Preacher’s Fury

by Johnstone, William W.

  Preacher stood absolutely still until his eyes picked out the man-shaped patch of deeper darkness about six feet in front of him. The man was leaning against the rock wall. He was probably tired and having trouble staying awake.

  Preacher waited, barely breathing.

  After a while, the guard’s head drooped forward a little and his breathing deepened. He had dozed off. That lapse lasted only for a second, though. He jerked his head up and muttered something to himself.

  Preacher knew by the man’s reaction to falling asleep that the Gros Ventre warrior had no idea he was so close to death. The mountain man stayed where he was, utterly motionless, and after a few more minutes had passed, the guard’s head swayed forward again.

  Preacher’s hunting knife came out of its sheath without a sound. He moved swiftly, his left hand reaching out to clamp over the guard’s mouth. At the same time, he struck with the knife, driving the blade up and into the man’s chest. He felt a spasm go through the warrior as the razor-sharp tip penetrated his heart. Preacher pressed him back against the wall and held him there until he was sure the guard was dead.

  Then he lowered the body slowly and carefully to the ground. He pulled the blade free and wiped the blood on the dead man’s shirt. A few flakes of snow drifted down and landed on the man’s face, but he could no longer feel them.

  Preacher stepped over the corpse and moved deeper into the passage. Up ahead of him, someone laughed. The narrow trail through the rocks twisted again, and now he could see an orange glow from the campfire.

  The passage opened onto a broad ledge that ran to the left. The ledge was about twenty feet wide, then it dropped off sharply into a deep ravine. The Gros Ventre had built their fire on that level ground. Rocks overhung the place, giving it some protection from the wind and the snow.

  Preacher took his hat off and edged his head out a little more as he looked for the Assiniboine prisoners. He spotted them—seven or eight young men—sitting at the base of the wall that loomed over the ledge. From the way they were sitting, their hands were lashed behind their backs, probably with rawhide strips, and they looked angry, miserable, and afraid all at the same time.

  He did a quick count of the Gros Ventre. Twenty-two warriors. Counting the sentry he had killed, twenty-three. That agreed with earlier estimates. So the Assiniboine were outnumbered, but not by a great deal.

  And if he could free those prisoners, Preacher thought, that would tip the odds in their favor.

  Unfortunately, he couldn’t see any way to reach the captives. Their would-be rescuers couldn’t count on their help.

  Some of the Gros Ventre were asleep, but others were still awake talking. One of them stood up, stretched, went over to the far side of the ledge, and relieved himself over the rim of the ravine.

  Then he turned and walked toward the narrow passage where Preacher stood.

  This fella was about to take over for the guard he had killed, Preacher thought. Which meant that discovery wasn’t far off. He grimaced in the darkness. He couldn’t take on more than twenty Gros Ventre warriors by himself, but there wasn’t going to be time to go back and fetch Two Bears and the rest of the war party.

  This was one time when that old saying about being stuck between a rock and hard place was literally true.

  He could whittle the odds down by one more, though, he told himself as he moved deeper into the shadows and pressed his back against the wall of the passage. He drew his knife and waited as the unsuspecting Gros Ventre warrior ambled toward him.

  The man entered the passage and called out in a soft voice. Preacher understood enough of the Gros Ventre lingo to know that the man was calling to the guard whose place he intended to take. Preacher grunted in response, the sort of sound that a tired man ready to turn in for the night might make.

  The warrior came closer. Preacher was absolutely still and silent now. He didn’t make his move until the unsuspecting man stepped past him.

  Then, uncoiling like a striking snake, Preacher looped his left arm around the warrior’s throat from behind, clamped down to cut off any sound, and drove his knife into the man’s back. The Gros Ventre arched and shuddered as the knife slid between his ribs and sliced into his heart, stopping it. With a final spasm as life departed, the man went limp in Preacher’s grip.

  Preacher lowered the body to the ground as he had with the other guard. That left twenty-one raiders to deal with. If he could just figure out a way to get them to stroll into the passage one at a time, he could handle them, he thought with a grim smile.

