Preacher's Hell Storm

by William W. Johnstone

  “That’s fair enough,” Buckley said. “We just want to do our part.”

  “Just make sure all your guns are loaded. Once things start hoppin’, we’re liable to be a mite busy.”

  * * *

  Late that afternoon, Hawk scouted the immediate area and reported there were no Blackfeet around the canyon. As dusk gathered, the four men set out on their mission, accompanied by Dog. White Buffalo remained behind.

  Preacher’s leg felt almost back to normal. He limped only slightly as he and Hawk led the way on a roundabout route toward the Blackfoot village. Preacher had warned Buckley and Todd to stay close to them. If they got separated once darkness fell, the two greenhorns might not be able to find them again.

  “No talkin’ if it ain’t absolutely necessary, either,” Preacher said quietly just before the last of the light faded. “Voices carry at night, and you won’t be able to see if any of those varmints are lurkin’ around. You’ll need to rely on Hawk and Dog and me for that.”

  Both young men nodded silently, which made Preacher smile.

  At the slow, deliberate pace the group was taking, it would be well after midnight before they reached the ridge overlooking the Blackfoot village. That was all right with Preacher. Nearly everyone would be asleep by then.

  Behind the ridge were several more crests in a gradually ascending series. Preacher and his companions worked their way high above the valley and then, when they reached the right spot, started down again.

  Hawk and Dog took the lead, both eager to sniff out—literally—any guards posted on the ridge. Preacher whispered to Todd and Buckley, “You boys stay right here. Don’t move from this spot. One of us will be back to fetch you.”

  He took their silence to mean they understood.

  He caught up to Hawk and Dog, and the three of them spread out to cover the ridge. Preacher didn’t have to tell Hawk to make as little noise as possible in disposing of any sentries. The young warrior knew that.

  Preacher stopped as he smelled a hint of bear grease in the air. Since the Blackfeet rubbed that in their hair, he knew someone was close by. Standing absolutely motionless and silent, he waited until he heard a faint noise, as if someone had just shifted a foot. He eased in the direction of the sound, and a moment later his keen eyes spotted a man-shaped patch of deeper darkness in the shadows.

  Patiently, Preacher waited until the man moved again, which told him which way the warrior was facing. Like the ghost the Blackfeet called him, he glided behind the sentry, clapped a hand over his mouth, and cut his throat. The man collapsed as blood welled hotly from his neck.

  With that obstacle taken care of, Preacher moved farther to his right along the ridge. Hawk was checking the left flank, while Dog held down the middle. The big cur wouldn’t attack any of the Blackfeet unless it was absolutely necessary, since that might make enough racket to attract attention from the village.

  Preacher came across another guard and dispatched him with a swift knife thrust in the back. He ventured farther until finally he was satisfied there were no more warriors posted on his part of the ridge. He started backtracking toward the center.

  He stopped when he heard a soft bird call. He responded in kind, and a moment later Hawk materialized out of the shadows with Dog at his side.

  “There were three in that direction,” the young man whispered, pointing to the left.

  Preacher knew exactly what he meant by were. Those sentries were dead, just like the ones Preacher had encountered.

  The moon was only a sliver in the sky, but the light from millions of stars filtered down on the valley and the tepees clustered along the creek bank.

  “Can you see well enough to hit what you’re aimin’ at?” Preacher asked.

  Hawk just made a disgusted noise in his throat, as if to indicate the question was ridiculous.

  “I’ll go get Aaron and Charlie,” the mountain man whispered. “Don’t start the ball until we get back.”

  “Do not waste any time,” Hawk said.

  “I don’t plan to. Dog, stay with Hawk.”

  Preacher crossed the level ground and went up the next slope to the spot where he and Hawk had left Todd and Buckley. A quick, “Hsst! Boys!” brought them to his side.

  “Is everything all right?” Buckley asked.

  “Yeah. Hawk and me got rid of the guards, and he’s gettin’ ready to light them arrows. Come on. Quiet as you can, now.”

  They hurried back to join Hawk. The two greenhorns made some noise, but not too much, Preacher thought. They were learning.

