Cheyenne Challenge

by William W. Johnstone

  “Awh, crap,” Haskel spat. Then the fight was on in earnest.

  * * *

  Preacher waited long enough to insure that any failings of the strange weapons did not effect his marksmanship, then he opened up. A hit on the first shot smacked of good medicine. He had made a quick count and knew he faced eight men alone. Oh, well, he’d had worse, and against some fighting mad Blackfeet, too. He exchanged rifles and popped another cap.

  He winced with regret as the ball shot low and struck a horse full in the breast. The animal shrieked and its front legs collapsed. That vaulted the rider over the neck and head and landed him on the crown of his balding pate. Even at that distance, Preacher could hear the crisp snap of bone in spine and skull. Time for another rifle.

  Preacher selected his French LeFever. Some of the enemy began to hold back in the face of his deadly accurate fusillade. The hammer fell and a thin, blue spurt of smoke came from the cap. The rifle recoiled solidly and projected the conical ball into the grinning face of a lout with a brow so low Preacher swore the man could wrap his lower lip over it. Now the odds looked a little better. Back to five on one.

  “What say, Thunder?” he called out as he selected another long gun. “This is turnin’ out to be one hell of a day, ain’t it?”

  Bart Haskel wisely decided on a change of tactics. He waved an arm over his head and signaled for the rest to follow him. With a hard pressure on the right rein, and a tug on the left, he sent his horse diagonally across Preacher’s field of fire. Without realizing it, he lined out directly toward the trees where the five dead men had begun. Preacher sent two more balls after them, then turned his attention to the ridgeline above.

  Four more scruffy derelicts had shown up. With only a slight pause to take in the situation, they angled downhill to join up with the rest of their misbegotten kind. Preacher slapped the stock of his Hawken.

  “Be damned if I ain’t worser off than before,” he spat.

  Time dragged after the fighting dwindled to an occasional shot. That suited Preacher right fine. He used the lull to reload. Then he started taking potshots at those who wanted his head so badly. One of the vermin climbed a tree to try to get a clear angle on Preacher. His first shot gave away his position. Preacher drew a fine bead.

  An ongoing shriek of pain and terror answered his efforts. When the wounded man could make himself coherent, the reason became clear. “He s-s-shot me low!” he screamed.

  Pitiful wails and sobs of despair continued for a while. But no one came to help the groin-shot brigand.

  “Miserable bastards, they won’t even help their own,” Preacher grumbled aloud. Then he stiffened. He had seen ghostlike movements from the corner of one eye.

  Preacher turned his head slightly and cut a hard look at the spot where he had noticed the rustle of a sumac branch. Nighthawk, sure’s God made green apples, Preacher reckoned. Darkness had begun to fall and it appeared as though the opponents had stalemated. Well, things would start to heat up a mite once Nighthawk managed to drift in beside him. Together they could cook up a real nasty stew. Might be fun after all, Preacher decided, a grin cutting his face.

  7

  Moonset came at a few minutes after eleven o’clock that night. Preacher slipped away from his friend, to circle around the remaining outlaws. They had discussed the matter and concluded that it would be best for Preacher to go alone. If any of the human garbage made a break in that direction, Nighthawk’s gunfire would serve to confuse them even more, convincing them that Preacher remained where last they had seen him.

  A heady aroma rose from the dew-damp sage and lupine through which Preacher forged on foot. His moccasins made such slight whispers they could not be heard more than a couple of feet away. Each tread, he planted the edge of his foot first, tested the ground, then rolled inward to the ball, his heel never touching the ground unless he came to a full halt. Bent low, he avoided low-hanging branches which would brush noisily against his buckskins. After a half hour of circling approach, Preacher came in close enough to hear low, murmured conversation around a tiny fire. All of the men, strangers to this country, sat with their backs to the outside world, he noticed when he edged in close enough to see.

  “Dang it, this sure’n hell ain’t my idea of how to track a feller down,” Goose Parker complained.

  “How you propose to go about it?” Rupe Killian challenged. “You figger to go out there in the dark and jump on Preacher whilst he sleeps?”

