Preacher's Hell Storm

by William W. Johnstone

  A hunting party like that might range for several miles away from its home village, but usually not much farther unless game was scarce. Deer, antelope, elk, and moose appeared to be plentiful. That year, anyway. Preacher expected the Blackfoot village would turn out to be pretty close.

  By late that afternoon, he caught the faint scent of wood smoke and grinned as he said as much to Hawk.

  “I smell it, too,” the young man said. “The village is not far away.”

  “Let’s look for a good out-of-the-way spot where we can make camp. We’ll go look for Tall Bull later, after it gets dark.”

  They needed a place they could use as a base for their campaign against Tall Bull and the Blackfeet, a place where they could safely leave White Buffalo and retreat to after they made their strikes against the enemy.

  They searched until they found a cave hollowed into the base of a ridge. Preacher sniffed and grimaced as he stepped inside the place. “Bear den, but ol’ Ephraim ain’t here right now. He’s done woke up for the season and won’t be back until fall.”

  “Waugghh!” White Buffalo said. “It stinks in here!”

  “You’ll get used to it,” Preacher told the old-timer. “We’ll get some brush and cover up the entrance as best we can. With any luck nobody’ll be able to find us when we’re holed up in here.” He wrapped some dry grass around a branch and made a torch out of it, lit it with flint and steel, and explored the rear portion of the cave to make sure no unwelcome residents were lurking back there.

  The cave was empty.

  Horse and the pack mule didn’t like the smell any more than White Buffalo did. They balked when Preacher and Hawk tried to lead them inside, but the two were finally able to urge the animals in. The ceiling was high enough for them.

  Dog sat outside, but it wasn’t as important to get him out of sight. Any Blackfoot who caught a glimpse of him would likely take him for a wolf.

  Preacher used heavy rocks to hold down the reins attached to Horse and the pack mule. There was no graze, so they would have to cut grass and take it into the cave along with water. That sounded like a good job for White Buffalo, if they could convince the old codger to do it.

  By the time Preacher and Hawk had cut some brush and arranged it in front of the cave mouth to look normal, night was falling. They had a piece of cooked deer haunch from the day before that made a decent supper without having to build a fire. Any cracks in the rock would allow smoke to filter out, but Preacher wasn’t sure yet if any existed, so a fire would have to wait until he could explore their haven further.

  He said to White Buffalo, “You’ll have to stay here while Hawk and me do some scoutin’. We need to find out exactly where that Blackfoot village is.”

  “Stay here?” White Buffalo said. “You want me to sit in the dark in a cave that smells bad?”

  “It don’t smell as bad once you get used to it,” Preacher said again.

  “You are a white man. An Indian’s senses are stronger.”

  “You must stay here, White Buffalo,” Hawk put in. “It would be too dangerous for you to come with us.”

  “Too dangerous for the Blackfeet, you mean, for a mighty warrior like White Buffalo to hunt them down and slay them all.”

  “Yeah, we want some of the varmints left for us to kill, so we can’t turn you loose on ’em just yet,” Preacher said. “Ain’t that right, Hawk?”

  The young man glared at him. “Do not mock White Buffalo. His head may be weak, but his spirit is still strong.”

  “Who says my head is weak?” White Buffalo demanded. “This is a lie!”

  “All right, look at it this way,” Preacher said. “This cave, no matter how bad it smells, is mighty important to us. We need a place to hole up while we’re makin’ life miserable for Tall Bull, and I don’t think we’re gonna find a better one. It’s important for somebody to stay here and guard the cave and Horse and The Mule With No Name. Hawk and I talked about it, and there’s nobody we trust more to do that job than you, White Buffalo.”

  The old-timer folded his arms over his narrow chest and regarded Preacher imperiously. “White Buffalo will guard the cave and the animals. He will not fail.”

  “That’s exactly what we figured.”

  “But White Buffalo needs a weapon,” the old man said, slipping back into the pattern of talking about himself as if he were someone else.

  “You can have my knife,” Hawk said.

