Cheyenne Challenge (19 page)

When Phipps wilted in Preacher's grip, the mountain man brought up one knee smartly and smashed into the pervert's crotch. Then he went to work on the soft belly and vulnerable ribs. The disturbance awakened everyone in the settlement. Lamps bloomed with light and people began to gather. In the forefront, black frock coat draped over nightshirt, came the Reverend Thornton Bookworthy.

“Enough!” he thundered. “Desist at once. You'll kill that man.”

Preacher ceased his pounding and looked at the minister from his anger. “You're right. I allow as how any man forcing himself on a woman, and in particular a child, has committed a hanging offense. I say that's what we do with this rotten trash.”

Despite the closeness of their earlier conversation, Cora Ames flared at Preacher also. “You can't do that without a trial. This man is entitled to the protection of the law. Everyone is presumed innocent until proven guilty.”

Preacher noted the fervor with which she had made her statements and it only fanned the flames higher. “Well, hell, Miss Cora, if you'll pardon my sayin' it, I caught him in the act, with his britches down around his knees like they are now. That ain't no sportin' house girl in there, that's a ten-year-old child.”

Gertha's small, pale face appeared over the tailgate. “Hit him again, Mr. Preacher. Hit him for me.”

Reverend Bookworthy had gathered more steam. “We can't hang him. Why, it's—it's
uncivilized.”

“That's right,” Patience Bookworthy rallied behind her husband. “Everyone knows that hanging people is no deterrent to crime.”

Preacher eyed her like a creature from another planet. “I beg to point out that hangin' is a sure-fire way to deter the feller from doin' it. Any rapist, once hung, sure as ol' Nick himself, won't ever rape another.”

Asa Pettibone stepped forward. “I agree with Preacher. If we are establishing a community here, then we're responsible for enforcing the laws. As I recall, rape is a capital crime. I say we select a jury, from among our drivers and ourselves. Did you see what went on?” he asked Nighthawk.

“I only saw Preacher drag this wretch out of his wagon.”

“Good. Then you can be prosecutor, Nighthawk. Beartooth can be bailiff, Dupre can be judge. And, Thornton, if you feel so strongly against the death penalty for such scum as Phipps, you can damn well defend the low-life trash.”

More lanterns were brought, the fire built up, and everyone gathered around. Only the children were barred from witnessing the events that transpired. When summoned, Beartooth escorted each of the orphans forward to testify. Each one sobbed out their face-reddening, humiliating evidence. Through it all, Silas Phipps grew more surly.

“Yer a lyin' whelp,” he snarled at Billy when the boy told between gulps of fear and loathing what Phipps had done to him.

“It—it's the truth, an' you know it,” the eight-year-old boy accused. “I swore to myself I'd never tell a soul. The shame would kill me. But if it will free us all of you, I'm glad to answer what they want to know.”

Peter told of the many beatings, and of the dark, degrading, secret things Phipps had compelled him to do. Several of the missionary women swooned dead away, others erupted in fits of tears and hysteria.

“Yer a liar, same as the others, you miserable brat. Next time, I'll whip the life out of you.”

Preacher could no longer restrain himself. “I don't reckon yer gonna get a 'next time.' ”

Dupre rapped a pistol butt on the barrel head that served as his bench. “Let's not get out of line,
mon ami.
You'll have your chance to give testimony in a little while.”

“What's wrong with now?” Preacher growled.

“I seem to recall something about establishing a link between the accused and his crimes. Mr. Pettibone was kind enough to instruct me in this custom of law. So we need to start in the past and bring it up to the events of this evening. Then we can hang this
batard
right legal and proper,” he added, a cold fire in his black eyes. “Proceed, Mr. Prosecutor.”

“What happened after the last beating, Peter?”

“He—uh—he smeared me with axle grease. He was real tender about it, especially my ba-backside. I just knew what he wanted.”

Phipps came to his feet, hands fisted, eyes wild. “Shut up, you dirty little liar.”

