Russell planted his cottonwood pole against the muddy river bottom and held the raft in place against the bluff while Preacher stood and reached up to search for a handhold. He found a knob of sandstone, wrapped his fingers around it, and then wedged the toe of his boot in a little crack. He pulled himself up a couple of feet and then reached back down.
Russell clasped Preacher’s wrist while he found a hold with his other hand and a place for his feet. Then he let go and started to climb, too.
Underneath them, the raft drifted slowly back toward the middle of the river. Somebody would probably find it, maybe a hundred miles or more downstream, and wonder who had built it and why.
Side by side, the two men worked their way up the bluff. It was slow going. They had to pause every foot or so to shift their hands and feet to new locations. The strength of their grip was really all that supported them.
Even as superbly conditioned as Preacher was, his fingers began to ache after a while. That throbbing strain crawled through his hands and up his arms, finally settling deeply into his shoulders and back.
His muscles were strong enough to withstand the pain, and so was his iron will. He shoved the discomfort out of his mind and kept climbing.
Finally, they neared the top. Preacher reached over and tapped Russell on the shoulder, then signaled for him to stay put for a moment. Preacher intended to take a look around first and make sure no trouble waited on top of the bluff. Russell nodded in understanding.
Preacher pulled himself up so he could see over the edge. The log trading post sat there, dark and hulking, about twenty yards away. Preacher’s keen eyes studied it in the light from moon and stars.
He was sorry to see that there was no door back here, and the two windows were shuttered. He had hoped to be able to get into the building from this direction, but that might not be possible, at least not without breaking through those shutters, which would cause too much racket.
But maybe there was something he hadn’t seen yet, some other way inside. They would just have to take a closer look. He turned his head to glance down at Russell and tell him to come on up, but at that moment he caught a hint of movement from the corner of his eye.
Jerking his head around, Preacher saw a dark shape rise from the grass where it had been lurking. The shape of the figure and the feathers sticking up from the man’s hair told him this was a Pawnee guard.
And the warrior was pointing a rifle at him, ready to blow him right off the face of the bluff.
CHAPTER 32
Before the Pawnee could pull the trigger, another shape streaked in from the side and crashed against him. The unexpected impact knocked the Indian off his feet, and when he hit the ground he found himself with more than a hundred pounds of fanged fury on top of him.
Those fangs made quick work of the warrior’s throat, ripping it out in a gush of hot blood. The Pawnee’s heels drummed against the ground as he died.
By the time Dog finished with his grisly work, Preacher had scrambled onto the bluff and unslung his rifle from his back. He didn’t want to fire a shot because that would alert the kidnappers and their British cohorts that something was wrong, but the mountain man would shoot if he had to.
Luckily, he didn’t see any more Pawnee as he scanned the area behind the trading post. Dog wasn’t acting like there were any other threats, either. He stood over the warrior’s corpse, shaking blood off his muzzle.
Preacher leaned over the rim and waved Russell up. When the man reached the top, he put his head close to Preacher’s ear and whispered, “What happened?”
“Pawnee sentry,” Preacher replied, so quietly that his answer couldn’t have been heard more than a foot away. “Dog took care of him.”
Russell nodded in understanding as he looked at the dark shape sprawled on the ground. He and Preacher got to their feet and stalked warily toward the building.
Preacher wasn’t surprised that Dog had turned up just when he was needed most. The big cur had a way of doing that. Russell had said that Preacher wasn’t aware of how unusual he and his trail partners were, but that wasn’t really true. Preacher knew that the link between himself and Dog and Horse seemed almost supernatural at times.
Preacher had learned not to question such things. Instead he was just grateful for them. Both of his four-legged friends had saved his life many times in the past.
Preacher and Russell split up as they approached the trading post, Preacher going right and Russell going left. Preacher paused at the rear corner of the building and took his hat off, holding it in his left hand as he edged his head past the corner for a look.
There were a couple of lighted windows on this end of the building. Preacher slid along the log wall toward the closest one. When he reached it he was even more careful about looking inside.
He was looking at the area behind a long counter where the proprietor of the place would dicker with trappers who brought in pelts to trade. It was empty at the moment, but he heard men moving around elsewhere in the building and smelled coffee brewing.
“I thought they would be here by now,” a man said in a British accent. “We didn’t make it hard for them to follow us.”
“You must be patient, Battersby,” another man replied. Preacher’s jaw tightened as he recognized the smug voice.
It belonged to Roderick Stahlmaske.
“I’ve spent quite a bit of time with Senator Allingham over the past few weeks,” Roderick went on. “He loves his wife, and I don’t think even the fact that she was unfaithful to him will change that. Even if it does, we have his daughter, too, and he is nothing if not a devoted parent. He’ll do anything in his power to save Sarah . . . even surrender himself to us.”
“But that won’t save her,” the Englishman said.
“He doesn’t know that,” Roderick said with a chuckle. “He may suspect it, but he has no choice except to hope otherwise.”
As Preacher eavesdropped on the conversation, his hands tightened on the rifle. Anger welled up inside him.
