Taps at Little Big Horn (A Jim Sundance Western #5)

The tall man in the black slouch hat, black frock coat and matching trousers got out of the hansom cab on Fifth Avenue and paid the driver. The cabbie took the money, which included a generous tip, and bobbed his head, eyes playing curiously over this unusual fare, a beak-nosed man with copper-penny skin and medium-length blond hair. Sundance smiled faintly. He was pretty sure the driver’s eyes did not spot the snub-nosed Colt in the shoulder holster beneath the full-cut coat. He wondered what the man would have said if he had known it was there.

Then the cab clopped and rattled off; Sundance turned, checked the house number again. Yes, this was it. Lightly, he went up the steps of the big brownstone not far from Central Park. But he stood there a moment, motionless, before he rang the bell.

Not until he was well away from Fort Lincoln had he allowed himself to think of Barbara. Then it had hit him all at once, the outrage against and hatred for Colfax, and the need to have his woman back. It was, indeed, all he could think of as he rode south hard and fast, out of the Dakotas and across Nebraska to Omaha. Along the way, he took no chances, hiding out like a hunted animal. But there was no pursuit; he had expected none. The Custers were not in a position to reveal that they had kept a man penned up four months in solitary without a trial.

He had money in a bank at Omaha. There, finally, he deloused himself, threw away the Army overcoat and the buckskin gear, filth-encrusted, beneath the uniform he’d already discarded, and bought clean clothes and slept in a bed for the first time in nearly a year. But he did not linger to savor the comforts of civilization; he left Eagle at a reputable livery, paid in advance, leaving explicit instructions, and caught an eastbound train.

Meanwhile, he had heard the news. Word had been sent out to the Sioux and Cheyennes to come in from the Sioux Reserve and the unceded lands to the agencies. They had disregarded it; in fact more Indians had left the reservations and agencies to join them. Surely a big Indian war was in the making. Reading that, Sundance had spat disgustedly. Likely half of the messengers with those orders had never got through, considering what kind of winter it had been. And white men were fools to think that the tribes would risk their women and children in the kind of blizzard he and Barbara had barely survived. What it boiled down to was that the whites wanted war—George Colfax wanted war—and now they had their pretext.

The war, in fact, had already begun. George Crook, he read, had sent a column out in early March under an officer named Reynolds. They had struck a Cheyenne camp, but the Cheyennes had recovered from surprise, fought back savagely, given Reynolds a bloody nose and chased him back to Fetterman in disgrace. Well, Sundance thought grimly, Crook had warned him—he had an oath to keep. One defeat would not stop him.

But it was not Crook the newspapers clamored for. What they wanted was Custer, the famous Boy General. Custer was in Washington, mixed up in politics; he had earned the enmity of President Grant, and there was talk that he would never go West again. That enraged the papers. Custer was good, colorful copy, and super-hospitable to reporters and correspondents. They wanted to see Custer whip the Indians come spring and summer; and in interviews, he had promised to do it, if the authorities would only give him free rein.

Now, New York; and it was early April. As Sundance stood on the steps of the brownstone mansion, he felt a clench of fear. Barbara was inside—and it had been five months since Colfax had brought her East. Suppose her father had been right all along? Suppose that after nearly half a year of wearing fine clothes, enjoying luxury, being courted by sleek, wealthy young men, she had at last chosen the White Man’s Road? Suppose, when he confronted her again, she wanted nothing at all to do with him.

No! he thought. No, she wouldn’t be like that. He licked his lips, loosened the snub-nosed Colt in its holster, then rang the bell.

It seemed an eternity before the door swung open. A butler in dress clothes stood there, raking Sundance with a cold glance. He said something haughty and indistinguishable.

Sundance grinned wolfishly and pushed past the man into a magnificent foyer hung with tapestries and adorned with statues. “I beg your pardon!” The butler clawed at him, but Sundance pushed the door shut.

“The master is not well.” The butler’s face was pale as he met Sundance’s lambent eyes.

