Cheyenne Challenge Read online

  * * *

  Preacher came out of a light doze with a jerk. His eyes focused on a distant haze of dust. “Waugh! It’s the danged Cheyenne,” he grunted aloud.

  White plumes rose and the reports of discharging rifles reached Preacher’s ears. He didn’t expect the reinforcements much before mid-afternoon. That crafty devil, Falling Horse, had followed the careless flatlanders right to their nest and now he was bringing them a whole world of grief. Preacher longed to be in there, mixing it up with Ezra Pease and his rabble. He crawled, crablike, to his saddle and reached into one of the leather bags for his spy glass. When the brass tubes had been extended, he focused in on a wild scramble of outlaw trash, as they sought to form up to give resistance.

  The bright circle of light steadied on a knot of a half-dozen vermin who stood back to back and poured out a steady stream of fire into the milling ranks of Cheyenne. The Dog Soldiers rallied around this strong point, hooted and yipped, and swarmed over them in a single rush. Only writhing, blood-smeared forms remained when they rode on. Preacher heard some angry shouts off to the left and swung the glass to pin the action in place.

  Seven harried bits of human slime raced their horses toward the southern outlet to the valley. Ten Dog Soldiers pursued them. Both parties exchanged shots, which went wild, and the race continued. A tight smirk formed on Preacher’s face. Those fellers would soon find out what losers they were. The first one disappeared into the open mouth of the passage and Preacher sighed with satisfaction over his forethought.

  Two long minutes passed and then a hideous scream, magnified by the echo effect, rose from beyond where the thugs had disappeared. The one in the lead must have found the first of his unpleasant gifts. More shrieks followed rapidly. Then a spatter of gunfire. Silence returned to the cut through the hills. After a short pause, the Cheyenne warriors trotted back to the area of the main battle. Preacher could hardly contain himself. He wanted so badly to be a part of this. He had a deep, burning need to get his hands on the throat of Ezra Pease and slowly squeeze the life out of him. That might not happen, he realized.

  A lull came in the fighting as both sides exhausted their loaded weapons. Typically, the Cheyenne pulled off to prepare for another charge. That gave Pease time to rally his men. Faintly, a commanding voice drifted to Preacher’s ears.

  “Load up everything you can. Forget the wagons. We’ve got to save ourselves.”

  “What about the powder and guns?” a frightened voice demanded.

  “Blow them up. Set a long fuse and let’s ride for our lives.”

  Typical yellow-belly, Preacher thought. Pease showed his yellow streak more than ten years ago, and now he did it again. Let them go, he decided. That would give him another swing at them. Which way would they head? Preacher pondered that until the panicked horses had been calmed enough to saddle and the men mounted. With the Cheyenne whooping it up for a second charge, Preacher focused his glass on his nemesis at last.

  Pease sat before a roughly formed column of twos. He seemed to be haranguing them with some inspiring words, unheard over the drum of galloping hooves as the Cheyenne bore down on them again. Preacher’s lips curled in disgust and contempt as he gazed at the bushy brows and matching carroty hair on a balding head, the thin, bloodless lips, and snaggled, yellowed teeth of Ezra Pease. Watery, pale blue eyes glittered with malevolence even at this distance, enlarged by the spy glass. At the last possible moment, Pease gave the command, whirled his mount and the outlaw trash sprinted away to the south.

  “Well, damn,” Preacher cursed aloud, then had a different view of circumstances. “Maybe we can catch them between us,” he speculated.

  He looked back at the battlefield to find only men too badly wounded to sit a horse receive the attentions of the blood-lusting Cheyenne. Those who had been trapped offered no resistance. Even so, Preacher noted grimly, most of them died very slowly.

  8

  Whiskey splashed high in the air, as a barrel head shattered under the powerful blows of three Cheyenne warriors. Flames crackled among the abandoned tents of the white trash that had fled from the valley. When a river of rotgut washed into these, a great whoosh resulted that sent a ball of fire high in the air. When the fuse set by the minions of Ezra Pease reached the powder magazine, the resulting explosion had put most of the Dog Soldiers on the ground from the shock wave, knocking several unconscious, Preacher noted.

