Cheyenne Challenge

by William W. Johnstone

  Sizzling lead and hot gases blew off the back of his head. Preacher cranked the barrel again. Another shower of fire arrows made weird sounds overhead. One punched into the rump of a draft mule, which promptly went mad with pain and fright. It broke away from the picket line and crow-hopped toward a wagon side.

  Mrs. Landry appeared at its side to soak its rump with a kettle full of water. Her husband, Art, caught up the animal, snatched the barb from its haunch and worked to calm the beast. “They also serve who stand and wait,” Preacher said to himself.

  Then he unloaded the last barrel into the chest of a lance-wielder who loomed large in his vision. Quickly reholstering the pistol, Preacher reached out in time to take the Hawken from Mrs. Pettibone. “Obliged,” he muttered as he shouldered the rifle and took quick aim.

  Another hostile died and Preacher traded for his other big pistol. If this kept up much longer, he’d be down to his brace of horse pistols. Fully a dozen hostiles lay writhing on the ground, or still in death. So far the drivers had kept the pace with the assault. Preacher picked a target and let fly Shot through the throat, the Kiowa hastily departed the earth for the Happy Hunting Ground. Motion from beyond the swarm of Indians around the wagons caught Preacher’s attention. Their war chief must have gotten over his scare.

  Preacher gathered up the cartridge box for the French rifle and then blasted another hostile off his horse with a ball that shattered the hapless Indian’s collarbone and lodged in his shoulder blade. Preacher turned away.

  “Miz Pettibone, I’d be obliged if you’d load this one for me right away,” he asked, handing her the long-range weapon.

  When he had the French rifle back in hand, Preacher stood and took careful aim at the war leader. When the chest of the Pawnee centered in the sights, Preacher squeezed off with care and rode the mild recoil as the weapon discharged. At that range, it took the bullet a hair over two seconds to reach the target, the sound of the shot a second longer.

  Preacher couldn’t see the surprised look on the war chief’s face when the heavy lead ball smacked into his chest and burst his heart. He did see the buckskin-clad Indian rise in the stirrups and then fling forward along the neck of his mount. At once a loud wailing came from those near to the dead leader. That proved too much for the warriors assaulting the wagon train.

  With yips and howls, they pulled off out of rifle range and sat their ponies wondering aloud what could be done. Preacher seized the moment to try a little medicine of his own. He remained standing in the wagon in full view, raised his rifle over his head and let go a loud whoop.

  “I am White Wolf ! Man Who Kills Silently! White Ghost to the Arapaho, who fear me,” he shouted in Pawnee. “You have lost one of every three. Your war chief is dead. This fight is over. Go now, or you will all meet Corpse Eater before the day ends.”

  The older and wiser among the hostiles now knew only too well who they faced. Badly shaken, they cut worried eyes to the fallen war chief and back to Preacher. A few words were exchanged, then they turned their ponies and withdrew. Many rode with lances reversed, points to the ground, to signify the battle had truly ended.

  “Well, we got out of it that time,” Preacher announced into the stunned silence that followed. “Next point of call, Bent’s Fort.”

  * * *

  Ezra Pease stood spread-legged over the man he had just punched in the mouth and knocked to the ground. “What are you skulking around, spying on us for?” he demanded again.

  “I weren’t spyin’, mister. I heared you was lookin’ for some men with a gun.”

  “And you are, I suppose,” Pease sneered. Anger tended to banish his carefully cultured, rough-hewed, frontier persona. His excellent Eastern upbringing and education seeped out readily. “If you’re such an excellent specimen, how in hell do you explain why my men were able to sneak up on you so easily?”

  “I was—I ... I don’t know,” the lean, rugged man admitted.

  “Where do you call home?” Pease snapped.

  “Mis-Missouri. Really, mister, I ain’t got any bone to pick with you. If you feel I’m not fit for your outfit, jist let me up and I’ll go on my way.”

  Pease looked pleased with himself. “Well, now, we can’t do that, can we? You’ve been watching our camp for the past two days, made a count of how many I have riding for me without a doubt. You have an idea of how many firearms we possess. And, most likely, seen us trading guns and whiskey to the Indians who have dropped in. What’s to keep you from dropping off at the closest settlement and passing all that on to whatever passes there for the law?”

