Preacher nodded again and spat a blade of grass from his mouth. “That is wise. I’d as leave have half our men behind them, catch ’em in a box. How many?”
“Five two-hands and a hand more and two.”
Pursing his lips, Preacher thought on that. “Sure it’s the Romans?”
“Yes. All on ponies.”
Preacher planned quickly. “Chances one or two will get away from the fight that’s sure to come. Wouldn’t do for them to know us boys was out here. I hate to turn down a battle with those devils first off, but it’s best if they think it’s only Injuns. Bold Pony has some good men with the rifle. How about you?”
“I have three hands who are good at it.”
“Fine, fifteen more rifles will sure help. I’ll get the Arapaho ready, and you set up your warriors. Have ’em try to pot the leaders first off. This ain’t for honor, it’s for revenge.”
Crow Killer’s face indicated he didn’t think much of that, though he readily agreed. “That is how it will be done.”
“Good. Remember, no individual challenges or fights until the leaders are knocked out of the saddle.”
After explaining his plan to Bold Pony, Preacher set about convincing the throng of mountain men. “I know this won’t sit well with a lot of you. But we’ve got to keep our intentions hidden from any of the Romans who get away.”
Karl Kreuger seized on that. “Vhat are you talking about?”
“There’s about fifty-five, sixty Roman cavalry on their way. The Injuns are gonna take them on. Chances are some will get away. They can’t take it back to New Rome that we have this large a force. Plain an’ simple. We hide over that ridge behind us until the thing is done. No exceptions.”
“Who appointed you general?” Kreuger growled.
“I did,” Preacher answered simply. “Now, we’d best be moving. Them boys in the red capotes is not far away.”
* * *
Preacher watched the Roman cavalry approach through his long, brass spyglass. First to appear over the ridge that masked off the swale they had so recently occupied came the horsehair-plumed helmets and tossing heads of the mounts. The men showed next. They rode at a canter, uphill. Stupid, Preacher thought.
When the Romans reached the bottom of the reverse slope, the centurion in charge raised his hand in the universal signal to halt. Changing his field of view, Preacher saw the reason why. A dozen Cheyenne warriors had risen out of the tall grass, as though sprang new from the earth itself. They held drawn bows, the arrowheads angled high, to reach for the enemy. Clever, Preacher thought.
Sounding like nothing more than the cry of a shrike, the centurion issued his command, echoed by the sergeants. Swords hissed out of scabbards and made pillars of brightness in the sunlight. Another birdlike command and the sergeants separated their squads from the square formation they had traveled in so far. It also identified all of the leaders to the patient Cheyenne. Idiotic, Preacher thought.
From hidden locations on the flanks, puffs of smoke rose from the grass. There followed a fraction of a second, and the four sergeants went off their horses, dead before they struck the ground. The crack of discharging rifles followed Preacher’s ears. The centurion wavered in his saddle, shot through the breastplate. Brilliant, Preacher thought.
Left in confusion, the soldiers milled about, their horses made fractious by the smell of blood. Then they were given something to concentrate upon. The meadow came alive with Cheyenne and Arapaho warriors. Their horses snorted as they rolled upright and came to their hooves. Another volley sounded from the hidden marksmen. Arrows flew from the twelve on foot. Swiftly the Indians mounted their ponies. Before the cavalry soldiers realized it, they found themselves the target of a whooping, hooting, lance-waving Indian charge. Magnificent, Preacher thought.
Since the advent of the horse, standard tactics for most plains tribes consisted of swift, powerful charges to ring the wagons of white settlers, or an enemy village, then close the diameter with a gradual inward spiral. Or of individual challenges and man-to-man, vicious hand-to-hand combat. Indians, Preacher had ample reason to know, rarely fought in organized, disciplined ranks. Almost anything could end the fighting: victory, or a perception of bad medicine, or omens like an owl flying in daylight, to a sudden chill wind. Pity the poor pilgrims coming after him, Preacher thought, if this fight today changed all that.