  They wouldn’t do that, though. When neither of the guards came back to the fire, after a while they would start to wonder what was wrong. Then several of the men would come to investigate, more than likely. They might be able to attack two at a time, but considering the passage’s narrow confines, it was more likely that just one man could charge in once they suspected that an enemy lurked in here.

  And as soon as they knew that for sure, they would back off and send arrows whistling along the passage. Preacher was confident that he could take cover behind the first bend and be safe enough, but he couldn’t free the prisoners from there.

  It would be a standoff, and if that happened, ultimately the Gros Ventre would win. They could leave two or three warriors with plenty of arrows on the ledge. That would be enough to keep the Assiniboine bottled up in there until the rest of the raiders were long gone with the prisoners.

  No, a surprise attack was the only chance he and his allies had, Preacher told himself.

  Some tiny noises drew his attention. He turned back the way he had come from. Two Bears had warned him that they wouldn’t wait long, and they hadn’t. The rest of the Assiniboine rescue party was slipping through the passage toward him, quietly enough that only the keenest ears would hear their approach.

  Preacher had ears that keen. He waited until he sensed that someone was near him, then whispered, “Two Bears.”

  He knew he was taking a chance. The men coming along the passage toward him might not be the Assiniboine.

  But he didn’t know who else they could be, and sure enough, Two Bears whispered back, “White man?”

  It annoyed Preacher that the war chief wouldn’t call him by name, but that wasn’t important now. He leaned closer to Two Bears and in a voice that couldn’t have been heard more than a few feet away, he explained what he had found at the end of the passage.

  An idea had begun to form in the back of his mind. He asked, “Are there any of your fellas who are good at climbin’?”

  “You mean climbing a tree? There are no trees here!”

  “I was thinkin’ more of rock climbin’.” Preacher pointed up, even though it was so dark in the passage Two Bears probably couldn’t see the gesture. “If somebody could get above that ledge and drop down on it while the Gros Ventre were distracted, he could cut the prisoners loose so they could get in on the fight, too.”

  “Climb that cliff in the dark? It cannot be done.”

  “It’s our best chance,” Preacher insisted. “I’ll do it.”

  “You will fall and die,” Two Bears predicted.

  “Well, then,” Preacher said with a touch of bleak humor, “if I do, it’ll be your problem figuring out how to rescue those boys, won’t it?”

  CHAPTER 14

  Two Bears had to know just as well as Preacher that they didn’t have much time to settle on a plan. After a moment, the war chief said, “What is this distraction you speak of?”

  “If I’m doin’ the climbin’, the distraction will be your part,” Preacher said. “If it was me, I’d just sorta saunter out onto the ledge and dare them Gros Ventre to come after me. They’ll rush over here after you, and while they’re busy doin’ that, I’ll drop down behind them and free the prisoners. Then we’ll jump the varmints from that direction. When they swing around to see what in blazes is goin’ on, that’s when the rest of you come pourin’ out. We’ll hit ’em from both directions at once, and we’ll have the odds on our
side if I can get those boys loose.”

  For several seconds, Two Bears was silent in the darkness. Then he said, “It sounds like it might work. But how will I know when you are ready, so I can distract them?”

  “That’s a problem, all right. I’d let out a birdcall to signal you, but I don’t reckon there are very many birds around these parts at this time of year.”

  “No,” Two Bears agreed. “Not many. But can you howl like a wolf?”

  Preacher grinned.

  “Folks have accused me of bein’ an old lobo. I can sound like one if I need to.”

  “Then that will be the signal. Go. There is no more time to waste.”

  “Nope, there’s sure not.”

  Preacher had left his rifle with Horse, so he didn’t have to do anything with it when he turned to the stone wall and began feeling for handholds. He wished he had gotten a good look at this cliff in the daylight. What he was setting out to do might be impossible, but he wouldn’t know that unless he tried.

  He found what seemed to be a sturdy grip.

