Preacher's Hell Storm

by William W. Johnstone

  “I can believe that,” Preacher said. “She was a fine woman.”

  “She did not deserve what happened to her.”

  “Most folks don’t deserve what happens to ’em, be it good or bad. I’d say if everybody got what was comin’ to ’em, there’d be a whole lot fewer people in the world.”

  Hawk glanced over at him. “You see the worst in people. Bird in the Tree always saw the best.”

  “Yeah, I reckon the way she felt about a couple o’ rapscallions like you and me proves that.” Preacher wasn’t sure, but he thought for a second that Hawk almost smiled.

  A long period of silence went by as they walked up the valley, Preacher leading Horse and Hawk grasping the pack mule’s reins.

  Preacher got so accustomed to the quiet that he was a little surprised when Hawk said, “Why did you not come back to the village and my mother?”

  “I reckon I just never got around to it,” Preacher answered honestly. “There were a heap of other places I wanted to see. The frontier is a mighty big place. But it was nothin’ against your ma. I thought mighty highly of her and had only good memories of our time together.”

  “Not good enough to bring you back.”

  “I might’ve been better off if I had come back, but I reckon we’ll never know.”

  Hawk was quiet for a few moments, then said, “I have never been far from this valley. I am not sure I have ever been out of sight of Beartooth.”

  “Beartooth?”

  Hawk pointed to the distinctive peak looming ahead of them in the distance at the head of the valley.

  “That’s a good name for it,” Preacher said. “Don’t reckon I ever heard it called that until now.”

  “That is because you did not come back.”

  “Well, yeah, I suppose so.”

  “Those other places and things you went to see . . . was seeing them worth it?”

  “That’s somethin’ else I’ll never be able to answer. You see, a fella’s life is just a whole mess o’ choices he makes as he goes along, and it’s easy for him to say, well, if I’d just done this, then that other thing woulda happened, or if I’d done this, that thing wouldn’t have happened . . . but how in blazes are you ever gonna know? The only things you can ever know for sure are the ones that actually happened, and all you can hope is that there’s more good than bad among ’em.”

  “Are you through talking now?” Hawk asked. “I think I would like to see other places someday.”

  “No reason you can’t. The whole world’s out there just waitin’ for you to have a look-see.”

  They kept moving all day, staying in the cover of trees and brush and ridges as much as they could, rather than leading the animals out in the open. They traveled slower than they might have otherwise, but it was safer.

  Preacher had a hunch that the other Blackfoot search parties had found the dead warriors, possibly where both battles had taken place. They would be able to find the trail left by Preacher and Hawk. Trouble was behind them, probably to either side, and possibly ahead of them, as well.

  All they could do was keep moving.

  “You ever handle guns?” Preacher asked as they moved through a thick stand of trees.

  “A few of the warriors have rifles they traded for with white trappers,” Hawk said. “I have fired one now and then. They are loud and smell bad and it takes forever to make them ready to shoot again. A good bow and a quiver full of arrows are better.”

  “Depends on what you need ’em for, I’d say. And reloadin’ gets quicker the more you practice it. When we get a chance, I’ll show you how to use these pistols.”

  “I do not need to know—”

  “If you’re plannin’ on explorin’ the rest o’ the world one o’ these days, you do need to know how to handle a gun. It ain’t the same everywhere else as it is in this valley.”

  “Perhaps I should just stay here after all.”

  “That’s up to you,” Preacher said with a shrug.

  He knew that wasn’t going to be the case, however. Now that Hawk had admitted he had something of a wandering urge, that restless nature was just going to grow stronger inside him until he couldn’t stand to stay where he was. He would have to move on and see what was on the other side of Beartooth Mountain.

  Preacher figured the youngster had inherited that from him, too.

  The sun was low in the sky by the time they came in sight of several dozen tepees scattered along the creek bank with the peak looming darkly above them. Eager to be home again and probably anxious to see that gal he’d left behind, Hawk’s pace grew a little more brisk.

  Preacher frowned. What had Birdie said her name was? Little Pine?

