Preacher’s Fury

by Johnstone, William W.

  “You’re going to start it up again?” Audie asked.

  “Ja, of course. What else would I do? But I must wait for spring. Until then, I will watch over the place.” Pete nodded toward the ruins again. “And that is how I came to see those … those monsters ride up again, with some poor Indian woman as their prisoner.”

  “Her name is Raven’s Wing,” Preacher rasped. “She’s from Bent Leg’s village, where we were stayin’.”

  “It’s a long story,” Audie added. “I’ll see if I can boil it down for you.”

  He did so, filling Pete in on everything that had happened since they had left the trading post several weeks earlier.

  “Where are these trappers who helped you?” Preacher asked when Audie was finished with the tale.

  “They were on their way out of the mountains with a load of pelts,” Pete explained. “They could not stay. They wanted to get away before the winter closed in. I didn’t blame them for that. I was just grateful for the help they gave me.”

  “Well, you’re not by yourself now,” Audie said. “We’ll help you, Pete.”

  “But first we got to deal with Deaver’s bunch,” Preacher said.

  With anger burning in his eyes behind the thick spectacles, Pete nodded and said, “Ja. I will fight at your side, mein freund.”

  The three of them looked down at the trading post again. Deaver and his friends were poking around through the ruins, obviously looking for anything they could make use of. Preacher didn’t know how long they intended to stay there, but they didn’t seem to be in any hurry to leave.

  An idea came to him. Launching an all-out attack on Deaver and his friends was too dangerous. Raven’s Wing might get hurt if she was still there when rifle and pistol balls started flying around.

  But Preacher thought he knew of a good way to take their enemies by surprise, and that might give them a chance to get Raven’s Wing out of harm’s way before all hell broke loose.

  “Pete, there’s a way you can help us, all right,” he said slowly, “and I think you’re gonna enjoy it.”

  Deaver had hoped that more of the trading post would still be standing, but hell, it had been his idea to burn it down in the first place, so he supposed he couldn’t complain.

  The chimney and fireplace had a layer of soot on them but were otherwise unharmed. The huge, thick stones had come through the flames just fine.

  The rest of the building was just rubble except for a small part of one wall. They would have to clear the ground, Deaver thought, before they could build another cabin. He hoped the good weather held for a while longer.

  First, though, he wanted to see if there was anything in the ruins they could salvage.

  “You sit down right there on that stump,” Deaver ordered Raven’s Wing. “If you so much as stand up without me tellin’ you to, you’ll be sorry. Got it?”

  She didn’t respond, but he knew that she heard and understood.

  She had started eating again during the trip here, just as he had thought she would. She hadn’t said a word, though, and he might have thought she was mute if he hadn’t heard her cussing him out so bad right at first.

  Her spirit wasn’t completely broken. From time to time Deaver caught her looking at him with such animal-like hatred that he knew she would have cheerfully carved him into little pieces if she could get her hands on a knife.

  He didn’t intend to let that happen.

  “What are we lookin’ for, Willie?” Jordan asked as they poked around in the ashes.

  “Knives, axe heads, shovels, anything that didn’t burn that can still be useful,” Deaver said.

  He himself was looking for something else, though, and when he didn’t find it, a puzzled frown appeared on his face.

  “You fellas come over here,” he called. When the other three men had joined him, he gestured toward the area at his feet and went on, “Isn’t this about where we left Blind Pete staked to the floor?”

  “I dunno, Willie, it’s hard to tell with the rest of the bleedin’ building gone, you know?” Plunkett said.

  “You thought you’d find his bones?” Heath asked.

  “That’s right,” Deaver said. “Have you seen any bones anywhere?”

  All three men replied that they hadn’t.

  “Shouldn’t they be here?” Jordan asked worriedly. “I mean, he was burned up. He couldn’t just walk off.”

  “No, but a wolf or some other animal could have dragged the carcass out of here,” Heath suggested.

  Relief went through Deaver at those words.

