Cheyenne Challenge (2 page)

“White Wolf does not lie. I will be satisfied. Come visit us again. My sister misses you awfully.” The last was delivered with as much as a mischievous expression as his bruised features could produce.

Preacher chose to ignore this reference to his amorous proclivities of the past winter. “Go with the wind, Blue Heron. ”

Despite his pain and discomfort, Blue Heron's eyes twinkled. “Find sleep in a warm lodge, White Wolf.”

Their exchange had been observed by Ez, who came at Preacher in a rush. “What'd that thievin' Hole-in-Nose say to you?”

Preacher gave him a cool, appraising gaze. “Nothin' that's any of your business, feller.”

“B'God it is my business.”

“Nope. Not by half,” Preacher assured him. Then, his eyes the color of glare-ice, he added. “But I can make it a whole lot of mine.”

Ez glowered as he studied the young man before him. Lean-hipped and rawhide tough, Ez could see this stranger had tremendous power in his upper body. He figured him to be smart, too, since he had learned that heathen savage's turkey-gobble lingo. Something about the casual way he wore those two .50 caliber pistols in his sash warned Ez that this stranger could be panther quick and deadly accurate with them. That, most of all, gave him pause. With a snort of impatience, Ez broke their locked gaze first.

He turned on one boot heel and stomped off. Slippery Jim and several others swarmed around Preacher in the next instant to welcome him and press invitations on him to visit firesides for a friendly round of “cussin', discussin', and drinkin'.” Preacher said yes to all, though many knew full well he would not make it to their camp that night. Preacher spent the rest of the day asking questions about the new trader, Ez, and sharing jugs.

First off, he got a last name for the surly man. Pease. “He says it like them little green vegables,” Beckworth informed Preacher. Coupled with what he had witnessed, Preacher soon developed an image of the man which far from pleased him. Yet, Ez Pease had done nothing directly to Preacher and he, like most of his fellow trappers, strongly believed in a man tending his own trapline.

As a result, Preacher decided to leave well enough alone. Yet, if the shadow of Pease ever fell across his path, Preacher would be more than happy to do something about it. The opportunity had come sooner than Preacher expected.

Three days went by in the usual boozy, raucous
bon homme
of Rendezvous. Preacher had all but forgotten the incident with his young Nez Perce friend. He had traded with the boy's father for Thunder. Now, horse trading was serious business to the Nez Perce. If a feller entered into the spirit of it, and they believed he had treated them fairly, although shrewdly, they respected that man for it. If he was generous with his sugar and coffee in the bargain, that man could have friends for life. Not forgetting, of course, that Injuns have notions. The day that recalled all of this to Preacher began normally enough.

Around noon, he and Big Foot Joe got into an eating contest. The man who could consume just one more than half of the small lumps of force meat, onions, and wild rice in a chain of pit-roasted intestine, in this case from an elk, was the winner. He split half of the gold, pelts, or other items bet on the outcome. Preacher's stout, youthful teeth gave him an advantage, which put him well on the way to the mid-point in the chain when an uproar rose from the southern end of the string of camps.

Preacher ignored them and munched on. More voices joined the clamor of support for opposing sides. They ended abruptly in a shout of alarm.

“Look out!” Followed by the flat report of a pistol shot.

Ah, hell. Just when I had this thing won, Preacher silently lamented. He had no doubt as to the source of the disturbance, or who had fired his weapon. He bit off the tasty rope and set out at a trot for the gathering crowd of men and haze of dust that rose in the still air of the valley.

Although independent, tough, and wild, several men gave way when they saw the hard expression on the face of Preacher as he approached the center of the dispute. A mountain man lay, writhing, on the ground, shot through the meaty place above one hip bone. Two others held onto the trader, Ezra Pease, who still waved a smoking pistol in one hand.

One old timer nodded a curt greeting to Preacher and brought the young mountain man up to date. “Liver Eatin' Davis caught that one sellin' a gun to an Injun.'

“Ain't nobody's business who I sell to or what,” Pease growled.

“It is in this neck o' the woods,” a burly mountain man with a flaming beard snapped.

