Preacher's Rage

by William W. Johnstone

  It was a long speech for the usually taciturn mountain man, and he was glad that Hawk abruptly signaled to them from the other side of the creek. The young warrior had found something.

  The stream had gotten deeper as they rode north, but the horses were still able to cross it without having to swim. As Preacher, Charlie, and Aaron came up onto the western bank, Hawk pointed to some marks in the grass.

  “They pulled the canoes out here,” he said.

  “And then pushed them back in,” Preacher said as he studied the sign. “Must’ve stopped to rest a spell, then pushed on. Spot any footprints?”

  Hawk shook his head. “You are thinking about the woman. I saw no footprints of any kind, let alone any small enough to belong to a female.”

  Preacher nodded. “That doesn’t really mean anything. If they have her tied hand and foot, like that fella told you, there’s a good chance they didn’t even take her out of the canoe she’s riding in.”

  “You mean they didn’t even allow her to get up and move around any?” Charlie asked.

  “Probably not.”

  “That’s inhumane treatment!”

  “Fellas like we’re talkin’ about ain’t known for bein’ nice to folks,” Preacher said.

  “I’m starting to think you’re right about how we should deal with them.”

  In the long run, it didn’t really matter whether Charlie agreed with his plans or not, Preacher thought, but he didn’t point that out.

  “If they rested here for a while,” Aaron said, “that means we can cut into their lead if we keep going.”

  “That’s right,” Preacher agreed. “And that’s another reason not to push the horses too hard. If we wear ’em out, we’ll have to stop and stay stopped for a while to let them rest.”

  “We will have to, anyway, sooner rather than later,” Hawk pointed out.

  “Yeah, but not just yet,” Preacher said as he lifted Horse’s reins. “C’mon, Dog.” He rode back across the creek and headed north again.

  Charlie Todd and Aaron Buckley followed, and Hawk and White Buffalo continued on the western bank.

  * * *

  Jefferson Scarrow ordered his men to keep the campfire small, so as not to attract attention, even though it was unlikely anyone would spot it in the cavelike area underneath the bluff. Scarrow wasn’t convinced yet that no one was on their trail, but he felt a little better now that they had found this place. It would do for a camp until they knew whether the other men were coming back.

  He posted a guard on the canoes, a man at each end of the bluff, and another in some trees across the river. No one would sneak up and surprise them. As dusk settled down over the wild landscape, the smells of frying salt pork, pan bread, and coffee filled the air under the bluff.

  As Plumlee had promised the girl, he had made her a bed from pine boughs and a blanket. That was probably the most comfortable she had been since she’d stumbled into their camp, Scarrow thought as he looked at her. She didn’t return his gaze. Her face was still set in a hostile mask.

  He wondered again why she had been fleeing through the night. Was there another threat lurking out there in the gathering darkness? Scarrow believed he and his men were ready for whatever might happen, but it would be nice to know what to expect.

  While the men were getting ready to eat supper, he went over and sat down cross-legged beside the girl. “You’ve eaten almost nothing for two days now,” he said to her in English. “You’re not hurting anyone except yourself, you know.”

  He tried to translate that into the several different Indian dialects he knew bits and pieces of. He was sure he made a mess of it but thought he conveyed enough of the idea for her to understand, and she had to speak at least one of those tongues. She knew what he was saying, all right, she was just too blasted stubborn to acknowledge it.

  Suddenly angry, he reached out, took hold of her chin, and roughly turned her face toward him. He leaned closer to her and said, “I don’t appreciate being treated this way. I’ve done better by you than you had any right to expect, girl. I could have given you to my men that first night. If I had, you’d be just about used up by now. You’d be hoping for death to deliver you from that ordeal, I imagine. I’m sure being tied up has been uncomfortable, but that’s all you’ve had to deal with. Well, I’m running out of patience.”

  He didn’t bother trying to put that in words she understood. He could tell by the fear he saw in her eyes, mingled with the defiance, that she understood enough from his expression and his tone of voice.