  Goose defended his stance. “It could be done.”

  “Sure, by a ghost,” Killian scoffed.

  Delphus Plunkett blanched. “Don’t go talkin’ about ghosts,” he pleaded. “You ask me, that Preacher acts ’nuff like one to give us all nightmares.”

  Preacher smiled in the darkness. From the sound of it, they were doing half his work for him. He moved silently on to another vantage point. He wanted to find their horses before the fun began.

  When Preacher reached the horses, he found with them a little pug-faced lout, barely out of his teens, if that much. Preacher sidled up behind him without giving a modicum of warning. His big, steely arm snaked around the punk’s neck and tightened to the hardness of a vise. Preacher put his lips close to the ear of the bug-eyed youth and whispered softly.

  “You fancy meetin’ your Maker tonight?” He released his grip enough for the kid to make a reply.

  “N-no—ooooh, noooo,” came a soft, sincere reply.

  “Then I suggest you cut your losses right fast. Pick your horse and walk him real quiet out of here and ride for the main trail, then head south.”

  “M-my—my saddle an’ gear?” came a plaintive appeal.

  “You got the things you need most; your bridle, your gun, your horse, and ... your life. Was I you, I’d be grateful for that and haul outta here.”

  That didn’t take much thinking on, especially when the young ruffian felt the cold edge of Preacher’s knife against his throat. “Yes—yessir, I surely will.”

  “That’s a good boy. I reckon your momma will be glad to see you back home and safe. Now get along and do it.”

  With the guard out of the way, Preacher swiftly arranged for the second act of his little drama. He released three of the horses and left the rest. Then he worked his way back in close to the collection of scum that hunkered around the fire. Using the advantage of the steep mountain sides that surrounded their campsite, he gave off a series of wolf howls.

  He could almost feel the chills that gathered along the spines of the tenderfoot brigands. Their conversation died off at the first mournful yowl. Then, breathless, barely more than a whisper, the questions began.

  “What’s that?”

  “What’s going on?”

  “Ned, you out there with the horses?” A pause, then, “Ned? You hear me?”

  Another wolf howl, longer this time and sounding closer. “Ned! Answer me! ” came a frightened demand.

  Preacher gave them the cough and hiss of a puma. Low, soft moans followed, like the tortured soul of a damned man. Then Preacher threw back his head to take advantage of the natural sound chamber.

  “He’s comin’ to get you, too. He’ll carve out your hearts and eat your livers,” he drawled out in ghostly voice.

  “Awh, Lordy—Lord, it ain’t human. Somethin’s done got Ned and it’s comin’ for us.”

  “Shut up, you idjit!” Rupe Killian snapped.

  Another panther caterwaul and the loose horses broke into shrill whinnies as they thundered away from the picket line. “B’God, the horses!” Rupe shouted.

  “I’m gettin’ outta here,” Goose wailed.

  “Yeah, yeah, we’ll do that, right after we get them horses,” Killian agreed, his own spine having a spell of icy shivers. “Goddamn you, Preacher!” he bellowed, certain the mountain man was behind this, but unable to quell his own terror.

  Preacher spooked off through the underbrush, his lips pulled back in a pleased smile, a chuckle only partly repressed as his chest heaved. That bunch
would live to fight another day, but it didn’t really matter. In their fright, they’d lead him right to Ezra Pease. And about time.

  * * *

  Rosy morning light showed a clear trail left by men in a total panic. Nighthawk nodded to the scuffled ground.

  “Looks like they left in a hurry.”

  “Somethin’ must have upset ’em durin’ the night, ’Hawk. What you reckon?”

  “Ghosts, perhaps? It’s said these mountains are haunted by the spirits of the Arapaho ancestors. Funny, I thought I heard a cougar not far off last night.”

  “Mayhaps you did,” Preacher replied with a twinkle in his eyes. “Reckon we just oughtta follow these fellers an’ see where they’ve gone.”

  “I don’t imagine it will be a long trail,” Nighthawk opined.

  “How’s that?”

  “The way they are running those horses,” the Delaware went on as they rode along the clearly marked escape route, “they won’t last long.”