It didn’t appear that it would, Preacher acknowledged as he watched, telescope at his side now, while the cavalry formation disintegrated through attrition and the Arapaho and Cheyenne braves picked out individuals to challenge. One by one, the kilted fighting men of New Rome met death at the hands of the Indians. Only seven of them managed to keep their wits long enough to make an escape. One of those lost his chance to a long-range rifle shot. Their commander fared even worse.
Frightfully wounded, he much preferred the peace of the grave to the torture and torment that capture meant. He had heard the stories, of course, and chose the only sensible alternative. He removed his cuirass, reversed his gladius and pressed the pommel to the ground, then fell on his sword.
Blind Beaver appeared at Preacher’s side. “In the end, he was a woman,” he stated scornfully of the centurion. Preacher thought that made a good sum-up of the entire battle, which had not lasted fifteen minutes by his big Hambleton turnip watch.
* * *
During the next two days, seventeen more denizens of the High Lonesome wandered in. The word had spread far and wide. Duke Morrison was among them. As was Bunny Tilit-son and Haymaker Norris. The Duke approached Preacher during the nooning rest.
“Are you serious about these—”
Preacher cut him off. “Yeah, yeah, them Romans is real enough. D’ya check the trophies our Arapaho an’ Cheyenne allies collected off the cavalry?”
“No, but I’ll have me a look.”
Eyeing the younger mountain man, Preacher reached a conclusion. “Duke, yu’rt purty nigh expert at slippin’ an’ slidin’ around after dark, ain’tcha?”
Modesty commanded that Duke eye the ground beyond Preacher’s shoulder. “I’ve done my share of dark-time stalkin’. You don’t intend on sneakin’up on these Romans, do you?”
“Yep. On some of ’em at least. Now that you’re here, it comes to mind that we ought to do somethin’ about these outposts I hear the Romans done put up. Best done at night.”
Duke nodded. “You’re right on that, Preacher. When do we have a go at it?”
“Reckon you an’ me, an’ a couple of Bold Pony’s boys ought to pull out early tomorrow, get a day or so ahead of the rest. Then we can have a look around and see what can be done.”
A broad grin spread the full lips of the big man. “I say that shines. Count me in.”
* * *
Shortly before nightfall, two days later, Preacher and Duke Morrison crested the notch that separated them from the New Rome basin by but another valley and ridge. Careful to remain behind a screen of trees, they made a detailed study of the saw-tooth line across the way. After a seemingly long two minutes, Preacher lowered his spyglass. He pointed at a shadowy object partially obscured by tree limbs.
“A watch tower, right enough. I reckon they’ll be spread around so’s to overlap a slight bit of the view from one to another. I counted six men. Most likely there’s some snoozin’, an’ a couple who act as messengers.”
“I saw another tower,” Duke revealed. “It looked to have the arms of one of those whatchamacallits—you know, a signal thing.”
“A heliograph, or something like it, eh?”
“Yeah. That’s it.”
“That way they don’t waste time sendin’ a message, at least in daytime. The thing for us to do tonight is hit enough of these things to make bein’ here plain uncomfortable. We want to get these boys all bollixed up. Seein’ things that ain’t there, firing off reports and alarms to call out the soldiers at all hours.”
Duke clucked his tongue. “That won’t make the troops very happy.”
“Nope.
An’ it will make them careless. You ’member from bein’ a kid the story about the boy who cried wolf? Well, by the time our outfit gets here, that’s what the regular soldiers will be thinkin’ about these fellers on the ridge. Then maybe we pop up . . .” Preacher went on to outline his plan.
They picked a spot on the far side and settled in among the pines to rest until the best time of night. Preacher and Duke gnawed on strips of jerky and cold biscuits to fill the empty space in their bellies, then caught a few hours of sleep.
* * *
Elijah Morton had quickly become bored with this duty. They could hang a Roman name on him, make him learn Latin, but he knew who he was, or at least who he’d once been. Elijah Morton had been a small-time highwayman who preyed on isolated trading posts along the North Platte. At least until the urge to move farther west, brought on by an increased presence of mounted federal troops, had brought him into the Ferris Range some two years ago. He had been captured and quickly volunteered to join a legion.
