Preacher's Massacre

by William W. Johnstone

  “Hang on.” Preacher grabbed Freeman’s arm. “I thought you were gonna let me take a look at it first.”

  “Well, sure, if you want,” Freeman said with a shrug. “But you can tell by looking at him he’s in a lot of pain.”

  “He’ll be in a lot more if you pull that arrow straight out of him. It’ll rip a hole in him big enough to put a fist through. He’d likely bleed to death before you could stop it.”

  “What do you think we should do, then?” Freeman asked. The question didn’t sound angry or resentful. He really wanted to know.

  Preacher leaned closer to study the wound. The man’s shirt had been ripped back to reveal the place where the arrow entered his body. It was low on his right side, a couple of inches above his waist. Judging by the angle of the shaft, the arrow hadn’t penetrated deeply. The head was probably no more than three inches under the man’s skin.

  Preacher laid a hand on the man’s back and prodded with his fingertips, causing the man to gasp and stiffen. After a moment Preacher nodded. “What we need to do is push it on through.”

  It would have been obvious to any seasoned frontiersman, but he had a strong hunch it was the first time any of Courtland’s men had been farther west than St. Louis. They appeared tough and competent, but lacked the experience that could keep a man alive out there. Preacher was surprised they had made it as far as they had before running into any serious trouble.

  “If you push it on through, won’t that just hurt him more?” Freeman asked.

  “Oh, it’ll hurt like blazes,” Preacher admitted, “but it’ll do a lot less damage, too. If you fellas will hang on to him, I’ll be glad to show you.”

  Freeman thought about it for a moment and then nodded. “All right, go ahead. You heard the man, fellas. Let’s get a good hold on poor Ben here.”

  As several of the men laid hands on him, the wounded man roused from his stupor enough to say, “Wha . . . what are you . . .”

  Preacher patted him on the shoulder. “Don’t you worry about a thing, son. We’ll have you fixed up in no time.”

  “You . . . you swear?”

  “Of course I swear,” Preacher said. “Why, I’ve doctored fellas who were a heap worse off than you. One of them I got back in such good shape he spent the winter with some Injuns I know. He didn’t have just one squaw to keep his buffalo robes warm. He had three.”

  “Th-three women . . . ?”

  “You bet.”

  While Preacher was talking, he had taken hold of the arrow shaft and had a firm grip on it. When the wounded man’s eyes widened at the thought of sharing his blankets with three women, Preacher suddenly gave the arrow a hard push. The flint head came straight out the man’s back with a spurt of fresh blood.

  The man screamed in agony and tried to buck up off the tailgate, and Preacher snapped, “Hold him!”

  Freeman and the other men pushed hard to keep the man still.

  Preacher pushed the arrow through far enough to get hold of the shaft with both hands, just behind the head, and snap it off. Then it was simple to pull the shaft back out through the hole it had made going in.

  The wounded man’s struggles subsided as the pain eased a little. Preacher told the others, “Don’t let go of him yet. You’ll need to hold him down again while somebody pours whiskey all the way through that hole. It’ll need to be drenched good.”

  One of the men muttered, “Seems like a waste of perfectly good whiskey.”

  “It’s the best way to keep the wound from fes-terin’,” Preacher explained.

  “Do what he says,” Freeman ordered. “The man knows what he’s talking about.”

  Preacher wiped off the blood on his hands on his buckskins and stepped back away from the wagon. “Once you’ve got the wound clean, you’ll need to bandage it. Later I’ll make a poultice and we’ll put it on the holes to draw out any corruption.”

  From behind him, Wiley Courtland commented. “Frontier surgery at its finest.”

  Preacher looked around and shook his head. “I wouldn’t call that surgery. Nothin’ fancy about it.”

  “Medical attention doesn’t have to be fancy, just effective. I was watching you, Preacher, and I’m more convinced than ever that my first impulse about you was right.”

  “What impulse might that be?” Preacher asked, suddenly wary.

  “I want you to come to Fort Gifford with us.”