Not all of it was directed toward Roderick and his British allies, either. Preacher was mad at himself for letting the diabolical young man fool him. He had believed Roderick’s eager-to-please, bumbling act as much as anyone else had.
Water under the bridge, Preacher told himself. All that mattered now was saving the prisoners and putting a stop to Roderick’s plan to start a war between the United States and Prussia.
Preacher withdrew from the window and returned to the rear of the trading post. He found Simon Russell waiting there for him.
“Open windows on the other end of the building,” Russell reported. “I couldn’t actually see anybody, but I heard them talking clear enough.”
“Same on this side,” Preacher said. “I was hopin’ they might have the prisoners locked up in a storeroom or something, and that maybe we could sneak in and get ’em out before the shootin’ started. Looks like that’s not the way it’s gonna be.”
“When they make their try for the senator, we can get in then through the windows and hit them from behind.”
Preacher nodded and said, “That’s the plan. Just keep your eyes open when you go in. We won’t know exactly where the prisoners are until we get in there.”
“If I get a shot at that son of a bitch Roderick, I’m taking it,” Russell commented grimly.
“You’re not the only one,” Preacher said.
Stahlmaske woke up and realized he was lying on the floor on his side. Immediately, he was angry with himself because his mouth was open and he’d been drooling in his sleep. Such an undignified thing was beneath him. He struggled to sit up and acted like nothing had happened.
A few feet away, Gretchen still slept, leaning against a sack of flour. A few feet in the other direction, the Allingham women continued to huddle together as they slept, as if that would protect them.
For much of the night, Stahlmaske had worked with his bonds, trying to loosen them, before finally dozing off involuntarily. His effort
s had not been successful. The men who had tied him were too good at their job.
Panic tried to take root inside him. He was running out of time to turn the tables on his treacherous younger brother. If something didn’t happen soon, nothing was going to prevent Roderick from getting away with his scheme.
Maybe . . . just maybe . . . he should be like Gretchen and hope that Preacher would help them somehow, the count thought. That might be the only chance he and his fellow captives had left.
Seeing that Stahlmaske was awake, Roderick came over and stood there looming above him, clearly enjoying the superiority he imagined that position gave him.
“It’ll be dawn soon,” he said. “I’ll see to it that you’re all given breakfast.”
“Why waste food on those you intend to murder?” Stahlmaske asked with a sneer.
“I don’t think of it as murder. I’m merely helping my British friends get a foothold in the western half of the continent. Once they have everything under their control from the Canadian border down to the Spanish lands, the upstart Americans will find themselves surrounded. They’ll have no choice but to eventually give up their foolish notion of being an independent country and beg the English to take them in as colonists once again.”
“You’re insane,” Stahlmaske snapped. “Surely you’ve seen enough of the Americans in these past weeks to know that such a thing will never happen. They’re too stubborn to allow it.”
“They may not like it, but they’ll be squeezed into British rule again. You’ll see.” Roderick smiled. “Or rather, you won’t. But it will happen anyway, I assure you.”
The tall, brawny Englishman called Battersby said from the front of the trading post, “Someone’s coming, Herr Stahlmaske.”
Roderick turned eagerly in that direction.
“Can you tell who it is?”
“I don’t recognize him, but you might. Big bloke, rather distinguished looking.”
“It must be the senator,” Roderick said as he hurried toward the window where Battersby stood. He looked out into the gray light of dawn and went on excitedly, “That’s him, all right. That’s Senator Allingham.”
“Better step back away from that window,” Battersby cautioned. “Somebody might take a potshot at you.”
Roderick quickly followed that advice. He said, “I didn’t see anyone out there except Allingham.”
“That doesn’t mean they’re not there.”
“That’s true,” Roderick admitted. “It’s hard to believe the senator could have followed us all this way by himself.”
The mentions of her husband’s name must have penetrated Margaret’s restless slumber. She opened her eyes and pushed herself up as much as she could from the floor.
“Josiah is here?” she said. “He came after me?”
Roderick turned to her and nodded.
“That’s right, Frau Allingham. It’s difficult to believe that he would care enough about a trollop such as yourself to risk his own life, isn’t it?”
“You don’t know anything about life,” Margaret told him coldly. “You’re just a dreadful little boy, out to smash all the toys you’re not allowed to play with.”
Stahlmaske laughed out loud. His opinion of Margaret Allingham had just gone up a bit because of that cutting—and accurate—remark.
Roderick’s face flushed. He blustered, “You’ll be sorry you said that.”
“I couldn’t possibly regret that more than I regret everything else that’s happened the past few weeks.”
She glanced at Stahlmaske as she said that, and he knew she was talking about their affair. She certainly hadn’t seemed to regret it while she was in his bed, but it didn’t really matter now, he told himself. If she wanted to repent of her so-called sins before she died, that was understandable.
“Hello in the trading post!”
They all heard Allingham’s shout, including Sarah, who struggled into a sitting position and exclaimed, “Father!”
“Can you hear me in there?” Allingham went on.
