Preacher's Massacre

by William W. Johnstone

  Preacher had heard the old saying about good intentions and the road to hell many times in his life. That night he got proof of it when he returned to the fort from Courtland’s camp. Quint Harrigan, who was sitting on a stump in front of the fur warehouse, hailed him and raised a jug.

  “Quite a ruckus earlier,” Harrigan said when Preacher ambled over to join him. “I didn’t know who was gonna win.”

  “I ain’t so sure but what they both lost,” Preacher commented dryly.

  That brought a chuckle from the red-bearded trapper. “Yeah, when two fellas go to fightin’ over a woman, she’s usually the only one who wins.”

  Preacher didn’t think Judith Langley had won anything except more grief. He changed the subject by saying, “Are you just gonna wave that jug around, or is there anything in it worth samplin’?”

  “Oh, it’s worth it! Here you go. Have a swig.”

  Preacher took the jug and swallowed a healthy slug of the whiskey inside it. It had a nice kick and burned all the way down his gullet. “Not bad,” he allowed. “For panther piss and rattlesnake pizen, that is.” He wiped the back of his other hand across his mouth and returned the jug to Harrigan

  Harrigan hooted with laughter, then downed a slug himself. “How about comin’ out with me and Rollin and Bob tomorrow?”

  “I thought those other two already brought in some fresh meat.”

  “Not enough,” Harrigan said. “There’s a supply boat on its way upriver that’s supposed to get here in a week or two, and there’ll be a lot more men on it. Langley wants to smoke enough meat and lay it aside so there’ll be plenty of provisions on hand when those other fellas get here. So we’re goin’ huntin’ again tomorrow. Langley pays pretty good for meat, and he’s even more generous when he’s tradin’ for it.”

  Preacher frowned. “That smacks of workin’ for wages.”

  “How’s gettin’ paid for bringin’ in meat any different than gettin’ paid for bringin’ in pelts?”

  Preacher supposed there wasn’t really any difference, but it still didn’t feel right to him.

  When he hesitated and didn’t answer, Harrigan went on, “You know, I turned back to the fort today because I wanted to give you a hand, Preacher. You could help us scare up some game tomorrow. Ain’t nobody better at it than you.”

  His better judgment was probably getting tired of him not listening to it, Preacher thought. But Harrigan had a good point . . . or a point, anyway, and Preacher supposed one more day wouldn’t hurt. “All right. I guess I ought to spend a little more time around folks before I head out into the big lonesome again.”

  The four men left before sunup. Preacher figured if they could bring down a few elk or antelope while it was early, he still might be able to pull out from Fort Gifford today. If that didn’t work out, he would leave the next day.

  Brown and Mahaffey were friendly enough, even though Preacher didn’t warm up to them immediately. Harrigan was surly. He had polished off most of that jug of whiskey the night before, and he was paying the price for it. Preacher didn’t mind; he figured Harrigan would perk up as the day went along.

  Even after being confined inside the stockade walls of the fort for less than a day, Dog and Horse seemed glad to be out. Dog in particular bounded all over the place with an energy that belied his years.

  “How old is that critter, anyway?” Harrigan asked. “You’ve had him for as long as I’ve knowed you.”

  “Ain’t neither of us spring chickens anymore,” Preacher answered vaguely. “But I reckon we can still get bright-eyed and bushy-tailed on a mornin’ like this.”

  It was beautiful, all right, with the sun coming up and spilling red and gold light over the valleys and the snow-capped peaks. The colors were soft at that time of day, like the world was nothing more than a giant canvas on which a heavenly painter spread His brush strokes.

  But suddenly, crimson was a bright, hard ugliness as it sprayed out around the shaft of the arrow that struck Bob Mahaffey in the back of the neck and penetrated all the way through so the flint arrowhead stuck out the front.

  CHAPTER 20

  Mahaffey spasmed in the saddle, arching his back and making grotesque gagging sounds as he pawed at the arrow’s shaft. The bloody arrowhead stuck out so far he could see it when he cast his eyes down. After a second, he toppled to the side and crashed loosely to the ground.

