Cheyenne Challenge

by William W. Johnstone

  “I’m going to kill you, Preacher!”

  “No, you’re not,” Preacher answered calmly.

  “I am, I swear it. You have single-handedly undone us. For that you must pay.”

  Preacher kept a wary eye on the desperate man while he canted his head to the side and thumped with his left palm above the ear. “Am I hearing right?” he asked. “Them’s fancy words for a man about to die.”

  “Don’t toy with me!” Hashknife shrieked, on the edge of losing his grasp on sanity. “Fill a hand with one of those fancy pistols of yours. Before you can fire twice, I’ll pump six bullets into you,” he raved on, oblivious to the silence that hung around him.

  “You’d best get started then,” Preacher invited as he whipped out one of the four-shooters and eared back the hammer in one smooth move.

  Hashknife had hardly touched the butt grip of his Walker Colt when the hammer fell and the pistol bucked in Preacher’s hand. The .56 caliber ball took Hashknife square in the middle of his forehead. His back arched in a spasm and he slowly leaned further back, until he toppled over and landed on his shoulders and heels.

  Astonished gasps rose from the witnesses. Before anyone could react, the voice of Ezra Pease cut raspingly through the murmurs of surprise. “It ends here, Preacher. I’ve got the girl. One wrong move and I spread her brains all over the ground. Get me a horse and I’ll be gone. Don’t come after me, or the girl dies.”

  He had to get Cora clear enough for a clean shot, Preacher knew. Without it he would have a tragedy on his hands. Warily, he shifted to one side. Pease moved to keep Cora between himself and Preacher. Blocked again. Preacher sought another diversion and found he did not need it. Cora Ames took care of clearing the target for him. When Pease shifted his weight to one leg, she gave a sharp, swift upraise of her boot heel into her captor’s crotch.

  At once, Ezra Pease let out a howl, his face turned a beet-red, and he released his grip enough for Cora Ames to break away. His face ashen now, Pease fought to suck in the air he had so rapidly wheezed away. Much to Preacher’s surprise, rather than scurry to safety, Cora dashed to the fallen body of Hashknife.

  “Don’t make it too quick for him,” she called over one shoulder to Preacher.

  Preacher obliged her. He took time and fined his aim so that his next ball shattered the left kneecap of Ezra Pease. Pease shot wild as he went to one knee, and put a ball across Preacher’s shoulder close to his ear. Preacher fired again. He put a hole in the unwounded shoulder of Pease. Pease groaned and dropped his Herrison Arsenel .50, double-barrel pistol. With his previously injured arm, he reached for the second two-shot handgun. Preacher waited.

  Pease cocked both barrels and took slow, painful aim. Standing spread-legged, arms akimbo, Preacher still waited. When the black holes of the muzzle came level with his eyes, Preacher fired again. His hammer fell on an empty nipple. At once, Pease emptied his last barrel. The slug tore a hot, ragged trough across the top of Preacher’s right shoulder. By only a fraction of an inch it missed his collarbone. Preacher winced, but covered it quickly.

  Then he holstered his empty pistol and advanced steadily on the kneeling Pease. “It don’t have to be this way, Pease,” Preacher offered the olive branch again.

  “Goddamn you, Preacher,” the renegade wailed. “I . . . want . . . you . . . dead.” With that, he gingerly fished a knife from its belt scabbard.

  Preacher marched up to him, kicked the knife from the hand of Ezra Pease and punched him solidly in the mouth. “I want this one to hang,” he announced, then turned and walked away.

  11

  Preacher stopped beside the prostrate figure of Cora Ames. She lay across the chest of the dead man named Hashknife. Gently Preacher bent down and raised her. Tears streaked her face. Preacher’s puzzled expression asked the question for him.

  “Th-they called him Hashknife,” Cora gulped. “Hi-his-his real name was Quincey Ames. He is—was—my oldest brother.”

  That took Preacher like a sucker punch. He had words of scorn for any man who would mistreat a woman, yet her revelation sucked them out of his mouth. How could he tell her to dry her eyes and not grieve over such a lowlife, when it was her own brother. Well, by dang, all considered, she shouldn’t waste tears over him, Preacher bristled at last. He bucked up and tried another approach.