Considered quite young, especially by mountain man standards, Preacher had already accumulated a considerable reputation. Enough so that when he stepped forward, the others fell silent to hear what he had to say about the situation. Preacher approached Pease and got right up close and personal in his face.

“Pease, you've out-lived your welcome at this Rendezvous. Hell, in all the Big Empty for that matter.” Preacher paused and cut his eyes from face to face in the crowd. “I reckon these fellers will go along with me when I say we want you out of camp before nightfall.”

A sneer broke out on the face of Pease. “Why, hell, you ain't even dry behind the ears as yet. Who are you to tell me that?”

“I'm the man who's an inch from slittin' yer gizzard, which is reason enough.”

Pease cut his eyes to the men holding him. “Turn me loose. I'll show this whippersnapper where the bear crapped in the buckwheat.”

Knowing grins passed between his captors. “Oh, we'd be mighty pleased if you did,” Yellowstone Frank Parks, a close friend of Preacher's responded, releasing the arm he held.

Ezra Pease had only time to realize his challenge had been accepted when one of Preacher's big fists smashed into his thin, bloodless lips. Strands of his carroty mustache bit into split flesh and those lips turned right neigh bloody all at once. Preacher followed up with a looping left to the side of Peas's head. It staggered the corrupt trader and set his legs wobbly. Dimly he saw an opening and drove the muzzle of his empty pistol into Preacher's exposed belly.

Hard muscle absorbed most of the shock, yet the blow doubled Preacher over and part of the air in his lungs whooshed out. He raised both arms to block the attack he expected to come at his head. He had reckoned rightly. Still grasping the pistol, Pease slashed downward intent on breaking Preacher's wrist. The wooden forestock landed on a thick, wirey forearm instead. It would leave a nasty bruise, but at the time, Preacher hardly felt it.

Without pause, he raised a knee between the wide-spread legs of Pease and rammed it solidly into the cheat's left thigh. That brought Pease to his knees. He dropped the empty pistol and groped for another. Preacher kicked him in the face. Pease flopped over backward and Preacher was on him in a flash.

Instantly they began to roll over and grapple for an advantage. Pease gradually worked his arms down into position around Preacher's ribs. Slowly he raised one leg to get his knee into position to thrust violently upward on Preacher's stomach and snap downward with his arms. The result would be to break the back of the younger man. Preacher would have none of it, however.

He wooled his head around until the crown fitted under the chin of Pease. Then he set his moccasin toes and rammed upward. Pease's yellowed teeth clopped closed with a violent snap. A howl followed as stressed nerves signaled that the crooked trader had bitten through his tongue. Blood quickly followed in a gush and his grip slackened.

It proved enough for Preacher, who broke the bear hug and came up to batter the exposed face of Pease with a series of rights and lefts. Pease swung from the side and hard knuckles put a cut on Preacher's right cheek. A strong right rocked back the young mountain man's head. Preacher punched Pease's mushed mouth again and sprang to his moccasins. Pease slowly followed.

Dazed, yet undefeated, Pease tried to carry the fight to Preacher. A sizzling left and right met his charge. Preacher danced away and pounded Pease in the middle. Then he worked on the chest, at last he directed his violent onslaught to the sagging head of Pease. For the second time, Pease went to his knees. Preacher squared up facing him, measured the angle, and popped hard knuckles into Pease's forehead. The lights went out and Pease crumpled in the dirt, jerked spasmodically for a few seconds and went still. A faint snore blubbered through his smashed lips.

Preacher stumbled away to wash off the blood, slobber, and dirt that clung to him, oblivious of the man he had defeated. Behind him, the other mountain men gathered up the stock in trade Pease had brought with him, loaded his wagons and provided an escort out of the valley.

And now Pease was back ...

Preacher shook off the dark recollection as he topped the crest of a low saddle and found himself facing four hard, coppery faces, topped by black, braided hair, with eagle feathers slanted downward from the back, past the left ear. Preacher also noted that the four Indians held their bows casually, low over their saddle pads, and that arrows had already been nocked.

