Preacher’s Fury

by Johnstone, William W.

  “I accept Two Bears’ challenge,” he said.

  “No!” Raven’s Wing cried, but no one paid any attention to her now.

  Bent Leg nodded.

  “Agreed. The combat will take place three days from now, when the sun rises.” He looked at his niece. “Until then, you will see neither Preacher nor Two Bears.”

  She opened her mouth, probably to argue, but stopped short at the stern look on Bent Leg’s face. Protesting now might just make things worse, and she seemed to realize that. Her mouth closed into a firm, angry line as she stepped back.

  “Everything has been said that needs to be said,” Bent Leg snapped. He waved an arm. “Everyone go back to whatever you were doing.”

  As the crowd broke up, Preacher went over to Lorenzo, Audie, and Nighthawk. He watched Two Bears walk off, still casting resentful glances over his shoulder at the mountain man. Bent Leg ushered Raven’s Wing away.

  Preacher figured it would be a good idea for him to stay away from the lodge they shared for a little while, to give her time to gather up her things. She would probably move into Bent Leg’s lodge with the rest of his family for the time being.

  “Well, you seem to have got yourself in quite a mess,” Lorenzo said. “We’re gonna get kicked out of this village and I’m gonna have to leave my Honey Gal in the middle of the damn winter.”

  “It’s Preacher’s life that’s at stake, Lorenzo,” Audie pointed out. “If he gets killed, that’s worse than us having to find some other place to stay.”

  “If I get killed, you won’t have to leave,” Preacher told them. “Bent Leg’s an honorable man. He’ll let you stay here, and you’ll be fine.”

  “We’ll see,” Lorenzo said. “After all we been through together, I ain’t sure I could stay under circumstances like that, Honey Gal or no Honey Gal.”

  Preacher clapped a hand on the old-timer’s shoulder.

  “Maybe it won’t come to that,” he said.

  But the only way he could prevent it was to kill Two Bears, and he didn’t want to do that, either.

  When he was stalking those Gros Ventre in the badlands, he had thought that he was caught between a rock and a hard place.

  Now he really was.

  CHAPTER 18

  By the time the snow finally stopped and the sun came out, Willie Deaver was more than a little crazy from being cooped up in the little cabin with his four companions. That was too many men for such a small space, especially when they didn’t have anything with which to occupy their time.

  Deaver had mentally cursed Manning more than once for shooting that squaw. They could have kept her alive for several days and had their fun with her.

  Instead he’d been forced to listen to Fred Jordan and Cy Plunkett recounting endless filthy stories about the women they’d had in their lives. Deaver had been around, and even he didn’t think some of the things they talked about were possible.

  Darwin Heath, at least, knew how to keep his mouth shut. He didn’t say much of anything and in fact slept most of the time they were there.

  Deaver and Manning played poker with a greasy deck of cards they’d found among the trapper’s gear. They bet and lost fortunes they didn’t have yet, and ultimately called it even.

  Finally the sun came out, warmed the air a little, and started to melt the snow.

  The five men had to wait another day for things to clear off enough for them to leave the cabin and resume their journey. The ground was muddy now from the melted snow and sucked at the horses’ hooves as they rode away. Deaver wasn’t going to miss this place, that was for sure.

  They rode all day. Deaver had been to their destination before, and he was pretty sure he knew how to find it again. He had a good instinct for directions and knowing where he was.

  But he was just uncertain enough to make him nervous, and so he was glad that afternoon when he spotted smoke rising into the sky on the other side of a ridge in front of them. Soon they would be where they were going.

  Deaver pointed out the smoke to the others, and after a short but necessary stop to take care of some business, they pushed their horses a little harder in their eagerness to reach their destination. They had been so close when the storm blew in, Deaver thought bitterly. Less than a day’s ride away.

  But now they were here, or almost, anyway.

  They found a trail to the top of the ridge, crossed it, and descended into a narrow valley on the other side. The smoke came from several campfires burning among a cluster of wood, mud, and hide lodges. The snow had been deep here, too. Some drifts still remained in the shaded areas underneath trees.

