Sundance 18: The Nightriders

By Peter McCurtin

Jim Sundance could be a deadly enemy, but he was also a lifelong friend. Simon Tolliver found this out when the halfbreed showed up to help him save his ranch from land-grabber Greeley Nash.
Nash had an outlaw army at his disposal, led by an ex-cavalry officer whose hatred of Sundance knew no bounds.
Sundance loved a good fight, and this looked like it would be one of the best!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Piccadilly
• Release date: Jul 31, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370285303

Peter McCurtin

Peter J. McCurtin was born in Ireland on 15 October 1929, and immigrated to America when he was in his early twenties. Records also confirm that, in 1958, McCurtin co-edited the short-lived (one issue) New York Review with William Atkins. By the early 1960s, he was co-owner of a bookstore in Ogunquit, Maine, and often spent his summers there.McCurtin's first book, Mafioso (1970) was nominated for the prestigious Mystery Writers of America Edgar Award, and filmed in 1973 as The Boss, with Henry Silva. More books in the same vein quickly followed, including Cosa Nostra (1971), Omerta (1972), The Syndicate (1972) and Escape From Devil's Island (1972). 1970 also saw the publication of his first "Carmody" western, Hangtown.Peter McCurtin died in New York on 27 January 1997. His westerns in particular are distinguished by unusual plots with neatly resolved conclusions, well-drawn secondary characters, regular bursts of action and tight, smooth writing. If you haven't already checked him out, you have quite a treat in store.McCurtin also wrote under the name of Jack Slade and Gene Curry.

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CONTENTS

About the Book

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

The Sundance Series

Copyright

About Peter J. McCurtin

About John Benteen

Jim Sundance could be a deadly enemy, but he was also a lifelong friend. Simon Tolliver found this out when the halfbreed showed up to help him save his ranch from land-grabber Greeley Nash.

Nash had an outlaw army at his disposal, led by an ex-cavalry officer whose hatred of Sundance knew no bounds.

Sundance loved a good fight, and this looked like it would be one of the best!

One

This was a vast land, this South Texas country, with limitless blue skies as harsh as the land itself. It was a land that must have struck the first travelers with awe the first time they saw it stretching away into unknown distances, inhospitable and forbidding. No wonder the Spaniards called it The Furnace, for the daytime heat was enough to bake the blood, to bewilder the brain.

Crossing the Rio Grande, now running low in the midsummer heat, Jim Sundance had five thousand dollars in Mexican gold in his warbag, his payment for the guns. It had been a long, hard ride back from the Chihuahua Mountains, where he had delivered ten pack mules loaded with repeating rifles to the Mexican-Indian rebels now making war on the dictator, Porfirio Diaz.

No one seeing Sundance could have mistaken him for anything but what he was: a halfbreed. And yet he was like few halfbreeds any man had ever seen, his skin the dull copper of an old penny, his shoulder-length hair the color of wheat. Well over six feet, his lithe body rode gracefully in the saddle, his pale blue eyes, wrinkled at the corners from years of squinting at the sun, ever watchful for danger, for that was the only way a man stayed alive in the world in which he lived. Sundance and the big stud, Eagle, on which he was mounted, moved together with the familiar ease of a man and animal who had been long together, had been through many dangers together, had managed always to survive because of perfect teamwork.

Before man and animal were halfway across the shallow, muddy river, Sundance knew men were watching him. He knew that even before the big stallion whinnied a warning; he had lived so long with danger that he knew when it was there. Some of that knowledge was the heritage of his Indian blood, his Cheyenne mother’s blood; the rest had been acquired by years of living close to death.

Sundance knew it could be anything, across the river behind the rocks in the deep shade of the cottonwoods. It could be a band of renegade Comanches run off from the reservation. It could be what was left of the Comancheros, now scattered and driven from their stronghold in the Staked Plains. It could be an unhorsed, desperate man with a single bullet left in his rifle; a man lusting for the fine stallion, the food and weapons Sundance was carrying.

Sundance quieted the stallion with a word and kept riding as if he were unaware of whatever danger it was that lay ahead. He didn’t touch the long-barreled .44 single action Colt that hung from his belt. He kept riding because that was how you had to play the hand. In his line of work, death was always close by and you couldn’t be surprised if some day it came up and said hello.

The big stallion was coming up out of the water when a loud voice told Sundance, Put your hands up and just keep coming. Do anything else and we’ll blow you to Kingdom Come.

That meant there was more than one man in there in the deep shade of the trees, or maybe that was what they wanted him to think. He had used the same trick in his time; he kept coming.

