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Sundance 9: The Pistoleros
Sundance 9: The Pistoleros
Sundance 9: The Pistoleros
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Sundance 9: The Pistoleros

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The Indian Ring—sticky-fingered Washington politicians and their local bully boys—were looting millions of dollars that should have gone to the reservations, to buy food, blankets, supplies. They knew Sundance was gunning for them, so they tried to make him run. That was about the worst mistake they could make, because the big, silent man with the yellow hair and the Cheyenne face runs from no man. A natural killer with six-gun, rifle, bow, knife, tomahawk, Sundance works for money but for him troubleshooting is more than a profession. It’s a way of life.

LanguageEnglish
PublisherPiccadilly
Release dateOct 29, 2015
ISBN9781310406102
Sundance 9: The Pistoleros
Author

John Benteen

John Benteen was the pseudonym for Benjamin Leopold Haas born in Charlotte , North Carolina in 1926. In his entry for CONTEMPORARY AUTHORS, Ben told us he inherited his love of books from his German-born father, who would bid on hundreds of books at unclaimed freight auctions during the Depression. His imagination was also fired by the stories of the Civil War and Reconstruction told by his Grandmother, who had lived through both. “My father was a pioneer operator of motion picture theatres”, Ben wrote. “So I had free access to every theatre in Charlotte and saw countless films growing up, hooked on the lore of our own South and the Old West.” A family friend, a black man named Ike who lived in a cabin in the woods, took him hunting and taught him to love and respect the guns that were the tools of that trade. All of these influences – seeing the world like a story from a good book or movie, heartfelt tales of the Civil War and the West, a love of weapons – register strongly in Ben’s own books. Dreaming about being a writer, 18-year-old Ben sold a story to a Western pulp magazine. He dropped out of college to support his family. He was self-educated. And then he was drafted, and sent to the Philippines. Ben served as a Sergeant in the U.S. Army from 1945 to 1946. Returning home, Ben went to work, married a Southern belle named Douglas Thornton Taylor from Raleigh in 1950, lived in Charlotte and in Sumter in South Carolina , and then made Raleigh his home in 1959. Ben and his wife had three sons, Joel, Michael and John. Ben held various jobs until 1961, when he was working for a steel company. He had submitted a manuscript to Beacon Books, and an offer for more came just as he was laid off at the steel company. He became a full-time writer for the rest of his life. Ben wrote every day, every night. “I tried to write 5000 words or more everyday, scrupulous in maintaining authenticity”, Ben said. His son Joel later recalled, “My Mom learned to go to sleep to the sound of a typewriter”.

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    Sundance 9 - John Benteen

    The Indian Ring—sticky-fingered Washington politicians and their local bully boys—were looting millions of dollars that should have gone to the reservations, to buy food, blankets, supplies. They knew Sundance was gunning for them, so they tried to make him run. That was about the worst mistake they could make, because the big, silent man with the yellow hair and the Cheyenne face runs from no man. A natural killer with six-gun, rifle, bow, knife, tomahawk, Sundance works for money but for him troubleshooting is more than a profession. It’s a way of life.

    THE PISTOLEROS

    SUNDANCE 9

    By John Benteen

    First Published in 1972 by Norden Publications

    Copyright © 1972, 2015 by Benjamin L. Haas

    First Smashwords Edition: November 2015

    Names, characters and incidents in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information or storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law.

    Cover image © 2015 by Tony Masero

    This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book

    Series Editor: Ben Bridges

    Text Copyright © Piccadilly Publishing

    Published by Arrangement with the Author’s Estate.

    Chapter One

    Plenty of men in Texas were built like that—tall, wide in the shoulders, deep in the chest, flat-bellied and narrow-hipped, with long, lean, slightly bowed legs the product of a lifetime spent on horseback. Nevertheless, as the man in the buckskin shirt strode through the lobby of the hotel in San Antonio, people turned to look at him.

