Cheyenne Challenge

by William W. Johnstone

  Again he saw the flickering image of the wild-looking man with the odd gun. Preacher? The name taunted Dancer as he eased his way down the embankment to touch a feverish hand to icy water. They had been sent out to find Preacher. The three men he had ordered forward to scout had been gunned down, they had all heard the shouts and came on fast. Yeah, that was it. They rounded a bend and there he was, bigger than life and twice as deadly.

  From there on everything went to hell in a handbasket. Preacher fought like a cornered wildcat. In no time he had the upper hand. And he showed no mercy. That young pup, Trump, must have miscounted the shots, Dancer reasoned. Because at the exact moment he thought they had regained the initiative, Preacher opened up with another hail of lead. Shooting the boss with that ramrod had been the final bit needed to spook those who remained.

  Even he had been shot trying to flee from the demon in buckskin, Dancer thought ruefully. He lowered his head and drank deeply. After that he wiped at his wound and took stock. At least he didn’t have any guts pokin’ out. If he took care of himself, he might survive after all. But miles from nowhere, without a horse or eats?

  The prospect of it gave him a fit of the cold shudders.

  * * *

  Back at the settlement in the valley, Cora Ames ignored the welcome addition of more meat in her excitement over Preacher’s wound. Over his objections, she led him by one hand to her recently completed cabin.

  “I’m tending to that personally,” she insisted.

  Preacher grumbled and complained, then had to admit that these Eastern feather-heads had toughened up as he watched Cora remove his makeshift bandage and the poultice of moss, then clean and dress the through-and-through bullet holes. She made the new binding as neat as any school-taught doctor, the mountain man saw with satisfaction.

  “There, all done. I will want to see it again tomorrow. And the day after. We don’t want it to fester.”

  “Dang right, that’s why I’m gonna fix me some willer bark an’ some other stuff to pack in the holes,” Preacher told her with a straight face.

  Quickly fading, the glow of accomplishment left Cora’s face. “Don’t you dare. Why, who knows what that would cause?”

  “It’ll cause it to heal, that’s what,” Preacher’s stubbornness dictated. “Besides, I ain’t got three days. I’m takin’ Nighthawk an’ Buck and startin’ out tomorrow mornin’ while the trail of the men who jumped me is still fresh. We can track ’em right back to Ezra Pease.”

  Horrified by this, Cora clapped both hands to her cheeks and spluttered her objections in rapid fire. “Why, you can’t. You would be risking the loss of that arm. I won’t allow it. I’ll talk to your friends.”

  “There’s nothin’ you can do. An’ the boys’ll tell you that these Injun cures work right good on gunshot wounds.”

  Cora tried another tack. “You lost a lot of blood. You’re too weak for such goings on.”

  Preacher nodded thoughtfully. “Fact is, I do feel a bit peaked. Nothin’ a big chunk of elk steak won’t fix.”

  Cora Ames blinked in dismay. “Preacher, Preacher, you are impossible,” she gave in, albeit with only a slight return of good humor.

  Early the next day, Preacher set out with Nighthawk and the driver, Buck. They rode in companionable silence for long hours. After crossing the spine of the Sierra Madre by way of Rabbit Ear Pass, they entered a wide, sweeping highland prairie. As the hours and miles went by, Preacher began to notice something that mightily displeased him.

  “Lookit over there,” he addressed to Nighthawk and Buck. “See them smoke trails on the horizon? Over the past fifty miles, I’ve seen more than a dozen of them, scattered out where none existed last year a-tall.”

  “It’s called progress, Preacher,” Buck said lightly. “Folks are moving West.”

  “I call it a disaster. This keeps up, ’fore long there’ll be so many that the cabins will be cluttered up near to every couple of miles. Now, we’re right close to where I took my last deer. Over in those mountains to the east. If we move out at a little smarter pace we can make it there first thing in the morning.”

  “That suits me fine,” Buck commented.

  “You weren’t far from there when you had your run-in with Pease’s hooligans?” Nighthawk probed.

  “Right you are. That’s when the work begins.”

