When the sun rose, the blond half-breed lay flat on his belly on a bluff’s crest, glassing the western half of the Basin with his telescope.
The rest of that moonless night had been a blur, a shifting, deadly battle waged in darkness, but the odds had been with the Navajos, who had fought like jaguars, taking losses, but nothing like those they had inflicted. It was the morale of Strawn’s gunmen, Barkalow’s cowboys, that had broken long before dawn, for as soon as they defended themselves with guns they made targets that drew spreads of arrows that came from nowhere. Once, just before reaching the bluffs, they had tried a counter-attack, but it had failed. Remorselessly, the Navajos had forced them across the bluffs, down the steep slopes to the river; there, when the white men splashed across in panic, the Indians answered Sundance’s recall.
Now they held the bluffs—and the whole eastern part of the basin within their meandering semi-circle. Behind them, recovered from their ordeal of the night, the flight over the rim in darkness, the slam of gunfire, sheep had spread out to graze. A few herders, very few, and the tireless dogs kept watch on them. Meanwhile, overhead, buzzards circled, and hawks and ravens. The Navajo dead had been buried under rocks; there had been no time or manpower to bury the dead white men.
This morning, though, he knew would be different. There was plenty of light to shoot by now, and Strawn and Barkalow’s men had not been hurt all that bad in terms of absolute casualties. There were men left, a force easily equal and likely superior, to his own, and with a lot more guns and more knowledge of how to use them. The basin was too large, too intricate in its terrain, for anyone to watch it all at once. There was nothing to keep the enemy from sneaking out of the town’s backside, taking advantage of the cover and concealment of the broken country, and trying to outflank them—or, for that matter, even get snipers up on the rim behind them.
Still, Sundance thought that if they tried that, they were in for a surprise. He had not scouted for Crook, the best general in the postwar Army, had not fought in a hundred different battles of every kind, without learning something of strategy and tactics. He had men up higher on the wall, too, where they could watch and signal what went on below. His forces, spread out along the dunes, were widely spaced and thin, but resting, horses saddled and at hand, was a mobile reserve of his best fighting men, ready to ride, and hard, for any trouble spot. The bluffs were a deadline, and a barricade, and wherever Strawn chose to hit—for Strawn would, in this matter, command, Sundance knew—there would be a force of Navajos there to meet them. Still, whether in broad daylight, the Indians, even with fine defensive positions, could outfight whites who were simply better, more experienced shots, was a gamble with long odds.
Right now, as the sun rose over the rim and flooded the Basin with clear, yellow light, all was quiet west of the river. Beside Jim Sundance, Delia stirred restlessly. “Jim, when do you think they’ll come?”
“No way of knowing.”
“I only wish—” She broke off.
“You only wish what?” He could hear the sawmill running; in Ganntsville, life seemed to be going on as usual.
“That there was some way I could get into town. I told you, there are people there who were friends of Tom. People Barkalow’s had under his thumb for a long time now. If I could just get in there and seek them out, I believe I could raise them against Barkalow and Strawn. They’re not fighting men, most of them, and yet, before you joined us, I was getting word from here and there that there were a lot of ’em who’d had all they could take. Right now, they don’t know what’s going on out here—but if they did … ”
“Forget it,” Sundance rasped. “You’d never make it. You’d be chewed up and spit out before—” He broke off, made a sound in his throat, raised the telescope to his eye again. Through its lens he clearly saw the single man, dressed all in black, riding the big black gelding, emerge from town, loping his horse across the basin toward the river.
“What is it?” Delia asked.
He handed her the scope. After a moment, she said, startled: “Why—that’s Strawn, Beecher Strawn! And all alone! What does this mean?”
“I’ve got a fair idea,” Sundance said grimly. He waited as Strawn came on, the black horse’s gait devouring distance. Presently, out of rifle shot, the man in black drew something from his shirt, tied it to a Winchester’s barrel, held it high. “A white flag!” Delia gasped. “You think they’re giving up?”
