Preacher's Rage

by William W. Johnstone

  Hawk came lithely to his feet and whispered sharply, “Dog, hunt!”

  Dog moved quickly and silently through the grass toward the bushes. Hawk wasn’t far behind him.

  He could have roused Preacher and alerted his father that something might be wrong, but Hawk had never lacked for confidence. He felt sure that he could handle whatever needed to be done. Chances were, in a moment he would encounter a sleepy Charlie Todd stumbling out of the brush and headed back to his bedroll for the rest of the night.

  Hawk reached the thicket’s edge without seeing any sign of Charlie. Dog disappeared into the growth ahead of him.

  Hawk paused there and called softly, “Charlie! Charlie, are you all right?”

  No answer came from the shadows.

  Hawk heard Dog growling somewhere in the bushes. It wasn’t the sort of urgent, angry snarl that would have heralded an imminent attack on something by the big cur, but rather the sound of him finding a scent that he didn’t like.

  Hawk thrust branches aside and pushed into the growth. He followed the sound of Dog’s growls and found the animal standing stiff-legged in a small open area. Hawk ran his hand along Dog’s backbone and felt how ruffled and bristly the fur was—another sure sign of anger.

  Kneeling, Hawk studied the ground as best he could in the poor light. He spotted a slightly darker patch and leaned forward to sniff the air above it. The sharp, unmistakable scent of human urine was starting to fade already, but Hawk was still able to smell it. Charlie had stood there to relieve himself.

  That fact alone wouldn’t have been enough to make Dog react like he had. And Charlie wasn’t there anymore, which worried Hawk even more. If it was the spot he had chosen, why had he moved on somewhere else?

  And why hadn’t he just gone a few steps away from the others and made water there, as Hawk had suggested, instead of being so stubborn? Hawk felt some annoyance mixed with the growing concern over Charlie’s whereabouts. Time to worry about that later, though, after he had found what had happened to his friend.

  Hawk straightened and started to turn, then stopped short as he saw the tall, broad-shouldered figure standing a few feet away. Hawk hadn’t heard anyone come up behind him, so he had a pretty good idea who it was.

  Only one man could move that silently.

  “What’s wrong?” Preacher asked.

  “Charlie is gone.”

  “Gone?” Preacher repeated.

  Hawk could imagine the frown on the mountain man’s face, even if he couldn’t see it. “He came out here to make water and never came back, and now Dog smells something he does not like.”

  “Blackfoot, I’ll bet,” Preacher said. “Dang it. Those varmints can slip up on a camp with anybody knowin’ until it’s too late. They always run me a good race when it comes to sneakin’ around.”

  “Do you think they took Charlie?”

  “He ain’t here, so it seems like there’s a mighty good chance of it.”

  “Why did they not just kill him?”

  “Well,” Preacher said, “maybe they think they got a better use for him.”

  “Torture?” Hawk asked. The word caught a little in his throat. Charlie and Aaron could both be a trial at times, with their inexperience and white man’s attitudes, but Hawk had become fond of them anyway.

  “Maybe,” Preacher said. “Or could be they’ve got somethin’ else in mind.”

  * * *

  Jefferson Scarrow was caught up in a restless slumber when Hogarth Plumlee shook him awake. Scarrow sat up instinctively clutching his pistol and looking for somebody to shoot.

  “Take it easy, Jeff,” Plumlee said. “Somethin’s up with them redskins.”

  “What is it?” Scarrow was still a little disoriented. He ran his left hand through his tangled hair and blinked rapidly as he looked around. The hour was late, and the fires had died down to the point that they no longer put out much light.

  Enough, though, for Scarrow to see the knot of Blackfoot warriors gathered about fifty feet away. They were talking among themselves in low, urgent voices.

  The group broke apart abruptly. Several of the Indians strode toward Scarrow, Plumlee, and the rest of the fur thieves. One man pushed a rather hapless-looking figure ahead of them. The man struggled to keep his balance and stay on his feet. He wore buckskins, but he had a dark beard and Scarrow was a little shocked to realize that he was white.

  This stranger had to be one of the men who had stolen the girl, Scarrow thought. He supposed that the Blackfeet could have come across some lone trapper and captured him, but Scarrow’s gut told him that wasn’t the case. This was one of the men they were after.

