Dade Warfield, at least, appreciated the effect. “That’s a handy trick, Sundance. Damn if you don’t know your business.”

  “Yeah,” Sundance said and mounted Eagle. “All right, let’s move ’em out.”

  Tribolet signaled and Sundance touched the stallion with his heels. The big horse leaped forward eagerly, the pack-train stretched out behind, riders flanking it as they headed south.

  ~*~

  Progress was not swift. Sundance moved ahead of the column, scouting far in advance, keeping to the rough country far from civilization. He took advantage of every bit of cover, traveling through timber and down dry washes, staying off the skyline. All of southern Arizona swarmed with soldiers now, patrolling from the network of forts established by Crook and his successors. To encounter the Army with a pack-train of whiskey and ammunition would mean a fight or capture; Sundance wanted neither. What he wanted was to learn all he could from Tribolet while he got the outfit into Mexico—all the while making sure that the expedition was not destroyed in time to let Tanner mount another one.

  Swinging east of Globe, edging a little distance on to the Apache reservation, they crossed Pitial Pass, then came down into high desert. Here the heat was very bad, the sun a glittering dazzle in the sky above them. Sundance called a halt in the shade of a narrow canyon that was little more than a cleft in a mountain.

  “All right,” he told them as they gathered around. “We’ll stay here until daylight fades. There’s a whole string of heliograph and look-out stations ahead of us on the peaks. We wait ’til dark, then filter past ’em. I want a guard at each end of the canyon, up on the rim, and they’d damn well better stay awake. Two hour shifts, Tribolet and me’ll take our turn like anybody else. You see anything, come down off the rim, report to me in person. And get this.” His eyes scanned the row of faces, all sullen, resentful at this new leadership. “The first man fires a shot without my leave—I’ll kill him.”

  They were silent for a moment. Then Chavez spat into the dust. “Strong medicine,” he said.

  “I’m being paid to get this ammo and booze to Geronimo, not have it confiscated by the Army. And me, I got no time to spend in Alcatraz or Leavenworth. So make up your mind, Chavez. Play it my way or get out.”

  Chavez didn’t answer. He stared at his boots, spat again.

  “You take first watch, then,” Sundance said. “You and Warfield. Rest of us’ll do the cookin’, see to the horses while it’s still light. You’ll be relieved in two hours. Come on, I’ll place you.”

  He went up the canyon wall sure-footedly, his moccasined feet grabbing every toehold. The others followed more slowly and awkwardly in their boots. Sundance found a nest of rocks. “Warfield, you watch the south.”

  “Right,” Warfield said, slipping into cover. Sundance led Chavez toward the canyon’s north entrance. There another clump of boulders made a natural watchtower. Below, the desert stretched out to purple mountains in the distance. “This is your station,” Sundance said. “You won’t miss much from here. Somebody’ll be up to take your place in a couple of hours.”

  Chavez didn’t speak, only eased down behind the rocks.

  Sundance looked at him for a moment before he turned away. He expected eventually to have trouble with just about everybody in the crew, maybe with the exception of Warfield. But somehow he sensed that Chavez would be the first he had to deal with.

  Well, he told himself, he would let things take their natural course. He left the Mexican in the boulders, loped back along the rim, crouched low, then descended into the canyon. There, the Johannsen brothers unpacked the animals while Tribolet and Fielding built smokeless fires and started the first meal since breakfast.

  Sundance saw to Eagle personally, loosening his cinches, slipping his bit to let him graze. Then he came back to the fire where Tribolet was forking meat into a plate. Tribolet handed the plate to him wordlessly, not looking at him.

  Sundance took it to the shade of a rock, sat down, began to eat. Meanwhile, his mind drifted back to the night before. After Tanner had left, Jan Farnum had returned with five thousand dollars more. “Gil said to give you this,” she said, passing it to him. Her eyes met his. “I hear you’re going to do a very dangerous thing.”

  “I’ve done dangerous things before,” he told her.

  “Maybe.” She put her hand on his. “Jim ... you don’t have to leave right away, do you?”