  When they reached Hawk’s position, they found he had made a small fire pit out of rocks and kindled a tiny blaze inside the ring that was unlikely to be visible from the village below. He took all eight of the special arrows from his quiver and handed them to Preacher, keeping one that he fitted to his bowstring.

  “Cock your rifles, boys,” Preacher said to Todd and Buckley. “We’re just about ready.”

  Hawk held the arrowhead in the fire. The dry grass caught instantly. He raised the bow, drew back the string, paused for a heartbeat, and then let fly.

  The flaming arrow arched up and out before curving downward to fly with perfect aim toward the village. It struck the side of a tepee and lodged there. A couple tense seconds went by, then more flames erupted as the hide caught fire.

  By that time, Preacher had handed Hawk another arrow, and its tip was blazing. With a twang of the bowstring, the second flaming missile soared toward the village.

  The attack was on.

  CHAPTER 33

  “Get ready,” Preacher told Todd and Buckley as he handed another special arrow to Hawk, who let it fly. “Those fellas will be tumblin’ out of their tepees any second now. Hell’s about to break loose down there, and when it does they’ll be scurryin’ around like ants. Make sure you’ve got good targets before you fire. We won’t have enough time to waste shots.”

  While he was telling them this, he had given the fourth arrow to Hawk. All of the young warrior’s shots had been perfect so far. Three tepees were ablaze in different parts of the village.

  As Preacher had predicted, warriors flung aside the hide flaps over the entrances to the tepees and raced outside. Shouts of alarm rang back and forth in the village.

  “Take your shots whenever you’re ready,” Preacher told Todd and Buckley as he raised his rifle to his shoulder and squinted over the weapon’s long barrel. He settled the sights on a large warrior who was slapping at one of the fires with a robe, trying to put out the flames.

  Preacher squeezed the trigger.

  The rifle boomed and kicked hard against his shoulder. Smoke and sparks flew from the muzzle.

  Down in the village, the man Preacher had drawn a bead on jerked his head back in shock and pain as the heavy lead ball smashed into his body. He took a couple staggering steps and then plunged facedown on the ground.

  A few yards away, Todd and Buckley fired, too, a couple seconds after Preacher did. The mountain man was already reloading, his movements so automatic he didn’t have to watch what he was doing in order to accomplish his goal. He kept his eyes on the village and saw another warrior grab at his arm in obvious pain. One of the greenhorns’ shots had winged him. Preacher had no doubt whichever of the young men had fired the shot had been aiming at the Blackfoot’s body, but still, that wasn’t bad shooting at that range.

  The other ball, as far as Preacher could see, missed entirely, but he wasn’t too worried about that. He was counting on Todd and Buckley to help keep the Blackfeet spooked, whether they hit anything or not.

  Hawk continued his barrage with the flaming arrows.

  With all the commotion going on in the village, people shouting and running around as flames crackled fiercely, it was possible that nobody had noticed the shots and arrows were coming from the ridge. Preacher lifted his reloaded rifle, took aim at a warrior who had stopped to gaze in shock at one of the burning tepees, and fired again.

  His target went over bac
kwards as if punched in the chest by a giant fist, which was about what it amounted to. The man didn’t get up.

  Todd had reloaded more quickly and smoothly than Buckley. He squeezed off his second shot while Buckley was still tamping down his second load with the ramrod.

  Preacher saw a warrior stumble and fall. “Nice shootin’, Charlie.”

  A grin flashed across Todd’s bearded face. “I always had a good eye when we were playing darts in the tavern, didn’t I, Aaron?”

  Buckley had finished reloading and lined up his shot. “I’m glad to see all that practice is coming in handy for you, Charlie.” He fired, then exclaimed, “Drat! Why can’t I seem to get the hang of this? I managed to shoot those Indians back at the canyon.”

  “That was a lot closer range,” Preacher told him. “Just keep tryin’. We’re makin’ those varmints duck for cover, if nothin’ else.”

  That was true. Some of the warriors had noticed their fallen comrades and realized the village was under attack with more than fire arrows.

