Fifteen

Sundance knew Bannerman was there when two men left the shadows and ran toward the stream.

The others stayed where they were, in good cover. From where he was Sundance could have killed the two men with two shots before they even got close to the stream. But to kill just two men wasn’t
what he had planned. Bannerman was using the army rule book: send out some men. If they aren’t killed, then send out some more. After that, attack with the main force—maybe.

Sundance was taking a chance but he had to let them get across the stream. The two men, both Mexicans, looked up the slope before they went down into the stream, holding their rifles above their heads. Both were short men and the water came up to their chests.

Sundance lay back, showing only the muzzle of the Winchester. He had rubbed the barrel with dirt to keep it from glinting in the sun. He knew he was cutting it very short, letting them get across with no certainty that Bannerman would send out any others. He had to decide how far he was going to play this hand. He watched while the two Mexicans climbed out of the water, then turned and waved back at the men in the trees.

Two more men ran out and Sundance let them get close to the edge of the stream before he opened fire. It had to be done fast because the main party opened up as soon as he fired the first shot. Sundance’s first bullet slammed into the chest of the Mexican to the left, then he swung the Winchester and knocked the other Mexican back into the water. The current began to carry him away. One of the men on the other side of the stream tried to duck back the way he had come. Sundance got him next, knocking him down with two bullets in the back. The other man was firing up the slope, but making no attempt to run. Bullets sang around Sundance’s head as he took steady aim and killed the man at the foot of the slope. Then he ducked down while they kept on firing from the cover of the trees. Lead spattered against rock as the firing went on and on. The firing was so furious that he knew Bannerman was trying to send other men across under the cover of the storm of lead. He rolled away from where he was and tried to find another opening in the line of rocks, but they were laying down rifle bullets from one end to the other. He had to roll right to the end of the rocks and away from them before he had a chance to fire without being killed. Now he was in tall dry grass but still no more than ten feet from where the lead was flying. He raised up and they were coming across all right, three of them. He got off three shots, killing one and wounding another, before the main force moved their sights and started blasting again. He knew he had to get out fast. If he didn’t he was dead. He couldn’t hold them here.

They had plenty of ammunition and were using it as fast as they could. He ran back to the stallion. The step-back in the side of the long slope to the pines kept him from being seen. So they kept on firing even after he was leading the stallion away. He had been wrong in his guess at Bannerman’s strength: he must have started out with at least twenty men. Even with five dead and one wounded, he had all the men he needed. And in a minute they would be able to see him when he started up the slope to the first growth of pine. After that they would cut loose with everything they had. The range was fairly long and the elevation would make for difficult shooting, but if they got off enough bullets he might catch one or two.

‘Move, boy!’ Sundance said, and then man and horse were out in the open, running hard. For seconds nothing happened, then there was a chorus of wild yelling, and the rifles below opened up again. Bullets splintered the shale on the slope as Sundance ran behind his horse.

Bullets followed them all the way to the top, but they got there without being hit. They plunged into the cover of the thickly growing pine trees. Sundance said, ‘Go on, boy! Keep moving!’

He led the stallion up through the pines. Behind and below him the firing had stopped, and he knew they were coming across the stream. It was getting closer than he had expected. Bannerman’s extra strength was making the difference. He would have to cut it down before they boxed him in somewhere, because with enough men Bannerman could just wait and wear him down. And now, for the first time, he wondered if he was going to get Bannerman after all. All he needed was one clear shot with the Remington, but Bannerman was too smart for that. He would hang back and tell his gunmen what to do. There was nothing to do but go on and keep figuring.

There was another deep shelf in the side of the mountain, and pines covered all of it. As far as he could see there was no break in the trees. There would be a break as he climbed higher and the tree-line gave out. Up past the timberline there would be nothing but rock and brush. In places the cover would be bad, but that was better than being caught in the pine forest where they could come at him from all sides. The pines grew too closely for riding, and the going was slow for a long time. By this time Bannerman and his men would be into the start of the pines. They would be more confident now, after having driven him back from the stream, but they would still be thinking of the Remington.

