Preacher's Massacre

by William W. Johnstone

  Another warrior lunged at Preacher and reached up to drag him off the stallion. Preacher lifted his right foot and launched a kick. His heel caught the Blackfoot on the jaw and drove his head back so far his neck snapped. The warrior dropped like every bone in his body had turned to jelly.

  From the corner of his eye Preacher saw a tomahawk spinning through the air at him. He ducked his head. Only superb reflexes and instantaneous reactions allowed him to snatch it from its flight—along with a generous helping of luck.

  The Blackfoot who had thrown the tomahawk was so amazed by Preacher’s feat he stopped and stood there staring for a second, and that proved to be a fatal mistake. Preacher whipped the tomahawk right back at him. It struck the warrior in the center of his forehead and cleaved into his skull.

  Preacher spotted another Blackfoot lining up a shot at him with bow and arrow. The mountain man’s guns were all empty.

  Just as the warrior loosed the arrow, more than a hundred pounds of gray fur struck him from behind. The arrow flew well over Preacher’s head as the man who had fired it was driven to the ground by Dog’s weight. Dog savaged his throat. The Blackfoot didn’t have time to do anything but shudder once before he died.

  “At least you got here before all the fightin’ was over this time!” Preacher yelled at Dog.

  The big cur ignored him and twisted away to launch himself at another Blackfoot.

  The horses stampeded out of the gap and ran loose on the flats. All three wagons careened after them, rolling swiftly across the level ground.

  Preacher didn’t know how many men the party had lost, but some had survived, obviously. He fell back and galloped alongside the lead wagon. Otis Freeman was still at the reins, apparently unharmed. Wiley Courtland raced up on the other side of the team. He hadn’t even lost his coonskin cap in the melee.

  “Head for that butte over there!” Preacher called to Freeman and waved a hand to indicate which one of the rocky knobs he meant. “There are some boulders at the base of it where we can fort up!”

  Freeman nodded to show he understood. He hauled on the reins to make the team veer in the right direction.

  Preacher fell back some more to let the wagons pass him, and so did Courtland. Once the wagons had gone by, the two men rode side by side.

  “You hurt?” Preacher lifted his voice to ask.

  “A couple scratches where arrows nicked me!” Courtland replied. “But that’s all. How about you?”

  “I’m all right.”

  “We lost a couple men!”

  Preacher nodded grimly. “Could’ve been worse. Might be yet.”

  “Are they going to come after us?”

  Preacher looked back. “I reckon you can bet that furry hat you’re wearin’ on that!”

  Mounted warriors charged out of the trees. The Indian ponies stirred up more dust as they galloped after the white men.

  They weren’t going to be able to catch up before the wagons reached the boulders at the base of the butte, though, Preacher figured. That would give him and the other men a fighting chance.

  A man really couldn’t ask for much more than that in this life, he mused.

  Courtland hadn’t forgotten the reason they were there. “It’s going to take a long time to round up all those horses, if we’re ever able to!”

  “As long as you’re alive to give it a try, I reckon you’ve come out ahead,” Preacher told him.

  “Yes, I suppose you could look at it that way.” Courtland’s tone made it clear he was having a hard time doing that.

  Preacher wasn’t going to worry about it. He was a lot more concerned about saving their scalps.

  Freeman and the other drivers arranged the wagons in a half circle behind the rocks and were unhitching the teams when Preacher and Courtland rode up. The spaces among the boulders were large enough for mules and the saddle horses, but it would be crowded.

  Preacher swung down from the saddle and reloaded his guns as soon as his feet hit the ground, pausing only to reach down and ruffle the fur on Dog’s head when the big cur came up to him.

  “Load every gun you’ve got,” he told the men. “They’re likely so mad right now they’ll charge us flat out. We need to mow down as many of ’em as we can, so they’ll decide it makes more sense to give up than to keep losin’ men.”

  “Do what Preacher says,” Courtland added.

  Until that moment, Preacher hadn’t even realized he had taken command. It was a natural, instinctive thing for him to do, especially in a situation where he was the only seasoned frontiersmen and his allies were all greenhorns.