  Preacher gave a dry chuckle. “You’re learnin’ right fast, Nighthawk.”

  Nighthawk put on a show of affront. “’Learnin’ is it? Why, I forgot more than you know about the High Lonesome before you were out of knee-britches.”

  Preacher joined in with his own barb. “You ain’t that old. I ain’t either, for that matter. We’re headed for some right interestin’ valley over Elk Crick way. If Pease is anywhere around, we should be cuttin’ more sign any time now.”

  Within an hour, Preacher’s prediction came true. The tracks they followed became swallowed up in a heavily traveled stretch of trail. That decided them to press on a little faster. Preacher admitted he had developed a considerable itch to come face to face with Ezra Pease.

  * * *

  Back in his not-so-secure valley, harmony and tranquility fled for Ezra Pease the moment the survivors returned. “This can’t be happening!” he railed. “I send out twenty of you and you fourteen come back, your tails between your legs, whining about wild animals working in concert with Preacher.”

  Hat in hand, Rupe Killian tried to explain. “It’s true, Mr. Pease. There was wolves an’ some sort of lion, we all heard its chillin’ cry. Somethin’ done et young Ned Morton. Not a sign of him anywhere.”

  “No blood? No intestines on the ground?” Pease asked sarcastically. “All of you,” he assailed the gathered trash, the possibility that his planning was flawed never occurring to him. “You disappoint me terribly. At every turn you fail. I thought I had brought along men of intelligence, of perspicuity, instead, it seems I have recruited a company of poltroons.”

  His eyes narrowed as his mood changed again. “This is all Preacher’s fault. His doing, and his alone.” Then he deflated, realizing that it was indeed his men who had failed. For a moment he cast his eyes heavenward. “Why am I surrounded by incompetents, fools, and cowards?” he pleaded. Then his own cunning provided a solution. “You are all cut one third of what you’ve been promised. It will be divided equally among any of the rest of you who can stand up to Preacher and bring him to me. That is, if any of you think you’re man enough to face an army of wild animals to get to him.” His contempt vibrated in the mocking words.

  Hashknife stepped forward. “I’d like a chance at that.”

  Pease beamed and clapped the Easterner on one shoulder. “Good. Now, here’s a man who knows how to seize the advantage. Hashknife, select the men you want and make ready to go back with whichever of these cowards will guide you to where they ran into Preacher. Trail him, track him to his lair, and then send back someone to guide the rest of us there. He’s overplayed his hand this time. There will have to be some signs left to lead you to him. This time, Preacher will be surrounded and cut down like the dog he is.”

  * * *

  Unknown to Ezra Pease, Preacher and Nighthawk lay behind a low screen of young spruce, low on the slope of the mountainside overlooking the camp. They had worked their way into hearing range, at least of the shouted tirade of the outlaw leader.

  Preacher had to cover his mouth to stifle a chuckle when Pease laid the blame at the mountain man’s feet. The way Preacher saw it, Pease refused to see his own weaknesses. He probably couldn’t plan a trip to an outhouse without mishap. When the camp grew busy with activity as men made ready to go with the man named Hashknife, Preacher and Nighthawk silently withdrew.

  Far enough away that their voices would not carry, Preacher rubbed his jaw and expressed a niggling curiosity about the new manhunter sent after him. “That feller Pease called Hashknife. There’s somethin’ mighty familiar about him. The cut of his jaw, his hair . . . somethin’ says I should know him.”

  “You have seen him before?” asked Nighthawk.

  “No. Not that I recall. More like I’ve seen his pappy, or someone in the family. There’s . . . jist a touch of something.”

  Nighthawk clapped him on the shoulder. “It will come to you. Now do we go back for enough men to finish this?”

  “You do, I’m gonna stay, make sure they don’t all get out of here and disappear again.”

  Nighthawk frowned. “Even for you, that could be quite a job.”

  “I know, ol’ hoss. Don’t reckon on takin’ ’em on all alone. If they move, I go along an’ leave a trail.”

