Preacher's Hell Storm

by William W. Johnstone

  Hawk said, “Preacher, please—”

  “Hush up, boy. And you know how I’m sayin’ that.” Father to son, Preacher meant, and he saw that Hawk indeed knew it. Even though he didn’t have much right to be issuing parental commands, not after they had lived nearly all of Hawk’s life apart, Preacher was going to put his foot down . . . for whatever that was worth.

  Hawk didn’t say anything else, but he stared at Preacher with a mixture of anger and sorrow and regret in his eyes.

  “You allow me to set the terms of our battle,” Tall Bull said, “and so I say I will fight with my war club . . . and you will fight with your bare hands.”

  Preacher saw the looks some of the other warriors exchanged and played on that reaction, saying, “Ain’t hardly fair . . . but you got a deal.”

  Tall Bull grunted and brandished the club toward Preacher. “Turn the Ghost Killer loose.”

  CHAPTER 42

  One of the warriors cut the rawhide strips holding Preacher to the tree, then sawed through the thongs around his wrists. It was a relief to Preacher’s muscles when he brought his arms around in front of him again. Since his hands had gone partially numb, he flexed the long, strong fingers to get feeling back in them again.

  “Preacher, you do not have to do this,” Hawk said. “I can endure whatever torment they want to inflict on me—”

  “Well, maybe I can’t. I reckon I could stand the pain, but I always figured I’d go out fightin’. This is my chance to do that, son.”

  Tall Bull had hold of the club with both hands, swinging it lightly back and forth.

  Hawk turned to him. “Wait! I will fight you, Tall Bull. It is my right. My people are the ones you wiped out.”

  Tall Bull blew out a contemptuous breath. “Who are you?” he asked, then answered his own question. “A puny Absaroka! There would be no glory in crushing the life from you. But this man”—he pointed the club at Preacher—“this is the Ghost Killer. The White Wolf. Our women use tales of this man to frighten our children into their sleeping robes at night. When I kill him, the fame of Tall Bull will spread to all the lands west of the Father of Waters I have heard of but never seen.”

  “Even if it ain’t strictly a fair fight,” Preacher gibed with a grin.

  Tall Bull snarled and raised the war club. “Are you ready to die, white man?”

  “I was born ready, but I reckon I’ll put it off as long as I can.”

  “Your time has come!” Tall Bull sprang at Preacher, launching a mighty swing with the war club.

  The other warriors, without being told to, had arranged themselves in a semicircle around the two trees, making sure Preacher couldn’t attempt a dash for freedom.

  Escape was the last thing on his mind. He didn’t know if the Blackfeet would honor the deal he had made with Tall Bull, but it was the only chance for life Hawk seemed to have.

  As the club in Tall Bull’s hands swept through the air toward Preacher’s head, the mountain man dived under the devastating blow, somersaulted, and came up with a double kick that planted both feet in Tall Bull’s stomach. The impact caused the war chief to double over and sent him flying backwards. The women, watching from beyond the circle of warriors, wailed in despair.

  Preacher leaped to his feet and went after Tall Bull, knowing he couldn’t afford to waste even the slightest advantage. Kicking the war club out of Tall Bull’s hand would go a long way toward evening the odds. As he dove toward Tall Bull, the war chief swung the club from the ground. Preacher’s momentum carried him into its arc, and the head of the club struck him a glancing blow in the ribs. It spun him around and knocked him off his feet. The women screamed in appreciation.

  Preacher rolled and came right back up, ignoring the ache in his side. He was pretty sure no ribs were broken, but it still hurt like blazes where Tall Bull had swatted him. He couldn’t allow himself to pay any attention to that.

  Tall Bull was up, too. He lunged at Preacher and brought the club down like a man using a maul to split wood. Preacher darted aside. The club missed him by inches and slammed into the ground.

  Tall Bull felt the impact shivering all the way up his arms. During the split second while the war chief was off balance, Preacher hammered his fists into Tall Bull’s face, first the left and then the right. The powerful punches rocked Tall Bull’s head back, but he didn’t go down. He didn’t even appear to be fazed.