  He still fumed impatiently from his lookout on the steep slope of the eastern side of the valley. The orgy of destruction went on into the afternoon. So involved were the Cheyenne that they failed to notice when Nighthawk, Buck Dempsey, and Kent Foster slipped into place next to Preacher. Awed by the destructiveness of the Indians, Buck and Kent gaped at the smoldering ruin. Preacher nudged Buck in the ribs.

  “Now you got an idee what Falling Horse meant when he said it would be better if we did not get to Pease and his nest of vipers first. Wouldn’t want them Dog Soldiers takin’ out their mad on us, now would ya?”

  Sobered by the display of ruthlessness, Buck answered softly. “No. It’s not the sort of thing Mrs. Dempsey’s little boy would like to get mixed up in.”

  Preacher stirred himself. “I reckon it would be a mistake to wait until things quiet down. How far off did you say the rest were waitin’?”

  “Two hours ride from here,” Nighthawk informed him.

  “To the south?” Preacher asked with a grimace. “Chances are that Pease an’ his buzzard-pukes rode right through them.”

  Nighthawk sighed. “They are reluctant to fight. At least without direction. I doubt that Beartooth is enough to inspire them to great effort.”

  “So am I,” Preacher acknowledged. “Well, we’re wastin’ daylight. Either the Cheyenne will chase after Pease, or more likely head for home with their fresh scalps to do some celebratin’. Whichever, it should keep them busy long enough for us and what help we’ve got to round up that pack of reprobates.”

  * * *

  Preacher’s uneasiness increased during the day it took for the small company to rest men and horses and make repairs on equipment. He wore an outright scowl by evening. Lookouts he had posted came in to report that the Cheyenne pulled out to the northwest.

  “That’s good news,” Preacher answered. The prospect of being between Pease and the Cheyenne had troubled him greatly. “We can move out in the morning. Best chance is to split up and follow the scattered trails. They will have to meet up somewhere. From then on it should be easy.”

  Early morning light saw the expedition on its various ways. Preacher and Buck rode together with nine men. At first the trail was easy to follow. Frightened by the prospect of Indian justice, those they sought made no effort to cover their tracks. Preacher pointed that out to his contingent of greenhorns and took the lead.

  After a while the signs grew scarcer. Preacher took to dismounting and studying what scant evidence they came upon. At one such point, he poked a finger into a green and brown road apple and a hopeful expression brightened his face.

  “Can’t be more’n two, three hours old. Still warm. And rookie there. Ain’t seen that spade shoe print before. Some others joinin’ up, I’d say.”

  “How do you know that?” one of the more militant among the missionary group asked.

  Preacher cocked his head and gave the young man a quizzical glance. “Don’t nobody keep a spade shoe on a horse that’s not got a tender frog. If that horse had been with the ones we been followin’, we’d have seen sign of it before now.”

  Chagrinned, the husband of one of the gospel-shouters swallowed hard. “Oh, yes. I see now.”

  “We keep goin’, we’ll catch sight of them ’fore long,” Preacher advised.

  “Is that wise?” a nervous carpenter asked.

  “Hell, they’s eleven of us. Way these boys been rode hard and put up wet, we should be able to handle however many there are. Won’t be the whole bunch, I can guarantee that.”

  Reassured, though not possessed of Preacher’s
confidence, the young man nodded and they rode on.

  * * *

  Night brought little rest to Ezra Pease. From the height of his success he had plummeted to an all-time low. Almost as low as when he had been savagely beaten by Preacher and run out of the Rocky Mountains. He lay on the ground, sheltered by the crudest of lean-tos, uncomfortable in blankets, every pebble, twig, or irregularity in the ground a source of fiery discomfort. He groaned and rolled onto another side for the hundredth time.

  Images of war-painted Cheyennes haunted him. They screamed literally right in his face and awakened thoughts of how close he had come to death. Where would they go? Where could they hide? Bathed in sweat, Ezra Pease cried out in the darkness and sat bolt upright. Forgotten was the compact he had made with the Eastern businessmen. Vanished, the visions of mountains of gold. Only the enraged, contorted, coppery faces of the savages who had attacked them without warning remained.