Sundance kept going for another thirty minutes until the mountain shelf started to climb up toward the timberline. The light was stronger as the trees thinned out and fell away behind him. He had to find his way through a huge scatter of rocks before he was out of the trees. The mountain loomed over him. No matter how high you climbed, there would be a step-back, and then it would surge upward again.

Out of the trees, he was in another country: bare, bleak, dry, and cold. He knew he was up about four thousand feet. He climbed until he reached a sort of plateau that ran back for miles until the climb began again. It was a plateau split by ravines and impassable in places because of great upthrusts of rock. There was wind here, and at night it would be cold. On the plateau there would be no water; nothing grew there. As he started across it he knew there would be no place to defend here. He would have to get to the other side of the rock wasteland to look for a place. Before long Bannerman and his killers would be out of the pines, pressing hard on his trail. He could delay them a little with the Remington, but that wouldn’t work too well up on the flat. They could spread out wide, keeping plenty of distance between them. While he was shooting at one point in their line of attack, the rest of the line would keep moving in. It wouldn’t be long before some of them were behind him.

It was getting dark and he still wasn’t off the plateau. It had started at noon and it was now nine o’clock. The wind on the plateau was blowing hard and cold. In the west the sky was glowing like fire; there was still some light, but it would be gone in minutes.

The last light of the sun went out as if it had been snuffed, and suddenly the plateau was cold and dark. The darkness gave him some advantage for a while, then a cold moon flooded the plateau in light that would allow Bannerman to travel as easily as during the day. Sundance guessed it was about another five miles to the end of the plateau. If he could get there, he might still have a chance.

It took him almost two hours to get there, because most of the distance was taken up by rock splits and fissures. He led the stallion over the bad places, mounting up when there was a stretch of level ground. But it was mostly all bad. Finally he was off the plateau. The moon began to fade and he knew there was still hope. Not much hope but some was all he needed. He kept on moving after all the light was gone, his moccasined feet finding footholds where a booted man would have had difficulty. Trusting him, the stallion followed over places that another animal would have balked at. He stopped to listen, but there were no sounds of pursuit. This was dangerous country where horse and animal could go tumbling into a fissure without warning. For now Bannerman was playing it safe, figuring to wait until morning to take up the chase again.

Sundance moved on for another hour. By then he was tired and so was the stallion. They had been going hard all day without rest, and the strain was beginning to tell. It was close to midnight when he decided to get some sleep. Up on the plateau it was bone dry from one end to the other. It was just as dry where he stopped to make cold camp. He spilled water in his hat and let the stallion drink. He drank a little himself after chewing on a mouthful of jerked deer meat. The meat had no taste, but it was food and a man could live on it as long as he had to.

Anyway, a man could go for a couple of weeks without food, and though his belly might growl with hunger, he would die of thirst long before he died of starvation. Sundance stoppered the canteen and pulled his blanket around him and sat with his back to a flat rock, the Winchester beside him. If they came in the night Eagle would hear them as soon as he did. But he didn’t think they would come. They’d be rolled in their blankets by now, with horses tethered securely and guards posted all around. Bannerman wouldn’t be taking any chances of a sneak attack in the dark. If there had been only five or six men, he might have tried it, but Bannerman’s force was still too large for any kind of an attack. And then, too, it was possible that Bannerman had already split his force into two night camps and was waiting for him to attack one so the others could take him by surprise.

Despite the danger, he slept well. It was cold at that altitude, even with the blanket, but over the years be had trained himself to ignore heat or cold. White men found that almost impossible to do; with Indians it was a matter of necessity. If you were hungry all the time, as so many Indians were, you learned to ignore it, because there wasn’t much else to do. It was the same with pain.

He was moving again two hours before dawn, still climbing up toward the peaks. The wind whistled down from the peaks and it was still very cold. Even during the day it would be cold. There had to be another place where he could wear them down, kill one or two of them, before he kept on climbing. His biggest concern was for water.

First light came early so high in the mountains. It came there long before it flooded the flatlands and the low country and the desert. But when it came there was no warmth.

Sundance moved on, leading the stallion, scanning the country ahead for a vantage point.