  “From the first time I saw him, I was thinkin’ there was somethin’ familiar about his looks. His face that is. I never imagined. Can you tell me what brought him here with Ezra Pease?”

  “I—don’t know all of it. He was my idol when I was little. Then, when he was around fifteen . . . something . . . went wrong. He changed. Grew rebellious against Father. He held religion to scorn, despised every decent emotion. He started running with some rowdy boys from the other side of town. Then one day, the bank was robbed and Quincey disappeared along with several of his hooligan friends. Father saw him once or twice after that, but it always upset him so, he never talked about their meetings. His name appeared in the Boston newspapers several times and then . . . he seemed to have disappeared off the face of the earth. Now, he is here . . . and he is dead.”

  “And I killed him. I won’t say that I am sorry. He made that choice, not I. I’ll leave you now, Miss Cora. Only I’m gonna leave a bit of good advice. Don’t grieve for him too much. He weren’t worth it.”

  * * *

  A week passed in the valley, the missionaries busy burying the dead, the drivers nursing their wounds. Cora Ames remained distant from Preacher throughout the long days of ripe spring. Then, late on Friday afternoon, a stranger ambled his mount down into the settlement. Preacher and his friends slouched over to inspect the newcomer.

  “Howdy, folks,” the stranger greeted. “I didn’t know there was a settlement here.”

  “Well, now you know,” Preacher challenged, his wounds making him testy. Cora’s avoidance had something to do with it too, Dupre suspected.

  “So I do.” The stranger cut narrowed eyes to Preacher. After a long moment of inspection, he gave a small negative shake of his head. “You’re not the one, but I am looking for a man. I am U.S. Marshal Ruben Talbot.” For the hundredth time, he produced the sketches of Silas Phipps and the orphan children. “They are wanted for robbery, murder, and flim-flam games all over the East.”

  When the likeness of Phipps reached Preacher he wrinkled his nose and gave a short. “Yup. We seen this one. Hanged him for the unnatural things he done to them kids.”

  “You’ve seen the children, then? I have warrants for their arrest. Tell me where they are, if you please.”

  Cora Ames pushed her way through the crowd that had gathered as Preacher spoke out forcefully. “An’ if I don’t please?”

  “What’s all of this about?” Cora demanded before an explosion could erupt between Preacher and this menacing-looking man.

  “This uppity twerp of a You-nited States Marshal says those youngins with Phipps are wanted for a whole lot of crimes,” Preacher summarized.

  “That’s not possible,” Cora blurted. Then she went on to describe Silas Phipps and how he treated the youngsters. After a breathless pause, following her passionate defense of the children, she concluded a bit defensively, “If they did participate in any crimes, you can be sure they were forced into it. I’ve told you how Phipps beat them, nearly starved them. Here they will have good, Christian homes and lives.

  “Several couples are childless and will, no doubt, make the effort, once they have settled in, to adopt them,” she concluded.

  Marshal Talbot muttered to himself, garrumphed and grumbled somewhat. “The law’s the law; ma’am. I ain’t judge and jury. All I do is bring ’em in.”

  “We have a judge, and enough men to make a jury. We’ve used them already,” Cora came back perkily.

  Marshal Talbot looked startled, recalling what he had been told happened to Phipps. He took a long, good look at Preacher, saw the coiled, barely restrained power and fury there, and made his decision. “I suppose what
you would do is convene this court and dismiss the charges on the children and designate them as wards of the court, in the custody of those who have presently taken them in?”

  “If we had to,” Cora responded, her chin thrust defiantly forward.

  “An’ me an’ my friends would back it up,” Preacher announced. Beartooth, Dupre, and Nighthawk pushed through to the front of the onlookers.

  Talbot took them in, swallowed hard. “I’ve no doubt that you would. Well, then, I see no solution but to allow them to stay.” With that, the marshal extracted the warrants from an inner coat pocket and made a show of tearing them in half across the middle. “I’d be obliged if one of you would show me a place where I can take the night, then I’ll be on my way.”

  “No problem,” Art Pettibone piped up. “We have a spare room in our cabin. Mrs. Pettibone is expecting our first child.”

