Preacher's Hell Storm

by William W. Johnstone

  CHAPTER 24

  With Dog standing guard over Winter Wind, the young woman didn’t get another chance to try to escape that night. It wasn’t long until dawn, only a few hours, but Preacher was able to get a little rest.

  Anyway, his iron constitution always allowed him to bounce back quickly whenever he was exhausted or injured. Some people had said he wasn’t made of anything except bone and rawhide, and the description wasn’t far off the mark.

  When the sun was barely up, he and Hawk led Horse and the pack mule out of the cave, but only after quickly scouting the area and determining there were no Blackfoot warriors lurking nearby, looking for them.

  White Buffalo came out of the cave next, grumbling and looking back as if he wanted to kill Winter Wind before he left.

  Preacher didn’t blame the old man for feeling that way, but he wasn’t going to allow him to indulge his hatred. He whistled for Dog, and the big cur bounded out. Sensing they were going to be on the move again soon, he was eager to get started. Horse shared that same sense of anticipation, prancing around a little as he waited with the stolid pack mule.

  Watching all the movement, Winter Wind started to wonder what was going on. They had never all left her alone since she’d been captured.

  Preacher didn’t think it would take her long to figure things out once she realized they were gone, but she wouldn’t be getting loose from those bonds any time soon. He thought it would take her until the middle of the day, at least, and by then he and his companions would be long gone.

  * * *

  White Buffalo was complaining of being tired well before they reached the canyon. “I lost too much blood from that terrible wound. It weakened me.”

  “The cut was not that big,” Hawk said. “I bandaged it, remember?”

  “When we get to where we’re goin’, we’ll see to it you get plenty of good red meat,” Preacher told the old man. “That’ll have you back on your feet in no time.”

  “I am on my feet now,” White Buffalo said. “That is the problem. I want to sit down and rest. And why must we always be skulking through trees and behind brush?”

  “Because Tall Bull could have scoutin’ parties out lookin’ for us. He can’t just hunker down and do nothin’ after everything that’s happened. That’d make him look small and cowardly in the eyes of the other warriors. He’s got to try to find us and kill us.” Preacher paused, then added, “When we get ready, we’re gonna let him find us, but it ain’t the time yet.”

  “What do you mean, let him find us?” Hawk asked.

  “We can’t fight all those warriors in their own village. We need to get them out of there and into the open where we can get to ’em easier. In order to do that, we got to keep harassin’ Tall Bull until he’s mad enough to come after us with every able-bodied man in the village.” Preacher shrugged. “We’ll whittle that number down some more first.”

  Hawk considered what the mountain man had said, then slowly nodded. “So that is your plan. Do you really think we can kill them all, even if we lure them away from the village?”

  “We can sure make a good try at it.”

  “As long as Tall Bull dies, I suppose I could live with some of his warriors getting away.”

  “Not White Buffalo,” the old man declared. “All Blackfeet must die!”

  Preacher grinned. “You’re a bloodthirsty ol’ savage, ain’t you?”

  * * *

  By mid-afternoon, they hadn’t encountered any Blackfoot scouts or other threats and were close to the isolated canyon. Their route had been long and circuitous, and they’d had to travel slowly due to the necessity of staying in cover as much as possible.

  Preacher figured they would be at the canyon in another few minutes. “Remember, I’m expectin’ you to treat those two fellas decent.”

  White Buffalo looked down his nose at the mountain man and said, “The white men, you mean?”

  “Yeah. Charlie and Aaron. That’s their names.”

  “I will not be friends with them, but I will not kill them.”

  “Nice of you,” Preacher said dryly.

  They came in sight of the cleft leading to the canyon, and Preacher hailed Todd and Buckley, though he wasn’t completely sure they would answer. He had told them to stay there and wait for him, but as greenhorns they were capable of doing almost anything, even things a veteran frontiersman wouldn’t anticipate.

  Charlie Todd came strolling out of the cleft and called, “Preacher! Hello! Are these your friends?”

  Behind Preacher, White Buffalo made a low, disgusted sound in his throat.

