Renegade Justice

  “What should I do?” Touch the Sky asked Arrow Keeper. “I am a Shaiyena. But my white parents are the soul of my medicine bag. How can I let these things happen?”

  “Do you realize what the rest will say if you desert your tribe now? And, little brother, have you considered Honey Eater? She loves you. But Black Elk loves her. When her father dies, she will need you more than ever. She will be alone. A Cheyenne who is alone is a dead Cheyenne. Do you go to help the whites who raised you, knowing it may turn your tribe against you forever and cost you Honey Eater?” Arrow Keeper asked. “Or do you stay?”

  CHEYENNE 3: RENEGADE JUSTICE

  By Judd Cole

  First published by Leisure Books in 1993

  Copyright © 1993, 2015 by Judd Cole

  First Smashwords Edition: February 2015

  Names, characters and incidents in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information or storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law.

  Cover image © 2015 by Kirby Jonas

  This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book

  Series Editor: Ben Bridges ~ Text © Piccadilly Publishing

  Published by Arrangement with the Author.

  Prologue

  When the short white days of the cold moons had ended, Running Antelope of the Northern Cheyennes and his party of thirty braves were ambushed near the North Platte by Bluecoat pony soldiers.

  Running Antelope was a peace leader, not a war chief, and his band flew a white truce flag. His wife Lotus Petal and their infant son accompanied him in order to visit her Southern clan. Badly outnumbered, the Cheyennes sang their battle song and fought bravely with their bows, lances, clubs, and single-shot muzzle-loaders. But they were no match for the Bluecoats’ thundering wagon guns and percussion-cap carbines. The lone survivor of the bloody assault was the squalling Cheyenne orphan.

  The child was taken back to the river-bend settlement of Bighorn Falls near Fort Bates in the Wyoming Territory. Raised by John and Sarah Hanchon, owners of the town’s mercantile store, he was named Matthew. Despite occasional hostile glances and remarks from some whites, he grew up feeling accepted in his narrow world.

  Then came 1856, his sixteenth year, and tragedy: Matthew’s forbidden love for Kristen Steele, daughter of the wealthiest rancher in Bighorn Falls. A jealous young officer from Fort Bates, Seth Carlson, eager to win Kristen’s hand in marriage, threatened to ruin John Hanchon’s contract with the fort unless Matthew cleared out for good.

  The saddened youth left his white parents and rode north into the upcountry of the Powder River, hostile Cheyenne country, determined to find a place where he fit in. Captured by Cheyenne braves from Chief Yellow Bear’s camp, he was accused of being a double-tongued spy for the whites. He was sentenced to death by torture.

  Only the intervention of old Arrow Keeper, the tribal medicine man, spared him. The shaman recognized the birthmark, buried past the youth’s hairline, from a recent and powerful medicine vision: a mulberry-colored arrowhead, the mark of the warrior. Arrow Keeper hoped it was not a false vision placed over his eyes by his enemies. If true, this young buck was destined to lead his people in a great, victorious battle against their enemies.

  Renamed Touch the Sky by Arrow Keeper, the tall youth was hated by the rest of the tribe, especially a stern warrior named Black Elk and his bitter young cousin, Wolf Who Hunts Smiling. Black Elk was stung by jealousy when he realized that Chief Yellow Bear’s daughter, Honey Eater, loved Touch the Sky instead of him. And Wolf Who Hunts Smiling openly walked between Touch the Sky and the campfire—the Cheyenne way of announcing his intention to kill the suspected spy.

  Touch the Sky bravely and cunningly employed his white friend Corey Robinson in a bold plan to save the Cheyenne village from annihilation by Pawnees. He was honored in a special council, and Honey Eater secretly declared her love for him. But he was still far from full acceptance as a warrior.

  Then whiskey traders invaded Indian country. Once again Touch the Sky was suspected of spying for the long knives—the traders tricked him into getting drunk with them, convincing his angry friend Little Horse that he was one of them. The traders, led by the ruthless Henri Lagace, threatened to rapidly destroy the Indian way of life with their strong water.