  A number of barking and snarling curs bounded out from the village to dance and snap around the horses. Deaver kicked at one of them that came too close, saying, “Get away, you damned beast!” The toe of his boot caught the dog in the side and sent it rolling. When it got up it slunk away, whimpering.

  The commotion brought warriors out of their lodges to see what was going on. Many of the men carried bows and arrows, and a few held old trade muskets. Their coppery, hawk-like faces wore suspicious expressions.

  As Deaver and his companions reined in, one of the men separated himself from the others and strode forward. He was lean as a whip, and his face bore the pockmarks of the disease that the white men had brought to the frontier. Unlike most of his people who came down with the sickness, this man had survived, although it had left its ugly marks on him.

  “Snake Heart, my friend!” Deaver called out with false heartiness. No redskin was his friend … but the Gros Ventre chief had a big stack of pelts Deaver wanted.

  In English, Snake Heart replied, “Deaver. I thought you were not coming.”

  “We got delayed a couple of times by the weather.” Deaver swung down from the saddle and stepped over to one of the pack animals. He slapped a hand against the rifle crate strapped to the horse’s back as he went on, “But we brought you what we promised. One hundred fine new rifles with which to kill your enemies.”

  Snake Heart nodded.

  “Powder and shot?”

  “Of course.” Deaver paused. “Once we see those pelts you promised us.”

  The Gros Ventre’s pocked face tightened in anger.

  “You did not bring the powder and shot?” he asked harshly.

  “Don’t worry, you’ll have it,” Deaver assured him. “Just as soon as we’ve concluded our deal.”

  “You must take me for a white man,” Snake Heart snapped. “I keep my word. You insult me by thinking that I do not.”

  Deaver thought maybe he had miscalculated by stopping to hide the powder and shot on the other side of the ridge before riding down to the Gros Ventre village. Snake Heart was right, though … Willie Deaver didn’t trust anybody, red or white. Anybody was capable of treachery, of lying. He had learned that at an early age.

  Despite what he really thought, though, he put a smile on his face and said, “My apologies, Snake Heart. I meant no insult. I’ll send a couple of my men to fetch the ammunition right now.”

  He turned to give the order, but Snake Heart stopped him.

  “Never mind. The pelts are here, all that those three horses can carry. Let me see the guns.”

  Deaver grinned.

  “Now you’re talkin’. And I never said that I didn’t bring any powder and shot, Snake Heart. I just didn’t bring all of it. We’ve got plenty so you and your warriors can try out these rifles.”

  Deaver had given Manning and the others strict orders before they entered the village. They were supposed to remain alert and keep their eyes wide open at all times. If it looked like the redskins were about to pull any sort of double-cross, they would open fire. Each man had a loaded rifle and four loaded pistols, and they could deal out a lot of damage in a hurry, enough to cripple any pursuit by the Gros Ventre.

  And the first one to die would be Snake Heart. Deaver would see to that himself.

  But if the Indians played square with him, he would play square with them. He
said to Manning, “Break out one of those rifles, Caleb.”

  Manning dismounted. He and Jordan lifted one of the crates down from the horse that had been carrying it, and Manning pulled the lid off of it. He took out one of the rifles and unwrapped it.

  Deaver heard murmurs of appreciation from the warriors when the gleaming brasswork and polished wood came into view. He took the rifle from Manning and turned to offer it to Snake Heart.

  Deaver could tell that the Gros Ventre chief was trying to act unimpressed, but he saw the unbridled lust—if you could call it that—in Snake Heart’s eyes and knew better. Snake Heart was a killer, and he wanted this instrument of death with a fierce passion.

  Snake Heart reached out to take the rifle. He hefted it, examined the flintlock and pan. He cocked it and squeezed the trigger. The rifle wasn’t loaded, of course, so it just snapped; but again the assembled warriors murmured at the sound, obviously impressed. Those old pieces of junk they had probably misfired as often as they fired. Maybe more often.

