“Whaddayasay, Ferris? I’m for trailin’ north an’ west of here. Odds are, that’s where Preacher went. He sure’n hell ain’t to the south of the pass.”
“Right you are, Cord,” Grant Ferris agreed readily. “Only I for one ain’t all that eager to catch up to him.”
“Why not?” Cord Dickson need not have asked. He had his own doubts about the advisability of confronting the legendary mountain man.
“You know what’s happened to all them others what ran afoul of Preacher,” Ferris clarified his response. “Well, I don’t aim to become the next.”
Dickson tried to reason with his man. “All we have to do is find him. See where he’s holed up, an’ then go get the rest to finish him off.”
“Sounds simple enough,” Seth Branson agreed. “Only we’ve seen enough to know Preacher is a sudden man. He might not let us just walk away.”
“He will if he don’t know we’ve seen him,” Dickson let his over-confidence say for him.
“It might be easier to let an Injun not know we’ve seen him,” Ferris offered.
Dickson’s eyes narrowed. “Sometimes, Ferris, I think you’ve got a yeller streak wide as my hand runnin’ clear down your spine.”
“No I ain’t!” Ferris barked at the insult. “Only, I think through somethin’ before I act on it.”
Ferris turned away in his saddle to gaze behind them at the steep trail they had just descended. “I’m hongry. What say we stop here and chew on something?”
“Good enough,” Dickson agreed. “So long as we head northwest when we leave.”
* * *
Preacher had been following Dickson, Ferris, and Branson for half a day when he made his decision. He had been in close enough to learn their names, and their business, from their careless conversation on the trail. These flatlander highwaymen who had come so recently to the High Lonesome had yet to learn the value of noise control in the mountains.
Soft breezes and the deadening of hoof falls on mats of pine needles gave the false impression that voices would not carry far. In truth, the high granite walls of the canyons, valleys, and hills became natural channels to convey sound a long ways. Too bad these three would not live long enough to learn that lesson, Preacher mused as he edged Thunder down the sharp decline, through thickly growing fir, beech, and aspen.
He had judged that they had come entirely too close to the protected valley where his ration of pilgrims worked to build a home. His hunting would have to wait. Already he had four plump stags tied high in trees to keep away hungry scavengers. He would take care of these three, then round up his kills and head back. His sharp ears picked up the whiney voice of the one called Ferris.
“I say we’ve gone far enough. Not a sign of Preacher anywhere.”
There had been, Preacher thought with contempt. They had cut his trail three times only they were too stupid to know that.
“Look at it this way,” Branson, the calculating one of the trio suggested. “When we get done with this, we’ll know more about this country than near anybody.”
Not likely by a damn far shot, Preacher refuted. “What good’s that?” Ferris asked.
“Well, if we ever decide to break off with Mr. Pease, we can lead folks in here and collect good, hard gold for it. We’ll be the best guides around.”
“You will like hell,” Preacher muttered aloud as he came down out of the trees and onto the trail ahead of the three louts.
Dickson, Ferris, and Branson rounded a bend in the trail and came face-to-face with Preacher. Dickson and Branson filled their hands. Ferris gaped ... and filled his drawers. Dragged along by their momentum, Ferris charged with the other two. It did them little good. Preacher had both of his four-shot pistols out and ready.
He let one bang when less than fifty feet separated him from the trio of lowlife trash. One of the balls from the double-shotted load went over the left shoulder of Ferris. The second smacked meatily into his shoulder. He kicked free of his mount with a yowl and hit hard on the granite surface of the trail.
Rolling to one side, Ferris careened down the bank and into the icy little stream that cut through the canyon. At least that washed away the foulness his fear had created. Above him, Dickson fired wildly with a .60 caliber pistol. His ball didn’t hit the target, Ferris noted when a loud, flat blast followed the discharge of Dickson’s gun.
Dickson’s ball put another pair of holes in Preacher’s coat. “That’s about enough,” Preacher roared and fired another barrel.