  But Lagace didn’t stop at peddling devil water. He and his men were also fond of getting Indians and other white traders drunk, then slaughtering them in their sleep and robbing them—and making the massacres look like Cheyenne handiwork. The panicked Territorial Commission declared a bounty on the scalp of any and all Cheyennes.

  The peace-loving Chief Yellow Bear knew his warriors had to paint their faces for war against Lagace if the Cheyennes were to survive. But Lagace kidnapped Yellow Bear’s daughter. He threatened to kill Honey Eater if the war was not called off.

  Yellow Bear could not sacrifice the tribe to spare Honey Eater. The only hope was to send a small Cheyenne war party, led by Black Elk, into the heavily fortified white stronghold. Touch the Sky was told, in a medicine vision, that he must defy Black Elk or Honey Eater would die. He deserted the war party and infiltrated the white camp on his own.

  Taken prisoner, he was brutally tortured. But his courage in defying the whites rallied the other Cheyennes to mount a heroic surprise assault. They scattered the whites and freed Honey Eater. Touch the Sky then pursued his enemy Lagace across the plains until he killed him, ending the scalps-for-bounty decree and the immediate threat to the Cheyennes.

  But much of his valor went unwitnessed. Many of his enemies within the tribe were still unconvinced of his loyalty. He was still trapped between the white man’s hatred and the red man’s mistrust.

  Chapter One

  “Shorten the reins, Wade!” shouted John Hanchon. “You want to control his head!”

  Hanchon was perched on the top pole of a corral so new it still reeked of fresh pine. He was a thickset, middle-aged man wearing a broad-brimmed plainsman’s hat, sturdy linsey trousers, and calfskin boots.

  He watched his foreman expertly snub the reins so the mean roan bronco couldn’t get its head down for some serious bucking.

  “Some horses hate the saddle, others save it for the rider,” he explained to the two men flanking him on the corral pole. “Each horse bucks to its own pattern. You don’t try to power a strong pattern bucker. You learn to feel it coming and ride with the motion.”

  The three men watched the roan futilely side-jump a few more times before it finally gave up and stood defeated, its bit flecked with foam. A cheer rose from the rest of the hands scattered around the corral. This was the spring’s first “Sunday ronnyvoo” at John and Sarah Hanchon’s new mustang spread, and a festive spirit hung in the air.

  “You got a fine spread here, Mr. Hanchon,” said Corey Robinson, a freckle-faced redhead with a gap-toothed grin. He was sixteen, the youngest of the trio seated on the corral pole. “I wish to Jesus my pa would get out of the preaching business so we could start us a spread. It ain’t just Fort Bates that needs remounts. Seems as how every keelboat crew that comes past Bighorn Falls is looking for good horses and mules to take out west with them.”

  “Sure, there’s good money in it,” said the third man, Corey’s friend Tom Riley. He was a brevet officer, an enlisted man temporarily promoted from the ranks until more commissioned lieutenants arrived at nearby Fort Bates. He was twenty, a rangy, clean-cut towhead whose face was sunburned where the black brim of his officer’s hat turned up on one sid
e. “But it’s damn hard work breaking green horses to leather.”

  “Speak the truth, lad, and shame the devil,” said Hanchon. “And it takes money to make money. Sure, my herds are grazing the new grass now. But I had to hay them all winter long. It took everything I made from selling the mercantile just to weather the cold.”

  “It ain’t fair,” said Corey. His freckles stood out even more as he flushed with anger. “It’s bad enough that Hiram Steele drove Matthew off like he was a killer coyote hanging around the henhouse. There was no call for running you out of business.”

  At the mention of his adopted Cheyenne son, the seams in Hanchon’s face deepened. He still didn’t know exactly what had passed, nearly one year ago now, between Matthew and the wealthy rancher Hiram Steele. Whatever it was, it somehow involved Steele’s daughter. And it had been serious enough to send Matthew packing for good in the middle of the night. Though his goodbye note made it clear he was leaving to protect his adopted white parents, his departure still hadn’t been enough for Hiram Steele—he and friends at Fort Bates had conspired to turn the once-friendly fort sutler against Hanchon. When orders from the fort began going to the mercantile at Red Shale, Hanchon’s mercantile in Bighorn Falls was doomed.

