Preacher's Hell Storm

by William W. Johnstone

  “I surrender!” Buckley shouted from the cleft. “I’m coming out!”

  Hawk understood enough of that to grasp Buckley’s meaning. “The fool. Does he think to bargain with Blackfeet? One might as well try to strike a deal with the lowliest of carrion eaters!”

  “I reckon he don’t know no better.”

  “They will fill him with arrows as soon as he steps into the open.”

  “Maybe, maybe not. They might just take him prisoner so they can haul both of ’em back to the village and torture ’em to death.” A grim chuckle came from the mountain man’s lips. “I happen to know they’re right fond of burnin’ fellas at the stake.”

  A stir of excitement went through the Blackfeet as Aaron Buckley appeared in the opening to the cleft. Both hands were empty as he held them up level with his head.

  “Where is White Buffalo?” Hawk wondered.

  “If he’s alive, he’s still in there, and he ain’t comin’ out,” Preacher said. “If they want that old man, they’ll have to go in there and drag him out by his heels. He’ll probably make them kill him instead of surrenderin’.”

  “That might be wise,” Hawk said quietly. “If they saw he was Absaroka, they would subject him to even greater horrors than they will those two white men.” He paused, then went on, “The Blackfeet should not even be here! We are far from their village.”

  “Reckon that’s probably a search party lookin’ for us. Tall Bull’s sendin’ ’em out far and wide now, after what happened this mornin’. They’ve had time to get here from the village whilst we was takin’ the long way around. It must’ve been just bad luck they stumbled over Charlie.”

  “He should not have left the canyon. You warned them not to.”

  “Yeah, we’ll have to have a talk about that . . . assumin’ any of us come through this alive.”

  Half a dozen Blackfoot warriors swarmed out of their cover and rushed toward Buckley as he walked slowly away from the cleft. The other six, including the two who had hold of Todd, hung back.

  “They’re gonna grab him,” Preacher said. “They don’t want to kill him right off, just like I thought.”

  Buckley suddenly stopped as the warriors approached him. His right hand dropped and pulled something from his belt, just behind his hip. Preacher saw sparks shooting in the air and said, “What the hell?”

  Buckley tossed the object toward the Blackfeet. As it flew through the air, Preacher recognized it as a powder horn. The sparks came from the narrow end of it. Instinctively, one of the warriors reached up and caught it as it came toward him.

  A split second later, the powder horn blew up.

  The unexpected explosion mangled the hand and arm of the man holding the powder horn and flung him backwards, knocking the two men closest to him off their feet, as well.

  Buckley reached behind his back again and brought out two pistols, cocking the hammers as he raised them. Too close to the Blackfeet to miss, he fired the weapons simultaneously. Two more men fell as the heavy lead balls smashed into their chests.

  “Now!” Preacher told Hawk.

  Rising from his concealment, Hawk drew back the bowstring and let fly with the arrow he had nocked a few moments earlier. It drove into the back of the man holding the knife to Todd’s throat, catching him squarely between the shoulder blades. He dropped the knife as he collapsed.

  Todd twisted and butted his head into his other captor’s belly, driving the warrior backwards.

  Pistols in hand, Preacher charged the remaining Blackfeet. The explosion, followed by the two shots from Buckley’s guns, had created thunderous echoes from the tall rock face split by the cleft. He added to the din by firing his pistols and cutting down two more warriors.

  Hawk whipped arrows from his quiver and fired twice more. One shaft skewered a warrior in the belly as the man turned. The other struck its target in the side of the neck with such force the flint head went all the way through and burst out the other side of the man’s neck in a bloody wound.

  All the Blackfeet were down, either dead or mortally wounded, except the two with whom Buckley and Todd were now engaged in hand-to-hand struggles. The young men battled with desperation on their side, but they were no match for experienced fighters like the Blackfoot warriors.

  White Buffalo darted out of the cleft with a large rock clutched in both hands. Buckley’s opponent had him down on the ground and was about to gut him with a knife when White Buffalo brought the rock crashing down on his head from behind.

