They Called Him Preacher

Book 0: Preacher/The First Mountain Man

by William W. Johnstone

Genres: Action & Adventure; Historical Fiction; Westerns

Synopsis

JOHNSTONE COUNTRY. WHERE THE BULLET IS LAW.
 
Of all the Western series by William Johnstone, the epic saga of the mountain man known as Preacher may be the most beloved and enduring. This special edition includes two of Preacher’s greatest adventures—Cheyenne Challenge and Preacher and the Mountain Caesar—featuring two of the legend’s bloodiest showdowns . . .
 
TO HELL AND BACK
Ten years ago, Preacher taught a bad man from the east a violent lesson he’d never forget. Today, that man returns to even the score by igniting an all-out Indian war. The battle lines are drawn. The players are cutthroat. And Preacher’s scalp is the ultimate prize . . .
 
OF GODS AND MONSTERS
In the mountains of Montana, Preacher stumbles upon the town of Nova Roma, aka New Rome. It’s ruled by a ruthless tyrant straight out of ancient history. But Preacher refuses to bow down to a power-mad Caesar who thinks he’s a god—not if he bleeds like a man . . . 

Live Free. Read Hard.

Release date: April 30, 2019

Publisher: Pinnacle

Print pages: 536

Sample

Nothing much moves in the High Lonesome when Old Man Winter holds the land in his frigid grasp. The mountain man known simply as Preacher—though to many, the name held far more meaning than its simplicity implied—settled in at the cabin of an old friend, in a steep-walled valley that shielded it from the violent blasts of Canadian northers. He hunted for meat, smoked and jerked it, gathered other provisions, and watched the sky for signs of snow.

When the white powder lay hip-high, he had enough wood split and stacked to last the winter. By the time it grew to belly-high on a seventeen-hand horse, he had every small crack chinked, the chimney brushed clean, and a neat little corral set up with a four-sided shelter backed against one stern granite wall. Heavy yield in that winter of 1840–41 soon brought the snow level to roof-ridge height. Preacher had a tunnel out to the livestock, and kept the corral clear by some energetic, body-warming shoveling. Through it all, his cuts, scrapes, and bullet wounds healed.

Altogether, Preacher reckoned, when the buds began to swell on the willows, the cabin had been snug enough, nearly warm enough, and he had been almost amply fed. Lean and fit, although a little gaunt from his limited diet, Preacher began to itch to move along. He figured it was getting on toward late March and his only complaint came from a rhumaticky knee that resulted from too many hours in cold streams tending his traps in days gone by. Time to stretch like a cream-filled tomcat on the hearth and look for new places. The sun felt warm on Preacher’s back as he breathed in the heady, leathery aroma of freshly saddle-soaped tack.

Looking up from tightening the last rope that secured the load on his packsaddle, he took in another chest-swelling breath tinged with the tang of pine resin and needles. Suddenly, his ebullient mood collapsed as he sensed the presence of another person. Preacher hadn’t seen a single human since last October, when he went to the trading post at Trout Creek Pass for supplies. And he for certain didn’t recall inviting anyone to drop in for a visit.

Thunder, his spotted-rump Appaloosa stud, had become aware of the intrusion, Preacher saw, as he cut his eyes to the suddenly tense animal. Thunder had gone wall-eyed, his ears pointed toward the front of the cabin beyond the corral. No doubt in his mind now, Preacher stepped away from the packhorse and walked past the brush-and-pole shelter. With what quiet he could muster, he mucked his way through the March mud toward the stout log dwelling. His right hand rested on the butt of one awesome four-barrel pistol.

Behind Preacher, the horses snuffled and whickered, having caught human scent and that of at least one of their own kind. Preacher tensed slightly. One did not survive more than twenty years in the wilds without being constantly alert. Preacher had come to the Shining Mountains as a wet-behind-the-ears lad of twelve or so and had so far kept his hair. He sure didn’t hanker to lose any of it now.

So, Preacher had the big four-shooter halfway out from behind the broad, red sash at his waist when he rounded the cabin. He came face-to-face with a small, rat-faced individual who exhibited considerable surprise.

“Uh! You be the mountain man name of Preacher?” a fittingly squeaky rodent voice asked.

Right off, Preacher took in the long, narrow head, over-sized nose, and small, deep-set black eyes. Buck teeth and slicked-back ebony hair completed the likeness to a weasel. In fact, though Preacher didn’t know it, the man before him went by the handle “Weasel” Carter. Preacher saw, too, that his unexpected visitor exhibited all the nervousness of a tomcat in a room full of rocking chairs. It all served to set Preacher’s internal alarms to clanging.

“I be,” Preacher allowed as he cut his eyes for a careful glance around the treeline.

That glance revealed to him some furtive movement among the aspen saplings and underbrush. His alarm system instantly primed Preacher for whatever might happen next.