  He thought of Sieber, waiting. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m afraid I do.” Then he grinned, pulled her to him, kissed her hard. “But don’t worry. I’ll be back.” And when he went out, she was standing in the middle of the room, watching him with strange emotion in her green eyes.

  And that, Sundance thought, was the roughest thing about all this. If what he was trying to do succeeded, the roof would fall in on Tanner. And likely she’d get hurt in the wreckage, maybe even wind up in prison if evidence cropped up strong enough to make a case. He hated that; the memory of her mouth and body was strong. He liked her for more than that, though. Life, especially out here, pushed people in strange ways; Apaches had killed her parents, and yet she was helping Tanner carry out plans that might cause more murders. Maybe, he thought with wry bitterness, that was what you called love.

  Then the gun went off, a single shot from high on the north rim, thunderous in the desert silence. Sundance jumped to his feet and drew his Colt.

  Every other man in camp responded the same way. Galvanized by that echoing noise, each had reached for his weapons. Sundance led the way, running toward the canyon wall. He bounded up the cliff like a mountain goat. Reaching the rim, he dashed forward, crouched low, toward the nest of boulders where he’d placed Manuel Chavez.

  Against orders, the Mexican half-breed stood straight up, body clearly outlined against the sky. He was staring at something down on the desert floor, his rifle still in his hands. Beside him on a rock something glittered in the sun—a half empty bottle he’d smuggled up somehow. Sundance grated a curse. “Chavez!” he roared.

  Chavez whirled, then, recognizing Sundance, raised his gun and lined it. “Hold it there, Injun,” he said thickly, his slash of a mouth grinning insolently, pride glittering in his slitted black eyes.

  Sundance stopped short. Chavez swayed slightly and Sundance realized he was drunk—and perfectly capable of pulling the Winchester’s trigger. “What the hell is goin’ on?” Sundance rasped.

  “Me, I just made one beautiful shot.” Chavez jerked his head. “Four hundred yards if she’s a foot. Killed me an Injun. You give me trouble, might kill another.”

  Behind Sundance, there was scrabbling as Tribolet and the others crested the rim. “Hey, Mex—” Tribolet rasped.

  “Don’t get your water hot, Bob,” Chavez grinned. “One lousy Injun—fool enough to ride across the flat down there. Hell, I couldn’t turn down the shot. He was a sittin’ duck.”

  Tribolet stopped short, staring at Sundance. So did the Swedes and Fielding. “That was against your orders,” Tribolet said.

  “Yeah,” Sundance murmured. �
�Yeah, it was.” He knew they were waiting to see what he would do with Chavez’s gun trained squarely on his belly. “Well, the damage is done, now.” He laid down his own rifle. “Let me take a look, Chavez.”

  “Sure, help yourself,” the half-breed Mexican said, but he followed Sundance with the Winchester.

  Sundance moved past him, making no threat, to the nest of boulders. He was acutely conscious of the rifle muzzle trained on him, of Chavez’s drunken defiance. Shading his eyes, Sundance stared at the flat below. Out there, half veiled by shimmering heat waves, there was a bright blot on the dun-colored sand. In the distance, a paint horse, frightened, stampeded out of sight into a dry wash.

  Sundance drew in a long breath. “Don’t get jumpy, Chavez,” he said. “I need my telescope.” He reached into his pocket, brought out a small, brass scope which he unfolded, put to his eye, shielding its lens against reflection with his hand. It had been a hell of a shot, all right, he thought, bringing the glass into focus.

  Then he made a sound in his throat. The body was that of an old man, swathed in a blanket, hair glinting silver in the sunlight. It lay sprawled on its back, sightless eyes staring up, chest stained with scarlet. Sundance read the pattern on the blanket, noted the design of the moccasins. Then he folded the scope with a sharp click.

  “Yeah, you killed an Indian all right. But not an Apache. That’s a Papago, and old enough to be your grandfather. Likely he was out hunting for mescal. All he had with him was an old muzzle-loadin’, single-shot musket.”

  Chavez laughed, reached for the bottle with one hand, not taking gun or eyes off of Sundance. “So what the hell? His bad luck to cross my sights.”

