Preacher's Hell Storm

by William W. Johnstone

  “They did not notice, or he would be dead.”

  The old man nodded. “They hurt White Buffalo. They k-killed everyone. Everyone.”

  “I’m sorry, White Buffalo,” Preacher told him. “They won’t hurt you again, and neither will we.”

  “They went away . . . but White Buffalo was . . . was too frightened to move.”

  The old-timer had been lying under a corpse for two or three days and hadn’t come out until he heard somebody moving around, Preacher thought. No wonder he looked pretty wild-eyed. Such an ordeal would be enough to make a normal man go insane, let alone an old codger who was weak in the head to start with.

  On the other hand, White Buffalo’s mental state might have something to do with why he wasn’t even crazier after what had happened. As Hawk had said, the old man’s thoughts were scattered. He might not have realized just how harrowing his situation really was.

  “You do not have to be afraid now,” Hawk told him. “Preacher and I will take care of you.”

  “P-Preacher?” White Buffalo looked at the mountain man. “You are the one called Preacher?”

  “I am.”

  “No one has killed more Blackfeet than you! You are the Ghost Killer! You should kill them! Kill them all!”

  Preacher nodded. “That’s sorta the plan.”

  * * *

  They led White Buffalo back down the creek several hundred yards from the village. After the old man drank deeply from the stream, they found a log for him to sit on.

  Preacher gave him a piece of jerky and told him, “You should stay here, White Buffalo, while Hawk and me do what’s got to be done.”

  White Buffalo took the jerky and attacked it hungrily. He didn’t have many teeth left, but he made up for that lack with enthusiasm. After three days without eating, he was starving.

  “Reckon he’ll be busy workin’ on that for a while,” Preacher said quietly to Hawk. “Dog can stay here and keep an eye on him.”

  Hawk glanced at the sky. “It will be dark soon.”

  “Yeah, I know, but the situation’s bad enough as it is. It’ll only be worse by mornin’.”

  Hawk nodded grimly. He and Preacher left the old man sitting on the log and headed back to the village to take care of the chore awaiting them.

  They worked long into the night, wrapping the bodies in robes and blankets and placing them in trees. Preacher made sure Hawk didn’t have to handle Little Pine’s body, but he told the young man which resting place was hers so he could chant another song of mourning and cut off more of his hair.

  Dawn was not far away and both men were staggering with exhaustion and the shock of the massacre before they finished with their work.

  Preacher said, “Let’s move on and make camp somewheres else, then try to get some rest.”

  “Not here in this place of the dead,” Hawk said.

  “No. Not here.”

  “We must take White Buffalo with us.”

  Preacher had been waiting for the youngster to reach that conclusion. Just so Hawk was clear on things, Preacher said, “You understand we’re settin’ off to wage war on those damn Blackfeet. You really want to take along an old man who can’t think straight and may have trouble keepin’ up?”

  “We cannot leave him here. He could not take care of himself.” Hawk frowned. “We have no choice but to take him with us, at least until we find a place where he can stay safely. There might be another village somewhere that would take him in.”

  Preached nodded. “It just so happens I agree with you, but I wanted to make sure you knew what we were gettin’ into. Like I said, we don’t have to get in a hurry about takin’ our revenge on Tall Bull. If White Buffalo slows us down a mite, it probably won’t hurt anything in the long run.” The mountain man paused, then said, “Wonder how he come to get that name.”

  “Because he is a rare creature, just like the white buffalo. That is what my mother told me.”

  Preacher let out a grunt of laughter. “Reckon I can’t argue with that.”

  They walked back down the creek and found White Buffalo still sitting on the log, but Dog was sitting directly in front of the old man, facing him, with an intent expression on his wolflike face. White Buffalo leaned forward, his gaze fixed on Dog with the same sort of expression.

  “What in tarnation are they doin’?” Preacher muttered.

  “White Buffalo says he can talk to animals,” Hawk said.