  None of the other men had time to check on him, not that it would have done any good as fast as he was losing blood. They had troubles of their own.

  More arrows whipped through the air. Rollin Brown let out a pained yell as one struck his upper left arm a glancing blow, ripping through the sleeve of his buckskin shirt and leaving behind a bloody gash.

  Preacher and Harrigan hadn’t been hit, but the way that storm of arrows was flying around them, it would happen soon enough.

  They had ridden too near a grove of pines at the base of a hill, Preacher saw as he wheeled Horse around. The Indians had hidden in those trees and waited for the four white men to ride into range. Preacher jerked his rifle to his shoulder, eared back the hammer, and fired at the pines.

  Then he did the unexpected and kicked the stallion into a gallop straight at the trees. Harrigan and Brown followed his lead and charged after him.

  Preacher put the reins between his teeth, slid the empty rifle into the sling he’d rigged for it on his saddle, and pulled both pistols from his belt. Horse closed the distance to the pines in a hurry. Preacher could already see figures darting around in the shadows under the trees.

  More arrows whickered through the air around him, but he knew from experience it was harder to hit a target coming straight on. He thundered toward the enemies.

  The advantage of knowing the woods were full of his enemies meant he could shoot just about anywhere and stood a good chance of hitting one of them.

  Guiding Horse with his knees and the reins clenched between his strong teeth, he raised both pistols and fired. Smoke spewed from the muzzles as the weapons boomed. The heavy lead balls ripped through the shadows under the pines. Preacher heard somebody scream.

  He jammed the empty guns behind his belt and grabbed the butts of the two pistols sticking up from his saddlebags. His second volley tore into the trees. Harrigan and Brown fired their pistols as well.

  “Come on!” Preacher shouted as he veered Horse to the side. They had dealt an unexpected blow to their attackers, hopefully throwing the Indians into a momentary state of confusion, preventing them from giving chase quickly.

  Their only real chance of survival was to make it back to Fort Gifford before the warriors caught them.

  Horse could have easily outdistanced the other two mounts if Preacher had let him run full speed, but he held the stallion back a little. Harrigan and Brown rode up alongside him. Preacher glanced over and saw that while both men looked worried, neither was panicking. He knew it wasn’t Harrigan’s first Indian fight, and figured it was probably true of Brown, as well.

  “Are we heading for the fort?” Harrigan shouted over the pounding hoofbeats of their horses.

  “Yeah!” Preacher yelled.

  “What about Bob?” Brown called out.

  “No chance for him!” Preacher replied. “He’s bled dry by now!”

  Brown’s mouth twisted in a grimace under the blond beard. He and Mahaffey were friends, and no man worthy of the name liked to abandon a friend.

  The grim reality was that Mahaffey was either dead or would be in a matter of minutes, or even seconds, and there wasn’t a blasted thing they could do for him. Turning back would only amount to throwing their own lives away for no good reason.

  Brown nodded reluctantly and leaned forward in the saddle, indicating he understood. He would stick with Preacher and Harrigan.

  Preacher twisted in the saddle to look over his shoulder. Warriors mounted on wiry Indian ponies were boiling out of the trees to give chase. From so far away, he couldn’t make out the markings on their faces, but he had a stro
ng hunch those pursuers were part of Red Knife’s war party.

  By charging the ambushers and dealing out some damage of their own, Preacher and his companions had taken a slight lead. He figured they were about five miles from Fort Gifford. The chase wouldn’t be a long one, no matter how it turned out.

  “They might’ve heard us shootin’, back at the fort!” Brown called.

  “They knew we went out to hunt!” Harrigan yelled back. “They’ll just think that’s what they heard!”

  “Not shootin’ fast like we done!”

  Preacher didn’t take part in the conversation. He was saving his breath for riding.

  And it was a breathtaking ride as they fled toward the fort. The horses sailed over small creeks and gullies, thundered along straight stretches, and careened recklessly around fallen trees and boulders.

  Preacher looked over his shoulder from time to time. The warriors stuck stubbornly behind them. As he expected, most weren’t gaining on them and some had even fallen back quite a bit.

