Cheyenne Challenge (6 page)

“That doesn't make sense,” Bookworthy protested. “A belligerent posture invokes a belligerent response.”

“It might be so back where you come from. But, Injuns think different from us. If they believe their medicine is strong, that the light is just right, and specially if we're afeared of them, they'll attack. On the other hand, if they ain't too sure about their medicine, or that we are able to knock too many of them off their ponies, they won't. Injuns ain't stupid. Numbers are real important to them. Gotta have men to protect the village, to hunt meat for everyone. Get too many killed off in battle and everybody suffers. Some might starve, or the village get wiped out by an enemy tribe.”

“Why, that's preposterous, Preacher. I've been informed by knowledgeable men at Harvard and other colleges that the Indians are peaceful among themselves, at least until the white man came. Only the white man represents a threat to their way of life.”

Preacher wanted to laugh in the fool's face, he held it back, though. “An' that's just so much heifer dust, Reverend, if you'll pardon my language. Their lives are as precarious as I've said, but war's a part of their way of life, they're used to it. Over thousands of years they have become expert survivors. Now I'd advise you to make some arrangements to be armed through the next day or so, like I'm tellin' everyone else.”

Preacher found the attitudes divided along the lines of the nature of those he advised. The hired drivers, there were six, all loaded up and spent the nooning hour twisting cartridges out of paper, powder, and shot. The soul-savers were uniformly horrified by the prospect of violence, except, surprisingly, Cora Ames.

“My father sent along his fine Purdy English rifle and a pair of horse pistols. He may be a man of the cloth, but he's practical, too. We have our share of highwaymen in Vermont.”

“Ummmm—yes,” Preacher muttered through his dismay. He also revised his estimate of Cora upward by several notches.

Later, once camp had been established, Cora came to where Preacher peered beyond the circled wagons. “We were fortunate in not having trouble with the Indians on the way out. Maybe it would have been better if we had. Reverend Bookworthy is expending great effort to talk our people into having nothing to do with guns. He wants us all to stay close to the fire ... and to build it up even more.”

Preacher turned to her. “That danged fool. He'd make perfect targets out of all of you.”

“He pointed out that night has fallen and we've not been attacked. And everyone knows that Indians don't attack in the dark.”

Preacher made a rude sound. “What 'everyone knows' ain't necessarily true. Injuns will attack at night. Like I tried to make him understand, if the Injuns think their medicine is good and their numbers big enough, they'll attack day or night. Now, I'd better go do something about gettin' that fire down to coals, so's we can see them when they come.”

“You're ... that sure?” Cora asked uncertainly.

“I feel it in my bones. I can smell 'em out there. I reckon they'll pick a time closer to the middle of the night. When they do, you'd best be ready to bang away with that rifle and the pistols you brung.”

Preacher excused himself and went to get something done about the fire, which he insisted be put out entirely. He got a windy objection from Reverend Bookworthy and several missionaries, which he addressed by simply shouting them down. Cora looked on and shook her head in dismay. With that accomplished, Preacher retrieved his two rifles and checked the loads in them and a brace of pistols from saddle-boxes Thunder carried.

Then he went around the circled wagons until he found a place where, if he were an Indian, he would figure as a prime one to launch an attack against. There he settled in to wait. It turned out not to be as long as he had expected.

A mixed band of Kiowa and Pawnee hit about ten o'clock, in the dark of the moon. Preacher first saw blacker shapes flitting from one bit of sparse cover to another. It didn't take long to figure out that it wasn't a pack of coyotes or wolves. One of them reared up abruptly and drew taut a bowstring.

Preacher let one of the big .70 caliber horse pistols bang away. A brief, shrill cry of pain answered and the bowman disappeared from sight. Another quickly took his place. Preacher put a fat .70 caliber ball in the Kiowa's breast bone, showering both lungs with bone and lead fragments. The hostiles were in too close for rifle work, so Preacher ignored them to get one of his four-barreled blitzers into action.

By then, the drivers, led by Buck Dempsey, had opened up on the invading Indians. Preacher took his eyes off the assault to cut a quick look around the compound. He turned back in time to all but stuff the muzzle of his four-barrel in the screaming mouth of a Pawnee warrior. The double-shotted load took off the entire back of the hostile's head.

Showered by brain tissue, a youthful brave behind him gagged and mopped at his eyes. That reflex bought him a quick trip to the Happy Hunting Ground. Preacher had barely turned the next barrel into line when the young Pawnee rushed at him. He gut-shot the teenage brave and quickly cranked the last load into position.