  Courtland didn’t seem to mind. He was smart enough to know their best chance for survival lay with Preacher’s experience and wisdom.

  The men worked quickly to get ready in the few moments they had. Preacher counted them again and came up with nine. They had lost two men in the battle.

  Inside the boulders was a good defensive position, but it wasn’t perfect. The wagons and boulders provided good cover only against a frontal assault. If the Blackfeet were able to get on the butte behind the wagons, they could fire down into the party of white men.

  Preacher stood beside the drivers’ box on the middle wagon and watched the mounted warriors slow and finally stop. He figured they were letting the rest of the war party catch up to them. As the dust began to settle, he saw that was the case. More and more men rode out of the gap to join the ones already facing the butte where the white men had taken cover.

  “Good Lord!” Courtland exclaimed as he looked at the riders gathering in the distance. “How many of them are there?”

  “Looks like fifty or sixty,” Preacher said calmly. He placed all four loaded pistols on the floorboard within easy reach. Then he rested the long rifle in the crook of his arm and waited.

  “And only nine of us plus you, Preacher,” Courtland went on. “Those are five to one odds, at least!”

  “Reckon we’ll just have to work a mite harder than they do to stay alive.”

  Courtland took off his coonskin cap and raked his fingers through his fair hair. “You’re taking this awfully well.”

  “No reason to get worked up. That won’t do any good. Man who stays calm and steady shoots straighter.”

  Courtland put his cap on again. “I suppose you’re right. And I suppose I really shouldn’t be worrying about those horses right now, should I?”

  Preacher shifted the rifle in his grip. “Nope. It’s time to worry about stayin’ alive, because here come those varmints now!”

  CHAPTER 11

  With a ferocious, bloodthirsty howling intended to jangle the nerves of any man facing them, the members of the war party surged forward. Not very good shots under the best of circumstances, let alone from the backs of galloping ponies, they didn’t bother with the few rifles they had. They stayed with what they did best, launching a flight of arrows from horseback.

  “Keep your heads down!” Preacher called to his fellow defenders. “Hold your fire and let the varmints get closer!”

  The arrows rained down, thudding into the wagons, ripping the canvas covers, and smashing into the rocks.

  “Now!” Preacher ordered when he judged the time was right. “Let ’em have it!” He put his rifle to his shoulder and fired.

  The men behind the wagons followed his lead. They might not be experienced frontiersmen, but they were able to reload quickly and aim straight as long as they kept their nerves under control.

  Preacher snatched a pair of his short guns from the wagon’s floorboard, leaving the other two loaded pistols there in case he needed them quickly, and fired into the mass of warriors. Shoving the empty guns behind his belt, he grabbed up his rifle, reloaded it, aimed at a warrior, and shot again.

  There was nothing ragged about the volley of gunfire. Pistols and rifles rang out strong and pure, and the heavy lead balls sliced through the ranks of Blackfeet like a scythe mowing down wheat. Horses tumbled, and men flew screaming through the air.

  Th
e charge fell apart, dissolving into dusty, roiling confusion.

  In a matter of moments, a considerable amount of damage was inflicted on the war party, so Preacher wasn’t too surprised when the Blackfeet suddenly wheeled their ponies and galloped away from the butte.

  Otis Freeman let out a triumphant yell. “Look at ’em run! We beat ’em!”

  Preacher lowered his rifle, which still had smoke curling from its muzzle, and shook his head. “I wouldn’t count on that. They’ve just realized they’re payin’ too high a price to kill us. They’ll get over bein’ so mad and start tryin’ to figure out a better way to go about doin’ it.”

  “You mean they’ll attack us again.” Courtland’s words weren’t a question. They had a note of grim finality about them.

  “There’s a better than even chance,” Preacher agreed. “No point in worryin’ about it now, though. We need to load all the guns again. Anybody hurt?”

  One of the men kneeling beside a wagon wheel called, “Johnny is! You better come quick, Preacher.”

  The mountain man hurried over, dropped to a knee, and peered under the wagon. One of the men was lying with his legs pulled up, his body curled around the arrow embedded in his belly.