“Not hardly,” Sundance said. He gave quick orders to Easy Dreamer. “No one’s to fire on that man. Pass the word. Delia, you got a petticoat, an old blouse, anything that’s white?”
“In my blanket roll a white blouse. But—”
“Let me have it.”
When she brought it, Sundance tied it to the stave of the unstrung bow. Holding the stallion’s reins, he lay flat atop the bluff, waiting. The telescope revealed no other movement on the western side of the basin; neither did his watchers up on the wall signal any. Strawn was alone, all right.
“He wants to parley,” Sundance said, arising.
“Jim.” The woman clutched his arm. “You can’t go out there alone. It’s some sort of trick.”
“If it was Barkalow, I’d say yes. But Strawn—I’ve got a pretty good idea what he wants. Easy Dreamer, you and the rest cover me, but don’t shoot unless somebody else shoots first.” He swung into the saddle, put the stud forward, waving his own white flag at the bow’s end.
Down at the river, on its western bank, Strawn had halted. Sundance could not help admiring Strawn’s guts. He’d known Sundance would honor the flag of truce, but there was no counting on the Navajos. Then the half-breed’s mouth twisted grimly. It was not so much courage, he thought, as something suicidal in the man, what he had sensed before when Strawn had saved him from the saw. Strawn had seen and done too much, and it had burnt him out. But if he could kill the great Jim Sundance in a fair gunfight, that would, he hoped, re-light his inner fires.
The spotted stallion skittered down the bluffs. Strawn waited motionless on the far bank of the river. On the east bank, Sundance reined in, facing him across fifty yards of shallow water. “Strawn?”
The man’s face was pale, great bags beneath his obsidian eyes. The shag of black hair protruding from beneath his hand was riffled by the wind. He smiled faintly, still keeping the Winchester with the white flag raised. “Sundance. By God, you move quick.” He raised his eyes, swept the bluffs. “Where’s McCaig?”
“In hell, I reckon,” Sundance said.
The black brows arched. “So you figured out that part of it.”
“He gave himself away.”
Strawn nodded. “Uh-huh. I warned Barkalow against dealin’ with a preacher, even one gone rogue.” Cautiously, he reached into his shirt pocket, brought out a thin, black cigar, bit off its end, snapped a match on his thumbnail, lit it. “Well, what the hell. We can always bring in the Army. This amounts to an Injun uprisin’.”
When Sundance didn’t answer, a kind of comprehension came into Strawn’s eyes. “So you’ve got that sewed up somehow, too. Well, it don’t matter. We’ve got plenty of men left, and there’ll be no more night fightin’ where your Navajos have got the edge. When we hit you now, it’ll be in daylight, and when those Navvies of yours have to face aimed fire, they’ll run like jackrabbits.”
Sundance said: “It was nice of Barkalow to send you out to tell us that.”
Strawn grinned. “Barkalow don’t know I’m here. He’d mess his pants if he did.” The grin never touched his eyes and then it left his mouth. “But you know why I’m here.”
“Suppose you tell me.”
“Sure. For the same reason I jammed that saw the other night. I can’t let somebody else kill you. I got to do it myself, and straight-up and in front of witnesses. So the word’ll git around.”
Sundance clamped the bow beneath his thigh, took out makings, rolled a cigarette. “So they think you’re slipping, eh?”
“There’s some that say that.”
Sundance grinned. “But you’re the one that really thinks it.”
Something flickered in Strawn’s eyes as Sundance lit the cigarette, tossing the match into the river. “Would I be here if I did?”
“It’s why you’re here,” Sundance said. “And why you stopped that saw. And you know it and I know it. You’re like a dope fiend that has gone without it too long. The real competition’s gittin’ scarce, runnin’ out. And your balls are in that holster, instead of between your legs where they belong. The only way you can still be sure they work is to take me out, straight-up. Then you’ll be all man again—for a while, at least.”