“Pour it on, boys!” he shouted encouragement as he took a quick, inaccurate shot at a Kiowa who had leaped onto the tailgate of the wagon belonging to Cora Ames.

Preacher's ball cut a thin line across the bare back of the warrior, who disappeared into the wagon's interior. A pistol barked and flame lighted the canvas cover from inside. Preacher had moved within reach of Cora's wagon when the warrior appeared again, a look of disbelief that a woman had mortally wounded him clear on his face.

“Good shootin', missy,” Preacher called to Cora. He would have liked to do more, but right then he had his hands full of two Pawnee braves. One bore down on him with a lance, the other brandished a tomahawk. Preacher promptly drew his second fearsome pistol and plunked a double load into the lancer's chest and belly.

The Pawnee went rubber-legged and wobbled off toward the side. Preacher turned back toward the one with the war hawk. Lightning quick, the man had closed in on Preacher so fast it prevented revolving the barrels of his four-shot. He used it to parry the overhand blow instead.

While he did, he drew his own tomahawk and planted it deep in the base of the Pawnee's neck. Numbed by massive shock and sudden, profuse blood loss, the man sagged against Preacher, who wrenched his hawk free and stepped back. From behind him he heard a shrill scream and cut his eyes over his shoulder in time to see Cora Ames disappear over the outer side of her wagon, in the arms of a howling Kiowa.

“One of them Kiowa got Miss Cora,” Preacher shouted. “Buck, Luke, come over here and hold 'em off. I'm goin' after her.”

6

Preacher leaped to the top of a wagon wheel and vaulted the driver's seat. He swung his legs over and dropped free. His moccasined feet came down on the back of a Pawnee who sought to crawl under the vehicle and enter the defensive circle. With a stout flex of his knees, Preacher put an end to that plan. The audible crack of the hostile's spine was music to Preacher's ears. He bounded across the ground in the faces of the astonished Indians.

Only vaguely could he make out his goal. Two darker blobs in the faint, frosty starlight wavered unsteadily. Cora Ames fought her captor with tenacity. Preacher closed gradually. He managed to draw his second four-barrel pistol and held it ready. A sharp howl came from the mouth of the Kiowa who carried Cora upright with an arm around her waist. Improving night vision gave Preacher a sight he would marvel over for years to come.

Cora had not worn her bonnet in her bedroll and her ash-blonde hair, done in thick sausage curls, star-frosted, flailed about as she violently shook her head. Then he realized the reason for the scream of anguish and her actions. Cora had the Kiowa's right ear in her teeth and was worrying it like a terrier with a rat.

Good girl, Preacher thought as he drew close enough to think about firing a shot. Not a good idea, he rejected, recalling he had double-shotted this one, too. He shoved the gun back into its holster and brought out his tomahawk instead. He had come close enough to hear the hostile grunting and grinding his teeth in pain. His breath came in harsh, short gasps. Incredibly, Cora was growling like the terrier to which Preacher had compared her.

Then he was where he wanted to be. Preacher raised his arm and brought the hawk down swiftly on the crown of the Kiowa's head. It buried its flange blade to the haft in the Indian's skull. With a final grunt the warrior let go of Cora and sank to the ground. Without breaking stride, Preacher yanked his war hawk free, caught up Cora, and reversed course. They started back at once.

“My Lord, what did you do?” Cora gasped.

“I got you away from that Kiowa brave,” Preacher said simply.

Speechless, Cora stared in shock at Preacher. His face was grimed with powder residue and spattered with Kiowa blood. He looked every bit as savage as the hostiles who had attacked them. Then she amended that when she realized where she had been only moments before. No, Preacher didn't look like a savage ... he was absolutely gorgeous. Preacher's stride faltered to a stop.

He had been keeping unconscious track of the battle's progress and now noted a sudden increase in the volume of fire. Either the pilgrims had taken up arms or at least realized the sense of reloading for those who were fighting back.

“I can walk perfectly well, Preacher,” Cora advised him.

“Uh—sure—sure.” He released her and they started off again. Preacher had his charged pistol in hand, the hammer back on the ready barrel. The sound of moccasined feet crashing through the grass ahead came to his ears. In a second two figures in fringed buckskin shirts came rushing at them. Preacher spotted a low sage bush and gave Cora a light shove toward it.

“Get down,” he commanded.

“What ...

“Just do it.” He crouched low in accord with his words.

The two Pawnees rushed on past them without even a glance. Behind them came five more. Gradually the firing slackened from the circled wagons. To left and right, hostiles fled past where Preacher and Cora huddled. They all seemed intent on but one thing. They wanted to get as far away from that deadly fusillade as they could.