  Hawk had reached the end of his supply of such arrows, having sent all eight of them streaking down into different parts of the village. All of them had started fires, and those flames were spreading.

  The rifle shots had forced some of the warriors to retreat toward the creek, herding the women and children and old ones with them.

  A group of a dozen men headed toward the ridge at a run, though. They had finally spotted the place where the shots and the flaming arrows were coming from.

  “One more volley, and then we’ll pull back,” Preacher said as he finished reloading again. He settled his sights on the warrior leading the charge and pulled the trigger. As the rifle blasted, the warrior’s torso went backwards while his legs kept running forward for a second before he went down in an ungainly sprawl.

  The two greenhorns’ weapons boomed again. Two more warriors went down.

  “That’s more like it!” Buckley said.

  Preacher didn’t tell the young man he had spotted an arrow sprouting from the chest of one of the warriors. Hawk was raining the deadly missiles down among the Blackfeet. The attack suddenly fell apart as the warriors scattered.

  “Come on,” Preacher said. “Let’s git while the gittin’s good.”

  They withdrew from the ridge and started climbing higher in the foothills. It was unlikely the Blackfeet would be able to trail them in the darkness, although once the warriors realized they weren’t being shot at anymore and regrouped, they might cast back and forth on the ridge for a while, looking for any sign of the men who had wreaked havoc on the village.

  For all Preacher knew, Tall Bull might have been one of the men killed in the attack. The Blackfeet might pack up what few belongings they could from their destroyed village and leave that part of the country.

  If that happened, Preacher knew his vengeance quest might be over. He would have to make his own decision about that, as would Hawk.

  But as they moved through the night with the orange glow from the burning tepees lighting up the sky behind them, Preacher’s instincts told him it wasn’t over yet.

  * * *

  The sun was about to peek over the mountains in the east when they got back to the canyon. There had been no pursuit they were aware of, but Preacher had set a pretty fast pace anyway, and everyone was tired from the long, strenuous night.

  Despite that weariness, Todd and Buckley were still excited from their participation in the attack. When White Buffalo asked what had happened, Todd especially bubbled over with details as Preacher translated the young man’s enthusiastic response and toned it down a mite.

  White Buffalo nodded solemnly, then asked, “And what of Tall Bull?”

  “Don’t know,” Preacher said. “He might’ve died, or he might not have. No way to tell.”

  White Buffalo gazed off into the distance. “I saw him, you know. When he and his men wiped out our village. When I lay as if dead, under the bodies of my friends. He came walking through the slaughter with his subchiefs following him. He carried a war club, and when he saw an Absaroka still drawing breath, he crushed their skull with that club. He is a tall man, as you would guess from his name, and has the horns of several bull buffalo hung on his chest by a thong around his neck.”

  Preacher’s eyes narrowed. “You’re just now thinkin’ to describe him to us, when you know we been tryin’ to kill him for a couple weeks?”

  The old-timer blew out a haughty breath. “No one asked White Buffalo if he knows what Tall Bull looks like, did they?”

  Hawk had been listening intently. “I do not recall seeing a warrior like that among any we have killed.”

  Preacher’s fingertips rasped over the salt-and-pepper bristles on his chin as he frowned in thought. “No, I don’t reckon I’ve laid eyes on the rascal, either. Of course, we were a pretty good distance away from those fellas last night, and he might’ve taken off that buffalo horn necklace when he turned in. I didn’t see anybody carryin’ a big ol’ war club, though.”

  “He is alive, and I know it,” Hawk snapped. “My belly tells me he is alive. I think yours does as well, Preacher, if you will admit it.”

  Preacher trusted his own instincts completely, and he had come to trust Hawk’s during the time they had been fighting side by side. He had thought earlier that their battle wasn’t over yet and was more convinced than ever.

  “Excuse me,” Aaron Buckley said in English. “This seems to be a pretty intense conversation the three of you are having, and I just wondered what it’s about. Is there some sort of trouble Charlie and I aren’t aware of?”

