Preacher's Hell Storm

by William W. Johnstone

  Preacher whistled, but Dog didn’t show up. Since Dog could hold his own against any critter, whether it went on two legs or four, Preacher wasn’t worried.

  He waded across the creek to retrieve his rifle and pistols and reloaded all the weapons. Birdie went with him, but Hawk stayed on the other side of the stream, standing with his arms folded across his chest and a frown on his face.

  “Does he always go around all wrathy like a possum?” Preacher asked quietly.

  “He has a young man’s pride,” Birdie answered, her own voice low enough that only Preacher could hear. “He wanted to stay in the village so he could fight if Tall Bull and his warriors came back, but he knew I was coming to look for you and would not let me travel alone.” She paused. “That is not all . . .”

  “I reckon he holds a grudge against me ’cause I wasn’t around while he was growin’ up. And because I’m white.”

  “Both of those things have caused him pain.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t wish for him to be hurtin’ because of me, but I can’t do nothin’ about what I am. I’m a fiddle-footed white man, and that’s all I am.”

  Birdie looked him in the eyes. “Perhaps not all.”

  CHAPTER 4

  Dog came trotting back a short time later while Preacher was still getting ready to leave for the Absaroka village with Birdie and Hawk. The big cur looked satisfied with himself and had blood on his muzzle, so Preacher knew the chase had been successful. It had just taken a little longer than he had thought it might.

  “Is the village still in the same place? At the base of that saw-toothed mountain up yonder?” he asked as they started off. He finally understood why that peak had seemed so familiar to him.

  “No, we have moved several times since you stayed with us, but it is not far from where it was then,” Birdie said. “We can reach it in three days. Perhaps two.”

  They walked side by side with Preacher leading Horse and the pack mule. He had told Birdie she could ride the stallion, but she had refused and he wasn’t going to ride while she was walking.

  Hawk started out following them but soon strode past and took the lead. That was the pride cropping up that Birdie had talked about. The young man didn’t like being behind anybody.

  Preacher didn’t figure it was worth arguing about. Let the youngster go in front if he wanted to. He turned to Birdie. “Has Tall Bull raided the village?”

  “Once. Before that he attacked some of our hunting parties and killed several of our men. When he came to the village itself, it was with a small war party. They killed a few men and stole some horses.”

  Hawk was listening to the conversation, even though he acted like he wasn’t. He proved that by looking over his shoulder and saying, “He only raided the village to see how strong we are.”

  “You’re probably right,” Preacher said.

  Hawk grunted as if there were no doubt of that.

  Birdie nodded toward her son and said quietly to the mountain man, “He has a talent for war.” She didn’t add that Hawk had inherited such a talent from his father, but Preacher thought he heard the sentiment in her voice anyway.

  “Gray Feather and the older warriors say Tall Bull will return with more men, now that he knows what sort of fight we can mount,” Hawk went on. “My mother and I have delayed him by leaving, since he pursued us, but that will not stop him for long.”

  “You’re right,” Preacher said. “Once a fella gets an appetite for killin’, it’s hard to slow him down.”

  Hawk looked back at him again. “You have an appetite for killing. We have heard all the stories about you, about all the men whose lives you have taken.”

  Preacher rubbed the heavy beard stubble on his jaw. “I don’t reckon I’ve ever sent anybody across the divide who didn’t have the trip comin’.”

  Hawk had no response to that. He faced forward again and increased his pace so the gap between him and Preacher and Birdie opened up even more.

  “I am sorry,” Birdie said as she looked at her son’s back, which was stiff with anger. “I hope he is not a disappointment to you.”

  “Never knew he was around until today,” Preacher said, “so I can’t very well be disappointed in the way he turned out. Like me, I reckon he is what he is.”

  “A man wants to be close to his son, and proud of him.”