  “Listen for the wolf,” he told Two Bears.

  Then he began pulling himself up the steep rock wall.

  This was the second time in recent weeks he had climbed a cliff to turn the tables on a bunch of Gros Ventre raiders. Heights didn’t really bother Preacher—not much did—but it would be fine with him if this was the last time he ever had to imitate a blasted mountain goat.

  Preacher moved as fast as he could, but it was inevitable that having to work completely by feel, in almost total darkness, slowed him down some. Despite that, he thought he was making pretty good progress. He angled in what he hoped was the right direction.

  Getting down onto the ledge was going to be tricky. He thought about that as he climbed. If he’d had a rope, he could have secured it somewhere, dropped the other end off the edge of that overhanging rock, and shinnied down it without much trouble.

  But he didn’t have a rope, which meant he would have to hang from the rim and let himself drop. The ledge stuck out farther than the overhang, and the drop would only be about a dozen feet, so that ought to work.

  If he miscalculated, though, or if he just flat-out missed, he might plunge right into that ravine, which had appeared to be forty or fifty feet deep. A fall like that could seriously injure a man or even kill him.

  And it would certainly prevent him from freeing the prisoners, which meant the Assiniboine rescue party might wind up getting slaughtered, too.

  Preacher forced those thoughts out of his mind and concentrated on his climbing. The rocks were cold and in some places slick with snow. He had never been one to brood about what might happen. Plan for it as much as you could, deal with it when it was happening, and go ahead. It was a simple philosophy, but one that had served him well.

  Without warning, one of his feet slipped. He pressed himself to the rock as hard as he could as he started to fall. His fingers wedged in some tiny cracks, and for a second they had to support all his weight. Pain shot through Preacher’s hands and along his arms. But he hung on, and after a few nerve-wracking seconds both feet found new purchase and took the strain off his fingers.

  Preacher leaned against the rock wall and dragged in a deep breath. He would have liked to rest there for a few moments, but there wasn’t time for that. He started hauling himself upward again.

  A minute later, he spotted a faint orange glow in the sky to his right. That had to be coming from the campfire. He was getting there, he told himself. Not much farther now.

  But time was running out. The Gros Ventre warriors who were still awake were probably wondering by now why the guard who had been relieved hadn’t come to join them. If they went to investigate too soon, the plan would be ruined.

  Preacher tried to move a little faster. Up and to the right, up and to the right … As long as he didn’t encounter a stretch without any footholds and handholds, he could make it, he told himself.

  And of course, that jinxed him. It never failed. He had to stop, and try as he might, he couldn’t find any other grips within reach to his right.

  Biting back a curse, Preacher tilted his head back to study the rock wall above him. He thought he could probably continue going straight up, but that wouldn’t put him any closer to the Gros Ventre camp.

  That appeared to be his only option, so he stretched one arm above his head and found a small, protruding rock. He grasped it tightly and felt around with a foot until he found a little crevice that he could get the toe of his boot into. With a tiny grunt of effort from the strain, he hauled himself higher.

  Seconds ticked past, and with each one, Preacher’s nerves drew tighter. After a minute or so he found a crack that angled up and to the right, just the way he wanted to go. He wedged his toes into it and began sliding along.

  It petered out after about fifteen feet.

  But from where he was, with the glow from the fire helping him to see now, he could make out the giant slab of rock that overhung the Gros Ventre camp. It was about ten feet below him and three or four feet ahead of where he clung to the rock. An easy enough jump if he’d had a place from which to launch himself.

  As it was, though, all he could do was let go, push off from the rock, and twist his body as he fell in hopes that he could reach the stone slab. If he missed, he would tumble helplessly down into the darkness. He didn’t know what might be waiting for him there, but it couldn’t be anything good. Probably fang-like rocks that would smash the life out of him.

  But again there was no choice. Preacher took another deep breath, tensed all his muscles, and flung himself away from the cliff as hard as he could.