Weasel Carter forced a fleeting, sickly, lipless smile, removed his hat and mopped his brow with a grimy kerchief. A fraction of a second later, Preacher’s keen eyesight picked out a thin spurt of smoke from the priming pan of a flintlock rifle, an instant before he whipped out his four-shot and blasted a ball into the gut of his Judas goat.

At the same time, Preacher lashed out with his free hand, closed on a big fistful of shirt, and yanked his betrayer in front of himself. He did it in time for misfortune to strike the man in the form of the bullet meant for Preacher. A second later, three men rushed out of the concealment of the trees and fired at Preacher.

One ball moaned past, close to Preacher’s left ear. The other two delivered more punishment to the runty piece of sorry trash Preacher held before himself like a shield. By then, Preacher had his four-barrel back in action. The hammer dropped on a brass cap and the big .54 caliber ball spat out in a cloud of smoke and frame.

It struck the nearest would-be assassin in the breastbone and tore out a fist-sized chunk of spine on the way out of his body. Preacher worked the complicated action, lining up another barrel, and fired again. Double-shotted, it had considerably more recoil, yet the charge went true and gut-shot a scruffy, bearded man whom Preacher reckoned deserved to be called “Dirt.”

With his final load, Preacher blew away the left side of the head of the last killer trash. The flattened ball left a glittering brown eye dangling on a sallow, hollow cheek. Bleeding horribly, the thug managed to draw a pistol from his waistband and bang off a round in Preacher’s direction.

Preacher dodged it as though it represented nothing more than a snowball. While he did, he switched for the other fully charged four-barrel and let fly. “I didn’t ask for this,” he yelled at the miraculously upright man, whose skull had been shot away in a wide trough above his left ear.

This time the ball entered the empty eye socket and blinked out the lights for the verminous gunman. That barrel always had shot a little high and right, Preacher recalled as he surveyed his littered dooryard.

“But I ain’t disinclined to jine the dance to someone else’s tune,” he muttered a moment before Dirt moaned pitifully. Preacher crossed to the fallen ambusher. “You ain’t got long. Speak,” he commanded roughly.

“Th-tha’s a fact. You done got me through the liver.”

“Good riddance to trash like you, I say,” Preacher growled as he knelt beside the dying man.

“You—you gonna jist leave me out here? Ain’t gonna give me no Christian burial?”

“Weren’t no Christian thing you done, sendin’ that weasel-faced punk in to set me up, neither.”

“Jeez, you really are Preacher.”

“I be. Who sent you four after me?”

Dirt eyed Preacher a long moment. Then he swallowed hard. “Thirsty.”

“You’re gut-shot right enough. Shouldn’t be givin’ you nothin’ liquidy.” Then Preacher grunted, shrugged and came to his moccasins from one knee. “Seein’ as you’re dyin’ anyhow, I don’t find no harm in it. I’ll be back . . . and I’ll be wantin’ the name of whoever it was sent you.”

Preacher returned to Dirt’s side after what the back-shooter thought to be an eternity. Preacher carried a small stoneware jug in one hand and a gourd ladle in the other. He eased down beside Dirt and put the ladle to the dying man’s lips.

Dirt spluttered and tried to push it away. “That’s not whiskey,” he gasped out. “That—that’s water.”

“You got the right of it. The whiskey is for me, water for you. Last time, then I give you a whole world of more hurt. Who . . . sent . . . you?”

“Ez-Ezra Pease,” Dirt gulped out, along with a bright crimson spew.

“Damn!” Preacher exploded. “I knewed that man were no good, first time I laid eyes on him. Ezra Pease,” and Preacher pronounced the name to rhyme with peas. “Knew he was crooked, cheated the Injuns and whites alike, sold guns and whiskey to the Injuns. That finally riled me enough I beat the hell out of him and runned him out of the High Lonesome. He was tough, right enough, and I’d never have figgered him for a coward, that’d hire someone else to do his killing for him.”

“Ain’t no coward in Ez,” Dirt retorted in a raspy whisper.

Preacher took a swig of whiskey. “That depends on whether you’re on the receiving end or not. Where can I find him?”

Dirt forced a wan smile. “Ain’t tellin’ you that, Preacher.”

Preacher shrugged, indifferently. “Then you’ll take it to hell with you.”

“I’ll see you there,” Dirt snarled, then he shivered violently and died.

“Maybe . . . maybe not,” Preacher observed idly, took another swallow of whiskey and set the jug aside.

He roused himself and dragged the four corpses to a deep wash, rolled them down to the bottom and collapsed a wide section of dirt and rocks from the lip on top of them. That would at least keep the critters away from them. He gathered up their weapons and located their horses. These he freed from bridle and saddle and sent them off on their own.

“Time to get goin’, Thunder,” he announced when he returned to the corral.

