Preacher's Hell Storm

by William W. Johnstone

  The mountain man took a deep breath. “Why, I reckon you and me will just have to go hunt the son of a bitch down and kill him.”

  CHAPTER 34

  They carried the news back to the canyon.

  “That’s good, isn’t it?” Charlie Todd asked. “I mean, the Blackfeet are gone. We won.”

  Hawk scowled and said in English, “Tall Bull is alive. We . . . have not . . . won.”

  Buckley said, “You have to kill him to properly avenge all the Absaroka he slaughtered.”

  Preacher nodded. “I reckon that’s about the size of it.”

  Buckley looked over at his friend. “I understand. We feel the same about those fellows who were with us, don’t we, Charlie?”

  “We didn’t really know them all that well,” Todd said. “We just joined their company to come out here and trap furs.” He saw the way Preacher and Buckley were looking at him and went on hurriedly. “But yeah, sure. They won’t rest easy until Tall Bull is dead, and neither will we.”

  Buckley clapped a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “That’s the spirit.” He nodded to the mountain man. “We’re with you, Preacher, as long as you want our help.”

  “I ain’t sure what comes next, but we’ll be glad to have you along, boys.”

  White Buffalo folded his arms across his scrawny chest. “So Tall Bull ran like the cowardly snake he is.”

  “You cannot call him cowardly,” Hawk said. “He fights, or he never would have become a war chief. But he is evil and must be destroyed.”

  “Did the craven Blackfeet flee northward, back to the lands that spawned them?” White Buffalo asked Preacher.

  “That’s what we’ll have to find out. We’ll go back to the village and pick up the trail tomorrow.”

  “All of us?” Buckley asked.

  “Yeah, I reckon we’ll be travelin’ together, at least for now. Once we find Tall Bull, we may have to split up again, dependin’ on where he is and how we’ll need to get at him.”

  “Just tell us what you need us to do,” Buckley said. “We’re at your command, Preacher.”

  “You’re our general,” Todd added. “General Preacher.”

  Preacher narrowed his eyes and shook his head. “I don’t much cotton to the sound o’ that. I ain’t been in no army since I fought for Andy Jackson at the Battle o’ New Orleans.”

  “I, uh, meant no offense—”

  “It’s all right, Charlie.” Preacher held up a hand to forestall Todd’s apology. “Army or not, we’re all on the same side, after the same thing.”

  “Killing Tall Bull,” Hawk said, and the others all nodded solemnly.

  * * *

  All five men left the canyon hideout the next day and traveled to the foothills above the former location of the Blackfoot village. Arriving at a high ridge, Preacher told White Buffalo, Buckley, and Todd to remain in the thick trees while he, Hawk, and Dog descended to look for a trail.

  Along the creek, Preacher’s eyes searched the trees, but he didn’t see any shrouded forms placed among the branches. The Blackfeet had taken their dead with them to lay them to rest elsewhere.

  Hawk noticed that, too. “They were afraid we would return to desecrate the bodies if they left them here.”

  “But we wouldn’t have,” Preacher said.

  “No, we would never have done such a thing. We are better than the Blackfeet.”

  “Now you’re startin’ to catch on.”

  They walked among the burned tepees. Nothing was left except ashes and some rubble—the remains of clay pots, charred pieces of bearskin robes, and the like. Even though the Blackfeet were his enemies, Preacher thought, it was sad to see their lives reduced to destruction.

  All of that misfortune could be laid at the feet of Tall Bull. It was his lust for power that had led to it.

  Hawk pointed to the ground. “I can see the marks left by the travois they used to carry their belongings. We should be able to follow the trail without any trouble.”

  Preacher tugged at his earlobe and frowned in thought. “Yeah,” he agreed, “but is that what they want us to—”

  A soft growl from Dog interrupted him. Preacher turned to look at the big cur as Dog suddenly leaped toward Hawk and crashed into the young warrior’s back.

  Something flashed through the air, and Dog let out a yelp.

  The arrow that had clipped him—the arrow that would have landed in the middle of Hawk’s back if not for Dog’s swift action—flew on past, fluttering a little from the impact with Dog’s hip, where a bloody streak stood out.