  Another charge with the club slashing back and forth had Preacher scrambling to get out of the way. He knew if any of those strokes connected, it might knock his head right off his shoulders. As he was backing and darting, movement along the lakeshore caught his eye.

  Taking his attention off Tall Bull for even an instant could prove fatal, but his instincts told him he needed to find out what he had spotted from the corner of his eye. As soon as he could, he glanced that way again.

  A dark shape crouched there, easing closer an inch at a time, using the sparse brush for cover. The sticklike figure and the white hair told Preacher who it was.

  White Buffalo.

  Preacher didn’t know why the old-timer was trying to sneak up, but he could make a guess. If White Buffalo reached the tree where Hawk was tied, he might be able to free the young warrior.

  Instantly, Preacher reversed course in his efforts to avoid Tall Bull’s club. One of the blows clipped him on the left shoulder, making his arm go completely numb.

  He scrambled away from Hawk, drawing Tall Bull after him. As the battle shifted along the shore, the attention of the Blackfoot warriors moved with it. None of them were watching Hawk as closely, which meant they weren’t as likely to notice White Buffalo.

  Preacher swung his left arm wildly to force sensation back into it. Seconds that seemed like minutes passed as he leaped out of the way of those crushing blows and darted in to pepper a swift jab to Tall Bull’s face whenever he could. Blood trickled from the war chief’s nose, and his mouth was dark with blood.

  Preacher could tell the war chief was getting frustrated. He’d figured the mountain man would be dead quickly. Instead, Preacher had taken some damage but was dealing out punishment, as well. Tall Bull growled like an animal and leaped at Preacher again.

  Too late, Preacher realized his opponent was trying strategy instead of just raw power. Tall Bull pulled up short. His charge had been a feint, and as Preacher tried to avoid that false charge, the war club flicked at him and took him on the left hip.

  Preacher’s left leg buckled and he went down. Tall Bull could have killed him at that moment, but instead of continuing to attack with the war club, he tried to kick Preacher in the head. Preacher got his hands up in time to grab Tall Bull’s foot and heave.

  Not expecting that, Tall Bull wasn’t braced for it. He went over backwards and crashed to earth like a tree falling.

  Preacher tried to get up, but his leg wouldn’t cooperate. The same one the bear had fallen on, it went out from under him. He had believed the injury was fully healed, but obviously that leg wasn’t quite as strong as the other one yet.

  As he fell, his head was turned toward the tree where Hawk was tied. He caught a hint of movement on the other side of the trunk, just enough to tell him White Buffalo had reached the tree and was trying to free the young warrior.

  Preacher wondered fleetingly if Aaron Buckley and Charlie Todd were somewhere nearby, too, or if the old-timer was the only one determined to continue the war against the Blackfeet.

  Tall Bull rolled over, pushed himself to his feet, and bellowed in rage. “This ends now! The Ghost Killer dies!”

  A shot blasted through the echoes of the words.

  Preacher saw blood fly in the air and one of the warriors collapsed as a rifle ball tore off his jaw. A second shot rang out, and another warrior stumbled, pawing at his chest as crimson suddenly began to well between his fingers.

  Tall Bull’s head jerked around at the sound of the shots, giving Preacher time to force his leg to work well enough to come up on his knees. He threw himself
forward in a diving tackle at the war chief’s legs.

  At the same time, Hawk leaped away from the tree where he had been bound. With no chance to work any feeling back into his limbs, his movements were a little awkward, but he was faster than the warriors who weren’t expecting any trouble from him. He lowered his shoulder and rammed into the closest of the Blackfeet. As the man stumbled back several steps, Hawk tore the tomahawk from the man’s hand and backhanded it across his face. Blood spurted and bone crunched under the terrible impact.

  Tall Bull fell again as Preacher yanked his legs out from under him. Preacher pushed himself up and sledged a punch into the war chief’s belly. It was almost like hitting a stone wall.

  Even lying on his back, Tall Bull was dangerous. He swung the war club clutched in his fist at the end of his long arm. The mountain man lowered his head so the blow went over him and clambered up Tall Bull’s massive body, hammering punches along the way. With all the feeling back in Preacher’s left arm, he was at full strength . . . in his upper body, anyway.

