Cheyenne Challenge (26 page)

“Keep going, goddamnit!” Hashknife bellowed.

Preacher noticed a blur of brightly colored cloth from the corner of one eye as a heavy-set thug darted for the back of the wagon. Preacher left the ramrod for the LeFever on the ground as he took quick aim. The conical ball smashed the big bone in the fatty's right thigh and he plowed ground with his nose and chin.

“It's the Cheyenne. They've caught up with us.” Preacher recognized the voice of Ezra Pease, for all its quaver of fear.

“If it was Indians, they would be attacking us by now,” Hashknife differed.

“No—no, it's them. No one else was anywhere close to us,” Pease insisted.

Preacher returned his attention to the two men flanking him. At once he caught sight of the braver of the pair. He ran flat out toward the screen of wild blackberry bushes, behind which Preacher crouched. Too close for a rifle shot, Preacher quickly laid aside the LeFever and drew one of his brace of. 60 caliber Hayes, single-barrels.

“A little more,” he coaxed. “That's right, come to poppa.”

The Hayes discharged and smeared the sky with smoke. Preacher peered beyond it and saw his target drop onto wobbly knees. Both hands clasped over his belly, the worthless scum looked first at his wound, then cut his eyes upward in a final appeal to his Maker for mercy.

Appeal denied,
Preacher thought as the hulking brute toppled face-first into the grass. All but too late, Preacher exchanged the empty pistol for the LeFever and brought it to bear on the chest of the more reluctant enemy. Loping along, bent low as though that would protect him from a frontal shot, the Boston rag bag took the ball in the top of his bald pate, which released a shower of blood and tissue. Impact stunned him to a momentary stop. Then his booted feet drummed frantically in place until his body drained of impulses and he flopped on his side in silent death.

“Not bad for an afternoon's work,” Preacher congratulated himself in a hoarse whisper. Then he faded away, at an angle uphill. He'd come back later and reopen the dance.

* * *

Preacher had no need of his vocal tricks that night. From a mountaintop overlooking the nervous camp of wastrels and slime, came the haunting yowl of a prairie wolf. The amorous coyote sought a mate in the waning moonlight. In another turn of the earth, it would be the dark of the moon. Far off, an answer wavered toward the frosting of stars. Preacher had worked in close enough to hear the quavery voices of the men he stalked.

“Lordy, is that thing for real? Or is it . . . Preacher?” a crack-voiced youth asked.

“Best pray it's for real,” came a growl from the far side of the fire.

Preacher grinned over that so hard it became a smirk. Like a wraith he crept in closer. All at once he overstepped his bounds.

“Who's that over there?” a tense voice challenged.

“It's nothin', jist me,” Preacher responded. A new, wild, impossible idea had entered his head and it tickled him like a certain peacock feather in the hands of a buxom bawd he had sported with one time as a youngster of tender years.

“Well, then, come on over an' have some coffee,” the gravel-voiced one rumbled.

With a shrug, Preacher removed his tell-tale four-shot pistols and laid them aside, then stepped into the light. He settled in between two of the younger hard cases and accepted a cup of steaming brew. He sipped while they talked. Time passed in a dumb lull. They talked of the fight with the Cheyenne. Preacher allowed as how it had plum upset him a lot. He refrained from saying why. While they rambled on, Preacher eased a hand into the possibles bag hung at his waist and removed a paper twist filled with pale yellowish crystals. The ease generated by the moment vanished when a loud rustling came from the brush close at hand.

Preacher seized his chance. Widening his eyes, he pointed into the darkness and blurted an alarming, if false, discovery. “B'God, it's a bear!”

Everyone looked where he pointed, while Preacher deftly emptied the salts of epecac into the coffee pot. He was in a crouch, half-standing when the first of the scum looked back. Preacher gave a nervous grin and waggled an empty hand at the man.

“At least I thought it was a bear. Musta been a deer, frightened by all us people around.”

“Yeah. Could be.”

“Yep. Well, best be gettin' back where I belong. Gonna be a short night,” Preacher excused himself as he drifted toward the darkness again.