  Preacher finished his pivot and dropped to a knee as another arrow whipped over his head. He raised his rifle to his shoulder but couldn’t find a target. More arrows slashed through the air.

  “Stay down!” he called to Hawk, who had started to get up.

  Hawk went flat on the ground. So did Preacher, and Dog hunkered low, as well.

  They couldn’t stay that way. It wouldn’t take long for the hidden archers to adjust their aim and send their arrows high in the sky to arch back down at their targets.

  The arrows came from the direction of the creek, where some of the Blackfoot warriors were concealed under the edge of the bank. They’d been left behind when the others pulled out, and Preacher and Hawk had walked right into the trap.

  Preacher snarled in anger directed more at himself than his enemies. Tall Bull was canny, and it wouldn’t pay to underestimate him.

  At the moment, it was more important to figure out a way to deal with the new threat. The devastated village didn’t offer any cover, and if Preacher and Hawk tried to dash back to the trees along the base of the ridge, they would be easy targets for the Blackfoot bowmen.

  Knowing the warriors had to reveal themselves a little in order to launch their arrows, Preacher watched for any sign of movement. When he saw a flicker of it, he squeezed the rifle’s trigger.

  The ball smashed into the forehead of a Blackfoot warrior who had just pulled back his bowstring. His head exploded like a ripe melon, and the arrow flew wildly as the man toppled backwards off his perch just below the rim of the creek bank. Angry shouts came from his companions.

  “The Blackfeet are cowards!” Preacher yelled back at them. “They hide themselves from their enemies! They fight like women!” He set the empty rifle aside and drew both pistols. The range was a little long . . . but the solution to that was to bring the Blackfeet closer.

  “The Blackfeet cower like dogs! Brave warriors will wipe them from the face of the earth!”

  Arrows soared into the sky. Preacher saw the angle at which they flew and knew the Blackfeet had figured out what they needed to do. “Move!” he told Hawk. “Roll the other way!”

  They split apart, rolling desperately in opposite directions. The deadly rain of arrows fell all around them, and it was pure luck neither man was skewered. An arrow pinned one of Preacher’s trouser legs to the ground for a second, but he ripped it free and kept moving.

  He saw that Hawk was all right for the moment and that Dog had sprung up and outraced the falling arrows, getting clear of the ruined village. The big cur stopped, turned back, and would have returned to Preacher, but the mountain man called, “No, Dog! Get outta here!”

  Dog hesitated, clearly reluctant to leave his trail partner, but then turned and raced toward the ridge, limping only slightly from his arrow wound.

  “Again the Blackfeet fail!” Preacher shouted toward the creek. “Your enemies live and spit in your face!”

  “You cannot defeat the Absaroka!” Hawk added to the taunting. “The spirits of the slain are with us and will bring down bloody vengeance on your heads!”

  Preacher figured the Blackfeet didn’t outnumber them by too much, or the warriors would have already rushed and overrun them. Tall Bull’s forces had been whittled down considerably, and he wouldn’t strip all his remaining warriors away from the fleeing band.

  Preacher was willing to take his chances against the enemy and knew Hawk was, too. It w
as just a matter of getting the fight out in the open. He called out, “The Great Spirit has abandoned the Blackfeet! Your medicine is gone!”

  That did it. Shouting and howling, five warriors boiled over the edge of the bank and charged toward Preacher and Hawk, firing arrows on the run as they attacked.

  Preacher came up on one knee, thrust the pistols out in front of him, and pulled the triggers. The thunderous double boom of their reports was deafening. The shots scythed two of the warriors off their feet as blood flew from their wounds.

  Hawk rose from the ground, leaning to the side to let an arrow slash through the air only inches from his right ear. The next instant, his bowstring twanged. The shaft he fired found its target, burying its flint head deep in the guts of an onrushing Blackfoot. The warrior doubled over in agony and collapsed.

  That left the odds even, two against two. Too close for arrows, the Blackfeet cast their bows aside and yanked out their tomahawks. Preacher and Hawk surged to their feet and met that assault with tomahawks of their own.

