Preacher's Blood Hunt

by William W. Johnstone

  Harris had just betrayed his friends and put them in danger. Busy with Burton and Mitchell, Druke might not have known about the other men trying to slip out of the valley. He could tell Harris hoped that treachery would buy him his life.

  “Take the pelts,” Druke told Turner. “We’ll take them with us.”

  “We’re goin’ after Monkton’s bunch?” Turner asked.

  “Damn right we are. I’m not going to let them get away with that.”

  Turner nodded toward Harris. “What about this one?”

  Druke laughed and called, “Blood Eye.”

  The renegade Crow rode over to them, not getting in any hurry. Harris saw him coming, and when he got a good look at Blood Eye, he tried to jerk his horse around and flee again, but one of Druke’s men had a firm grip on the mount’s headstall.

  Since he couldn’t get away, Harris started to scream.

  Will Gardner had a deer carcass draped over his shoulders so he could carry it back to the camp he shared with Gray Otter. They needed fresh meat. Gray Otter had downed it with an arrow a short time earlier.

  It was how they did most of their hunting. Using an arrow saved powder and shot, and it was silent so it wouldn’t give away their position. Such caution had become a deeply ingrained habit.

  Will knew how badly Jebediah Druke wanted both of them dead. They were the only ones who had stood up successfully to Druke’s would-be reign of terror.

  Gray Otter had vanished after bringing down the deer. Will didn’t worry any more than he always did whenever his companion was out of his sight. He knew how skilled Gray Otter was at moving silently, undetected, through the woods. He had seen plenty of demonstrations of prowess with the bow and arrow, too.

  But a certain amount of concern nibbled at the back of his brain. Strokes of bad luck couldn’t always be guarded against. Fate sometimes caught up to people no matter what they did.

  He and Gray Otter certainly had plenty that could catch up to them, Will mused.

  He had just gotten back to their camp, well hidden in a thick grove of pines that backed up against a hill, and lowered the carcass to the ground when Gray Otter suddenly appeared, as silently as ever.

  “Druke and all of his men are close by.”

  Will stiffened in alarm at that news. “Are they hunting for us?”

  “No. Eight trappers are trying to leave the valley with their pelts. I got a good look at them. Karnes, Monkton, and several others we know.”

  “That’s actually pretty smart,” Will said. “There’s strength in numbers.”

  “It would have been smart . . . if Druke hadn’t gotten wind of it somehow. Now he’s closing in on them.”

  “And his force outnumbers them,” Will said grimly.

  “By quite a bit.”

  Will glanced at the carcass. There wasn’t going to be time to dress it out after all. He unslung the rifle from his back. “I reckon we’d better get moving, then, hadn’t we?”

  CHAPTER 18

  The pass still loomed high above Captain Monkton’s group of trappers, but as Pete Karnes looked up at it, he figured there was a pretty good chance he and his companions would reach it before nightfall. It would be a hard climb up the twisting trail, but they could make it.

  Once they were through the pass, they could start down the eastern slope toward the plains and find a place to camp somewhere on the way down. It probably wouldn’t matter how far they went. The odds of Jebediah Druke leaving King’s Crown to come after them seemed pretty small. Over the past months, Druke had confined his reign of terror to the circular valley.

  Of course, there was no guarantee that would continue, Karnes mused. Druke was ruthless, and he didn’t like being challenged. He might pursue anyone who defied him out of the valley.

  But in order to do that Druke would have to know what was going on, and so far Karnes hadn’t seen any signs that was the case. He had been keeping a close eye on their back trail, and he was starting to hope that Druke didn’t even know they were leaving King’s Crown with a big load of pelts.

  Zach Summerville moved his horse up alongside Karnes and grinned. “Looks like we’re gonna make it.”

  Even though he had just been thinking the same thing, Karnes quickly said, “Don’t go talkin’ like that, Zach. You don’t want to jinx us.”

  “I ain’t superstitious enough to believe in things like jinxes,” Summerville scoffed. “I’ve always thought a fella makes his own luck.”

