Free Cheyenne Challenge by William W. Johnstone

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.
    â€œPour 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.
    â€œGood 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.
    â€œOne of them Kiowa got Miss Cora,” Preacher shouted. “Buck, Luke, come over here and hold ’em off. I’m goin’ after her.”

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    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