  “I’ve got an extra one in my saddlebags,” Preacher said. “Let me get that for him.” He dug out the extra hunting knife. The blade wasn’t as sharp as the one Preacher carried, but it would do. He gave it handle-first to White Buffalo, who took it and ran the thumb of his other hand along the edge.

  Hawk caught his breath as if worried White Buffalo would cut his thumb off.

  The old man barely slit the skin and then nodded approvingly. “It is a fine weapon. It will be better when it has tasted the blood of the Blackfeet.”

  Preacher agreed. “Maybe that won’t be too much longer.”

  * * *

  A short time later, he and Hawk left the cave. Preacher could tell Hawk was worried about leaving White Buffalo behind, but they didn’t have a choice. They couldn’t trust the old man not to give them away accidentally while they were spying on the Blackfeet. He was the only living link Hawk had to the people he considered his own, so Preacher could understand why the old-timer was important to Hawk.

  The smell of wood smoke was still in the air. By following it as the scent grew stronger, they were able to locate the Blackfoot village. It was a large one.

  Preacher and Hawk knelt in some brush several hundred yards away. Fires burned here and there, casting enough light that Preacher was able to count forty-seven tepees arranged along a shallow bluff, at the bottom of which was a stream. He knew there might be more he couldn’t see. He was sure paths wound down the bluff so the women could fetch water back to the tepees.

  That creek also furnished a way he and Hawk could approach the village unseen. Preacher was already thinking about other Blackfoot villages and camps he had entered without anyone being the wiser until it was too late for those whose throats he had cut . . .

  “There,” Hawk whispered.

  Preacher looked where the youngster pointed and saw a lone brave walking away from the tepees. The man was going out into the trees to answer the call of nature, and he believed himself to be perfectly safe. After all, he was only a few yards away from his home and all the other people who lived in the village.

  Preacher thought it might be a good time to start disabusing the Blackfeet of the notion that they were safe.

  CHAPTER 13

  “Stay here,” Preacher told Hawk, keeping his voice to a whisper as well.

  “Why? What are you going to do?”

  “If I can get around there in time, I’m gonna grab that fella.”

  “You mean to kill him?”

  That was the first thing Preacher had thought of, but after considering for a moment, he had what he thought might be a better idea. “No, I’m gonna try to capture him. I’ll kill him if it comes down to that, but I’d like to take him alive.”

  “What good is a live Blackfoot to us?”

  “I ain’t figured that part out yet, but you never know, he might come in handy.”

  Clearly, Hawk thought Preacher was mad, but he said, “I will come with you. Two of us will have a better chance of success than one.”

  “Maybe so, but if anything happens to one, the other’ll be left to carry on the war. Stay here.” He thought Hawk might balk just on general principles. The boy did seem to have a broad contrary streak in him.

  After a couple heartbeats, Hawk said, “All right. But if you do not return, I make no promises about what I will do.”

  “I reckon if I don’t come back, it won’t matter much to me.” With that, Preacher moved off into the darkness, employing all the talent for stealth at his command. All the other times he had approached Blackfoot
villages with killing in mind came back to him. He reminded himself he didn’t intend to kill this warrior, just to capture him.

  It might be possible to make the man talk. They could find out how many warriors were in the village and what plans Tall Bull had made to expand his power and influence even more.

  Of course, the fella wouldn’t cooperate willingly. They’d probably have to persuade him.

  Preacher moved as quickly as he could without making any noise, circling wide around the village toward the area where the warrior had disappeared into the thick shadows under the trees. When Preacher thought he was getting close to the right spot, he paused to listen, honing his keen sense of hearing for any sounds that didn’t belong in the woods.

  After a moment, he heard brush crackle and a scuffing footstep not far away. The sound was louder than what a small animal would make. Whatever the Blackfoot had come to do, he was finished and was heading back into the village.

  Preacher angled through the shadows to intercept him.

  It turned out to be easy. Spotting the dark figure, he eased up soundlessly behind him. He could have killed the warrior without any trouble, clapping a hand over his mouth to prevent any outcry, then cutting his throat or sliding the knife into his back to skewer his heart.