  Hawk darted aside from an arrow fired at him, crashed into the man who had loosed the shaft, and knocked the bow aside. Hawk’s knee rose into the man’s groin, and as the warrior doubled over and gasped in agony, Hawk brought the tomahawk down on the back of his neck with stunning force. The Blackfoot’s face met the ground hard as he collapsed.

  Another warrior had drawn a bead on Hawk and was about to let fly when a rifle shot tore through his throat. Charlie Todd, who stood at the edge of the village, lowered his weapon and began reloading. Hawk’s eyes met his for a second, and both men nodded.

  On the other side of the village, Aaron Buckley’s second shot screamed harmlessly past its intended target. The warrior turned with a screech of rage and charged Buckley, brandishing a tomahawk. Buckley acted like he was going to turn and run, then stopped short and lunged to meet his foe, thrusting out the rifle barrel like a spear. It sank deeply into the warrior’s belly.

  Hawk arrived at that moment to cave in the Blackfoot’s skull with a swift stroke of the tomahawk.

  “Thanks!” Buckley yelled.

  “You should learn to shoot better!” Hawk replied as he twisted away to continue fighting.

  With a desperate spring, Preacher caught hold of Tall Bull’s club. The war chief tried to wrench it free, but Preacher hung on for dear life. Both men grunted with effort as they struggled and strained against each other.

  From the corner of his eye, Preacher saw a gray streak flash past. Dog was getting in on the fight, too. The big cur brought down one of the remaining warriors and ripped his throat out with a single slash of sharp teeth.

  Hawk traded blows with a tomahawk-wielding warrior. The weapons clashed, leaped apart, came together again as each man blocked his opponent’s strokes. The action was too fast for the eye to follow, and whoever slipped first was going to lose.

  That turned out to be the Blackfoot warrior. He was a fraction of a second too slow, allowing Hawk’s tomahawk to dart past and crash down on his shoulder. The man yelled in pain, a shout cut short when Hawk’s backhand struck him in the temple and splintered his skull.

  Several yards away, Preacher and Tall Bull still wrestled over the war club. The war chief was massive and powerful, but Preacher packed an incredible amount of strength into his rangy frame. It began to appear that the struggle might go on indefinitely, as neither man could overpower the other.

  Slowly, slowly, Preacher began to force his opponent’s arms to the side. Tall Bull’s eyes widened in shock. No one had ever defeated him before, certainly not in a contest of strength and will.

  But he had never battled the man called Preacher.

  Suddenly, as he straddled Tall Bull’s broad chest, Preacher jackknifed and butted the war chief in the face. Tall Bull’s grip loosened enough for Preacher to rip the club out of his hands. The club rose and fell with blinding speed. Preacher struck again and again and again, turning Tall Bull’s own weapon against him, until there was nothing left of the man’s head except a grisly mess of blood, bone, and brain. Gore was splattered all over Preacher’s face and the front of his buckskin shirt.

  He paused with the club lifted to strike another blow, when he heard Hawk say, “Tall Bull is dead. All the Blackfeet are dead.”

  Preacher gave a little shake of his head and blinked blood out of his eyes. He looked around and saw Hawk, White Buffalo, and the two greenhorns standing there . . . except he couldn’t think of them as greenhorns anymore. They had achieved the look of seasoned fighters.

  The bodies of the slain Blackfoot warriors were scattered around on the ground. A short distance away, the women of the village stood in stunned silence. There would be plenty of wailing and mourning later on, but at the moment they were struggling to understand that all their men were dead, led to that unfortunate fate by the power-mad Tall Bull.

  “I wished to kill him myself,” Hawk said, “but I see now it was fitting for you to do so, Preacher. Each blow you struck was for my mother.”

  Preacher dragged the back of a hand across his mouth and nodded. “I reckon,” he said, thinking of Bird in the Tree. “But he had it comin’ for a lot of reasons.”

  White Buffalo waved a gnarled hand toward the women and children and old ones from the village. “What of these?”

  Preacher came to his feet, looked for a second at the blood-smeared war club in his hand, and then cast it aside. “What of them? I told you all along, I don’t make war on women and young’uns.”