  A little irritated with himself, he let go of her and sat back. She was breathing harder than usual. He couldn’t help but glance down at the way her breasts rose and fell under the buckskin dress. He prided himself on his control of his own emotions, but he was human, too. Maybe he ought to abandon his plan of using her as a bargaining chip in future negotiations if they encountered hostile tribes.

  Not yet, Scarrow decided. He trusted his instincts. He pushed himself to his feet, looked down at her, and shook his head, then turned and walked away.

  Later, Hogarth Plumlee went over to Scarrow. “I tried to get her to eat some, but she wouldn’t do it. I stuck some pan bread in her mouth anyway. She might’ve swallowed a little of it.”

  “That’s all right, Hog,” Scarrow told him. “I appreciate the effort.”

  “The boys are sure gettin’ antsy—”

  “Let them,” Scarrow snapped. “I don’t care how disturbed they are as long as they do what they’re told.”

  Plumlee looked like he wanted to say something else, but after a moment he just shrugged his massive shoulders and walked away.

  Scarrow had spread his bedroll near the back of the cave. He lay down and looked around in the dim, flickering light from the fire. He could see the girl lying on the bed Plumlee had made her, but her figure was indistinct in the poor light. Scarrow supposed she had dozed off from exhaustion and weakness brought on by barely eating for several days. She was only punishing herself, he thought.

  The guard shifts were already established, so Scarrow didn’t have to worry about that. He dozed off, and he wasn’t sure how long he had been asleep when a sharp cry suddenly jolted him out of his slumber.

  He sat up, and by the time he was upright his hand had closed around the butt of the pistol he had placed beside him. The fire was just embers, casting light so faint Scarrow could barely make out the shapes of sleeping men scattered around.

  He saw the struggling figures on the other side of the camp, though, and knew instantly what was going on.

  He threw his blankets aside, stood up, and stalked toward the spot where one of the men wrestled with the girl as she tried to squirm away from him.

  The man had one hand clapped over her mouth to stifle any more cries while he tried to bring her under control with the other hand. “Stop it!” he hissed at her. “I ain’t gonna hurt you, you crazy little fool. I just want to have some fun with you. Hell, you might even like it! Now settle down and let me get this dress up—”

  “Step away from her, Clete,” Scarrow ordered, his voice loud and harsh enough to wake any of the men who hadn’t been roused already by the girl’s cry.

  The young man called Clete stopped struggling with the prisoner, but he didn’t let go of her. He turned his head and said over his shoulder, “I ain’t tryin’ to cause any trouble here, Mr. Scarrow, but it ain’t right you keepin’ all of us away from this gal. It ain’t fair! A man’s got needs—”

  “So does an animal,” Scarrow said coldly. “I’ve explained that I have a potential use for this prisoner and until we know whether or not we’ll have need of her in that fashion, we’re not going to use her in any other fashion.”

  “Damn it!” Clete spat. “It wouldn’t hurt her. It wouldn’t make one damn bit o’ difference. You reckon there ain’t already been a dozen redskin bucks straddlin’ her, boss? A gal that looks like she does? You know there have been!”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Scarro
w grated. “I’ve given you an order, and I expect you to follow it.” He lowered the hammer on his pistol and stuck it behind his belt again. He didn’t want gunshots to announce their location to anyone who might be out there looking for them. As he moved closer, he went on. “Now let go of her and step away from her, or I’ll be forced to thrash you.”

  Clete muttered some curses, but he released his hold on the girl and allowed her to slump back on the blanket-covered pine boughs. Scarrow relaxed. Clete straightened and turned away from the prisoner.

  “Look out, Jeff!” Plumlee yelled.

  Without that warning, Clete might have succeeded in what he was trying to do. He had slipped out his own pistol and brought it up swiftly as he cocked it. Scarrow dived aside. The gun boomed, and the report was deafening under the overhanging bluff.

  Something whipped through the air. Clete gasped and staggered back a step. The empty pistol in his hand sagged toward the ground as he looked down at the knife buried almost to the hilt in his chest. Scarrow, lying on the ground where he had landed after diving out of the line of fire, recognized the knife’s bone handle. It belonged to Hog Plumlee, an expert in its use.