No one thought to stop him. He had retrieved his favorite pistols, snugged them in place and covered about fifty yards when the first sounds of vomiting reached his ears. Suppressing a chuckle, he glided on through the frosty starlight to do more mischief.

9

Early the next morning brush flew from the leading edge of the lean-to roof that sheltered Ezra Pease. He came up with a start and a yelp that chilled the already unsettled hard cases. “It's the Cheyenne!” he bellowed.

Preacher's gunshot echoed over the ground. By the time the sound reached the camp he had the LeFever nearly reloaded. His second round split the breastbone of an incautious gawker who had foolishly remained at the fire, sipping coffee. He dropped his cup a moment before his face hit the coals.

“See, I told you it was Indians,” Pease shouted, the words tumbling over one another.

“No, it's not,” Hashknife growled from where he hugged the ground. “It's Preacher. He snuck in here last night and put something in the coffee that made several men seriously ill.”

“I want proof of that,” a terribly agitated Pease demanded.

Hashknife glanced up at the sound of approaching hoofbeats. Two of his men came toward the center of camp, a captive tied to a horse between them. “I think I can provide that in a short while. By the way, have you noticed the shooting has stopped. If it were the Cheyenne, they would be whooping down on us by now.”

Hashknife went to the prisoner and roughly yanked him to the ground. He stood over him, legs widespread, and bent until his face hovered inches from the hapless man.

“Who are you?”

“I—I'm a hired d-driver.”

“A driver? For whom?”

“There's—ah—there's a band of psalm-singers not far from here. I went off yesterday to hunt for meat. Got lost.”

“How far are these missionaries?” Hashknife demanded.

“T-two valleys over, to the south,” the gutless driver readily offered.

“Hummmm.” It came from the chest of Hashknife as a sound of contentment, rather than a sign of resignation.

“We have to break camp at once,” Ezra Pease broke into the interrogation. “Head west at once. We can outdistance Preacher or the Cheyenne. I know we can.”

“Be quiet a minute,” Hashknife snapped, then changed his command into a request, “If you please, sir.” To the driver, “Does the name Preacher mean anything to you?”

“Yes—yes, he's the one who led us to the valley.”

Purring like a cream-stuffed cat, Hashknife turned to Ezra Pease. “I think we have solved both of our problems. This man can lead us to some people who are enjoying the protection of Preacher. He'll have to come after us and we'll have his proteges as hostages. Preacher will have to surrender or see them all killed one-by-one.”

Terror fled from Ezra Pease and he beamed at Hashknife. “I like your dirty, devious little mind, Hashknife. That's a splendid idea. Damn the black heart of Preacher into the hottest corner of hell. We've got him now.”

* * *

Starting shortly after the impassioned speech of Ezra Pease, more of the disorganized vermin began to drift into camp. Observed in secret by Preacher, their presence did nothing to lighten the mood of the mountain man. He had managed to reduce their number to some fifteen, now twenty more gathered around cookfires and talked out their nervousness. Preacher chafed as he accepted that he must stay longer, to determine how many men Pease would have.

He took careful note when five of the thugs, cleaner in appearance and better dressed than most, rode out of the meadow where Pease had made camp. Preacher longed to follow them, learn their destination. Yet, he had to know the enemy strength. He would wait overnight and see what the morning brought, then set out to advise the others, and to follow the mysterious quintet that had parted with the rest.

Morning brought a crushing blow for Preacher. Twenty-three Blackfoot warriors rode into camp. From what Preacher could make out through his spy glass, their war leader spoke only his own tongue, while another made sign talk and translated into English. The signs revealed that they had come to help their old friends and to get fresh Cheyenne scalps. Pease replied that they had surely come to the right place. Nothing could be worse, Preacher reckoned. Quietly, he crawled from his observation place and, mounted on Thunder, rode off to bring the latest to his band of volunteers.

The mountain men among the small company received his news with grim expressions. Yet, they agreed among themselves, they still had to destroy Pease or a summer of intertribal fighting could turn into a long campaign, with white against Indian.

“They are not making it easy for us,” Nighthawk observed.

“You are even more correct than usual,
mon ami,”
Dupre admitted.