Strawn was silent for a long moment. Then he spat. “Never mind why. I saved you from that saw the other night. You owe it to me. I came out to ask you to fight me. Here and now, one against one, before the big shootin’ starts and you or me take a bullet from somebody else.” He paused. “Well?”
“No,” Sundance said.
Strawn looked surprised. “You don’t mean that. Hell, if you could take me out, Barkalow would be a cinch to handle.”
“Sure,” Sundance said. “And it works the other way around. I’ve got a lot of Navajos I’m responsible for. They’re countin’ on my leadership.”
Strawn rubbed his face. “I never figured this. That you’d be scared of me.”
“Hell, yes. I’m scared of you. I never went up against a gunman of your caliber that I wasn’t scared of.”
“Then you think I can take you.”
Sundance said, “I guess it would be about an even break. One of us would die, that’s for certain. And even if I’m faster than you, Strawn, somethin’ could go wrong. My gun misfire, or—you know how it is. It’s not just a matter of bein’ fast. There’s always luck, too, good or bad. I’d like to fight you, yeah. But right now having it go against me is a luxury I can’t afford. Or, rather, the Indians can’t.”
“The Injuns. That all you ever think of?”
“Mostly.” Sundance shifted in the saddle. “You go back and tell Barkalow this. This river, those bluffs, are our deadline. He can hit it any way he pleases. The minute he does, there’s gonna be hell to pay. Tell him to come ahead. We’ll be waitin’. And—I’ll make you this promise. If we both come out of this you’ll get your chance. You and me straight up.”
Strawn’s eyes lit. “If you mean that, my ride out was worth it.”
“I mean it,” Sundance said. He lifted the bow in a kind of salute. “Now. We’ve made medicine long enough.”
“Right,” Strawn said. “Now the action starts. All right, Sundance, I’ll see you after the dust settles.” Holding the flagged Winchester high, he turned the big, black gelding, loped back across the flats. Sundance watched him go. Crazy, he thought. And then, touching his own Colt, he thought, maybe we all are. Maybe anybody who lives by this gets that way sooner or later ... There was a strange melancholy in him as he put Eagle up the bluffs.
Two hours passed, three. High, now, the sun hammered down on the basin. There was nothing to do but wait.
Sundance checked his forces. The sheep were placid now, well spread out over the ample graze. The suggestion made by the Navajo named Silent Man was taken. Half the dogs were brought in to flank their masters. The rest watched the herd alertly.
Sundance rode up and down the bluffs, glassing the far side of the valley from time to time. Nothing stirred out there, but that did not mean they were not already coming. Then, from high on the wall above him, a hawk gave its mewing cry. Once, twice, again.
He swung the stud, raised the telescope. There was no need for Wolf Jaw, high on the wall above to yell. He pointed, and his hands moved deftly in sign language. Sundance read it easily, then signaled an acknowledgement.
Delia, at his side, looked at him inquiringly.
“They’re coming,” Sundance said. “Using the ground out there to good advantage. From where Wolf Jaw is, though, he can see them, even if we can’t. Looks like about ten men are going to hit us in the center. That’s a diversion. Twice that many are riding on down the Basin. While the ten in the middle charge and draw our attention, the other twenty can follow a draw parallel with the river. Then they’ll swing hard right, cross and come up the bluffs and try to take us from the flank, a big surprise. Thirty men. That must be about the total Barkalow and Strawn have got.”
“What do we do?” she asked tensely.
“Hurt ’em,” Sundance said grimly. “Hurt ’em like hell.” He put the stallion into a gallop, signaling Easy Dreamer to come to him. When the big Navajo rode up, he told him what Wolf Jaw had revealed.
Easy Dreamer’s face was grim. “Thirty? We’re outnumbered, after the losses we took last night.”