  He had just proven that by splitting Clete’s heart with the blade.

  Clete’s knees buckled. He thudded to the ground.

  Plumlee came up beside Scarrow, took hold of his arm, and helped him to his feet. “You all right, Jeff?”

  “Yes. The shot missed, thanks to you.”

  “Maybe I shouldn’ta killed the varmint, but when I seen him take that shot at you, I didn’t stop to think about it. I just throwed my knife.”

  “And I appreciate that.” Scarrow turned to the other men, who were all on their feet, looking shocked and uneasy in the light from the embers. “This is what happens when someone doesn’t obey orders. I trust there won’t be any more such incidents.”

  The men mumbled agreement, but Scarrow wasn’t completely convinced of their sincerity. They were shocked at Clete’s sudden death, but give them a day or two and their lust would rise up again, blinding them to logical thought. When that time came, Scarrow didn’t know what would happen, but it wasn’t likely to be anything good.

  Of course, he might not have to worry about that, he reminded himself. Clete had fired his pistol, and there was no way of knowing how far the sound had traveled.

  Nor could Scarrow know if anyone was out there in the darkness to hear it . . .

  CHAPTER 7

  Preacher and the others had followed the creek until nightfall. Preacher called a halt. The horses needed rest, and to be honest, so did Charlie, Aaron, and White Buffalo. The two young trappers couldn’t go on tirelessly like Preacher and Hawk, and White Buffalo’s advanced years had taken a toll on his stamina, no matter how much he might deny that.

  “We won’t stay here the whole night, though,” Preacher told them. “Once the moon rises after a while, there’ll be enough light for us to see where we’re goin’. We got Dog to tell us if he catches a scent where they veer off from the creek.”

  “How likely is it that will happen?” Aaron asked.

  “Not likely. Fellas who travel by canoe pretty much have to follow the streams. They might stop and venture off a ways to do some huntin’ or somethin’ like that, but they always have to come back to the water sooner or later.”

  Charlie said, “Then we’re assured of finding them.”

  “There’s a pretty good chance of it,” Preacher said.

  Aaron and Charlie stretched out to rest. White Buffalo sat cross-legged on the ground, closed his eyes, tilted his head back, and started chanting in a low, soft voice. The sound was a monotonous drone that put the two young men to sleep very quickly.

  Preacher and Hawk stood watch. Preacher said quietly to his son, “If the varmints we’re after really are holdin’ a girl prisoner, Charlie and Aaron are gonna be more worried about rescuin’ her than anything else.”

  “Yes, I know,” Hawk replied. “They are kindhearted.” He said it as if that were some sort of flaw in their personalities, which came as no surprise to Preacher.

  He knew that Hawk had a . . . well, not exactly a bloodthirsty streak . . . but Hawk was extremely practical. He did what had to be done, and if that involved killing, it didn’t bother him the least little bit. He wasn’t cruel, but he didn’t shy away from spilling blood.

  Of course, neither did Preacher, so he figured the old saying about how the apple didn’t fall far from the tree had a lot of truth to it. But Preacher knew he didn’t really fit in with the sort of society that spawned Charlie and Aaron. He had known that from the time he was a boy, which was one reason he had left home and headed west at such a young age.

  “They’ll want to save the girl even if it means lettin’ those bastards go,” Preacher said.

  “That would be a mistake,” Hawk said. “We need to kill them to avenge the evil they have already done and prevent the evil they will do in the future.”

  Preacher scratched his jaw and tugged at his earlobe. “Varmints like that, one of the first things they’ll do when the fightin’ starts is to cut that girl’s throat.”

  “Better for one girl to die than for all the innocent lives that will be taken if we spare those men. And we do not know for certain that they even have a female prisoner,” Hawk added.

  “That’s true, we don’t. I’m just sayin’, if they do, those two youngsters are liable to give us trouble.”