  Twisting in midair, he reached out desperately for the rock where he wanted to land. For a terrible split second that seemed much longer, he thought he was going to miss it.

  Then the edge of the slab hit him in the belly, knocking the breath out of him, and his hands slapped against the stone and began to struggle for purchase. He had landed half-on and half-off, and it would be very easy to slip back and fall.

  The rough surface painfully gouged his palms and fingertips, but he hung on for dear life and stopped his slide before he went too far over the edge and fell. Gritting his teeth from the effort, Preacher pulled himself forward until all of his body was sprawled on the slightly slanting top of the massive rock.

  As soon as he had caught his breath, Preacher sat up. He turned back toward the passage where he had left Two Bears and the other Assiniboine. Tipping his head back, he let out the wavering howl of a lobo wolf.

  If the signal was going to be loud enough for Two Bears to hear, it had to be loud enough that the Gros Ventre would hear it, too. That couldn’t be avoided. Preacher hoped that he sounded enough like a wolf to fool them.

  It had to help that an answering howl came back, and the yowling yip-yip-yip was undoubtedly authentic. Preacher grinned. Good old Dog! He hadn’t expected the big cur to pitch in and make the charade even more convincing. The Gros Ventre wouldn’t be suspicious of a pair of wolves howling at each other across the badlands.

  On hands and knees, Preacher crawled toward the other side of the rock slab. He went down on his belly the last few yards and took his hat off so he could peer over the edge. He couldn’t see the prisoners from where he was, of course. He couldn’t even see the campfire.

  But he could hear just fine, and he recognized Two Bears’ voice as the war chief stepped out of the passage and called in a loud, arrogant voice, “Gros Ventre! You dung-eating dogs! Let my warriors go!”

  Instead, shouting angrily, the raiders charged along the ledge toward the mouth of the passage. Preacher swung around and slid backwards so that his legs dangled off the rock. If he dropped straight down, he would land about a yard from the ledge’s rim. As long as he didn’t over-balance and topple backward, he would be fine.

  That was taking a big chance, though, and he knew it.

  He pushed himself back and let his legs dangle until he was hanging full-length f
rom his hands. More angry yelling came from the passage as the Gros Ventre tried to pursue Two Bears into it.

  Preacher wasn’t sure what he would run into down there, but there was only one way to find out.

  He let go.

  The drop took only a heartbeat, but it was a breathtaking instant anyway. Preacher’s boots hit the ledge solidly, but his weight started to carry him backward. He windmilled his arms to catch his balance, and as he did that, he saw that the Gros Ventre hadn’t left the prisoners unguarded when they chased off after Two Bears. Two of the raiders stood between Preacher and the captives, bows in hand with arrows nocked.

  Preacher threw himself forward as one of the Gros Ventre fired. The arrow sliced through the air above his head, where his belly had been a second earlier. Preacher landed in a rolling dive that carried him into a somersault. As he came up, his knife was already in his hand.

  The blade sliced into the belly of the guard who had fired the arrow and gutted the man. Preacher grabbed his arm and swung him around just as the other guard loosed his arrow. It struck the dying guard in the back with such force that the arrowhead went all the way through his body and burst out his chest to protrude bloodily from his buckskin shirt.

  Preacher had already ripped his knife from the man’s belly. He threw it over the dying guard’s shoulder with deadly accuracy. The blade transfixed the other guard’s throat, not only inflicting a mortal wound but also insuring that he couldn’t let out a warning shout to the other members of his party.

  Preacher shoved the first guard aside. The second guard had dropped to his knees and was pawing at the handle of the knife lodged in his throat. Preacher grabbed the handle and kicked the man in the chest. He went over backward, and as the knife came free, a crimson stream shot up like a geyser from his ruined throat.

  Preacher bounded toward the prisoners, who watched him with wide, shocked eyes. All of them probably knew who he was, knew that he had been staying in the village of Bent Leg’s people and was considered a friend, but still they might have experienced a moment of nervousness as this grim-faced white man holding a blood-dripping knife charged toward them.