Big fists on hips, eyes glacial gray, Preacher examined Reverend Bookworthy with a glance he might give to an insect on a pin. “We’ve been over this before, Reverend. ’Pears you’ve got a hearin’ problem. So, I’ll say it again. Not this year. Not any year if I have the say-so. Now, let’s just let it rest. Trundle them wagons along best you can and do like these folks have decided.”
Reverend Bookworthy’s full lower lip formed a pink pout. He tried to copy Preacher’s belligerent stance ... and failed. “What, exactly, is that?”
“They are goin’ to put up around the tradin’ post, and scout for some nice little place where they’ll be secure for next winter. After that, they’re on their own. You’d be smart to join ’em, then all of you head back come next spring.” Bookworthy started to voice more protest and Preacher raised a hand, palm out to halt him. “I’ll not hear any more on the subject. It’s plumb closed.”
Preacher turned on one moccasin heel and took in the cluster of wagons, the scampering children and grazing stock. “It’s plain we ain’t movin’ anywhere today. Ever’one rest up, stock plenty of water and check yer wagons. We head out at first light tomorrow.”
* * *
To Preacher’s great surprise, the caravan made good time. Buck and Eric offered to drive the makeshift wagons of the refugees, and led the way, the pace set to the ability of their vehicles. Behind them stretched the missionary wagons. Preacher and Nighthawk ranged ahead, to keep constant watch. Not that they seriously expected to encounter any trouble. At least none that could not be handled by the weapons and fighting men at hand.
It came as a considerable turn, then, when Preacher’s senses began to tingle with a faint edge of alarm. He had never been able to put a proper word to what he considered as his “notions,” until a learned man Preacher had encountered on his first, and only, return visit to his father’s house had put words to it. The gentleman visiting had labeled it as Preacher’s “sixth sense.”
Preacher preferred “notions,” as in, “Injuns is notionable.” What his notions told him now was that there were a whole lot of Indians around. It didn’t surprise him that he and Nighthawk had not seen a single brave. Nor any sign left by unshod hooves. The air just ... smelled different. The birds didn’t sing as brightly as usual. A small, black-bellied cloud, high up in the azure sky passed over the sun and sent a tingle up Preacher’s spine. All in all, he summed up, things had gotten out of kelter.
“You sense it too,” Nighthawk remarked, his once handsome, Delaware face curving into smile lines.
“Yeah. But, I don’t know it. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear there was half a hundred Cheyenne around us. Only the southern Cheyenne stay mostly out on the flats, an’ the northern ones don’t often come south of the Big Horn Mountains.”
Nighthawk sucked a deep breath into his barrel chest. “The air ... tastes different from an hour back.”
“ ’Zactly,” Preacher pounced on the observation. “An’ listen to them birds. Slightly off key, wouldn’t you say, Nighthawk?”
Nighthawk grunted and shifted his narrow-hipped rear in the saddle. Idly his right hand eased to the curved butt of a large .64 caliber horse pistol in a saddle holster in front of himself.
“Somethin’ tells me we ought to mosey back to the pilgrims and make them ready for what might be comin’,” Preacher speculated aloud. “Yet, we ought to scout it out complete so’s we know what to expect.”
“You can do that well enough on your own, old friend. While I can carry the news to our charges.”
“Right enough, but somethin’ else tells me that because there’s two of us is why whoever is out there ain’t takin’ any pot-shots.”
“You might have something there. Or, maybe they already know about the wagons and want us to get clear through them and long gone before they hit.”
Instantly, a light glowed in Preacher’s eyes. “I’ll buy into that, ’Hawk. Sneaky things like that is usual amongst the Dog Soldiers. B’god, I swear I can smell me Cheyennes now.”
In tense situations, Preacher had often noticed, Nighthawk tended to employ the best of his English vocabulary. “How do you propose we proceed?”
“I say we turn back and get the hell an’ gone to them wagons. There’ll be enough of those boneheads what won’t have their guns loaded as it is.”
* * *
Except for Beartooth—who had his familiar “itch” behind his eyeballs for the past hour—and Dupre—who could not recall the words to a well-known voyajure song for the same amount of time—it came as quite a shock to those in the column of wagons when shrill war whoops announced that they had come under attack by some forty-five Cheyenne warriors.