He took the hat from Dickson’s head. By then Grant Ferris had scrambled to the lip of the bank and looked on as both of his friends fired again. That emptied their supply of pistols. They rode on past Preacher, giving him a wide berth, and he held his fire, loath to shoot them in the back. That gave them time to reload one pistol each.
Preacher waited for them when they turned about. He had dismissed any threat from the downed Ferris. That slip nearly cost him his life. Grant Ferris found one of his pistols sound, and the powder dry, when he triggered a load at Preacher’s back. Hastily fired, the ball went low and struck the cantle of Preacher’s saddle. The stout, fibrous oak of the saddle tree absorbed the energy of the ball, so that it burst through much slower and with far less force. It still punched through the wide leather belt beneath the sash Preacher wore and gave him a painful, stinging bruise in the small of his back.
He repaid Ferris’s kindness by swiveling in his seat and plunking a ball between the cowardly thug’s eyes. That still left the other two to deal with. Preacher faced front again, in time to see both their weapons discharge. This time he went to the ground, to avoid a fatal collision with hot lead.
“I got him! I got him!” Seth Branson shouted gleefully.
“No you ain’t, he’s jist duckin’,” Cord Dickson corrected his overjoyed companion.
Preacher proved him right a moment later when he put a ball in Branson’s belly. A mournful howl came from the bearded throat of the St. Louis grifter and he wavered in the saddle. Seth Dickson grabbed for the rifle scabbarded behind his stirrup fender. Preacher shot Dickson through the back of his hand. The ball also wounded Dickson’s horse, which stumbled at the impact and threw its rider face first in the sharp-edged sand. Skin shredded in dozens of places by the decomposed granite, Cord Dickson shrieked as he rolled over and over along the trail. He ended up near Thunder’s forehooves.
Gasping, Dickson raised his head to Preacher. “You—you’ve gotta be out of loads by now.” His good hand slid toward the big butcher knife at his left side.
“You think you’re lucky? Did you count right while the shooting went on? Ready to try it? It’d really please me. I don’t cotton to killing an unarmed man.”
“Jist let me go. I’ll not do you any harm.”
Preacher chuckled. “Oh, I’m sure you wouldn’t. It’s for what you’ve already done that I’m gonna send you off to see yer Maker. Go on, try it,” Preacher taunted again.
Cord Dickson did. Which made it three-for-three for Preacher when the four-shot in his left hand blammed again and sent two balls into the chest of Cord Dickson. While he looked down on the dying man, Preacher reflected on what he had learned from them before this encounter. He had become a marked man. No doubt of how serious Pease was about having Preacher killed.
“Things are gettin’ right interesting,” he spoke aloud to Dickson. “If I had a scrap of paper and a stub of lead, I’d leave a note for ol’ Ezra Pease. But, chances are it would never be found.” He frowned down at the foamy, red ooze that billowed from Dickson’s chest. “I done shot yer lights out, Dickson. If you’re so inclined, I’d say you best make your peace with your Maker.”
“Go . . . to ... hell, Preacher.”
“Most likely, it’s you’s headed that way, and right sudden, I’d say.”
With that, Preacher turned away and picked up the arms of the other two, returning to Dickson after the man expired. The folks in the valley were getting right well outfitted with weapons, cour
tesy of Ezra Pease, Preacher considered as he led away the dead men’s horses.
3
Preacher soon found out that a message would have been received. Not three miles along the trail that led to the quartered deer waiting him, a dozen more of Pease’s hard cases thundered along in pursuit and struck from the rear. Preacher had wisely reloaded, and took the first three out of their saddles with fast work on the trigger mechanism. Quickly he exchanged the pistol with only a single shot for the second one. Then he turned to face the others.
They had wisely taken cover in the boulders along the side of the road and poured heavy fire toward Preacher. He let go of the captured horses, which ran off in the direction their noses pointed. In a smooth motion he slid from Thunder’s saddle and snagged up his pair of rifles. He laid the pistol aside and nuzzled the Hawken to his shoulder, after he had hunkered down behind a large boulder before any of the rattled gunhawks could recover enough to take careful aim.
