Cheyenne Challenge

by William W. Johnstone

  The dowager quickly revised her appellation of gentleman when first Preacher, then Beartooth, Dupre, and Nighthawk drifted out of the trees and came down among them. Preacher looked around and then addressed himself to Bobby.

  “You picked a good place. Only thing is you left too much sign.”

  Bobby looked chagrined. “I never thought of that. Are those men coming after us?”

  “The ones who hit your train, boy?” Preacher asked.

  “Yeah. Er—I’m Bobby Gresham. Are they after us?” Bobby asked again, uncertainty in his eyes.

  Preacher reassured him. “Not that we saw any sign of them. Pulled off to the north from the looks of it.” He cut his eyes to the dowager and removed his hat like one would in polite society. “My name’s Preacher, ma’am.”

  “Y-you’re a minister?” she asked with inevitable doubt.

  “No, ma’am. I’m on speakin’ terms with the Almighty, but I ain’t one of his servants. I—all of us—used to trap beaver before the demand dried up. These mountains,” Preacher made a sweeping gesture to encompass their surroundings, “is sort of our home stompin’ grounds.”

  “I’m Flora Sanders, this is Mrs. Grace Kenny, and this is Mrs. Falicity Jones. You’ve met Bobby, the other boys are Chris and Nick Walker.”

  “Did ... anyone else ... get away?” Nick, the youngest, asked with trepidation.

  Preacher pulled an uncomfortable expression. Telling folks, and young ones in particular, that near everyone they held dear had died was a hard task. “I’m afraid not, son. You folk must be the only ones got away.”

  “Th-then I’m a widow we all are,” Falicity Jones cried in a tiny voice.

  Preacher cut his eyes to Falicity for his first good look. What he saw was a devastatingly beautiful, young woman. Robust and busty, and quite obviously pregnant. She spoke on, stammering now. “My—my ba-baby wi-will be born an—an orphan!”

  Preacher knew a great deal about a lot of things. He didn’t know much about women. Particularly women in such a state. All he could do was answer, haltingly, “I—I’m afraid so, Mrs. Jones.”

  Wise in the mood shifts of her gender, Mrs. Sanders stepped into the breech. “I’m sorry to say we are all widows now, Falicity. But life does go on. What are we to do about that, Mr.—ah—Preacher?”

  “There’s a couple of wagon boxes didn’t get burned clear down. And I reckon we can find enough stock to pull them. Gather what you brought with you and we’ll start back to where you was ambushed.” He paused and thought on it. “After that, it’s closer to go on to Trout Crick Pass than back to Bent’s. What is a puzzlement to me is what you folks were doin’ wanderin’ up into this country in the first place?”

  “We were told it was a short-cut to the Immigrant Trail,” Flora Sanders told him.

  “It’s that, right enough, but not for tenderfeet and wagons. You headed to Oregon?”

  “Well, sort of. We were told back East that prime land abounded in the Snake River country.”

  “Oh, it’s fine land,” Preacher told her dryly. “Only thing is it’s swarmin’ with Nez Perce, Bannock, and Shoshoni. And they all feel mighty touchy about people settlin’in there.”

  “Then we were lied to?” Mrs. Sanders asked indignantly.

  “Not exactly There is fine country thereabouts. Let’s say whoever told you about it and left out the Injuns sort of misrepresented the facts.”

  “Then what shall we do?” three of the women chorused.

  “You can rest up at the trading post in Trout Crick Pass, and resupply. Then I’d advise you get a good guide, turn back and head for Bent’s Fort.”

  “But we have no desire to turn back,” Flora Sanders blurted.

  “Suit yourselves,” Preacher said pleasantly. “But don’t expect us to burden ourselves with your protection any further than Trout Crick Pass.”

  Relief at their rescue turned to a smattering of grumpiness after this pronouncement. Ignoring it, the four mountain men helped gather the refugees, and herd them off toward the damaged wagons. Half an hour along the trail, Preacher spoke up to Falicity Jones.

  “Miz Jones, you happen to get a look at the ones who attacked your wagons?”

  “Oh, yes. I’ll never forget their faces.”

  Preacher squinted and cocked his head to one side. “Were they Injuns?”