  “That is not a cautious man,” Hawk said quietly.

  “He’ll learn,” Preacher said, then added as much to himself as to the others, “if he lives long enough.”

  They walked up to Todd, who cast suspicious glances toward the two Absaroka. Even though Preacher had explained to him about how they belonged to a tribe that was friendly to white men, seeing the two Indians clearly made Todd a little nervous.

  “Charlie, this is Hawk That Soars and White Buffalo,” Preacher said, nodding to each of them in turn as he performed the introductions. He didn’t explain about Hawk being his son. It didn’t seem relevant at the moment.

  “Do they, uh, speak English?” Todd asked.

  Hawk said, “I speak . . . little English.”

  White Buffalo scolded him in their language. “Do not use the white man’s tongue. It sounds ugly and stupid.”

  Todd nodded to Hawk and said, “Then I’m pleased to meet you, Hawk That Soars. I hope we’ll be friends.”

  Hawk just grunted.

  “Where’s Buckley?” Preacher asked.

  Todd pointed over his shoulder with a thumb. “He’s back in the canyon cooking a rabbit we caught. I’ve gotten not too bad at rigging a snare, if I do say so myself. We weren’t sure when you fellows would get here, but we thought you might be hungry when you did.”

  White Buffalo might not have understood what Todd was saying, but the old man sniffed the air suddenly and asked Preacher, “Is that the smell of meat cooking?”

  “It sure is,” Preacher told him, grinning. “They got a rabbit roastin’ in there. Still think white men are so bad?”

  “One rabbit does not change things . . . but White Buffalo is hungry.”

  “What’s he saying?” Todd asked.

  Preacher chuckled. “Lead us to that rabbit.”

  * * *

  When he met Hawk and White Buffalo, Aaron Buckley was just as nervous as Todd had been. Preacher thought for a second the young man was going to offer to shake hands but then he changed his mind and nodded and smiled pleasantly. He repeated what Todd had said about hoping they would all be friends.

  “Rabbit,” Hawk said, pointing to the carcass roasting on a spit over a small fire.

  “I, uh, don’t think it’s quite done yet—”

  “Rabbit!”

  “But of course if you want to go ahead and eat it, that . . . that’s fine,” Buckley stammered.

  “We’re hungry,” Preacher said. “That means we ain’t quite as persnickety about our vittles as some folks might be.” He took the spit away from the fire, let the rabbit cool for a few minutes, and then cut it up with his knife and shared the pieces with Hawk and White Buffalo. They hunkered down on their heels while they ate. Preacher tossed a few bits of roasted rabbit to Dog, who ate them but wasn’t all that enthusiastic about them. The big cur preferred his meat raw and freshly killed.

  “Is that a wolf?” Todd asked.

  “You ain’t the first one to wonder about that,” Preacher told him. “No, that big fella’s a dog. I ain’t sayin’ he don’t have some wolf blood in him, somewhere along the line, but he’s mostly dog.”

  “What’s his name?” Buckley said.

  “I call him Dog.”

  “Really?” Todd said. “What’s your horse’s name? Horse?”

  “As a matter of fact—”

  “I’m sorry.” Todd held up his
hands and said quickly, “I meant no offense. Dog and Horse are perfectly fine names. And no one ever wonders who you’re talking about.”

  “That’s sort of what I figured.”

  Buckley said, “I guess that means . . . the mule’s name is Mule?”

  Preacher couldn’t resist translating the question for Hawk and White Buffalo.

  The old man cackled with laughter and slapped a gnarled hand against his buckskin-clad thigh. “Crazy white men!” he said between cackles. “The mule has no name!”

  Todd and Buckley were clearly confused and wanted to know what was going on.

  Preacher told them, not unkindly, “White Buffalo calls it the Mule With No Name. He claims he can talk to animals and they can talk right back to him.”

  “Do you believe him?” Buckley said.

  “Let me put it this way . . . I don’t disbelieve him. He’s a mite touched in the head, but sometimes it seems like he knows what he’s talkin’ about.”

  Todd turned to the old man. “Thank you, White Buffalo, for telling us about the Mule With No Name.”