  “They drove us out. Drove me out,” he whispered to himself. “Drove me out.” Humiliation burned hotly on his face.

  In those long hours of the moonless night, his resolve weakened. Groggily, Pease recognized the figure of Hashknife squatting beside the fire, where he sipped from a tin cup of coffee. Pease shrugged on his trousers and slid long, narrow, unnaturally white feet into boots and walked to join his only remaining subordinate leader.

  “I couldn’t sleep, either,” Pease remarked with what he hoped would sound casual.

  “I’ve been thinking about . . .” Hashknife gestured behind them, toward the valley of their defeat.

  “So have I.” Pease agonized over taking this mysterious gunman into his complete confidence. Reluctantly he admitted he needed someone to confide in, to solicit for advice. “There is something you should know.”

  Hashknife tilted his head, cocked a brow. “Before deciding to cut and run?”

  “Uh—yes. Or something very like that. What I wanted to tell you is that I’m not alone in this. I have . . . partners. Influential men back East. For a while today, I have debated throwing over the whole thing. I could head for California, or somewhere I’m not known. Leave the whole land grab up to my partners.”

  Hashknife’s brow furrowed. “That might prove quite unwise,” he prompted.

  “I know that. But then I think, what the hell have they done to help?” His expression changed to chagrin. “Of course, the answer is, they have bankrolled the whole enterprise. I am obligated to them for that.”

  Hashknife relaxed somewhat. “I’m glad to hear you consider that. You see, I was steered to your organization by the very men you are discussing.” Ezra Pease felt a cold chill run up his spine at the words Hashknife spoke. “Obviously you wanted a second opinion before you decided what to do.”

  “Yes, I did. What do you feel we should do next?” Pease appealed.

  “Certainly we cannot stay here. We would be better off closer to the Blackfeet.”

  “I can see that,” Pease allowed. “So we move northwest. And first thing tomorrow, I would say.”

  “Not . . . quite so soon,” Hashknife cautioned. “It would be wiser to go south a ways further. To—ah—throw off pursuers. Also to let the men regain some of their composure.”

  Ezra Pease considered this, coming as it did from an underling he considered only another passable gunman, albeit a failed gentleman. “You have a strong grasp of strategy, sir. And, you couch your words in the phrases of a military man.”

  “I—ah—was. Until an unfortunate incident separated me from the Army. But, speculation on my past is a waste of time under the circumstances. What we need is a sound plan. One that takes advantage of the terrain, our own condition, and the enemy’s situation.”

  A new light shone in the eyes of Ezra Pease. “Yes, yes, I was right in promoting you in this enterprise. Go ahead. At this point, I am open to any reasonable suggestion.”

  Hashknife gave him a wintry smile. “I would be glad to, for . . . shall we say a fifty-fifty split?”

  Anger and greed flashed across the face of Ezra Pease. “Rather ambitious, aren’t you?” he fired hotly. Then recognition of their perilous status modified his outlook. “Although I must say that a successful outcome would be worth it and then some. I’ll stand by my original request.”

  Hashknife quickly outlined what he had in mind. It met with the full approval of Ezra Pease. The cashiered officer, for that’s what Pease was certain Hashknife was, concluded with a summary of their end goal. “We managed to bring away enough of the boys and youths to conduct the initial mining operation as you outlined it. Once we reach the Blackfeet, they will welcome us, especially if we give them a few more rifles and ammunition to insure their good will. Yet, the most important thing is to forget about Preacher and to get far away from the Cheyenne. After that, raids on passing wagon trains will insure a steady supply of labor.”

  Beaming now, Ezra Pease rose and clapped Hashknife on one shoulder. “I like it. We’ll do it that way. Make sure the men are informed of all they need to know and are ready to move out first thing in the morning.”

  * * *

  Preacher went ahead on a lone scout. He felt certain that Pease and his remaining outlaw band could not be far ahead of them. Sign of their presence had decreased, yet remained enough to lead the way. His steady, watchful pace put him far ahead of the remaining force of volunteers by the time the sun began to slant rapidly toward the western horizon.

