Preacher's Massacre

by William W. Johnstone

  The butte was fairly level and formed a rough square about forty feet on each side. Stunted pines grew around the edges. In the center was a dark heap of stone rearing about a dozen feet high. It hadn’t been visible from below. Freeman stared at it and asked, “Is that a natural formation?”

  “Hard to say. It might be, or Injuns might’ve built it sometime in the past.”

  “Why would they do that?”

  “Could be this is a holy place for them,” Preacher said. “Not for the Blackfeet, though. That ain’t why they’re tryin’ so hard to kill us. This ain’t really their stompin’ ground. They roam pretty far afield when they’re out lookin’ for war, and it’s our bad luck they come across us.”

  Freeman grunted. “Yeah. Our bad luck, all right.” He regarded the stone pile in the starlight and went on. “It looks almost like . . . an altar of some sort. You think whatever tribe built it ever had, well, human sacrifices here?”

  “Don’t know,” Preacher replied honestly.

  But even if blood had never been spilled there in bygone days, chances were good it would spill before the night was over.

  CHAPTER 12

  Using the trees for cover, the men spread out on the far side of the butte to wait. Preacher stretched out on the ground with Dog close beside him. He had the veteran frontiersman’s ability to fall asleep almost instantly, under any conditions, and seized the opportunity to get a nap.

  He dozed, knowing Dog would awaken him if anything threatened, assuming his own instincts didn’t rouse him. They both slept lightly, like wild animals.

  Time passed. Preacher woke up and checked on the other men, all of whom were still wide awake and tensely alert. “Anything movin’ around out there?” he asked Freeman in a whisper.

  “Nothing that I can see or hear,” Freeman replied. “Of course, that don’t really mean much, does it? Those savages can move around without being seen or heard, can’t they?”

  “They’re pretty sneaky,” Preacher agreed. “By the time you know they’re there, it’s liable to be too late to do anything about it. But keep watchin’ and listenin’ anyway. It’s really the only thing we can do.”

  Preacher moved back to his spot and settled down to wait again. The night was so quiet he could hear the horses and mules moving around, down at the base of the butte. A bird called somewhere nearby.

  Except it wasn’t a bird, no matter what it sounded like, Preacher thought as he stiffened. It was a signal. He let out a soft whistle to warn the others and picked up both pistols. Dog growled quietly beside him.

  “Take it easy,” Preacher whispered. “They’ll be here in a minute.”

  It didn’t take quite that long. A dark figure suddenly flitted from behind one of the trees on the slope, a short distance down from the crest, and started toward the top.

  Preacher lifted his right-hand pistol and shot the man in the chest.

  The gun’s dull boom was shockingly loud in the night, almost like a cannon had gone off. The warrior bounding toward the top of the butte was thrown backward by the impact. He cried out in pain as he tumbled down the slope, a cry that cut off abruptly as he slammed into the trunk of a pine.

  With no longer any reason for stealth, a dozen Blackfoot warriors let out blood curdling whoops as they leaped up from where they had crawled and lunged for the top, They were met by a wave of fire from Preacher, Freeman, Woodbury, and Elkins.

  Each man was armed with a rifle and two pistols. They emptied the weapons as fast as they could and cut down more than half of the attackers.

  But five warriors were still alive to reach the crest.

  Preacher surged to his feet and leaped forward to meet the charge of the closest one.

  The warrior swung a tomahawk at Preacher’s head. The mountain man used the barrel of his empty rifle to parry the blow, then stepped closer and smashed the rifle butt into the Blackfoot’s throat. The man stumbled and gasped as he tried to drag air through his crushed windpipe. Preacher struck again, using the rifle butt to shatter the warrior’s jaw and put him down and out. The Blackfoot would likely suffocate without ever regaining consciousness.

  A few yards away, a flurry of snapping and growling marked the spot where Dog had another of the warriors down on the ground. Preacher knew the big cur could handle that, so he turned and hurried toward Freeman, who was locked in a desperate struggle with one of the Blackfeet.