  Preacher translated.

  White Buffalo nodded and said around a mouthful of half-chewed rabbit, “These crazy white men may not be so bad after all. At least they know to respect their elders.”

  “But can they really help us get our revenge on Tall Bull?” Hawk asked.

  Preacher looked him in the eye. “I reckon we’re liable to find out before too much longer.”

  CHAPTER 25

  The two trappers volunteered to take shifts at standing guard, but Preacher didn’t have enough confidence in them yet to entrust all their lives to the greenhorns. He solved that slight awkwardness by saying, “You and me can take one turn, Charlie, while Aaron and Hawk take the other.”

  If they knew why he made that decision, they gave no sign of being offended. Hawk and Buckley stood the first watch, while everybody else turned in once night had fallen.

  Preacher roused from sleep without anyone having to wake him when the time came. That ability to wake up whenever he wanted to was one he had developed quickly after leaving the family farm and coming to the frontier.

  Charlie Todd was wrapped up in a blanket nearby, snoring softly. Preacher reached over and shook his shoulder, saying, “Time to get up, Charlie.”

  Todd came out of slumber flailing and sputtering.

  Preacher tightened his grip on the young trapper’s shoulder. “Take it easy,” the mountain man said in a low, urgent voice. “Nothin’s wrong. It’s just time for us to stand guard.”

  The calming words seemed to get through to Todd. He settled down, then pushed himself to a sitting position, raked his fingers through his tangled brown hair, and scrubbed his hands over his face. “Sorry. I was, uh, dreaming that Indians were chasing me.”

  “Blackfeet?”

  “I guess. Although to be honest, I can’t really tell any difference in them, no matter what tribe they’re from.”

  That sounded strange to Preacher, who could tell at a glance which tribe a warrior belonged to. Their clothing, the way they wore their hair, the sort of decorations they sported, the paint on their faces . . . all those things were distinctive and indicated a man’s tribal affiliation.

  No point in explaining that to Todd. He would learn if he survived long enough.

  Preacher said, “Right now, all you’ve got to remember is that if you see an Indian who ain’t either Hawk or White Buffalo, chances are he’s an enemy and you need to avoid him.”

  “You mean I shouldn’t shoot him?”

  “Not until you’re sure what’s goin’ on. He might have fifty friends with him, right around the bend, who’ll come tearin’ after you.”

  “I wouldn’t want that.”

  “No,” Preacher agreed, “you wouldn’t. Best to avoid trouble, if you can.”

  “Is that what you do?”

  Preacher chuckled. “Well, no. Most people would say I go out huntin’ trouble. But I’ve had a heap more experience dealin’ with it than you have.”

  “The only way to gain experience is to live life to the fullest. That’s what Aaron and I were trying to do when we decided to come out here. We met and became friends in college, you know. We were students at the University of Virginia, the school President Jefferson founded.”

  “I’ve got a friend who taught at some college back east, but I ain’t rightly sure which one. He gave it up to come west and be a trapper, like you fellas.”

  “A professor turned fur trapper. He sounds like a fascinating fellow.”

  “Oh, he is,” Preacher said, smiling to himself as he thought about the diminutive Audie and his friend Nighthawk, a towering, laconic warrior from a branch of the Crow tribe different from the Absaroka.

  The mountain man picked up his rifle, climbed to his feet, and motioned for Todd to follow him. “Come on, Charlie. We’d better let Hawk and Aaron get some rest.”

  They moved into the passage where the sentries were keeping an eye on the mouth of the cleft. Not wanting to startle them, Preacher made enough noise so Hawk would hear them coming, whether Buckley did or not.

  “No sign . . . of trouble,” Hawk said in English when Preacher and Todd came up to them.

  “Hawk and I have been talking about everything that’s happened with Tall Bull and the Blackfeet,” Buckley said. “Charlie and I will be glad to help you any way we can, Preacher. Tall Bull needs to be stopped. He can’t just go around the country killing anyone he thinks is in his way.”