  “Well, shoot, most o’ the time I figure Dog and Horse can understand what I’m sayin’ to ’em.”

  “Yes, but White Buffalo understands what they say in return.”

  Preacher frowned. “That sounds a mite loco to me.”

  “I do not know if it is true,” Hawk replied with a shrug. “All I know is what he claims, and what was said of him in the village as far back as I can remember. Once, a bear wandered up while the warriors were away hunting. The people were greatly frightened, but White Buffalo went out and talked to the bear and asked what it wanted. The bear told him it wanted to hear a song, so White Buffalo sang a song for it. And the bear went away.” Hawk shook his head. “I was very little when that happened, but I have never forgotten it.”

  Preacher didn’t know whether to laugh or figure Hawk had gone crazy, too. Before he could make up his mind, White Buffalo lifted his head and said, “My friend Dog says we should leave this place. He says it stinks here, not only of death but of evil, as well. There is nothing left here for us but memories, and we cannot recall them with fondness until we put this place behind us.”

  “Dog told you all that, did he?” Preacher said.

  Dog turned and looked over his shoulder at the mountain man for a second and then let out a sharp, short bark.

  Preacher was taken aback for a moment, but then he grinned. “Well, all right. I guess he told me, too. You’re comin’ with us, White Buffalo.”

  “You go to war against Tall Bull and the Blackfeet?”

  Hawk said, “They have much to pay for.”

  With all the dignity he could muster, White Buffalo rose to his feet. “White Buffalo will go with Hawk That Soars and Preacher and Dog and Horse and The Mule With No Name.” He was so skinny Preacher expected his bones to rattle together when he moved.

  “Well, that’s just, uh, fine.”

  “White Buffalo will kill many Blackfeet,” the old man said as he began to shuffle along the creek bank with them.

  “Maybe you’ll get the chance to,” Preacher told him, even though that wasn’t actually the plan.

  When they had gone a few steps, White Buffalo looked over at him and asked, “You have more jerky?”

  CHAPTER 10

  Preacher knew more Blackfoot search parties still might be in the valley. The men who had been sent to look for Hawk and Birdie would be searching for whoever had killed their fellow warriors. The whereabouts of Tall Bull and the war party that had wiped out the Absaroka village was a mystery, though.

  For the time being, the little group had to avoid the searchers while doing some hunting of their own.

  Preacher intended to take the fight to Tall Bull, which meant invading the Blackfoot chief’s territory. As they moved toward the looming mountain called Beartooth, he said to Hawk, “Tall Bull’s stompin’ grounds are still north of here, ain’t they?”

  “That is the Blackfoot land, yes.”

  “That means we got to go either over or around that mountain.”

  “There is a pass”—Hawk pointed—“up there.”

  To the left of Beartooth, the pass was high but not inaccessible. It might take several days to reach the other side, Preacher thought as he studied the terrain.

  They stopped when they reached a narrow bench covered with trees. It was a good place for him and Hawk to get some rest. They needed it. Both men were tired after a grueling, sleepless night and a long, sorrowful day before that.

  White Buffalo was the one who dozed off first, however, falling into slumber as soon as he stretched out on th
e ground. Within moments, surprisingly loud snores began to issue from his mouth.

  “Hope that racket don’t attract too much attention,” Preacher said with a wry smile as he unsaddled Horse. “Dog, you and Horse keep watch.” He knew the big cur and the rangy stallion were the best sentries anyone could want. He reclined under a tree and fell asleep almost instantly as well, confident his friends would awaken him at the slightest hint of danger.

  He didn’t budge for several hours, and then when he woke he was instantly and fully alert again, a habit the long and perilous years on the frontier had ingrained in him. He didn’t sit up right away but lay motionless, letting his senses reach out and search around him for anything out of the ordinary.

  Satisfied that nothing unusual or threatening was going on, he sat up and looked around. White Buffalo was still asleep, although the old man had rolled over and wasn’t snoring anymore, just breathing deeply and regularly.