  Before Preacher could get there, Freeman wrenched a tomahawk out of the man’s hand and slashed it across his face. The warrior staggered back, and Freeman went after him, hacking and clubbing. Preacher hurried on to see if one of the other men needed a hand.

  He was too late to help Clyde Woodbury. One of the Blackfeet was rising to his feet, blood-dripping knife in hand, after cutting Woodbury’s throat. He let out a shrill shout and threw the knife at Preacher. The mountain man avoided it, and a second later, his tomahawk crashed into the warrior’s forehead and all the way through the bone into the brain.

  Lew Elkins had his hands locked around his opponent’s throat as they rolled on the ground. It was hard to see them in the shadows, but when Preacher heard a sharp crack, he knew someone’s neck was broken. He was ready with his tomahawk if the Blackfoot was the one who got up.

  It was Elkins who stumbled to his feet. “Preacher? Is that you?”

  “Yeah. Looks like this batch is done for.” Shots roared down in the rocks. “But it sounds like the other fellas got their hands full.”

  The men grabbed their guns and hurried to the other side of the butte. As they reloaded, Freeman asked, “Where’s Clyde?”

  “He didn’t make it,” Preacher said. “One of the Blackfeet cut his throat.”

  Freeman cursed bitterly as he rammed a ball down the barrel of his rifle. “Clyde was a good man. We’ll never even the score for the fellas we’ve lost.”

  “I expect the Blackfeet feel the same way.” Preacher brought his rifle to his shoulder and looked over the edge of the butte. In the light from the stars and the quarter moon he could see bodies scattered on the flat below.

  The other members of the war party had launched their attack when the fight started on top of the butte. Courtland and the other four men had inflicted quite a few casualties.

  Preacher could see shadows moving on the flat. Figuring anybody still moving out on the flat was an enemy, he took aim and told his companions to do the same.

  They each fired three rounds before the leading edge of the attack broke past the wagons. Suddenly the fighting was hand to hand.

  Preacher called, “Come on!” and slid down the slope to join in the battle.

  With Dog at his side, he plunged into the melee among the boulders. Using his rifle as a club, he struck right and left until one of the Blackfeet tackled him from behind and knocked the weapon out of his hands. Preacher went down with the man on top of him. He drove an elbow backward and dislodged his attacker before the man could jerk his head back and cut his throat. As Preacher rolled over he snatched his knife from its sheath and buried the long blade in the warrior’s body.

  He was on his feet again an instant later. He caught another warrior from behind and drove the knife into the man’s back, then ripped it free and cast the dying warrior aside. The knife turned aside a tomahawk strike from another man. Preacher kicked him in the belly and then slashed his throat open.

  It was grim, bloody, chaotic work. Preacher received several minor wounds but barely noticed them as he continued killing at close range. Blood soaked the arm of his knife hand up to the elbow.

  Gunshots, shouted curses, and screams of pain filled the air. The terrible racket was so loud Preacher almost didn’t hear a powerful voice bellowing commands for the attackers to retreat. It took a second for him to realize those orders were being given in Blackfoot.

  With pistol shots and arrows still being traded, the surviving warriors withdrew, taking many of their dead and wounded comrades with them.

  As the Blackfeet fled, Preacher lean
ed against a boulder. His chest heaved and his pulse thundered in his head. Caught up in the frenzy of battle, his hot blood wanted to go after the war party and keep on killing, but part of his brain remained cool enough for him to control the violent impulse.

  “Let ’em go,” he called to the survivors. He knew the Blackfeet hoped a retreat would draw them out of their cover.

  Wiley Courtland stumbled over to him. Courtland’s face was grimy with powder smoke and he had lost his coonskin cap, at least for the time being.

  “My God, Preacher, are you all right? You’re covered with blood!”

  “Most of it ain’t mine,” Preacher replied with a weary grin. “At least, I think it ain’t. Haven’t really had time to check. How about you?”

  Courtland nodded. “I’ll be all right. Some more cuts and bruises, that’s all. What do we do now?”