Before he could finish, a door opened at the head of the stairs. Colfax’s voice, oddly altered, said, “Higgins? Who the devil is that?”

But Sundance had pushed him aside, was bounding up the stairs like a panther. “Colfax!”

On the second floor landing, the man stood there, frozen, staring. As Sundance confronted him, Colfax blinked. “I don’t believe—” And then Sundance’s hand moved, and Colfax saw the pistol in it, trained on him. “Oh,” he said thickly. “Oh, God, no.”

“That’s right. Jim Sundance.” He raked his eyes over Colfax. The man seemed shrunken, a quilted satin dressing gown hanging on a body that had lost much bulk in heavy folds. Colfax’s face was mottled, red and white, with purplish tinges in the cheeks. “I’ve come for her, Colfax,” Sundance rasped. “Where is she?”

“Sundance, for God’s sake—” Colfax’s voice trembled, and it was weak and reedy. Then he regained a measure of control. “Please, don’t harm me. Barbara—” He licked his lips. “She’s not here.”

“I—” Then Colfax gestured to the door from which he had just emerged. “Come into my office.”

“I ... assure you, there will be no tricks. And I’m a dead man anyhow. Come in here, Sundance.”

Sundance nodded, motioned with the gun barrel for Colfax to lead the way, then followed the man into a dim room furnished heavily with massive sofa, books, a huge desk. Sundance went to the tall window, gun still trained on Colfax, pulled open the velvet drapes. As he did so, Colfax blinked and dropped to the sofa.

“I … I don’t know. I brought her back here from Fort Lincoln, both under guard and under sedation. I—” He broke off, rubbed his face. Then he drew in a long breath, began again. “I tried to re-establish her in her old life. I gave her everything she could possibly want. For a while ... I thought I had succeeded. She settled down, seemed happy, content, even ... flirtatious with the beaus who came around. Finally, I withdrew my guards. Then—” He shook his head. “Then, one night, she simply disappeared.”

“Vanished.” Colfax let out a gusty breath, “I had New York turned upside down, fearing foul play. But it wasn’t that. She . .. ran away, Sundance...”

“Yes.” He understood, and a strange joy suddenly filled Jim Sundance. “Yes. Of course. That’s where she went. Back to the Cheyennes!”

Colfax dropped his head. His gesture was almost listless. “Probably,” he said.

Sundance looked at the shrunken man on the sofa and almost felt a touch of pity. Then something hit him with the force of a mule’s kick. “Colfax! Now, you’ll have to call it off!”

“Your Indian war. God dammit, man, don’t you understand? Your daughter’s gone back to the tribes! And if you send the Army against them, she’ll be in the middle! Have you ever seen an Indian camp that the soldiers have hit? They spare nobody, nothing, not women, children. Have you ever seen what a bunch of troopers can do to an Indian girl before they kill her? Do you know what they’ll do to Barbara if they catch her? In the heat of battle, you think her blond hair or the name Colfax’ll stop ’em?”

“So call it off, Colfax! You had the power to start it; now you’ve got the power to stop it! If you give a damn about your daughter, use every ounce of influence—”

Colfax’s voice was a strange croak. “That’s just it, Sundance. I don’t have any influence—”

“You heard me.” Colfax’s voice was weary. “Money is influence; and I don’t have any money left. They got me, Sundance; they got me in the stock market, Gould, Harriman, Tweed, and all the others. Belknap was my man in Washington, Secretary of War, but they got him, too, and now he’s under indictment. They broke me, and I am not a well man, Sundance. When they cleaned me out, my heart couldn’t stand the strain. I had an attack. Now, I’m finished. This house will go and everything in it and ... and I’ll go, too. It’s just a matter of time, maybe tomorrow, maybe next week, maybe a month. But the doctors say it’s coming, another one; and I won’t survive it.”

“Well, I’ll be damned,” Sundance whispered, lowering the gun. The truth of Colfax’s words was written on his shrunken, mottled face.