“I know. We’ll have to make up for it in how hard we fight. I’m going to put you in charge here in the center. Likely they’ll come at you head-on, figuring that will draw us all here. They’ll be easier targets than the other bunch that are comin’ under cover. Pick the six best men with guns. Dig in tight. Drop as many as you can with rifles. If they make it across the river, come up the bluffs, use your bows, too—your men are more accurate with them. Keep your dogs by you, too, those that belong to your own men and will fight at their command. If they make it up the bluffs, use any damn thing you have to—tomahawks, knives: don’t give ’em any quarter If they get through, they’ll turn on the rest of us fighting down the river, take us from behind and we’ll be finished. You’ve got to hold.”
“We’ll hold,” Easy Dreamer said flatly. Sundance turned to Delia. “You get your chance to fight now, along with Easy Dreamer. Keep your head down, but the minute they’re in rifle range, open up on them. If you’re as good as you say you are, you’ll be worth two, maybe three Indians. Easy Dreamer, keep an eye on her.”
“Yes.” The Navajo nodded. “And you?”
“Long gamble. I’m takin’ all the rest of the men—what, about twelve? Plus the rest of the dogs. We’re gonna move, and quick, and when those other twenty come up, we’ll be waitin’. They’ll probably cross where the river’s shallow, the bluffs not so high. When they do, I aim to have a hornet’s nest waitin’ for them. This is the chance I hoped we’d get. We hurt them bad last night. If we can hurt ’em even worse today without takin’ losses that are too big, then tonight maybe we can take the offensive. We’ve got to keep drivin’, hammerin’, before Barkalow can bring in more men.”
Easy Dreamer nodded in agreement. Delia turned her horse. “Jim,” she whispered.
“Yeah?”
“Kiss me once—for luck.”
He grinned, leaned out of his saddle, his lips brushed hers. “Now, keep your head down.” And he put the stallion into motion.
The twelve men he’d held in reserve were ready, eager for action. Eyes glittering, they mounted, and their dogs fell in behind the heels of their masters’ horses. Sundance checked with Wolf Jaw on the wall. Though there was still no one visible across the river, Wolf Jaw signaled that they were coming as before. Sundance faced his Navajos. “We Cheyennes,” he said, “have a saying when we go into battle. It’s a good day to die! But it’s an even better day for them to die! You ready?”
“Yes,” answered Greasy Shirt, their spokesman.
Sundance fell in at their head, rifle unsheathed, the big stallion loping so as not to outpace the shorter-legged Navajo ponies, as they rode downriver, shielded by the bluffs. He could almost feel the fierceness and determination emanating from the men behind him. Their warrior instincts, pent up so long on the reservation, were roused now, and there was not a one of them who would not fight to the death. Strawn and Barkalow’s men fought for hire—these men fought for families, livelihood, and for something even stronger, the old warrior tradition bred into their bones over generations. He did not think Barkalow and Strawn would find them easy to kill.
Then, hand raised in the signal to halt, he reined in. Standing in his stirrups, he listened, and he watched his horse’s ears. Yes, he could hear it now, in the distance—the drumming of many hooves, coming hard and fast. Then it was drowned in a sudden volley of gunfire further up the basin. The force of white men in the center had revealed itself, was charging. That meant the group that aimed to flank them would be coming too, and soon. Sundance swung the Appaloosa toward the shallow bluffs. At his hand signal, the Navajos spread out, dogs running alongside.
Just before cresting the bluffs, Sundance pulled up the stud, swung down, ran hunkered to the top, landing flat. Here the bluffs were little more than dunes, hillocks, an easy climb up from the shallow river. On the far bank, men were pouring from a deep draw that paralleled the stream. Spreading out, sun glinting on their rifle barrels, they made for the river, twenty of them, all right, the squat Barkalow riding in the rear. There was no sign of Strawn. The Navajos had taken station behind the bluffs, too, were peering over, waiting, guns in hand. Sundance’s hands flashed in sign language. Wait until they hit the water—
They came on, hard and fast, certain of their surprise, contemptuous anyhow of the Indians who waited for them. Their outriders hit the stream, began to splash across. More fell in behind them. Soon all were in the river except Barkalow on the far bank. Sundance signaled: Now!
