Preacher's Hell Storm

by William W. Johnstone

  “He was . . . interesting. He said he studied to be a . . . lawyer. I do not know what that is.”

  “Well, white folks have all sorts of rules about what they can do and how they treat each other. Lawyers are the ones who explain those rules to everybody and sort things out when folks go to arguin’.”

  “It would seem to me the fewer rules people have to remember, the better things will be. And when two men disagree, there is a simple way to settle the matter.”

  Preacher grinned. “Now you’re makin’ too much sense. You could never be a lawyer or a politician, Hawk. Those are the fellas who make the rules.”

  Hawk looked horrified. “Why would I ever want to be?”

  Preacher just laughed. “That’s a mighty good question.”

  CHAPTER 26

  Knowing that Tall Bull likely had an idea where the cave was, Preacher and Hawk circled wide of the village so they could approach it from the opposite direction. The Blackfeet would be alert for trouble from any direction—that was just their nature—but they might not be expecting it quite as much from that way.

  It was late morning by the time the two of them drew near to the village on the side opposite the creek Preacher had used to sneak up on the tepees a few nights earlier. He and Hawk paused on top of the long, rugged, wooded ridge that overlooked the village. Invisible in the undergrowth, they studied the collection of dwellings.

  Dogs barked and women moved around, going about the usual tasks of day-to-day life. Young children played, but the older ones worked at various chores. Preacher saw a couple old men sitting on a log, not doing much of anything except possibly reliving better days.

  Half a dozen warriors were in sight, but he didn’t believe they were the only ones in the village. Others were likely in the tepees. Tall Bull would not have left his village so apparently defenseless.

  Hawk thought the same thing. He said quietly, “It is a trap.”

  “Yeah, I reckon he thinks he’s one step ahead of us,” Preacher said. “I don’t doubt he sent a search party to check out what Winter Wind told him about the cave, but the rest of the warriors will be somewhere close by, waitin’ for us to think they’re all gone so we’ll try to slip into the village.”

  “Which is exactly what you intended to do,” Hawk pointed out.

  “But now that he knows what I was thinkin’, I know what he’s thinkin’. He thinks he knows what I’m gonna do.”

  “And he was right. So you must do something else.”

  “Nope,” Preacher said. “I’m gonna do just what I set out to do.”

  “But that means walking right into Tall Bull’s trap!”

  “And when I walk right out again, how do you think that’s gonna make him feel?”

  Hawk stared at Preacher for a long moment, then said, “We have barely started to avenge the deaths of my people. I will not throw away my life so soon.”

  “Ain’t askin’ you to. You’re gonna stay here while I go down there.”

  “I do not like that idea, either,” Hawk said with a frown.

  “It ain’t as risky as it sounds. Those reinforcements Tall Bull’s got hidden somewhere close by will be waitin’ for a signal from the warriors left in the village. All I’ve got to do is make sure they don’t give that signal.”

  “How will you do that?”

  “By killin’ ’em all,” Preacher said.

  Again Hawk looked at him in silence as several seconds passed. Then the young man said, “You do not lack for courage and daring.”

  “Sometimes that is a way of tellin’ a fella he ain’t got any good sense.” Preacher chuckled. “Whether it’s one way or the other usually depends on how everything turns out.” He rose to his feet. “You stay here while Dog and me go visitin’.”

  “I do not like this, Preacher.”

  “It’s all right. If we don’t come back, you’ll carry on. I got faith in you, son.” He meant every word of that, and it felt good saying it. He had called Hawk son before, but he was finally starting to mean it. He reached down and squeezed Hawk’s shoulder for a second then started down from the ridge, moving with his usual stealthy expertise. Dog followed him like a gray shadow. No one was likely to see them unless Preacher wanted them to.

  The slope was rugged, forcing them to zigzag as they descended, but there were enough rocks and hardy brush to provide cover for them. He knew better than to get in a hurry. He took his time and made sure it was safe before he moved. He also kept an eye on the village and picked out one of the warriors. Burly and broad-shouldered, he kept looking sharply in one direction and then another as he moved around the village. Clearly he was on guard against something . . . or someone.