  Hawk shook his head in the darkness. “It does not matter. You and I will do most of the killing, Preacher. Perhaps all of the killing. It is always that way.”

  “Yeah,” Preacher said. “I reckon it is.”

  They fell silent as the minutes stretched past. White Buffalo continued to chant. A snore came from Charlie Todd. The horses blew out air and cropped at the grass on the creek bank. Preacher didn’t know where Dog was, but the big cur would be somewhere close by. Probably hunting himself a rabbit for a snack before they pushed on. Might be a good idea if the rest of them followed suit and gnawed on a little jerky to keep their strength up, he decided.

  That thought was going through his mind when he heard a gun go off.

  Hawk heard the shot, too. His breath hissed between his teeth. Then silence hung between the two men. White Buffalo had stopped chanting, but the two young trappers still slept.

  No more shots sounded. After a moment, Preacher said, “Might not be them. Could be a lone trapper scarin’ off a wolf or a bear.”

  “You do not believe that,” Hawk said.

  “Well, seein’ as it sounded like that gun went off about a mile upstream, no, I reckon it’s more likely it belongs to one of the fellas we’re after.”

  “Why only one shot?”

  Preacher shook his head. “No tellin’. Even if it’s them, they might’ve been tryin’ to spook some critter, like I said.”

  “Or perhaps they killed someone,” Hawk suggested. “Like that prisoner.”

  “Only one way to find out,” Preacher said. “Let’s wake up Charlie and Aaron and go see.”

  * * *

  The two young men were nervous and excited, now that they were closing in on their quarry. Both of them had been involved in battles before, but it was still a fairly new experience for them. A frightening experience, as well. But they knew enough to keep quiet as Preacher carefully led the group upstream.

  When they had covered close to a mile in Preacher’s estimation, he signaled for a halt and Hawk slipped down from his pony’s back. Without having to be told what to do, the young warrior melted into the shadows cast by the trees along the eastern bank. Preacher hadn’t been able to tell from the sound of the shot which side of the creek it came from, but when the men had pulled the canoes from the stream earlier in the day it had been on the western bank. That was as good a guess as any.

  Either way, Hawk would find out.

  “Do we just wait?” Charlie whispered.

  “That’s right,” Preacher told him. “No more talk.”
>
  Charlie opened his mouth to say something, probably an apology, but caught himself in time and just nodded.

  Long before, Preacher had learned how to wait. Sometimes a man had to stay in one place, silent and motionless, for hours in order to save his life. White Buffalo had that ability as well, although Preacher figured it was more difficult for the old-timer to keep his mouth shut for long periods of time. Charlie and Aaron were restless, though. They fidgeted, but at least they didn’t make much noise about it.

  A three-quarter moon was rising over the mountains to the east by the time Hawk reappeared like a ghost from the darkness. Charlie and Aaron both jumped a little when they realized he was there.

  The others all gathered around Hawk as he whispered, “One guard, two bowshots ahead on this side of the creek. On the other side, in a cave underneath a bluff, a campfire that has died down. Many men, most sleeping. Two guards on that side.”

  “What about a prisoner?” Preacher asked.

  Hawk shook his head. “I could not tell. I can kill the guard on this side of the creek, then cross over and kill the others. That way I can get close enough to see.”

  “Or we could wait until morning,” Aaron said, “when there’s some light.”

  “If the guards are dead, we can take the others by surprise,” Hawk argued. “The five of us can line up across the creek and open fire. With each of us armed with a rifle and two pistols, we can fire fifteen shots before any of them know what is going on. Many will be killed.”

  “Including the prisoner, more than likely!” Charlie objected.

  “We do not know there is a prisoner. We have only the word of a man we know to have been a liar and a killer.”

  Preacher thought about it for a long moment, then said, “There’s another way. We get a man into that camp.”

  “How in the world can we do that with guards all around?” Aaron asked. “Even if the guards are dead, nobody can just walk in there without being noticed.”

  “You have not heard the stories about Preacher,” White Buffalo said. “The Blackfeet call him Ghost Killer, because he can go among his enemies and never be seen until it is too late.”