Dupre cut his eyes to Beartooth. “Bailiff, please restrain the defendant.”

Beartooth gave a curt nod, walked to where he faced Phipps, at a little less than arm's length, and biffed the blustering pervert in the mouth. “That good enough, Judge Dupre?”

“Fine as frog fur, Beartooth. Once again, please continue.”

Peter did. Then Preacher was called, he related being awakened, recognizing the cries to be those of a child and following the sound to the second wagon of Phipps. At that point he became ill at ease, shrugged and shuffled his feet, until he at last turned to Dupre.

“Frenchy, uh, Judge, can we ask the ladies be excused before I say what it is I found inside that wagon?”

“Considering the circumstances, I find that a reasonable request,” Nighthawk supported Preacher's position.

Realizing that if Preacher revealed all the gruesome details, the client forced upon him would surely hang, Reverend Bookworthy protested. “The Constitution guarantees a speedy and public trial. The Lord knows this is speedy enough. If the womenfolk are excused it will not be entirely public.”

“Now, hold on a minute there,
Pere
Bookworthy. I've never been in a real court but once,” Dupre challenged. “But the one I was in didn't allow women to witness the trial. I'm going to rule that the women be excused.”

After they had gone, Preacher described what he had seen. When he concluded with the pounding he had given Phipps, rumbles of angry discontent swept through the long gap in testimony. Dupre rapped again and brought silence.

“Do you wish to call anyone else?” he asked Nighthawk.

“Yes. The victim, little Gertha.”

After her account of what had gone on, several among the jury had to be restrained by Beartooth. Dupre turned to Reverend Bookworthy. “Do you have anything to offer in defense?”

“I call Silas Phipps.”

Phipps took the oath, then slumped on the barrel used as a witness chair. “I might have done some bad things in my life. But it weren't my fault. I had an awful childhood. My parents beat me, they didn't love me. I had an uncle, my pa's brother, who pestered me when I was little,” he recited his list of imaginary woes. “I was shunned by the other children because we were poor. I went hungry most every day ...” He went on and on with the usual purile snivel about his past life.

When he finished, the jury took only one minute to reach a verdict. “Guilty,” Buck the foreman announced.

“But it ain't my fault. I can't help myself,” Silas Phipps whined, squealed, and sobbed out.

“Having been found guilty as charged, I sentence you to be hanged by your neck until you are dead, dead, dead. And may
le bon dieu
have mercy on your soul,” Dupre pronounced in a sepulchral voice.

Phipps squealed like a pig. He struggled and fought with the four men who wrestled to restrain him. He thrashed and howled all the way to the tall fir tree with long, thick lower branches. There his hands and feet were tied and a hastily fashioned rope fitted around his neck.

He was still shrieking when the rope went suddenly taut and hauled him off his feet. No one wanted to break the silence that followed that.

2

War talk resumed among the Cheyenne. Many of the younger warriors and war chiefs had grown highly discontented with the failure to settle decisively with Pease. Their representatives on the council made their position known. The debate turned even more serious.

“It is foolish to make war on the whites. Unless we kill all of these men, others will come to avenge them. Think of our women, our children,” Running Bear appealed to reason.

“While we spend our days chasing after them, the Blackfeet are making up for war,” Wind Rider reminded the assembled chiefs. “We cannot fight them, and all the whites, too.”

“No. It is the white men who sell guns and whiskey we must kill,” Gray Cloud rose to speak his thoughts. “When we do, the Blackfeet will have to take counsel again about fighting us.”

Falling Horse rose next, a brief smile flickering on his wide, handsome face. “I do not think the whites think well of these men who sell guns and whiskey to our people. I have met with the one they call Preacher. He and three friends are hunting this man called Pease. They mean to stop him.”

“What can four men do against all those who ride with Pease?” Gray Cloud demanded scornfully.

“That is not the point, old friend. What we must do is find Pease first and finish off his fighting men. With Preacher opposed to what Pease is doing, he will speak in our favor to his kind. I believe that no other white men will seek to punish us if we kill Pease.”

