Preacher's Massacre

by William W. Johnstone

“And that’s just a little herd,” Preacher told them. “It don’t amount to much. Sometimes the buffs stretch as far as the eye can see, and they move past all day without ever stoppin’. Might still be at it the next mornin’, too.”

  “There must be millions and millions of them out here,” Courtland said.

  “More than you can ever imagine,” Preacher agreed.

  Late in the afternoon, they entered a range of low, rolling hills. After traveling for miles on the treeless plains, the sight of trees was a welcome one for Preacher, but he knew the terrain would be slightly more rugged from there.

  They were looking for a good place to make camp when Preacher spotted three riders coming toward them. Courtland saw the men at the same time and exclaimed, “Indians!” He started to lift the rifle he carried across the cantle of his saddle.

  “Hold on,” Preacher said as he raised a hand and motioned for his companion to stop. “Those are Crow. They’re friendly . . . at least they were the last I heard.”

  “How can you tell that from this distance? They just look like Indians to me.”

  “You learn how to tell the difference pretty quick out here. You’d better, or else you’re likely to make a mistake that could turn out to be fatal. Stay here, and hold the wagons and the horses where they are. I’ll go talk to those fellas.”

  Preacher heeled Horse into motion again and trotted toward the three men, who had brought their own mounts to a halt. As he came closer, his first impression was confirmed. The men were Crow, members of the same tribe as his friend Nighthawk.

  It wouldn’t have surprised Preacher if he knew them, but all three men were strangers to him. As he reined in, he lifted his right hand, palm out in the universal sign of peace and greeted them in their own language. “Hello to my friends of the Crow people.”

  The three men were warriors, no longer young but still vital, and obviously seasoned fighting men.

  “You are the one called Preacher,” one of them said.

  “You know me. Then you know I am a friend to the Crow. I have eaten meat with you and slept in your lodges. I have fought at your side against your enemies.”

  “As the Crow have fought with you against your enemies,” the spokesman for the trio responded.

  Preacher inclined his head in acknowledgment of that point.

  The warrior lifted a hand toward the wagons and the horse herd in the distance. “Why have these white men come here?”

  “They take those horses to Fort Gifford. You have heard of the place?”

  “It is there, beside the muddy river,” the Crow said with a grave nod. “Some of our people go there to trade.”

  The slight note of scorn in the man’s voice prompted Preacher to say, “But not you and your brothers.”

  “We are not traders. We are hunters.”

  “And that’s why you’re out here today. You’re looking for game.”

  “Our families would eat. We must hunt.”

  Slowly but surely, many tribes were coming to doubt the wisdom of that idea, thought Preacher. In a way he found it sad, because every time one decided to trade for his and his family’s sustenance instead of hunting for it, their way of life died a little more. Someday, if the trend continued, that change in attitude might do more to defeat the Indians’ resistance than all the guns brought into this country by white men.

  Preacher cleared his head. That wasn’t his concern at the moment. “A Blackfoot war party roams somewhere behind us. They are led by Red Knife. Do you know of him?”

  All three warriors grimaced in anger. They’d heard of Red Knife, all right, Preacher told himself. The Blackfeet and the Crow had hated each other and warred against each other almost unceasingly for as far back as anybody could remember. They were constantly raiding, stealing horses, and taking captives from the other tribe.

  “Red Knife is worse than the other Blackfeet,” said the Crow who had done all the talking so far. “He is like a bear driven mad by hate, especially toward white men.”

  “Do you know why?” Preacher asked.

  “Because a worm of madness crawled into his ear while he slept, perhaps.”

  That was the Crow’s way of saying he didn’t know why Red Knife was so loco. And it was as good an explanation as any, Preacher supposed. “You might want to go see how the hunting is elsewhere.”

  All three Crow drew their shoulders back haughtily and glared at him.

  “We do not fear the Blackfeet!”

  “Never said you did,” Preacher replied. “But Red Knife has more men than the fingers on all of your hands. You would not come up to a bear and slap it on the snout. Only a fool would do that.”