  * * *

  Mid-morning found them well past the large tree where Preacher had hung his last kill. In fact, they had been on the trail of the men sent by Pease for better than an hour. It led constantly north and east. Preacher topped a small saddle draw that marked the access to yet another mountain highland valley. A string of dark objects, moving determinedly westward caught his eye.

  “I got me a bad feelin’ about this,” he told his companions as he took the spyglass from his saddlebag.

  With the brass tubes pulled to full-length, Preacher focused in on the far off blobs. One by one he counted thirty of them. His mouth twisted in a grimace of dislike.

  “Wagh! They’s comin’ like flies to a dung heap,” he spat his disgust.

  “They’re what I think they are?” Nighthawk asked.

  “Sure enough. More greenhorn pilgrims headed west. Odds say they don’t have the least idea where they are or where they’re going. I tell you, boys, I’ve had more than my fill of ’em. I’d like to run this bunch clear the hell outta these mountains.”

  “But you won’t do that,” Nighthawk tweaked Preacher.

  “Nope. Onliest thing we can do is ignore them an’ hope they don’t see us. Well, let’s ride. This trail ain’t gettin’ any newer.”

  “What are we going to do when we find this Pease?” Buck asked.

  “Go back for the rest of the boys an’ wipe Pease out lock, stock, and barrel,” Preacher pronounced carefully. The hot glow in his eyes verified that his annoyance with the corrupt trader had changed into implacable anger.

  4

  Falling Horse and Little Mountain still led their Dog Soldiers south and west toward the suspected location of Ezra Pease. One of the advance guards sent out by Falling Horse came back to the column of warriors with exciting news shortly after midday.

  “We think we have found them. Six of the rolling lodges, some men, women, a few children.”

  “Yes. Pease took children from a white man’s traveling lodges,” Little Mountain declared.

  “I know this to be true, we took three of them from the camp when we raided it,” Falling Horse verified. “Even if they are not with Pease, it will be good to eliminate some of these wiggling white worms that invade us.”

  “We ride there now?” Little Mountain asked eagerly.

  Falling Horse nodded to the scout. “Show us the way.”

  What the Cheyenne found were six stragglers who had become separated from the wagon train spotted by Preacher and his companions. Quickly the Dog Soldiers spread out to launch their attack on the unwanted visitors. Cries of alarm from the whites soon reached their ears and the wagons began to circle. Little Mountain led his braves to the south to close around the lumbering vehicles, while Falling Horse took his warriors above the hastily formed laager. They opened fire at a range of fifty yards.

  Two pilgrims exchanged frightened glances. “My God, where’d those Injuns come from? I never saw a one,” the burly one with a gray-streaked beard blurted.

  “We made a mistake in stopping to fix that harness on the Kilmer wagon, Caleb.”

  “Now you know we couldn’t have left them there all alone, Stub. They’d of been sitting ducks.”

  “Now all six of us are sitting ducks, Caleb. Watch yerself, they’re gettin’ close.” Stub discharged both barrels of his shotgun in his nervous excitement. The recoil of the ten gauge nearly dislocated his shoulder. Pellets struck several braves and their ponies. It didn’t put them out of the fight. They came on, whooping and howling.

  Three small, tow-headed youngsters in Caleb’s wagon added to their war cries. In a flash it seemed to be over. The Cheye
nne broke off their charge and began to circle the wagons. An arrow thudded into one thick, oak side. Bullets moaned and cracked overhead. It soon became clear that the settlers would be going nowhere and the Indians had no intention of breaking off.

  “We’re all going to die out here,” Caleb’s frantic wife screamed from the rear of the wagon.

  “Hush up, woman, and get to loading.”

  A flurry of shots blasted the hot, dry afternoon air. Dust rose in smothering clouds from the skiddery livestock. Once again, the Cheyenne wheeled their mounts a quarter way around and charged the wagons. Rifles and shotguns in the hands of men and women alike roared in defiance. When the heavy curtain of powder smoke cleared, the Indians were seen to have ridden a short ways off.

  “There seems to be some sort of palaver goin’ on,” Caleb observed.

  “Figgerin’ who gets whose scalp most likely,” Stub complained. He had reloaded his shotgun and now worked on the second of three rifles close at hand. What he disliked most was not that possibility, but that only three Indians lay on the ground beyond the circled wagons. While the whites recharged their weapons, even that changed as six warriors broke from the Indian position and rode out to recover their fallen friends.