  “And yours,” Sundance said quietly. “I told you I’d kill the man who fired a shot.”

  Chavez stood up very straight, grin fading, and set down the bottle. “But,” he whispered, “maybe I kill you instead.” His eyes were like flakes of obsidian, and he had both hands on the rifle.

  Sundance’s eyes went to the hilt of the knife in Chavez’s sash. “You got the guts to lay down that gun, take me on with that Arkansas toothpick?”

  Chavez looked blank, then comprehended. “This?” He touched the wire bound wooden handle. “You want to try me with knives, man-to-man?”

  “I don’t want any more shooting.”

  “Why,” Chavez said happily, “you yellow-headed fool! Nobody uses a knife like Manuel Chavez! You come against me with that big, clumsy Bowie, I’ll cut you into buzzard bait!”

  “We’ll see,” said Sundance. Then his voice crackled. “Fielding, take over the guard here. Down into the canyon, Chavez. Let’s get this crowd off the skyline.”

  With Chavez in the lead, they descended the wall into the defile. When they reached the bottom the Mexican turned, still holding his rifle. “Bob. I’m dependin’ on you to see I get a fair shake.”

  “You’ll get one,” Tribolet said, head moving restlessly. “Shuck your weapons, both of you.”

  Chavez looked at Tribolet, the Johannsens, nodded, laid his rifle aside. He and Sundance both unbuckled their gun belts, dropped them. Then, as Sundance drew the Bowie and its fourteen-inch blade glittered in the sun, Chavez pulled his own knife.

  Sometimes people called any knife an “Arkansas toothpick.” But the weapon that originally bore that name was the one Chavez now raised. Its blade was as long as the Bowie’s, but thinner, edged on both sides, at once made for hacking and stabbing. Sundance saw immediately—as Chavez fell into a crouch with his chin down to protect his throat, left arm guarding his heart, gut pulled in and right arm out and level—that the man knew how to use it. He dropped into a similar crouch, his own great blade extended.

  Now the hush in the narrow canyon was profound as the two men circled each other like fighting cocks, each sizing up the other, each looking for an opening. Then Chavez darted in, swift as wind, his blade almost invisible as he thrust. Sundance was as quick, caught it on the Bowie, and steel chimed as the two knives met, hard, then slid away. And now Sundance let his own forward momentum carry him past Chavez’s guard, but Chavez whirled away. Sundance’s blade struck only empty air, and Chavez hacked and ripped the slack of Sundance’s buckskin shirt. Then they drew back again.

  Now Sundance had the rhythm and the feel of Chavez’s way of blade fighting. The man was quick, fast as any opponent he’d ever met, light on his feet, well-balanced. Unless the attack were carried to him, he’d dance and circle forever. Sundance couldn’t wait that long to kill him. He drew in breath, then he came in fast, too, and Tribolet let out an explosive breath at the sight of all that speed: “Jesus!”

  Now it was thrust and parry, thrust and parry as Sundance bored in on Chavez mercilessly, coming at him fast and hard, giving him no chance to use his clever footwork, pressing him almost recklessly, depending on his own speed and skill. Blades rang like bells, finely-tempered steel chiming with a sound pure and clean. Sundance forgot everything except what he had to do. He kept his eyes on Chavez’s face, let his hand, seemingly with a mind of its own, do its job of offense and defense.

  There was nothing in the world but his opponent’s pockmarked features, slit-mouthed grin, hard black eyes. The very speed and force of his attack threw Chavez off balance. Then Sundance drew first blood. He felt, did not see, his blade slice along Chavez’s left arm, go through cloth into flesh. What he did see was sudden pain in Chavez’s eyes and the beginning of fear. Then the Bowie parried Chavez’s return stroke and struck again. Chavez tried desperately to backpedal to get room to fight, and Sundance would not give it to him. Chavez slashed once with the double-bladed knife, and Sundance felt the cool pain of a knife wound on the back of his right arm, but little damage had been done. His knife-hand did not falter, nor his attack diminish in fury. Behind his eyes he saw again the brightly-blanketed body of the old Indian lying on the sand, murdered coldly. Rage filled him. Something that Chavez read in his face made the Mexican sweat. “Goddamn you,” he breathed, and there was no confidence in his eyes now. “Damn you!” He was panting, trying to fall back, and still the blades rang and rang as they jockeyed for advantage.