  Preacher didn’t point out what he’d been thinking about earlier . . . the possibility he might have lots of kids scattered across the frontier, including sons. Instead he said, “From what I saw of the way he tore into them Blackfeet, I’m proud of him, all right. Looked like a mighty fine fighter.”

  Birdie put it plain this time. “He takes after his father.”

  * * *

  Birdie had said the Blackfoot war party had split up into smaller groups to search for her and Hawk, but since Preacher was always on the lookout for trouble to start with, that didn’t change things. He kept his eyes and ears open. By the time they made camp that evening they hadn’t encountered any more trouble or seen any sign of Tall Bull and his warriors.

  Preacher built a small fire, cooked some salt pork and flatbread, and shared his supplies with them. From the way they ate he guessed they hadn’t had much in the way of food since leaving the Absaroka village. They had been on the move nearly all the time, ducking the enemy who wanted to kill them.

  When the meal was finished, he buried the embers and smoothed out the ground so no one could tell anybody had been there, let alone cooked a meal. “We’ll move on for a spell before settlin’ down for the night. It’s usually not a good idea to lay your head down to sleep in the same place you ate your supper.”

  “Are you trying to teach me something?” Hawk asked.

  “No, I’m just sayin’—”

  “Because the time for my father to instruct me in the ways of the warrior is long past.”

  Preacher kept his face impassive as he asked, “Maybe you’d like it better if I just didn’t talk to you at all.”

  “Do as you wish. It means nothing to me.”

  Preacher didn’t point out that Hawk had been quick enough to eat his food. He wasn’t too good for that, even though he insisted he didn’t need Preacher’s advice.

  Bird in the Tree didn’t let it pass, though. “You should speak to your father with respect.”

  “If I had a father I respected, I would. I did as you wished. I came with you to find this man. I will fight at his side against our enemies. But do not ask me for more than that.” Hawk stood up and moved off into the gathering darkness.

  Birdie started to get to her feet, but Preacher put out a hand to stop her. “Let him sulk. He’ll get over it or he won’t. It don’t make no never-mind either way.”

  “You are a patient man, Preacher.”

  He chuckled. “That may be the first time anybody’s ever accused me o’ that.”

  A few minutes later Hawk came back from the woods, and they moved on to locate a place to camp for the night.

  After a short time, Preacher found a clearing at the foot of a rocky bluff about twenty feet high. “A fella up there would have a good lookout spot. Hawk and me can take turns standin’ guard. We don’t want Tall Bull and his men tryin’ to sneak up on us.”

  “I have watched over my mother every night since we left our village,” the young man said.

  “Well, now you won’t have to do it by yourself.”

  They had been traveling light, with no blankets or robes and only a few supplies. Preacher offered his bedroll to Birdie, but she insisted she would be fine without it.

  Preacher didn’t like arguing with a woman, but he finally convinced her to take a blanket, anyway. The weather was nice, but in the high country, the nights were always chilly, even in the middle of summer.

  Without asking, Hawk took his bow and arrows and began to climb the bluff.

  Preacher let him go, muttering to himself, “Up you go, kid.” If the boy wanted to take the first turn on guard duty, that was fine.


  After tending to Horse and the pack mule, Preacher placed his rifle, tomahawk, and a pair of pistols within easy reach and crawled into his soogans, remembering how distant voices had awakened him the previous night. Those voices had been joshing with each other. He was sure they hadn’t belonged to Birdie and Hawk. The business they were on was no joking matter.

  That had probably been one of Tall Bull’s search parties passing fairly close to him, Preacher decided. If they had stumbled over him in the darkness, likely all hell would have broken loose. He had dodged that bullet, but he was sure there would be another.

  Birdie rolled up in the blanket a few yards away. Preacher heard her breathing and couldn’t help but think about those long-ago nights when they had shared the bearskin robes in his lodge. She had always come to him eagerly, clutching at him as she drew him ever closer. They had been good together, very good.