  Preacher smiled to himself. The broad-shouldered warrior, like the others who had been left in the village, was serving as bait in a trap, but he wasn’t very good at it. He was on edge, and that would warn anyone trying to sneak up on the place that not all was as it appeared to be.

  Some of the brush and trees had been cleared away between the tepees and the bottom of the ridge, to make it harder for an enemy to approach unseen that way, but Preacher didn’t intend to move all the way in on the village just yet. He whispered, “Dog, stay,” and glided a little closer. Crouching in the brush, he waited until he saw the broad-shouldered warrior glance in his direction and then gave the branches a good shaking for a second before moving several feet off to the side without disturbing any of the growth.

  The Blackfoot started to look away, then turned his head back sharply toward Preacher’s position as he realized he had seen something out of place.

  Preacher waited, motionless. He knew the lack of movement would be intriguing to the warrior. The man might try to convince himself he hadn’t really seen anything, but the tension gripping him wouldn’t allow him to ignore the possibility.

  Even from that distance, Preacher could practically see the warrior’s mind struggling to decide what to do.

  He could get some of the other men in the village to help him investigate, but if it turned out nothing was there, he would look foolish. Or he could take a closer look himself, which was riskier but also held the promise of more reward if he captured the predator who had been stalking his band of Blackfeet for days.

  After a minute or so, the warrior started toward the brush where Preacher waited, unmoving. The mountain man grinned as he watched his quarry come closer.

  The warrior’s hand went to his waist and pulled his tomahawk from the loop that held it there. He tightened his grip on it. He paused a few feet away from the spot where Preacher had shaken the brush.

  Through a tiny gap, Preacher watched as a puzzled frown creased the warrior’s forehead. The man couldn’t see or hear anything moving around, but he was sure something had been there a few minutes earlier. Cautiously, the warrior parted the brush and stepped into it with his tomahawk held ready to strike.

  Preacher crouched in the thick growth, so close he could have almost reached out and touched the Blackfoot’s leg as he moved past. Preacher let him keep going, though. The warrior stalked deeper into the brush, making it more difficult for anyone to see him.

  Preacher cast a quick glance toward the village. No one appeared to be paying any attention to what was going on in the brush. No one seemed the least interested in the warrior poking around in it nor curious enough to come find out what it was about.

  Easing out of his hiding place, Preacher became the hunter instead of the hunted.

  The warrior was half a foot shorter than him but probably weighed as much or even more. His buckskin shirt bulged with muscles. He might not be the brightest fella in the world, Preacher thought, but he was willing to bet the warrior was a hell of a fighter.

  Because he didn’t want a big commotion that would alert the village, Preacher figured he would strike hard and fast and put the warrior down before the man knew what hit him. Silent as a wraith, he moved closer and lifted his tomahawk for a killing blow.

  Before the weapon co
uld flash down, the warrior stopped short, made a disgusted sound, and started to turn around, deciding he’d been seeing things after all and nobody was out there. That gave him just enough of a chance to spot Preacher from the corner of his eye as the tomahawk fell. The warrior flung up his own weapon, and while it couldn’t completely stop the terrific force of the blow, it was enough to turn Preacher’s tomahawk aside slightly. The stone head struck the warrior’s left shoulder instead of crushing his skull.

  The man opened his mouth to shout in a combination of pain and alarm, but Preacher lunged forward and barreled into him. His left hand locked around the warrior’s throat before any sound could come out. They lost their footing and fell onto the carpet of old pine needles under the trees. Sharp branches in the brush around them clawed at their clothes and skin.

  The Blackfoot swatted at Preacher’s head with his tomahawk. Preacher jerked aside from the blow and launched another strike of his own. The warrior blocked it. His left arm seemed useless from the wallop on his shoulder, but he was using his right arm with desperate speed and fierce determination.