  Karnes didn’t disagree with that, but at the same time he knew there were always things a man couldn’t control. In the end, you prepared for trouble the best you could and hoped for the best.

  “Just keep your eyes open,” he warned Summerville. “We’ve still got a ways to go.”

  Up ahead, Captain Monkton was riding in the lead. He reined in suddenly, turned in the saddle, and called, “Karnes.”

  “I better go see what the cap’n wants,” Karnes told Summerville. He heeled his horse into a trot.

  When he came up to Monkton a moment later, he saw the worried frown on the man’s bearded face. “Somethin’ wrong, Cap’n?”

  “Nothing I can put my finger on,” Monkton replied, “but it just doesn’t feel right. I wouldn’t go so far as to say that we’re being watched, but . . .”

  Now that the captain mentioned it, Karnes experienced a little of the same sensation. Monkton had served in the army under Old Hickory Jackson and fought the Creek Indians; Karnes had served in no army but his own and fought Blackfeet, Arikara, Crow, and Cheyenne. The way he saw it, that put them on roughly equal footing, although he hadn’t minded deferring to Monkton’s orders. The group had elected him captain fair and square.

  The two of them were in agreement. Karnes raised a hand and signaled for the others to stop. As they did so, Summerville called, “What’s wrong?”

  Karnes looked around quickly. The trail they followed led past a wooded bluff before curving up the lower slopes of the mountain toward the pass. It suddenly struck Karnes that it might be a good idea to circle wide around that bluff. If Druke and his men had somehow gotten ahead of them . . .

  “Who’s that?” Monkton nodded toward the trail ahead.

  Karnes looked up and saw that one man had appeared on the trail. The stranger rode slowly toward them. He was a big man; Karnes could tell that even at a distance. And there was something ominously familiar about him.

  “Good Lord!” Karnes exclaimed suddenly. “That’s Druke!”

  “You’re sure?” Monkton asked.

  “Yeah, that’s him, all right. I got a look at him once.”

  “Is there anyone with him?”

  “Not that I can see. But I don’t reckon Druke would try to face us down alone. His men are around here somewhere. They have to be!”

  Karnes glanced again toward the trees on top of the bluff next to the trail. Did he see movement up there, he asked himself, or was it just a trick of his eyes?

  No trick, something definitely moved. An instant later, he saw the afternoon sun reflect off metal.

  Karnes realized that the other men who had been strung out along the trail had ridden up to him and Monkton before stopping, so now they were all in a bunch. “Scatter!” he yelled. “It’s a trap!”

  He had just lifted his horse’s reins when a rattle of rifle fire came from the bluff. Powder smoke spurted from under the trees.

  Karnes felt something smash into him and drive him out of his saddle. He had just enough time to gasp in pain and surprise before he hit the ground.

  Druke had ridden out into the open as a diversion, Karnes realized as he tried to catch his breath. Druke had drawn their attention while his men moved into position on the bluff.

  Rifle balls thudded into flesh. Men cried out in pain. The horses, spooked by the shots and the smell of blood, danced around skittishly in the trail.

  Even though a hot poker seemed to be jammed into Karnes’s side, he rolled over and got his hands and knees under him and scrambled
toward some rocks and brush at the side of the trail. He was almost stepped on by the horses a couple times, but he reached the scanty cover and flattened out behind it.

  Twisting around so that he could look back toward the trail, he saw three more men lying there. Two of them writhed in agony from their wounds, but one of them—Zach Summerville, Karnes realized—lay motionless. Summerville wouldn’t ever move again, at least not under his own power. A rifle ball had blown away a good-sized chunk of his head.

  So much for not believing in jinxes.

  The other four members of the group were still mounted. Monkton struggled to control his horse with one hand while at the same time he lifted a pistol in his other hand and fired toward the bluff. That wasn’t going to do any good, Karnes thought. The range was too far.