  That time was so far in the past it was hard to believe it had ever existed. He knew logically it had, but the woman who lay across from him was a different woman, just as he was a different man . . . despite what she’d said about him not changing.

  When you got right down to it, though, he wasn’t that much different than he’d been back then. The more he thought about Bird in the Tree, the faster his heart beat. He would have been lying if he said he didn’t want her.

  Those feelings roiling inside him kept him awake as the night darkened. The moon had not risen, and the shadows were thick. He heard a whisper of sound and realized she had pushed the blanket aside. As he lifted his head, he saw her crawling toward him.

  “Preacher,” she breathed.

  He opened the soogans so she could slide in next to him. It was foolish, he knew, but the impulse was so strong he wasn’t going to deny it.

  “I should not be here,” she said with her lips close to his ear, her breath warming his skin. “My son . . . our son . . .”

  “Is up yonder on top o’ the bluff watchin’ for Blackfeet.” Preacher nuzzled his face into her thick raven hair. Her body was warm in his arms, miraculously firm yet enticingly soft at the same time.

  “I thought . . . you could hold me . . . for a short time. It has been so long . . .”

  “Yes,” he told her. “Too long.”

  “I know there have been . . . many other women for you.”

  He wasn’t going to talk about how many. He wasn’t ashamed of anything he had done, but it just wasn’t the time or place.

  “But for me, there has only ever been one man.”

  “Then I am thankful we found each other.”

  “You will . . . you will save my people . . . and our son. This is why . . . the Great Spirit has brought us together again . . .”

  “Yeah,” Preacher whispered. “For that reason . . . and for this.” His lips found hers in the darkness.

  CHAPTER 5

  After a while, Birdie went back to the blanket Preacher had given her, saying it would not do for Hawk to find them together.

  “I don’t see why the boy would have anything to be upset about,” Preacher said. “He knows I’m his pa.”

  “He knows that . . . but accepting it may be another thing.”

  Preacher supposed she knew the youngster a lot better than he did, so he let her go and didn’t argue with her. He slept for a few hours before instinct woke him and told him it was time to relieve Hawk on guard duty. “Stay,” he told Dog, then he climbed to the top of the bluff.

  From up there it was impossible to see the spot where he’d spread his bedroll, and he was glad of that. He wouldn’t have wanted to think Hawk had been watching his reunion with Bird in the Tree.

  Since Hawk stood several yards away from where Preacher had climbed atop the bluff, he didn’t know if the young man had been standing there the whole time or if he had sat down to keep watch.

  “Everything quiet?” Preacher asked in a whisper, wondering if Hawk got to his feet when he heard Preacher coming so he would appear more alert.

  “I heard and saw nothing except some small animals.”

  “Good. I’ll watch now. You can go get some sleep.”

  “I can guard all night.”

  Preacher heard the stubbornness in Hawk’s voice. “I know you can. But there ain’t no need. If we run into trouble, you’ll fight better if you’re rested.”

  “I can fight any time, whether I am tired or not.” A bitter edge crept into Hawk’s voice as he added, “I have fought much in my life, from the time I was a boy.”

  “I reckon you have. The other youngsters in the village probably gave you trouble because your pa’s white.”

  “The Absaroka may be your friends . . . but you are still not one of them. That means half of me is not of their people, either. I had to show everyone that I am as much a warrior as any, no matter what my blood.”

  “From what I’ve seen, you were up to the challenge,” Preacher said.

  “I need no kind words from you.” Hawk turned to the edge of the bluff and started to climb down. Preacher leaned on his long-barreled flintlock rifle and stood under one of the trees that topped the bluff, concentrating on watching and listening rather than thinking about the surly young man who was his son.

  As Hawk had said, the night was quiet, and eventually Preacher’s thoughts drifted, although his senses remained alert to any indication of a threat around their camp.

  He thought about the sort of life Hawk must have led growing up, constantly having to prove himself worthy of being considered a member of the tribe. Preacher knew that by and large, Indians were better about accepting half-breed children than whites were. They didn’t consider the difference in the blood to be as much of a taint as so-called civilized folks did.