  Preacher kept his left hand clamped around the man’s throat to prevent any outcries as they wrestled in the brush. A shout of warning would ruin his plans. He was confident that he, Hawk, and Dog could get away from any pursuit, but that would mean he hadn’t taken full advantage of this opportunity.

  The Blackfoot rammed a knee into Preacher’s side with bone-jarring force. The impact knocked Preacher to the side, but he didn’t lose his grip on the enemy’s throat. As they rolled, the warrior’s tomahawk clipped Preacher on the side of the head.

  The world spun crazily for a second, but Preacher recovered quickly and turned aside another blow that would have split his face open if it had landed. He backhanded his tomahawk to the warrior’s jaw with enough force to break it. The man’s eyes widened in agony, but still no sound escaped from his mouth.

  With pain slowing the warrior’s reflexes and sapping his strength, Preacher drove a knee into the Blackfoot’s belly and pinned him to the ground. The mountain man’s tomahawk rose and fell again, and the warrior couldn’t turn it aside. It crunched into the middle of his forehead, shattering bone and pulping the brain underneath. He bucked and writhed in his death throes, then fell back limply.

  Preacher waited until life had faded completely from the man’s eyes before letting go of his throat and standing up.

  Instantly, he turned toward the village and moved back to his former position to see if anyone had noticed what was going on. Everything looked just as it had before, with one exception. A warrior was walking back and forth and looking around as if puzzled. He lifted his voice and called out a couple times.

  Preacher couldn’t make out the words, but he was willing to bet that warrior was looking for the man he had just killed and probably calling his name.

  Preacher whistled too softly for anyone in the village to hear, but Dog heard and came up beside him. The big cur growled a little.

  “You scoldin’ me for gettin’ into a fight without you?” Preacher asked, smiling. “Don’t worry, I reckon there’ll be work for you to do pretty soon.” His eyes narrowed as he saw the warrior talking to another man.

  Then they turned and started toward the trees.

  “In fact,” Preacher told Dog, “it looks like we’ve done hooked ourselves another couple o’ fish.”

  CHAPTER 27

  Preacher and Dog eased back deeper into the brush as the two warriors approached. It wouldn’t do to jump the Blackfeet at the edge of the growth where the ruckus would be easily visible from the village.

  The men wore wary expressions. Like the missing warrior, they held their tomahawks ready for action. With everything that had happened in recent days, they were expecting trouble, and who could blame them?

  Caution wasn’t going to help them, Preacher thought. Not if he and Dog had anything to say about it, and they did.

  The warriors entered the brush at a spot different from where the first man walked in.

  Preacher wanted them to find the body, figuring the sight of it would shock them into immobility for a second and give him a better chance to jump them. He picked up a broken branch and flipped it in the direction he wanted the warriors to go. It didn’t make much of a sound when it landed, but it was enough.

  Both men stiffened and jerked around in that direction. They crept toward the spot, tomahawks lifted and poised to strike.

  Preacher and Dog stayed where they were and let the warriors go right past them. Dog was crouched low, ready to spring, but he wouldn’t move even a fraction of an inch until Preacher gave the command.

  Preacher heard one of the men let out a sharp, surprised grunt and knew they had stumbled upon the body of their fallen fellow warrior.

  It was time!

  “Go!”

  The whispered command unleashed Dog and turned the big cur into a leaping, lethal gray streak. He tore through the brush and slammed into one of the warriors from behind, knocking the man to his knees and then driving him forward on his face. Dog’s powerful jaws locked onto the side of his neck and began crushing and ripping.

  The other man was barely aware something was wrong before Preacher’s left arm encircled his neck from behind and yanked him back onto the knife in the mountain man’s right hand. The blade went deep into the warrior’s body. He died without a sound as it sliced his heart open.

  Dog’s victim let out a gurgle as blood sprayed from his ravaged throat, but the grotesque noise couldn’t have been heard more than a few yards away, certainly not in the village. Dog bit down again and shook hard, and with a crack of bone, the warrior’s head separated from his body and rolled a couple feet away.

