Cheyenne Challenge

by William W. Johnstone

  “Rain, by God! That’ll play hob with their bowstrings. I think we’ve got this-un won.”

  Wiping streams of chill droplets from his face, Ezra Pease made short reply. “Call it a draw and be damn grateful for that.”

  * * *

  Another look through the spyglass revealed the riders to be Buck Dempsey and Kent Foster. They had been with those Bible-thumpers. What the hell were they doing up here? Preacher wondered to himself. Oh, no. That couldn’t be. By the Almighty, ain’t no way any proper guide could have been talked into something that stupid. No.

  “Yes,” Buck assured Preacher ten minutes later when they reached the spot where he waited for them with growing unease. “They never engaged a guide. Took the wagons east out of sight of the fort, then cut back north. That Reverend Bookworthy’s a determined man, even if he’s a fool.”

  “I’ll agree with all you’ve said. He’s sure a fool. They must have taken that Injun trace to catch up so soon.”

  Relieved that the blame would not fall on him, Buck relaxed enough to produce an admiring smile. “Right you are. Me an’ Kent, here, tried to talk them out of it. They weren’t hearin’ none of that. ’We’ve been sent from Gawd to minister to the heathen and nothing or no one is going to stop us,’ ol’ Bookworthy spouted when he ordered us to turn off. None of the other drivers is too happy about it, either. But the pay is good and the food even better. Them mission women sure know how to handle a skillet.”

  Preacher snorted through his nose. “I’ll allow as how that’s sure right. A feller could put on a few pounds right fast eatin’ with them folks. Now, how far back would you say they were?”

  Buck’s brow furrowed. “Three days by horseback, but that don’t mean much. They’s plum lost and not on the right trail. Wagons won’t make eight miles a day in this country. So I’d say five to eight days.”

  “Damnit!” Preacher slapped a thumb-thick aspen branch against his left thigh. “It’s plumb ignorant. Any man’d know that. Well, me an’ my friends ain’t got time to lead them pilgrims outta here. You go on back for them, get ’em out of whatever pickle they got themselves into, ’cause they sure ain’t up to doin’ it on their own. I reckon the good Reverend Bookworthy knows as much about readin’ trail sign as he does about real sinnin’. We’ll wait for you here, then it’s on to Trout Crick Pass. They’ll just damn well have to spend the summer an’ winter there.”

  Buck’s eyes twinkled. “You know dang well they won’t, Preacher. They’ll just hire on some no-count guide like that Bull Ransom and head off into the wilds.”

  “An’ get themselves kilt. Serves them right if they do,” Preacher snapped as he turned away. “I’ve got these dang refugees to tend to. Might as well grain your horses out of their supplies an’ rest ’em good. Then hit the road back after them idjit flatlanders.”

  * * *

  By nightfall, Preacher almost had a mutiny on his hands. The refugees had grumbled among themselves about waiting at this spot for more lost souls to join the cavalcade. Their supplies were dangerously low, thanks to the raid on their wagon train. They wanted to push on to where they could make connections with the Immigrant Trail and join another train. Most of all, they felt put upon that these strangers were missionaries and thus considered by Preacher to be even more addle-pated than he thought his present charges to be. Finally, while magenta, gold, and purple painted the western sky, a delegation made up of Mrs. Kenny, Flora Sanders, and Falicity Jones came to where Preacher bent to put a cover over the cookfire.

  Wise in the ways of handling their men, and aware of the covert admiring glances Preacher had been giving Falicity, the older women appointed her as spokeswoman. They approached with self-generated confidence. Preacher’s stony expression quickly cooled some of that. “Preacher,” Falicity began with firmness. “We have some say in what goes on. At least we should have,” she hastily amended.

  “Not in this, you don’t,” Preacher countered.

  Falicity had still not been put in full retreat. “Back at the beginning, we elected for the train to be run as a democracy.”

  “Damn-fool word, you ask me. Means ’mob rule’ in Greek,” Preacher snapped.

  Falicity’s jaw sagged slightly. How could she reach this man? “What I’m saying is that we need to press on northward, to find a train to the west as soon as possible. We have nothing to return to. This delay might cost us any chance we have.”