At once he saw motion beyond a fallen pine, the thick trunk of which provided protection for Preacher on his right flank. Some fool was charging him. He gave a .54 caliber ball from his Hawken to the ignorant lout and reached for the French rifle. Only the crown of a head and an eyeball showed above the curving surface of a boulder at extreme range behind the dying outlaw. Preacher steadied his own breathing enough to take careful aim.
Finely engraved, the barrel heated up as the conical bullet sped down its length. It emerged at tremendous velocity, speeding true to the target. A chunk of the exposed head exploded in a shower of scarlet. Preacher grunted in satisfaction. A lull came as all who were left ran out of loaded weapons.
Preacher took the time to reload while his enemies did the same. One of the swifter of Pease’s men opened the dance again with a ball that screamed off the top of the boulder that sheltered Preacher. Preacher responded with another kill and the nasty vermin grew more cautious. Muttered words reached Preacher where he waited out their plan of attack, while he reloaded his first pistol.
“You, Trump, make a careful count of how many shots he’s popped off. That was the fifth. You saw those funny-lookin’ pistols. Four shots each, so keep that in mind.”
“Gotcha, boss,” Trump replied louder than necessary.
More than good, Preacher thought as he methodically reloaded the Hawken. A rattle of gunfire got his head down low. Two more made a rush along the trail. Preacher put the Hawken aside, the ramrod still down the barrel, and drew a pistol. His first round set one target to dancing a jittery death waltz.
Preacher turned from the fallen tree to engage the second thug, who charged the blind side of the boulder. A head and shoulder appeared around the mound of granite, followed by the barrel of a pistol. Preacher triggered his four-barrel and fanned his free arm at the cloud of smoke that quickly filled the space between him and his attacker.
When he could see again, Preacher noted a splash of blood on the gray surface of the boulder. A low groan came from the ground beyond the rock. Three mounted bits of trash spurred forward. Preacher moved to the open side of his stone fortress and downed two of them with the last pair of loads.
Switching pistols, he emptied the third saddle and rotated the barrels. From the screen of brush beyond the downed pine, he heard the voice of the man named Trump.
“That’s five more shots. He can’t have had time to reload his rifles and he sure can’t carry more than those two pistols.”
The boss apparently agreed with that, because Preacher heard some indistinct mutters in the chokecherry and the rustle of inexperienced booted feet moving through fallen leaves. Four men came at him at once, from three directions. Preacher sighted in on the nearest one and doubled the thug over with a double-shotted load to the gut.
Quickly he picked another target while the first gunrunner sagged to his knees and fell forward to remain in a folded position, his head against the ground. Preacher’s next round shattered the right shoulder joint of a pasty-faced lout with a mouthful of crooked teeth. Howling, the wounded man tripped over his feet and rolled to the bottom of the slope.
By then, the other two had gotten dangerously close. Both fired at once and showers of lead fragments and granite went flying around Preacher’s head. Blood trickled from several cuts on his face. Preacher fired and missed. He worked the tricky trigger again and scored with both balls high in the chest and neck. It knocked the hapless vermin over onto his back.
Preacher didn’t slow down as he stuffed the empty pistol into its holster and reached for his Hawken. A cap went into place on the nipple and he eared back the hammer. As he brought the weapon up he started to turn toward the fourth gunman. Hot pain burst in the under side of his left upper arm. The trashy whiskey peddler had shot him.
Without thinking about the ramrod, Preacher blazed away. He received a tremendous recoil as the brass-tipped hickory rammer retarded the expansion of gas in the barrel. It shot out, however, ahead of the ball it had seated. It struck the target and, like a slender lance, drove three quarters of its length through the chest of the boss a fraction of an inch above his heart. In seconds the attacker bled to death internally from a punctured aorta.
“D’ja see that?” Trump blurted from his concealed position.
Someone made a gagging sound and began to run downhill toward the horses. “I’m gettin’ outta here,” he wailed.
Preacher tied a paisley kerchief around the bullet hole through his arm and hastily reloaded the French rifle. He stepped from his cover and easily downed the nervous one as the latter stepped into his stirrup. Only Trump remained and he took a hasty shot at Preacher before bolting for his mount. Preacher grabbed a .60 caliber Hayes pistol from the brace of holsters on Thunder’s saddle and took a deep, steadying breath.