2

Preacher's hand automatically dropped to the smooth butt-grip of one four-barrel pistol at sight of the warriors. Then he recognized the older man in the middle. Talks To Clouds could be considered an old friend. Particularly since he had been the man Preacher traded with for Thunder. Now a fleeting smile curled the Nez Perce's full lips.

“Ghost Wolf. I am pleased to see you,” Talks To Clouds broke the silence in his own tongue.

“And I, you. It has been a long time,” Preacher acknowledged.

“Too long for friends who have shared meat and salt,” the expert horse breeder responded.

Preacher studied the men with Talks To Clouds. They were not painted for war and appeared well enough at ease. “What brings you so far from your green valley?”

“We trade horses with the Cheyenne. My son remembers you. I heard of what you did. An old man is grateful.”

Preacher grunted; that had been ten years ago. He had traded for Thunder only four years past. No accounting for the depth of an Injun's gratitude. “You are not an old man.”

“I am if I must rely on others to protect my own.” Talks To Clouds paused, then gestured behind him. “Come, Young Joseph is watching our spotted ponies.” He paused, chuckled. “Only he is not so young any more. He is a father. A boy named
In-Mut-Too-Yah-Lat-Lat
¹
was born to him this past winter. Already, he is being called Young Joseph. We will eat, drink coffee, talk of the times since we last saw one another.”

An agreeable nod preceded Preacher's answer. “It would be my pleasure.”

The Nez Perce had located their camp over the next rise. The camp's appearance completely relaxed Preacher's innate caution. Women and children accompanied the group of half a dozen warriors and their sub-chief, Talks To Clouds. The youngsters swarmed out to surround Preacher when he was recognized. Laughing, he dismounted to bend and chuck the girls under their chubby chins, eliciting giggles all around.

Then he turned and hoisted the four boys to the back of Thunder and let them walk the Appaloosa stallion into the encampment. The boys had the big horse cooled out by gentle walking in just under a half hour. By then, the women had completed preparations and served up a meal of thick, rich venison stew, fry-bread, and cattail slips. Preacher made a generous offer of salt, coffee, and sugar that complimented the feast to the satisfaction of all.

When everything was in readiness, the men filled bowls and settled in to enjoy. Talk centered around the weather; the unusually early spring in particular. Forked Tail gestured to the east and made the sign for the Sioux.

“That is why we decide to go afar in our trading of horses. Talks To Clouds wants to reach the Dakota. They are said to be hungry for our spotted ponies. And not to eat them,” he added with an expression of disgust.

“There was no snow left in the valley of Wil-Ah-Met by the first of the Moon of Returning Buds,” Talks To Clouds verified. “I see many warm buffalo robes for next winter if we can start early.”

“Good idea,” Preacher contributed. “How are things between here and your valley?”

Talks To Clouds and the others considered it. “Peaceful. Except for the Blackfeet. There is much green showing and it will be a fat spring. That should keep peace.”

Always the Blackfeet, Preacher ruminated. He'd get into that after the eating was done. He asked of men among the Nez Perce he had known, of babies born and the talk slid away the time until their bowls had been emptied. As a man, those around the small fire in the lodge of Talks To Clouds wiped grease from their chins, rubbed full bellies, and belched loudly. At once the women and children fell to their eats. Once more, and more appropriately according to Indian etiquette, the man-talk turned to the world around them.

“Is there anything that would cause you to say the Blackfeet are more troublesome than usual?” Preacher cautiously prompted.

Talks To Clouds broke out a pipe, a habit obtained from the plains tribes, and tamped it full of kinnikinnick and wild tobacco. He lighted it with a coal and drew a long, satisfying puff before answering. “Yes, White Wolf. They are already making for war. They have many guns, provided by white men in trade for pelts and horses. It is not a good thing.”

Preacher nodded and Forked Tail reached for the pipe, took a drag, then put in, “The word on the wind is that the Northern Cheyenne are also fixing to make war medicine when spring opens up a little more.”