  “Be a good thing if it did. Now, you take any of these men here. Ain’t a one couldn’t guide you to the trail. Not Nighthawk, not Dupre, nor Beartooth. Especially since they’re headed that way anyhow. Ain’t a one of them will do it, though. None of them’s crazy enough to. Miz Jones, you jist don’t get it, do you? There ain’t a one of you suited to be out here. This country is pretty civilized, compared to up north. Even so, we got to watch you like a mother hen does her chicks. Beyond the Medicine Bows, way up on the Platte, there plain ain’t nobody to help you.”

  “We would have you—ah—gentlemen to protect us ... if you’d agree to guide us that far,” Falicity offered, less sure of herself.

  “Nope. All’s out there is high country meadows and mountains. And, of course, Injuns. Whole lots of Injuns, none of who take kindly to white folk invadin’ their territory. What you propose, to sit out there an’ wait for a wagon train to roll along, would only serve to get all our hair lifted.”

  “You’re ... serious about this, aren’t you?” Falicity said wonderingly, reality at last dawning on her.

  Preacher came to his moccasins, dusted off his hands as he spoke. “Dang straight I am. You ain’t crossin’ the Ohio River Valley, Miz Jones. Up there ...” he pointed north, “there’s the flats, the Platte, and Injuns.”

  “But, we’re determined to live in the West.” Falicity’s tone had turned apologetic, pleading for understanding.

  Now, Preacher had been thinking on that very thing for some time, since first encountering these displaced pilgrims. An idea had been toying with his brain for the past two days. Might be now was the time to trot it out and see if these female frontiersmen liked its shiny coat.

  “Like I said, you can always summer at Trout Crick Pass. If you’ve all your minds set on livin’ in God’s Country, you could scout around, with someone local to guide you, locate a nice valley somewhere an’ settle in. You could hire enough men from amongst the driftin’ boys to build right smart cabins before the leaves turned. Anything more I can’t guarantee. Hell, I can’t even offer it. Plumb too dangerous.”

  Falicity’s eyes came alight with bright new hope. She clapped her hands in enthusiasm and turned to the rest of the delegation. “You see? I told you Preacher would solve this dilemma for us. We’re going to settle in the West after all.”

  “An’ God he’p us all,” Preacher grumbled as he turned away to wonder what new outrage would befall them next.

  11

  Scavengers had been at work on the hurried graves of the ambushed wagon train. When they arrived, after five hard days of travel, Reverend Thornton Bookworthy took one look at the gnawed limbs and eviscerated torsos and promptly lost his breakfast. The burned wagons presented a grim sight. Shaken to her core, Patience Bookworthy put a hand on her husband’s arm.

  “Why, we came through here not long ago. This ... could have happened to us.”

  Himself badly unnerved, Reverend Bookworthy still relied on his main assurance. “We had God’s protection, Patience. On the way up we had five capable, armed men to guide us. Coming—ah—coming back, we had that Preacher fellow to scout for us. This is an oddity, something rare if the accounts we saw back East are to be believed.” He looked around, and back at the crude mass grave. “We should give these poor people proper Christian burial.”

  “We haven’t time, Reverend,” Buck Dempsey advised. “Preacher’s waitin’ for you all to catch up. An’ I’ve a mind his patience runs on the thin side.”

  “Surely we can take the time to cover them up better,” Bookworthy blustere
d. “It’s the least we can do.”

  Some of Preacher’s sass had rubbed off on Buck. “It’s the most, you ask me. If we take our noonin’ here, it might be all right.”

  Reverend Bookworthy made a face. “Our Deacons and the other brethren can be put to the task, naturally. Also myself, of course,” Bookworthy hastened to add.

  With that agreed, the wagons pulled on up the trail a short distance, to avoid the grisly scene and the women set about preparing a meal. Rocks, fallen branches, and dirt were used to enlarge and deepen the mound that served as a final resting place for the unknown adventurers. All of the missionaries kept the possibility of an attack on the surface of their thoughts as they went about the effort of entombing the less fortunate pioneers.