  The stranger’s arms were lashed together with rawhide thongs bound around the wrists. His feet were free. He looked frightened, which proved only that he was a sensible man. Only a fool or a lunatic wouldn’t be afraid if he found himself the prisoner of a Blackfoot war party.

  Scarrow and Plumlee got to their feet. Scarrow could see now that the man prodding the stranger along was Angry Sky. The war chief snapped, “Guard this white man. If he escapes, one of you will die. Maybe more.”

  “Who is he?” Scarrow asked. He looked at the stranger and added, “Who in the hell are you, man?”

  “My . . . my name is Charles Todd. You’re white men, you have to help me—”

  Angry Sky’s harsh laugh broke into the man’s plea. “These white men are friends of the Blackfeet. They are your enemies.”

  Charles Todd stared at them, then said, “You’re that bunch of fur thieves. How . . . how did you wind up working with—”

  Angry Sky interrupted him again, kicking the back of Charlie’s right knee and making his leg buckle. As Charlie dropped to his knees, Angry Sky planted the same foot in the middle of his back and shoved. Charlie slammed face-first to the ground.

  “Guard him,” Angry Sky said again. “My scouts captured him when they found the camp of our enemies.”

  “You know where they are?” Scarrow asked. He couldn’t keep an excited edge from creeping into his voice. “We’re going to catch up to them?”

  “Tomorrow,” Angry Sky said. “And then we will find out how much they value this one.” He nodded toward Charlie, who still lay facedown on the ground, breathing heavily. “We will see whether they believe his life is worth more than that of a stolen Crow woman.”

  * * *

  Dog wanted to follow the trail, but Preacher called him back.

  “That scent’ll still be there in a few minutes,” the mountain man said. “We ought to let the others know what’s goin’ on.”

  He, Hawk, and Dog returned to the camp. Preacher woke up White Buffalo first, then Aaron. He didn’t see any reason to disturb Caroline, so he let her sleep.

  “What’s going on?” Aaron asked as he rubbed the sleep out of his eyes. He looked around, blinked a few times, and then said, “Hey, where’s Charlie?”

  “It looks like the Blackfeet took him,” Preacher said.

  “What?” Aaron exclaimed. He took a quick step forward, then to the right, then froze and looked around as he realized he wasn’t accomplishing anything with the erratic movements. “That’s impossible!”

  “He went out into the bushes to piss, and one of ’em sneaked up and grabbed him,” Preacher said. “That’s what I’m guessin’ happened, anyway.”

  He went over to the fire ring, stirred up the embers inside it until small flames flickered, and made a torch by winding dry grass around a branch. Once he had started it burning, he walked quickly back to the brush and used the torch’s light to study the spot where Charlie evidently had been captured. The other men followed him and crowded around to look. Caroline was still asleep.

  The broken branches and the marks on the ground confirmed Preacher’s theory. He pointed to a couple of parallel depressions and said, “That’s where they dragged him off.” He moved the torch around to study the scene more closely before the flames burned out. “But I don’t see any blood, which is a good thing.
I reckon Charlie had enough sense not to put up a fight.”

  “Are you saying it’s better he didn’t try to stop them?” Aaron asked.

  “If he had yelled, they would have gone ahead and killed him. Wouldn’t have been any reason not to. Then, if there was enough of the varmints, they would’ve attacked the camp. If there were just a few, a couple of scouts, maybe, they would have lit a shuck outta here instead of gettin’ in a fight . . . but not without killin’ Charlie first. So this way, at least he’s got a chance of survival.”

  “They will still kill him,” White Buffalo intoned solemnly. “The Blackfeet cannot stand to see a white man live if they have it in their power to take his life. His death merely has been postponed.”

  “Which means there’s a chance to turn the tables on them before they kill him,” Preacher said as he dropped the branch with its few bits of still burning grass. He ground the last sparks out under his moccasin. “They snuck up on us. Dog and me are gonna sneak up on them.”

  “I’m coming, too,” Aaron said immediately.