  CHAPTER 5

  Preacher frowned. “Why would you want me to do that?”

  “Well, just look at what you did for poor Ben there.” Courtland waved his hand at the wounded man. “I didn’t know the best way to treat such an injury. None of us did. We might have done more harm than good, and he might have died if you hadn’t come along.” Courtland paused. “For that matter, all of us might have died when those Indians attacked us if not for you, Preacher.”

  “You’re givin’ me too much credit.”

  “I don’t think so. How many of the savages did you kill?”

  Preacher shrugged. “Seven or eight, I reckon.”

  “That’s more than all of us killed, even though we were shooting as fast as we could. The Indians probably wouldn’t have broken off their attack when they did if you hadn’t inflicted so much damage on them.”

  Courtland was probably right about that, Preacher thought. But that didn’t mean he wanted to go all the way to Fort Gifford with these greenhorns.

  “I’m a fur trapper, not a horse herder.”

  “I wouldn’t expect you to herd any horses. You’d be our guide and scout and surgeon, not to mention expert marksman. My plan was to engage the services of just such a person when we got out here, but so far we haven’t run into anyone who fits the bill. Until you.”

  They could use his help, that was for sure, mused Preacher. But no matter how much he had appreciated the company of Pete, Lorenzo, Audie, and Nighthawk during the winter, he enjoyed being out on his own again. He was a solitary man and always had been.

  “How long do you think it would take us to get to the fort?” Courtland went on.

  “Well, since I don’t know exactly where it is, that’s a mite hard to say. But from what you told me earlier, I don’t reckon it’d take much more than a week.”

  “So there you are.” Courtland waved his arm about again. “A week’s work on your part, and a healthy share in the profits I realize from the horses. You see, Preacher, I wasn’t expecting you to accompany us out of the goodness of your heart. You’d be a partner in this enterprise.”

  That brought a healthy chuckle from Preacher. “I’ve never been what you’d call a businessman.”

  “But you’ve hired on with other expeditions, I’ll wager.”

  That was true. Never just for the money, though. He’d always had other reasons. Usually, the folks he helped out really needed his help.

  It was likely the same case. Courtland, Freeman, and the others had made it that far, but it had been mostly due to blind luck.

  Preacher had a feeling their luck had run out when they encountered Red Knife’s war party. Wherever Red Knife had gotten off to, he’d be smarting over the defeat handed to him.

  Preacher looked across the rolling prairie in the direction the Indians had gone when they disappeared. Somewhere out there, he’d bet a couple of Blackfoot scouts were keeping an eye on the men and wagons at that exact moment. The war party would stalk them, and when the time was right, Red Knife would strike again, determined to avenge his warriors who had fallen in the battle.

  Preacher decided there was a very good chance Courtland and the others would never make it to Fort Gifford alive without his help. Even with him along, it would be pretty doggoned risky.

  He made up his mind. “All right. I reckon the beaver can wait another week or two for me to trap ’em. I’ll come with you.”

  A relieved grin spread across Courtland’s sunburned face. “I’m about as glad to hear that as anything I’ve ever heard in my life!”

  One man had been c
reased by a rifle ball during the fighting, while two more had scratches inflicted by arrows that had narrowly missed doing much worse. Once those minor injuries were tended to, the group was ready to move again. Ben was placed on a pile of blankets in one of the wagons since he was in no shape to ride.

  Some of what Preacher had taken to be horses were actually extra mules. They were hitched to the wagons in place of the animals that had been killed. When the vehicles rolled out, heading north again, Preacher and Wiley Courtland rode at the head of the little procession.

  Courtland wore a coonskin cap complete with the bushy tail and head. Preacher thought it looked a mite ridiculous and figured somebody back in St. Louis had sold it to Courtland, assuring him every frontiersman worth his salt sported headgear just like it.

  In spite of the hat, Preacher had to give Courtland some credit. The backs of the wagons were loaded with plenty of supplies, guns, and ammunition. Courtland had done a decent job of outfitting for the trip. It appeared the only thing he had failed to do was hire experienced men to come along with him.