  Instead, Preacher looped his left arm around the warrior’s neck and jerked it tight, clasping that wrist with his right hand. He pulled back so hard and fast the Blackfoot lost his balance and his feet went out from under him. He began to flail around and struggle as Preacher choked him. He pulled at the mountain man’s arm, but it was clamped across his throat like a bar of iron.

  Preacher felt the man reaching down toward his waist and knew he was going for a weapon, probably a knife. Preacher let go of his own wrist and slammed his right fist against the side of the man’s head, stunning him. The Blackfoot’s struggles became weaker, and Preacher hit him again.

  The blows to the head, on top of the lack of breath, made the man pass out and go limp in Preacher’s grasp. Preacher walloped him again, just for good measure, then found the sheathed knife at the man’s waist and removed it. He got hold of the Blackfoot under the arms and dragged him through the woods away from the village.

  The warrior was still out cold when Preacher got back to the spot where he’d left Hawk.

  “Is he—?”

  “He’s alive,” Preacher said. “Help me get him tied up before he comes to.”

  They cut strips of buckskin from the man’s shirt and used them to tie his hands and feet. Preacher forced another strip into his mouth and tied it behind his head. The man might be able to make some noise when he woke up, but he couldn’t yell very loud.

  Preacher took the captive’s shoulders, Hawk grasped his ankles, and together they carried him through the darkness toward the cave. After a while the warrior regained consciousness and started thrashing around. Preacher dropped him so his head hit the ground hard, stunning him again.

  If it kept up, the fellow’s brain might be mush before they had a chance to question him. Preacher hoped it wouldn’t come to that.

  By the time they reached the cave, the man had come to again, but he didn’t try to fight, evidently figuring out there was no point to it, trussed up the way he was. He made plenty of angry noises through the makeshift gag, though.

  When they set the prisoner on the ground and started to move the brush aside from the entrance, White Buffalo leaped out, brandished the knife, and demanded to know who they were.

  “Take it easy, old-timer,” Preacher said. “It’s just Hawk and me . . . and a fella from Tall Bull’s village.”

  “He is alive?” White Buffalo asked, astonished.

  “Yep.”

  “You brought him for me to kill!”

  That wasn’t exactly true, but it didn’t hurt for the prisoner to hear the excitement and anticipation in White Buffalo’s voice. Their languages were similar enough the Blackfoot had to know what White Buffalo was saying.

  “Not just yet,” Preacher said. “We want to talk to him first.”

  White Buffalo scoffed. “Why talk to a Blackfoot? They are all ugly and thickheaded and know nothing. Talking to a Blackfoot is a waste of time. Better to kill him and get it over with.”

  “We’ll talk about that later. Right now, let’s get him inside.”

  They carried the man into the cave and placed him on the hard-packed dirt floor. Dog came over, sniffed at him, and growled.

  “That’s right, Dog,” Preacher told the big cur. “Guard.”

  Dog sat down beside the captive. If the man tried to get loose and escape, he would regret it.

  “If you will not let me kill him, he should be tortured,” White Buffalo grumbled. “I will build a small fire and put burning sticks in his eyes. I will cut his ears off and slice his stones from his body as well. He will be a long time dying, and in much pain.”

  Preacher figured the old man was serious, but White Buffalo couldn’t have been doing any better if Preacher had told him what to say. The Blackfoot was probably courageous enough, but after listening to White Buffalo for a while, he had to be getting a mite worried about what was going to happen to him.

  “No fires tonight,” Preacher said. “Even with that brush in front of the cave, somebody might spot it. We’ll wait until tomorrow morning.”

  “Then we can roast the Blackfoot, a little piece at a time?”

  “We’ll see,” Preacher said.

  * * *

  All sorts of dangers lurked on the frontier. A mountain lion or a bear could have gotten the warrior, but that would have caused a commotion somebody would have heard. A woods rattler might have bitten him, but again, he would have lived long enough to yell for help. The same was true if he had tripped in the dark and broken a leg.