  “Where are the dogs?” Hawk asked.

  “What?”

  “The dogs should have smelled us and seen us and started barking.”

  “Maybe they’re all asleep.” Unease began to stir inside Preacher, as it obviously had in Hawk That Soars.

  “No. People should be moving around. Smoke should be coming from the cooking fires. Something is wrong!”

  “Could be.” Preacher dropped Horse’s reins and tightened both hands on the rifle he carried. “We’d best take it slow—”

  He had barely gotten the words out of his mouth when Hawk promptly ignored them and broke into a run toward the village.

  CHAPTER 8

  Since Hawk was dashing forward into possible danger, Preacher had no choice but to bite back a curse and go after him. Leaving Horse and the pack mule where they were, he and Dog ran toward the village, too.

  Hawk was fast on his feet, Preacher had to give him that. With the speed of youth, he pulled well ahead. He came to an abrupt stop, though, as he neared the village.

  Preacher caught up to him a moment later and understood why Hawk had stopped. The stench of death filled the air, along with a buzzing that could only be a horde of flies.

  “I . . . I do not see anyone,” Hawk said.

  “Neither do I, but I reckon we both know they’re here.” Preacher jerked his head back toward the spot where Horse and the pack mule waited. “Go on back yonder. Dog and me will have a look around.”

  Hawk swallowed hard and then shook his head. “No. Whatever happened here, I must see it for myself.”

  Preacher had a pretty good idea what had happened, and it wasn’t good. Like Hawk, he had to know for sure.

  The two men and the big cur stalked forward. The hair on the back of Dog’s neck stood up, and Preacher’s hackles were raised, too. He had a grim hunch no one was left alive to threaten them but held the rifle ready to fire. Hawk drew an arrow from his quiver and nocked it.

  When they came to the nearest tepee, Preacher reached out with the rifle barrel and used it to pull back the hide flap over the opening. Instantly, thousands of flies swarmed out, forming a black cloud. Hawk jumped back, then immediately looked ashamed of the startled reaction.

  “I’ll take a look.” Preacher moved closer, holding back the flap with the rifle barrel. Through the opening, he saw four bodies lying on the ground, two women and two children. The corpses were sprawled haphazardly, as if they had been dragged to the tepee and thrown inside by someone who didn’t care how they landed.

  From what he could see, the Indians had been dead for several days. He backed away, let the flap fall closed, and said, “It’s pretty bad. Two women and a couple o’ kids, all dead.”

  Hawk turned and ran to another tepee. He jerked the flap open and then recoiled as flies swarmed around his head. He batted at them to clear them away, then looked through the opening and let out a howl like a hurt animal.

  Preacher closed a hand around the young man’s arm and tugged him away from the tepee. Hawk struggled, trying to pull free.

  “Blast it, stop that!” Preacher said. “There’s nothin’ you can do for ’em, Hawk. You have to understand that. You can’t help ’em now.”

  “Little Pine!” Hawk cried. “I must find her!”

  “Chances are, you do
n’t want to do that. Let me look. Where did she live?”

  “There.” Hawk lifted a hand and pointed shakily at one of the tepees.

  “You wait here.”

  “But . . . but someone may still be alive.”

  “I doubt it, but we’ll check the whole village. Right now just stay where you are.”

  Hawk stood as if too stricken to move while Preacher went to the tepee the young man had pointed out. With no guarantee the murdering Blackfeet had dumped the bodies back in the tepees where they belonged, he knew he might not find Little Pine there.

  He had no doubt it was indeed Tall Bull and his Blackfoot warriors who were responsible for the massacre. Birdie and Hawk had believed most of the war party came after them, but clearly, that wasn’t the case. Tall Bull had sent search parties after them, sure, Preacher had seen proof of that, but the war chief had evidently kept most of his force with him. Shortly after Birdie and Hawk had gone to look for help, the Blackfoot war party had fallen on the village and wiped it out.