  “Sure,” he said. “That’s bound to be what happened. Some varmint got a bait of roasted meat. For a minute there …”

  The other three looked at him, waiting.

  Deaver gave a curt wave of his hand.

  “Never mind,” he said. “Just get back to lookin’ around.”

  For the rest of the day, though, despite what he had said about Heath’s idea, he kept glancing over his shoulder.

  By nightfall, they had found a few things that might come in handy, but for the most part, the trading post and everything in it had been destroyed. That was a shame, but it couldn’t be helped. Anyway, they still had some supplies and could make them last for quite a while if they made the effort to stretch them. And there was plenty of game around here to provide fresh meat.

  Plunkett built a fire in the fireplace and began brewing tea, as well as using an iron pot they had found in the rubble and cleaned out to cook some stew. Jordan and Heath had cleared an area in front of the hearth for their bedrolls. Even now, the smell of old ashes hung in the air, and while Deaver didn’t like it, he didn’t know of anything he could do about it.

  Deaver noticed the looks that Jordan kept casting at Raven’s Wing, and he knew that tea wasn’t the only thing brewing. There might be another confrontation as well.

  Deaver didn’t want to make a move against his companions until after the cabin was built, but if things came down to it, he could put the cabin up by himself. He wasn’t afraid of hard work. He could tie Raven’s Wing every morning so she couldn’t escape, and in a few weeks he would have a decent shelter for them.

  But the storms might get bad again before then, Deaver reminded himself. The sooner the cabin was put up, the better.

  Maybe he could tolerate letting them amuse themselves with the squaw for a little while, he thought. If he had to. Then he could kill them and have the cabin—and the woman—to himself.

  While they were eating, Jordan said, “Willie, I’ve been thinkin’ about that deal we made a few days ago. This is where we’re spendin’ the winter, right?”

  “That’s right,” Deaver said. Looked like his suspicions were correct.

  “Well, then, since we’re not goin’ anywhere else, seems like there ought to be enough time for us to start enjoyin’ ourselves.”

  “We still have a cabin to build—” Deaver began.

  “We can get it built during the daytime,” Heath said as he cast a hard look at Deaver.

  “That’s right, Willie,” Plunkett put in, and he looked just as intent as the other two.

  Deaver bit back a curse. He had run out of time. He had to make a decision right now about what he was going to do.

  But before he could, an eerie, wailing sound floated out of the darkness around them.

  All four men jerked their heads up. Even Raven’s Wing looked startled.

  “Bloody wolf!” Plunkett muttered. “That sounded close.”

  “That was close,” Heath said, “but it was no wolf—”

  “It was some sort of animal,” Deaver said as he got to his feet. “It had to be.”

  Jordan’s eyes were wide with fear.

  “I don’t know,” the big man said. “It sounded like … like …”

  The wail came again. All four men were standing now, looking around wildly.

  The noise sounded a third time, even closer, and this time the horrible wail turned into words. Thick, guttural words that
Deaver didn’t understand, but he had heard something like them before. His heart hammered so hard it felt like it was going to explode right out of his chest.

  Then a bulky figure with an ash-begrimed face stepped into the flickering light of the fire and lurched toward the men with a bloody palm outstretched, crying, “Death! Death!”

  Plunkett screamed.

  “It’s Blind Pete, come back from Hell!” he screeched.

  The men were so shocked that for a second they didn’t even grab for their pistols and rifles, but just stared at the grisly apparition instead.

  Then, abandoning the shambling gait that had brought him into their camp, Pete suddenly pivoted, lunged toward Raven’s Wing, and grabbed her, lifting her from the stone where she sat and diving back into the shadows.

  That broke the terror spell, and Deaver bellowed, “Kill him!”

  Guns began to roar.

  It wasn’t a fair fight, and Preacher didn’t give a damn about that. Deaver and his bunch had long since forfeited any right to fairness. Audie, Nighthawk, Lorenzo, and Two Bears opened fire, and a couple of the men crumpled as rifle balls tore through them.