The sun was well up before he found it: a high rock the shape of a Dutch barn in the middle of a sandy depression about three hundred yards long. A fissure split the top of the rock and ran clear to the bottom. A man could crawl in from the other side and have a perfect V-shaped opening from which to fire. Heavy fire directed at the opening would eventually drive him out, but the depression was three hundred yards in length and the shooting wouldn’t be all that accurate, especially if done fast. He rode around to the back of the rock and left the stallion in cover before he crawled through the huge rock and sighted on the country he had just crossed. So far there was no sign of them. But they’d come; Bannerman wouldn’t turn back now. He knew if he turned back that Sundance would come after him again—and he would never know when. It could be a week, or a month, or at any time. Besides, by now Bannerman would be thinking that he had him beaten. He would follow him right over the top of the Sierra and down into Chihuahua, if that’s what it took.

Sundance lay listening to the wind. Up high it never seemed to stop. An hour later he saw them coming, but they were still too far out for shooting, even with the Remington. Even with his keen eyes, for the moment they were just men on horses, far out in the distance. He saw the flash of binoculars and kept his head well down. That would be Bannerman, glassing the country for an ambush.

It was the same as it had been at the stream: two men rode out in front of the others. They came ahead, walking their horses, rifles at the ready. Then when they thought they were still out of range, even of the Remington, they stopped and waited. Sundance waited for them to start moving again, but they stayed where they were. Bannerman was up to something, and Sundance didn’t know what it was. It didn’t matter. He wasn’t going to hang around and find out.

It was going to be an almost impossible shot. One was all he would try, and maybe he was wasting time and a bullet he might need later. The range had to be at least six hundred yards. Seen across the sights of the rifle, the target looked no bigger than his finger. There was the wind to consider at a distance so great, but he went ahead with his calculations. He steadied the rifle until it was like a rock in his hands, and when there was nothing more to be done—he squeezed the trigger. The rifle butt jerked in fierce recoil, and far away a man died. Sundance didn’t wait. He eased out of the crack in the rock and got away from there as fast as Eagle could carry him, and for a long time he was out of range and out of sight.

When there was no more protection from the big rock, he turned and looked back. They were crossing the depression but taking their time. Sundance rode on through country that continued to climb as far as the eye could see. Yet the highest peaks seemed far away, as if they could never be reached by any man. He made some time before watering the stallion and taking two swallows himself. After that the going was difficult because of the sliding shale and sand. It slid away under the stallion’s hoofs. When it got worse he dismounted. A sand slide if it got started could bury them or send them rolling half dead all the way to the bottom. He turned and saw them coming, still a big party, and making fair time for men who had never been in this country before.

Sundance got himself and his horse over the top of the slope. When they got there he unlimbered the Remington again, and waited to see if he could get another shot. While he waited he saw the Bannerman force break in two. One part stayed where it was, the other rode out to the left. In spite of the Remington they were closing in on him. There would be no more surprises: by now they knew the greatest range of the rifle and to stay beyond it. The mountain was getting steeper now, and there wouldn’t be anywhere else to climb. At a certain point it was sheer rock all the way up to the peaks. A man with ropes, nothing to carry and plenty of time might find his way up there. A hunted man carrying a rifle and leading a horse wouldn’t get half a mile. It would have to be soon, Sundance knew. It looked like he had gambled and lost. Even so, he wasn’t dead yet. What he would do was keep on fighting until the next to last bullet was gone. After that he would die.

Up where the rock face began he saw a cave sandwiched between the slope and the rock face. The opening was high and narrow and there was no telling how far back it went into the cliff. It was as good a place as any to end his life. At least here he could make a fight of it—all he wanted to do now. He scanned the country below him. They were still coming, now from different directions, keeping out of range of the .50. He knew it would take a while to get up to the cave opening.

He knew he had to get up there fast. The way up to the cave was strewn with broken rock, but even so the only way to take it was head-on. If Eagle stumbled and fell before they got to the top, it could kill or cripple both of them. He thought of lying with broken legs under the dying horse while Bannerman’s killers closed in. Then he rounded the stallion and rode back far enough to get a good start on the rocky hill. Eagle would have to get all the way up in one heart-bursting burst of energy. If the big animal faltered before he reached the top, there wouldn’t be a chance of making it. It had to be up the hill and into the cave with no holding back, no stumbling or hesitation.

