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  CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  About the Author

  The Sundance Series

  About Piccadilly Publishing

  About the Book

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Down in Old Mexico for a hunting expedition, Jim Sundance ran into an old friend, down-and-out lawyer Jorge Calderon, who was engaged in a lonely battle to save a poor Indian tribe from slavery. The half-breed gunfighter joined the fight against a bloodthirsty Mexican army colonel and ruthless landowner Lucas Bannerman, the mind behind the slave ring. Sundance knew how desperate and dangerous it was to try to fight the enemies of his people.

  SUNDANCE 20: LOS OLVIDADOS

  By Peter McCurtin

  First published by Leisure Books in 1980

  Copyright © 1980, 2018 by Peter McCurtin

  First Smashwords Edition: February 2018

  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.

  This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book

  Cover image © 2018 by Tony Masero

  Check out Tony’s work here

  Series Editor: Mike Stotter

  Text © Piccadilly Publishing

  Published by Arrangement with the Author Estate.

  One

  Sundance had taken out the big Remington Rolling-block .50 rifle from its wool-lined scabbard. He was cleaning it when the sergeant from the Mexican Army post arrived with the telegraph message from General Crook. For a week he had been waiting for his old friend to arrive in Las Piedras.

  The sergeant handed the message to Sundance and saluted. He looked curiously from the heavy hunting rifle to the tall halfbreed with the copper-colored skin and shoulder-length yellow hair. He waited while Sundance read:

  HAVE TO DELAY HUNTING TRIP.

  SENATOR PHIPPS AND PARTY HERE ON INSPECTION TOUR.

  WILL TELEGRAPH WHEN I CAN TRAVEL TO SONORA.

  SEND WORD IF YOU HAVE TO LEAVE.

  GEORGE CROOK.

  FORT DOUGLAS, ARIZONA TERRITORY.

  ‘You wish to reply?’ The Mexican sergeant spoke in heavily-accented English.

  Sundance nodded. He took the pad and pencil and printed: will wait. The sergeant saluted again and went out, full of self-importance. He was impressed with his role as the bearer of a message to George Crook, the famous American general, who was as well known in northern Mexico as he was in the United States. Only a year before Crook had led a joint force of American and Mexican cavalry against Geronimo’s mountain stronghold. In a short, bloody campaign he had defeated the fierce Apache raider and forced him to lead his warriors back to the reservation. Sundance had been with him then, as chief scout. At that time the two old friends had promised themselves that they would return to Mexico at the first opportunity to hunt the great cat, el tigre, in the wilderness of the Sierra Madre. The two men, whose friendship was a mystery to many, had looked forward to this hunt for a long time. It would be good to get away from civilization for a few weeks, to push far back into the uncharted mountains, to places where few men had ever been, sleeping in the open, cooking meat they shot, getting the stink of towns out of their lungs.

  Sundance continued to work on the big rifle. Outside the casa de huespedes the fierce July sun beat down on the deserted street. Down the hall the room reserved for George Crook stood empty. It wasn’t much of a room and Las Piedras wasn’t much of a town. On one side was the desert, on the other the great threatening mass of the Sierra Madre. An ancient, crumbling cathedral dominated the town square. A mile or so outside of town was the fort. Now, with the window open, a hot wind stirring the yellowed curtains, he could hear bugles and the rattle of drums. At night the soldiers who had money came into town to drink in the cantinas, and there was much shouting and singing until they straggled back to the fort.

  Sundance inspected the Remington for dust. A professional fighting man took care of his horse and his weapons before he looked to his own needs. The Remington Rolling-block was a weapon he prized greatly, for it was a gift from George Crook. Crook was known to the Indians as Three Stars, a name that Sundance himself used. The rifle was one of the most accurate in existence, a beautifully made single shot that fired a cartridge with 70 grains of black powder. It could reach out and drop a grizzly at more than 300 yards. If a hunter knew what he was doing one bullet was all he needed. A man hit by a bullet from the Remington never survived—it knocked him over like the hand of God.