Often after that, he had regretted his decision. Not nearly so much as he would this night.
Elijah did not see the dark figures ghosting through the trees toward the watch tower. He had watch and had grown bored with staring into black nothing. Opposite him, Graccus peered toward the distant platform where two others did the same dull task. He sensed at the same time as Elijah the vibration of a footfall on the ladder leading upward. Could it be their relief?
Not likely, Graccus discovered a split-second before bright lights exploded inside his head, to bring excruciating pain for a brief moment, when Duke buried his war hawk in the top of his head. Preacher swarmed over Elijah at the same moment. His forearm pressed tightly against the throat of his victim, which effectively cut off any sound. Preacher leaned close, smelled garlic, onions and rancid, unwashed body, and whispered in one ear.
“You want to live, keep quiet and do as you are told.”
The head nodded feebly. Preacher went on. “How many are there up here?”
“Two,” Elijah mouthed. Sudden pain erupted under his left ear, and he felt the prick of a knife point.
“Don’t lie to me. I counted six men earlier.” Preacher eased the pressure to allow for a reply.
“Four are sleeping. There’s the messenger down below. Didn’t you . . .?”
“He’s tied up,” Preacher answered with part of the truth.
Preacher and Duke had closed on the unsuspecting messenger, to find out he was a mere boy, hardly older than fourteen or fifteen. Preacher clapped a big hand over the lad’s mouth and yanked him off his feet. They had quickly tied him up, carted him away from the tower and strung him up, head down, in a tree. He prodded again.
“What time is your relief?”
“I don’t know. In another hour, maybe.”
“What’s you name?”
“Elijah Morton.”
“You don’t have a Roman name, Elijah?”
“Yeah. It’s Virgo. I hate it.”
“All right, Elijah, if you want to live, you’ll answer everything, and then you’ll be tied up and gagged. We won’t kill you.”
“I’ll do what I can.”
“Good. What’s going on in New Rome?”
Elijah talked freely about the preparations for war. He detailed the training exercises of the legions and spoke of the firearms. That came as a nasty surprise to Preacher. They would have to hit at night, spike those cannons and move right into the city. Somehow the idea did not sit well with him.
“Anything else?”
“Oh, sure. The watch towers were built, and we’ve been in them ever since. Once a week we are supposed to be rotated back to our legion. So far that hasn’t happened, and we’re gettin’ fed up with it.”
“Now, that’s right interestin’. Well, we’re gonna leave those other boys to snooze, lock ’em in that room over there and wait to see what comes of that. I’m gonna turn you loose now. Don’t fight me, turn around and put your hands behind your back.”
“I hate this place. Can’t I come with you?”
“Nope. We’ve got more of this kinda thing to do. But if you want to ride away from it when you get loose, head due south. When you come to some folks, ask for Philadelphia Braddock.”
“I knew some Braddocks back home.”
“Where’s that?”
“Philadelphia,” Elijah answered simply.
Preacher considered that a moment. “Now ain’t that interestin’? Turn around.”
Elijah complied in silence. After trussing him up, Preacher lowered Elijah to the platform floor. Then he and Duke eased over to the shelter that housed the slumbering sentries. Preacher located a loose piece of wood and used it to wedge the door tightly shut. With that accomplished, they stole off into the night to visit yet another tower.
* * *
They completed their jaunt uneasily close to first light. A soft, silver-gray glow hung along the eastern ridge when they rejoined the Cheyennes. Both of them had big grins and six fresh scalps tied to their belts.
“That ain’t gonna do them Romans any good when they think about spendin’ time out here. Might be we can raise a little more ruckus tomorrow night.”
22
A considerable uproar followed Preacher’s excursion. The fourteen deaths were attributed to the red savages, and any who had been spared by Preacher and Duke kept their own counsel. It worked so well, Preacher decided, that they would try it on two or three of the other towers the next night. In order to avoid the patrols that had been sent out at first light to search for the perpetrators, he, Duke and the Cheyenne had withdrawn beyond the second ridge out of the city.