  Preacher wasn’t sure why the bodies hadn’t been left where they had been struck down. Most war parties had a shaman or medicine man with them; maybe there was some mystical reason for putting the dead Absaroka back in their tepees.

  He opened the flap and let the flies out, then steeled himself to step inside and take a closer look at the corpses piled next to the fire pit. Two warriors, their bodies covered with arrow wounds and their skulls bashed in by tomahawks. An older woman, her throat cut.

  And a young woman, barely more than a child. A terrible head wound showed that she had been struck down by a tomahawk, too. Between the flies and the ants that had been at her face, her features were distorted and probably not much of a reflection of how she had looked when she was alive.

  Preacher saw a tiny half-moon-shaped scar on her upper lip, though, just above the right corner of her mouth. He made a mental note of that, then said quietly, “I’m sure Gitche Manitou welcomed you into the life beyond, little one.”

  Hawk was waiting outside when Preacher thrust the flap back. “Little Pine . . . ?”

  “There’s a young woman in there,” Preacher told him. “She has a little scar . . . here.” He touched his own upper lip where the thick mustache drooped over the corner of his mouth.

  Hawk cried out as if his soul had just been ripped from his body. He started to rush past Preacher, but the mountain man caught him before he could plunge through the opening into the tepee.

  “Ain’t no need for you to go in there,” he said as he exerted his great strength and swung Hawk around so the young man’s moccasined feet came off the ground. “No need for you to see.”

  “She was to be my wife!” Hawk panted as Preacher walked away. The young man struggled to get free, but Preacher’s arm was like a bar of iron around his waist.

  “Then remember her the way she was. That’s the best way you can honor her memory and what the two of you might’ve been. I reckon that’s probably what she would have wanted.”

  “You did not know her! You do not know what she would have wanted!”

  “I’m right anyway,” Preacher said. “If you don’t ever take my word for anything else, boy, you best take it for this.” He hauled Hawk well away from the tepee where Little Pine’s body lay. When he stopped, he kicked Hawk’s legs out from under him and dumped him on the ground next to the creek.

  Hawk would have sprung right back up, but Preacher planted a boot on his chest and pushed him back down. “Listen to me!” he said, trying to get through to the wild-eyed young man. “I’m gonna look in every tepee to make sure there ain’t nobody left alive, but you and I both know I ain’t likely to find anybody. Tall Bull and his men have been here. He wanted to wipe out this bunch of Absaroka, and he’s damn near done it.” Since the Absaroka tongue had no word for damn, he had to say that in English. “But he hasn’t been successful yet. You’re still alive, Hawk. You’re the last of this band, but you’re still here.”

  “I will kill him,” Hawk said, breathless from the rage that gripped him.

  “Maybe. If I don’t kill him first. But he’s gonna die, you can bet a brand-new beaver hat on that.” Hawk seemed to have calmed down a little, so Preacher took his foot off the young man’s chest. “Now, you’re gonna stay here while I finish havin’ a look around. Then we’ll figure out what we need to do next.”

  “They must be laid to rest properly.”

  “I agree. It’ll be a big job . . . a nasty job . . . but I reckon it ought to be done. It’ll take a while, too. We’re not in a hurry.”

  “We must go after Tall Bull!”

  “Yeah, but you can let vengeance simmer for a long time if you have to.” Preacher grunted. “Sometimes it’s even better that way.”

  * * *

  Hawk sat on the creek bank with his knees drawn up and his forearms resting on them while Preacher searched the rest of the tepees.

  It had occurred to the mountain man that Tall Bull might have had all the massacre victims put back in the tepees so the presence of a seemingly empty village would serve as bait for any more Absaroka who might come along. The war chief and his warriors could be lurking somewhere nearby, keeping watch on the place.

  Preacher decided that was unlikely. As far as Tall Bull knew, he had wiped out the entire band except for Bird in the Tree and Hawk That Soars, and since he’d sent men after them, he probably believed them to be already dead.

  If it had been in his mind to use the village as a trap, he had grown bored and abandoned the idea. No one bothered Preacher as he went from tepee to tepee, finding only more bodies. The village’s dogs had been slain and tossed into the tepees, too.