“It ain't impossible,” Preacher insisted. “Thing is we can no longer take the fight to them. We must make them come to us and be ready with every nasty trick we know. If only I could stir up some trouble between them Blackfeet and Pease . . .” Preacher mused into silence.

* * *

Late the next afternoon, five presentably dressed strangers rode into the hidden valley and stopped before the largest structure in the new settlement, the church. Their leader was well-spoken and Reverend Bookworthy greeted them effusively.

“You are welcome, brothers, so long as your intentions are peaceful. If you haven't provisions or shelter, we can accommodate you. Would you—ah—be staying long?”

“No, not for long, sir. I must say I am heartened to find a House of God in this benighted wilderness,” Hashknife purred softly.

A gaggle of children had swarmed forward and followed them through the meadow and into the clearing. They frolicked now around the legs of the horses and their shrill voices rose in a deafening chorus. Reverend Bookworthy rounded on them with a hint of heat in his voice.

“Here, now, that's enough. Shouldn't you be in school?”

“No, Reverend,” Nick chirped. “It's Saturday.”

“Then you should be working for your parents. Go along now. Make yourselves busy at something useful.” He turned to the visitors. “Children. You understand, I'm sure.”

“Of course.” Like his men, Hashknife's eyes had picked out the abundance of young women among the settlers and he appraised them with a hungry gaze.

One among them, who had drawn closer darted a hand to her face to conceal her shock. Although many years had passed, enough that Cora Ames could not be certain, yet she felt almost sure, that the one speaking to Reverend Bookworthy was Quincey. She spoke the name softly, giving it the New England pronunciation of Quinzie. And she knew it was so.

After several minutes more of conversation between the missionary minister and Quincey, it became apparent that recognition had not gone both ways. Cora Ames turned away thoughtfully and hurried from the presence of the enigmatic young man. Her mind was awhirl with conflicting emotions. Whatever could he be doing here? How had he come to find them? Had he—had he . . . changed?

Part of her didn't want the answers to those questions, while another yearned to know. Perhaps to be able to . . . to give an alarm? Foolishness, her practical side mocked her. It couldn't possibly be him.

Cora spent a troubled night and nearly swooned with relief the next morning after breakfast when she saw two of the men with Quincey making preparations to saddle up and presumably ride out. Bony fingers of ice clutched her heart a few minutes later when it became clear that Quincey and two of his companions would remain behind. What might that signify? Cora Ames dreaded the answer.

Only, having kept silent so long, she knew she had to keep her terrible secret to herself. It tormented her throughout the day as she kept a respectable distance between herself and the visitors.

* * *

Two more days had gone by while Preacher waited with his small force of dedicated fighters. During that time he made plans and prepared weapons to try his mischief and break the alliance with the Blackfeet. To further that, he was watching the camp when two of the dandies who rode out three days earlier returned. They held a brief conference with Ezra Pease. At once orders were bellowed to break camp and make ready to move out.

“What the hell now?” Preacher grumbled to himself.

He returned quickly to the waiting company of amateur fighters and advised them of the changed situation. “All we can do is follow along and see where they lead,” he concluded.

They, too, broke camp at once.

By mid-morning the next day, Preacher had a haunting, uneasy feeling that he knew exactly where Pease's vultures were headed. Also why five of them had ridden out dressed to the nines. The High Lonesome held only one attraction for the foul scavengers of Ezra Pease that lay due south. His little settlement of pilgrims.

A cold blast of arctic air seemed to wash over Preacher and down his back. They would be totally helpless. And not even Pease and whatever men would stand with him could hold back the Blackfeet when they rushed in among the white women and children. Sickened by memories of past such slaughters, Preacher gnawed at the inside of his cheek to try to shake loose an idea. It took him until nightfall to decide what to do.

* * *

Preacher took Nighthawk along. Together they moved in on the night camp of Ezra Pease. A hundred yards short of the lookouts posted to secure the area, they separated and went their various ways. Preacher scouted his sector before making a move.

