“Some fellas just can’t seem to see things that way,” Preacher said as he came closer to her. “I reckon Courtland’s one of ’em.” He gestured toward the pistol. “Might be a good idea to put that away.”
She lifted it again and stared at it as if she had never seen a gun before and couldn’t understand how it had gotten into her hand. After a second she slipped it back into her pocket. “I really was going to shoot him, you know.”
“I know. And he knew it, too. He wound up more scared of you than he was of me.”
“I don’t know about that.” Judith gave Preacher a wan smile. “If he knew how badly I was shaking inside . . .”
“You kept it under control. That’s mighty important.”
“Maybe. But I . . . I . . .” With a shudder, she stepped toward him.
Preacher reacted instinctively and put his arms around her. There was nothing sensual or romantic about it. He was just comforting a fellow human being, as awkward as that made him feel. He became even more uncomfortable when Judith started to cry. He felt the sobs shaking her body, although she cried in silence.
Given the circumstances, he supposed it was an understandable reaction when Ethan Langley appeared in the doorway, saw them standing like that, and exclaimed, “What the hell is going on here?”
Preacher looked up and saw the angry expression on the booshwa’s face. “Miz Langley’s mighty upset. Reckon you should be over here instead of me.”
“Damn right I should be,” Langley snapped as he strode forward. “Take your hands off my wife!”
Preacher stepped back from Judith.
“Ethan, it’s not—”
He didn’t let her finish. “For God’s sake, Preacher, it’s bad enough I have to worry about Courtland! Now you’re making advances to my wife, too?”
“Ethan, listen to me!” She moved closer to him, putting a hand on his arm as she got between him and Preacher. “It’s not what you’re thinking.”
Preacher was glad Judith had intervened, because judging by the look on the booshwa’s face and the way his fists were clenched at his sides, he was ready to throw a punch. Preacher didn’t want to hurt the fella, especially over a misunderstanding, but it wasn’t his nature to be attacked and not fight back.
“Can’t you see I was crying?” Judith went on.
Her tear-streaked cheeks made that pretty obvious, Preacher thought. “I was upset, and Preacher was just trying to comfort me, that’s all. It’s like he . . . he was my uncle . . . or my grandfather.”
Preacher wasn’t sure if that made him feel much better or not.
Langley still glared at him, but the man’s fists unclenched. He looked at his wife. “What were you upset about?”
A hollow laugh came from Judith. “I listened to that battle for what seemed like hours last night, Ethan. I . . . I didn’t know but what any minute a horde of screaming Indians would burst into the trading post and kill me . . . or worse. I didn’t know if you were dead or alive. Don’t you think all of that is enough to make a person upset?”
“Of course it is,” Langley said with a worried frown. “I didn’t mean to make things worse, Judith. I’m sorry.”
He went to her and took her in his arms. She pressed her tear-dampened face against the front of his shirt.
Langley looked over his wife’s shoulder at the mountain man and said gruffly, “Sorry, Preacher. I didn’t understand what was going on.”
Preacher gave him a curt nod. It was as much forgiveness as he felt like allowing.
Judith hadn’t told her husband the real reason she was upset because she didn’t want Langley going after Courtland again. Despite her anger, she knew open warfare between the two men wouldn’t do anybody any good.
Preacher gave her credit for that. Besides, the things she had said to Langley were no doubt true. She had feared for her life, and his, during the battle with the Blackfeet.
“How long did I sleep?” Preacher asked.
“A couple hours,” Judith replied. “I’m sorry I disturbed you.”
Preacher shook his head. “That’s fine. Nothin’ to worry about.”
“Go back and get some more rest,” Langley suggested. “Your turn on guard duty won’t come up for a good while yet.”
After the confrontation with Courtland, Preacher wasn’t sleepy anymore, but before he could decide what to do, Quint Harrigan appeared in the doorway between the trading post’s main room and the booshwa’s living quarters.
“Hate to bother you folks,” Harrigan said, “but I reckon you’d better come take a look at this, Preacher. You, too, Mr. Langley.”
“What is it?” Langley asked.
“We got company again.” Harrigan didn’t have to explain what he meant by that.
Preacher understood.
The Blackfeet were back.
It was a mite quicker than he’d expected. He’d found Red Knife’s scouts who’d been selected to keep an eye on Fort Gifford. Pulling the war party back, well away from the outpost was all part of Red Knife’s plan. He had hoped the white men would think it was safe to flee the fort, and then he could pounce on them while they were out in the open.
Courtland had almost fallen for that trick. He had wanted to leave the fort and take Judith with him, thinking they could make a run for it. But if they had, they would have been running right into the jaws of death.
Langley turned back to Judith. “Will you be all right?”
“Of course,” she replied, summoning up a smile and using the back of her hand to wipe away the damp tracks of her earlier tears. “You go with Mr. Harrigan.”
Langley nodded and glanced at Preacher. “Are you coming?”
“You couldn’t keep me away.”
The three men left the trading post. An electric atmosphere gripped the compound as they strode across it. The men on guard duty stood tensely on the parapet, and they were joined by a number of men who were supposed to be resting. No one was talking, and the expectant silence added to the eerie feeling in the air.
