Cheyenne Challenge

by William W. Johnstone

  To do that, he paid them the infrequent compliment of meeting them at the edge of the village, instead of waiting in his lodge until they made their presence known. Behind him ranged a dozen warriors, one for each of the whites, weapons to hand but not held at the ready. A ring of women, children, and camp dogs formed behind them. Cheyenne ponies neighed greetings to their iron-shod brothers from the meadow to the left. The one who looked to be the whites’ leader reined up in front of Black Hand and made the universal sign for peace.

  “I am called Pease,” he announced.

  Better he spoke the language of the people, Black Hand thought as he answered in fair English. “I am Black Hand.”

  “Good,” Pease responded, then went on to diminish their welcome. “I’m glad someone around here speaks a sensible language. We’ve come to trade.”

  “What do you have to trade with us?”

  Grinning, Pease turned in the saddle and gestured to one of the heavily laden packhorses. “Well, now, I was just fixin’ to show you. I think your bucks are gonna like what we have.”

  “Come in among our lodges then. We will eat, smoke, then make trade.” A slight frown furrowed the high, smooth brow of Black Hand. He wanted the rifles this man brought, but he didn’t like the insulting way the one called Pease spoke.

  “Mighty generous of you, Chief, but we ain’t got the time. Need to be pushin’ on. We’ll just break out our goods right here.”

  “Too close to the ponies,” Black Hand protested.

  Meanin’ you know we’ve got rifles, you old fox, Pease thought as he gave in with a shrug and led the way behind the chief to the center of the village. All considered, the white men received a warm welcome. Black Hand did give in to their time concerns by offering the bare minimum of food, a quantity any decent Cheyenne would consider insultingly small. While the women brought it, Pease directed his henchmen to unload the whiskey and open one crate of rifles.

  Black Hand’s eyes narrowed when he recognized the XX marking on the barrels taken from the gray horse. For all he wanted the rifles, he had no use of the spirit-stealing water. Even so, convention required him to wait, with mounting anger, until Pease had finished rambling on about the excellence of the rifles he had brought.

  “You may stay and trade, but the headache water must go,” Black Hand stated with a noticeable lack of diplomacy.

  Pease took on an expression as though he had just been struck. “Well, now, I don’t see any reason for that. ’Never trust a man who won’t take a drink,’ my poppa always said. Won’t do no harm. C’mon, Chief, I’ll fill you the first cup.”

  “Take it out of my village,” Black Hand demanded hotly.

  Angry mutters rose among the warriors surrounding the white men, and Pease noted that they apparently shared their chief’s dislike of liquor. There appeared to be nearly twenty-five of them, all armed. Although only a few had pistols or old trade muskets, Pease knew that a good man could get off six arrows in the time it took to recharge a rifle or pistol. At this range it would be slaughter.

  He also considered their usual practice of getting the savages drunk and then trading for inferior rifles and even smooth-bores instead of the fine weapons displayed beforehand. They got more valuable trade items that way, too. Pease noticed the reaction of his men. They were spoiling to do something rash. If they wanted to come out of this with their hair, he had to act fast.

  “Uh—sure. Anything you say, Chief. You boys put that whiskey back on the packsaddle, hear?”

  Two hours went by haggling over the rifles. Shrewd barterers, the Cheyenne gave precious little of value and wound up with the good weapons to boot. All in all, Ezra Pease considered they had gotten the better of the deal in that they got out of the camp with scalps in place.

  From the top of the ridge, he looked back on the village. “We’re coming back to this place,” he declared ominously.

  3

  Three of the scruffiest, louse-infested louts Preacher had ever seen in the Big Empty hunkered down around a hastily constructed ring of stones at the bottom of the slope. They warmed their hands over the coals that roasted hunks of fresh-killed venison and slopped down coffee from steaming tin cups. He took that in with his first glance. Then his eyes narrowed and his lips turned down as he viewed the rest of the scene.

  A trio of men lay sprawled in death, two of them clearly back-shot. A fourth, whom Preacher recognized at once, lay with his back against an aspen sapling, several turns of rope binding him in place. He had also been shot, although in the leg. John Luscomb, Preacher named the captive as he studied the grayed face behind a brush of beard.