  The warriors all bore enough wounds to tell him they had put up a good fight. Preacher was sure they had inflicted some casualties among Tall Bull’s war party, but the Blackfeet must have taken those bodies away with them. He found nothing except Absaroka corpses. They’d been no match for the Blackfoot raiders.

  The children were the worst. Preacher saw wounds on the little boys that told him even they had tried to fight.

  He had witnessed the aftermath of many such slaughters in the past, but he had never grown callous to the human toll they took. He hoped he never would.

  Finally, he had checked every tepee and hadn’t found anything except the dead. He stepped out of the last one and looked toward the creek bank. Hawk still sat there, staring pensively out over the stream.

  Dog sat a few yards away, unobtrusively keeping watch over the young man. Horse and the pack mule were grazing at the edge of the village.

  Preacher headed toward Hawk so they could get started on the grim task of wrapping all the bodies in blankets and robes and placing them in the trees, but he had taken only a couple steps when he heard a sudden rush of sound behind him. Before he could turn, something foul-smelling landed on his back with a staggering impact and screeched and squalled in his ear.

  CHAPTER 9

  Preacher’s first thought was that he’d been jumped by a wildcat, but as he stumbled forward a couple steps, he felt bony human arms go around his neck and start choking him. Whoever it was kept up the shrill hollering.

  Preacher caught his balance, planted his feet solidly underneath him, and reached back over his shoulders. He caught hold of what felt like a bunch of sticks in a rawhide bag and heaved as he bent forward. The screeching took on a terrified note as the attacker flew over Preacher’s head and flipped toward the ground.

  The old man landed with a pained grunt. His mane of long, tangled white hair shot out in all directions from his head. He wore filthy buckskins and was so scrawny he’d be almost invisible if he turned sideways. He weighed little enough he wouldn’t have made Preacher stumble if the attack hadn’t caught the mountain man between steps, when he was slightly off balance.

  Hawk heard the commotion and ran toward them. As Preacher reached for one of the pistols behind his belt, the young man waved his arms and shouted, “No! Do not hurt him! That is White B
uffalo!”

  The old man rolled over, scrambled to his feet, and looked around wildly as if searching for a way to escape. He was positively ancient, Preacher realized, his face just a mass of wrinkles surrounded by the frizzy white hair.

  White Buffalo started to dart away, but Hawk reached him and caught hold of his shoulders. “Wait! We will not hurt you! I am Hawk That Soars. You know me, White Buffalo. My mother was Bird in the Tree.”

  The old man rapidly blinked his watery eyes and finally focused on Hawk. He said in a cracked voice, “Your mother . . . Bird in the Tree . . . was?”

  Hawk swallowed. “She is with the Great Spirit now.” He tightened his grip on White Buffalo’s shoulders. “But I am alive and so are you. How is this possible?”

  “The . . . the Blackfeet came . . .”

  “We know this. They attacked the village.”

  White Buffalo opened and closed his mouth a couple times, peered around blankly, and licked his lips. “The Blackfeet came.”

  “He’s out of his head,” Preacher said.

  “Give him time,” Hawk said. “His thoughts are scattered. They have been ever since I have known him. He must gather them before he can tell us anything.”

  White Buffalo nodded eagerly and said yet again, “The Blackfeet came.”

  “And what happened then?” Hawk urged.

  “Much crying. Much, much crying. The Blackfeet hurt the Absaroka.” The old man pointed to a crusted-over wound on his head. Blood had dyed the white hair pink around it. “The Blackfeet hurt White Buffalo.”

  “I am sorry. What did you do?”

  “Hid.” White Buffalo nodded. “Hid under Big Boulder.”

  “He hid under a big rock?” Preacher said.

  Hawk shook his head and explained. “Big Boulder is the name of a warrior.”

  Preacher began to understand. “The old fella hid among the bodies and pretended to be dead. I reckon with all the blood from that head wound, he looked dead. If he was still enough, the Blackfeet might not ’ve noticed he was alive.”