  Now he had Preacher for that. It remained to be seen whether it would be enough to get the party safely to Fort Gifford.

  “Is this your first trip west of St. Louis?” Preacher asked as they rode along. He was just making conversation. He was pretty sure he knew the answer.

  “That’s right,” Courtland replied. “I’ve always wanted to come west. I owned an interest in a freight line in Missouri, so I know horses and wagons. I finally decided to take the bit between my teeth, so to speak, and sold my part of the company so I could use the money to outfit for the trip out here.”

  “I know the feelin’. About wantin’ to come west, anyway.”

  “Have you been out here a long time?”

  “More than twenty years. I ran away from home when I was still a boy.”

  Courtland let out a low whistle of admiration. “That must have been pretty dangerous. And you’ve survived out here that long, under such hazardous conditions.”

  Preacher shrugged. “A fella learns how to get along and what to watch out for. If he doesn’t . . .”

  “Then nature takes care of it, eh?” Courtland finished up when Preacher’s words trailed off. “It’s true. The world is a harsh, unforgiving place.” He put a smile back on his face. “But I try to keep my spirits up. It doesn’t do any good to brood about things, does it?”

  “I reckon not.” After a few moments, Preacher went on. “Was there somethin’ that decided you to make the move when you did?”

  Courtland didn’t answer right away. A grim expression came over his face, and he finally said, “It had something to do with a woman.”

  “A lot of times it does. Sorry if I stirred up bad memories.”

  “Oh, that’s fine. I’ve put it behind me. That’s all a man can do, really.”

  They fell silent for a while, which was fine with Preacher.

  When Courtland spoke up again, it was to ask a question. “Do you think those Indians will come back?”

  Preacher wasn’t the sort to lie just to spare somebody’s feelings. “I’d be mighty surprised if they didn’t.”

  “Do you know what tribe they were?”

  “Blackfoot.”

  “Those are supposed to be some of the worst Indians, right? The most hostile?”

  “They ain’t ever been overly friendly to me,” Preacher said. “We’ve had our scrapes. Plenty of ’em.”

  “And that’s why you think they’ll attack us again?”

  “Yeah. I’ve got a hunch the ones who jumped you are bein’ led by a war chief called Red Knife. I know for a fact he’s been on the prod in these parts, because I had a run-in with some of his scouts a few days ago. I don’t know him, but I’ve been told he hates white men more than any of the other Blackfeet do. He won’t like that we made him turn tail and run. He’ll be lookin’ to settle that score.”

  “We’d better double our guard at night, then, and be on the lookout for trouble,” Courtland pointed out.

  “Yeah,” Preacher agreed dryly. “That’d be smart.”

  They didn’t see any more signs of the war party, and Preacher was grateful. On the other hand, the longer Red Knife delayed attacking them, the longer the war chief would have to build up his forces. The Blackfeet already outnumbered Courtland’s party. If Red Knife was able to round up more warriors, the odds might become overwhelming.

  The horses were picketed when they made camp that evening. Some of the men got tents from the wagons and set them up. Preacher didn’t have need of a tent; he would spread his bedroll under one of the wagons. and be just fine.

  “Should we build a fire?” Courtland asked.

  “Might as well. You won’t be tellin’ Red Knife anything he don’t already know, if that’s what you’re worried about. I suspect he’s had scouts trailin’ us all day.”

  Courtland frowned, but he said, “Then you’re right. We might as well have hot food and coffee.”

  Later, while they were sitting by the fire, Preacher asked the man, “Why didn’t you just follow the Missouri River with your horses? You’re well south of there.”

  “I studied all the maps available and decided we could save some time and distance by following this route.”

  “You know some of those maps likely was drawed by fellas who ain’t never been out here, don’t you?”

  “But you know the territory. Aren’t we headed in the right direction?”