“So I can’t stop it now,” the man went on, in a ghastly voice. “Believe me, I would if I could. For Barbara’s sake. I don’t want her caught up in such a thing. But— It’s out of my hands and in others, now. Yes, there will be a war. They’re planning the campaign in Chicago now, Sheridan and Sherman.” His mouth twisted. “I’ve had one letter from Custer after another, imploring me to use my influence. He accused the President’s brother of corruption in some insane, ill-advised testimony before a Congressional committee. Grant won’t give him command, won’t give him the time of day. Custer can’t get in on the action. They say Terry will command in his stead now. But I can’t help him.” His laugh was hollow. “It’s a joke on Custer, isn’t it? He backed the wrong horse. Me.”

“Yeah,” Sundance said. “It’s a joke on Custer, all right.” Then, slowly, he reholstered the gun. “All right, Colfax,” he said, and he turned away.

“Yes,” Sundance said. “As best I can. Nobody can promise anything now. If I can find her, I’ll protect her.”

“Thank you,” Colfax said softly. He followed Sundance out of the room, halted at the head of the stairs. “I don’t suppose,” he said almost timidly, “you’d shake hands with me. But if you would ... I was wrong, Sundance. It’s only when the vultures eat on you that you know what it felt like for others when you yourself were the vulture.”

“Tell her that I loved her, in my own way,” the man said. “I really did. But there’s nothing left here; no need for her ever to come back again, ever. Tell her ... goodbye for me, Sundance.”

“I’ll do that, Colfax,” Sundance said. He turned and went down the stairs.

“And for God’s sake,” Colfax cried out from the landing, “take care of her!” He stood there watching, leaning weakly against the newel post, as Sundance went out.

April was dwindling into May when Sundance reached Omaha: Green-up time, the winter-bitten prairie coming to life again, the town seething with activity. Sundance wasted no time; he knew as well as if she had left him a map what route Barbara had taken. Bismarck; that would have been her first destination, to seek him or some news of him. He picked up the stallion, sleek and feisty from the rest and grain, and booked passage for them both on a riverboat up the Missouri. Eagle had traveled by Missouri steamer before; along with other livestock, he rode on the stern deck, hobbled and tethered.

The shallow-draft craft was tiny compared to the Mississippi River floating palaces, and it was jammed to the gunwales with immigrants, gamblers, soldiers, and frontiersmen. Sundance crowded into the little saloon, found a place at the bar, nursed a drink. He was startled when someone tapped his shoulder, and he turned to confront a hawk-faced man with a divided beard. “Jim,” said General George Crook.

Crook jerked his head. “I’ve got a table over yonder. Come and talk to me.”

Sundance took his glass. When they were seated, Crook poured himself a drink. He looked at Sundance narrowly. “What’s been happening to you? I heard some rumors about trouble at Fort Lincoln.”

“I had trouble, all right.” Sundance told him tersely what had occurred. Crook’s face darkened.

“That bastard,” he said softly. “If I had only known ... ” His voice trailed off. “You saw Colfax, then?”

“And it’s no go,” Sundance said. “They picked him clean in the market. He’s a dying man. He wields no more influence.”

“Then that settles it, once and for all. This is going to be the big summer. I’m bound up North for a conference now with Sheridan, Sherman, and some others.” He looked down at the table. “I’m sorry, Jim.”

“No. More Indians leave the agencies every day. Sitting Bull is calling ’em out. By June, there’ll be thousands of Sioux and Cheyennes in the unceded lands.”

“If they’re let alone,” Sundance said, “likely they’ll make their spring and summer and fall hunts, then drift into the agencies come winter.”

“They won’t be let alone.” Crook sipped his drink. “I can’t tell you what’s going to happen. You understand why. But the ball’s rolling. Even Custer will be in on it.”

“He’s pulling every string he can. Chances are he’ll be given back command of his regiment. Not to operate on his own, but under General Terry, subject to Terry’s orders. One last opportunity to redeem himself. If he proves himself responsible, obeys orders, he might have a future in the Army after all.”