  That would make the others Quail Egg Walker, Trent Luddy, and ’Possum Smith. The four had been partnered up for a number of years, trying to make up for low prices with volume. They had also scouted for a couple of the pestiferous wagon trains making the westward push, shot meat for the soldier boys, and done other odd jobs available to men who preferred to live the solitary, free life of the High Lonesome. Well, they had been done dirt, for certain sure.

  One of the many things no mountain man could abide was treachery. The ruined campsite showed no indication of a prolonged struggle. No doubt, Preacher read the signs, the three piles of buzzard puke had come on friendly, gotten in among Luscomb and the others and done their foul deed. It seemed to Preacher that a little lesson in right and wrong was in need.

  With that in mind, he withdrew from the screening line of pines and walked Thunder down in the clear. At about a hundred yards, he howdied the camp and asked to ride in. Their bellies full of pilfered supplies and fresh meat, the three killers tended to be friendly. And, after all, it was only one man. They could easily jump him, rob him, and kill him once his suspicions cooled down.

  Preacher approached with caution and dismounted still some distance from the scuzzy trash. He cut his eyes around the clearing. “Looks like you had some ruckus.”

  “That we did, friend,” said a gap-toothed brute with a brow so low it left no room to hang a hat on his forehead. “This bunch of driftin’ trash came up on us and tried to give us what for. We tooken care of them, didn’ we, boys?”

  “Sure enough. That’s what we did, all right,” a sawed-off, shallow faced punk with dirty yellow hair joined in.

  “Don’t reckon anyone will miss them,” Preacher drawled.

  “No. Not likely. It’s gettin’ so a man don’t know who to trust out here anymore.”

  Preacher fought to keep the disgust from showing on his face. “I’d say that’s mighty keen figgerin’:” He’d heard enough of their lies. So he cut his eyes to Luscomb. ”What do you figger ought to be done now, John?”

  “Kill ’em all, Preacher.” John Luscomb gave the obvious answer.

  “Preacher! ” the acne-ravaged punk squealed.

  “Ohmygod!” gulped the smooth liar.

  “Mother Mary, help me!” an Irish-looking dirtbag wailed.

  In all their reactions, every one of them forgot to draw iron. Preacher’s big, right-hand pistol spoke with final authority. The first barrel, double-shotted, discharged its burden into the chest and gut of the gap-toothed braggard. He promptly sat down, spraddle legged, and lost his supper. Preacher ignored him to turn another barrel into position.

  He banged off another twin load at about the same time as the remaining pair concluded that they had a fight on their hands. The black-haired son of Erin actually got to one of a trio of pistols shoved behind his wide, leather belt. He had it out and the hammer back when Preacher’s second shot took him through the throat and his open, cursing mouth.

  His legs jerked reflexively and he flopped over on his back as the rear of his skull exploded in the late afternoon air. By then, Preacher had worked the complicated trigger mechanism to put the next barrel in line.

  “It flat irritates me,” he lectured the dough-faced fugitive from someone’s secondary school, “when I come across four men I count as friends, one shot up an’ the others murdered in cold blood by bu
zzard punks like you three.”

  “I didn’ have anythin’ to do with it,” the juvenile trash whined as he wet his trousers.

  “You don’t lie any better than these other horses’ patoots. Now, you gonna use one of those pistols you’re totin’ or do you want to settle it another way?”

  Such an option had not occurred to the trashy brat. “Like what?”

  Preacher’s lips quirked rapidly up and down. “There’s always knives. Or how about war hawks? I’m sure John here would lend you his.”

  The young punk blanched even whiter. “I won’t do nothin’ like this ever again I swear it,” he pleaded.

  “Oh, I know you won’t. ’Cause youd best face it, you murderin’ scum. One way or the other, you’re gonna die this very day.”

  “But I don’t want to die! I’m—I’m too young to die.”

  “You’re old enough to pack those shooters, you’re old enough to die with one of them in your hand. Now, pull iron, or I’ll just up and kill you with my bare hands,” Preacher growled ferociously.