Bullets started to come at him from both sides. They hadn’t got him lined up yet, but that would come soon if he didn’t get out of there. He reached down and patted the stallion on the neck. ‘This is up to you, boy,’ Sundance said. ‘When I kick my heels you’ve got to go like you’ve never gone before.’

‘Go!’ The stallion had about two hundred yards to get into full stride. The bullets were coming thicker now, and closer, as the stallion increased his speed, heading straight for the bottom of the hill. Then Eagle was going up urged on by Sundance as the Bannerman riders threw down heavy fire, yelling as they did so. When they were halfway up the hill, Sundance felt the big horse falter for an instant. Then with a great surge of energy they reached the top and were in the cave. In the semidarkness of the cave the stallion stood blowing wind and shivering. For the moment they were safe, because there was no horse in the Bannerman bunch that could take that hill, and there were few horses anywhere that could have done it. Men could climb it, but they couldn’t do it fast.

Sundance emptied all the water that was left into his hat and let the stallion drink. Then he held the canteen high and a trickle of water ran into his mouth, a few drops, and that was the last of it. The cave had a narrow entrance, but it was roomy enough inside. It ran back about thirty feet and there was a bend in it where the stallion would be fairly safe even from ricochets. Yes, Sundance thought, I will have to save two bullets now, for he knew the stallion would serve no master but himself.

‘Rest for a while, boy,’ he said before taking his weapons to the mouth of the cave. Bannerman and his men were within range of the Remington, but they were staying low inside the near bank of a gully about three hundred yards out. Bannerman would have plenty of water, maybe a couple of mules loaded with nothing but canteens or Mexican water skins. Enough water to let them sit out there for weeks. And while they were waiting somebody could always go back for more. There was no hurry now, not for Bannerman.

Sundance lay on the rock floor of the cave and watched the gully. The wind stirred sand on the hill, and the sunlight was bright but cold. A hat came up on a stick, but Sundance didn’t fire at it. The gully was deep and now smoke blew up out of it, driven by the wind. They were cooking coffee, maybe heating up brown beans with salt pork. Out there nothing showed but the smoke from the cook fire.

Then a rifle cracked and a bullet spanged off the side of the cave mouth. The shot came from the left, but by the time he swung the Remington there was nothing to shoot at. Another rifle opened fire from the center of the long gully, just two shots, and then nothing for a few minutes. After that they didn’t fire more than one shot at a time, and it never came from the same place. It was a pretty good tactic, he thought. The Remington was a heavy rifle and couldn’t be moved about as handily as a Winchester. There was no snap shooting with a Remington; it was a rifle for steady deliberate aim. Even so, he’d get one of them no matter how tricky they were.

In a few minutes he did. He kept the Remington’s sights on the eastern end of the gully. He kept the rifle aimed that way even when two shots came at him from other parts of the rim. A bullet hit the rock not far from his face and whined into the back of the cave. But he kept the rifle steady. A man moved up to fire and Sundance blew him off his feet with a bullet powered by 40 grains of powder. The firing stopped for a few minutes, then started again. Sundance tried for another shot, but now Bannerman was moving the men after every few shots. He put down the Remington and started using the Winchester, but didn’t hit anything. It was a stand-off that could end only one way.

Sundance stopped firing and counted his ammunition. There was enough to turn back a direct attack on the hill. For that he would have to depend on the Winchester and the long-barreled Colt. After that he would use the great ash bow; from it he could loose steel-tipped arrows as fast as he could hose bullets from the Winchester. He knew an attack would come, but it wouldn’t be soon. There was no need for any attack—Bannerman would know that better than anyone—and yet it would come. Bannerman wouldn’t give a damn if everyone but himself got killed storming the hill. Gunslingers could be bought for fifty dollars a month from the Canadian border clear down to Guatemala. Bannerman would want to get back to his fine ranch. Jorge had said that Bannerman lived in style, entertained lavishly. He and his second wife, niece of the Archbishop of San Luis Potosi, went on frequent visits to Mexico City. Yes, Bannerman would want to get back, so there would be a direct attack when he became impatient enough.

Sundance didn’t take the time to inspect the cave for water. At a lower elevation, and in country that wasn’t so dry, a drip of water from high up could sometimes be found. Not here. There was no water anywhere except in the canteens of Bannerman’s men.