  The rolling block consisted of a mechanism at the breech end of the barrel which rotated about a heavy pin driven at right angles through the receiver of the rifle. To load, you thumbed back the hammer to full cock, rolled the breechblock back, exposing the breech. A bullet could now be inserted in the chamber and the breechblock flipped forward into place. It was a powerful, durable weapon—one that would last the lifetime of a man and beyond.

  After Sundance finished working on the big rifle he replaced it in the waterproof scabbard and buckled the strap over the butt. Then he went out to the hallway and called the youngest son of the hotelkeeper. The boy came running, eager to earn the silver dollar Sundance always gave him to watch his weapons when he went out. This was Mexico where guns were more precious than gold, more sought after than tequila or food, a land where men would kill to gain possession of a rusty muzzle-loader.

  The boy’s name was Anselmo. He had dark, intelligent eyes and an excitable way of talking. ‘I will guard your fine weapons with my life, Señor Sundance,’ he said. ‘I will cut out the heart of the man who tries to take them.’ He displayed a murderous-looking knife with a ten-inch blade. He sat on the rickety chair by the window and held the knife across his knee.

  Sundance smiled at the boy. ‘No need for any of that,’ he said. ‘I’m not going far. I’ll be right next door at the cantina.’ He flipped the silver dollar to the boy who caught it with his left hand.

  ‘Gracias, Señor Sundance,’ the boy said, smiling broadly. ‘I hope you stay here for a long time. I would guard your weapons even if you did not give me money. It is an honor.’

  Sundance wanted nothing more than to be gone from Las Piedras with its dusty streets and its swaggering, drunken soldiers, but he didn’t want to hurt the boy’s feelings. ‘It is an honor to have you as my sentry,’ he said as he went out into the sunblasted street.

  The cantina beside the hotel was the best in town. It was called the Esplendor. The proprietor had lived in El Paso and prided himself on the cleanliness of his establishment. He called himself Joe and his Mexican-born Mormon wife did the cleaning while he drank steadily throughout the day. He wore a black suit, a white rubber collar and a yellow ribbon tie. He always welcomed Sundance as a fellow American far from home.

  ‘Ah, my good friend,’ he told Sundance when he came in. ‘I was beginning to think you had deserted me for some other cantina. The thought of such a thing made my heart sad, but then I thought to myself Señor Sundance would never do that. Where else in all this miserable town would he find such comfort, such good food—such cleanliness—as i
n the Esplendor. Was I wrong in thinking that, my friend?’

  ‘You speak the truth,’ Sundance answered formally. He knew what was expected of him. Mexicans were always formal—even when they were preparing to cut your throat. It was a country where even murderers had good manners. ‘I was thinking of a steak and a pot of coffee. Is that possible so early in the day?’

  Joe drew himself up to his full height of five fat feet. ‘For no one else but you, my friend. For you I would slaughter a cow and grind coffee with my own hands. These hands!’

  ‘Thank you,’ Sundance said. He sat down.

  It was a good steak. He was halfway through it when the batwing doors banged open and Jorge Calderon came in. He was five years older now, but that wasn’t why Sundance didn’t recognize him at once. The years hadn’t treated him well. It showed in the pallor of his face, the stoop in his shoulders and the shabbiness of his town suit. A brown pint bottle stuck out of one of his side pockets. He walked past Sundance to the bar and slapped it with his hand. Joe came out of the kitchen and frowned when he saw who was demanding to have his bottle filled with mescal.

  ‘I am sorry, Señor Calderon,’ he began. His manner was a mixture of hostility and embarrassment. ‘It is better you go someplace else. I have told you.’

  ‘What’s the matter?’ Calderon asked. He rapped the top of the bar with the empty bottle. ‘Don’t you think I can pay for it? Or have you had your orders like the rest of them, these old women who call themselves men?’