  The warrior’s eyes were still wide and uncomprehending. He had died without ever understanding what was happening to him.

  Preacher lowered the corpse he held to the ground. Three more Blackfoot warriors were dead, a good day’s work by anyone’s accounting.

  He wanted more, though. He thought about Birdie and Little Pine and everyone else back in the Absaroka village Tall Bull had wiped out. The scales of justice weren’t as unbalanced as they had been, but they weren’t even yet.

  He reached down, picked up the head of the warrior Dog had decapitated, and looked around until he found a sturdy branch in a suitable position. He stuck the head on it and made sure it would be visible from the village.

  It was a pretty raw thing to do, he thought, but Tall Bull had brought it on himself by slaughtering the Absaroka.

  “Come on, Dog,” he whispered. “Let’s get back to Hawk.”

  * * *

  The young man jumped slightly as Preacher and Dog eased up next to him. He controlled the reaction very quickly, but not in time to keep Preacher from noticing it. Hawk hadn’t known they were there.

  Preacher didn’t see any point in mentioning that fact. It would just embarrass Hawk needlessly. Anyway, there was no shame in having Preacher and Dog sneak up on him. It had happened to plenty of other fellows over Preacher’s long years on the frontier.

  He said quietly, “We got three more of ’em.”

  Hawk nodded. “I saw those warriors go into the brush and not return. Thought you must have killed them.”

  “Yep. Dog tore the head right off one of ’em, in fact. I stuck it up on a branch so they’ll see it in the village if they look very close.”

  Hawk’s eyes widened. “That is . . .” He gave a little shake of his head as he failed to find the words to describe what he was feeling.

  “Yeah, I know. I ain’t sayin’ I feel all that good about doin’ it. But it’ll shake ’em up, and that’s what we want. Let’s back off, head downstream a ways, and then cross over so we can come up the creek again on the other side of the village.”

  “Why should we do that?”

  “Because once they spot that varmint’s head, they’ll all be lookin’ in this direction instead of watchin’ the creek. I figure all the warriors Tall Bull le
ft behind will come tearin’ out here to see what’s goin’ on.”

  “Leaving the village unprotected,” Hawk said.

  Preacher inclined his head in agreement.

  They moved as quickly as possible without drawing attention to themselves as they went back up the ridge and then hurried along its crest. Preacher listened for any outcry from the village, but there was no way of knowing when someone would notice the grisly thing staring sightlessly at them from the brush. He hadn’t heard anything by the time he and Hawk were out of earshot.

  They descended from the ridge, crossed the creek, and headed back toward the village, staying under cover as much as they could. They didn’t know where more of Tall Bull’s warriors might be lurking.

  As they got closer, they heard shouts and a quick grin appeared on Preacher’s face. “Sounds like somebody spotted that unfortunate fella.”

  They climbed the bank to take a surreptitious look at the village. A dozen warriors were hurrying across the open ground toward the ridge. They bristled with tomahawks, knives, and bows and arrows.

  Behind them, gathered at the edge of the tepees, was a large group of women, children, and old men, along with two warriors left to guard them.

  Preacher nodded toward those two warriors as he and Hawk exchanged a grim glance. They pulled themselves over the edge of the creek bank and started toward the village at a run, their moccasin-shod feet making hardly any sound in the grass. Dog bounded behind them.

  As they cut through the village, racing between tepees, Preacher saw that the larger group of warriors had reached the brush. More angry shouts went up, signifying that they had found the other bodies.

  Several of the women—wives or relatives of the missing men—were wailing. Based on everything they had seen so far, they assumed the men were dead. The commotion helped cover up any sounds Preacher and Hawk made as they closed in on the two warriors left behind in the village.

  One of the women spotted them and let out a frightened scream. The warning came too late. Preacher and Hawk were already striking swiftly and savagely with tomahawks in hand.