The Indians, each well concealed, opened fire, the range less than a hundred yards. The raiders should have gone down like wheat before a reaper. But it was a ragged, untrained volley loosed by unpracticed men, and more slugs missed than hit. Sundance cursed, unlimbering trying to make up for the difference. He saw one man taken squarely in the chest fall from saddle, splash into the water, disappear. Another turned just as he squeezed trigger, and he dropped the horse instead. Then the raiders were returning fire themselves, recovering from surprise. Barkalow, still on the far bank, yelled: “Burn the bastards down!”
Trained fighting men hosing lead from rifles, six-guns, laid down a withering sleet of death across the tops of the bluffs. Sundance lined on Barkalow, who raced his horse back and forth. He was about to pull the trigger when a deafening screech of metal sounded just before his face. His hand was wrenched from the trigger guard: he stared for an instant unbelievingly, at the smashed Winchester, caught in the receiver by a slug and ruined. Then, fingers stinging, he cursed, threw the gun away. He rolled, slipped the strung bow from shoulder, whipped arrows from his quiver. “Use your bows!” he yelled in Navajo. “Forget your guns! Use your bows!”
But his voice was lost in the tumult of battle. And the Indians, not expecting such a barrage of gunfire, untrained to hold or endure in the face of it, were dazed, demoralized. Where, with bows, they would have been deadly accurate, they kept on using guns, and now, with only a few men lost, Barkalow’s raiders were surging up the bluffs, and Sundance, as two charged straight at him, loosed only a single arrow that whizzed by one of the rider’s heads, and then his Colt was in one hand, his hatchet in the other, as he was on his feet. The two men loomed above him on their horses; guns came down into line. The Colt bucked, and one rider’s face disappeared in a wash of red. Sundance threw the hatchet with his other hand.
It caught the second raider squarely in the breastbone. The man dropped his rifle, clawed at the blade sunk inches deep into his chest, and slumped forward in the saddle. Sundance yelled in Nez Percé, and Eagle was there then, and he swung up into the saddle. All around him, Navajos were fighting both on foot and mounted. What could have been an easy victory had degenerated into a wild, blurred confusion of hand-to-hand combat. And yet he could not blame the Indians. Too long untested in this kind of war, outnumbered and outgunned, they had let one chance slip.
But they were far from giving up. Shouting, they brought their dogs into action. The fierce and shaggy animals charged the attacking horses. One nearly hamstrung a sorrel, then was kicked into eternity. But the crippled horse went down, and Mountain Cat, tomahawk raised high, charged its unbalanced rider as the man came to his feet. Sundance saw them wrestle there together, saw the gun barrel jammed in Mountain Cat’s ribs, the trigger pulled. But before he died, the Navajo split the man’s head into bloody halves with his axe. Locked like lovers, both men fell dead.
And the dogs were more than paying their way. Their charge and slash demoralized the raiders’ horses, sent them bucking, shying. Navajos seized their riders, dragged them from the saddle. Now the Indians were using their rifle butts as clubs, and knife blades flashed, and hatchet heads glinted in the sunlight. Jim Sundance caught blurred glimpses of all that as he sought a target here, another there, with lead ripping around his head. The six-gun emptied, two men down, he yanked his Bowie, let out a scream, and with knife high, charged another rider.
The man saw him come. His horse plunged as a dog tore at its legs. The sight of that half-breed Cheyenne, copper face contorted, white teeth shining, blond hair streaming, and the long-bladed Bowie at the ready was too much for him along with the battle with the dog-nipped horse. He let out a muffled yell, whirled, and spurred his mount and raced it back down the bluffs.