Led by Falling Horse, the Dog Soldiers took the forefront of the crescent sweep of braves who pounded down the slope ahead of the wagon train. They numbered only eleven, and rode in a straight line at the deepest part of the semi-circle, but made up for their number by the ferocity of their fighting skills. The Cheyennes first appeared well out of rifle range and made as swift a progress as the terrain would allow. Their surroundings also dictated that they had to use this tactic if they wanted to ride their horses. It didn’t matter to Beartooth.
Rising in his stirrups, he bellowed, “Circle the wagons! Be quick about it. Git them guns ready.”
Under a growing cloud of dust, a tight enclosure rapidly formed. The wagon box ahead served as shelter to the team from behind. The hired drivers had their weapons ready and close at hand. The pilgrims had to find and load theirs. Would they never learn? Beartooth wondered.
“Steady! Hold steady. No one fires until I say so. Watch them horns. They mean to close around us,” Beartooth cautioned. “Take aim on them fellers first. Knock ’em outta their saddles an’ we got a chance.” He cut his eyes around the stockade. “You boys on this side, pick targets amongst them bucks in the center. Whang enough of them an’ the whole pack will pull back to regroup.”
“Who are they?” Bobby Gresham asked, clutching a .36 caliber Squirrel rifle in a competent manner. “Chiefs or something?”
“They be your worst nightmare, sonny. Them’s Dog Soldiers unless I miss my guess,” Beartooth told him. “Wonder where Preacher is?” he took time to puzzle aloud.
* * *
A few eager beavers among the warriors opened fire the moment they came into extreme range. It bothered Falling Horse that the gunfire failed to draw out a response. Someone had taught these white men well. Only a few heartbeats remained before they clashed with the wagons. Abruptly, the wagon sides facing Falling Horse and his Dog Soldiers erupted in a wall of white powder smoke.
A meaty smack and soft grunt came from the Dog Soldier on the right of Falling Horse and the young chief saw the man sag in his saddle, a bullet hole clear through the meaty part of his shoulder. Two more of the elite warrior society went down in sprays of blood. Falling Horse cut his eyes to the points of the crescent and saw more braves go down at each end. Without a spoken word, the cream of Cheyenne fighting men cut to left and right and raced to reinforce the edges of the formation.
Suddenly, from behind came the loud, flat reports of heavy caliber horse pistols discharging. Falling Horse nearly upset his pony as he wheeled it to see two buckskin-clad, wide-eyed creatures charging the Cheyenne from the rear.
12
“We got here too late,” Preacher stated with chagrin.
“What are we going to do about that?” Nighthawk inquired.
“Simplest thing in the world, ol’ hoss,” Preacher appraised him. “We’re gonna get down in among ’em and raise a little hell.”
Nighthawk studied that over a while. “I can see that is the only way to get to the wagons. But is being there worth losing our hair over?”
“You’ve got too much anyway,” Preacher bantered, his hand drawing a saddle gun and cocking it. “Well, like your friends the Dakota say, hokka hey, it’s a good day to die.”
He and Nighthawk charged as one. Their thundering hoofbeats c
ould not be heard above the tumult of all those Cheyenne ponies. It allowed them to get right up behind the center of the crescent formation undetected. By then both men had their reins in their teeth, both hands filled with powerful, .64 caliber horse pistols. They fired point-blank into the backs of the nearest warriors and reholstered.
Preacher drew one of his awe-inspiring four-barrels and fired away at any bronze figure that caught his attention. Working the complicated trigger mechanism to revolve the barrels with what speed he could accomplish, Preacher broke free of the double rank half a length ahead of Nighthawk, who had pulled a pair of .50 Hayes double-barrel pistols. Muzzles flashing fire, Nighthawk caught up to Preacher a moment after the Dog Soldiers broke away to either side.
“Nice of them to open the gate for us,” Nighthawk shouted around the leather straps in his mouth.
“Now if those folks below will open the door, we’ll be just fine,” Preacher responded, eyes fixed on the circled wagons, while the Cheyenne wheeled away to regroup.