Langley went up one of the ladders first, followed by Preacher and Harrigan. When they were on the parapet, several of the men at the wall stood aside to let them step up and get a good look.
Preacher wasn’t surprised by what he saw. Five hundred yards away, the Blackfoot war party waited, some mounted on ponies but most on foot.
The warriors weren’t just the survivors of the previous attacks. The war party had grown to bigger numbers, just as the dying scout had said that it would.
As Preacher turned, he saw the ranks of Blackfeet weren’t just on one side of the fort. They were lined up all around it.
“My God,” Langley said in a choked voice. “We’re surrounded. They have us completely cut off. We’re trapped.”
“We already were,” Preacher said grimly. “But now, every man jack can see that for himself, so there won’t be any more talk about makin’ a run for it. Anybody who tries to slip through those lines will be dead mighty quick.”
“But what are we going to do?”
“Same thing we were plannin’ on before. We’ll hold out until that supply boat gets here and brings those cannons with it.”
“Can we actually do that?” Langley didn’t sound convinced.
Preacher tilted his head toward the Blackfeet. “We’re about to find out, because here they come again!”
CHAPTER 28
The Blackfeet launched several hundred arrows into the air at once. While the shafts arched high in their flight, Langley bellowed at the men in the compound, “Take cover! Take cover!”
They scrambled for whatever shelter they could find as the arrows began to fall. The men on the parapet knelt down as low as they could so the wall protected them. The arrows couldn’t reach the small space where the parapet butted up against the logs.
As long as the riflemen on the wall were forced to take cover, they couldn’t fire at the charging warriors. Preacher knew they were going to have to risk standing up again.
He moved
first, rising high enough to thrust his rifle barrel over the wall. The storm of arrows had slackened some, because half the war party was running toward the fort while the other half continued firing the flint-tipped shafts.
Some of the warriors carried blazing torches to set the walls on fire. Flaming arrows hadn’t done the trick, but maybe the blazing brands would.
“Get the ones with the torches!” Preacher shouted to his fellow defenders. “Don’t let ’em get to the fort!”
He aimed the rifle, ignoring the arrow whipping past his head less than a foot from his ear. The rifle boomed and kicked against his shoulder. He saw the man he had targeted suddenly stumble and clap a hand to his chest where the rifle ball had gone into his body.
The warrior hung on to the torch with his other hand, and kept running. But only for a couple of steps. He faltered and pitched forward onto his face as death caught up to him. The torch flew from his hand, rolled in the dirt in front of him, and went out.
Unfortunately, there were dozens more just like him, equally intent on setting the fort on fire. They charged all four walls at once. Preacher heard fast, frantic rifle shots all around him but didn’t know if they would be enough to stop the deadly charge.
Somebody should have sung out a warning and alerted everybody in the fort to the threat before those Blackfeet got that close. Maybe the guards thought they were just seeing small scouting parties and didn’t realize the danger they were in until it was too late.
No matter how it had happened, it was too late to worry about that now, Preacher told himself. All that mattered was stopping the varmints.
And if they couldn’t, at least they had to stop any fires along the wall from spreading. As he reloaded, Preacher shouted, “Langley! Get men with buckets of water up here!”
Langley jerked his head in a nod to show he understood and headed for the closest ladder. As he grasped it, an arrow arched down and stuck in the top rung. The shaft quivered from the impact.
He kicked it loose, swung onto the ladder, and started down.
Quint Harrigan had taken a position at the wall close to Preacher. He drilled one of the attackers, then grinned at Preacher and called, “Stubborn varmints, aren’t they?”
He staggered suddenly, his eyes widening in pain and shock. An arrow was stuck through his neck, appearing so suddenly it was almost like magic.
Preacher shouted, “Quint!” and took a step toward his friend, but it was too late to do anything for Harrigan. The life was already fading from his eyes as he wheeled around aimlessly and plunged off the parapet.
Sorrow and grim anger welled up inside Preacher as he saw Harrigan fall. He turned back to the wall. His rifle was loaded and ready to go. He drew a bead and fired, but he didn’t take any satisfaction from the way a Blackfoot warrior’s head exploded as the ball bored through his brain.
Quint Harrigan was just as dead either way.
Another warrior snatched up a fallen torch and the attack continued.
Men carrying buckets of water scrambled up the ladders onto the parapet. Preacher pointed to where the base of the wall was on fire about twenty feet to his right. “Dump your buckets there! Some of you stay back in reserve!”
It was utter chaos along the parapet as men fired at the attackers while others tried to extinguish the flames breaking out here and there. All the while, arrows continued to fall. Men screamed in pain and shouted curses and whispered prayers. Clouds of powder smoke rolled through the air and stung eyes and noses. The Indians were so close Preacher set his rifle aside and started using his pistols. At least one Blackfoot fell with every shot he fired.
Through eyes watering from the smoke, Preacher saw the attackers falling back. Their efforts to torch the place had failed, and the deadly accurate shots from him and the other defenders were driving them off.
He leaned out to look back and forth along the wall. There were some charred places, but the wall was intact, without too much damage done. He faced the men and ordered, “Make sure all the fires are out!”