  “I don’t, either,” Buckley said. “Charlie?”

  “Yeah, I think there’s been enough killing.” Todd looked a little sick.

  Preacher fastened his gaze on his son. “Hawk?”

  For a long moment, Hawk didn’t say anything. Then he took a deep breath, sighed, and said in his native tongue, “The spirits of Bird in the Tree and Little Pine are at rest, as are those of the other Absaroka.” Then he added in English, “Let’s get the hell out of here.”

  A weary smile touched Preacher’s lips as he said, “Best idea anybody’s had in a long time.”

  CHAPTER 43

  Charlie Todd lifted the tin cup, threw back the whiskey it contained, licked his lips, and sighed. “I can’t tell you just how much I needed that.”

  Hawk let out a disdainful grunt. White Buffalo just looked above it all as he sat at the round, roughhewn table with his arms folded. Aaron Buckley sipped his whiskey rather than guzzling it down like his friend had.

  With Dog at his feet, Preacher stood at the bar in the trading post and smiled as he looked at his friends. He had been talking idly with Ben Crandall, the proprietor of the trading post. Although acquainted with Crandall, Preacher didn’t know him all that well.

  The door opened and a stooped figure shuffled into the low-ceilinged room and headed for a corner. The newcomer’s head was down and a thick buffalo robe enveloped the evidently frail figure. With a tired sigh, the individual sank down to the hard-packed dirt floor and huddled against the wall not far from the fireplace.

  Crandall glanced over and frowned. “Damn redskins.” He caught himself and added hastily, “Not your friends, of course, Preacher. They’re always welcome here. You know that. Some of those old-timers slink in here and try to cadge drinks from me, and we can’t have that. You know how Injuns are with firewater.”

  Preacher didn’t respond to that. Some Indians were his best friends, others were his bitterest enemies. Like every other bunch of folks, there were all sorts of them.

  “So you ain’t run into any trouble so far this season?” Crandall went on.

  “None to speak of,” Preacher said.

  That was true. The story of the long, bloody war he and Hawk had carried out against Tall Bull’s band of Blackfeet would probably get around sooner or later, but Preacher was damned if he was going to add to the yarns people already spun about him.

  Anyhow, the way folks dressed up those stories, by the time they were done they’d have him killing five or six
hundred Blackfoot warriors all by himself . . . instead of the fifty or sixty he and Hawk had sent across the divide with a little help from their friends.

  “Where are you bound from here?” Crandall asked.

  “Thought we’d drift south and west a ways, over into the Tetons, maybe,” Preacher said. “Do a little trappin’.”

  Crandall leaned his elbows on the bar. “The way I heard it, you usually play a lone hand, Preacher. It ain’t common for you to travel with a group.”

  “Well,” Preacher said, “they ain’t exactly a common group.”

  There had been much discussion of the future during the week’s journey from the Blackfoot village on the shore of that nameless mountain lake. Somewhat to his own surprise, he had found himself hoping Hawk would want to throw in with him for a while. He wouldn’t mind getting to know the boy better. And of course, where Hawk went, White Buffalo was likely to go, as well. They were, after all, the last of the Absaroka—that particular band, anyway.

  And Hawk was the last link to a time of fond memories for Preacher, a time he wasn’t willing to let go of just yet.

  As for Buckley and Todd, the two of them had expressed a desire to partner up with Preacher for a while, if he would have them.

  “We might be able to make it on our own,” Buckley had said next to the campfire one night, “but I think our odds will be a lot better with you, Preacher. There’s still so much we can learn from you.”

  “How to shoot better,” Hawk had said with a touch of dry humor, unusual for him.

  “Yes, definitely,” Buckley agreed. “But if we’re going to be mountain men, who better to teach us?”

  Preacher had agreed to let them come along. Maybe, with any luck, the rest of the season would pass peacefully. He wasn’t going to bet a brand-new felt hat on it, though. Not the way trouble seemed to follow him around wherever he went.

  As he stood in the trading post, Preacher felt his restlessness growing. He had been under a roof long enough. They had replenished their supplies, and he was ready to be gone from that outpost of civilization.