  In the heat of battle, Preacher hadn’t seen the man fall. Pain must have driven the poor fella to crawl under the wagon in a futile search for relief, he thought. He could hear the man’s harsh, ragged breathing.

  “A couple of you get hold of him and ease him out from under there so I can take a look,” Preacher instructed. “I want two men on guard. Keep your eyes wide open, and don’t just watch the spot where the Injuns rode off. Look all around, ’cause they could come at us from any direction.”

  Carefully, two men rolled the wounded man onto his back and moved him from under the wagon. Both hands were clenched around the arrow’s shaft where it entered his body.

  Preacher tried to be gentle as he pried the grip loose. He could tell the arrowhead had penetrated deeply into the man’s vitals. “What’s his name?”

  “Johnny McKittrick.” The man who answered swallowed hard. “We’ve been friends for a couple of years.”

  Preacher nodded. “Get him some water.” He leaned forward and went on. “Johnny? You hear me, Johnny?”

  McKittrick’s eyelids fluttered open. He groaned. “I . . . I hurt awful bad,” he managed to say. “I think . . . I think they got me.”

  “Yeah, they did,” Preacher said. “They got you pretty bad, Johnny. I’m afraid you’re done for.”

  Angrily, Wiley Courtland asked, “Was there really any need to tell him that?”

  Preacher glanced up and snapped, “Sometimes a man needs to know the truth. Might be things he wants to say.” He turned his attention back to McKittrick. “Is there anybody you need word sent to about this, Johnny?”

  “I . . . I don’t know . . . My ma . . . might still be alive. Her name . . . is Neva McKittrick. She lives in . . . Ohio . . . little town called . . . Glendora.”

  “Neva McKittrick in Glendora, Ohio,” Preacher repeated with a nod. “We’ll all remember that, all of us who are here with you, Johnny.”

  McKittrick’s friend knelt beside them with a canteen in his hand. He held it out. “I got the water.”

  Preacher took it and asked, “You thirsty, Johnny?”

  “Yeah, I . . . I am. Can I have . . . a drink?”

  “Sure, but it’s liable to make you hurt worse.”

  “Don’t care . . . I’m mighty . . . thirsty.”

  Preacher held the canteen to McKittrick’s lips and trickled a little water into his mouth. McKittrick swallowed and sighed, and then winced as the pain hit him. The reaction lasted only a second. He sighed and whispered, “Thank . . .”

  His eyes closed and his head fell to the side.

  “Damn, damn, damn!” his friend exclaimed. “He . . . he’s gone?”

  “Yeah, and it’s a blessin’ he went that fast. I’ve seen men with arrows in their guts who lasted seven or eight hours. And it was seven or eight hours of hell for ’em, too, let me tell you.” Preacher put the cork back in the canteen and handed it to the man. “Sorry for your loss.”

  “We knew it would be dangerous out here, I reckon,” the man said in a dull voice. He began to breathe harder. “I’m gonna kill all those redskin ba—”

  “That’s enough,” Courtland snapped. “We’re not going to lose our heads about this. We’re going to stay calm. That’s our best chance of fighting back and surviving.” He looked at the mountain man. “Isn’t it, Preacher?”

  “That’s right.” Preacher nodded, but Courtland’s level-headed response surprised him a little. Maybe the fella was learning something, he thought.

  Preacher looked at the men gathered around him “We’re still outnumbered, but we’ve got more guns and ammunition than the Blackfeet have, and we’re better shots, too.”

  “But there are only nine of us left. Ten, counting Preacher.” Freeman said. “They keep whittling us down. Without Preacher, it’s likely we’d all be dead by now.”

  “We’ve killed a dozen of them for every man we’ve lost. Sooner or later they’re bound to get tired of that.”

  Courtland rubbed a hand over his face wearily. “Preacher’s right. Somebody wrap McKittrick’s body in a blanket. We’ll go ahead and lay him to rest properly while we’ve got the chance.” He detailed a couple of men to dig a grave at the foot of the butte.