Stop there, the same voice ordered.

Sundance reined in his mount and five men and an officer came out of the shade of the cottonwoods and rode toward him. Sundance grinned: a border patrol. He had dodged a lot of them in his time, and this one didn’t look too different than the others. He stayed perfectly still.

They rode closer and Sundance saw that the lieutenant was a young man, not more than twenty-four, with ginger colored hair and eyebrows, and a badly sunburned face that said he hadn’t been long posted from the East. Sweat ran down both sides of his face and there were black stains under both his armpits. The sergeant who was with him looked like a veteran, probably an old Indian hater from the way he stared at Sundance; all the enlisted men were young and green as broken sticks.

The lieutenant had an Eastern accent, probably New England, and it was higher pitched and less commanding than he wanted it to be. Sundance didn’t grin now because the Yankee officer was so close, but he could just see the shavetail talking to himself in the mirror while he shaved mornings back at Fort Hood, doing his damnedest to imitate General Grant’s famous growl.

Sundance knew this patrol had to be from Fort Hood; it was the closest army post to this stretch of the border.

Drop your weapons, the lieutenant ordered, the Army .45 cocked in his gloved hand.

They were nice expensive looking yellow leather gloves, definitely not army issue, and they had probably been bought by the lieutenant’s mother or lady friend, back in Providence or Boston. But they hadn’t been softened yet by hard use and plenty of careful oiling. It was a foolhardy thing, throwing down on a man with a .45, with stiff gloves like that on your hands.

No, Sundance told the young officer.

I just told you, mister.

You mean you gave this halfbreed an order, sir, the grizzled sergeant interrupted as politely as he could.

The sergeant, getting old and mean as only old men can get because they know the glory days will soon be over, had a soft Irish accent roughened by thirty years of shouting at young men who couldn’t shout back.

He looked like a boozer and a brawler, the terror of the sutler’s store in a dozen military camps, and Sundance decided he would have to kill him first, if there was any killing to be done. He knew he could probably kill the young lieutenant after he knocked the Irishman off his horse; the recruits would probably turn tail and run.

He didn’t want to kill any of them, but he knew he would have to kill them all if he killed one.

The army wouldn’t forget.

You don’t have to remind me, Rafferty, the young officer snapped at the Irish sergeant.

I’m giving you an order, mister, he told Sundance.

The Irishman spat. He had the look of a man who would like to drag Sundance at the end of a rope until he showed respect for the United States Cavalry. Other men, military and civilian, had tried that in their time. Most of them were now dead.

You got no business with me, Sundance told the officer. I’m just riding through, minding my business.

You’ll ride through when I say so, the lieutenant said in that uncertain voice of his. He looked at the long-barreled .44 Colt holstered at Sundance’s side; his eyes took in the heavy, razor sharp Bowie knife, the keen-bladed throwing ax. What interested him most was the bow slung over Sundance’s shoulder, the quiver of steel-tipped arrows.

What do they call you? was his next question.

Jim Sundance. What do they call you?

The lieutenant ignored the question; he was an officer and a gentleman and wasn’t about to be questioned by a breed. It seems to me I heard of you. Read about you in the paper. How you like to make trouble for some important people back in Washington.

I do my best, Sundance said.

It’s said you like to stir up the Indians. Is that what you were doing south of the border? The Mexican authorities report somebody’s been running guns to the rebels.

Not me, Lieutenant, Sundance said.

Sergeant Rafferty spat again and said, You mind if I make a suggestion, sir? I’d say you ought to take this man back to the fort and question him there. A little time in the guardhouse might loosen his lying tongue.

Sundance knew that meant the Indian-hating sergeant wanted to work on him in private. He looked at the Irishman’s knobby fists and once again decided to kill him first, if it came to that. He had no intention of lying in a flea-ridden guardhouse and wait to get a beating every couple of hours.

What do you think, sir? Rafferty asked. If this breed has been running guns you’d be the man who brought him in.

The lieutenant looked doubtful and Sundance cut in quickly with, General Crook wouldn’t like that. The General’s an old friend of mine. Worked for him as a scout in the war against the Apaches. We still go hunting together when we meet up here and there.

Sundance knew that on the face of it his claim sounded more than a little crazy: a halfbreed and a three star general in the United States Army. But then General Crook wasn’t any ordinary man. A relentless campaigner when he had to be, he always treated the Indians with compassion and respect once they had been defeated. Back in Washington the corrupt politicians of the Indian Ring kept up a running fight to have him relieved of his command and hounded out of the service. So far they had failed because Crook was too good at his job.