That's odd, Preacher thought, and frowned. Although known as fierce fighters and highly territorial, most skirmishes with the Cheyenne in the past had been between small bands of warriors and some enemy tribe, to settle a score or to raid for horses. That, or in reaction to what must appear to be an avalanche of whites pressing westward.

Talks To Clouds spoke again. “The Cheyenne will be making war on the Blackfeet, that is certain. They must do so to protect the western villages. It is said they know of the white men arming the Blackfeet.” He spat, to show his contempt for such an action.

“It looks bad, then?” Preacher pressed.

“Yes. We may spend the summer in trading with the Dakota and even the Omaha. Let the fighting wear itself out, and then we can go home with our robes.”

“Will they come south?” Preacher asked.

Talks To Clouds considered this. “I think so. One or the other. Whoever gets the worst of their fight together.”

Preacher sighed and cleared his throat. “I would be sorry to see that.”

A fleeting smile lifted the corners of the mouth of Talks To Clouds. “So would I. Yet, we must accept what we get.”

Preacher ruminated on all he had heard through the evening. When the night's chill reminded him, he broke out his bedroll and settled down for the night. When morning came, he would head on toward Trout Creek Pass.

Preacher left for the trading post before daylight. Talks To Clouds stood silently in the open door flap of his lodge and waved a dimly seen salute to his friend. Preacher rode with the warmth of that friendship. He also rode with the awareness of the return of Ezra Pease. Constantly on the lookout for any more low-grade trash who might be working for Pease, he kept well below the ridge lines and frequently circled on his backtrail.

* * *

Ezra Pease removed the floppy felt hat from his head and ran a hand over the balding dome with its fringe of carroty hair. His fractured smile was hidden from the men with him, though they caught his high spirits from the tone of his voice.

“There it is, fellers. Just like them wanderin' Injuns told us. Black Hand's village. I reckon they've had time to hear about the Blackfeet. Should be glad to see us.”

“We break out the whiskey first, huh, boss?” a not-too-bright thug named Bartholamue Haskel gulped out between chuckles. “Likker up them bucks right good, huh—huh—huh ?”

“Awh, hell, Haz,” Ezra complained, embarrassed by the low state of the henchmen he had been able to attract.

In truth, Ezra had to admit, times had not been good for him. His fortunes had plummeted, rather than soaring as he always envisioned. After his ignominious expulsion from these mountains some ten years past, Pease had wandered his way back to St. Louis. Down on his luck, he had been forced to lower himself to the basic of scams; for half a year he rolled drunks for whatever they had on their bodies.

He had nearly been caught by the law several times. And he had been caught once by a riverboat man who appeared a whole lot more drunk than he turned out to be. The brawny riverboater thoroughly and soundly beat the living hell out of Pease. He'd done a job to rival that handed out by Preacher. Ezra Pease lay in a bed for three weeks recovering, and thought of both those shaming incidents.

When he could once again face his fellow man on the streets of St. Louis, he visited a dockside swill house that he had frequented when first in town. There he bought whiskey and many beers for furtive men who inveterately glanced nervously over their shoulders at the doorway. They drank his whiskey and chased it with the beer and nodded in silent agreement.

After three days of this, Ezra Pease and his gathering of bullyboys set out one night to find a certain loudmouthed rafter. They located him, all right. What resulted was that Ezra again got the tom-turkey crap stomped out of himself. He wound up in the hospital this time. When he regained consciousness, he learned the identity of his assailant. Mike Fink.

By damn, that was worser than Preacher, Pease reasoned. Because Preacher was near to a thousand miles away and no immediate threat. Ezra Pease would learn the error of his judgment when he finally worked up nerve enough to return to the High Lonesome.

Meanwhile, he had to recover from his broken bones, mashed face, one chewed ear, and an eye that no longer saw clearly. Mike Fink had missed by only a fraction of an inch from gouging the orb from its socket. While he mended, Pease went about rebuilding his minute criminal empire. He left the infirmary with seven men solidly behind him. They drifted into Illinois and tried stagecoach robberies.