  Joe said, ‘I refuse to be insulted, Señor Calderon. You have been drinking. You will go away now—and stay away. No mescal for you—nothing I have to sell can be bought by you. No one gives me orders. This is my cantina and I do not want you here.’

  Calderon said something Sundance didn’t understand and turned away from the bar, putting the bottle into his pocket at the same time. His face was angry, but his eyes had a defeated look.

  Sundance called out, ‘Jorge, don’t you know your old friend?’

  It was early in the day and the cantina was empty except for the three men. In the kitchen, Joe’s wife was singing in German. Calderon turned slowly to look at Sundance. ‘¡Dios!’ he said, ‘it is you! It’s so dark in here I didn’t see ...’

  Sundance pointed to a chair and smiled. ‘There’s plenty of coffee, but you’re not looking for coffee.’

  Calderon sat down heavily after they shook hands. Behind the bar Joe looked like a man who had been handed a big surprise. For want of something to do, he began to rub the bar with a rag soaked in furniture wax. It was already very shiny, but he kept on rubbing, his fat face wrinkled with unanswered questions. Though he was the proud owner of the cleanest, most prosperous cantina in Las Piedras, he didn’t look happy.

  Sundance, who hadn’t been told anything yet, wondered what in hell was going on. ‘I take it you have a thirst for mescal,’ he said to Calderon.

  ‘You take it right,’ Calderon said in English. ‘The hair of the dog. I had what they call a late night. Now I know what I’m doing in Las Piedras—I have the misfortune of living in this flea-bitten metropolis—but why are you here?’

  ‘In a minute, Jorge.’ Sundance called out, ‘Mescal for my friend here and fill his bottle, too.’

  The fat cantina owner hesitated as though he wanted to say something important. Then he shrugged and reached for the five-gallon jug of mescal behind the bar. He filled a glass with the fiery brandy and brought it to the table. Jorge Calderon gave him the empty pint bottle and he took it away.

  ‘Nothing for me,’ Sundance said. ‘You know I can’t handle booze of any kind.’

  Gulping down half the glass of mescal, Jorge said, ‘Nor can I, if the truth be told. But it keeps me going. Gets me to sleep, and keeps me asleep when I need it. Helps me forget the things I want to forget.’

  Sundance didn’t say anything. An explanation would come in good time, or not at all. Jorge Calderon was a friend, but you didn’t poke around in a man’s private affairs unless you were invited.

  Joe came back with the bottle and set it down without a word. Then he went into the kitchen and Sundance heard him whispering to his wife. The singing started again, louder this time, and Joe came back and stood behind the bar, pretending to be busy, but trying to hear every word they said.

  Jorge finished the mescal and seemed to breathe more easily. ‘I’ll never live to be ninety if I keep on drinking that stuff,’ he said. ‘You still like to smoke potaguaya?’

  ‘Now and then. Marijuana suits me better than mescal or any other booze you can name. Booze never got me into anything but trouble.’

  Calderon laughed. ‘Remember the time you broke up the bar in that fancy French hotel in Mexico City?’

  Sundance remembered but didn’t laugh about it. That was when they were both fighting for Juarez. Maximilian was dead, stood up against an adobe wall and shot with the rest of his generals. The long war was over and Mexico City went wild along with the rest of the country. Sundance went wild too, drinking fine French brandy straight from the bottle. He was so wild that Jorge Calderon and five men had to tie him up. Over the years there had been other wild drinking bouts until he had finally and painfully learned to leave alcohol alone.

  ‘You still haven’t said what you’re doing in Sonora,’ Jorge said. ‘Don’t tell me if you don’t want to.’

  Sundance pushed his plate away, drank his coffee and told Jorge about the hunting trip with Crook. ‘If he can get away that’s what we plan to do,’ he said.

  ‘¡Dios! Now there is a man, General Crook. If only we had such a general in Sonora.’