  “We ride where we please,” the Crow insisted, but Preacher had a feeling that as soon as they were out of sight, the three warriors would hotfoot it out of those parts. They were proud, but they weren’t fools.

  “How far is it to Fort Gifford?”

  “Four days’ ride from here. With those wagons . . . five, perhaps six.”

  Preacher nodded. “Thank you. May the Spirits smile upon you.”

  “And on you, white man.” The Crow paused, then added in a bit of dry humor. “You may need all the assistance you can get from the Spirits.”

  Preacher turned and rode back to the wagons and the horse herd. A glance over his shoulder told him the three warriors were angling off to the west.

  “What did they say?” Courtland wanted to know when Preacher rode up and reined in. “Have they seen those Blackfeet?”

  “No, but they’ve heard of Red Knife, and their opinion of him matches what I’ve heard. He’s got a powerful hate for white men, and he ain’t likely to give up once he starts after somebody.”

  “Did they say anything else?” Freeman asked.

  “Yeah,” Preacher replied with a smile. “They said we’re liable to need all the luck we can get before we make it to Fort Gifford.”

  CHAPTER 9

  The guard shifts were doubled again, which was no problem. The men were so nervous, nobody wanted to sleep very much anyway. They were too busy looking over their shoulders, worried a Blackfoot bent on bloody murder might be sneaking up on them.

  And after what had happened to Jenkins, there was no chance of anybody dozing off on duty.

  Two more days of steady progress passed. Preacher began to hope they would reach Fort Gifford without being attacked again, but nagging doubt still lurked in the back of his mind.

  As they came to an area of rugged badlands the doubt grew stronger. The rocky, pine-dotted buttes thrusting upward with narrow gaps between them looked like perfect places for an ambush.

  He thought about suggesting they take the horse herd around the buttes rather than through them, but he knew from previous visits the badlands stretched for a number of miles east and west. Detouring around them would add several days to the trip, giving Red Knife more time to marshal his forces against them, if he wasn’t doing it already.

  “Everybody best keep his eyes open,” Preacher advised Courtland as they rode into the badlands. “There are plenty of places in here for Red Knife to hide.”

  “We’ll be riding with our hands on our guns, you can be sure of that.”

  Courtland turned in the saddle and waved Freeman forward from beside the third wagon.

  “Spread the word for everyone to be especially alert.”

  “You think those Blackfeet might’ve got ahead of us?” Freeman asked.

  Preacher nodded. “Yeah, they could be lurkin’ up there in those buttes.”

  Freeman looked like he wished he could turn around and ride the other direction, rather than continuing on into the badlands, but he said, “I’ll tell the fellas.”

  “Dog, go take a look around,” Preacher told the big cur. Dog soon disappeared around a rocky knob with a single pine jutting from its blunt top.

  “It’s like that dog understands everything you say to him,” Courtland commented.

  “Dog and me been together a long time.
Reckon we know how each other think. Same’s true for ol’ Horse here. We’re all gettin’ a mite long in the tooth, but we ain’t ready to be put out to pasture just yet.”

  Courtland laughed. “Having been around you for a few days now, Preacher, I think the day you’re ready to be put out to pasture is still a long, long time in the future.”

  “Maybe . . . assumin’ I don’t get shot or stabbed or skewered with an arrow or have my head stove in with a tomahawk.” The mountain man grinned in dry humor. “Other than that I might be all right.”

  It didn’t take long for the group to fully penetrate the badlands. The open terrain fell behind them. The passages between the buttes were wide enough for the herd to travel through without going single file, but the steep, pine-dotted slopes were close enough on both sides to seem looming and dark.

  Preacher watched for Dog to return, but the minutes dragged past and eventually turned into an hour with no sign of the big cur. No gunshots had disturbed the warm silence, but the whistle of an arrow through the air wouldn’t travel very far.

  Dog had fought grizzly bears and mountain lions and all manner of bad men, so Preacher wasn’t overly concerned about him being able to take care of himself. Still, he would have been relieved to see Dog bounding back into sight.