  “No!” Falicity barked with certainty. “They were all white men. The lowest, crawling, filthy trash on the face of the earth. I shudder to think about ... what happened to those who didn’t get away.”

  “You wouldn’t want to know, ma’am. We’ll make camp just short of the place they hit you. Those big boys, my friends an’ I will go rig up some wagons. Tomorrow we start for Trout Crick Pass.”

  * * *

  Their journey so far had toughened these women and the teenaged boys who had volunteered to protect them. Preacher noted that with satisfaction as the two creaky wagons, assembled from salvaged parts of several, groaned along the narrow trail toward the trading post. At this rate, Preacher figured about five days to reach there. Several of the women had minor injuries, and a child had a cut on one foot. That slowed them considerably.

  At least, Preacher thought, they were under way. The older two boys drove the wagons, while those children who could, walked. Nick had appealed with big, dark blue eyes until Preacher, embarrassed in front of his friends, let the lad ride behind him on Thunder. He would, Nick promised, trade off with the other boys at driving. The peace of their sojourn lasted two days.

  * * *

  Quentin “Squint” Flowers pulled the sodden poultice from the bullet wound in his left bicep and replaced it with a fresh one. Buster Chase helped him bind the bandanna around the injured appendage and stiffened and came to his boots.

  “Hush, y’all,” he harshly whispered to the others of the human vermin who had attacked the wagon train for Ezra Pease. “I hear somethin’.”

  “Sounds like wagons rollin’,” Frank Clower opined.

  “Couldn’t be none of them folks got up from the dead,” Rubber Nose Jaspar declared flatly.

  “I wished we’d stayed with the rest,” Squint Flowers of fered mournfully.

  Frank Clower, the nominal leader eyed him coldly. Squint’s small pox scarred face rivaled the surface of the moon, Frank considered. Those eyes so close together and always scrunched near shut so’s not to be able to tell the color. He made about the ugliest thing a man could look at and not run away. “It was you who whined about them brat boys always sobbin’ an’ takin’ on. Wanted to get away from the li’l snot-noses, you said. Well, you’re away now an’ there’s someone comin’ our way. Rubber Nose, you an’ Buster go take a look.”

  Within ten minutes the two devil’s disciples returned with disturbing news. “They’s some of them wimmin, must have got away when we hit the train, they’s comin’ on in two brokedown wagons. Got four tough-looking fellers with them. Also some kids.”

  Frank pulled a face. “Well, we sure’s hell can’t leave no livin’ witnesses, now can we?”

  “I say we set up a little ambush and finish them off,” Buster Chase suggested. “They ain’t much, jist some soft-in-the-head leftovers from the trappin’ days, an’ there’s seven of us.”

  Frank considered that a while. Seven, with two of them wounded, their mounts tired and the wagons they had along with booty in them to slow them down. “What we ought to do is let them get on by us, then hit them in the rear. Complete surprise and we can take out those trappers, the rest’ll be easy.”

  That decided upon, the human offal melted into the trees and Frank sent Squint Flowers back to obliterate the obvious sign of their presence. It wouldn’t pass muster if anyone took time to study the ground, but folks like these, on the move, would miss the traces. It seemed to take no time for the first outrider to round a bend in the trail and come into view.

  He looked tough, right enough, Frank Clower considered. Especially those pistols in the boxy-looking holsters slung around his h
ips. No nevermind, though. This would be easy. He hunkered down, like the rest of his men, and held his mount’s nose. Slowly, then, the two-wagon cavalcade rolled past.

  Frank gave them time to cover some three hundred yards and round another bend in the track, then motioned his corrupted followers out of concealment. They mounted quickly and left the wagons of loot behind. At a gallop, weapons at the ready, they streaked for the curve ahead. Tubby Slocum took the lead as they rounded the bend.

  He let out a whoop when he saw the wagons, then a strangled cry as he ran into a powerful blast from the Hawken rifle in the hands of Beartooth. The burly mountain man lowered his rifle and got another of the riff-raff with the pistol that quickly filled his hand.

  9

  “Looks like the surprise is on you, buzzard breath,” Beartooth shouted gleefully as he turned aside to avoid an answering volley from men slowed by astonishment.