  The whinny of a startled horse, borne faintly on the breeze, alerted Preacher of his nearness to those he sought. This was almost too easy, he reasoned. Not too much so, he amended when he had dismounted from Thunder and wormed his way to the crest of a low ridge. Beyond he picked out some twenty of Pease’s hard cases, settled into a scattered camp by a stream.

  “Fools,” Preacher muttered to himself. “Anybody worth his salt knows enough not to camp right beside a body of moving water. The noise it makes muffles any sounds of someone tryin’ to sneak up on the camp.” A short distance away, Thunder nodded his big, gray, Appaloosa head as though in agreement. It brought a fleeting smile to Preacher’s lips. “Even m’horse knows that.”

  Preacher continued to watch until three hours after nightfall. Then he slipped away to a safe distance, mounted Thunder and headed back for the small company of avengers. He reached there shortly after midnight.

  “There’s nigh onto twenty-two of ’em there,” he told Nighthawk, Dupre, and Beartooth. “I rec’nized Pease amongst them. What I want you to do is lay low for a day and a night. On the way back here, I got some plans I want to put to use on this group up ahead. It ain’t all of them, but we got to start somewhere.”

  * * *

  Preacher picked his positions well, and in advance. As he had expected the cavalcade of carrion eaters continued south through the next day. That, he definitely wanted to put a stop to. So he picked a likely campsite and settled in to wait for them to come to him.

  Now he slithered on his belly, the LeFever rifle cradled in the crook of his elbows, headed into the first of his several sniping locations. He reached it undetected, a “V” notch slightly off-center in a split boulder, and settled in. Easing the muzzle and first six inches of barrel on the French rifle through the opening, he adjusted his position and sighted in. The first thing he lined up on was a coffee pot.

  His imagination supplied the heady aroma of boiling grounds, the anticipation of men tired from hard travel and residual fear. Gently, he squeezed the trigger. The recoil had hardly ceased when he went into motion again, crawling toward his second spot. It took fifty of Preacher’s slow, unlabored heartbeats before the flatlander trash below reacted. At that extreme range, their bullets struck ground a hundred yards short of the rock he had used as cover. Preacher made a note of that; he’d come back later for another go-around.

  At rest, in an easy position behind a tall pine, he let its shade mask his presence while he reloaded and took a look at the camp. The coffee pot, holed through-and-through lay on its side, the former conte
nts formed a puddle around the blue-gray granite utensil. Coldly amused by this, he glanced around for the inevitable one or two louts with duller minds who would not have taken proper precautions.

  He found them almost at once. “Yep,” he muttered. “This is gettin’ to be entirely too easy.”

  Preacher shot the heel of one boot, and the human one inside it, off of a thug who had thoughtlessly sprawled behind a saddle. A yell of agony reached him a second after the report of his LeFever rolled across the camp. Then a voice that rang with authority rose above the disorganized encampment.

  “Some of you get out there and stop that.”

  “Naw, sir, Hashknife. Ain’t gonna do it. We’re sittin’ ducks as it is.”

  “You’ll do it or I’ll shoot you where you lay,” Hashknife barked.

  “Pease is gettin’ smarter,” Preacher mused aloud. “He’s makin’ use of someone who knows how to deal with the scum of the earth. Might make this job a tad more difficult.”

  He refrained from moving this time. Preacher wanted to encourage those beneath him to waste their advance on a place he would soon abandon. Reloaded again, he took aim on an exposed shoulder near the single wagon that had been whisked out of the fight with the Cheyenne. The LeFever barked and bucked and when the smoke blew away, a man writhed on the ground, right hand clutching his left shoulder. Only then, did Preacher eel his way to his third chosen spot.

  From there he watched the cautious movement of three men, who came on foot out of the camp, rifles at the ready. They spread out and swung wide of the ancient pine, so as to put the brow of the hillside between them and their intended target. Grinning, Preacher made a half-turn and waited. The first one to show himself over the rise took a ball smack between his eyes. He went down like a stone and his two companions scurried back toward safety.

  “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.