    First of all, there was his face. Hawk-like, with black eyes, big nose, wide, thin mouth and strong chin, it was the countenance of a Plains Indian, Sioux or Cheyenne, and the dull copper color of an old penny. But in startling contrast to those warrior’s features was the hair which spilled from beneath a battered, dust-powdered sombrero to the shoulders of the fringed and beaded shirt, for it was soft and as yellow as gold. The combination of copper skin and golden hair marked him as a half-breed. The weapons he carried and the way he wore them marked him as a professional fighting man.

    The Colt .45 single-action, in a well-oiled holster was slung low and thonged at the bottom around his thigh, in the gunman’s way. Behind it on the same belt, in a beaded sheath, was a Bowie knife, with a blade more than twelve inches long; and people who knew about such things would have seen at once that its hilt had a special guard to protect its user’s hand in close, blade-to-blade combat. On the left, hung from another cartridge belt, was the hatchet, also sheathed, its handle straight, made for throwing, not chopping. An armory like that was unusual even in San Antone, which in the fall of 1877, boasted more than its share of hardcases. The men in the lobby were impressed; so were the few women there, but for a different reason.

    Sundance felt their gazes on him as he went to the stairs; he was always alert to everything around him, with a habitual wariness that was the price of survival. Standing better than six feet, he weighed nearly two hundred pounds, but his motions were catlike as he went up, two steps at a time. When he reached the second floor landing, he turned right, went halfway down the corridor, found the door he sought and knocked. Almost immediately, a voice from within asked: Who is it?

    Jim Sundance.

    A pause; then there were footsteps. Sundance stood hipshot, waiting, thumb hooked in his gun belt, bringing his hand close to the butt of the Colt. Then the door opened.

    The man in the doorway ran his eyes over Sundance, taking in the weathered, dusty sombrero, the Cheyenne shirt, the weapons, the brown denim pants, and the moccasined feet. Sundance looked back at him with equal curiosity. Despite the cruel autumn heat, the man wore suit, vest, and necktie. He was about Sundance’s age, in his late thirties, though slender and far from as large. His face was lean, handsome, pale, his dark hair slicked back with pomade; he just missed having the appearance of a fop or a dandy. Nevertheless, Sundance recognized in him energy, intelligence, and perhaps a dangerousness of his own.

    Mr. Sundance, the man said. It’s good to see you. I’m Mark Ransome. Please come in. He stepped aside to let Sundance enter the front room of a two-room suite, gestured to a table in the center. You’ve come a long way, and I imagine you could do with something cold to drink. Fortunately, the hotel has ice.

    Sundance paused inside the threshold, looking around with the searching gaze of an animal suspicious of a trap. You’re alone?

    Ransome grinned. Totally.

    We’ll see. Sundance crossed the room in a couple of strides, threw open the bedroom door, looked inside, hand on gun butt. Satisfied, he turned, relaxed. All right. I’ll have that drink. He put out his hand, took Ransome’s, which was soft, slightly moist. Whiskey, water, ice . . .

    Ransome smiled. I see nothing I heard about you was exaggerated. He went to the table, began to pour. You’re a cautious man.

    In my business, it pays. Sundance took a chair. I got your letter in Del Rio. I was bound for Eagle Pass and San Antone’s a piece out of the way. But you said—

    I said I had a profitable proposition for you, Ransome finished, grinning. He shoved Sundance a glass, sat down across from him with a drink of his own. Money. You like money, don’t you, Sundance?

    Sundance raised his glass in a salute, then sipped from it. I like money, he said.

    Mark Ransome nodded, leaned back in his chair, looked at Sundance over the rim of his glass. We’ll get to the money in a minute. First, let me make sure I’ve got my facts straight. As I understand it, your father was an Englishman, his family’s black sheep. They sent him to America, he came West in the beaver days, liked the way the Cheyennes lived, was adopted into the tribe. Your mother was the daughter of a Cheyenne chief. And you grew up as a Cheyenne warrior, a Dog Soldier.

    That’s right, Sundance said.

    Nicholas Sundance—he took that name because he was the first white man ever to participate in the Sun Dance ceremony with the Cheyennes—was a trader. As a result of his travels, you’ve lived with other tribes besides the Cheyennes. The Apache, the Sioux, the Comanches, even the Yaquis in Mexico. You know their languages and customs, and they know and trust you.