  When they returned to the lines, another charge began. They were doing well this time, when Preacher, Nighthawk, and Buck showed up over the rise to the west. The increased volume of fire startled the Cheyenne. They broke off the circle on the west side and turned to confront the men who rode to the relief of the settlers.

  When the three white men drew nearer, Falling Horse identified Preacher. These two had sworn repeatedly not to make war on one another and, knowing that, Falling Horse called off the assault on the wagons. He came forward, making his identity clear to Preacher. Tension held for a while, during which the men from two worlds talked. Then Preacher walked Thunder toward the huddled immigrants.

  “Git them wagons straightened out and set the mules off lickety-split. Don’t spare ’em none, either. I can’t hold these braves here for very long. Your other folks is about two hours ahead of you on the trail.”

  “You saved our lives,” Caleb stated wonderingly. “We’re eternally grateful.”

  “If you was smart as well as grateful, you wouldn’t be here in the first place,” Preacher growled back. “I don’t know where you think yer goin’, an’ I don’t care. But, sure’s Hades is hot, you are in the wrong place now. Tell your wagon boss to cut north beyond the Bighorn Mountains if he’s bound for Oregon. Now, step it up or you’ll be the guests of honor at a scalpin’ party.”

  After the last wagon trundled over the ridge to the west, Falling Horse came to where Preacher stood beside Thunder. “Where do you go that you are this far away from where we met you last?” the Cheyenne chief asked.

  “Like I told you then, Falling Horse, we’re out to get that no-account scoundrel, Pease.”

  “Then, once again we seek the same man, Preacher. This time it might not be wise for you to get to the whiskey peddler first.”

  Preacher cocked an eyebrow at his Cheyenne friend and grunted. He ignored the implied threat when he made reply. “Ride with the wind, Falling Horse.”

  “May the rain not take the strength from your bow, Preacher,” the Cheyenne chief replied politely.

  Then the two parties turned their separate ways and headed off on the trails they had been following.

  * * *

  Walt Hayward peered over the top of his half-spectacles at the sheets of vellum art paper. Yes, he’d seen these faces before. One big, callused hand stroked his beard in characteristic fashion. Them woeful-looking kids and that sneak-thief looking feller with them. After they had left, he’d discovered his storehouse to be shy of three gallon jugs of whiskey, a small keg of powder, and a gunnysack of potatoes.

  “Yep. They passed through here better than a week ago. This one,” Walt hefted the drawing of Phipps, “was a shifty-eyed little rat. Sticky-fingered, too, I’m thinkin’.”

  “How’s that?” Marshal Talbot asked, alert to any news of the wanted band.

  “Right after they took off up north, I came up short three jugs of whiskey. The good stuff, too,” Walt added grumpily.

  “I gather they haven’t been back?” the lawman inquired.

  “Nope. Nary hide nor hair. And good riddance to them. Though I feel sorry for those youngins, headed the way they are. The Blackfeet an’ Cheyenne are cookin’ up a war.”

  “Might be I’ll catch up to them before that.”

  Curiosity put a light in the eyes of Walt Hayward. He’d never heard of anything important enough for a man to walk directly into an Injun war. “You plannin’ on keepin’ company with them?”

  “No. They are wanted for a scad of crimes all the way back East. I’m here to arrest them.”

  Hayward didn’t like the sound of that. “The kids, too?”

  “That’s what the warrants say.”

  “Well, Marshal, I’m right sorry to hear that. Those youngsters all seemed too scared of this-here Phipps to do anything lest he yelled at ’em to do it.”

  “That may be true, but it’s not mitigating circumstances under the law,” Talbot replied stiffly.

  Walt Hayward reared his head back and eyed the marshal with obvious distaste. “You know, you’re the first real lawman we’ve seen out here. They might do it that way back where you come from, but out here we take more store in fairness and justice than in whatever the law says. Find them good homes, with folks who’ll love them, and they’ll never give you another minute’s trouble.”

  Marshal Talbot cleared his throat, emptied his tin cup of raw whiskey, and licked his lips. “I’ll certainly take that under consideration, innkeeper. Now, I would appreciate a room for the night.”