  While they were doing that, Preacher made sure all the guns were loaded and that the guards were keeping a good watch.

  Satisfied for the moment with the precautions, he went over to the spot inside the cluster of boulders where Dog lay on the ground next to Horse. The big cur’s head rested on his paws, his ears pricking up as Preacher approached.

  Preacher knelt beside Dog and ran a hand over the animal’s shaggy flanks. Not finding any wounds, he explored Dog’s head next and paused as he felt a sticky welt between the ears. He parted the fur and saw that the injury didn’t appear too serious. “One of those varmints loosed an arrow at you that bounced off that thick skull of yours, didn’t he? Knocked you out for a little while. That’s why you didn’t come back right away. But when the fightin’ started, you heard it and came a-runnin’.”

  Dog’s tongue lolled out by way of answer.

  “You’ve always been a hard-headed critter,” Preacher told him. “Reckon that came in handy this time.”

  While he was at it, he checked the stallion for injuries as well but didn’t find any. Somehow Horse had avoided all the arrows and rifle balls. His knack for doing that had saved Preacher’s life more than once.

  Spotting Preacher, Courtland walked over and asked, “Is there any reason the men shouldn’t boil some coffee and have something to eat?”

  “No reason at all,” Preacher replied. “It’s a good idea. We’re liable not to be sleepin’ much tonight.”

  Courtland frowned. “I thought Indians didn’t usually attack at night.”

  Preacher managed not to snort in disgust. “An Injun attacks when it best suits him, any hour of the day or night. You ain’t forgot about the one who killed Jenkins, have you?”

  Courtland shrugged. “Actually, I guess I had. Before we started out here, I was told so many things about the Indians. It seemed like everyone I met in St. Louis had an opinion.”

  “And most of ’em was wrong, I’ll bet,” Preacher said. “Here’s what I want to do. We’re gonna split up, six of your men down here with the wagons where most of the Blackfeet will attack. I’ll take three up that butte behind us.”

  “Are you sure it’s a good idea, splitting a force that’s already so small?”

  “We can’t let the Blackfeet take the high ground behind us. If they do, they’ll hit us from two directions at once, and we won’t stand a chance. Not only that, but from up there we’ll have a better shot at the ones out on the flat. That’s why I want your three best shots to go up there with me.”

  “I suppose that makes sense,”
Courtland admitted. “Otis is an excellent shot. Better than me, that’s for sure. I’ll find out who’s the best among the others.”

  Preacher nodded and glanced at the sky. “Couple hours of daylight left. They may come at us again at dusk, when the light’s mighty tricky for shootin’. If they don’t, it’ll be tonight, once it’s good an’ dark.”

  The Blackfeet hadn’t reappeared by the time night began to settle over the badlands. Johnny McKittrick and Ben had been laid to rest, and the men had had a grim, mostly silent meal. They stood watchfully, waiting to see what was going to happen.

  Nothing did. Quiet descended over the landscape along with darkness.

  The two men who would be climbing the butte along with Preacher and Otis Freeman were Clyde Woodbury and Lew Elkins. They were all taking plenty of powder and shot with them.

  “How do you reckon they’ll come at us, if they do?” Freeman asked as the men got ready to climb to the top.

  “There’s no tellin’,” Preacher replied. “Might be sneaky about it, or they might just charge up the other side of the butte yellin’ and shootin’ arrows. We got to be ready for whatever comes, and we got to hold the high ground. Otherwise they’ll overrun us all, and that’ll be the end of it.”

  “Don’t worry about us,” Elkins said. “We’ll fight.”

  “I know that.” Preacher had seen the men in battle and knew they had plenty of grit, but they needed somebody to take charge. They needed someone familiar with the dangers of the West and who knew how to command them.

  For better or worse, Preacher was that commander.

  “Stay alert,” he told Courtland, and then the four men started up the slope. It wasn’t sheer, but it was steep. They had to lean forward and use their hands to help climb most of the way.

  Dog went along and made it without much of a struggle, as did Preacher. Freeman and the others were winded by the time they reached the top.