  Then something flared in Chavez’s eyes. Sundance read that expression, knew what would happen before it came. Desperate, Chavez took a chance, left himself open to get at Sundance. It was the only way to get past Sundance’s guard, too long a gamble, but the fury of Sundance’s attack had broken Chavez’s nerve and made him desperate. He lunged savagely, and, warned by that glitter in his eyes, Sundance’s finely tuned reflexes did the rest. He twisted and Chavez’s stroke went past him fruitlessly. Then he came in. His knife went up the inside of Chavez’s right arm, biting deep and traveling fast, shearing tendons and arteries and grating on bone. Chavez screamed helplessly and dropped his weapon; then Sundance’s blade slid off the elbow and into Chavez’s flank, bouncing off a rib. Chavez fell back, reading his doom in Sundance’s eyes, his jaw dropping, his arm spouting blood. He tried to say something, but words caught in his throat. All Sundance heard as he came in again was a formless, pleading whisper. Then he struck.

  This time the blade went under the breastbone, traveling upward, sliding through the rib cage. Chavez’s face contorted as it sliced his heart; his whole weight sagged against Sundance’s arm. Sundance stepped back, smoothly pulling put the Bowie. Chavez stood there for less than a second. Then his knee joints seemed to dissolve. As his heart, ruined by the stroke, stopped, the blood spout from his arm diminished. Then he fell in a crazy, sprawled, boneless posture, dead before he hit the ground.

  “Goddolmighty!” one of the Johannsens whispered.

  Coolly, Sundance pulled off his neckerchief, wrapped it around the minor slash on his own arm. He backed away from the body on the ground, looked at Tribolet and the two Swedes. Tribolet’s long neck twisted as he stared at Chavez, then at Sundance. Sundance quickly picked up his weapons belt, wiped the blade on the bandana on his arm, slipped the knife into its sheath. He buckled on his gun.

  “Now,” h
e said harshly. “We got two bodies to get buried—his and the Indian’s. We can’t afford to have buzzards drawing the attention of the Army.”

  Chapter Seven

  Sonora. Lying on his belly, Sundance looked over a ridge crest and across the border into the town.

  For three nights he’d led the pack train in the dark through the toughest, most deserted country of southern Arizona, dodging constant cavalry patrols, penetrating the barrier of forts and temporary camps and look-out and heliograph stations set up on high peaks. It had taken a great deal of skill and craft, but he’d succeeded. Now the real test lay ahead.

  Out there in the dusk, rugged deserts and humped mountains, outflung spurs of the vast Sierra Madre, stretched away to the horizon. Somewhere in there was Geronimo. But between him and where Sundance lay were a half dozen patrols of American soldiers—in Mexico by international agreement— hundreds of Mexican troops ready to fight anything that crossed their paths, including the American patrols if the Mexicans had the edge in numbers. And, worst of all, there were nearly half a hundred Apache scouts. He might elude the American and Mexican troopers but the Apache scouts were going to be something else altogether.

  They were tough, even tougher than the bronco Indians because of their discipline. Fifteen years ago, when Crook had first come to the Territory, he had begun to recruit selected Apache warriors to help him against their own tribes. He gave them regular Army pay—a fortune to an Indian—generous rations and excellent weapons. More importantly, he gave them his trust and his affection and infected them with his own conviction that peace was the only road for the tribes to follow. Because he kept his promises and was a man who knew no fear; because he could fight tigerishly and mercilessly when he had to, they loved and respected him. They were fiercely loyal to him. Under Sieber, to whom they were almost as devoted, they had become the best fighting outfit in the southwestern Army. Now, under Tom Horn, who was no Sieber, but who was a frontiersman to be reckoned with, they roamed that country out yonder in ceaseless attempt to find Geronimo. While Sundance had gotten the pack-train past white soldiers, getting it past Apache soldiers would take every bit of skill, craft and luck he could muster.