  The man looked blank. “Why, I’d never do that. Didn’ I just say I wanted to get in on it with you?”

  “There’s no room for amateurs in this organization,” Pease stated bluntly. “I suppose we could take you in, but that would be too much like running a charity ward.” So saying, Pease drew one of the fancily engraved, double-barrel pistols from his waistband and eared back the hammer.

  Instantly the drifter’s face washed white. His lower lip trembled and he raised a hand in pleading. “Say now, mister, I don’t even know your name. I’d sure not spread word on you, if you were to let me go, mister, please! ”

  Ezra Pease shot him in the chest. The man jerked and raised on one elbow. Eyes wide and showing a lot of white, he again tried to plead for his life. Only a gush of blood came from his mouth. Pease cocked the second hammer and fired again. This time the ball entered the center of the drifter’s forehead and pulped a mass of brain tissue.

  He jerked and twitched for a while, then lay still. “Drag that trash out of camp,” Pease commanded. “Vic, when are you expecting those men who went after Preacher to report back?”

  Titus Vickers contemplated a second. “Most any time now, Ez.”

  “They had better, and soon. I want that black-hearted jackal dead, dead, dead.”

  7

  Cora Ames stood on a low knoll overlooking Bent’s Fort with one of Preacher’s big hands in both of hers. “I shall never forget the experiences we shared, Preacher. Before now, I never considered myself capable of taking a human life. Not that I’m proud of myself for having done so.”

  “You did what you had to, missy. And I’m sure these folks with you are grateful ... if only they could get it past their gospel-spoutin’ ways an’ admit it. Asa Pettibone turned out to be a mighty cool shot, too. Though I doubt any of you will need those skills back home.”

  Cora sighed. “I really wish we didn’t have to leave here, Preacher. It’s so lovely, so clean and sweet-smelling. I’ll miss it, awfully. Why, when we were up in the mountains north of here, it felt as though I could reach out and touch the hand of God.”

  “You’re not the first to think that, Missy. I said those very words myself for the first time back when I was thirteen. Or was it the year I turned fourteen? No matter.” Preacher flushed slightly, made the more evident by his meticulous shaving which had left only a full, brushy mustache. “I’ll admit, the Big Empty will seem a little more empty with you gone. But, you’ll be safe where you’re headed. Maybe, some day when the Shinin’ Mountains fills up with people-God forbid—it’ll be all right for you to journey here again.”

  He saw the pained expression on her lovely face and hastened to stammer an explanation. “No—not that I mean to ask God to forbid you return. It’s ... jist all those people fillin’ up space out here that rubs wrong.”

  “I understand, Preacher. Well, I had better be getting back to the wagons.”

  “I’ll be leavin’ shortly, so I reckon this is goodbye, Miss Cora Ames.’

  “Not ’goodbye,’ Preacher. Just farewell ... Arthur.” She turned on one neat heel and walked back to her wagon, gathered with the others outside the front wall of the fort.

  Preacher crossed to Thunder and his packhorse. He had resupplied upon their arrival the previous afternoon. Nothing held him back now. He felt good about that. He would head north. Curiosity about the Cheyenne directed that decision. What could b
e stirring them up so much? No one at Bent’s trading post had an idea. Well, at least he’d seen the last of the Bible-thumpers.

  Or so he thought.

  * * *

  With a violent cast of one arm, Ezra Pease hurled the tin cup of coffee at a thick old oak. He showered those near him with the hot, brown liquid. “Goddamn that man! How could he do that? Not a one of them got away?” he asked of the messenger sent from the dozen he had dispatched to bring an end to Preacher.

  “No, sir. All five were done for when we came upon them. It had to be Preacher. There was sign of only one horse and rider and a pack animal.”

  “Five good men lost and we have to send someone else for supplies. Is Preacher headed this way?”

  “More or less. Vickers wanted you to get the word so I rode back while they followed the trail. Looks to me like he’s cuttin’ due north toward Trout Crick Pass.”