“Heck of a thing,” Preacher announced when they returned after nightfall. “Looks like our funnin’ with them has backfired on us.” He referred to the neat rows of cooking fires that spread around the meadow outside the walled city.
“What’s that?” Duke Morrison asked.
Preacher gave a short, sharp grunt. “That’s the legions. They’ve taken to the field. Changes our plans somewhat. But that can wait until the rest git here. Now’s the time to shake them up a bit more.”
Things had changed on the final rim also. Two sentries guarded the base of the first tower Preacher and Duke approached. It took them only slightly greater stealth to close on the alert guards than it had the unsuspecting messengers of the previous night. From the moment he had learned that the towers operated independently, Preacher had been working on fateful decisions for those who occupied the ones they would visit tonight.
No more sparing of lives. To create the maximum of fear and terror, all would die. It didn’t make a problem for the Cheyennes, albeit he and Duke went to it grimly, taking no pleasure from the task. The two guards died swiftly and without a sound. The slumbering messenger awakened in time to see the blade of a war hawk descending toward his head. His scream died along with himself. The moccasins of the two mountain men made only the softest of whispers as they ascended the ladder to the platform.
* * *
One of the watchmen, more attentive than his partner, sensed more than heard the silent approach. He turned, his hand going to the heft of his gladius. Preacher bounded up onto the boards of the platform and turned off the source of such commands with his tomahawk. The blade sank to the hilt in the soldier’s forehead. Before he could wrench it free, Duke joined him and finished off the other sentry.
Preacher spoke softly. “There’s two more in there, most likely.”
Duke nodded, and they moved cat-footed to the door. Duke pointed to his chest and then the closed portal, indicating he would go through first. Preacher dipped his chin a fraction of an inch and yanked open the crudely made panel. Duke went through with Preacher at his heels. The scuffing motions of their moccasins awakened a light sleeper. Duke’s big Hudson’s Bay Company knife sank into the unfortunate legionnaire’s chest and trashed his heart.
He died with a soft sigh. Preacher swung to split the skull of the dead man’s companion, o
nly to find his wrist in a grasp like iron. The big man grunted, but did not cry out. The coppery tang of blood in the air told him there would be no one to hear. He tried to rear up, but Preacher’s weight bore down on him and pinned him to the straw mattress. Preacher used his free hand to draw his Green River knife and plunge it into soft tissue below the rib cage. He was aware of the amazing rubbery tension of skin for a brief moment, before the tip sank into muscle and angled upward.
The soldier convulsed as the blade pierced his diaphragm and sped on to his heart. His tremors became more violent, and then he went rigid and lay still. Preacher took a deep breath.
“Time to get movin’,” he told Duke.
* * *
Cassius Varo stared into the night. Had he seen slight movement in Tower Seven? If so, it could only be the men on watch, he told himself. Bored by long, fruitless hours of this static activity, he paced the two sides of the plank square for which he was responsible. Time went by so slowly. Varo’s eyelids had started to droop when a sudden, very wet thok! came from below.
Suddenly alert, he touched his partner on one shoulder, then leaned over the railing to call softly to the guards on the ground. “Titus, Vindix, what’s going on?”
His answer came in the form of a broad-head arrow that drove into his forehead. His single, violent convulsion sent him crashing over the rail. By then, Preacher had ascended the ladder and had only to swing smoothly to smash the brains from the other sentry with his war hawk.
Duke quickly joined him, and they finished off the sleeping pair without even a stir. Outside, Preacher nodded to the tall, black bulk of another tower, standing out against the starlight. “Two down, one more to go.”
* * *
At mid-morning the next day, the mountain-man-and-Indian army arrived beyond the third ridge from New Rome. Preacher and Duke greeted them and called for a parlay of all leaders. Bold Pony, Blind Beaver and Philadelphia attended. Terry Tucker hovered at Preacher’s elbow. Most of the former fur trappers stood around in a loose circle. Their long lives of independence gave them license to eavesdrop, or so they believed. Having done it enough times himself, Preacher made no further notice of them.
Preacher and the Mountain Caesar Page 23