  ‘To do what, Jorge?’

  Jorge lowered his voice after glancing at Joe who was still listening behind the bar. ‘Your friend the general would do to the slave traders what he did to the gunrunners and renegades in your own country. He would hang them and then he would read his Bible over their graves. A just man, a religious man, your General Crook.’

  Sundance wondered how much mescal Jorge had been drinking. ‘What are you talking about? What slave traders? I thought all that was finished years ago.’

  ‘And so it was, for a while. But as long as there is money to be made out of human misery, evil men will be there to make it. The slavers are back, not as brazen as they were, but they are back. And Dios help me—a dying man and a drunk—I am trying to stop them.’ Jorge laughed bitterly. ‘And I am a third thing—a lawyer. Don’t you think that’s funny?’

  Sundance said, ‘You often talked about it when we were with Juarez. Suppose you stop talking through that bottle and give it to me straight.’

  Jorge corked the bottle and put it back in his pocket. ‘You remember how I used to say Mexico must become a country of law. Not a lot of dead laws on the books, hundreds of useless laws—but real law. Law for the poor as well as the powerful. So after the army broke up, you went back to the United States. I worked, I studied and sometimes I starved until finally, one day, I was a lawyer. Oh yes, old friend, I had big dreams then. I was going to right all the wrongs. There would be justice as well as law. I went back to Morelos—hot, damp, steamy, beautiful Morelos—and I tried. Dios knows how I tried! But nothing had changed, nothing was about to change because of me. The people were free—free to starve—while the landowners grew fatter than before. I worked day and night until I made myself sick. My lungs were no longer any good. But I kept working until one day a doctor told me that I would die if I did not go to the deserts of the north. So I came to Sonora.’

  Sundance nodded. ‘Get on with it, Jorge.’

  ‘The doctor said I must rest, sit in the sunshine, breathe the dry desert air. There would still be a chance for me if I took his advice. There was some money from the sale of my dead father’s fine horses. I tried to sit in the sun. I got sick of sitting in the sun. And then I began to hear things. Las Piedras is a small place after all. They were enslaving the Indians again, here in Mexico and up north in New Mexico and Arizona. Hopis, Pimas, Navahos, others. The peaceful
Indians, the farmers and pueblo dwellers. They know better than to trouble the Apaches, but there are even some Apaches who have been made into slaves. Like you, I found this talk hard to believe, but it was true. It is still true. A young man will fetch many hundreds of dollars from the big hacienda owners and mine operators. Children are sold as house servants. Girls as young as twelve are sent to the south to work in brothels. They kill the old people or leave them to starve.’

  ‘You’re sure about all this?’

  ‘As sure as my head hurts. I have been to some of the villages they have raided. I have talked to some of the Indians who have escaped. A young man, a Navaho, told me how he and forty other young men and girls were seized in southern Arizona and driven across the border like cattle. Your army or the Mexican army could stop it, but high-ranking officers on both sides of the border have been bribed. I have written to the Governor of Sonora, even President Diaz himself. Nothing. I have gone to court to try to force the military commander here to take action. Nothing. The law is clear and the law is ignored. Everyone here has been bought off or scared off. You can see why I am not popular.’

  ‘You have been warned?’

  ‘Oh, yes, I have been warned. I am to leave Las Piedras or be killed. Today is the date of departure.’

  ‘Your date or theirs?’

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘Are you going to leave?’

  ‘I don’t think so. I am going to die anyway so it might as well be here. I’d like to live as long as I can, yet I must stay. All last night I sat in my miserable office drinking mescal, surrounded by my dusty law books. I tried to drink enough so I would have the courage to be afraid. Can you understand?’

  ‘In a way. But you’re not dead yet, Jorge.’

  Jorge said quickly, ‘I don’t want you to get mixed up in this, old comrade. This is not your fight, not your country. Stay away from me and go hunting with your general when he comes. There is no way the slavers can be stopped. I see that now.’