Preacher swung into the saddle and caught up the lead rope to the pack animal, then gigged them into motion. Ezra Pease had returned, Preacher mused as the miles slowly rolled by in an endless stream of aspen, hemlock, and pines. It had all begun some ten years ago at Rendezvous....

“New trader in camp,” Jim Bridger confided to Preacher when he rode into the wide, gentle valley that housed Rendezvous for those in the fur trade that year. “I’ll point him out. Like to see what you make of the cut of him.”

Right then, Preacher suspected there might be something not quite right about the man. Bridger didn’t often take to the judgments of other men, lessen he thought himself a mite too harsh in his own. Not that Jim Bridger was given to an overwhelming flow of the milk of human kindness. Most of his decisions were harsh. That’s what kept him, or any man, alive out here in the Big Empty. All the same, Preacher ambled on into the growing gathering of white canvas tents, buffalo-hide tipis, brush lean-tos, and other mobile dwellings of the hard, adventurous men who worked the mountains for the valuable furs that fed a hungry eastern market.

He came upon the new man only a quarter mile into the swarm of white men, Indians, and breeds. A big canvas awning had been stretched from the side of a small, mountain-type wagon. In its shade, behind the upright brass rods that held the outer edge, piles of boxes and crates, and stacks of barrels had been laid out to make what their owner hoped would be an attractive display. Several of the barrels bore the black double-X mark that had already become a common symbol for the contents: whiskey.

Well and good, Preacher thought to himself. Wasn’t a man jack among them who didn’t plan on some powerful likkerin’ up while there. That’s a lot of what Rendezvous was all about. For his own taste, though, Preacher opted to push on until he found the stout, pink-faced German fellow from Pennsylvania who dispensed the finest Monongahela rye this side of heaven.

A couple of hours later, his campsite staked out and shelter erected, somewhat mellowed by some of that smooth whiskey, Preacher had his warm attitude of contentment shattered by an uproar. It reached his ears from the direction of the new trader’s layout he had passed on the way in. Always curious, and always eager to view or get involved in a good brawl, buckskin-clad streams of mountain men flowed past Preacher’s haven.

Smacking his lips, Preacher put aside the jug of Monongahela rye, pushed upright to his moccasins and trotted off to witness the excitement. He elbowed his way between Slippery Jim and Broken Jaw Sloane to get a better view. The new trader, with the help of a pair of louts who turned out to be his swampers, was whipping up on a slender, youthful Nez Perce brave. The white man looked to be in his mid to late thirties, which put him a good ten to twelve years older than Preacher at that time. While the louts held down the teenaged Nez Perce, the factor smashed vicious, painful blows to the Indian’s face.

“You were gonna steal that knife, gawdamnit, I saw you,” he roared.

“No, no,” the brave protested in his own language, which Preacher had just put in six long months of winter learning. “I give two hands sable skins. Poor pelts you say,” he added in heavily accented English. “Two hands sable skins for one knife. That too much but I take.”

His watery blue eyes narrowed, the trader sneered back at the bleeding Indian. He hit the boy twice more and growled. “You don’t have any way to prove that, buck. So, give up that knife and get out of here before I finish you off.”

“I got it right here, Ez,” one thick-lipped lout blurted, reaching under the securing thong of the Nez Perce’s loincloth and pulling free a scabbarded Green River black iron butcher knife.

“Good. Toss it on the table over there.” He bunched the youngster’s hunting shirt in both fists and yanked the bruised and blood-smeared Indian upright. Ez spun him and gave the groggy youth a powerful boot to his posterior.

Propelled forward off balance, the Nez Perce rebounded off the shoulders of laughing mountain men. Some offered him a swig from a jug of liquor, others gave him friendly claps on the shoulders, or pitying looks. Two more rocky steps and he came up against the broad chest of Preacher.

“Blue Heron,” Preacher said softly, recognizing the youth.

“White Wolf. That man cheats. He lies. He steals from us.” It wasn’t a self-pitying whine, or an excuse, it was said with the hot fire of anger burning brightly.

“You are sure?”

“I am sure,” Blue Heron responded.

For a moment, Preacher looked beyond the shoulder of the young Indian and his eyes grew to slits. “It will be taken care of.”

“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 bonhomie 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, wiry 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.

Ezra Pease recovered rapidly. “Why, my good man, we’re going to charge them.”

Those around the well-dressed leader blinked in incomprehension. The number of Indians on the ridge continued to grow. Eyes widened as the count of the angry Cheyenne increased to overwhelming odds. Several of the hard-bitten thugs with Pease cut their eyes to Titus Vickers in appeal. He gave them a curt nod, though not a word had been spoken. Titus Vickers knew.

“Not likely, Mr. Pease,” he responded with more formality than usual. “At least not by this chile. I think we’d best make a run for it while the gettin’s good.”