  With a tomahawk throw, Preacher took care of the warrior about to choke Todd to death. It struck the man in the back of the head and shattered his skull. He dropped loosely to the side, allowing Todd to sit up and gasp for breath.

  Buckley pushed the dead man off him and crawled away a few feet before he sat up, as well.

  Hawk moved quickly among the fallen Blackfeet, checking to make sure they were dead. The three who weren’t, he dispatched with swift, efficient knife slashes across the throat.

  Preacher went to Todd’s side and helped the young man to his feet.

  “Preacher!” Todd said. “I . . . I’m sorry—”

  “I reckon you mean about gettin’ caught outside the canyon,” the mountain man interrupted him. “We’ll talk about that later. Right now let’s go make sure Aaron’s all right.”

  Buckley was visibly shaken but appeared to be uninjured. He clasped his friend’s shoulders and asked, “Are you all right, Charlie?”

  “Yeah, I . . . I guess so. What the hell happened? Was that a bomb?”

  “I was sort of wonderin’ the same thing myself,” Preacher said.

  Buckley smiled sheepishly. “I didn’t know if it would work or not. It seemed to me like it ought to. An explosive shell is basically just gunpowder under compression that’s ignited. All I had to do was rig a fuse that would burn at the right rate of speed and not blow me up before I could get it among the Blackfeet.” He shook his head. “I almost cut it too close.”

  “Aaron was always better than me in our classes at the university,” Todd said with a note of pride in his voice. “I could drink more ale, though.”

  Buckley turned to the old-timer. “Thank you, White Buffalo. You saved my life.”

  Preacher translated.

  White Buffalo shrugged. “It was a good chance to kill a Blackfoot. I could not waste the opportunity.”

  “He says you’re welcome,” Preacher said. “Now we got to figure out what to do with all them carcasses. We’re far enough away from Tall Bull’s village they might not have heard the shots or that powder horn blowin’ up, but somebody is bound to notice a whole flock o’ buzzards circlin’ over a feast.”

  * * *

  Preacher found a bluff not far off where they were able to stack the bodies like cordwood at the base. They piled rocks on the corpses and then collapsed part of the bluff on them. A determined search might be able to locate the dead men, but more than likely they would never be found.

  Night had fallen by the time he and Hawk returned to the cleft, and as they approached they were greeted by a happy bark. Dog bounded out of the opening and jumped on Preacher, resting his front paws on the mountain man’s shoulders.

  With Preacher’s bad leg, that was almost enough to make him fall down, but he wasn’t going to scold the big cur. He was happy to see Dog, too. “Figured you’d be back before now, old son. You must’ve found plenty of game to chase and interestin’ smells to sniff.”

  “He arrived shortly after you and Hawk dragged off the last of those vermin,” White Buffalo said as he emerged from the opening. “He wanted to go and look for you, but I told him you would be back soon.”

  “Well, I’m obliged to you for that. Those two greenhorns inside where they’re supposed to be?”

  White Buffalo grunted in agreement.

  “Dog, stay and guard,” Preacher told the big cur.

  “He will let us know if anyone approaches,” White Buffalo said.

  “Yeah, I figured a
s much,” Preacher said, “since I been dependin’ on him to do that for a long time now. Come on. I want to talk to those two.”

  Todd and Buckley were sitting next to a tiny fire tucked back in a corner of the canyon where it wouldn’t be visible from outside. They scrambled to their feet as Preacher, Hawk, and White Buffalo approached them.

  Todd began. “Preacher, listen, this was all my fault—”

  “No, I was the one who told Charlie he could go outside the canyon,” Buckley broke in. “He thought he could find another rabbit and we’d have a good meal waiting for you and Hawk when you got back.”

  “I didn’t just think I could find a rabbit. I saw one while I was standing guard, and I knew where it went.”

  “But you found a Blackfoot war party instead,” Preacher said.

  Todd grimaced. “Yeah. I thought sure they were gonna kill me, but they didn’t. They must have seen me come out of the cleft and figured somebody else was in there. They tried to sneak up on the place, but Aaron spotted them and fought them off.”