Seems to me I read about you and the General, the lieutenant said, ignoring the Irishman’s bitter eyes. Now suppose you tell me where you’re going. Crook or no Crook, I want a straight answer from you.

Sundance didn’t like the lieutenant’s tone, but there was no point in forcing a fight. He knew he could kill the lieutenant and. the Sergeant; there was no way to be sure he wouldn’t catch a stray bullet. Dead, he wouldn’t be any damn good to the Indians: he had come too far, had worked too hard and too long, to lose his life in a gunfight with a bunch of jittery troopers.

Keeping the anger out of his voice, Sundance said, I’m going to visit with an old friend up by Leesville. Simon Tolliver has a ranch up that way. We both worked for General Crook. All this can be checked. Fort Hood’s just a short ride from Leesville.

I know where the fort is, the lieutenant said shortly, once again trying to put an officerly sound in his womanish voice. "I’ll tell you someting else, mister. Soon as I get back to the fort I’m going to telegraph General Crook. If I find you’ve been lying to me I’ll come looking for you. I still think you’re mixed up in this gun-running. Maybe, maybe not. Maybe you got away with it this time. Just don’t try it again, not along this stretch of the river. The Mexicans want it stopped, so does Washington, and by God I’m going to stop it."

Sundance looked at the nervous recruits and almost felt sorry for them. God help the men this fool was expected to command! Crook would eat a man like this for breakfast.

Is that all? he asked.

No, that’s not all. If we catch you with a wagonload of guns we’ll hang you on the spot. No trial, just a tree and a rope. Now ride on. Let him through, men.

Looking at Sundance’s array of well-used weapons, the greenhorns were only too glad to move their mounts aside. In spite of himself the lieutenant’s face had a look of relief, glad that it hadn’t come down to shooting; only the Irishman was still tensed up for the kill.

Maybe I’ll be seeing you in Leesville, halfbreed, he said in a dead cold voice. When you don’t have General Crook to hold your hand.

If the lieutenant heard him he didn’t say anything about it. All he did was clear his throat a couple of times. The Irishman looked away from him and spat. Sundance decided that Rafferty was a murderous son of a bitch but probably a pretty good soldier. Most of these bastards were like that; soldiering and killing was all they knew, so they were good at it.

He kept on riding, going slowly, not one bit sure that Rafferty wouldn’t try to shoot him in the back, but no bullets came his way, and then he was through the cottonwoods and minutes later he was out of range.

That night he made camp in a small wooded canyon with a creek running down the center of it. He gathered dead wood to make a small fire the Indian way so that a man could sit in close to it. After he measured coffee into the battered tin pot, he set it to one side of the fire to cook slowly before he went to look for a rabbit.

Hunkered down behind a fallen tree, he waited patiently, the straight-handled throwing hatchet balanced lightly in his hand. The dusk was getting thick when he heard the tiny scratching sounds on the other side of the tree, some distance from where he was. He peered across the top of the tree and there were three rabbits feeding, their long teeth munching in the silence of the darkening canyon. Sundance picked out the fattest-looking coney and then with incredible speed he threw the hatchet. The keen-edged blade flashed like a silver streak in the semi-darkness and the rabbit screamed its death agony. Everything was quiet again.

Using the Bowie knife, he skinned and gutted the rabbit and took the carcass down to the creek to wash it. Within minutes it was skewered on a sharp stick and roasting over the bed of coals he had leveled out. He hooked the handle of the coffeepot and pulled it off the fire. The coffee was strong, black as ink, just the way he liked it.

He let it cool while he ate the roasted meat, sitting with his back against a rock, watching the stallion browsing through the sweet grass of the well-watered canyon. There was no need to tether the big animal; a word would bring it to his side. He threw the bones of the rabbit in the fire and put on more wood for the night.

After he stowed away his cooking gear, he took a small pipe and an oilskin pouch filled with the Mexican weed, marijuana, from his warbag. Smoking the weed was something he had picked up in his travels south of the border. It suited him better than whiskey, which the Indian side of him found hard to handle. He had come to terms with the Indian, the wild side of his nature, that could get killing mad when the liquor was in him. In the past there had been too many wrecked saloons, too many bloody fights with men as wild and whiskey-crazed as himself. A little whiskey was still a welcome thing when he was with friends, but even then his limit was no more than three drinks. That was something he had been forced to learn the hard way, and he had the knife and bullet scars to prove it.

Lighting the pipe of weed, he sucked the acrid smoke into his lungs and lay back against the