Three of them died in the process and the survivors did five to nine years in prison. Ezra Pease proved to be a model prisoner and was released after only four years and seven months for good behavior. He thanked the warden with almost fawning gratitude and immediately set out to organize a new, better, and definitely stronger gang.

At last, it seemed, his fortunes had taken a turn for the better. Ezra Pease met Titus Vickers inside prison, and when the opportunity presented itself, Pease broke Vickers free from the chain gang on which he labored in a granite quarry in southeastern Illinois. Together they attracted a dozen hard men, who knew how to fight with tooth, nail, knife, and gun.

Some scattered successes drew more of those disinclined to exert any honest effort or sweat to earn a living. Before long, he had thirty heavily armed, morally bankrupt representatives of the worst dregs of border trash, scoff-laws, back-shooters, rapists, and sadists ever assembled in one place at one time. It offered a splendid promise for the future.

They spilled over into Missouri. Pickings were slim there. All the while, Ezra Pease had his dreams disturbed by a slowly awakening vision. There was vast wealth just waiting for the picking out beyond the prairie. Even though the fur trade had all but dried up, an enormous fortune waited only for an enterprising man to seize it. When the image became full formed, Ezra and Titus conferred with a shadowy group from New York, and announced to their men that they would outfit an expedition to the far off Shining Mountains.

Buffalo robes and hides were beginning to bring high prices back East. Those could be traded for, if one had the right things to offer the Indians. And Ezra knew what they wanted: guns, powder and shot, and whiskey. Better still, he knew that gold just waited out there. He had seen plenty evidence of it during his short, disastrous year as a trader. Mining it would be easy.

More people moved west every year. They left St. Louis and Independence by the hundreds from March to June. Before long it would be in the thousands. Some of them never made it. Those not killed by accident, disease, or Indians sometimes went mad from the emptiness, or got lost, and wandered off to simply disappear. They could be found by someone intent and with the time to look for them. And they would make excellent slaves to produce that precious yellow metal.

Another snicker from Bartholamue Haskel jerked Ezra Pease out of his reverie. He blinked and refocused his eyes on the thin smoke trails rising from cook fires before the Cheyenne red-topped lodges.

“We'll go on down now, and get all we can get,” he declared.

* * *

Black Hand knew of the white men long before they came into view on the downslope toward the camp. He had known of them for three days. That would have surprised Ezra Pease. He had not seen any sign of Indians since leaving the last Blackfoot village where they had traded munitions for high quality, beadwork buckskins, bearskin robes and other items. He had not spent enough time among the trappers and ridge runners of the High Lonesome to be familiar with the statement that had become almost their credo.

“Just because you don't see any Injuns, don't mean they ain't there.”

Often, those who lived in ignorance of that didn't live long. But the day would prove beneficent to Ezra Pease and his worthless followers, if barely. Black Hand had heard of the rifles, powder, shot, and bar lead these men brought with them. He badly wanted them, along with bullet molds and replacement ramrods for the older weapons in the Cheyenne camp. So, he made ready to welcome the white men.

To do that, he paid them the infrequent compliment of meeting them at the edge of the village, instead of waiting in his lodge until they made their presence known. Behind him ranged a dozen warriors, one for each of the whites, weapons to hand but not held at the ready. A ring of women, children, and camp dogs formed behind them. Cheyenne ponies neighed greetings to their iron-shod brothers from the meadow to the left. The one who looked to be the whites' leader reined up in front of Black Hand and made the universal sign for peace.

“I am called Pease,” he announced.

Better he spoke the language of the people, Black Hand thought as he answered in fair English. “I am Black Hand.”

“Good,” Pease responded, then went on to diminish their welcome. “I'm glad someone around here speaks a sensible language. We've come to trade.”

“What do you have to trade with us?”

Grinning, Pease turned in the saddle and gestured to one of the heavily laden packhorses. “Well, now, I was just fixin' to show you. I think your bucks are gonna like what we have.”

“Come in among our lodges then. We will eat, smoke, then make trade.” A slight frown furrowed the high, smooth brow of Black Hand. He wanted the rifles this man brought, but he didn't like the insulting way the one called Pease spoke.