  Preacher looked at Buckley. “When you came up with that trick with the powder horn, you didn’t know me and Hawk were close by to lend you a hand. What did you figure on doin’ with the ones you didn’t blow up?”

  “I was going to kill as many of them as I could before they killed me. I figured it would give Charlie a chance to put up a fight, too, and I knew he’d want to do that.”

  “Damn right I did,” Todd said. “We’ve been dodging and ducking those bastards for a while now, and I’m tired of it. It’s time to fight back.”

  Preacher studied the two young men in the dim light of the fire for a moment, then smiled. “Reckon we’ve got another couple o’ allies in our little army, Hawk.”

  Hawk just grunted skeptically. White Buffalo rolled his eyes.

  Preacher grew more serious as he went on. “But you two are still greenhorns, which means that from now on, you do what I say and nothin’ else, understand?”

  “You have our word on that,” Buckley said.

  “Good. I sorta like the way you think, mister. Maybe you can come up with some new ways to help us kill Blackfeet.”

  CHAPTER 32

  For the next three days, all eight members of the party—counting Dog, Horse, and The Mule With No Name—stayed close to the canyon. Hawk was the only one who ventured out, and then only to bring down a deer with an expertly placed arrow and carry the carcass draped over his shoulder back to their camp so they would have fresh meat.

  The respite served two purposes. It gave Preacher’s injured leg time to recover from having the bear fall on it. Given his iron constitution, he was able to get around quite well after the rest, although the leg itself was still colorful with bruises.

  The other benefit from staying holed up was giving Tall Bull time to stew in his own juices, knowing that something had happened to the missing search party. Preacher and Hawk had been striking at the village on a regular basis, and most of its inhabitants had to be pretty nervous, even the bravest of warriors. Their tormentors seemed to have the ability to show up without warning, deal out death, and then disappear. Anyone who went out to look for them stood a good chance of never coming back.

  Preacher was willing to bet nobody in the village was sleeping much. That weariness would make them more on edge and more likely to question Tall Bull’s leadership.

  On the evening of the third day, Aaron Buckley came to Preacher and said, “I have an idea.”

  “About how to kill more Blackfeet, you mean?”

  “That’s right. I’ve been thinking about it, as you asked me to do, and I believe we should build a catapult.”

  Preacher frowned at him. “A what?”

  “A catapult. It’s an ancient weapon of war. The Greeks used it in their siege of Troy.”

  Preacher scratched his ear. “I reckon I’ve heard a little somethin’ about that, somewhere along the line. Audie probably told me about it.”

  “We can build a small-scale version, assembling the framework out of tree branches. The original catapults were designed to hurl large rocks hundreds of yards through the air. We don’t need anything powerful enough to do that. You said there’s a ridge overlooking the Blackfoot village?”

  “That’s right,” Preacher said.

  “I propose we use the catapult to lob incendiary rounds into the village and set it on fire.”

  “Incinder . . . What?”

  “We can form rounds out of dried mud and fill them with shavings we set on fire before we launch them. They will crack open on impact and burst open, the flames spreading and setting the tepees on fire.”

  Preacher rubbed his chin and thought over the idea for a moment. Then he said, “Well, that might work . . . but couldn’t Hawk just shoot some flamin’ arrows into the tepees and wind up doin’ the same thing?”

  “Oh.” Buckley looked crestfallen. “That would be a lot simpler, wouldn’t it?”

  “Yeah, but you came up with the general idea,” Preacher said with a grin as he slapped Buckley on the back. “Let’s go talk to Hawk.”

  After Preacher had explained about the flaming arrows to Hawk, the young man nodded solemnly. “I can do that. We can strike in the middle of the night, and I can launch at least five or six arrows into the village before any of the Blackfeet know what is going on, perhaps more.”

  “That’s what I figured,” Preacher said.

  “But does that not mean we will be waging war on women and children, which you said we should not do?”

  “They’ll all have time to get out. We’re destroyin’ their homes but not killin’ ’em. It’ll be a mite rough on ’em, but they can rebuild the village . . . especially if they go somewheres else to do it.”