And that began it, as a crack in a dam makes way for a flood. Disciplined to ride into gunfire, most of these Texans were not cold-steel men. Their horses uncontrollable, which made their guns unuseable, and knives and axes flashing all around, was more than they could take, and this time it was their turn to panic. “Back!” somebody yelled, and another rider raced back down the bluffs, a dog snapping at his horse’s heels. And then another swung, and another, and all at once their charge was broken. A blood-curdling whoop of triumph went up from those Navajos that were left. Sundance leaned all the way from saddle without ever slowing Eagle, scooped up a dropped Winchester. “Hoka hey!” he yelled above the uproar. “We’ve got ’em on the run! Come on!” A few mounted Navajos raced behind him. But with the panic that gripped the white raiders, it might as well have been every warrior of the tribe.
Across the river, Sundance glimpsed Barkalow, staring in disbelief. “Goddammit!” the cowman roared. “Stand fast! Stand fast, you cowards!” But he had not joined the battle himself, and as his demoralized men, no more than half of what he’d started with, splashed across the river, he knew he could no more stem their flight than turn back a stampede single-handed. And then, seeing Sundance bearing down on him, he swung his own horse and led the flight, racing back across the Basin toward the town. Sundance checked Eagle, jumped down, knelt, aimed and pulled the trigger of the Winchester. He cursed. There was only a dry click, the gun was empty, and then Barkalow had disappeared into the draw.
Meanwhile, up there in the center, Strawn’s men, made of harder stuff, were still fighting. There was no time to pursue Barkalow’s raiders; Easy Dreamer would need all the help he could get. Sundance yanked shells from cartridge belt, crammed them in the rifle. He swung the stud so hard it reared and signaled. “All right! Let ’em go! We’ve got to help Easy Dreamer!”
A few of his men heard him, followed. Under the bluffs, beside the river, Eagle ran tirelessly, four or five Navajos on their shorter-legged mounts trying to keep up. As they neared the scene of the battle in the center, the sound of gunfire gave Sundance some idea of the pattern of what was happening. Easy Dreamer and his men were still holding the bluffs, much steeper there. Strawn and his men had not been able to get up and over. Maybe they were not even trying very hard, depending on Barkalow’s raiders to come around and sweep the flank from the easier elevation.
Horses lathered, they whirled around a bend, and Sundance saw that he was right. Strawn’s men had made one charge; a pair of sprawled bodies between the river and the bluff showed that. Now, having fallen back, they had taken cover in the scrub along the river, were pouring fire at the crests of the bluffs. Easy Dreamer and his men returned it steadily.
Sundance grinned and then began to fire, even as the big warhorse pounded toward the battle. He chose the puffs of smoke each shot made along the river as his targets. Behind him, his few Navajos, spreading out, followed suit.
The men along the river were caught in a cross-fusillade, taken by surprise. Under it, they broke, headed for their horses, held by one man at the stream’s edge. For the Navajos on the bluffs, for Sundance below, it was good hunting. As the gunmen smashed from cover, running for their mounts, Sundance himself dropped two, saw another pair go down. Then the rest were mounted, including the black-clad Strawn. He whirled his horse, pale, pouchy face contorted, stared at Sundance, his rifle raised. For a moment, Sundance thought he’d charge, that this would be it, the final duel they’d promised one another. But Strawn yelled, voice barely audible above the gunfire: “Later, Sundance!” He spurred his mount, and then, bent low, was leading the retreat back across the river, losing one more man as he did so. Only four of the ten men he’d started with raced after him.
Sundance reined in the blown, lathered stallion. It, the Navajo ponies, would be too exhausted to give chase. There was a moment when, dismounting, taking careful aim, he could have blown Strawn from the saddle, even though the man was riding hard, widening the range. Almost, his finger applied the fatal fraction of an ounce to the trigger. Almost; not quite: he had made Strawn a promise, and he would keep it. Instead, he changed his aim, dropped another rider, and then the retreating gunmen were out of range.
Sundance stood up, whole body shaking with reaction and fatigue. Then, waving at Easy Dreamer, he led Eagle up the bluffs, to rest and assess the damage.