  Quaking with fear, desperation decided the boy’s actions. He clamped palsied fingers around the butt-stock of a Hopkins. 64 caliber, single-barrel pistol, and yanked it free from his waistband. As he raised it to eye-level, he was surprised to see the black hole of the awesome four-barrel pistol in Preacher’s hand centered steadily on his forehead. Flame spurted from the muzzle and became the last thing that piece of human vermin ever saw.

  Preacher watched him twitch awhile, then walked over to the aspen. He bent low and cut John Luscomb free. A second length bound the mountain man’s hands behind him. Preacher sliced through it and Luscomb remained in place, flexed his wrists, rubbed them to revive circulation and beamed a wide smile up at his rescuer.

  “You done good, Preacher.”

  “I’m only sorry I didn’t happen along sooner. Might have saved your partners.” He knelt beside Luscomb and cut away the buckskin trouser leg to reveal the wound.

  “We all got our time to be called,” John Luscomb responded philosophically.

  Preacher nodded agreement. “Though it don’t seem fittin’ to be at the hands of maggoty trash like these. I got some Who-Shot-John. Take a few knocks and hang on.”

  “I’ll wait ’till it’s over,” a white-lipped John Luscomb said. Preacher nodded, then probed the through-and-through hole with a peeled willow stick. Luscomb gasped, gritted his teeth and nearly passed out. When Preacher finished his exploration, he rocked back on moccasin heels.

  “It went plum through.”

  “Good. Didn’t hit no bleeder either, or I’d be a goner by now. We gonna bury them?” Luscomb asked.

  “Hell no. Let the buzzards claim their own. Where you headin’, John?”

  “With this bullet through my leg, I reckon I’ll mosey up toward the trading post.”

  “I’m for Trout Crick Pass myself,” Preacher advised him, as he bandaged Luscomb’s wound. “Don’t reckon you’ll fork a horse too well. I’ll rig a travois an’ come mornin’ we can go on in together.”

  “Mighty nice of you, Preacher. I’ll be obliged.”

  “Naw, you won’t He offered the whiskey jug. “Not after givin’ me such a prime opportunity to rid the earth of some of its filth. Can you do for some eats and coffee while I cut saplin’s and tend my horseflesh?”

  “Sure enough. If they didn’t eat it all.”

  “I can see to that, if needs be,” Preacher added as he headed to picket out and unsaddle Thunder and the packhorse. First, though, he saw to reloading his pistol. Never could tell what else might happen by.

  * * *

  Ezra Pease sat on a folding camp stool and glowered into the embers of the fire in front of his gray canvas tent. The more he thought of the loss of high quality rifles and plenty of powder, lead, and molds to those stinking savages, the madder he got. Forced to knuckle under to a man whose people had not even managed to invent the wheel rubbed him in a sore spot. He had been smarting over it for several days.

  Morale had fallen among the men as a result. He knew that, though would have been hard-pressed to articulate it that way. The men he sent for supplies had not been in camp as yet to hear of the humiliation. Perhaps when they returned their enthusiasm would fire up the others. Pease came to his boots and crossed to a small trestle table where he poured half a cup of good Tennessee sour mash from a barrel of his private stock. None of that snake-head rotgut he provided for the Indians for as refined a taste as his. After the second sip, sudden inspiration illuminated him.

  “Vic,” he summoned his second in command. “Come here.” When the lean, hard six-footer arrived, worry lines furrowed his brow. It gave his gaunt face more of a human aspect, rather than the likeness of a skull, its usual appearance. “It’s bound to be another three, four days before Ham and the boys get back from the pass. I want to round up everyone in camp at first light tomorrow. We’re going back to teach those savages a lesson.”

  “You think that’s wise, Ez?” Titus Vickers asked.

  “I think it’s necessary, which counts for more. You’ve seen how the men go around all hang-dog. Give them a little blood to let and they’ll snap right out of it.”

  * * *

  Preacher’s keen hearing, enhanced by years of having little or nothing to dull it, picked up the clamor long before they scaled the long, muddy slope to the clearing at the summit of Trout Creek Pass. He screwed his features into an expression of distaste, halted Thunder and went back to check on John Luscomb. Hands on hips, Preacher tilted his head in the direction of the clearing ahead.

  “Can ya hear that carryin’ on?”