  A second later, Monkton doubled over and dropped his gun as he was hit. He managed to stay in the saddle as his horse dashed off along the trail. Karnes lost sight of him.

  Karnes had dropped his rifle when he was shot out of the saddle. He had a pistol behind his belt, but it was useless in that situation. All he could do was lie low behind the rocks and wait.

  And maybe pray for a miracle.

  Will and Gray Otter heard the shots before they came in sight of the ambush. Given the distance and the direction of the sounds, Will had a hunch that Druke’s men were firing from the top of Badger Bluff. That position overlooked the trail and was perfect for an ambush.

  Gray Otter reached the same conclusion. “We should circle to the north and see if we can get behind them!”

  Will nodded in agreement and turned his horse in that direction. “If Druke has all his men with him, we’ll have to take them by surprise. Otherwise we won’t have a chance.”

  “Neither will those trappers.”

  That was a grim truth, Will thought as he put his horse up a slope. They weaved around rocks and clumps of trees as they worked their way higher and circled around the sounds of battle.

  A moment later, they reached a wide, upward-sloping ledge that allowed them to ride faster as they climbed. The ledge came out on a bluff that was even higher than the one overlooking the trail out of King’s Crown. Will galloped along it with Gray Otter right behind him.

  When the shooting was close, Will hauled back on his horse’s reins and slid out of the saddle. He took his rifle with him as he ran toward the edge of the bluff. He knelt there and looked down at Badger Bluff, so called because some trappers had discovered a den of the feisty creatures there a while back.

  The badgers, not wanting to be bothered by humans, had moved on, but polecats had replaced them.

  Two-legged polecats.

  Hiding behind rocks and trees, more than a dozen men ranged along the top of the lower bluff, blazing away at the trail below them.

  From where he was, Will couldn’t see the trail, so he didn’t know for sure who was down there, but he felt confident Druke’s men were firing at the group of trappers who had tried to leave the valley with their pelts. He didn’t see Druke, but that didn’t mean anything. The outlaw had to be around somewhere close by.

  Gray Otter came up and knelt beside Will. “Are we going to fight them?”

  “We can’t stand by and let them massacre those men,” Will said.

  “As long as the shooting has been going on, there’s a good chance most of the trappers are dead already,” Gray Otter pointed out.

  Will couldn’t argue with that. They’d come to the party late. If he and his companion took cards in the game, they would be risking their lives and probably wouldn’t be much help to the men who’d been ambushed.

  But as long as there was a slim chance they might be able to save some of the trappers, Will couldn’t turn his back and walk away. He had never been able to abandon someone who was in trouble, and Gray Otter knew that better than anybody else.

  With a faint smile, Gray Otter pulled an arrow from the quiver and nocked it. “I thought that would be your answer.”

  “I didn’t say anything,” Will protested.

  “You said plenty, for someone who knows how to listen.”

  With that, Gray Otter pulled back the bow and loosed the arrow, which flew swift and straight to drive its flint head deep into the back of one of the men reloading his rifle for another shot at the hapless victims below.

  CHAPTER 19

  The bushwhacker screamed, dropped his rifle, threw his hands in the air, and slumped forward over the rock he had been using for cover.

  An instant after Gray Otter loosed the arrow, Will fired his rifle and another man collapsed as the heavy lead ball blasted a path through his body.

  Shooting people from behind went against the grain for Will, but under the circumstances he and Gray Otter didn’t have any choice.

  Gray Otter had sent three more arrows lashing down into the ambushers by the time Will had his rifle reloaded. Each of the shafts found its target. Three more of Druke’s men were on the ground, either writhing in pain or lying motionless in death.

  Will added to that total with another lethally accurate shot from his rifle.

  In less than a minute, they had killed or badly wounded five of the renegades.

  But the element of surprise was gone. Druke’s men knew they were under attack from the upper ridge, and they twisted around to send rifle shots whistling up at Will and Gray Otter. The barrage forced them to draw back.

  “Maybe if any of those trappers are still alive, they’ll have a chance to get away while Druke’s ruffians are occupied with us,” Will said.