Sundance’s mouth twisted. “If Custer comes into Indian country, he’s got no future, Three-Stars. None.”

Sundance was silent for a moment. Then he said, “I’ve got to find Barbara—and the Cheyennes. And if anybody hits the Cheyennes while she’s with them, I’m going to do everything I can to save her. Everything, you understand?”

“I won’t fight you,” Sundance said. “Not if you don’t hit us. I promised I would not look at you across a rifle sight or make you look at me. But like I said—”

“It’s the Sioux I want,” Crook said. Then he shook his head. “Forget it. What happens happens. Is there anything I can do for you at Bismarck?”

“Yes,” Sundance said. “Two things. Inquire at Fort Lincoln about Barbara. And they took some gear from me there. My saddle, bow, arrows, shield, some other things that are important to me. If they’re still around and you can get them back ... I’ll wait for you in Bismarck.”

“Yes,” Crook said. “That’s the least I can do for you, I reckon,” He stood up. “I’m retiring to my cabin. Probably it’s just as well if we don’t talk to each other anymore. Not until this summer’s over.” He put out his hand. “Except in Bismarck. You wait at the hotel; I’ll find you there.”

“Yes,” Sundance said. They shook hands and Crook went out. Sundance watched him go, and
then he had another drink. After that he went out on deck, stood at the rail, and watched the bank slide
by as the little steamer churned upstream.

Four days later, Crook came to his hotel room, laden with bull hide panniers. “It’s all there,” he said, dropping them on Sundance’s bed. “Tom Custer had saved them for his brother to add to his trophy collection. I pulled rank on him and Reno and took them.”

“You were right. She showed up at Lincoln, looking for you. She raised all sorts of unshirted hell with Reno and everybody. God, what a spitfire! But when she found that you were gone, she just disappeared.”

The two men looked at one another a moment. Then Crook smiled and clapped Sundance’s arm. “I know,” he said. “But an oath’s an oath. Someday a long time from now, when it’s all over and done with, we’ll get together again, and see what the two of us can work out, salvage for the Indians. Goodbye, Jim.”

“Goodbye,” Sundance said. After that, he discarded the town clothes he wore, dressed in newly-purchased frontier gear, including a buckskin shirt. That night, wasting no time, he rode west. Somewhere east of the Big Horn Mountains, he was bound to find Tall Calf and the Cheyennes.

He rode slowly, cautiously, keeping always to cover, using every bit of leverage the terrain gave him for concealment. Right now, every foot of country west of the Missouri was dangerous. The Indians would know by now that something was afoot; rumors would have been circulating around the agencies, and the Sioux and Cheyennes who’d left would have heard. Far more Indians understood English and could even read and write than the white men ever guessed; in addition, there were half-breeds like himself and other whites who had chosen the Indian road. Take Frank Huston, for instance, the young ex-Confederate whose hatred for American soldiers was so great that he had joined the Sioux deliberately to fight them. He could take the rumors and with his military knowledge put them all together and see what would happen. It would not be surprising if Huston did not supply Sitting Bull, the great medicine man, with much of the prophetic insight the shaman claimed came to him in dreams.

So the Sioux would be stirred up like hornets; and though Sundance was well-known and honored among them, there were still plenty among the thousands of them who had never heard of him and who, if he met them out here, might take his scalp first and ask questions afterwards. On top of that, he had Crows and Pawnees to worry about. Allied with the Army, they would be scouting the territory intensively, and as a Cheyenne Dog Soldier in his youth, he had fought them hard and was hated by them. But worst of all was the danger of running into a cavalry patrol or one of the vigilante self-defense bands of miners who had swarmed into Dakota country and the Black Hills. Not until he was west of the Paha Sapa, in the unceded lands, could he even begin to relax.

So, though everything in him cried out for haste, he took his time. He only hoped that Barbara had got through all those dangers safely. This was no country for a woman traveling alone; but maybe, since she’d made her journey earlier in the year, she’d had a better chance.