The sun was going down, and he wondered if some of them would try to come after dark. There was no way to tell. A man or men coming up the hill couldn’t do it without making some noise, but most of that would be covered by the ever-present wind. The mouth of the cave and the country below it took on a red glow as the sun went down. Now was the time to get some sleep, Sundance decided. A night attack wouldn’t come so soon. Probably it wouldn’t. Sundance closed his eyes and was asleep.

He slept for little more than an hour, but it was the sleep of a man who had taught himself to sleep without fear or anxiety. The mountains had been blood red when he fell asleep. Now they were a ghostly white as the moon came up. From the gully came the glow of several fires. It was cold and the wind had an edge in it. He heard the stallion breathing in the darkness of the cave. It would soon be time to shoot the magnificent horse that had served him so well. The water was gone, and so was hope. If he let the great stallion live, they would take him and kill him with ropes and whips and cruelty, because they could never break his spirit. A bullet was better than that, but he would wait until daybreak.

He stayed awake, completely rested by the short sleep. He lay flat in the mouth of the cave, with the Winchester and the Colt loaded and ready. The bow and quiver were within reach. In the gully the fires continued to flicker, throwing shadows. He could see the smoke in the moonlight. Suddenly rifles opened up from two sides, and from the center of the gully itself. They had come out of both ends of the gully and were attacking that way. Lead spattered and whined. A fragment of lead sliced through the top of his ear, bringing a trickle of blood. There was no pain, just the blood. They were trying to bury him with lead, trying to drive him back into the cave. He fired and killed a running man, and then another, and still they kept coming. He swung the Winchester, looking for Bannerman. He shot another man instead. Now they were coming at the hill from both sides, while the shooters in the gully tried to keep him pinned down with heavy fire. The gun flashes were orange in the moonlight.

They were trying to come along the side of the hill, climbing up as high as they could. He had to risk being hit by the fire from the gully. He jumped to his feet and started shooting right and left. Two men were hit and went rolling down the hill in a tangle of arms and legs. A bullet made a hot furrow in the muscle of Sundance’s right shoulder, but he kept firing until the firing pin dropped on an empty chamber. He pulled the Colt and emptied it, dropping two more men. Then he drove them back. They retreated on two sides, but didn’t go back to the gully. There were two .44 shells for the Colt, about half a load for the Winchester, three shells for the Remington.

During the night they attacked again. He killed one man before they retreated. Now all the ammunition was gone except for the two bullets in the Colt. As the night wore on, they kept up a steady sniping that was supposed to set his nerves on edge. It didn’t. The mouth of the cave was narrow and didn’t offer much to shoot at from a range of three hundred yards. The firing went on as he waited for first light. He hated to kill the big stallion, but he forced himself not to think about it. It would be done when the time came to do it.

He picked up the ash bow. It was perfectly strung, a silent instrument of death. He nocked an arrow and tested it, then replaced it in the quiver. Everything was ready for what would be the last attack.

Cold morning light flooded the mountains. He got up but kept back from the mouth of the cave. He looked out at the beautiful, desolate world of the Sierra Madre. It would be there a million years after this day, after he was gone. It wasn’t so hard to die once you knew it had to be done. Death could have claimed him so many times in the past, but he had gone on living on borrowed time. Now, at last, the debt was being called.

He took the Colt from its holster and walked to the back of the cave. Eagle whinnied and looked at him with reproachful eyes. ‘Life wasn’t so bad, was it, boy?’ he said. The Colt was already cocked. All he had to do was squeeze the trigger. He raised the pistol.

A sound at the mouth of the cave spun him around and he fired at a man who was bringing up a sawed-off shotgun to his waist. He fired fast and hit the man in the chest, but he didn’t go down. The barrel of the sawed-off came up again.

Sundance fired the second bullet and the man fell backward from the cave mouth, the shotgun discharging both barrels in the air. The dead man, with a rope still looped around his middle, went rolling down the hill.

Sundance picked up the bow and quiver. They were coming in for the attack, what was left of them, maybe five or six. More than enough to finish him. The man with the shotgun had been lowered from the rock face above the cave. So they were up there too. While he waited Bannerman climbed out of the gully along with two men. Bannerman stood watching while his men moved in for the kill. Sundance counted six men running, driven forward by Bannerman’s shouted commands.