Several men had formed fire lines, and continued passing buckets from the ditch to the ladders and up to the parapet.
Preacher looked around. Several bodies slumped here and there with arrows protruding from them. The attack had cost the defenders more men, and Quint Harrigan was among them. The red-bearded trapper’s body lay on the ground, blood from his mangled throat forming a dark puddle around his head.
Harrigan was far from the first friend Preacher had lost, and doubtless he would be far from the last, too. But the man’s death still hurt. He had been a valiant fighter, and could always be counted on for a quick grin and a joke.
Preacher didn’t dwell on those thoughts as he made sure his rifle and all four pistols were reloaded. The best way to honor Harrigan’s death was to be ready when the men who had killed him attacked again.
Preacher figured the war party numbered at least four hundred. The fort’s defenders had inflicted a lot of casualties on the Blackfeet, but they were still overwhelmingly outnumbered. The walls of Fort Gifford were the only things standing between the white men and death.
Red Knife was smart enough to know that, which was why he had concentrated his efforts on the walls. As long as the Blackfeet were willing to die, he could continue his attack again and again until the defenders were whittled down to the point that they couldn’t hold the walls.
When that happened, it would be all over.
It was a race between certain death and the arrival of the supply boat from downriver.
In any siege, there were lulls in the action, and that was just the case. The Blackfeet withdrew, but not out of sight. They wanted the fort’s defenders to know they were still there.
Preacher was well aware Red Knife wanted the men in the fort to sit in there and contemplate their imminent death.
People who thought of Indians as ignorant savages were really the ignorant ones, Preacher mused as dusk finally settled over the landscape after a long day of waiting. Red Knife was a good example of the sort of intelligence and cunning Preacher had come up against many times in his adventurous career.
In the end, the outcome was likely to depend on brute force, and the war chief had it all on his side, at least for a while. Four cannon and plenty of powder and shot could change that in a hurry . . . and Red Knife didn’t know the boat was on its way upriver. If he wanted to take his time, it was just fine with Preacher.
Otis Freeman came up beside the mountain man and leaned on the wall to peer out into the gathering shadows. Fires were visible along the Blackfoot lines. They would be cooking their supper soon.
“I haven’t had a chance to tell you I’m sorry about your friend Harrigan,” Freeman said. “I talked to him some. Seemed like a good fella.”
“He was,” Preacher agreed. “I didn’t know him all that well, but you could count on him in a fight and he was always ready to smile, even in the middle of trouble. I’ll miss him.”
“Too bad we can’t bury him and the others.”
Six men had lost their lives in the battle that morning. The survivors couldn’t venture outside the walls to lay them to rest, not with the war party waiting only a few hundred yards away, so the bodies had been wrapped in blankets and put in the trading post’s root cellar. It was a temporary solution and one surely destined not to work out well, but it was the best they could do.
“We’ll make sure they’re tended to proper once this is all over,” Preacher said.
“They’ll have a nice funeral pyre when the whole place is burned down around us.”
Preacher shook his head. “You folks give up too easy. As long as a man’s still alive and can fight, he’s got a chance, even if it ain’t much of one. I’ll take a slim chance over none, any day.”
Freeman chuckled. “Yeah, you’re right about that, I suppose. Still, I sort of wish I’d never signed on to help Wiley bring those horses out here. It seemed like a good idea at the time.”
“The two of you
are old friends?” Preacher asked.
“No, not really. We’ve known each other for a few years. I drove some, now and then, for his freight line. This was a chance to do somethin’ more than just workin’ for wages. I figured we could maybe make a real business out of it. You know, bring a couple herds out every year. Wouldn’t be too long until our horses were all over the frontier.”
“It wasn’t a bad idea. Maybe it’ll work out yet.”
“We’ll see. We’ve got to live through the next few days first.”
Freeman was right about that, thought Preacher . . . and living through the next few days wasn’t going to be easy.
CHAPTER 29
Time crawled. Somehow, minutes became hours and hours became days. Tension so thick hung in the air over the fort sometimes it seemed difficult to breathe. It was hard to believe men could be bored while waiting to die, but that was exactly what happened to the defenders of Fort Gifford.
Unfortunately, over the next several days, any time the boredom was broken meant bloody fighting and more death.
The Blackfeet attacked at least once a day, showering arrows into the fort until it seemed impossible they would have any left. Indeed, as the number of shafts decreased with each attack, Preacher began to think maybe they really were running out. They couldn’t recover the ones that fell inside the walls, and they didn’t have an endless supply.
Several times, the warriors tried to set the fort on fire. Preacher and the other riflemen on the parapet drove them off with deadly accurate shooting.
In each battle, though, several defenders died or were wounded so badly they were out of the fight. Judith Langley was kept busy not only cooking but also tending the injured men as best she could. It was probably good for her, Preacher thought. Having so much to do wouldn’t allow for time to be scared. For her sake, he hoped that was true at least part of the time.
The men had a gaunt, hollow-eyed look about them. No one was sleeping much. Only about forty men were left alive in the fort, and guards had to be posted around the clock. There was no telling when the Blackfeet might attack again.
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