  It didn’t happen.

  The skin on the back of Preacher’s neck began to crawl under the long, thick dark hair. Every instinct in his body told him something had happened.

  And it wasn’t over. The threat still loomed, just as surely as those piney slopes on either side of them.

  He wasn’t sure what warned him. A flicker of movement, perhaps. Maybe even the flutter of the arrow’s fletching as it flew through the air. Whatever it was, he suddenly leaned forward over Horse’s neck.

  The arrow that would have transfixed his throat and killed him brushed across the back of his neck and buried its flint head harmlessly in the ground. Preacher had a pretty good idea of the spot in the trees where the arrow had been launched, so he straightened, flung his rifle to his shoulder, and touched off a shot.

  The heavy .52 caliber ball ripped through the lower branches, clipping several of them, and smashed into the chest of a Blackfoot warrior who tumbled into the open with blood gushing from the wound.

  As if the shot were a signal, more reports roared out from the trees to the left, followed by flights of arrows from both sides.

  Preacher kicked his foot loose from the stirrups and dived out of the saddle. He landed running and shouted to the others, “Use the wagons for cover!”

  “What about the horses?” Courtland yelled.

  “We’ll have to round ’em up later! We’re hemmed in!”

  Horse ran clear of the wagons, and Preacher was glad to see the stallion go. He’d stay out of the line of fire, but close by so Preacher could find him when the fighting was over.

  If Preacher was still alive then. As the mountain man scrambled for cover, he wasn’t sure that would be the case.

  “Pull the wagons up side by side!” he called, waving an arm over his head to indicate where they should go.

  The drivers, pale-faced with fear as arrows flew around them, thudding into the vehicles’ sideboards, stayed cool-headed enough to line up the wagons all three abreast. The men crowded in between them for cover.

  The wagons served another purpose. They blocked the gap for the most part, so the horse herd couldn’t stampede past them. Spooked by the gunfire, the horses were milling around, but they hadn’t turned to bolt back the other direction.

  Judging by the number of arrows flying out of the trees, Red Knife had indeed increased the ranks of his war party, Preacher thought as he reloaded his rifle. Shots blasted from the men behind the wagons as they aimed over tailgates and drivers’ boxes.

  “Shoot almost anywhere in those trees and you got a chance of hittin’ one of the varmints!” Preacher shouted. “Keep firin’!”

  Ragged volleys continued to ring out for the next several minutes. As always in the heat of battle, time seemed to slow down. It already seemed like they had been pinned down for an hour, when really only a fraction of that time had passed.

  Preacher’s keen eyes searched the slopes. Whenever he saw a flash of movement or a bit of cover, he was ready to press the rifle’s trigger. As a result, his fire was very effective. He saw several of the attackers fall, some of them toppling from behind the trees to land in the open.

  The other men scored some hits, too. Courtland let out a whoop and called, “I got one! I saw the ball hit him in the head!”

  “Good job,” Preacher said. “Now see if you can get another one.”

  One of the men in between the wagons suddenly grunted in pain and staggered back with an arrow embedded deeply in his chest. He dropped his rifle and pawed futilely at the shaft for a second before his eyes rolled up and he collapsed. Preacher knew by the limp way the man fell that he was a goner.

  Well, he hadn’t expected the party to come through this unscathed, he told himself. That would have been a miracle beyond any they could have hoped for. At that moment, he was happy to settle for some of them making it out alive.

  He began to watch for puffs of powder smoke marking the location of warriors armed with rifles. Every time he spotted one, he sent a round whistling back toward it. Three times those rifles fell silent after his shot, so he knew he had at least winged the gunners.

  Arrows continued to rain down. Several of the mules in the wagon teams were hit and screamed in agony, but the others stood stolidly, preventing the wounded animals from bolting. The horse herd was still milling around. Preacher grimaced as he heard the cries of horses that had been hit.

  “We have to do something!” Courtland exclaimed with a note of desperation in his voice. “Those horses represent my life’s savings! If I lose the herd I’ll be ruined!”