  The biggest member of the gang somehow avoided being hit, though, and so did Deaver, who twisted aside just as Preacher’s shot whipped past his ear. Satan himself had to be watching over that son of a bitch, Preacher thought as he dropped the empty rifle and yanked out his pistols.

  Deaver wasn’t staying to fight, though. A huge bound carried him out of the light from the fire in the fireplace and sent him plunging into the darkness after Pete and Raven’s Wing.

  Preacher ran after them. As he dashed through the ruins of the trading post, from the corner of his eye he saw Two Bears locked in a fierce, hand-to-hand struggle with the biggest of the gun-smugglers.

  At the same time, one of the wounded killers pushed himself up and tried to level a pistol at Two Bears’ back. Preacher couldn’t stop to help the war chief, but he called, “Dog!”

  The big cur leaped out of the shadows and locked his jaws around the wrist of the man’s gun hand. Bones crunched and the man screamed as those incredibly powerful jaws clamped shut.

  Preacher didn’t know what else was happening back there because he had to concentrate on finding Pete, Raven’s Wing, and Deaver. He heard a struggle up ahead. Pete cried out in pain.

  “You’re not a damned ghost!” Deaver shouted. “But you’re about to be dead!”

  “No!”

  That was Raven’s Wing. Preacher held his fire. He couldn’t shoot blindly for fear of hitting her or Pete. His eyes were adjusting to the shadows now, and he spotted Deaver struggling with Raven’s Wing. They were fighting over something …

  It was Pete’s hook, Preacher realized, and Raven’s Wing suddenly had it in her hands. Those hands were tied together, but they were able to grip the hook as she swung it at Deaver with desperate strength.

  Preacher heard the grisly chunk! as the hook lodged in Deaver’s throat.

  Deaver staggered back from her, making gagging sounds as blood bubbled from his ruined throat. Preacher saw the dark flood flowing down over Deaver’s throat. He stepped closer, gripping one of his pistols now, and said, “Deaver!”

  Deaver reeled around toward him.

  “I ought to just let you bleed to death,” Preacher said, “but I’m damned sick and tired of this.”

  The pistol in his hand roared and blew half of Deaver’s head away. The carcass hit the ground with a soggy thud.

  Pete had fallen during the struggle. He climbed back to his feet and went over to Deaver’s body, bending down to pull the hook free with his bandaged left hand.

  “Steal a man’s hook right off his arm, will you?” he grated. “You got what you deserved, ja.”

  Raven’s Wing ran to Preacher. She couldn’t hug him, since her wrists were still lashed together, but he put his arms around her and drew her against him.

  “It’s over,” he told her. “For good this time.”

  She looked up at him and with concern in her voice asked, “Two Bears?”

  “Let’s go find out,” he said.

  Two Bears was all right. Lorenzo related in colorful fashion how the Assiniboine war chief had gotten his hands around the neck of his opponent and choked the life out of him. Preacher had cut Raven’s Wing loose by then, and she went to Two Bears and laid a hand on his arm.

  “Thank you for coming all this way after me,” she said.

  Two Bears scowled.

  “As the war chief of Bent Leg’s people, it was my duty,” he said.

  Preacher knew good and well it was more than that, though, and so did everybody else here, including Raven’s Wing.

  After everything they had gone through, he didn’t want more trouble with Two Bears … and he thought he saw a way that it might be avoided.

  At Pete’s suggestion, they withdrew a few hundred yards from the ruined trading post and made camp in the trees.

  “The smell of the ashes is bitter to me,” the trader explained, and Preacher could certainly understand why he felt that way.

  Nighthawk and Two Bears dragged away the bodies of the renegade white men, leaving them for the scavengers a good distance away from the trading post. The horses and the pelts remained behind, the animals picketed where they were, and the pelts stacked in the cleared area next to the fireplace.