Slowly, one of the gathered smaller, lighter cousins of the Conestoga wagons began to roll backward. A warm glow filled Preacher’s heart when he recognized it as Cora Ames’s wagon. Bless her heart, that gal had all her gear in her possibles bag. He heeled Thunder that way and streaked for the small opening. Nighthawk matched him stride for stride, then reined sharply to let Preacher dash through the narrow opening first.
Cora’s wagon had barely heeled into position again when the Cheyenne attacked for the second time. A torrent of arrows made a black cloud against the sky. Most thudded into the wooden sides of the wagons, a handful reached the inside to clatter on the hard ground. Now that he had time for it, Preacher studied the warrior he’d marked as the leader. Under the hastily applied paint, his face looked familiar.
“Naw, it couldn’t be,” Preacher opined aloud. “He’s never stood against the whites before.”
“Who is that?” Cora Ames took time away from aiming her rifle to ask.
“Falling Horse. I wintered in his camp a couple of times. He made it clear to me then that he held nothing against us whites, long as we didn’t take up permanent space in their hunting grounds or such like.”
“Do you really think you know the man leading these savages?” Cora pressed.
Preacher took another look. “That I do, Miss Cora. And I aim to do somethin’ about it.” Preacher levered himself up on the driver’s stand of the wagon behind Cora’s and waved his hat over his head. “Falling Horse!” he called out in Cheyenne. “It’s me, White Wolf. I have shared your lodge before. I gave my protection to these people.”
It worked so far, Preacher noted thankfully as the man he addressed raised his lance in the signal to halt. “Hold your fire, now,” he cautioned the pilgrims. Then to Falling Horse, he challenged, “Is this how you honor an old guest?”
Tension did not whisk away at this impugning of the Cheyenne war chief’s honor. Rather, Falling Horse rode forward alone, peering through the dust at the tall figure silhouetted on the wagon seat.
“Is that truly you, White Wolf?”
“In the flesh, Falling Horse.”
“I see you now, White Wolf.”
“I see you, too, Falling Horse. Sorta outta your usual range, ain’t ya?”
“We seek some white men who wronged us.”
“Well, this ain’t them, Falling Horse.” Thoughts of Ezra Pease and the sale of guns to the Blackfeet trickled across Preacher’s mind. “These folks has got a message from their Great Spirit. They sure ain’t sellin’ whiskey and rifles to the Cheyenne, nor the Blackfeet for that matter.”
Falling Horse lost his mask of impassivity. His eyes widened, eyebrows shoved up his high forehead, his mouth formed a black circle. “You know of them, then?”
“Sure do. We’re takin’ these folks to Trout Crick Pass an’ then goin’ on to look into what is carried on the wind about those bad men.”
“It is said that Preacher never lies,” Falling Horse responded. “We want to punish those men, but if you are hunting them I almost feel sorry for them.”
“You’ll put aside the war trail against these people and join us for coffee? We have lots of sugar.”
Red and black streaks of war paint wriggled like snakes as Falling Horse split his face with a white smile. “Getting ready for war makes a man hungry, White Wolf.”
Preacher laughed heartily and glanced over his shoulder at the anxious faces of the greenhorns inside the circle. Quickly he explained the gist of their exchange. Then, without waiting for a reply from the flatlanders, he turned back to Falling Horse.
“I think we can manage to fill your bellies. You lost a couple of ponies. I’d say six or more wounded. We have spare horses. They are yours to make right between us.”
“You are generous, White Wolf. We accept,” Falling Horse called back without consulting his followers either.
“It might take a while to fix for all of you, but these women are darn fine cooks. You’ll see, they make a feller shine.”
Weapons lowered, the Cheyenne warriors rode together and formed a double file. Much to the uneasy doubts of the missionaries, they walked their mounts like peaceful lambs to an opening that Preacher directed be made in the side of the ring of wagons. When half of the wagons had been drawn to the sides and the first Indians left their bows and rifles with their ponies, several of the women showed their relief with audible sighs.
“All rightie, folks,” Preacher announced with arms raised over his head to command attention. “It’s time to cook up the best feast you’ve ever whomped together. An’ remember, these are our honored guests. Keepin’ our hair depends on it.”