  “Don’t, I reckon. Sounds like a passel more of them brain-numb pilgrims.”

  “Perzactly,” Preachers napped with a sharp snort. “Now what in tarnation could have brought them clear up here? Ain’t no clear trail to the Oregon Trail this-a-way.”

  “No accountin’ for pilgrims’ whims, Preacher. Say, you got a bit more of that Who Flung Chuck? My leg’s givin’ me a mite of a twinge.”

  A gross understatement. Mountain men were known for many things, a high pain threshold one of the more notable. Any lesser man than John Luscomb would have been a screaming wretch long before this. Preacher dug into the smaller of two parfleche envelopes on the right side of the packsaddle and pulled out his rapidly dwindling supply of whiskey.

  “Swill down your fill, John. We’ll be resupplyin’ right soon.”

  “How much longer?”

  “Quarter hour, tops,” Preacher estimated.

  “That long? From the beller that’s rollin’ down on us, I’d have judged we be no more than a long rifle shot from the place.”

  “Waugh! When I think of all them East Coast idjits swarmin’ out here, ruinin’ our clean, purty-smellin’ country, I just just want to bawl.” Preacher did a double-take, blinked, and nodded. “I do. I done said it an’ I mean it, too. Makes a feller plu-perfect sick to see it all happenin’.”

  “Won’t argue with you,” Luscomb said by way of agreement. “First thing you know, they’ll be puttin’ them iron rails out here with those steam cars runnin’ on ’em.”

  Preacher wore a rueful expression. “Pilgrim type told me about them near a year ago. Didn’t believe him at the time. Then I flung myself back East way for a spell and seen them with my own eyes. Still don’t know if I believe in them. Somethin’ that’d go that fast would plain suck the air out of a body.”

  “Seems likely.” Luscomb took another long pull, smacked sallow lips. “Might as well be on our way.” He offered the jug. “Best you take a little to keep off the chill.”

  Preacher accepted the ceramic jug and put it to his lips. His Adam’s apple rose once, sank, then rose again, and went still. “A little is all there was, John.” He peered closely at the container. “You know, I think this thing’s got a hole in it.”

  Glassy-eyed, John slurred his words. “Sure does. Right up there at the top ... for whiss I’m e-ternal grateful.” Gently, he s
lumped into a boozy daze.

  Preacher got the horses moving again and his scowl deepened with each hoof fall as he gradually made out the antlike crawl of humanity between buildings and white-capped wagon boxes. “Damn,” he muttered over and over. “Damn pilgrims.”

  * * *

  “Stars and garters!” the big, burly man in the doorway to the trading post bellowed when he recognized the rider approaching. “It’s Preacher. How’d you winter out in that place?”

  “Just fine, Walt,” Preacher answered.

  Then Walt Hayward saw the bundle on the travois. “Who you got here?”

  “John Luscomb. He ran afoul of some cowardly trash.”

  Hayward bustled to the travois. His belly swelled out as far as his barrel chest, but consisted of a slab of solid muscle. He frowned as he looked down on the wounded man.

  “We’ll have to get you in a good bed for a while,” he commiserated.

  Luscomb roused enough to respond. “I’d rather it were a lean-to, if you don’t mind, Walt.”

  “Good. He can reckanize folks he’s seen before.”

  “Well, hell, Walt, he’s shot in the leg, not in the head,” Preacher drawled.

  The bearlike Hayward chose to ignore the sarcasm. He tugged on his shaggy, salt-and-pepper beard. “I’ll get Lone Deer to fix up one of those little cabins we built last fall. Now, c’mon, Preacher, I’ve got something important to talk to you about.”

  “I’d favor a drink of your good rye, first, Walt. I’m right on the edge of bein’ parched.”

  “Fair enough,” the trader allowed and led the way inside.

  After the first tin cup of whiskey went down Preacher’s throat with the speed of one of those steam cars, Walt poured another and launched into his appeal. “What we’ve got here is somewhat of a problem. I’m sure you saw the pilgrims out there. They wintered at Bent’s an’ now they’re up here all full of piss and vinegar. Well, they’re real pilgrims, if you catch my drift? It’s a flock of missionaries on their way, so they say, to bring the Word to the heathen Injuns.”