  “Not really,” Preacher said. “Turns out White Buffalo knows what Tall Bull, the Blackfoot war chief, looks like, and Hawk and I agree that we haven’t killed him yet.”

  “So you’re going to keep on fighting them?” Todd asked.

  “The job ain’t finished. I don’t figure on walkin’ away until it is.”

  “Then we’re still with you,” Buckley declared without hesitation. “Right, Charlie?”

  “Damn right,” Todd said.

  “I appreciate that, boys. Right now, though, I reckon we all need some rest.” Preacher turned to the old-timer. “White Buffalo, will you keep watch while the rest of us sleep?”

  “Of course,” White Buffalo answered. “Dog and I have much to talk about. Horses and mules . . .” He blew out a disgusted breath. “A man could go mad with boredom talking to them.”

  Preacher chuckled. “Dog may want to get some shut-eye, too, but I’ll leave it up to the two o’ you to work that out.” He turned to the two greenhorns. “We’re gonna rest and lie low for a while, then maybe tomorrow we’ll go take a look at the village again.”

  “What do you expect to find?” Buckley asked.

  “That’s a good question.”

  * * *

  They took it easy until the next day, as Preacher had said, then he and Hawk set out for the village again.

  “We’re just doin’ some scoutin’,” Preacher told Todd and Buckley when the two greenhorns wanted to join them. “No reason for you fellas to go along this time.”

  “What if you run into trouble?” Buckley asked, then before Preacher could answer, he shook his head and went on. “Of course, if anything is bad enough for the two of you to be in trouble, I doubt Charlie and I could do anything to help you.”

  “I don’t know that I’d go that far,” Preacher said. “Charlie’s a pretty fair shot, and you’re good at figurin’ things out and comin’ up with ideas. I reckon we’ll be fine this time. You fellas just stay here and keep White Buffalo company.”

  “I don’t know about that,” Todd said with a dubious frown. “Sometimes I catch that old man looking at me like he’s thinking about slitting my throat.”

  “Don’t worry. He ain’t as fierce as he makes himself out to be.”

  “We don’t understand a word of what he’s saying to us. I’m sure he doesn’t understand us, either.”

  “Well, just smile a
nd nod a lot,” Preacher advised. “I don’t reckon you can go wrong with that.”

  The two young men waved uneasily as Preacher and Hawk set off for the village. Preacher’s leg was completely healed, and they were able to move fast, like streaking shadows.

  Instead of approaching from the ridge side, they circled wide again and came up along the creek. The smell of ashes lingered in the air as they drew closer.

  As they crouched in some brush about a quarter mile away from the village location, they saw that the dwellings left standing were gone, taken down, packed up, and carried away.

  All that remained were the charred ruins of the tepees that had burned.

  “The Blackfeet are gone,” Hawk said.

  “Yep. They’ve pulled up stakes and headed for the tall and uncut. I had a hunch they might if we made it too hot for ’em around here.”

  “Tall Bull thought to drive the Absaroka away and destroy those who would not leave. He would have done the same to any other tribe that got in his way. And yet now . . . he and his people are the ones who are gone.”

  “White folks have a sayin’ about what happens when a fella gets too big for his britches. I reckon ol’ Tall Bull is livin’ proof of that.”

  Hawk looked over at Preacher. “But he is living. You are right about that. Our work is not done.”

  Preacher drew in a deep breath. He had mulled over what he would do if the Blackfoot village was abandoned. A part of him wanted to put this whole ugly war behind him and get on with the fur trapping that had brought him to the mountains in the first place.

  He wasn’t exactly weary of killing—he didn’t figure he would ever get tired of killing evil bastards who had it coming—but a man’s hands could get so covered with blood that he wanted to put it all aside for a while.

  At the same time, he had promised Hawk he wouldn’t stop fighting until Tall Bull was dead. He thought about Bird in the Tree and Little Pine and all the other Absaroka who had been slain because of Tall Bull’s lust for power.

  Hawk got tired of waiting for his father’s response and said, “What will you do, Preacher, now that Tall Bull is gone?”