  The weapons slashed back and forth, striking and blocking almost too fast for the eye to follow. All four fighters were fast and skilled. The slightest hesitation or miscalculation might well be followed by instant death. They twisted around, giving ground and then retaking it. They all knew it was a fight to the finish.

  As often happened, luck played a part in the outcome. As Hawk backed away from his opponent, hard put to block a flurry of swings launched by the Blackfoot, he came within reach of the man he’d shot in the belly with an arrow.

  Gasping in pain, the warrior looked up, saw the source of his agony close by, and lunged out to grab Hawk’s right ankle. With the last of his fading strength, the man jerked that foot out from under Hawk, robbing him of his balance and making him topple to the side before the dying man collapsed again.

  Hawk’s opponent seized the opportunity, leaping in and swinging his tomahawk as the young Absaroka’s guard dropped. Hawk jerked his head, but the tomahawk struck him a glancing blow and stunned him. The Blackfoot raised the weapon again, ready to bring it crashing down on Hawk’s skull.

  In the split second that separated Hawk from death, a rifle boomed. The Blackfoot pitched to the side as a chunk of his skull flew into the air, blown apart by the lead ball that struck it. Blood and brains splattered Hawk’s face, but he was alive and the man who’d been about to kill him was not.

  A few yards away, Preacher was still battling fiercely. The remaining Blackfoot was several inches shorter but had the longest arms the mountain man had ever seen. His tomahawk whipped back and forth, but he couldn’t seem to get inside that long reach.

  If he couldn’t get to the varmint one way, he would try another way, Preacher decided. He bided his time, and when he had an opening, he suddenly leaped into the air and kicked out with both feet, driving his heels into the warrior’s solar plexus. The Blackfoot flew backwards like a puppet jerked at the end of a string.

  Preacher caught himself with his free hand as he fell. He pushed into a roll and came up swinging the tomahawk. The Blackfoot was gasping for breath but managed to block the mountain man’s tomahawk as it came sweeping down at his face.

  That was the last resistance he was able to muster. The next second Preacher rammed a knee into the Blackfoot’s belly and weakened him even more. Preacher knocked the warrior’s tomahawk aside, and then with a backhanded swing of his own weapon, he shattered the Blackfoot’s skull. Another blow crunched more bone to make sure.

  Preacher stood up and looked around in time to see Hawk pushing a corpse off himself. Blood trickled down the side of Hawk’s face from a wound in his hair, near his left temple. He didn’t appear to be badly hurt, however, so Preacher checked the other Blackfeet first and made sure they were all dead. Satisfied the threat was over, at least for the moment, the mountain man turned to his son. “How bad is it?”

  “This is nothing,” Hawk said as he climbed to his feet, but his eyes seemed to be a little unfocused. “The Blackfoot dog barely struck me.” As soon as those words were out of his mouth, Hawk’s knees buckled and he started to fall.

  Preacher sprang forward to grab him and hold him up. “We’d best clean that wound and see how bad it really is. Come on. I’ll help you down to the creek.”

  Before he could do that, he heard his name being called. He looked around and saw Charlie Todd and Aaron Buckley running across the open ground toward the destroyed village. Dog was with them. A considerable distance behind them, White Buffalo followed at a more deliberate pace as he led Horse and the pack mule.

  They appeared to be all right, so Preacher resumed helping Hawk down to the creek. Half-leading, half-carrying Hawk, they took one of the paths the Blackfoot women had worn into the bank.

  The body of the first man Preacher had shot bobbed limply in the water a short distance downstream where it had floated up against a log.

  Hawk stretched out on the grass while Preacher took a rag from his possibles bag and got it wet in the creek. He swabbed the blood away and found a long but shallow gash in Hawk’s hair. A poultice would fix that up, he decided. In the meantime, Hawk’s head would hurt like hell and his vision might be a little fuzzy, but it wouldn’t take him long to shake off those effects.

  After all, he was Preacher’s son, wasn’t he?

  “You’re gonna be all right,” Preacher told him.

  From the top of the bank, Aaron Buckley asked, “How badly is he hurt?”