The first of them reached the bottom of the hill. Sundance loosed an arrow that would have pinned the man to the ground if the ground hadn’t been rock. He had to stand up and show himself to use the bow. They would hit him in a minute. They advanced at a dead run, firing as they came. Then a rifle cracked and a man died. The rifle—heavy caliber—boomed again. Another man dropped in his tracks. Sundance saw Bannerman wheel in surprise and bring up his rifle. The hidden rifleman fired again and Bannerman jumped down into the gully. Now the attackers, caught between the hidden rifleman and Sundance’s deadly bow, turned and tried to go back the way they had come. Sundance killed one with a steel shaft in the spine. The rifleman killed another. And then Sundance saw George Crook rise up from behind a rock with a big English bolt-action sporting rifle in his hands. Crook shouldered the big bore hunter and dropped another slaver. Crook, wearing his famous canvas coat and flat crowned hat, waved at Sundance. Sundance waved back. Crook pointed toward the gully.

Still holding the bow, Sundance ran down the hill and made for the gully. It was long, narrow and snaked away for hundreds of feet on both sides. Up ahead he heard Bannerman scrambling over rocks, trying to make for the horses. He wheeled and fired at Sundance, then went around a bend in the gully and kept on running. Bannerman had reached the horses and was in the saddle when Sundance got around the bend. Bannerman raised the rifle and fired. Sundance didn’t even think about the bullet or the rifle. Steadily, deliberately, he raised the bow and put an arrow through Bannerman’s heart. The force was so great that he was knocked out of the saddle as though pulled by a rope. Sundance turned back to greet Crook. It was over.

 

It was night and they were sitting at a campfire on the lower slopes of the Sierra. Meat hissed in a skillet on the fire. Crook filled two tin cups with boiling-black coffee. Their horses and two pack mules grazed nearby. Crook lit a long black cigar with a burning brand and tossed it back into the fire before he lay back against a flat rock. ‘Ah, there’s nothing like eating meat you shot yourself,’ he said. ‘One thing I can’t stand—hunters who let good meat spoil.’

Sundance wasn’t thinking about food of any kind. He was thinking about chance. If that man hadn’t come down the cliff on the rope when he did, at exactly the moment he did, the stallion would be dead now. If Crook hadn’t arrived in Las Piedras a few hours after he shot Cajun … What was the use of thinking about it. Yet the thought persisted.

Crook knew what was in his mind. ‘I knew something was wrong when I arrived,’ he said. ‘I asked at the hotel where you were. The boy, Anselmo, wanted to help, but his father ran him off. I don’t think he knew. Finally, the only one who spoke up was the Chief of Police, Montoya. He said he had figured out what you were doing. He said it was a crazy plan. Montoya was right. It was a crazy plan. But it worked.’

‘It didn’t work, Three Stars,’ Sundance said. ‘Except for you my bones would be bleaching by now.’

‘Nonsense,’ Crook said. ‘But after what Montoya told me I had to go up in the mountains and see if I could lend a hand. You and our late friends had a fair start on me, but I kept coming. It was an easy trail to follow.’ Crook smiled grimly. ‘I could have followed it just by looking for bodies. Bannerman wasn’t the kind to bury his men. Lord, Jim, you killed an awful lot of men since you started out from that town. Wish I could have been along for those fights. Not a man you killed I wouldn’t have been proud to kill myself. Slavers! After all the world’s been through, Civil War, everything, we still have men trying to make slaves of other men. Well, I tell you, it won’t happen again. That fat Indian crook, Diaz, won’t dare let it happen again. Too bad your friend Calderon had to die. He must have been quite a feller.’

‘Yes,’ Sundance said, ‘quite a feller.’ Crook looked at Sundance. ‘Well, Jim, we finally got to go on this hunt. You know, you damned halfbreed, I’d have taken it very personal if those slavers had killed you. Yes, sir, I would.’

Sundance grinned. ‘Why is that, Three Stars?’

‘A simple reason,’ General Crook said. ‘I’d have to break in a new hunting companion. I can’t see a better reason than that. Can you?’

‘I never argue with a general,’ Sundance said.