  “Load it,” Snake Heart said as he thrust the rifle back at Deaver.

  Using his own powder and shot, Deaver took the weapon and loaded and charged it. When it was ready to go, he handed it back to Snake Heart. For a second he thought about how Manning had pointed one of the rifles at Odell St. John.

  Snake Heart didn’t care about trying to be funny, though. He just cared about killing his enemies. He lifted the rifle, cocked it, and aimed it at the same dog Deaver had kicked. The animal was sitting about twenty yards away licking itself.

  The rifle boomed.

  Snake Heart grunted in satisfaction as he lowered the weapon.

  “Meat for stew,” he said.

  “Whatever you say, Snake Heart,” Deaver agreed. “But what did you think of the way it shoots?”

  Snake Heart nodded.

  “Very good. You say you have one hundred of them?”

  “That’s right. Enough for every warrior in your village to have one, with some left over.”

  “With many left over,” Snake Heart said with a scowl. “We have lost quite a few men in recent raids on our enemies. But with these guns, we can avenge our fallen warriors. In the spring, the Assiniboine women will wail and cover themselves with ashes as they mourn their dead husbands and fathers and sons and brothers.”

  “Assiniboine?” Deaver repeated. “That’s who you’re at war with?”

  Snake Heart pointed toward a ridge that lay in the distance to the east.

  “On the other side of that ridge is the valley of Bent Leg, the Assiniboine. Long have we warred with each other. But now we have the means to wipe them out at last.”

  “Bent Leg,” Manning said. “That sounds familiar. Ain’t that—”

  Deaver lifted a hand to stop him from saying anything else. He knew Manning was right. As soon as he had heard the name of the Assiniboine chief, Deaver had remembered what Blind Pete told them before they pinned his hands to the floor with knives and set the trading post on fire.

  Preacher and those bastards with him intended to spend the winter with Bent Leg’s band of Assiniboine.

  “You plan to attack them in the spring?” he asked Snake Heart.

  The Gros Ventre chief said, “Yes. We will kill them all.”

  “Why not do it now?”

  “It is winter,” Snake Heart said with a frown. “We do not make war in winter.”

  “You said a while ago that you’d lost some warriors in recent raids.”

  “The last raids before the snows began to fall. In fact, snow was on the ground when our warriors failed to return.”

  “So you don’t know for sure they’re dead.”

  “They are dead,” Snake Heart said in a voice as hard as flint. “If they were not, they would be here with the prisoners I sent them to capture.”

  “All right,” Deaver said. “I believe you. You really need to settle that score with the Assiniboine, and there’s no need to wait until spring to do it.”

  Snake Heart frowned and shook his head, clearly confused.

  “Why not attack them now?” Deaver went on. “You know how these storms are. It’ll be a few days before another one blows in. Maybe a week or more. That’s plenty of time for you to get over to that other valley and raid the Assiniboine. They won’t be expecting you at this time of year.”

  “No,” Snake Heart said slowly, “they would not be.”

  “It’s perfect,” Deaver urged. “You have these new rifles, we’ll bring you the rest of the powder and shot … and I’ll tell you what, we’ll even go along with you to help you.”

  “You would make war on the Assiniboine with us?”

  “Yes,” Deaver said. “To show you that we are truly your friends.”

  And once that news spread among the tribes, he could set up a steady flow of rifles from Canada, in return for an equally steady flow of pelts to him and his partners. He might wind up as rich as some of those blasted fur tycoons back East, Deaver told himself.

  That wasn’t all, though. Something almost as important might come out of this proposed alliance with the Gros Ventre. If Deaver and the others went on the raid with Snake Heart’s warriors, they could make sure that Preacher and his friends died. Being shown up like they had been at Blind Pete’s had festered inside Deaver for weeks now. That insult cried out for vengeance … and throwing in with these redskins was the perfect way to get it.