  “Reload and maintain your positions,” Preacher snapped. “Red Knife could come back. Unless he was killed in the fightin’, which is what I’m hopin’. If he was, the rest of that bunch will be more likely to figure it ain’t worth it to keep comin’ after us.”

  A hollow laugh came from Courtland. “They might as well try to finish us off. There aren’t that many of us left, and we don’t have much to live for. Those horses are long gone.”

  So he was still worried about the horses, thought Preacher. Some men just couldn’t forget about trying to make money, no matter what the situation.

  Courtland and the others followed Preacher’s orders loading their guns and taking up positions behind the wagons. The canvas covers were so shredded they were almost useless, but the thick boards would still stop an arrow or a rifle ball.

  Preacher walked around the camp talking to the men. In addition to Clyde Woodbury on top of the butte, the party had lost two more men, which left their numbers at six, plus Preacher.

  That was actually a pretty good showing, considering how many Blackfeet they had killed, the mountain man mused. The close quarters among the wagons and the rocks had helped. Unable to overrun them, the warriors had been forced to attack in small groups.

  “I’m goin’ back up on top of the butte where I can keep an eye out for ’em if they come back,” Preacher told Courtland. “You should send a couple men to fetch down Woodbury’s body.”

  “You’re not going to slip off and leave us here, are you?”

  Preacher’s eyes narrowed in anger at the question. “A frontiersman wouldn’t do that,” he said in a hard, level voice.

  “I know.” Courtland sighed. “I meant no offense. I just . . . I’ve never had to deal with anything like this before.”

  “You’re doin’ fine. It won’t go on for much longer.”

  “What do you mean by that?” Courtland asked with a puzzled frown.

  “I mean those varmints are bound to give up pretty soon. Either that . . . or they’ll wipe us out.”

  Preacher left Courtland to ponder that while he and Dog climbed back to the top of the butte. They sat down behind a tree to wait for morning or the next attack, whichever came first.

  CHAPTER 13

  As it turned out, morning came first. There had been no sign of the Blackfeet returning by the time the sky grew light in the east with the approach of dawn.

  Once the sun had risen, Preacher stood up and surveyed the surrounding countryside. From the top of the butte, he could see a long way in every direction. He noted two things of considerable interest.

  Several miles to the south, a haze of dust hung in the air, as if a number of riders were on the move. It was moving away from the badlands.

  To the north, he spotted a number of dark shapes drifting through one of the grassy gaps between buttes about half a mile away. Courtland’s horses, Preacher decided. The herd had run itself out after the stampede and stopped to graze well away from the fighting.

  Preacher and Dog made their way down to the camp. Courtland, Freeman, and the other men were obviously exhausted, but they were awake and relatively alert. Three blanket-shrouded shapes lying on the ground were grim reminders of the price they had paid.

  A few dead Blackfeet were sprawled around the camp as well.

  Preacher said, “We’d best drag those bodies out of the rocks. Some of the others will come back for them later, so they can be took care of Blackfoot fashion.”

  “Why should we be that considerate of their feelings?” Courtland wanted to know.

  “Because if they have decided not to come after us again, we don’t want to rile them back up,” Preacher said bluntly. “You can fight somebody—hell, you can even hate ’em—without disrespectin’ ’em.”

  “You really think they might let us go this time?” Freeman asked.

  “Maybe. We’ve killed a whole heap of ’em. Red Knife wouldn’t want to go back to his people with the entire war party wiped out and nothin’ to show for it.”

  “All right,” Courtland agreed. “However much time we have, we’ll take advantage of it. As soon as we’ve buried our men, we’ll move out and start looking for those horses, even though they’re probably scattered clear to hell and gone.”

  “You’re wrong about that,” Preacher told him. “I spotted them from the top of the butte. They’re grazin’ in a little pocket about half a mile north of here.”

  Courtland stared at him in disbelief. For a moment he seemed unable to speak. Then he asked, “All of them?”

  “Well, I couldn’t say about that. I saw a good-sized bunch, though. Should be most of them. This is new territory to them. They’ll stick together for the most part. Makes ’em feel safer that way.”