  Dog lay a few yards away, head resting on his front paws even though he was wide awake. Horse and the pack mule cropped at some grass nearby.

  Hawk was nowhere to be seen.

  Preacher frowned. It wasn’t common for anybody to move around near him without him being aware of it, even when he was sound asleep. Hawk had quite a gift for stealth in order to do that.

  Dog and Horse knew Hawk wasn’t a threat, so they hadn’t raised any ruckus when the young man got up and left. Preacher had no idea where Hawk had gone, but his disappearance was worrisome.

  Preacher came smoothly to his feet with the flintlock rifle in his hands. “Dog,” he said quietly, “find Hawk.”

  Dog padded through the trees, moving briskly along the bench. Preacher followed at a trot. He figured Horse could look out for White Buffalo for a while. If the old man woke up and realized he was alone, there was no telling what he might do, but Preacher hoped he and Hawk would be back before then.

  Dog slowed down and growled softly like he was stalking something. Preacher eased his pace to a more deliberate one. When Dog came to a complete stop, Preacher knew Hawk was somewhere close by.

  Someone else might be, too, judging by the way Dog was acting. Someone unfriendly.

  Preacher heard voices up ahead, making him think back several nights to the moment he had awakened in the darkness and had his first hint trouble lurked in the valley. He motioned for Dog to stay and went forward slowly in complete silence, living up to the Ghost Killer name the Blackfeet had given him.

  His keen eyes spotted something out of place. Hawk almost blended into the brush where he knelt, but not quite. Not to someone like Preacher who could see things where others could not. Hawk waited at the top of a slope, watching something—or someone—down below.

  Preacher heard men talking again and knew Hawk was spying on somebody. Since the only other people Preacher knew of in the valley were the surviving Blackfoot search parties, he had to conclude that Hawk had found one of them, instead of the other way around.

  Preacher made a faint noise that wouldn’t carry more than a few feet. He could have reached Hawk’s side and taken the young man by complete surprise, but he didn’t want to startle him into doing anything that might give away their presence.

  Hawk turned his head to look. He seemed surprised to see Preacher, but he made no sound. He pointed wordlessly to whomever was below.

  Preacher motioned for Dog to stay, then crept forward to join Hawk. Through tiny gaps in the brush, he saw five Blackfoot warriors. They had stopped in the middle of the day to chew on some pemmican and were hunkered down on their heels as they ate and talked among themselves.

  Preacher spoke and understood the Blackfoot tongue, the Absaroka language, and numerous others as well as he did English. He could communicate at least some with every tribe on the frontier, the Spanish down in the Southwest, and the French-Canadian trappers. He could even make a little sense out of that Dutch talk.

  He knew what the Blackfeet were discussing as he and Hawk eavesdropped on them. Hawk seemed to understand, too. After a few moments, the warriors finished their meal, stood up, and trotted on. Preacher and Hawk waited until they were out of sight to say anything, and even then, they kept their voices low.

  “I woke and heard them talking and followed them,” Hawk said. “I knew it had to be one of the search parties. They go to rejoin Tall Bull, who returns to the Blackfoot village with most of the war party.”

  “You ain’t tellin’ me anything I don’t already know,” Preacher said. “They’re bearin’ news of what happened to those other search parties we ran into. I reckon it’d be best if we didn’t let ’em get back to Tall Bull. For as long as possible, we want him believin’ your whole band was wiped out.”

  “The better to take him by surprise.”

  Preacher nodded. “Yep.”

  “And killing these men would be a good start on what we have set out to do.”

  “Yep, again,” Preacher replied. “You reckon they’re headed for that pass up yonder?”

  “They take a different trail, but that has to be their destination. It is the only way around Beartooth without going so far out of the way it would take a week or more.”

  “They’ll want to find Tall Bull sooner than that. You know of a good place where we can jump ’em?”

  “That trail goes past a waterfall. If we could reach it before them and use it for concealment—”

  “We’d take ’em by surprise and the odds wouldn’t mean near as much,” Preacher finished.