  Gray Otter nocked another arrow. “That’s what I hoped—”

  Will spotted a figure behind Gray Otter and called out a warning, but it was too late.

  A war club thrown with strength and precise accuracy whirled through the air and slammed into Gray Otter’s back with stunning force.

  “No!” Will cried as he saw his companion collapse. He whipped his reloaded rifle to his shoulder and fired as the buckskin-clad shape hurtled over Gray Otter and bounded toward him.

  Will hurried his shot too much. He didn’t know where the rifle ball went, but his attacker never slowed down.

  In that brief moment of time, Will got a good look at the man. He saw the eagle feather, the thick raven hair, the coarse, pockmarked face, and most of all the red, staring, sightless right eye.

  He had heard rumors that Jebediah Druke had a renegade Crow called Blood Eye working for him, or with him. Will hadn’t had any idea why the man was called by that grotesque name.

  But now he knew, although he barely had time for the thought to flash through his mind before Blood Eye crashed into him and drove him over backward.

  Will clung desperately to his rifle and slashed at his attacker with the stock. Blood Eye squirmed like an eel and avoided the blow. His hand sought Will’s throat.

  Will tried to twist away, but the Crow’s fingers closed around his throat and clamped down hard on his windpipe. Will gasped for air that could no longer reach his lungs.

  The quarters were too close for the rifle to be any good as a club. Will dropped it and hammered at Blood Eye’s head with a fist, using his other hand to claw at the Indian’s good eye.

  Blood Eye jerked his head back to avoid both of Will’s attempts at self-defense. He got hold of Will’s throat with his other hand and lifted the young man’s upper body off the ground.

  Then he slammed it back down so that Will’s head smashed hard against the rocky earth. Combined with the lack of air, the blow left Will half-senseless and unable to muster much of a fight.

  Blood Eye followed that up by ramming his knee into Will’s belly. A ball of sickness swelled and exploded to fill Will’s entire body.

  No matter how much courage and resolve Will possessed, no matter much he hated Blood Eye or how much he was worried about Gray Otter, there was nothing he could do. Blood Eye’s fierce, relentless attack had overwhelmed him, and a black tide of oblivion rose in Will’s brain.

  The darkness swallowed hi
m whole, and he knew nothing else.

  Pete Karnes had passed out with the sounds of slaughter filling his ears. As awareness seeped back into his brain, he realized that he didn’t hear any more gunshots or screams.

  Not everything was quiet, though. Men called out to each other, and from time to time he heard hoofbeats as horses moved around.

  The wounded man pried his eyes open. He couldn’t see anything except the brush all around him.

  Karnes felt bad about that. While his friends were under attack and fighting for their lives, he had attempted to hide. It was shameful.

  The pain in his side, along with the hot, sticky flow of blood from the wound, had told him that he was badly hurt. He’d be so dizzy if he’d tried to stand up, he would have fallen down again. He knew his chances to help the other trappers had been mighty damned small, but the knowledge didn’t make him feel any better.

  He remembered creeping backward on his belly until the ground seemed to drop out from under his legs. He’d slid down into what seemed like a gully. It was so thickly choked with brush that if he hadn’t been flat on the ground he never would have gotten into it.

  Even that much effort had been too much for him and he’d passed out cold.

  A part of him was surprised that he hadn’t just gone ahead and died.

  A spark of life remained, though, and time had allowed it to grow a little stronger. He had regained consciousness but with no idea how much time had passed since he blacked out.

  Somebody was still around, that was for sure. He could hear them.

  Carefully, Karnes moved a hand to his side. His buckskin shirt was stiff with drying blood that was still a bit tacky. He didn’t try to probe under the shirt for the wound. It was there, no doubt about that, but as long as he didn’t know exactly how bad it was, maybe he could ignore it.

  He lifted his head, dug his elbows into the ground, and pulled himself forward a few inches. The gully’s slope wasn’t steep. He could climb out if he worked at it hard enough.