    Sundance nodded, appraising Ransome as the man talked. First of all, he was wondering how Ransome had known he would be in Del Rio on a certain date. Beyond that, Ransome was obviously an Easterner born and bred; a businessman and, from the looks of him, a prosperous one. Money: yes, he gave off the smell of it.

    As a matter of fact, probably no one out here knows more about Indians. You’ve scouted for and advised the Army and—his dark eyes narrowed—there’s talk that sometimes you’ve fought against the Army, on the Indian side.

    Sundance set down his glass. Let’s put it this way. I’m half white, half Indian. The main thing I was—am—interested in was trying to find some way for the whites and Indians both to live together out here. His voice was bitter. It looked like this country should have been big enough for both. But—

    But it wasn’t. The Indians have been pushed back. Ransome drank. And now the Indian wars are almost over. The death of Custer was the tribes’ last gasp. Over a year now since Little Big Horn. And the Cheyennes have all come into the reservations. So have most of the Sioux—only Sitting Bull and a few hostiles hiding, out in Canada. General Crook has whipped the Apaches, and McKenzie’s just driven the Comanches in. The Nez Percés right this minute are trying to flee to Canada from Idaho, but they haven’t got a chance; Generals Howard and Miles will bring them in. His voice hardened. The fighting’s over, Sundance—and there’s no doubt about who has won. Maybe there’ll still be an occasional outbreak or flare-up, but the day of the free-ranging redskin’s finished; the day of the reservation Indian has come. He smiled faintly. Your dream of Indians and whites sharing land has died.

    Sundance’s eyes narrowed. Ransome, what—?

    Let me finish. You’re no ordinary half-breed, Sundance. Your father was an educated man, and he passed his education along to you. You saw the handwriting on the wall a long time ago, and you knew that what happened in Washington, in Congress and in the White House would, in the long run, be as important as the battles fought on the plains. And so you hired a lobbyist—a lawyer to represent the Indians, try to influence Congress and the government in their behalf. To finance him, you’ve earned money the only way you could. Ransome pointed. With your guns. You’re a topnotch fighting man, expert with Indian weapons, too, and you don’t come cheap. You’ve made a fortune hiring out, in your time—and you’ve got nothing to show for it. It’s all gone down the Washington rat hole, and for every cent you’ve spent, the Indians still aren’t a bit better off. As much as you contributed, it wasn’t a drop in the bucket against what the railroads and the bankers and land agents who wanted to see the Indians rounded up on reservations could spend.

    Whatever Ransome was leading up to, that was true. The twelve years since the end of the Civil War seemed like a century, so much had happened, so many things had changed. The beginning of that period had found Indians in possession of the country from the Mississippi to California; now, after countless broken treaties and savage battles, they had nothing left but what the white men chose to give them. In that interval, Sundance had seen all his risk and striving come to nothing. And yet—

    That doesn’t mean my work is finished. Now more than ever, I’ve got to swing influence in Washington. The Bureau of Indian Affairs has made the tribes a lot of promises. It’s going to take money to see that they get a square deal. According to the letter you sent me, you’ve got a job that pays big money.

    Oh, I have, Ransome said. Maybe more money than you’ve ever dreamed of. He leaned back and looked at Sundance intently. Tell me—how does fifty thousand dollars sound to you?

    Jim Sundance felt his pulses start to pound, but he managed to keep his face expressionless, not to betray his sudden eagerness.

    Fifty thousand would buy a lot of influence in Washington. What do I have to do to earn it?

    Ransome chuckled. Nothing. Nothing at all. That’s the whole point.

    Wait a minute, Sundance snapped. I didn’t ride a hundred miles out of my way to play games.

    Ransome’s face sobered. I assure you, I didn’t come all the way from Washington for games. I’m here to offer you fifty thousand cold cash. And all you’ve got to do to earn it is take off for Europe or South America or anywhere, settle down, and never set foot in the United States again.

    The room was silent for the long moment while they stared at one another. Sundance let out a long breath.

    All right, he rasped. I know who you are now and who sent you.

    Do you?

    You’re damned right! The

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