In what seemed no time at all, Preacher and Cora found themselves alone in the meadow where the wagons had stopped. Cautiously, Preacher raised upright. Without moonlight to help, he found himself unable to verify that the hostiles had all departed. Slowly he turned a full circle. Faintly in the distance he heard the rumble of departing hooves. Holding back a smile, Preacher bent and helped Cora to her feet, which he noted by starlight to be narrow, pale white, and nicely formed.

“If you're determined to get cactus spines and sand burrs in those dainty feet of yours, it's all right with me. But I do think I should carry you in from here.”

“Oh! Oh, dear!” she blurted in realization. “I never thought of that.”

Preacher reholstered his pistol and extended his arms invitingly. Cora settled herself with an arm around Preacher's neck. Preacher strode across the uneven ground as though completely unincumbered. To her consternation, Cora released a contented sigh.

“I hope you know this does not constitute a proposal of marriage, Miss Cora,” Preacher said quietly.

Cora tittered in delight. “The thought hadn't entered my mind. But it is a pleasant way to travel.”

When Preacher could make out the shapes of the caravan, he paused and called out loudly. “Hello, the wagons. It's Preacher. I'm comin' in with Miss Cora. Don't nobody get trigger happy.”

“Come on in, Preacher,” Buck Dempsey called back. “I got all the guns grounded.”

Preacher started off again, only to detour around the body of a Pawnee. He would be gone before morning, Preacher knew. With that he dismissed the dead Indian ... a little too soon.

The Pawnee, who had been shot through the arm, had been playing possum. Preacher had taken only three steps beyond him when he came up off the ground, a wicked knife in the hand of his good arm. Cora looked over Preacher's shoulder in time to see him lunge.

“Preacher!”
she hissed in his ear. “Indian,” she added. In the next instant she found herself roughly dumped on the ground, Preacher turned around and standing over her, one of those terrible-looking pistols already in his hand. The sound of its detonation pained her ears. In the flame from the barrel, she saw two dark spots appear on the chest of the Pawnee. Then it went dark again.

She heard the body fall and gasped. Then Preacher said something that struck her as remarkably odd. “Never could abide the Pawnee. Maybe it's because they're sneaky.”

Back inside the ring of wagons, Cora Ames gratefully wrapped herself in a wooly house robe, offered by Patience Bookworthy, and shuddered. The females among the missionaries made over her and showered her with questions about her ordeal. When she had quieted them, Cora shivered again and faced their avid, curious faces with a wide-eyed expression.

“It was terrible. He—he just jumped in while I was reloading, grabbed me and dragged me off. My skin was crawling. I—I feel sullied and shamed forever.”

Preacher snorted and turned away. He thought of telling her about some of the women he'd come upon, victims of hostile action; brutally raped, tortured, their heads bashed in. Then he decided not to. There were other things to take care of first.

“I want every gun in camp loaded, double-shotted. We'll take turns keeping watch. No fires at all. We have to be able to see without being seen.”

“Surely you don't think they will come back,” Reverend Bookworthy blustered.

“As certain as Old Nick, I'd say. Somethin' just scared them off. Injuns are notionable, don't you know?”

“But, we soundly defeated those savages,” the reverend persisted.

“Nope. Nothin' of the sort.” He cut his eyes to the jubilant faces of the unaware missionaries. They may have just won a battle, but they hadn't won the war. Exasperation colored his words. “I don't think it's possible for you lint-brained Eastern folk to learn anything out here. Them hostiles have just gone off to whup up some better medicine. They'll sneak back for their dead and any wounded they missed, then pound the drums and dance until they drop. Come mornin', they'll be back.”

* * *

At dawn, the hostiles came again. This time they charged on horseback, howling their fierce war cries and brandishing lances. Some reined in and nocked cumbersome-looking arrows to their bowstrings. Preacher took it in and quickly issued his commands.

“Get them water barrels ready. We're gonna get fire arrows.” Several women squeaked in fright. “Water'll put 'em out. Have some kettles ready for throwin' it on where they hit. We're backed against this ledge, so they can't circle us. You drivers spread out anyway.”

That made sense, Buck Dempsey reasoned. The savages would hit more than one place at the same time. He settled in under a wagon and patted the barrels of his two rifles and a shotgun provided by one of the missionaries. Strange fellow, he called it a “fowling piece.” Buck sure hoped the nipples didn't foul when he needed to use it. Preacher stopped by where Buck lay and patted the man on one shoulder.

“That Hawken's got good range. See if you can knock that big, handsome brute out of the saddle.” By then the warriors had spread out, ready to close on the wagons and swarm over them.