  “Fair don’t mean spit to a man like Steele,” said Hanchon bitterly. “I was doing tolerable well until he ruined me. But I’m plumb bullheaded when I get my dander up. That’s why I started this mustang spread. Oh, I knew there’d be trouble. I knew Steele wouldn’t set still for this. He’s the kind that always figures there’s too many pigs for the tits. Still, I never marked him down for a common criminal. My hand to God, I thought he’d get used to the notion of another spread in this valley. So far I’m wrong.”

  Hanchon pointed toward one corner of the house, where the wood was badly charred.

  “A while back, riders came in the night and tried to burn us out. All winter long, I found mustangs in my herds that’d been shot dead. My hands have been dry-gulched and beaten. It’s gettin’ to be the devil’s own work just to keep enough help around here.”

  It was the spring of 1857. Up in the higher country the golden aspens were coming to leaf, and the winter ice no longer had the valleys locked. Hanchon and his men had recently moved the mustang herds out from their nearby winter range to an outlying summer range dotted with new hayricks.

  The Hanchon spread was located in a fertile piece of bottomland where the Tongue River oxbowed just south of Bighorn Falls in the Wyoming Territory. The split-log house was surrounded by a raw plank bunkhouse and outbuildings, two huge pole corrals, a stone well, and a long stone watering trough.

  “Good lands!” said a cheerful female voice behind them. “Men surely do love to raise the dust!”

  All three men turned around to a pleasant sight: Sarah Hanchon, her copper hair pulled into a tight bun, looked gay and lively in a bright yellow gingham dress. The young beauty at her side, Kristen Steele, smiled shyly when Corey and Tom hastily jumped down off the fence and touched the brims of their hats. She wore a dark calico skirt and a white shirtwaist. China-blue eyes were offset by a golden waterfall of hair tumbling down over her shoulders.

  “Miss Steele,” said John Hanchon, smiling with obvious pleasure at seeing her. In his book, Hiram’s daughter was as pleasant and decent as her father was mean and low-down. No wonder that Matthew had fallen in love with her—what healthy young sprout wouldn’t?

  “I can’t stay long,” she said apologetically. “Pa would have a conniption if he knew I was here. But I wanted to see your new place.”

  A horse whickered loudly, capturing everyone’s attention. They all turned to watch a hired hand rope a white mustang and lead it into the horse-breaking pen. First the hand carefully checked his saddle, cinches, latigos, and stirrups. Then he examined the halter and rein. The horse had already been choked and water-starved until it could be saddled and harnessed. Finally the hand cinched on the bronc saddle and swung up into leather.

  Cheers and shouts rose from the rest of the hands as the rider put spurs to his mount and rode it with his rowels until the bucking mustang rolled its eyes in fury, showing the whites.

  A moment later a rifle spoke its piece, and the mustang collapsed as a scarlet rope of blood erupted from its flank.

  “God-in-whirlwinds!” said Corey.

  Suddenly the air was alive with more gunshots, the hollow thunder of hooves. From a long, sloping rise behind the house, a group of six marauders bore down on the gathering. Their faces were hidden behind bandanas.

  A claybank horse crumpled, whickering piteously, as a bullet caught it in the hindquarters. More slugs thwacked into the corral poles, raised plumes of dust, flew past their ears with a sound like angry hornets.

  “You two!” Hanchon shouted to his wife and Kristen as he scrambled down from the corral pole. “Into the house!”

  It was Sunday, and the only man carrying a weapon was Riley. He unsnapped his stiff leather holster and drew the silver-gripped Colt service revolver.

  Some of the hands were already running toward the bunkhouse for their weapons. But the attackers, anticipating this, laid down a withering field of fire between the corral and the bunkhouse. Two hands went down, wounded, before Wade McKenna shouted out the order to take cover instead.

  Hanchon had fled into the house with the women. Now he burst back out through the leather-hinged door, a .33-caliber breechloader in one hand, a lever-action Henry in the other.

  “Corey! Heads up, boy!”