Sundance hit the Yellowstone, swung south of its right bank. The country was in full flower of spring, fragrant with new growth. It was hard to believe that before the leaves fell again, many men, red and white alike, would leave their bones in this lovely valley. Again, he felt a familiar bitterness. In such a huge, rich country, there was no reason, save only greed, that two races could not live together.

He pushed on, still riding cautiously, and reached the tongue. Then he found the Indians.

He saw them before they saw him. Nooning in a hollow of a creek that fed the river, he was brought alert by Eagle. The big horse, cropping grass, suddenly raised its head, nostrils flaring, ears tipped forward. Then Eagle nickered softly.

Sundance sprang up, ran to the stallion, clamped a hand over its muzzle. He led the horse back into a grove of cottonwoods, left it there, then scouted. Like a coyote, he ran forward to a rise above the river, taking advantage of every clump of cover, rifle held low lest any gleam from its barrel betray him. He reached a ridge crest, threw himself down, peeped over. Then he relaxed. Below him, stretched out like a great snake along the valley, was a band of Cheyennes on the move.

There was no sight on earth more colorful. Ahead and on the flanks, painted Dog Soldiers, plumed with crow-feather headdresses, scouted and kept guard. The main body was immense, scores more warriors, old men, women, children, all spread out in long train, travois behind the horses hauling lodge skins and camp gear. Behind came the enormous horse herd, guarded by more Dog Soldiers and chivied along by boys too young for warfare. The camp dogs trotted alongside, and babies rode in baskets slung across the withers of their mothers’ horses. Feathers, buckskin, bronzed bodies glittering with paint; sun gleaming on rifle barrels and lance heads, on warbonnets and coup sticks, and on the plume of dust rising and drifting behind: at the sight of all this, Sundance was stirred profoundly with a sense of having come home. Then he stiffened, shading eyes with a hand. Yes. Yes, the warbonneted man riding at the column’s head ... that was Tall Calf! He sucked in a breath, searched the column more closely with his gaze.

Then he saw her. Amidst all that panoply, color, glitter, gleam, her hair stood out like hammered gold as the sunlight touched her. On a paint pony, beside Magpie Wing on a sorrel, her body clad again in buckskins, she rode in the center of the column. Sundance whispered something, lay still for another full ten seconds. Then he sprang up, something singing within him, and raced back down the hill to where he had left Eagle.

His nostrils full of the familiar home scent of Indians, the big horse was impatient. When Sundance sprang on him without touching stirrup, he leaped forward like a launched rocket. Then he pounded down the valley of the stream, toward the Tongue, where Sundance would intersect the Cheyenne’s route of march. They reached that juncture, and Sundance swung the horse hard south. He galloped out into the valley of the Tongue, and the Dog Soldiers saw him, rode toward him with rifles aimed. Sundance raised his own gun high, in the sign for peace.

Then they recognized him, tried to halt him, greet him, but he disregarded them. He rode through them toward the column, and as he pounded up the valley, a cry sounded. A paint pony broke loose from the Cheyenne band and with its golden-haired rider lashing it, braids and buckskin fringe streaming out behind, raced toward him. Eagle’s long legs devoured the ground between.

Then he could see her face. Her eyes were wide, her cheeks wet with tears, her mouth working. He pulled up Eagle hard just as the stallion came alongside the pinto. “Sundance!” she cried. “Oh, Jim, Jim, you’ve come back!”

Sundance did not answer, only reached out, swept her off the spotted horse and held her to him, dropping Eagle’s rein. They still clung together as Tall Calf pulled up his mount alongside the stallion; like the gentleman he was, the Indian waited until the long kiss was over before he even tried to say hello.

Presently, though, he stuck out his hand. “Sundance, my son,” he said. “Welcome back to The People. Three-Stars moves against us with a column from Fort Fetterman. You are here just in time for the fight. Even now, we ride to join the Sioux, and when we link our forces with theirs, I do not think the one called Crook will have a chance against us.”

Chapter Nine