Buck took aim and fired at the same time the first volley of fire arrows took flight. “Here they come,” Preacher shouted. The ball from Buck's .54 Hawken smacked flesh in the shoulder of the muscular Pawnee that Preacher had indicated and the brave dropped his lance, though he remained in place. Preacher moved off to his own position.

He crouched in the space between the dashboard and seat of the wagon behind Cora's. From there he had a good view of the attacking force. Too bad that shot of Buck's went high and left, he mused. That buck had the look of a leader. Might have been able to end it without any damage done. He took aim with one of his rifles and let it bang away.

One of the warriors who had shot the fire arrows uttered a brief scream and pitched backward out of the saddle, shot through the chest. Preacher immediately set that rifle aside and took up the other. This was the finely made, French sporting rifle he had taken off one of those fancy-pants, titled dudes who had chased him and the boy Eddy across most of Indian Territory and into the mountains of the High Lonesome.

Weren't many of them went home, except in boxes, Preacher recalled. He'd not liked the feel of being a wanted man, with a bounty on his head. Preacher sincerely hoped that the last of those flyers had been disposed of. For now, though, he had other things to worry about.

Beyond the Kiowa and Pawnee renegades rushing the wagons, he had seen the colorful feathers of a war bonnet. Might be the real leader, and this Frenchy rifle had the legs to reach him. Preacher rested the forestock of the long-barreled weapon on the side of the wagon and took aim.

Right then the defenders opened up. Six rifles spoke almost as one, with a seventh a moment later from nearby. That would be Cora Ames. The very real danger of the hostiles had sure changed her outlook on turning the other cheek. Or maybe she figured she'd turned all the cheeks she had and it was time for a little “eye for an eye.” Preacher fined down his sight picture and squeezed off a round.

After a short pause, feathers flew from the war bonnet and the head beneath disappeared as its owner sought communion with the earth. He wouldn't be giving orders for a while, Preacher thought with satisfaction. No time to reload. He pulled free one of his pistols as he sensed a hand move past him and take the Hawken. Preacher cut his eyes in a backward glance to see Mrs. Pettibone.

“My husband has a shotgun. He has joined the defenders. I'll load for you,” she said, as pleasantly as welcoming worshipers to their little New England church.

“You folks have got some sand, I'll say that,” Preacher returned in high praise.

Less than fifty feet separated the laagered wagons from the hostiles when Preacher returned his gaze to the front. At once he cocked and fired. The double-shotted load cleaned a Kiowa off his pony and sent him sprawling in the grass. A quick turn, hammer back, another pair of .50 caliber balls on their way. A howling Pawnee leaped from his horse to the side of the wagon Preacher occupied. He took the third barrel point-blank in the face.

Sizzling lead and hot gases blew off the back of his head. Preacher cranked the barrel again. Another shower of fire arrows made weird sounds overhead. One punched into the rump of a draft mule, which promptly went mad with pain and fright. It broke away from the picket line and crow-hopped toward a wagon side.

Mrs. Landry appeared at its side to soak its rump with a kettle full of water. Her husband, Art, caught up the animal, snatched the barb from its haunch and worked to calm the beast. “They also serve who stand and wait,” Preacher said to himself.

Then he unloaded the last barrel into the chest of a lance-wielder who loomed large in his vision. Quickly reholstering the pistol, Preacher reached out in time to take the Hawken from Mrs. Pettibone. “Obliged,” he muttered as he shouldered the rifle and took quick aim.

Another hostile died and Preacher traded for his other big pistol. If this kept up much longer, he'd be down to his brace of horse pistols. Fully a dozen hostiles lay writhing on the ground, or still in death. So far the drivers had kept the pace with the assault. Preacher picked a target and let fly Shot through the throat, the Kiowa hastily departed the earth for the Happy Hunting Ground. Motion from beyond the swarm of Indians around the wagons caught Preacher's attention. Their war chief must have gotten over his scare.

Preacher gathered up the cartridge box for the French rifle and then blasted another hostile off his horse with a ball that shattered the hapless Indian's collarbone and lodged in his shoulder blade. Preacher turned away.

“Miz Pettibone, I'd be obliged if you'd load this one for me right away,” he asked, handing her the long-range weapon.

When he had the French rifle back in hand, Preacher stood and took careful aim at the war leader. When the chest of the Pawnee centered in the sights, Preacher squeezed off with care and rode the mild recoil as the weapon discharged. At that range, it took the bullet a hair over two seconds to reach the target, the sound of the shot a second longer.