  “They’ll get him then.” He turned to those around him. “Time’s running short. We’ll break camp and get on the trail. We need to move further north into Cheyenne country.”

  “Do you think that wise? I mean, considering the slaughter at Black Hand’s village, they might be laying for us,” Two Thumbs Buehler prompted.

  Pease dismissed it contemptuously. “Those savages have the minds of children. By now they’ve forgotten all about that. Besides, the only thing they understand is force. Any who might still remember will have learned their lesson and be on their good behavior. After all, they’ll want the rifles we have so they can make war on the Blackfeet.”

  Activity grew to a bustle then, and Pease took the final cupful from the coffee pot. He laced that with a spoon of sugar and a dollop of whiskey from a silver flask he carried in his full-cut Eastern coat. Privately he considered the impact of that fit of temper over Black Hand’s village on the men who had employed him to create a war between the Blackfeet and Cheyenne. What attitude might they take over it?

  They shouldn’t get too upset. After all, it all went to the ends they desired. The gold was there, waiting, he knew that. And slavery was totally legal everywhere in the country. All that had been outlawed was a man importing fresh slaves from Africa. And Pease held personally that those wooly-buggers would not do well at mining and sluicing gold anyway. Didn’t do well in mountains and cold country either. A man could lose his whole investment that way.

  The only investment in obtaining their slaves would be in a little powder and ball. Let all these starry-eyed idiots strike out in droves from the East. He’d soon have them broken and cowed and bending their backs to dig the yellow metal out of the ground. And he, Ezra Pease would be rich, rich, rich!

  * * *

  A week’s journey to the east of Bent’s Fort, on the old portion of the Santa Fe Trail, which had long been known as “the hard way,” just west of Indian Territory, two wagons had stopped for the night. Silas Phipps, the owner, was being royally catered to by a scruffy band of eight children, aged eight to fifteen.

  They were not kin, rather they were orphans, gathered by Phipps from Eastern cities teeming with castaways. The boys had built a fire ring, kindled a fire, and got it burning well, two hours before sundown. The oldest girl, Ruth, worked with Helen and Gertha to make corn bread, heat a pot of beans from the previous morning, and cut slices from a slab of bacon that had long ago gone green around the edges. They would be needing fresh supplies soon, but Ruth dreaded bringing that up to Phipps.

  When the coffee had boiled long enough, Ruth took a cup to Phipps, who sat in a large, thronelike chair under the spreading branches of a solitary cottonwood. He grunted acknowledgment of it and smacked his lips over the first taste.

  “Tastes peaked,” he grumbled.

  “We—we’re running low on coffee beans,” Ruth responded in a quavery voice.

  “There’s supposed to be some place up ahead where we can get supplies.”

  “Yes. Bent’s Fort. Will we—will we be staying there?” Ruth asked eagerly.

  “Nope. We’re gonna go amongst them New Mexicans,” Phipps expanded. “Santa Fe, that’s the place. Nothin’ but miles and miles of miles and miles around there. We can settle in an’ no one will ever know we’re there.”

  Ruth’s eyes narrowed. “That’s what you want, isn’t it? For us to disappear off the face of the earth.” Her bold confrontation shocked her.

  Phipps squinted his close-set, mean, black eyes and taunted her. “Seems like a good idea, now you mention it. Git along now and tend to supper.”

  Back at the fire, Ruth cut her eyes to Helen. With a nod of her head, Ruth indicated that they should get off to somewhere that offered a bit of privacy. They rounded the wagons and walked a way onto the prairie. Certain they were out of earshot, Ruth still talked in a low, whispery voice.

  “He says we’re going to New Mexico and just ... disappear.”

  “Oh, Ruth, that’s awful. What will happen to us? How can we keep on like ... this?” Tears sprang to Helen’s eyes.

  “I noticed earlier that you’d been cryin’, Helen.”

  “It’s nothin’, Ruthie. I—I just felt bad. It’s so empty out here.”

  “I know, believe me, I do. But, I want you to answer me honestly now. Has Silas been pesterin’ you, too, now?”