  “A room!” Walt Hayward bellowed through a stout guffaw. “Marshal, I got a room, out back, with twelve rope-strung beds in it. He’p yerself.”

  * * *

  For the past hour, as they rode on northeast, Preacher had grown uneasy over the weather. There had been that freak snowstorm three weeks back, and now clouds had started to pile up to the west. Already the highest peaks were lost in dirty gray mantles. Fat white bellies spilled down the wrinkles of the slopes. The air remained mild, almost balmy, so Preacher shrugged off his premonition and kept a wary eye on the buildup.

  After an hour more, the impending change could no longer be ignored. “We’ve got us a storm brewin’, Nighthawk.”

  “I can feel it in my bones, Preacher,” the Delaware replied.

  “What? No scientific double-talk to tell us what’s happenin’?”

  “It’s the rhumatiz, Preacher, from those long days in the cold water. Don’t tell me that’s not what tipped you off.”

  Preacher snorted in merriment. When he recovered, he made a swift decision. “We’d best be lookin’ for some place to shelter. It could be a bad one.”

  “I’ve spotted several places already,” Nighthawk answered smugly.

  “Why, you ol’ coot,” Preacher barked.

  * * *

  “It’s him, all right,” Titus Vickers remarked as he lowered the spy-glass. “Preacher, in the fresh.”

  Delphus Plunkett, one of the eight men with Titus Vickers, crawled up beside him and spoke softly into the outlaw leader’s ear. “Think we could take him right here an’ now?”

  “There’s two more with him,” Vickers pointed out the obvious.

  “Yeah, but there’s nine of us. That means we outnumber them—uh—uh—three—or is it four?—to one.”

  “Haven’t you learned as yet that three to one means nothing to Preacher?” Vickers snapped. “We’ll wait a while longer. There’s a storm brewing. What we’ll do is move in on Preacher’s backtrail and then close on them when the storm reduces visibility.”

  * * *

  Ahead of them, the air split open with eye-searing light and a calamitous roar. Tremendous peals of thunder shook the ground and startled a flock of pigeons out of the trees. Th
e pungent scent of ozone surrounded Preacher as he reached behind him for his poncho-like capote. The first drops of an icy rain fell around them as he whipped his hat from his head and draped the garment over his shoulders. At either side, Nighthawk and Buck sought similar protection from the elements.

  With a seething hiss, the downpour increased, sped along in nearly horizontal sheets by a lashing wind that bent the tops of the fir and pine trees and wildly whipped the limber aspens.

  “D’you have one of those places you saw in mind now?” Preacher drolly asked Nighthawk.

  “I cannot see the nose of my horse, how can I be expected to find shelter?” the Delaware answered calmly.

  “Well, I got a spot in mind,” Preacher answered. “We’re gonna get wet aplenty before we reach it.”

  “Then don’t sit here jawing about it in this deluge,” Nighthawk ripped out.

  Preacher took the lead. He kept to the trail, that led up a steep incline. Water quickly gathered and ran in freshets along the sides of the course they followed. The constant booming of celestial artillery prevented conversation and each man retreated into his private thoughts.

  Unaware of the crusade by Cora Ames to find homes among the missionary families, Preacher mulled over what to do with the orphans. Clearly, they had been handed some of life’s rougher portions. From what they revealed at the trial of Silas Phipps, he had made every day, or at least the nights, pure hell for them. Considering the holier-than-thou attitude of most people, Preacher reflected, who would ever take to their hearts children who had suffered such perversions?

  A grunt silenced Preacher’s ruminations. He had more important things to think about. The way his mind wandered, he sounded as maudlin as those schoolmarms and gospel-shouters that kept insisting on moving out here. Take, for instance, Ezra Pease. Preacher had heard nothing more about Pease after running the renegade out of the High Lonesome. Yet, Pease obviously kept him in mind. He’d spent enough time trying to bring an end to Preacher. Somehow that didn’t add up. Not with the youngins Pease’s men had taken from that wagon train. The trash riding for him might use kids in a bad way, but Pease didn’t strike Preacher as being the Silas Phipps type. So, what were they for?