  “He’ll get what’s comin’ to him,” Preacher said. “It may take a while, but fate usually catches up to a fella.”

  Buckley yawned. “We can go get some sleep now?”

  “Go ahead,” Preacher told him. “Charlie and me will keep our eyes and ears open. Ain’t that right, Charlie?”

  The question caught Todd in the middle of a yawn, too. He recovered hastily and said, “Sure, that’s right, Preacher.”

  Hawk grunted and stalked off.

  Buckley lingered for a moment and said quietly, “I get the feeling he’d like to be friends, but he doesn’t quite know how. Not yet, anyway. He’s never spent much time around whites much, has he?”

  “Nope, I reckon not, just a trapper every now and then,” Preacher said. “He’s like any young fella, no matter what color. He’s still got a lot to learn in this world.”

  * * *

  Preacher had to poke Charlie Todd’s arm a couple times during the night to wake him. Like a horse, Todd possessed the ability to sleep standing up. Preacher wasn’t sure whether to be annoyed or amused by the young man.

  Nothing unusual happened while they were standing watch. He was confident the Blackfeet had no idea where the men who had been bedeviling them were holed up.

  As the sun began to appear over the eastern horizon, the fiery orb sent rays of garish red light through the cleft and into the canyon. It was beautiful in away, but it also gave the place a sort of hellish air, like the canyon was actually a gateway to Hades.

  Luckily, he wasn’t the sort to believe in omens, Preacher thought.

  Their breakfast was what was left of the rabbit Todd and Buckley had snared the day before. As they ate, Preacher said to Hawk and White Buffalo in the Absaroka tongue, “By now, Winter Wind has gotten back to the Blackfoot village and told Tall Bull everything that happened to her. He’ll probably send a search party out to have a look around the area where that cave is.”

  “He will not expect us to still be there,” Hawk said.

  “Probably not, but he’s got nowhere else to start looking. That means there’ll be fewer warriors in the village today.”

  “So you can go there and kill all of them,” White Buffalo said.

  Preacher laughed. “I reckon Hawk and me would still be outnumbered by a whole lot, but maybe we can improve the odds a mite.”

  “You mean to go into the village in broad daylight?” Hawk asked.

  “That’s what I’ve got in mind. We might get a crack at
Tall Bull himself.”

  Hawk stared steadily at Preacher as he said, “Tall Bull is mine to kill.”

  “I understand why you feel that way, and I don’t blame you . . . but I can’t make you any promises.”

  “Gitche Manitou will see to it that I kill Tall Bull.”

  “I hope you’re right, if that’s what you want.”

  The two novice trappers had listened to the conversation with great interest but no understanding at all until Preacher gave them a quick summary of what was said.

  Buckley asked, “So you’re leaving us here with White Buffalo?”

  “And Horse and the mule, that’s right. It ain’t likely any of the Blackfeet will find this place, but it’s your job to protect it if any come along. Don’t start a ruckus if you don’t have to, though. Stay out of sight. If they don’t come all the way into the canyon, they’ll never see you and the animals. If they do . . . that’s when you’ll have to fight.”

  Buckley nodded in understanding.

  Todd just looked nervous. “We can trust White Buffalo, right?”

  “He gave me his word he wouldn’t kill you,” Preacher said with a smile. “I don’t think you fellas have anything to worry about. I wouldn’t say he’s all talk, but he ain’t exactly in any shape to be ferocious, neither.”

  Preacher and Hawk departed from the canyon a short time later, taking Dog with them.

  When they had gone a short distance, Preacher commented, “Aaron said you and him talked quite a bit last night while the two of you was standin’ guard. Practicin’ your English, were you?”

  “It is the tongue of my father,” Hawk said. “I should know how to speak it.”

  Hearing that made Preacher feel surprisingly good. “There’s some folks who’d say I don’t speak it none too good myself. Audie claims my grammar is positively shameful.”

  “Do people understand what you tell them?”

  “Mostly they do, I reckon.”

  “Then there is nothing wrong with the way you talk.”

  “That’s one way to look at it,” Preacher said. “I’m glad you and Aaron got along all right.”