  “All right,” Snake Heart said as he came to a decision. “You will join us, and we will not wait for spring. Assiniboine blood will flow like a river.”

  And so would Preacher’s, Deaver vowed to himself.

  Better watch out, mountain man. We’re comin’ to get you.

  CHAPTER 19

  At first Preacher wondered why Bent Leg had decreed that his showdown with Two Bears would take place in three days. Then he realized the chief had given it that much time in hopes that some other resolution would present itself. Bent Leg had to be wondering if he could get away with simply declaring that from now on, Raven’s Wing would be Two Bears’ woman.

  Raven’s Wing wouldn’t want to go along with that, but she might not have any choice.

  The weather stayed fairly pleasant, warm enough to melt all the snow except for a few patches here and there where the deepest shade lurked. Preacher, Lorenzo, Audie, and Nighthawk did some hunting and came back with a couple of good-sized bucks to add to the village’s supply of meat for the winter.

  As usually happened when something unpleasant was looming, the time seemed to pass more quickly than it should have. The days went by in a hurry, and then it was the night before Preacher and Two Bears would meet in a fight to the death.

  Preacher and Lorenzo were in the mountain man’s lodge that evening. As they sat by the fire in the center of the lodge, Lorenzo asked, “Are you gonna kill him, Preacher?”

  “Two Bears, you mean? That’s the idea. Either I kill him or he kills me.”

  “Well, if those are the only choices, I’m hopin’ he’s the one who winds up dead. But I was thinkin’ maybe you could just beat him but not kill him. That’d be just as good, wouldn’t it?”

  Preacher shook his head.

  “That’d be an even worse insult to Two Bears. He’d just come after me again and again until one of us is dead.”

  “That’s a damned shame. You really think the rest of this bunch will let us stay here for the winter if you kill him?”

  “Two Bears’ friends may not like it, but Bent Leg will insist on it. To do anything else would be dishonorable for him. The same thing means that if I’m the one who winds up dead, you and Audie and Nighthawk will be fine. This is between me and Two Bears, and nobody else has got anything to do with it.”

  Lorenzo sighed.

  “You know a lot more about how these redskinned folks live than I do, so I’ll take your word for it and hope you’re right. I sure wish it hadn’t come to this, though.”

  “You and me both,” Preacher said.

  Lorenz
o left a short time later, after wishing him luck come morning. Preacher let the fire burn down and rolled up in his blankets, but he didn’t really expect to fall asleep easily. He wasn’t scared or even worried—whatever happened would happen, and life would go on for somebody—but like Lorenzo, he regretted that the situation had developed in the first place.

  Because he was thinking about that, he was still awake when the hide flap over the lodge’s entrance stirred. Preacher’s hand moved almost imperceptibly, sliding under a bearskin robe to close around the butt of the pistol he had put there earlier. His other weapons were also placed around the lodge where he could get to them in a hurry if he needed them.

  This wasn’t an enemy who had come to call, though. By the faint light rising from the fire’s embers, Preacher recognized the slim figure of Raven’s Wing as she stole into the lodge.

  He sat up, causing her to stop short and let out a gasp of surprise.

  “What are you doin’ here?” Preacher asked. “Bent Leg said you weren’t to see me or Two Bears until after the fight. If he found out about this, he could use it as an excuse to call things off and have me killed.”

  “He would not do that,” Raven said. “He knows that I would never forgive him if he did.”

  Preacher grunted.

  “I reckon you’ve got a different opinion than I do about how much ol’ Bent Leg’d be worried about that.”

  She came across the lodge and dropped to her knees in front of him.

  “He will not find out I’m here.”

  “I hope you’re right about that. Why are you here?”

  “I think we should leave this place, you and I.”

  “Leave the village? Leave your people?” Preacher shook his head. “I can’t ask you to do that.”

  “You are not asking me! I am asking you.”

  “That would make me look like I was runnin’ away, like I was too scared to face Two Bears. I can’t do that.”

  “You and I would know that is not true,” Raven argued. “And we would be together. What else is more important than that?”