  “Not too bad,” Preacher said. “Got a wallop to the noggin with a tomahawk, that’s all.”

  “That’s all, he says,” Charlie Todd commented, “like it’s something that happens every day.”

  Hawk’s eyes focused on the two young white men as they peered down at him, and he pushed himself up on an elbow. “You! One of you . . . shot that Blackfoot . . .”

  “That was Charlie,” Buckley said with a grin as he pointed a thumb at his friend. “We were too far away to be sure, but it looked like he was about to kill you, and . . . well, we had to do something.”

  “I am . . . in your debt . . . Charlie.”

  “I’m just glad I was able to make the shot,” Todd said.

  “I have some salve that might help that head wound,” Buckley added.

  “I can make a poultice from some herbs that’ll fix it right up,” Preacher said, “but I’m obliged for the offer. And I’m obliged for that shot you made, Charlie. Looks like askin’ you fellas to throw in with us was a mighty good idea.”

  Both young men looked pleased at the mountain man’s praise.

  Buckley said, “Tall Bull left his men behind to ambush anybody who came to take a look around the village, didn’t he?”

  “Yeah, it was a trap, all right. I didn’t give the varmint enough credit.” Preacher paused, then added grimly, “I won’t make that mistake a second time, you can bet a brand-new beaver hat on that.”

  CHAPTER 35

  Preacher helped Hawk back up the path and then the young man sat on the ground while Preacher went to look for the herbs he needed for the poultice.

  “You fellas scout around a mite while I’m tendin’ to Hawk,” he told Buckley and Todd. “Make sure no more Blackfeet are lurkin’ in these parts.”

  “You’d trust us to do that?” Buckley asked.

  “Yep. Just keep your eyes and ears open, and don’t mess up any tracks you find.” Preacher was pretty sure all the warriors Tall Bull had left behind were already dead, but having a look around would give the two greenhorns something to do.

  He was going to have to stop thinking of them as greenhorns, he told himself. They were far from being seasoned frontiersmen, but they were learning more and gaining confidence every day.

  During the next hour, Preacher found the plants he needed, mashed and soaked them into a poultice, and then tied it into place on Hawk’s head with strips of rawhide. “You’ll be good as new in a day or two,” he told the young warrior.

  “I am good enough to hunt and kill Black
feet right now,” Hawk said.

  “Best not get too far ahead o’ yourself. You wasn’t too steady on your feet the last time you tried to stand up.”

  “I will not delay our revenge,” Hawk declared as he started to get to his feet. He didn’t make it very far before his suddenly sickened expression made it clear the world had started spinning crazily. He sank back, bracing himself with a hand against the ground, and groaned.

  “White Buffalo, watch over the boy,” Preacher said. “Make sure he don’t do nothin’ foolish, like tryin’ to get up and run around.”

  White Buffalo folded his arms. “I can do nothing except offer him the wise counsel of my years.”

  “I reckon that’ll have to be enough, then.” Preacher pointed a finger at Hawk. “Stay right there.”

  “I am not Dog,” Hawk said with a surly frown. “You cannot command me as you would the cur.”

  “Dog is more reasonable than a young man filled with the hot blood of hatred and pride,” White Buffalo said.

  Hawk scowled even more.

  Trying not to chuckle, Preacher left them there and followed Buckley and Todd, who had headed up the creek toward the north.

  It didn’t take him long to catch up with them. Buckley pointed toward marks in the grass where things had been dragged through it. “Are those the tracks you were talking about?”

  “Yeah,” Preacher said. “You know what a travois is?”

  “I’ve heard the word,” Todd replied, looking puzzled. “But I’m not exactly sure . . .”

  “It’s a long pair of poles with hide stretched between them. The Indians use some of the tepee poles once they’ve taken it down. Indians don’t have a lot, so they make use of everything they’ve got. Each family piles all their possessions on their travois and then drags it behind ’em. That way, all they have to do when they get where they’re goin’ is unload and set up the tepees again. You could say they carry their homes with ’em. That way, wherever they are . . . they’re home.”

  “That seems like a really primitive way to live,” Buckley said.