  “No, you ain’t,” Preacher told him. “I don’t mean to insult you, Aaron, but you ain’t nowheres near light enough on your feet for a job like this.”

  “I am,” Hawk said. “I will go with you, Preacher.”

  The mountain man shook his head. “Nope, that ain’t gonna work, neither. You need to stay here and look out for Aaron, White Buffalo, and Caroline.”

  White Buffalo sniffed. “I do not need some stripling youth to protect me. I am an Absaroka warrior, the mightiest warrior of my people!”

  Preacher let that pass. He knew that Hawk had volunteered to accompany him out of habit, but the young warrior didn’t really want to leave Caroline there with nobody but Aaron and White Buffalo to defend her.

  With some genuine reluctance, Hawk said, “It would be best if I stayed, I suppose . . .”

  “What are you going to do, Preacher?” Aaron asked. “Will you try to free Charlie?”

  “Depends on what I find.” It was possible the Blackfeet did intend to torture Charlie, and he might be dead by the time Preacher got there. “But if I can, I’ll bring him back. You got my word on that.”

  They returned to the camp.

  While Preacher gathered up his rifle, pistols, and a few supplies, he said quietly to Hawk, “As soon as it’s light enough in the mornin’ to move, you take the others and light a shuck outta here. Head north along the river. There used to be a Crow village up that way, maybe a day and a half from here. I don’t know if it’s still there or not, but there’s a good chance it is. The last time I was through these parts, the chief was an old fella called Falling Star. He’ll give you a hand, if they’re still there. I saved his son from a grizzly.”

  He didn’t repeat any of what he had said, knowing that Hawk would remember everything.

  “You will be outnumbered, Preacher,” Hawk said.

  The mountain man chuckled. “Won’t be the first time, by a long shot. And don’t forget, I’ll have Dog with me. But I don’t aim to fight the whole bunch unless I have to.” He lowered his voice so Aaron wouldn’t have any chance of overhearing him and added, “Besides, there’s a chance I’m wrong about what they got in mind and Charlie’s already dead. If he is, I’ll just turn around and come back.” He reached out and gripped Hawk’s shoulder for a second. “Take care o’ these folks . . . and yourself.”

  “I will,” Hawk promised.

  “Come on, Dog.”

  Preacher trotted toward the trees with the big cur at his heels, and in a matter of moments, the two of them had faded away into the darkness.

  CHAPTER 18

  Charlie Todd had never been so frightened in his life. And he had been involved in a number of dangerous fights since he and Aaron had come to the frontier and met Preacher and Hawk.

  But he had never been a prisoner, surrounded by hostile savages who wanted to make him die with as much agony and suffering as possible. He could see that bloodthirsty desire on their cruel faces every time they looked at him.

  The white men didn’t look as vicious, but they didn’t seem to have any interest in helping him, either.

  At least one of them, a lean-faced man with dark, bushy side whiskers, took enough pity on Charlie to tell the burly man next to him, “Pull that fellow over here, Hog. I want to talk to him.”

  The man called Hog grunted, stood up, and bent down to grab hold of Charlie’s shirt. He hauled Charlie half-upright and dragged him over to join the other man. Clearly, Hog was extremely strong. He handled Charlie with ease, almost as if he were a child, despite the fact that Charlie was a rather hefty young man.

  Hog helped Charlie sit down on the ground next to the other man, who said, “I’m Jefferson Scarrow. This is my friend Hogarth Plumlee.”

  Charlie swallowed hard and nodded. He supposed Plumlee was called Hog both as a nickname and because of his appearance, which certainly fit the name. Charlie tried to respond, but his mouth was too dry with fear at first.

  Finally he managed to say, “I . . . I’m Charlie Todd.”

  “I wish I could offer you some encouraging words, Charlie, but I’m afraid that fate has put us on opposite sides in this little affair.” Scarrow’s voice held a trace of a British accent. “We’ve thrown in our lot with Angry Sky and his men. It was that or lose our own lives.”

  “You called us fur thieves,” Plumlee said coldly. “How’d you know about that? You’re part of the bunch that Lopez and the others went after, ain’t you?”

  “I . . . I don’t know anyone named Lopez,” Charlie said.