  Preacher had no doubt that after enough time had passed, somebody would start looking for the fella . . . but they wouldn’t find any sign of him or anything to indicate what had happened to him.

  His disappearance would be a mystery.

  And in some ways, mysteries were the most frightening thing of all.

  By the next morning, exhaustion had claimed the prisoner. He was sleeping restlessly as Preacher knelt beside him and lightly slapped his cheek to wake him up.

  The man opened his eyes and looked up, seemingly confused at first about where he was and what was happening to him. Then he glanced past the mountain man at something else and his eyes widened with fear.

  Preacher looked behind him and saw White Buffalo standing there, a leering grin on his wrinkled old face that made him look like pure evil.

  Preacher jerked a thumb at him. In the Blackfoot tongue, he said to the warrior, “He gets you unless you talk to me.”

  Preacher took out his knife and worked the point under the strip of buckskin pulled tight in the man’s mouth. The man’s eyes flicked down toward the blade nervously, but Preacher was careful not to cut him as he slashed the buckskin. The warrior spit the stuff out and began gagging and working his aching jaw back and forth.

  He tried a couple times before he was able to talk. Then he said, “You are dead, white man. I am Strong Bear, mighty warrior of the Blackfeet! I will crush your bones and rip your arms and legs from your body!”

  “That’s funny,” Preacher said. “You didn’t seem so strong last night when I caught you. Fact is, I reckon there’s probably young maidens in your village who would’ve put up more of a fight if I grabbed them.”

  Strong Bear glowered at him but didn’t say anything.

  Hawk came over and hunkered down on the Blackfoot’s other side. He pressed the edge of his knife blade against Strong Bear’s throat and said, “You are one of Tall Bull’s warriors.”

  Strong Bear looked like he wanted to swallow, but he didn’t dare with the knife against his Adam’s apple. “Tall Bull is our war chief,” he managed to say.

  “You were with him when he raided the Absaroka village in the valley south of Beartooth.” It was an accusation, n
ot a question.

  Strong Bear didn’t respond. He could probably tell from the look in Hawk’s eyes that saying the wrong thing would get him killed . . . and whatever he said, it might be the wrong thing!

  “Hawk,” Preacher said quietly.

  The young man glanced up at him, and Preacher met his furious gaze squarely.

  After a moment, Hawk grunted and took the knife away from Strong Bear’s throat.

  Preacher looked at the prisoner again. “You can see both my friends are Absaroka. They have nothing in their hearts for you except hate. I’m the only chance you got to live a while longer, Strong Bear. To do that, you’re gonna have to tell me how many warriors Tall Bull has.”

  Preacher saw determination come into Strong Bear’s eyes. The man didn’t want to betray his war chief and his people. Preacher couldn’t blame him for that. Such resolve was admirable. Unfortunately, they needed information, and Strong Bear could give it to them. It was a bad situation . . . but worse for the Blackfoot.

  “I’m not gonna let Hawk kill you,” Preacher went on. “He’s young. He’d let his hate get the best of him and cut your throat. That’s too quick. I will let White Buffalo go to work on you. He’s old. He knows how to go slow when it comes to killin’ a man.”

  White Buffalo let out a cackle of laughter.

  “It’s up to you, Strong Bear. White Buffalo’s been wantin’ to kill himself a Blackfoot, and you’re the unlucky fella who got caught. I ain’t gonna ask you again.”

  Strong Bear licked his lips. “If I tell you what you want to know, you will kill me anyway, and then I will know great shame when I greet my ancestors.”

  “As for as killin’ you anyway goes . . . more than likely. But if you cooperate, it’ll be quick. Your ancestors know there’s no shame in dyin’ a quick, clean death, instead of what this crazy ol’ varmint will do to you.”

  Preacher saw a mixture of hate, fear, and determination roiling around in Strong Bear’s eyes. He’d figured all along chances were good they wouldn’t be able to get any information out of the captive, even if they resorted to torture . . . which he hadn’t yet made up his mind to allow.