  Preacher shrugged. “If you’re right about where this Fort Gifford is, then I reckon you’re headed toward it. Anyway, if we keep goin’ north, we’ll hit the Big Muddy sooner or later, and the fort will have to be one direction or the other. Reckon we can backtrack if we have to.”

  “The Big Muddy . . . that’s the Missouri?”

  “Yep.”

  “Despite all the hardships you must have suffered, I envy you your adventurous life, Preacher.”

  “No need to,” the mountain man said.

  “Why’s that?”

  “Because by the time we make it to Fort Gifford, you’re liable to get all the adventure you could ever want.”

  CHAPTER 6

  Ben died from his wounds. He was buried quickly, without fanfare. As heartless as that may have seemed, Preacher knew it was better for the folks not to dwell too much on the loss.

  Courtland had posted four guards instead of the usual two. Preacher would have preferred even more, but the men had to sleep sometime. He intended to do some prowling around during the night, which would help, and Dog and Horse would alert him if they sensed any danger lurking in the darkness.

  “Stay close,” he told Dog as he bedded down under the lead wagon. The campfire had burned itself down to embers giving off a soft red glow.

  As was his habit, even when danger didn’t threaten, Preacher slept lightly, waking after a couple of hours. He crawled out of his blankets and stood up. The night was dark, lit only by the stars and a sliver of moon. To his keen eyes, it was enough light to let him move around freely.

  He put on his hat and took his rifle with him as he made the rounds of the camp. The guards were posted about twenty yards out at each of the compass points. Preacher called softly to them as he approached each in turn. He didn’t want to spook any of them into getting trigger-happy.

  The men reported that everything was quiet, with no sign of trouble. Preacher could see and hear that for himself.

  His instincts nagged at him, though. He had learned that when his gut told him something was wrong, it usually was. The feeling grew stronger as he approached the fourth and final guard, the one on the east side of the camp.

  The man was sitting cross-legged on the ground. Preacher spoke quietly to him, identifying himself. “Any problems over here?”

  The sentry didn’t reply.

  Preacher’s forehead creased in a frown. It could be the fella was asleep, which wouldn’t be good.

  There were worse things, though. Preacher dropped to one kn
ee next to the man, put a hand on his shoulder, and shook him gently.

  The man’s head tipped far back at a grotesque, unnatural angle. Preacher leaned forward and saw the dark stain on the front of the man’s shirt where blood had flooded down. The man’s throat was cut down to the bone, giving him the appearance of having a wide, gaping second mouth.

  Preacher’s hand moved to the man’s back. A stake had been pushed into the ground behind the guard and through his shirt so it held him up in a sitting position. Whoever had killed him—Preacher had no doubt it was one of the Blackfeet—hadn’t wanted the man’s death to be discovered right away.

  Something else was going on, Preacher thought as his head jerked around and he peered toward the wagons. More than likely the killer had crawled on into camp . . .

  A startled yell and a gunshot suddenly split the night. Preacher surged to his feet and broke into a run, leaving the corpse where it was.

  It took only a few seconds for his long legs to carry him back into the camp. Men fought clear of their tents, waving pistols around and shouting curses and questions, but nobody really seemed to know what was going on. Confusion reigned, which was a bad thing.

  Preacher spotted Otis Freeman and grabbed his arm. “Tell everybody to settle down!” he snapped. “Get your rifles and take cover by the wagons! The Blackfeet could be attackin’ again!”

  That would be a good tactic, sending one man in to throw the camp into an uproar, then attacking while everybody was running around like chickens with their heads cut off.

  “Where’s Courtland?” Preacher went on.

  “I don’t know! His tent’s over there!” Freeman leveled an arm and pointed.

  Even in the dim light Preacher could tell somebody was thrashing around inside it. He ran over to the tent, thrust his rifle barrel through the opening, and ripped the canvas aside, revealing Wiley Courtland rolling around on the ground, locked in deadly struggle with someone.

  The Blackfeet had borrowed a trick from him, Preacher realized. One warrior had used stealth to creep up on the guard, cut his throat, and then slipped into the camp to murder as many men as he could before he was discovered.