  “Then there’s still a chance to salvage something from this,” Courtland said with growing excitement. “Let’s get busy. I don’t want something to spook those animals and make them bolt again before we can round them up.”

  Courtland didn’t want to take the time for breakfast. He was impatient enough when it came to burying Woodbury and the other two men who had been killed, Preacher thought.

  But when the moment came to say words over the graves, Courtland was eloquent in his prayer. Preacher had to give him credit for that much.

  Several saddle horses and mules had been killed in the latest battle. There were enough mules left to pull the wagons, but that was all. Every man had a mount, but again, there were no extras.

  Horse had come through fine. Preacher saddled the stallion and swung up to take the lead along with Courtland. Freeman drove one of the wagons, Elkins another, and a man named Dalton was at the reins of the third vehicle. A couple of men named Prince and Boylan served as outriders along with Preacher and Courtland.

  All the guns were loaded, but the party’s numbers had been carved down so far having superior firepower didn’t mean much anymore. Despite that, the only thing to do was to keep going forward and hope for the best.

  Courtland’s spirits rose visibly when, ahead of the others, he and Preacher reached the pasture where the horses were grazing. They reined in a distance away so as not to spook them.

  Courtland tried to count them but was too excited and gave up after a moment. “We may have lost a few, but nearly all of them are here. Now if we can just get them to Fort Gifford. It won’t be easy . . . but nothing about this trip has been easy so far, has it?”

  “I reckon you fellas were actually pretty lucky to make it as far as you did before things went to hell,” Preacher stated.

  Courtland sighed and nodded. “I know. I should have hired more men. Men like you, Preacher, who knew what they were doing. Instead I hired men who had experience working with horses.”

  “Those boys are good fighters. I can’t fault ’em for that. If you’d run into a smaller war party, or one that wasn’t led by somebody as loco as Red Knife, chances are you would’ve been all right.”

  “Well, your share of the profits will be bigger now. There’s something to be said for that.”

  Preacher just grunted. Courtland’s comment struck him as pretty callous. He was a businessman, fir
st and foremost.

  The drivers brought the wagons to a halt before they reached the horse herd. Preacher, Courtland, Prince, and Boylan rode ahead to round up the animals, taking it slow and easy.

  By mid-morning they had the herd headed north again, with the wagons following along behind.

  Since the others seemed able to keep the herd moving, Preacher split off from the group in the afternoon, telling Courtland he was going to do some scouting. He, Horse, and Dog fell back a couple of miles to search for any sign of pursuit.

  Not seeing any, they ranged in a big circle to make sure the Blackfeet weren’t trying to slip past and set up an ambush somewhere ahead of Courtland’s party.

  Other than some bear, elk, antelope, and moose, along with eagles soaring through the sky and beavers building dams in the streams, Preacher and his animal companions seemed to be alone in the vast, beautiful frontier. The rocky, pine-dotted buttes fell behind them at last, and they entered an area of grassy prairies and rolling hills. Preacher could see snowcapped mountains in almost every direction he looked, but none of the peaks were close. He and Courtland’s men would reach the valley of the Missouri before they had to cross any of those ranges.

  Wiley Courtland had an anxious expression on his face when Preacher rode up to rejoin the party. “You were gone a long time. I was afraid something had happened to you, even though I know how unlikely that is.”

  “We took a good long look around,” Preacher told him. “Didn’t see hide nor hair of those Blackfeet, nor any other hostiles.”

  “You’re serious?”

  “I wouldn’t josh about a thing like that.

  Courtland took off his coonskin cap, which was starting to look a little ratty, closed his eyes, and wearily passed a hand over his face. Relief made his shoulders sag. When he looked at Preacher again, he asked, “So we’re out of danger?”

  “I didn’t say that,” the mountain man replied. “It’s still gonna take us three or four days to make it to the fort. Plenty of things can happen in that much time. Red Knife could catch up to us. You never can tell what we’ll run into betwixt here and there, either.”