  Two more rifles cracked and Buster Chase flew from his saddle. One boot hung up in the stirrup and Buster flopped and sprayed the underbrush with his blood as the charging animal ran, unchecked, toward the wagons they had coveted so recently. Nighthawk watched him bound past and chose a pistol to replace his expended trap-door Olin-Hayes. Time later to slide in a paper cartridge and fit a cap in place.

  Preacher gave Nighthawk a cheerful wave as he drew one of his deadly four-shooters and galloped back from the head of the column. The lean mountain man, with the smooth forehead and bright blue eyes, cackled as he drew near.

  “Hee-hee, looks like it worked perfect. Damned amateurs, can’t do anything right,” Preacher chortled.

  He filled his sights with the shocked face of Rubber Nose Jasper and shot away the pliable appendage that had earned Jasper his sobriquet. Jasper howled and clapped a hand over the blood-spouting stump. It brought him no mercy, though, as Preacher put another ball through Jasper’s brisket.

  Preacher bent forward to work the trigger mechanism and revolve the barrels again when a ball cracked through the space his head had occupied a moment before. That was down-right unfriendly, he judged it. Such goin’s on would have to be brung to an end, and damn fast.

  Preacher let his gaze rove over the remaining thugs and spotted the likely shooter. His big pistol banged out and the scowl of anger at missing changed to an expression of horror as Preacher’s ball set off a bright flash in the brain pan of the lowly rubbish that illuminated his on-rushing afterlife.

  Squint Flowers made an error in judgment. He continued his fatally determined charge against the men around the wagon instead of diving for cover among the boulders strewn along the road. He ran right into a pair of speeding balls fired by Dupre and Preacher. Flowers rose above his saddle and hung suspended a moment, before plopping into the churned-up turf to kick and jerk until death stilled his jammed reflexes.

  Seeing this, Frank Clower managed to slow his horse and turn about. With balls chasing him, and Hashknife close at his side, he beat a hasty retreat. Preacher went to his second pistol and downed another lump of Pease slime. Through the fury of battle, Preacher faintly sensed a reduction in the volume of fire. A cross-eyed lout in a paisley shirt slid from his mount, caught himself at the last minute, and staggered toward the shelter of a boulder.

  He didn’t make it. Preacher fired a double-shotted load that put the first ball across the outer surface of the hard case’s thigh and the second through its meaty portion. He went down in a graceless sprawl. Preacher gigged Thunder and approached the wounded man.

  Two of the vermin who had taken shelter opened up in desperation then, intent on fixing Preacher’s wagon once and for all. They both shot wide of the target and received a vengeful response from Dupre and Nighthawk. Lead balls howled off the convex faces of the granite lumps and showered each killer scum with fragments.

  One of them, blinded by rock chips and slivers of lead, stumbled out into the open, one hand pawing at his blood-streaming eyes, the other holding a pistol, which he discharged wildly. Not all that wild, Preacher discovered when he felt the wind of the ball’s passage by his cheek. Once more he gave thanks to the All Wise Above for guiding him to pause long enough to let little Nick jump from Thunder’s rump onto the seat of the lead wagon before answering the call of the attack. That ball would have finished the little lad right smartly.

  A pang of sorrowful remembrance of young Eddie2, so like the saucy image of Nick, came to Preacher as he let go the final load in his pistol and split the breast bone of the trashy thug. Dupre’s rifle banged loudly close at hand and the last skulker in the rocks gave up his hold on life.

  “C’est fini,” Dupre declared.

  “Yeah, it’s done, all right,” Preacher agreed. “Let’s check out the bodies.”

  They found one man still with breath in him. “Buster Chase,” he gasped out his name. “You boys done kilt me good. H-how’d you know we was back there?”

  “A blind ten-year-old could tell where you left the trail and tried to cover it up,” Preacher said with sincere contempt.

  “Who be you men?” Chase spoke in a whisper.

  “I’m called Preacher. This here’s Beartooth, Dupre, and Nighthawk.”

  Chase’s lips curled into a sneer. “Back-shooters all, I’ve been told. Damn you into hell, Preacher, and all your kind.” He went on cursing the mountain men while pink froth gathered around the hole in his chest and a huge bubble formed. With a rapidly fading voice he hurled his last brag.

  “There’s thirty more just like us up ahead, Preacher. You an’ your lice-infested friends won’t find them so easy to take.” With that said, he shivered, convulsed mightily, and went still.