  “But what about White Buffalo? We must hurry, and can we trust him not to give us away?”

  “He was still sound asleep when I came to look for you. He can stay right where he is until we get back. Dog can look after him.” Preacher turned to the big cur. “Dog, go back to your new pard White Buffalo. Keep an eye on him.”

  Dog whined a little.

  “I know. You want to go kill some o’ them Blackfeet with us. But do what I tell you.” The mountain man added, “And tell White Buffalo we’ll be back later.”

  Dog padded off through the trees.

  Hawk said, “You believe now that White Buffalo can talk to animals?”

  Preacher chuckled. “I ain’t sayin’ he can . . . and I ain’t sayin’ he can’t. Now lead the way to that waterfall.”

  * * *

  The Blackfeet hadn’t seemed to be in any hurry as they left the spot where they had paused to rest and eat. Preacher and Hawk, on the other hand, moved as swiftly as they could. They followed a course roughly parallel to that of their enemies but stayed up on the bench so as to pass the Blackfeet and get in front of them.

  They came to the mouth of a steep canyon slanting up away from them. A narrow trail also led into the canyon from below.

  Hawk nodded toward it. “That is the way the Blackfeet will come. We are here before them.”

  Preacher studied the ground for a moment. “Yeah, there ain’t been nobody come along here recently. We’re ahead of ’em, all right. You’re sure they’ll come this way?”

  “It is the only way to reach the pass around Beartooth.”

  Preacher nodded. “Let’s go, then.”

  They followed the canyon, which was narrow and twisting and choked with brush in places. After a while Preacher began to hear a low, steady roar and knew it was coming from the waterfall they sought.

  A short time later, they rounded another bend in the canyon and spotted the waterfall up ahead. It plummeted some fifty feet down a rock face to form a small pool. As he and Hawk came closer, he saw that the stream flowing from the pool entered a narrow cleft between sheer stone walls with no path on either side.

  “Is this the same creek that flows through the valley down yonder?” Preacher asked.

  “Yes. It twists around like a snake and even goes underground for a short distance before it comes out again and becomes the creek we know. The creek that runs by—” The young man’s voice choked off.

  Preacher knew what Hawk had started to say. The creek that runs by our vil
lage. Except it wasn’t his village anymore and never would be again. As the seasons passed, everything that had been left there would return to the earth, and in time no one would know that a band of people had ever lived there.

  It was a shame, but it was the way of the world.

  The thought had put the habitual scowl back on Hawk’s face. He pointed to where the trail ran past the pool at the base of the waterfall on the left, then made a sharp turn in that direction before zigzagging up the slope toward higher ground.

  “If we hide behind the waterfall, we can take them there.”

  “If we’re behind that waterfall, I won’t be able to use my guns,” Preacher pointed out. “The powder will get wet.”

  Hawk grunted. “One more reason the weapons of my people are better than those of the white man.”

  “I suppose you could look at it that way.” Preacher glanced around, searching for some other place he could conceal himself but finding none. The area around the waterfall was rocky and the vegetation was sparse. Hawk’s idea of hiding behind the cascade seemed to be the only practical one.

  Preacher found a place in some rocks where he could leave his rifle, pistols, powder horn, and shot pouch out of sight; then he looked again at the waterfall. “Gonna be a mite chilly under there. I hope them Blackfoot come along ’fore we’re too froze up to move.”

  “My hatred will keep me from freezing,” Hawk said.

  Preacher figured the boy had a point.

  They waded out into the shallow pool and then stepped underneath the waterfall. The constant cascade had worn down the rock face so there was a small hollow area behind the torrent. It wasn’t big enough for them to escape being drenched, but it would make it more difficult for the Blackfeet to see them.

  Once they were in position, all they could do was wait. They drew tomahawks and knives and stood motionless. Preacher’s hat provided his head with a little protection, at least. The water streamed unhindered down Hawk’s long hair.