Little Mountain rose to add his sentiments. “Falling Horse is right. This Pease rides like a mighty chief across our lands. He and his warriors are crowding up our open spaces, selling rotten whiskey to those who would drink it, and being troublesome in many ways.”

“Yes. The white boy-child I took from their camp told how the men with Pease killed his parents, and many other whites in a rolling lodge train and took them captive,” Falling Horse informed them. “This is also why I say the whites will not care who it is that ends the days for Pease.”

“It is known that they are the ones who sold guns to the Blackfeet,” White Bow added in mounting anger. “We are agreed to fight the Blackfeet if they come into our land. I say we take the battle to them. Attack their villages. Punish them for trading guns with the whites.”

“But first we must make Pease pay for what he has done,” Falling Horse urged.

Running Bear sighed and shook his graying head. “Your words are good, Falling Horse. Yet, we must take counsel in what is true, and not give in to being guided by what we wish could be done. I say it is to be moon-struck to decide for a general uprising. Look at the power of the Blackfeet, their great numbers. And the endless stream of whites. Do you forget their Tall Hats
³
who keep the log wall villages?”

Falling Horse had to admit the wisdom of that argument. Although few in number, and widely spread over the high plains, the forts provided a constant thorn to irritate the Cheyenne. After much wrangling, the council decided not to change their initial decision. They would first hunt the whites who had killed Little Knife and his warriors and destroyed the village of Black Hand. More than half the number of braves able to fight would be needed to protect their villages from any surprise attack by the Blackfeet, while the rest went in pursuit of Pease. They would discuss widening the fight later. Falling Horse had the last word.

“I will lead the Dog Soldiers, if you approve,” he told the council. None objected.

* * *

Cora Ames was not speaking to Preacher after the drumhead trial and hanging of Silas Phipps. That pleased Preacher mightily. He decided to set off on another hunting sweep, then see to finding Pease. To his surprise, young Peter and Billy overcame their ordeal enough to share their skill in setting snares for smaller game with the boys of the village. Before Preacher departed, the youngsters were out in the woods to trap rabbits, squirrels, and other edible, fur-bearing critters. Preacher used a big hand to cover his satisfied smile.

“You will be back when?” Nighthawk asked.

“Before the first game I shoot spoils,” Preacher answered.

“The one who has her eyes set for you is angry, I gather.”

Preacher sighed, more in relief than regret. “That she is. I'll never understand wimmin. Cool as ol' Jim Beckworth, she was when it came to shootin' Injuns. Wouldn't abide hangin' that rotten trash. Oh, well, I reckon the Almighty will sort out whatever, if any, was good about Silas Phipps. Be seein' you, Nighthawk.”

Preacher took similar leave from the other pair, along with some ribald advice about how to rewarm the cockles of Cora's heart. That, he told himself, he didn't need. In the meanwhile, Cora had found herself a new distraction. Over coffee and sweet cakes, she conferred with Lidia Pettibone, Sue Landry and, of course, Patience Bookworthy.

“These orphans are truly alone now,” she began her campaign.

Lidia Pettibone gave a shudder. “Better that than the life they had.”

Cora sipped from her cup and eyed Lidia over the rim. “What I'm getting at is they can hardly strike out from here all alone.”

“Certainly not,” Patience Bookworthy gave her opinion. “Yet, they have been so degraded, so shamed, that they are hardly fit for ordinary society, let alone to live among the righteous.”

“I would expect that, comin' from you,” Flora Sanders said as she bustled up, fists on hips. “I am so tired of hearing how righteous you folk are. Wasn't it the Pharisees and Sud-dusees who were considered the most righteous among the Jews? And didn't Jesus tell them that he was of his father and they were of theirs, ‘who was a liar and a murderer and a thief from the beginning of time?' ”

In a huff, Patience sprang from her rocking chair. “Why, I never ...”