  But a handful of men mounted on particularly swift ponies were drawing closer. At that rate, they were going to ride those horses into the ground, but obviously they didn’t care about that. In a short chase, a man with enough hate in his heart might sacrifice his mount to catch an enemy.

  Preacher, Harrigan, and Brown galloped through a gap between a couple of small ridges. It was wide enough for the three of them, but not for the whole war party. The three warriors out in front went through the gap first, really the only ones who stood a reasonable chance of catching up to Preacher and the others.

  They came up onto the flat beside the river. The walls of the fort were visible about a mile away. Harrigan saw them and let out a whoop. “We’re gonna make it! They’ll see us comin’ and have the gates open!”

  Preacher looked back again. The three Indians closest were hanging on doggedly, with the rest of the war party straggling behind. But those three warriors were still dangerous. One in particular was mounted on a really speedy pony. The animal practically flew over the ground, its legs a flashing blur.

  Brown’s horse was beginning to labor. The animal was running a valiant race for life, but bone and sinew and muscle had their limits.

  “Come on, Rollin!” Harrigan cried as he saw Brown’s mount falter a little. “It’s only a little ways now!”

  “I’ll make it!” Brown said. “You fellas go on and don’t worry about me! I’ll make it!”

  The warrior in the lead was only about twenty yards behind him. As Preacher glanced back, he saw the way the man’s face was painted and that was all the confirmation he needed to tell him that these were Blackfeet. Red Knife’s bunch, had to be.

  His knees clamped tight to his pony’s sides, the warrior drew an arrow from the quiver on his back and nocked it to his bow, which he held in front of him at an angle so he could fire over his mount’s head. He let fly. The arrow went wide. Preacher saw it go past from the corner of his eye.

  The Blackfoot wasn’t through. He pulled out another arrow and fired it after the fleeing men. Preacher knew it had found its target when he heard the thud of flint against flesh and Brown let out a loud grunt.

  The mountain man twisted his head around and saw Brown sagging forward over his horse’s neck. The feathered shaft of an arrow stuck up from the man’s back. Preacher could tell that the head had penetrated deeply into Brown’s body.

  Harrigan saw what had happened, too. He cried, “Rollin!” and slowed his horse so he could reach over and grab his friend’s arm. He steadied Brown and kept him in the saddle.

  That son of a gun on the fast pony was drawing another arrow from his quiver. With Brown and Harrigan slowing even more, he stood a good chance of doing even more damage to them.

  Once again, Preacher did the unexpected. He hauled back on the reins and pulled Horse to a sudden, skidding stop. Plucking the tomahawk from behind his belt, he drew his arm back and sent it flashing forward. He released the ’hawk perfectly.

  It spun through the air with the force of Preacher’s great strength. Adding the forward momentum of the fast-moving target, the tomahawk struck with tremendous force in the center of the Blackfoot warrior’s forehead. The keenly-honed flint head cleaved through bone and brain, practically cutting the man’s head in half. He toppled off his pony, the bow and arrow falling unfired from his hands.

  Howls of outrage came from the other Blackfeet, but outrage couldn’t make their tired ponies run any faster. Preacher wheeled Horse around again and galloped to catch up to Harrigan and Brown, who had raced past him when he stopped to throw the tomahawk. The three men rode side by side, with Brown in the middle still being supported by Harrigan.

  When they were within a quarter mile of the fort, the gates began to swing open slowly, ponderously. Preacher saw men lining the parapet. Rifle barrels bristled all along the wall. The men inside Fort Gifford knew they were coming, all right.

  So did Wiley Courtland and the rest of his party. As soon as the gates were open wide enough, Courtland and his men drove the herd toward the entrance, leaving the wagons behind. Preacher figured there was a good chance Langley was having a conniption fit, but once the horses started streaming through the opening, there was no stopping them. Nor could any white man deny shelter to another in such a situation.

  Harrigan looked back and yelled, “We’re gonna make it!”

  Preacher thought it was tempting fate to make such a bold declaration, so he kept his mouth shut and concentrated on his riding.