  “Obliged, indeed,” the marshal responded, relaxing in this fresh, cordial atmosphere.

  After he had departed, taken in tow by Art Pettibone, Cora turned to Preacher and spoke to him for the first time since he had killed her brother. “Thank you for standing up for the children.”

  “Weren’t nothin’, Miss Cora. They ain’t bad, considerin’ they’re still kids.”

  “Oh, Preacher, you are still impossible,” she replied, the wry twinkle back in her eyes. “I hear that you are planning to leave soon.”

  “Yep.”

  “Well, then, with Pease dead and the Cheyenne at peace again, I see no reason why you can’t lead us on to the villages of the Indians.”

  “Oh, yes, there is.”

  Cora pouted a moment, then changed her tack. “At least there’s no reason why you cannot stay in the valley for the summer. Perhaps take winter here and then lead us to our golden land of promise.”

  All at once, Preacher could hear wedding bells ringing inside his head, and see a vine-covered cottage in Cora’s eyes. He had to think fast. “But there is. I have to go weltering a bit to visit the soldier-boys at the small fort on the Yellowstone. They need to know about the guns on the loose and see to gettin’ them all back from the Blackfoot and Cheyenne. Otherwise, there won’t be any place safe in the High Lonesome for years to come.”

  Beartooth slapped a big hand against a hamlike thigh. “Whoo-boy, Preacher that’s the biggest mouthful of words I done ever heard out of you.”

  “Hush up, dang you, Beartooth. Just hush up,” Preacher protested.

  Disappointment decorated Cora’s face. She considered the lives of these rough and ready men and the tales she had heard, sighed and took one of Preacher’s hands in both of hers. “Well, if I can’t prevail on you to do what’s reasonable, the least I can do is part without hard feelings between us. I’ve never thanked you for saving my life. I want to do so now. Also, there is something I want to give to you before you leave.”

  “No call for that, ma’ . . . er, Miss Cora.”

  “Yes, there is. I’m sure you are the one who would most appreciate this gift.”

  “I’ll be heading out early tomorrow morning.”

  “I will rise promptly and see you off,” Cora promised.

  * * *

  A thin, silver band, tinged with pink hung over the mountains to the east when Preacher completed his preparation. He had been right sprightly in packing his gear and loading his packhorse. While he had worked the evening before, Beartooth and Nighthawk came to him.

  “Now, we’ve been talkin’ this over, an’ we allow as how we might just stay the summer and help these good folks over the next winter,” Beartooth offered.

  Preacher made no effort to hide his amusement. “I reckon as how it might be a good idea, at least for Dupre and Nighthawk here, seein’ as how there’s some of those gospel-spouter gals that are single. But, you, Beartooth, you’re a married man.”

  “Only in the Cheyenne way. Besides, I wouldn’t be untrue to my woman nohow. It’s only . . . these folks are so darn thick-headed about so many things. Like be they’d wind up croaked come spring without help. An’ you gotta get the Army to settle down the tribes before it’s safe to venture that way.”

  “Promise me one thing?” Preacher prodded, eyes glittering a zealous fire.

  “What’s that?” Nighthawk asked.

  “That under no conditions, no way, no how, you guide them soul-savers north to the Cheyenne. It could mean the ruination of ever’thing that’s good about this country.”

  Laughing, they struck a bond on that. Now, Preacher tightened the cinch strap on the packsaddle a second time as a soft footfall came to his ear. He turned to see Cora. She held her hands behind him.

  “I’ve come to say goodbye,” she offered simply. “I brought you these. As I said, I’m sure you’d be the one to most appreciate them.”

  She brought from behind her the two cartridge belts and holsters that held the .44 Colt Walker revolvers owned by her brother, whom Preacher had known as Hashknife. His eyes went wide and he blinked to conceal the moisture that formed in them.

  “Why, that’s mighty nice of you, Miss Cora. It’s too fine a gift for the likes of me.”

  “No it isn’t. You explained to me why you adapted yourself to those outlandish four-barreled contraptions. I figure you’d be glad to have the convenience of these.”