  A warm sun soon put large, wet stains in the armpits of the white shirts worn by the Holy Joes. They labored until blisters and hot red spots covered the palms of their hands. The summons to the noon meal put their faces aglow with relief. After Reverend Bookworthy offered thanks for the food and called on God’s blessing for their enterprise, they fell to.

  For all its quantity, the food rapidly disappeared. Afterward, the good reverend made the hoped-for announcement. “We have completed the monument over our departed, unknown brothers and sisters. I think we can spare the time for a prayer and song over their earthly remains.”

  Buck Dempsey started to rise and object, but a stern look from Cora Ames, with whom he had become smitten of late, stilled him. He joined the others as they trooped back to the mass grave. Reverend Bookworthy stepped out in front of the semicircle of immigrants.

  “Shall we all raise our voices in two verses of that comforting hymn, Rock of Ages.”

  Asa Pettibone produced a mouth harp, and Tom Ashton put bow to his fiddle. The women and other men among the mission group sang beautifully. When they had concluded, Bookworthy offered a long-winded prayer and they sang another hymn. As the last notes of that died away, Buck Dempsey stepped forward.

  “Now, let’s get the hell an’ gone away from here before the renegade whites who did this decide to come back.”

  “How did you know it was white men who did this awful thing, Buck?” Cora asked.

  “Preacher told me,” Buck answered. Cora’s expression of raw admiration cut him.

  “Yes, he would know about such things,” she replied in worshipful tones.

  Ah, hell, there goes any chance I ever had, Buck thought miserably as the holy pioneers took their places in the column and he gave the command to move out.

  * * *

  He had been known only as Hashknife since he signed on with Ezra Pease back in St. Louis. Hashknife had a hard, cruel face, with a frozen expression of suppressed anger, small, glittery, close-set eyes and a beak of nose that had been broken several times. None of the second-rate hard cases would mess with Hashknife. They steered clear of him, even during the rare drinking bouts in the semi-civilized surroundings of Missouri and along the Santa Fe Trail. Even the few, quality frontiersman types among the forty man contingent walked softly around Hashknife. Ezra Pease did not miss this.

  When the man came up the trail with a dozen hard-bitten drifters from the trading post at Trout Crick Pass, Pease summoned him to his tent. He waved a hand at the small keg of bourbon that rested on a folding stand, and nodded to a camp stool.

  “Help yourself to the bourbon. Or, if you prefer, there’s rum.”

  “Bourbon will do fine,” Hashknife rumbled in that deep, Eastern-accented voice of his.

  “Take a seat. I have a proposition I wish to discuss with you.”

  Hashknife downed half of the brass goblet of whiskey while Pease trimmed the end of a fine cigar. “What sort of proposition do you have in mind?”

  Well-spoken bugger, Ezra Pease acknowledged silently. He mused on how to present his case before answering. “You seem to be a cut above most of the men who follow me, Hashknife. I’d put your frontier skills on a par with those of Titus Vickers. Your ability to handle those men you brought in speaks well for your initiative in recruiting them, and your leadership abilities.” The blank look Pease received prompted him to inquire, “Am I speaking over your head?”

  “Not at all, Mr. Pease. I was only surprised that you had taken note of me in the least.”

  “Quality shows, my good man,” Pease answered flatteringly, to cover his misstep. “I’m in the process of making some changes in the organization. I feel we need more flexibility. You can do a lot for me in that direction. A lot for yourself, for that matter.”

  Hashknife looked interested, at least as much as his stone face would reveal. “Go on, you have me curious.”

  “As you know, each man receives a share in our enterprise, with a quarter share bonus for a successful completion. Titus Vickers receives ten times that. I want to split the group into two wings, to operate independently, but with the same common goal. I would like for you to command that second wing. With an equal share to Vic’s.”

  Hashknife swallowed hard and nearly choked on the whiskey. “You amaze me, Mr. Pease.”

  “That’s all? I ’amaze’ you?”

  “I’m grateful, of course. But, why me?”

  “To put it crudely, Hashknife, like the men you’ll be commanding would, you’ve got the balls for the job.” Ezra Pease cleared his throat on that one.