  If it was him, Preacher would have been a mite more concerned with his hide and his hair than he was with business reverses, but he supposed every man had his own priorities.

  Courtland had a point. They couldn’t stay where they were. Those arrows would begin to take a heavier toll. They needed a way to break out of the trap.

  Fewer arrows and none of the gunshots were coming from the right. Red Knife had put all his men armed with rifles on the left, which was a mistake. And, the Indians hadn’t been using firearms for all that long. Fighting with them still didn’t come natural to many of the warriors.

  “We’re gonna pull the wagon on the right all the way up to the front to make an opening,” Preacher told Courtland. “Then I’ll drive the herd through as fast as I can.”

  “They’ll stampede!” Courtland objected. “There’s no telling how far they’ll run!”

  “If they stay here, they’ll wind up stuck full of arrows, and so will we,” Preacher snapped. “As soon as the horses are through, the wagons will light a shuck after them. They’ll kick up quite a bit of dust, which ought to help. Red Knife’s men won’t be able to draw quite as good a bead on us.”

  “It seems awfully risky.”

  “So’s gettin’ up in the mornin’. Let’s go! Move that wagon!”

  CHAPTER 10

  Otis Freeman leaped to the wagon seat, jerked the reins free from the brake lever, and grabbed the whip from its socket. He sent the lash biting at the backs of the mules and yelled, “Hyaaahhh! Move, you jug heads, move!”

  One of the mules was wounded, but the arrow hadn’t penetrated far enough to be fatal so the team was able to pull. As the mules surged forward and the wagon lurched into motion, an arrow whisked Freeman’s hat right off his head. He ignored the loss.

  Preacher gave a shrill whistle, and Horse answered the summons, pounding up through a storm of arrows. Preacher swung up onto the stallion’s back and ducked low in the saddle. He galloped around the herd, circling to get behind the horses, which brought him pretty close to the trees. Arrows whizzed around his head as the Blackfeet concentrated their fire on him. Only Horse’s speed and
sheer providence kept Preacher from being hit.

  He guided Horse with his knees, using his hands to yank the brace of pistols from behind his belt. Thrusting the weapons toward the slope, he pulled the triggers. The double-shot charges raked through the trees as Preacher hoped they did some damage.

  Thrusting the empty guns behind his belt, he swung into position behind the herd. He drove his mount toward the nearest of the horses and snatched his hat off his head to swat it at the animal’s rump.

  The stallion got into the act, too, reaching over and using his teeth to nip another of the horses.

  Preacher continued to yell and swing his hat, prodding several horses to run, and the others naturally followed suit. It took only seconds for a full-fledged stampede to develop. The horses raced through the gap created by Freeman pulling the wagon on the right ahead of the others.

  Preacher raced after the herd, waving the wagons on. Freeman whipped up the lead wagon’s team and got it moving again. The other vehicles fell in behind him full of men who’d let their mounts run free and taken cover among the supplies, firing out the backs and from the sides where they had raised the canvas coverings.

  Preacher jerked his other two pistols out of holsters he had fashioned and strapped to his saddle. He emptied them at the slopes up ahead, firing in both directions at once.

  Somebody needed to come up with a good repeating pistol, he thought. If that ever happened, he’d be the first in line to buy one.

  The arrows were thick around him, almost like flint-tipped horizontal rain. Dust from the hooves of the stampeding horses clogged the air and stung his eyes. The thunder of hoofbeats was deafening, but even over the awful racket he heard someone scream.

  The driver of the second wagon tumbled off the seat with two arrows lodged in his body. One of the men riding in the back of the vehicle scrambled up onto the seat and grabbed the reins. The mule team never slowed down.

  With the frantic horse herd leading the way, the party of white men fled through the gap. As they neared the end of it, where the landscape opened up into a wider, roughly circular flat surrounded by buttes, some of the Blackfeet rushed out of the trees, trying to intercept the fleeing men. Too close to the horses, a warrior was trampled under their flashing hooves, flinging his arms up and screaming before he went down to gory death.