  “Darned if I wouldn’t.” He reached hesitantly for them, then unbuckled the jury-rigged outfit he had for his multi-barrels pistols. “They are fine as frog’s hair. I heard about them for sometime now, never seen one before . . . until I faced one. I’ll just fit these big ol’ things across the pommel of my saddle and wear the Walkers. I can’t find words grand enough to thank you, Miss Cora.”

  “No need to, Preacher.” With that, she took three quick steps forward and was in his arms. On tiptoe she pressed her sweet lips to his weathered ones, and kissed him long, deep, and passionately.

  When their lengthy embrace ended, Preacher coughed to cover his embarrassment, then gruffly said, “Goodbye, Miss Cora,” and swung into the saddle. Twenty minutes later, he still smelled hearts-and-flowers as he rode swiftly out of the valley and off to add more exploits into the pages of history—a lot of it as yet unwritten.

  New York Times and USA Today Bestselling Authors

  William W. Johnstone

  And J. A. Johnstone

  Smoke Jensen was a towering Western hero. Now his

  two freewheeling, long-lost nephews, Ace and Chance Jensen,

  are blazing a legendary trail of their own.

  Riverboat gambling is a blast, until hotheaded

  Chance finds out just what he won in his final hand

  against a Missouri River gambler named Haggarty.

  Chance’s “prize” is a beautiful Chinese slave girl

  named Ling. The twins want to set Ling free

  and keep their cash, but at Fort Benton, Ling gives

  them the slip, robbing them blind. When they hunt

  her down in Rimfire, Montana, she’s with

  Haggarty, lining up their next mark.

  WHAT WOULD SMOKE JENSEN DO?

  Ace and Chance want payback. So does hard case

  Leo Belmont, who’s come all the way from

  San Francisco with a grudge and a couple of

  kill-crazy hired guns. Belmont wants revenge,

  and Ace and Chance are in the way.

  PROBABLY THIS.

  Soon the boys are fighting alongside Ling and

  Haggarty. Because it doesn’t matter now who’s right

  and who’s wrong—blazing guns and flying lead

  are laying down the law . . .

  THOSE JENSEN BOYS!

  RIMFIRE

  The exciting new series!

  On sale now, wherever Pinnacle Books are sold.

  Chapter One

  “Let’s take a ride on a riverboat, you said,” Ace Jensen muttered to his brother as they backed away from the group of angry men stalking toward them across the deck. “It’ll be fun, you said.”

&
nbsp; “Well, I didn’t count on this,” Chance Jensen replied. “How was I to know we’d wind up in such a mess of trouble?”

  Ace glanced over at Chance as if amazed that his brother could ask such a stupid question. “When do we ever not wind up in trouble?”

  “Yeah, you’ve got a point there,” Chance agreed. “It seems to have a way of finding us.”

  Their backs hit the railing along the edge of the deck. Behind them, the giant wooden blades of the side-wheeler’s paddles churned the muddy waters of the Missouri River.

  They were on the right side of the riverboat—the starboard side, Ace thought, then chided himself for allowing such an irrelevant detail to intrude on his brain at such a moment—and so far out in the middle of the stream that jumping overboard and swimming for shore wasn’t practical.

  Besides, the brothers weren’t in the habit of fleeing from trouble. If they started doing that, most likely they would never stop running.

  The man who was slightly in the forefront of the group confronting them pointed a finger at Chance. “All right, kid, I’ll have that watch back now.”

  “I’m not a kid,” Chance snapped. “I’m a grown man. And so are you, so you shouldn’t have bet the watch if you didn’t want to take a chance on losing it.”

  The Jensen brothers were grown men, all right, but not by much. They were in their early twenties, and although they had knocked around the frontier all their lives, had faced all sorts of danger, and burned plenty of powder, there was still a certain . . . innocence . . . about them, for want of a better word. They still made their way through life with enthusiasm and an eagerness to embrace all the joy the world had to offer.

  They were twins, although that wasn’t instantly apparent. They were fraternal rather than identical. Ace was taller, broader through the shoulders, and had black hair instead of his brother’s sandy brown. He preferred range clothes, wearing jeans, a buckskin shirt, and a battered old Stetson, while Chance was much more dapper in a brown tweed suit, vest, white shirt, a fancy cravat with an ivory stickpin, and a straw planter’s hat.