  The next morning, everyone gathered near the chimney that reared its sturdy height into the mountain air.

  “Pete,” Preacher said, “the fellas and I have been talkin’, and we decided that if you’ll have us, we’ll winter here this year and help you rebuild your tradin’ post. We’ll work when the weather permits and have a good start on it by next spring, so it won’t take long to finish up.”

  The German blinked back tears of gratitude and said, “You would do this for me?”

  “Sure,” Preacher said. “We had a hand in what happened here, even though it wasn’t intentional, so the least we can do is help you put it right.”

  “Absolutely,” Audie added. “It’s an eminently sensible solution.”

  Nighthawk opened his mouth to speak, but before he could, Lorenzo said, “Umm.” When they all looked at him, he spread his hands and asked, “What? I’ve been around this big galoot long enough I reckon I’m startin’ to pick up a little of that Crow lingo.”

  That brought laughter from everyone, even Nighthawk.

  A little later, Raven’s Wing caught Preacher alone and said quietly to him, “I thought you would return to Bent Leg’s village with us.”

  “I know, but I ain’t sure that’s such a good idea,” he said as he scratched his jaw. “You and Two Bears belong there, so you got to go back, but the rest of us really ought to stay and help Pete get back on his feet. Audie says he can fix that hook better on his bad arm and maybe even do somethin’ for that other hand of his.”

  “I hope so. He is a good man.”

  “Yep,” Preacher agreed.

  “And so are you. You and Two Bears have fought side by side for so long, you want peace between you.”

  She was a smart woman, Preacher thought.

  “Seems like it works out best that way,” he said softly.

  “Best for Two Bears.”

  “And for you, too,” Preacher insisted. “Shoot, come spring, I’d be gone anyway. Shiftless fella like me never stays anywhere for long.”

  “The winter is long,” she said.

  “Spring will be here before you know it,” Preacher said.

  She took his hand and squeezed it.

  “You saved my life more than once,” Raven’s Wing said. “I will honor your wishes, Preacher.” She smiled. “But you do not know what you are giving up.”

  Oh, he knew, all right, Preacher thought. And she was right about one thing.

  It was gonna be a long, cold winter.

  He was already looking forward to spring, when he could answer the call of the frontier once more.

  Turn the page for an excitin
g preview of the USA Today bestselling series

  MATT JENSEN, THE LAST MOUNTAIN MAN

  In the harsh, unforgiving American frontier, in the vast wilderness that is Wyoming, a ruthless gang of cutthroats is cutting a bloody swath of death and destruction through the territory. No one can stop them … no one, that is, except for a legendary mountain man named Matt Jensen.

  The year is 1884. A ten-year-old British boy has come to visit his uncle’s Wyoming spread, just as the vicious Yellow Kerchief Gang has the ranch under siege. Outgunned and outmatched, a British rancher is willing to pay $5,000 for help. That is more than enough money to bring Matt Jensen into the fray. A huge, bloody gunfight, fueled by betrayal, erupts at the Powder River. But Matt has to shoot carefully. The Yellow Kerchief Gang has a hostage—the British lad named Winnie. And Matt has history on his hands, because Winnie Churchill must survive. Fifty years later Winston Churchill will fight a war of his own—carrying a Matt Jensen .44 shell in his pocket and a gunfighter’s spirit in his soul.

  MATT JENSEN, THE LAST MOUNTAIN MAN

  MASSACRE AT POWDER RIVER

  by William W. Johnstone

  with J. A. Johnstone

  Coming in February 2012

  Wherever Pinnacle Books are sold.

  PROLOGUE

  20 Grosvenor Square, London, England

  June 23, 1944

  Overhead the distinctive buzzing sound of the approaching V-1 bomb grew silent and the guards around General Eisenhower’s headquarters looked up to the east to watch a small, pulse-jet-powered, square-winged flying bomb tumble from the sky. It was followed by a heavy, stomach-shaking blast as the missile exploded, sending a huge column of smoke roiling into the air.