  Nighthawk nodded. “Then good luck. I should be back in three days. Near as I can judge, you were right about this location is due north of the new settlement. Should be easy.”

  Preacher struck Nighthawk gently on the shoulder. “Ride with the wind, Nighthawk.”

  “Be sure of it.”

  Preacher saw his friend off, then settled in to keep track of the outlaw band. Then he set about preparing some unpleasant surprises for anyone who wished to get out of the valley. He started on the trail to the south.

  There he located some springy aspen saplings and bent half a dozen on each side in arcs away from the trail. These he secured while he fashioned some pencil-sized twigs into sharp-pointed spikes, which he secured with rawhide thongs along the saplings, pointed toward the trail. Then he rigged trip lines that crossed the roadway at the proper distance from the deadly traps and eased the tension of the deadly flails into their strain. Satisfied, Preacher moved on.

  Silently he wished he had a dozen men with sharp spades to dig some pits. Then, thought of injury to innocent horses changed his mind. With spare ropes and thongs left with him by Nighthawk, he rigged a spike-bristling deadfall to swing out of concealment among low branches and knock at least two men off their mounts. Some tough vines and a smoothly grooved rock provided a huge snare that could yank yet another piece of vermin from the saddle.

  Preacher kept up his work throughout the day and most of the next. When he finished, he had some most unpleasant surprises rigged for any of Pease’s men who tried to ride out. The only way into or out of the valley he left untouched was one he felt certain the bunglers with Pease knew nothing about. Then all he had to do was settle in on the south end of the valley and wait for reinforcements to arrive. Chuckling over the expected reaction of the walking filth, he rode off in that direction, tired and sore, but hugely pleased with himself. He decided on a little snooze to help pass the time.

  * * *

  While Preacher waited for his volunteer force of fighting men to arrive, Falling Horse and his Cheyenne Dog Soldiers came on from the northeast, following the sign of some of the less skilled among Pease’s fighters. When the Cheyenne chief realized where those tracks led them, he called for a halt.

  “I know of where these men go. It is a nice, wide valley, much grass, good water. Many ways in and out. But there is one that the white men would never find. It is narrow and dark, and we must move slowly. We can use it and not be found. Our surprise will be total.”

  Several older, wiser heads nodded in agreement. The more restless among the younger warriors offered their opinion in the form of questions. “Why don’t we take the faster way?”

  “Yes,” another agreed. “They may escape.”

  “The kn
own paths will be watched. We would lose our surprise,” Falling Horse explained. A cold smile lifted his lips. “And I want them to be surprised.”

  Without further discussion, the Cheyenne war party turned away and followed Falling Horse’s lead toward the hidden entrance. They soon found the progress slower than expected. Trees attacked by insects and others struck by lightning littered the way, reducing forward movement to a dragging walk. At points they had to stop and drag limbs clear of the narrow, meandering trail that followed a tiny stream.

  It took the Cheyenne the rest of the day to make it halfway through the steep canyon. They made camp and talked quietly among themselves. Some of the more enterprising among them produced small buffalo paunch pots, into which they put jerked bison meat and water. When the meat softened, they shredded it with fingernails then added cornmeal, ground nuts, and salt. It made a nourishing, if not savory, stew, which they shared with the others, then all rolled into blankets and slept soundly.

  Up before dawn, they advanced on their enemy. At midday, Falling Horse halted the column and pointed to the south. A wedge of blue sky showed ahead. They had little distance to go. Each warrior muffled the muzzle of his mount, to quiet any whinny of recognition when the animals scented the presence of the white men’s horses. An hour later, the Cheyenne came into the clear. Falling Horse used silent signals to direct his war party into line for an attack.

  Every Dog Soldier mounted and readied his weapons. Many smiled broadly, the prospect of scalps and plenty of coups energized them. Falling Horse let his ebony eyes cut along the double line of warriors and knew satisfaction. Every man had at least two weapons at the ready. Their first sweep would be a bloody one. He nodded his approval and raised his feather-decorated rifle over his head.

  When it came down, the Cheyenne charged into the valley. They had covered more than half the distance to the white camp before the first shouts of alarm rose from their enemy.