“Nope. Don't reckon you ever did think about that. You been too busy being righteous. Now, dear,” Flora directed to Cora, “what was it you had in mind?”

Pleased and inwardly warmed by this show of support, Cora carefully framed her reply. “These children need homes, and parents to love and care for them. Surely there are those among our group who could open their hearts to these waifs?”

“I'd say so. I'm not too old to be a mother hen,” Flora volunteered. “I'd be right pleased to take in that little girl, Gertha, and perhaps Billy.”

Cora turned to the others. “There you are. That leaves only ten more to be comforted. And, another thing, we should start thinking toward a school. Our own children are running wild, without the education they need. Twelve more only add to the importance of schooling.”

“I agree,” Lidia Pettibone offered. “Our Jason is becoming more like those mountain men every day. He even wants a set of buckskins to wear.”

Patience Bookworthy recovered from her snit enough to be scandalized. “That goes to show you. We must be shut of those uncouth hooligans as quickly as possible. They are a bad influence on the children.”

Cora had another view of the issue. “I think buckskins make a lot of sense ... out here. We have no ready supply of cloth, tailormade clothing cost dearly, if any is available. With animals in ample supply, we can have an endless quantity of clothing. Preacher ...” She stumbled over the name, then recovered her composure. “Preacher says we can even trade with the friendly Indians for ready-made buckskin clothes.”

Sue Landry joined Patience in her objections. “Just the thought of that animal skin against my—my person, makes me cringe.”

“And rightly so, dear,” Patience supported in prim disapproval.

Not to be put off, Cora made a sweeping gesture with one arm to the stacks of hump-backed trunks outside each nearly completed cabin. “Judging from what we brought along, we women would not be subjected to that for a long time. Perhaps never, if the land is settled as quickly as our mountain men guides seem to think. Yet, it would certainly stretch our husbands' and sons' meeting house clothes a lot longer. It does no harm for boys and men to wear clothing made from animal skins. Not if they are decorated as attractively as those of Pre—er—that man.”

Patience would not let it go. She felt her control of the women slipping away. “Well enough for you to say, with neither man nor child to care for.”

That struck home, though Cora vowed not to let it show. “Yes,” she said sweetly. “But that's of my choosing, not for any lack of suitors.”

Squelched, Patience let it go without challenge. Talk returned to the proposed school while the level in the coffee pot lowered steadily. Lidia Pettibone offered to teach the lower grades, and her husband would provide instruction in music. Martha Yates, recovered from her fright over Johnny, offered to teach the older children. Patience Bookworthy, naturally, stated that she would teach religion.

“But not all of us are of your persuasion,” Falicity Jones reminded the officious minister's wife.

To her surprise, Cora found herself on the side of Patience. “True enough, yet we all worship the same God. The moral truths of religious belief are the best guidelines children can have when growing up. Take the Ten Commandments out of the schools and we'll raise up a nation of heathen savages more benighted than the Indians.”

Patience Bookworthy shot Cora Ames a gimlet eye before accepting the reality of what the younger woman had said. “I heartily agree. The Ten Commandments were not the Ten Suggestions or Hints. They represent the absolute distillation of moral law. Without them, where would civilization be?”

Their talk went on until the women realized with a start that they would have to scurry to prepare the noon meal for their laboring men. They set off in a flutter of skirts and hair in disarray. It would have pleased Preacher mightily, Cora Ames thought.

* * *

Cord Dickson cut his eyes to the ugly features of Grant Ferris. The bucktoothed Ferris had the unsightly habit of picking his nose in the presence of others. Had Cord Dickson not been a knife artist, who gloried in gutting his victims, it would have turned his stomach. He and Seth Branson had been partnered with Grant Ferris for nine days now, searching for any sign of Preacher.

They had gone to the trading post at Trout Crick Pass three times in those days. All with negative results. If anyone knew anything, they sure didn't share it with the scruffy trio of hard cases. Now Dickson, the nominal leader, wanted a unanimous decision from his companions. His hard look made Ferris uncomfortable.

“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.”