  Hanchon tossed the breechloader to the youth. Riley had already taken cover behind the stone watering trough, taking aim. He was reserving his ammunition until the attackers were within short-arms range.

  A yellow cloud of dust boiled up behind the riders. Wood chips flew from the corral poles and outbuildings; another horse whickered in pain and went down. The other horses had panicked, and now their shrill nickering added to the din of shouts and gunshots.

  Hanchon, standing in the open, fired the long-barreled Henry. One of the attackers slumped in his saddle but hung on, one hand covering the wound in his thigh.

  “Cover down!” shouted Riley to Hanchon, jumping up and dragging the older man behind the trough with him and Corey. Now the attackers were within easy range, and all three men returned fire in earnest.

  Another marauder slumped, then slipped from his mount. One foot caught in the stirrup so that his dead body bumped and leaped over the uneven ground. This broke the momentum of the attack. Another rider caught the dead man’s horse, dismounted, and tossed their fallen comrade across his saddle. Abruptly, the group veered west toward the Bighorn Mountains.

  The raid had been sudden and fast, but took a grim toll: two hands wounded, one seriously, and three horses dead or dying. The men carried the gut-shot hand into the house and the women tended to him while another hand, a rifle poking from his saddle scabbard, rode out to Widow Johnson’s place on Sweetwater Creek. She was the closest thing to a doctor in the territory.

  “Who in tarnal hell was it?” said Riley after the rest of the men had armed themselves and formed a perimeter guard in case of a second attempt.

  Hanchon, staring at the dead claybank he had just put out of its misery, shook his head. Another hand had just quit on the spot and demanded his wages, claiming only a soft-brained fool would risk his life like this for beans and sowbelly. Hanchon knew he was right: This wasn’t their fight.

  “I didn’t recognize any of ’em. But I’ll wager Hiram Steele knows who they are.”

  “Steele’s a rich man,” said Riley. “And he’s been selling remounts to the fort for a long time. I don’t have much authority, but if he’s behind this, I swear he won’t get away with it.”

  “I expected trouble, but I never figured Steele had the stomach for this kind of business,” said Hanchon bitterly. “He knows I can’t go to the law against him. The nearest U.S. marshal is in Laramie. That’s two days’ hard ride from here. ’Sides, what proof do I have?”

 
“The Army is the law out here,” said Riley. “I’m going to my superiors about this. I’ll take Corey as a witness.”

  Hanchon slowly nodded. “Give it a try, lad. But Steele is thick as thieves with that bunch at the fort. I got a feeling I’m in for six sorts of hell.”

  “The U. S. Army has no jurisdiction in civilian legal conflicts,” said Lieutenant Seth Carlson. “We protect the settlers from Indians, yes, but not from each other.”

  Carlson was close to Tom Riley’s age. But he held a permanent commission, and currently served as the adjutant to the commanding officer of the 7th Cavalry.

  He was also, thought Corey, an arrogant, sneering bastard. Corey felt a warm glow of satisfaction as he recalled what Old Knobby at the feed stable in Bighorn Falls had told him—how Matthew had set the officer on his duff with two good punches.

  “But sir—”

  “Keep your ‘buts’ in your pocket, mister! You don’t speak until I’m finished. I want to know why you took Kristen Steele out to the Hanchon spread with you?”

  Riley’s jaw slacked open in surprise at the unexpected question.

  “We didn’t take her. She came on her own, far as I could tell.”

  It was Carlson’s turn to look surprised. He rose from behind his desk at Regimental Headquarters and paced nervously back and forth in front of a huge wall map of the Wyoming Territory. His hand rested on the hilt of his saber, nervously working it.

  “She came on her own,” he repeated woodenly, as if storing the fact away for later. Corey was not as baffled as Riley—he knew Carlson was trying to stake a claim to Kristen Steele. In fact, the jealous officer had jumped Matthew after learning about his secret visits to her.

  “Yes, sir, on her own. But she’s not the point here.”

  “Stow it, mister! The point is, from now on you best make sure she stays away from the Hanchon spread. Is that clear?”

  “She’s a civilian. What law says she can’t visit where she’s a mind to?”