  Even so, the only way for a young man of mixed blood to overcome prejudices was to be stronger, faster, better than the others his age. Indians were supremely practical people. If a warrior could battle against the tribe’s enemies, he was welcomed, no matter what else he might be. It wasn’t just a matter of Hawk inheriting his fighting ability. He had to have honed his skills in order to claim his place in the tribe.

  Life for Birdie must have been difficult, too. Preacher had never dreamed she would remain faithful to him all these years. Absaroka women tended to run everything in the tribe except for matters of war and hunting, and one as fair as Birdie could have had several husbands during her lifetime, by her own choice.

  Since Preacher had been an invited guest, it was expected that one of the women of the village would warm his robes. No one would think less of her for doing so. Even if she had been married, her husband likely would have considered it an honor for her to be chosen for such a role.

  Birdie could have gone on and done whatever she wanted with the rest of her life, and none of her people would have thought twice about her time with Preacher.

  That she hadn’t was an indication of just how deep her emotions for him went.

  He pushed those thoughts out of his head. Birdie had made her own choices, and so had he. He wasn’t the sort to waste time brooding or regretting the past. With the threat of Tall Bull and the Blackfeet looming over the Absaroka, Preacher had more important things to think about.

  Like how he was going to defeat those sons of bitches when he was outnumbered forty to one . . . or more.

  There was one way, he thought as a smile curved his lips in the darkness.

  Whittle ’em down . . . one dead Blackfoot at a time.

  * * *

  When the sky was gray in the east, Preacher climbed down from the bluff to rejoin Birdie and Hawk. She was already up, gathering wood for a small fire. Hawk still slept, but he woke up as his parents moved around the camp.

  He got to his feet. “No sign of the Blackfeet?” he asked Preacher.

  “Nope.”

  “May the Great Spirit continue to smile upon us.”

  “I can’t argue with that. Facin’ the odds we are, I’ll take all the luck I can get.”

  “You are afraid?” Hawk asked
.

  “Nope. But I ain’t too proud to turn down help from the Great Spirit or anybody else.”

  Hawk frowned as if he sensed a reprimand in Preacher’s words. He turned away.

  Birdie caught the mountain man’s eye and smiled. That was a lot more welcome.

  Breakfast didn’t take long, and then they were on their way. Hawk took the lead again. Since Preacher and Birdie were leading Horse and the pack mule, the young man could move faster than they could, and as the morning passed he ranged farther and farther ahead.

  A worried frown creased Birdie’s forehead. “He should not be separated so much from us.”

  “We can still see him,” Preacher said. “Anyway, he’s a grown man. He ought to be separated from his folks by now, in more ways than one. Shoot, I’ll bet most of the young men his age are already married and startin’ families.”

  “He soon will be,” Birdie said as a smile replaced the frown on her face. “There is a girl he likes named Little Pine. I think before winter comes, the two of them will be joined. At least, they will be if the threat of Tall Bull is over by then.” That reminder of the danger hanging over the Absaroka made Birdie fall silent.

  Preacher didn’t say anything, either, as they walked on tirelessly. He found himself thinking, though, what it would be like to hold a grandchild in his hands . . .

  A sudden whoop from up ahead jolted him out of that pleasant reverie.

  Hawk was a couple hundred yards away, passing between two stands of trees. Warriors leaped from behind those trees and surrounded him, closing in with tomahawks raised to strike. The young man turned, lifting his own tomahawk to try to block the deadly blows as they fell.

  “Hawk!” Bird in the Tree cried. “My son!”

  Preacher figured he could cut down the odds a little. He dropped Horse’s reins and lifted the rifle he held in his other hand. Its curved butt socketed against his shoulder as he drew back the hammer, settled the sights on one of the attacking warriors, and pulled the trigger.