  “Don’t bury that one,” Nighthawk demanded. “He said I had lice.”

  “He’s one to talk,” Beartooth put in. “Look, there’s a big gray one crawlin’ out of his hair right now.”

  “Unpardonable manners,” Dupre agreed. “I’ve never had a louse on me in my life.”

  Preacher peered at him studiously. Dupre’s impeccable clothes bore not a wrinkle nor a smudge from their violent encounter. “You know somethin’, Dupre? I believe you. Let’s gather up what all we can. Those boys can put the guns to good use.”

  * * *

  Cora Ames wore a worried frown as she approached the rotund figure of the Reverend Thornton Bookworthy. They had stopped for the nooning in a small swale only miles short of the ramparts of the Rocky Mountains.

  “We should have come upon Bent’s Fort before nightfall three days ago,” she stated flatly. Then worry colored her words. “We’ve strayed from the trail somewhere along the line. We—we could be anywhere.”

  In fact, they had taken a trail much used by Indians in the area, that swung roughly northwest off the old Santa Fe Trail. With the decline in the fur trade, Bent’s Fort also suffered a loss of activity. Few journeyed there from the east and the main trail had fallen into disrepair. The many horses’ hooves and travois of the natives marked a clearer, rutted path for such novices as Bookworthy and his hired drivers. Totally convinced of his ability, the reverend could not accept criticism from a mere woman.

  “I assure you, Sister Ames, that we are on the right path.” Truth to tell, Thornton Bookworthy would have been hard pressed to point out which way was west at sunset.

  “Beggin’ yer pardon, Reverend, but I’m sure the lady is right,” Buck Dempsey offered. “We’re way north of Bent’s Fort. Way I figger it, we’ll come upon the trail to Trout Creek Pass by sometime tomorrow mornin’.”

  Reverend Bookworthy brightened. “Why, splendid! That puts us ahead of schedule. Let’s push on, perhaps we’ll find it yet today.”

  “I—ah—don’t think so,” Buck stated softly, looking beyond the portly minister.

  “Why not?” Bookworthy demanded.

  “We’ve got company.”

  Reverend Bookworthy turned abruptly to face three Arapaho women, with twice that number of small children at their feet, and a lithe, smooth-limbed youth of perhaps sixteen years. Bookworthy’s jaw dropped
and he felt faint. The oldest boy made the sign for peace and spoke in lilting-accented English.

  “We are friendly. Not ... make you harm.”

  “Why, you speak English,” Bookworthy blurted in his surprise. “Are you Christian? Do you know Jesus?”

  “I am called Little Raven. I not know that man. But I know ... you lost. I know man who can help you.”

  “You do?” In his eagerness to find aid, Bookworthy dropped all pretense of being comfortable with their situation. “Who is that?”

  “He is called White Wolf. You round eyes know him as Preacher.”

  Astonishment washed over Bookworthy’s face. “He’s nearby? How far? Come, my good boy, tell us.”

  A faint smile flickered on the young Arapaho’s face. “You are going the right way. Preacher is two—three days ahead of you. He has three friends with him. They are with people in rolling lodges, like yours.”

  “That’s simply marvelous,” Bookworthy babbled, forgetting entirely that it was Preacher who had expelled them from these mountains. “We must make contact. He’ll absolutely have to guide us now,” he appealed to his fellow missionaries. “Buck,” he called to the driver. “Take another teamster and push on ahead until you contact Preacher. Use my big Walker, Brutus, and make all speed. I shall drive your wagon.”

  “And I the other,” Cora offered. Then, remembering what Preacher had told her about manners among the Indians, she turned to the youth. “Will you take food with us?”

  Smiling broadly now, he told his companions of the invitation. The oldest of the three women said something in Arapaho, which he translated. “She asks do you have the sweet sand. She means sugar.”

  “Why, yes, of course,” Cora responded with a light laugh. “We have plenty. Come, there’s coffee and beans and corned beef.”

  Looking back on it later, Cora realized that a good time was had by all.

  * * *

  Peter looked around in wonder and awe. “These are the biggest mountains in the whole world,” he declared after closing his sagging jaw. “Bigger than those in Pennsylvania or Missouri.”