Free Cheyenne Challenge by William W. Johnstone Page A

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.
    â€œMy Lord, what did you do?” Cora gasped.
    â€œI 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.
    â€œI can walk perfectly well, Preacher,” Cora advised him.
    â€œUh—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.
    â€œGet down,” he commanded.
    â€œWhat ...
    â€œJust 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.
    â€œIf 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.”
    â€œOh! Oh, dear!” she blurted in realization. “I never thought of that.”
    Preacher