Fixed in his mind was the location of the Blackfeet. He intended to end up there. But first, the sentries had to be taken out. After placing each of them, he closed on the first. The chinless lout had time to utter a sharp “Huuh!” before Preacher's tomahawk split his skull and he crumpled to the ground.

Silently, without a backward look, Preacher moved on. He found that one of the guards had moved, out of loneliness and inexperience. Young, dreadfully young, Preacher noted as his intended target talked in a low murmur to the one who had left his post. Preacher gave it a moment's consideration and decided on a risky course of action. With ease, he crept up to within arm's reach, then spoke softly.

“If both of you want to keep on living, don't make a sound.”

“Preacher?” the younger thug gasped.

“None other. Now, what you are going to do is ease them pistols and your belts and lay 'em on the ground. Put your rifles alongside them. Then back up to me.”

Without protest, they complied. When they stood inches from Preacher's chest, he tapped each youth on a shoulder. “Now, we can do this two ways. I can knock you out and tie you up. That way, maybe you'll be found an' maybe not. Or . . .”

“Or what? Don't torment us, Preacher,” the older lad whispered harshly.

“Or you can give me your word that you are going to take off walkin' and get clear the hell an' gone from anywhere near Ezra Pease. I won't hurt you and I won't come after you. But if I ever see either of you in the High Lonesome again, I'll kill you on sight.”

“I believe you,” they chorused.

“Well, then, which will it be?”

“We're gone,” the younger blurted. “We ain't ever been here.”

Preacher smiled in the dark. “Now that's fine. That's sensible, boys. Whenever you're ready, jist start walkin'.”

“Can we—can we go back an' change our drawers first?” the older lad bleated.

Preacher could have fallen down and rolled around laughing if he hadn't kept a tight rein on himself. “No. Jist scoot.”

They scooted. Preacher moved on. Another sentry died, which cleared his sector and gave him access to the Blackfeet. Ready in position, Preacher lighted fuses on some of his gourd bombs and hurled them in among the small war trail lodges of the Blackfeet. Almost at once they began to go off with tremendous roars. Smoke, dust, and rock chips filled the air. Preacher heard the wild whinnies of horses from the far side of the camp. Nighthawk had reached his objective also.

Preacher found the Blackfeet ponies too well guarded to risk stampeding them, so he glided away into the night. What they had done might not bring a complete break, but from now on the Blackfeet would look with distrust at their white allies. It had been a good night's work.

* * *

“They are moving on to the south,” Nighthawk informed Preacher when he awakened him from a light snooze an hour after sunrise.

“Dang it. That's the very thing I wanted to discourage.” The crafty mountain man considered the implications of this. He had to accept that no way existed for his small force to get around the larger band of trash and slime led by Ezra Pease. Without being able to pose themselves between the brigands and the helpless folk in the valley, all they could do was snip away at the rear and flanks of the column. He quickly outlined his ideas to that effect.

This harassment got under way almost at once. Some stragglers remained in the camp Pease had established, still loading packsaddles and gathering their personal gear. From the concealment of trees and brush, Preacher and his men opened up with a withering fire. Hot lead scythed down seven of the human dregs in an instant. The others panicked and abandoned their supplies to race off on loudly protesting horses.

“That's doin' it, boys!” Preacher shouted his approval. “Now, split up in your groups. Nighthawk, Dupre, an' Beartooth will lead you. You know what to do.”

And they proved it within less than an hour. The dull thud of rifle fire drifted back northward as the small bands struck at Pease and his trash. Preacher took his group, including Buck and Kent, the most capable of the driver volunteers, and set off along the eastern flank. His goal was to get close to the head of the column before engaging the enemy. With luck he might even get a shot at Ezra Pease.

Their torment of Pease and his vermin continued throughout the day. Then, shortly before Preacher estimated Pease would make camp for the night, the other three well-dressed outlaws rode up the trail from the south. With them they brought four captives. A cold knot formed in Preacher's stomach when he recognized young Chris from the ravaged wagon train, the boy Peter who had come with Silas Phipps and with him the girl, Helen. Worst of all, he had no trouble recognizing Cora Ames. The apparent leader of this group met briefly with Ezra Pease and summoned more men.