* * *
Ezra Pease beamed his pleasure at the three men who had returned to report success. “That is exceptional news, gentlemen,” he praised. “Rest yourselves and your horses and then you may have the honor of leading us to this paradise you have discovered.”
“Wha’d he say?” one hard-faced, yellow-toothed ruffian asked his companions as they led their horses to the edge of a creek.
“I think he liked it, Blane,” a hawk-nosed individual guessed correctly.
The third scout snickered. “Said we’d have the honor of leadin’ ’em. You damn betcha. Ain’t a one of them flatianders he brung with him could find his butt with both hands in broad daylight. ’Course, that means we’ve got to ride right through Trout Crick Pass with all them like on pee-rade.”
Blane studied on that while his horse took a long drink of the cold mountain water. “Say, couldn’t us three jist mosey through there an’ howdy any fellers we knew, then wait for the rest of them to come on?”
Hawk nose pointed to the sky, a smile bloomed on the face of the brightest of the trio. “They could go by the tradin’ post a few at a time, attract less attention that way.”
Blane nodded his head, his eyes vacuous. “That shines. I reckon they’re lucky havin’ three boys smart as us workin’ for ’em.”
Big slabs of teeth, like yellow tombstones, showed in a crooked grin on the second man’s face. “Sure enough. An’ I don’t reckon any Cheyenne will be pokin’ into that li’l valley, all tucked away amongst those high peaks. Uh-oh,” he added a second later as the familiar, if irritating, sound of a triangle sounded the summons for a general conference. “Pease’s dog-robber’s bangin’ that tinker bell again. Best go see what he wants.”
When he saw the three scouts standing at the edge of the gathering, Ezra Pease made it short and sweet. “These three gentlemen have found us a likely place to establish camp and wait for the humor of the Indians to change. I have been assured we will be safe there, and more important, out of sight.” The weight lifted from his shoulders, Pease allowed his thoughts to blossom on an old, sore subject.
“It will also allow us time to complete the destruction of Preacher and whoever is riding with him. That damned half wild mountain man could ruin all of our plans. Make sure everything is secured, the wagon wheels well greased and the hors
es rested. We start out after the noon meal.”
Later, at the head of the column that had turned northwest again for Trout Crick Pass, Ezra Pease had time to reflect on the plans to which he had referred. Indeed, it was paramount that they eliminate any threat, he admitted as he recalled his last conversation with the men who had brought him into this grand scheme ...
“This must not fail,” the stout, balding New York City banker stated vehemently. “We will hold you personally responsible, Ezra, for the success or failure of our enterprise. Reports our engineers have sent indicate a phenomenal quantity of high-grade ore and nuggets. I don’t care what these Army engineers say—gold is out there. And not in small quantities either. All one need do is scratch the ground and gold appears. The land on which the finds are located is ours for the taking.
“Provided, of course, that you can bring about a situation that will force the Army to occupy the territory, drive the Indians out, or perhaps down into the Nations, and leave all that empty land for us to claim.” The banker paused a moment. “The only fly in our ointment, according to all information at hand, is a tempestuous mountain man named Preacher. It is said he can keep peace between the Indians and whites, and even between the tribes.”
Cheeks flared red with the remembered humiliation handed him by Preacher, Ezra Pease chose his words carefully. “Yes. Yet, he may no longer be there. The fur trade is moribund. Those shiftless men who prowled the mountains are scattered to the four winds. Or he may be dead, killed by Indians or some other half-animal like himself.” Pease drew himself up in the big, leather chair. “But if Preacher is there, I have my own axe to grind with him. I’ll bring him down and open the gateway to riches for us all.”
“Umm, yes,” the pinch-faced banker on Ezra’s left offered acidly. “And using slave labor to do the mining, we will be on the way to cornering the gold market entirely.”
Stunned, Ezra Pease fought to keep his expression unreadable. By an unguarded word, the frail, money-hungry little banker had revealed something to Ezra the likes of which he had never dreamed of before. And he stood in line to share in it. What a lovely proposition ...
Cheyenne Challenge Page 12