  “They’re givin’ up!” Harrigan exclaimed, sounding surprised.

  Preacher looked over his shoulder. The rest of the Blackfeet were falling back. They had slowed down, realizing they weren’t going to catch up to the three men in time. The rest of the war party was slowly coming up behind them.

  Preacher didn’t heave a sigh of relief just yet. He and his companions might be safe for the time being, but they didn’t know what else Red Knife had in mind.

  As if in victory, the men on the wall whooped, shouted, and waved hats and coonskin caps over their heads as Preacher, Harrigan, and Brown covered the last two hundred yards to the fort. They slowed to a trot now that the Blackfeet weren’t hot on their heels anymore.

  Men were waiting to close the gates just as soon as they rode into the fort. They grunted and heaved, and the gates began to swing shut behind Preacher and his companions.

  They reined in, and eager hands reached up to take the wounded Rollin Brown. Men lifted him from the saddle and carried him toward one of the buildings. Brown’s head lolled loosely on his neck, and Preacher wasn’t sure he was alive anymore.

  Courtland’s men had the horse herd under control. The crowd parted to let Langley through. The booshwa asked, “Where’s Mahaffey?”

  “He didn’t make it,” Harrigan replied with a shake of his head. “The red devils got him with their first arrow.”

  Langley drew in a deep breath, his face grim. “What about Brown?”

  “Don’t know. Some of the fellas took him off to take care of him.” Harrigan shook his head again. “It looked pretty bad, though.”

  “Damn it,” Langley muttered. “I’m sorry I sent you out after more meat.”

  “Don’t be,” Harrigan told him. “We knew the risks. A man can’t ever count on bein’ safe out here.”

  Courtland pushed his way to the front, along with Otis Freeman. He gripped Preacher’s arm. “Are you all right?”

  “Yeah,” Preacher said. “Harrigan and I were lucky. Come through it without a scratch.”

  “Well, thank God for that, anyway.” Courtland looked over at Langley and added, “And thank you for letting us and our horses in. To tell the truth, I wasn’t sure you would.”

  “I wouldn’t leave any man out there to face those savages, even you.” Langley started to turn away. “I should go let Judith know everything’s all right—”

  “Mr. Langley!” one of the man called from the parapet. “Mr. Langley, you better come look
at this!” The fear in the man’s voice made everyone on the ground glance up.

  Langley strode over to the nearest ladder leading to the parapet and climbed up. More men streamed up the other ladders, including Preacher, Harrigan, Courtland, and Freeman. They gathered at the wall to look out across the rolling plains along the river. Preacher saw the Blackfoot war party about a quarter mile away.

  But that wasn’t what had prompted the man’s frightened summons. More Indians were riding over a swell of ground behind the war party. They kept coming and coming, swarming over the little hill like ants.

  “My God, how many of them are there?” Langley asked in a hushed voice.

  Courtland sounded equally awed as he said, “There must be hundreds of them.”

  Preacher thought that was a pretty good guess. He put the number of Blackfeet at three hundred or so, and even though the tide had slowed down, more warriors continued to trickle over the rise and join the others.

  “Looks like Red Knife rounded up a few friends before he came to call on us.”

  CHAPTER 21

  A stunned silence hung over the parapet as the men stared at the huge Blackfoot war party. Finally one of them said in an awed voice, “I didn’t know there were that many redskins on the whole dang frontier.”

  Preacher didn’t say anything. He knew it was unusual for so many warriors to assemble in one place, but it wasn’t unheard of. Each band tended to keep to itself, which made it difficult for a war chief to put together a large force. Red Knife must have called on several bands of Blackfeet and asked for their help in attacking the white interlopers.

  “They were just playin’ when they jumped us, weren’t they?” Harrigan asked. “If they’d all hit us at once, we wouldn’t have had a chance. They wanted some of us to get away and come runnin’ back here.”

  “Yeah, more than likely,” Preacher agreed. “Red Knife’s puttin’ on a little show right now. He knew if we hotfooted it back to the fort with a few warriors chasin’ us, it would draw everybody out and he’d have a good audience when he let us see the real size of his war party.”