  “You mean to make them flee, instead of killing all the warriors?”

  Preacher sighed. “How many of ’em you reckon we’ve killed so far? Forty? Fifty? I’ve lost count, but it’s a whole heap, I know that. There’s gotta be an end to the killin’ sooner or later.”

  “There will be . . . when Tall Bull and his warriors are all dead,” Hawk insisted.

  “Tall Bull needs to die,” Preacher said with a nod. “I ain’t shied away from killin’ any of his warriors we’ve come up against, neither. But if we kill Tall Bull and the rest of his people turn tail and light a shuck outta these parts, I reckon I’ll be satisfied with that.”

  Hawk glared at him. “You grow weak! I should have expected as much from a white man!”

  “Damn it, boy, I ain’t gonna put up with that talk. I’ll fight them bastards as long as I got breath in my body. I’m just sayin’ my idea of avengin’ your people is startin’ to be a little different.”

  “They were my people. I will decide when they have been avenged.” Hawk’s voice was cold as ice.

  “Suit yourself,” Preacher said. “Spend the rest of your life killin’ Blackfeet if you want. They ain’t never been friends to me. I’m just sayin’ that when Tall Bull’s dead, I’ll be movin’ on.”

  Hawk made no response other than to turn on his heel and stalk away.

  Aaron Buckley cleared his throat. “From everything I’ve heard about what happened to his people, he has a right to be vengeful, you know.”

  “Yeah, but there comes a time when enough’s enough. I don’t want a bunch of women and kids and old folks starvin’ to death on my conscience.”

  “I’ve never seen anyone who can fight like you, Preacher . . . but it appears you have a gentle side as well.”

  Preacher grunted. “Don’t go countin’ on that.”

  * * *

  Nothing else was said about the brief argument between Preacher and Hawk, and the next morning Hawk began preparing the arrows he would use for their next assault on the village. He wrapped dry grass around the heads of the arrows and tied it in place with strips of rawhide. When he had eight of them, he slid them into his quiver with the heads up so they wouldn’t be disturbed when he pulled them out.

  “We’ll g
o tonight,” Preacher said. “Hit ’em in the middle of the night.”

  “They will be on guard,” Hawk warned.

  “Why, sure they will.” Preacher grinned. “Lucky for us we’re mighty stealthy. It wouldn’t surprise me if Tall Bull’s posted guards up on that ridge, so we may have to deal with them first.”

  “What do you want Charlie and me to do?” Buckley asked.

  “You’re stayin’ here with White Buffalo.”

  Todd said, “We told you we want to fight, Preacher. I know we’re new out here on the frontier . . . greenhorns, you call us, and I can’t deny it’s true . . . but we can follow orders and we want to help.”

  “I told you before to stay inside the canyon, out of sight, and you didn’t do it,” Preacher reminded them. “That could have worked out mighty bad.”

  Buckley sighed and nodded. “You’re right, of course. We made a mistake. But we’ve learned from it, haven’t we, Charlie?”

  “Absolutely,” Todd declared. “We’ll follow your orders to the letter, Preacher.”

  White Buffalo said in his tongue, “The foolish young white men want to fight the Blackfeet, yes?”

  “Yeah, that’s right,” Preacher told the old-timer.

  “You should let them.” White Buffalo shrugged. “No doubt they will die, but perhaps they will accidentally kill one or two of Tall Bull’s warriors before they do.”

  “They might surprise us all and turn out to come in handy.”

  “A white man doing something well?” White Buffalo let out a snort of disbelief. “Yes, that would be a surprise.”

  Todd said, “I can’t tell exactly what he’s saying, but I think White Buffalo believes you should let us come along, Preacher.” He smiled at the old man. “Thanks for being on our side, White Buffalo.”

  “Yeah, about that . . .” Preacher began, then stopped and shook his head. “Never mind. If you two are bound and determined to come along, then I reckon I won’t stop you. But you do everything I say without hesitatin’ or questionin’, and if you get yourselves in trouble anyway, I may not be able to save your hides.”