Pease studied the ranks above, war lances aflutter with feather decorations, bows and rifles ready. He sighed gustily and gave a reluctant nod. “Your calm evaluation of the situation may have saved our lives again, Vic. Under the prevailing conditions, I have no choice but to defer to your wisdom.” He paused and then sucked in wind. “Let’s get the hell out of here!” he bellowed.

None of the men needed encouragement. They reversed their mounts on the narrow trickle of a trail and put spurs to flanks. In an eye-blink, only a column of roiling dust remained where the invading white men had been. A smug smile bloomed on the face of Falling Horse. He pointed to the retreating backs of their enemy.

“We will follow them, punish them some. It will be for the honor of Black Hand, not our own.”

At once, the Cheyenne warriors streamed down the slope from the saddle notch in the ridge. Hooting and whooping, they set up rapid pursuit. Those at the rear of Pease’s disorganized column heard them even over the rumble of the hooves of their galloping horses. They cast apprehensive glances behind them.

When the swift Cheyenne ponies closed enough, those in the forefront loosed rounds from their rifles and trade muskets. Balls whined overhead and one took a chunk from the fat rump of Vern Beevis. His wail blended with the war cries of the Indians.

“You know, I think we’ve got ourselves in some deep cow plop,” Rupe Killian shouted over the pounding hooves.

“I don’t ‘think’ no such thing,” Delphus returned the shout. “I damn well know it.”

“How we gonna get outta this?” Rupe wanted to know.

“You acquainted with foldin’ yer hands together an’ lookin’ up at the Almighty?”

“You mean pray?” Rupe asked, astounded.

Delphus answered soberly. “Seems the only thing might work.”

Tension so thick she could almost taste it, Falicity Jones thought as she heard the call from the rear of the column. “Riders comin’!” Whatever did that mean? Would they be attacked again? She cut nervous eyes to the broad-shouldered figure of the man called Preacher.

“Dismount the wagons,” he ordered. “Up in them rocks until we know who it is.”

Quickly the refugees from the ill-fated wagon train halted the patched-up wagons and scrambled into the tumble of boulders at the uphill side of the trail they followed. While they did, Falicity observed Preacher checking the caps on his multitude of weapons and sighed with relief.

What a competent man he was. Had she not been so recently widowed, she might look upon him as handsome and dashing. Silly goose! she chastened herself. Preacher worked by feel, she noticed, while his eyes remained set on their back-trail. With that accomplished, he trotted his horse to the rearmost wagon and lowered the long-barreled Hawken rifle to his saddle bow. From a pocket sewn into the saddle skirt, Preacher withdrew a compact brass tube. He drew it out to form a spyglass and peered through the single lens.

White men, Preacher detected at once. Only two of them, so far, his thinking progressed. Might be more of Pease’s trash and again, might not. Then he, too, left the trail, secured his horse and disappeared into the rocks.

A flight of arrows sailed their way overhead. Ezra Pease winced at the moaning sound and instinctively ducked his head. Three of the projectiles found sticking points in horseflesh. The animals turned frantic. They uttered nearly human squeals and groans. The men atop them flung about like stuffed rag bags. The Cheyenne fired their rifles in irregular order. Fortunately for Pease and his gang it was as equally hard for a Cheyenne to hit a moving target from a moving mount as for a white man.

In the lull to reload, following the discharge, the desperate white men put more distance between them and their pursuers. All form of order had disappeared. Their flight had become a matter of staying alive. Titus Vickers hung back, urging the men to get control of themselves. At last a few overcame their panic enough to offer some resistance. They reined in among some rocks and took careful aim.

Rifles cracked and two Cheyenne fell from their saddles. Hastily the empty weapons got reloaded while a handful of others took up positions and opened up on the charging Indians. Vickers looked forward to see the scattered riders disappear around a bend he did not recall from their approach. He had to find out what had happened.

“Hold them off as long as you can, then pull back,” Titus Vickers told Bart Haskel.

He spurred ahead to discover a terrible blunder. In their eagerness to evade their enemy, those in the lead had turned into a blind canyon. Sheer granite walls rose along a narrow stream, through which the unwitting men splashed, silver sheets of icy water spraying nose-high on their mounts. They could not be left behind, Vickers realized and held in place to direct those beyond to join the others. Their only chance remained with superior firepower.

When Bart Haskel and the last two thundered down the main trail, Titus Vickers waved his hat at them and drew them into the box canyon. “We didn’ come this way,” Bart observed.

“I know. Ride on to the others. I’ll be right with you.”

Vickers dismounted and led his mount away from the entrance to a place of safety. There he tied off the lathered roan and pulled a short-handled spade from his saddle gear. He rushed back to the mouth of the canyon and up a talus-strewn slope to the base of a large boulder. Working cautiously at one side of the huge stone, he began to sling away shovel-loads of dirt. It didn