  Scarrow shook his head. “There’s really no point in denying it, Charlie. Several days ago, some of our friends visited your camp with the intention of relieving you and your friends of the pelts you’ve harvested so far this season. That’s the only way any of this makes sense. Señor Lopez was in charge of that party. But he and the others aren’t coming back, are they?”

  Charlie just looked down at the ground in front of him and didn’t say anything.

  “I told you,” Plumlee said. “They’re all dead, Jeff.” He gave Charlie a hard shove on the shoulder. “But I don’t reckon it was a fat greenhorn like you who killed ’em! Who else was with you? How many in your bunch?”

  Charlie didn’t want to answer the questions. He wasn’t going to provide any help to these men. They were murderers and thieves to start with, and now they had allied themselves with a Blackfoot war party.

  Plumlee drew his knife, grabbed Charlie’s hair with his other hand, and jerked his head back. As he brought the blade toward Charlie’s throat, Scarrow told him, “Angry Sky ordered us to keep this man alive, Hog, not kill him.”

  “I ain’t gonna kill him,” Plumlee growled. “But I reckon Angry Sky won’t mind if I carve on his face a mite. I figure I can cut both cheeks down to the bone and write my name on his forehead without makin’ him lose enough blood so he dies. I can write my name. Did I ever tell you that, Jeff? And I don’t mean just carvin’ an X, neither.”

  “I’m impressed with your education,” Scarrow said dryly. “Charlie, you should cooperate with us. I don’t believe my friend Hog is in any mood to listen to my advice. So you had better be willing to, if you know what’s good for you.”

  “A . . . All right,” Charlie gasped out. “I’ll tell you. There are twenty of us—”

  An older man who had been sitting nearby listening to the conversation leaned forward and interrupted Charlie by saying, “That’s a lie. I found the tracks of five horses, that’s all. And there wasn’t anybody travelin’ on foot except when they were leadin’ the horses. There can’t be more than four more of ’em, now that this fella’s caught, plus the girl.”

  Plumlee ran the blade’s edge along Charlie’s throat just below the beard, leaving a tiny cut that welled a drop of blood. “The next lie will go deeper,” he warned.

  “So you have four companions, Charlie,” Scarrow said. “Who are they?”

  Charlie was completel
y convinced that Plumlee would go through with the threat to torture him. He couldn’t see what harm it would do to answer their questions. Nothing about the situation would actually change if he did.

  But an unexpectedly stubborn streak welled up inside him. He grimaced as Plumlee held the knife at his throat, but he got the words out that he wanted to. “You can all just go to hell!”

  “That was the biggest mistake you ever made in your life, boy,” Plumlee snarled at him. The blade lifted from Charlie’s neck and came toward his face.

  He saw firelight reflected in flickering glints from the steel.

  * * *

  Dog never wavered from the trail he was following. Once he had the scent, he wasn’t just about to lose it. He could have bounded on through the night and outdistanced Preacher, but he knew the mountain man was following him and didn’t go too fast, just trotted along easily.

  Preacher’s loping pace carried him after Dog. The big cur would let him know when they got close enough to their destination that they needed to slow down and be quieter.

  Preacher thought back on all the times he had slipped into Blackfoot camps. Not just the Blackfeet, either. They were his mortal enemies and had been ever since capturing him as a young man and threatening to burn him at the stake, but he had clashed with other tribes in the past, too. And with white men from this country and numerous others. He had even run into a bunch of crazy folks from way down in Mexico who had their own hidden city up in the mountains.

  Seemed like he couldn’t get along with much of anybody, he thought with a wry grin as he followed Dog. Folks just didn’t realize he had such a peaceable nature at heart.

  He estimated that they had covered about a mile and a half when Dog suddenly slowed. Preacher did likewise. When Dog stopped, Preacher dropped to one knee beside him and put an arm around the big cur’s shaggy neck.

  “They’re close, I reckon, or you wouldn’t be actin’ like this,” he whispered.

  Dog whined quietly in response.

  “Stay here, and I’ll see what I can find out.” Preacher stretched out on the ground and started crawling forward. He had a hunch the Blackfoot camp might be on the other side of the trees and brush making a dark line about a hundred yards ahead of him.