Trump died a second later with a look of total horror on his face. Preacher winced at the various pains that racked his body and lowered the smoking Hayes. “Gonna be one hell of a bruise,” he muttered over the throbbing in his shoulder.
Businesslike, Preacher gathered up the weapons and other possessions of the outlaw scum who had jumped him. Then he located the proper type of moss and stuffed his wound with it. That accomplished, he rounded up the horses and started off for camp.
* * *
Those among the denizens of the High Lonesome who had chosen to spend at least part of the spring around Bent’s Fort didn’t know what to make of him. He dressed much like an Easterner, in tight black britches and a distinctly military tunic, sort of like the Dragoons, only without all the fancy colored piping and brass. He wore a fine, store-made white linen shirt, with a plain, black stock that fluttered in the constant breeze.
A hard-faced man, with close-set eyes, and a brace of pistols in his waistband, he arrived at the Fort in early April. After tending to his horse, he went directly to the trading post and began showing around sketches. Without any explanation, he asked if anyone had seen the children, or the man who might be with them.
“What business might that be of yours?” Jake Talltrees asked pugnaciously.
“I’m a United States Marshal. Ruben Talbot is my name. This man,” he lifted the sketch, “is Silas Phipps. He is supposed to be in the company of a band of orphans who have raped, murdered, and robbed all the way across the country from Pennsylvania.”
His disbelieving onlookers held a different opinion. Black Powder Harris put it to words. “No, sir. I don’t believe those youngsters to be capable of any sort of mischief. I runned into them on the Injun trail north of here. That one dickered with me for a jug of whiskey. He’s a drunk, an’ poison mean, I’d wager. But those youngin’s looked too skeert to do evil.”
Marshal Talbot ran the back of one hand across his brow. “We all have our opinions, stranger. I allow as how you’re entitled to yours. But, these warrants I have say different. How long ago did you encounter them?”
“Oh, better than a week.” He meant more than two.
Talbot thought on that a moment. “I’d be obliged to stay the night.
Then I’ll be headin’ north after them.”
* * *
Ezra Pease stomped across the bare ground of the campsite. He stopped on the far side of the fire to confer with Titus Vickers and Hashknife. “We should be headed north, not southwest.”
“Not if we want to stay shut of the Cheyenne,” Vickers opined.
“Titus is correct, Mr. Pease. The men I sent out to search for Preacher haven’t returned as yet. Perhaps when they do, they will have useful information.”
Pease considered that a while. “That leaves us with no option but to poke along their trail.”
“The easier to consolidate our force when the time comes,” Hashknife suggested.
Pease nodded curtly. “You’re right, both of you. Now, when we run Preacher to ground, and we are going to, I guarantee you that, I want to deal with him myself. I’ve been thinking on this and nothing else will give as much satisfaction as seeing genuine fear on that ugly face of his.”
“Might be he won’t be so easy to contain,” Vickers offered. “He could force us to kill him from long range.”
Pease’s face got a testy look. “Well, you’ll just have to see to it that he does not. I want to feel my fingers around his throat, crushing the life out of him. Oh, yes, Preacher is going to be mine, all mine. And you two are going to see that it happens that way.”
* * *
John Dancer came to knowing that he had been bad hurt. Shot through the side and bled a lot. He could remember how it happened and falling from his horse. Then, everything had gone blank. Who and how many had jumped them? He had a flash of a tall, broad-chested man, clad in buckskins, who held a strange-looking pistol that spouted flame four times before being empty. Surely not one man.
Pain knifed through his side, an inch or two above his hip bone. Dancer wanted very much to survive. He also wanted a drink of water in the worst way. His mouth felt like a sawdust box. Slowly he roused himself and inched his way through his agony toward the sound of a rippling stream. He saw no sign of his horse, or any others. All his eyes took in were the bodies of the men who had ridden with him.
Cheyenne Challenge Page 20