  Savoring another swallow of the fine Tennessee sour mash, Hashknife considered the possibilities this opened to him. “It’s an honor. One I appreciate more than I can say. Of how many men would I be in charge?”

  “After that unfortunate run-in with the Cheyenne, but considering the twelve you’ve brought in, you would have twenty guns to direct. All will be of my choosing, though not all will be top quality. I have to spread around the inferior ones so that neither wing will be unduly weakened.”

  “I understand. When will this go into effect?” Hashknife asked.

  “By tomorrow. I’ll make the selections today.”

  Hashknife rose to his boots and extended his hand. “You have your man, Mr. Pease. You’ve got my word on it.”

  A twinkle blossomed in the eyes of Ezra Pease. “I suspect it’s the word of a gentleman, in spite of that curious name you have,” he stated flatly, taking the hand of Hashknife and giving his new lieutenant a conspiratorial wink.

  * * *

  Falling Horse was ready to give up the chase. He had brought his men far from their village, deep into the White Top mountains. They had punished the white men, though he would have liked to have done more. Falling Horse strongly suspected that these were the same men who had destroyed the village of Black Hand. If that turned out to be true, he would regret not taking the risk of hunting them down, even in this place where so many whites had settled. Although the white population of the Rocky Mountains at that time averaged around one per five hundred square miles, that constituted far too many for the Cheyenne, Arapaho, and Ute who had lived there for ages.

  “It is wise to return to our village,” old Red Hawk remarked to his nephew, Falling Horse.

  “I am not so sure. I believe those to be the men who killed Black Hand.”

  Red Hawk nodded at the younger man. “I knew you would be thinking that. We are not strong enough to challenge them for now.” The graying counselor produced a wisp of a smile. “Let them grow confident once more and come into our valleys and along our waters. Then is time enough to show them who is master of the high plains.”

  Falling Horse clasped his uncle on one shoulder. “My father told me that you were born wise beyond your years. Now I know it is so. Yes, Uncle, we shall return to our village ... after one more day on this trail. There we can replenish our arrows, cast many balls for our rifles. And always the young boys will keep a watch for the return of the white men. They will not like what they find when they come.”

  * * *

  All grumbling about the course northward, and the possible results of rejoining Preacher, ceased when the mission wagon train rolled into the camp set up by Preacher
, Nighthawk, Beartooth, and Dupre. Brimming with compassion, sympathy, and understanding, Cora and the women descended on the refugee women with eyes spilling over.

  “Oh, you poor, poor dears,” Patience Bookworthy cooed to Mrs. Kenny. “Your menfolk are safe in the arms of Jesus. We prayed for them and sang three lovely hymns.”

  “Covered them up better, too,” Buck Dempsey muttered behind her, which brought a hot scowl from the minister’s wife.

  “Covered? I don’t understand,” Mrs. Kenny began in confusion.

  “Don’t pay him any mind, my dear. We—ah—we understand the necessity for haste that drove you when you—ah—laid them to rest,” Patience quickly injected. “We put more stones and earth on the grave is all.”

  “I think I see,” Mrs. Kenny said vacantly.

  Cora added a brightening bit of news. “We’ll be traveling together now, so all will be safe. You can distribute what you saved among our wagons and get rid of those wretched vehicles.”

  “But we can’t,” Flora Sanders protested. “It—it’s all we have of our past.” She nodded to the jury-rigged wagons. “They’ve made it this far, they’ll do for the rest of the way.”

  Accustomed to being the strongest woman in any group, Patience Bookworthy took careful note of Flora Sanders. Then she dismissed this show of obstinacy. Given time, she would be fully in charge, the stout, determined Patience assured herself. Preacher, who had been out hunting game for the hungry refugees, walked up then, a frown furrowed his brow.

  “I can’t say I’m glad to see you folks,” came his first words. Then he addressed the Reverend Bookworthy. “Of all the tom-fool dangerous things for anyone to do, you’ve done the worst. Only thing for it is to take you all in to the tradin’ post at Trout Crick Pass. Then us four,” he indicated his companions, “are headed north to see how serious this Cheyenne trouble is gonna get.”

  “Good,” Bookworthy boomed. “We shall accompany you. Our mission is to the Cheyenne.”