  Helen lowered long lashes over her blue eyes and gave a shake of her head, which disturbed the long, auburn sausage curls. “Not—not before this. He—he’s asked me to come to the rear wagon after the younger ones have been put down for the night. I—I’m afraid. I’ve heard ... things, and imagined what he must be doing with you.”

  “It’s not your fault, and it’s not mine. We can’t help what he does and we can’t get away.”

  “I feel so awful, Ruthie. The way he looks at me and licks those fat, ugly lips of his makes me seem so dirty.”

  “It’s not you who’s dirty. He’s the only filth around here.” Ruth planned to say more to comfort Helen, but an only too familiar roar of furious impatience interrupted her.

  “Where’n hell are you lazy girls? Git back to your work.”

  Summoned thusly into the presence of Silas Phipps, the girls stood next to Peter, their faces alight with trepidation. Phipps studied them a while, then pushed out his fleshy lower lip in purple imitation of a small boy’s pout.

  “I got something to tell you,” Phipps began, his voice a raspy taunt. “I been thinkin’ on it, an’ there’s too much law in that Mezkin country around Santa Fe. I’ve decided we will continue west to Bent’s Fort and then figure out where to go next while we’re there.”

  Ruth, Helen, and the twelve-year-old Peter, shared stricken expressions. Only minutes ago he had been talking of settling around Santa Fe. Now Phipps had come up with another vague idea of their destination. It flooded them with despair. They knew that if they were ever to get away from this foul, evil old man it would have to be somewhere with people around. But all realized that the law never gave a damn about orphans. They would most likely be shoved into some cold, grimy institution, like the ones they had escaped so recently, and forgotten. They would have to come upon folks who cared a lot for children. And Ruth had read in a book at the orphanage where she had last been held that the Mexicans thought the world of their children and treated all children kindly.

  Ruth thought fast for a defense of the original destination. “Oh, but you made Santa Fe sound so wonderful, so grand an adventure.”

  “You can forget all about it now. We’re goin’ somewhere else. Now, git back to your cookin’ before you feel my switch. An’ you, little miss,” he directed to Helen. “Don’t forget our little talk a while back. I’ll be lookin’ for you.”

  * * *

  Three of them. Preacher studied the faint sign left by the men ahead of him on the trail and made note of the distinctive marks that separated the trio. They had left no more tracks than he did.

  “Mountain men for sure,” he said aloud. “Wonder if I know them?”

  An hour later he came upon the three, stopped to give the
ir horses a blow. A wide, white smile split Preacher’s face. He knew them for sure. That big, house of a man in the bearskin vest could be no one but Beartooth. The slender, hawk-nosed feller to his right had to be Nighthawk. Which made the last the dapper Frenchman, Dupre. Preacher skirted the trail and circled behind his old friends.

  He dismounted and made a cautious approach. They would jump right out of their britches when he walked in among them, he reckoned. When he reached a spot some ten yards from the trio, Nighthawk spoke up loudly.

  “Did anyone ever tell you that you made too much noise, Preacher?”

  Laughing, Preacher stepped out from among the aspen. “Ain’t lost your hearin’ yet, I see, Nighthawk. How long have you knowed I was behind you and that it was me?”

  “Better part of half an hour, Preacher,” Beartooth boomed. He gave Preacher a mighty hug and all three danced around a while, slapping one another on the back.

  “Still ugly as always,” Dupre gleefully insulted Preacher. “When are you going to learn that clothes make the man?”

  Preacher studied Dupre’s store-bought coat, shirt, vest, and trousers and waggled his head in dismay. “You look like that Prince Albert, I swear, Dupre. Don’t you think you are a mite overdressed for where you are?”

  Dupre sniffed. For all his fine attire, his full mane of black hair was incongruously hidden under a fox-skin cap. “We are wearing our finest because we are on our way to visit Beartooth’s in-laws.”

  Preacher removed his still stiffly new felt hat and scratched his head. “Last I heard, you was hitched up with a Cheyenne gal, Beartooth. That still right?”

  “Right as rain, Preacher. She’s a good cook,” he added with a slap to his hard slab belly.

  Preacher cocked an eyebrow. “Might not be the best time to visit with the Cheyenne,” he suggested.