Roderick approached the window cautiously, staying to the side so he wouldn’t present a target for any marksmen outside, and replied, “We hear you, Senator.”
“Are my wife and daughter all right?” Allingham’s voice trembled a bit as he posed the question.
“They’re fine, and they’ll stay that way as long as you cooperate with us,” Roderick replied.
“Send them out. Send them out to me and I’ll do whatever you want, I swear.”
“Ah, but it doesn’t work that way, Senator,” Roderick said, obviously immensely pleased with himself. “You see, I have the upper hand here. You’ll do as I say. Lay down your guns and come on in.”
“What’s he doing?” Battersby asked suddenly. “He’s taking cover in the trees, blast it! We should’ve shot him while we had the chance.”
“Don’t worry,” Roderick said, although he sounded like he was having a hard time taking his own advice. “This is just a momentary setback.”
From outside, Allingham called, “I’m not going to surrender until Margaret and Sarah are free. You don’t have a choice, Herr Stahlmaske. You have to trade their lives for mine. Bring them out and I’ll put myself in your hands.”
Roderick cursed in Prussian for a moment before he said to Battersby and the others, “All right. Gag the others so they can’t call out a warning, then we’ll take them outside. Allingham wants a trade, so we’ll give him one. And as soon as it’s complete . . . kill the whole lot of them.”
CHAPTER 33
Preacher crouched next to the rear wall of the trading post. He had found a gap between the logs that hadn’t been chinked, and he had his ear pressed to it, listening to everything that was going on inside.
So he heard Roderick callously sentence the prisoners to death, along with Senator Allingham. With that massacre about to take place, everyone’s attention would be focused on the tense situation in front of the building.
He motioned Simon Russell closer and whispered the details to him, then said, “You go in the window and try to protect the count and Miss Ritter. I’ll go around front and deal with their plan to kill the senator and his ladies.”
Russell nodded and whispered, “Good luck, Preacher.”
“We’ll all need it, I reckon,” the mountain man agreed.
He cat-footed along the wall to the corner, then turned it and stole forward. He stopped when he could see the line of cottonwoods about fifty yards away where Allingham had taken cover. The rest of the rescue party would be well hidden in there, too, Preacher thought, ready to open fire if they needed to.
He heard the front door open, then a British-accented voice called, “Hold your fire, Senator. I’m bringing your ladies out, just like you wanted.” Quietly, the man added, “All right, you two, get moving. But don’t forget we’ve got guns to your heads.”
Preacher heard a muffled, unintelligible response. The kidnappers had gagged Margaret and Sarah so they couldn’t warn Allingham about the double-cross, Preacher recalled. He had heard Roderick give the order earlier.
Preacher risked a look around the corner as the little group started out from the building. Margaret and Sarah were in the lead, their legs free now but their hands still tied together in front of them. Wads of cloth had been stuffed into their mouths and fastened in place with rawhide strips.
Right behind the two women came a pair of Englishmen, each with a cocked pistol pressed to the back of a prisoner’s head. Four more British agents with rifles held ready emerged and formed a half-circle around the captives. Preacher didn’t see Roderick and knew the plotter was still inside the trading post.
Sarah stumbled as she moved forward uncertainly. Margaret reached over with her bound hands and steadied her daughter. She stood straight and seemed calm. She had found a new reserve of strength somewhere, Preacher thought. She had to know she was going to her death—at least that was the plan—but she didn’t show it. The mountain man actually admired her at tha
t moment.
“Here they are, Allingham,” the man holding the gun on Margaret called. “Come on out now. This is over.”
From the trees, Allingham said, “Stop where you are and let them come ahead on their own. When they’re safe, I’ll surrender.”
The Englishman jerked his head at his companions, indicating they should stop. He said, “That’s not the way it’s going to work. You come out where we can see you. We’ll stay here, and you can meet the women as they come toward the trees.”
For a moment, Allingham didn’t respond, then he said, “All right. As long as nothing happens to my wife and daughter.”
“That’s up to you, mate.” The man prodded his pistol against the back of Margaret’s head and added, “Get goin’, mum.”
Slowly, Margaret and Sarah walked toward the trees. Margaret still had to brace up the obviously terrified and half-hysterical Sarah.
Under his breath, the leader of the British agents said to his companions, “As soon as they’re all standing together, wipe them out.”
Senator Allingham appeared next to one of the trees. His rifle was a little shaky as he came forward, but he didn’t hesitate to stride straight into deadly danger. The gap between him and the two women steadily decreased.
“Easy, boys,” the Englishman breathed. “Just half a moment longer . . .”
Margaret and Sarah couldn’t control themselves anymore. Only a few yards separated them from Allingham. Suddenly they ran toward him.
They were trying to shield him from the kidnappers’ guns, Preacher realized. He stepped around the corner, lifted his rifle, and yelled, “Get the ladies on the ground, Senator!”
Allingham reacted instantly, dropping his rifle, spreading his arms, and lunging forward to tackle his wife and daughter. His arms went around them as he crashed into them and bore them both to the ground, where Preacher hoped they would be out of the line of fire.
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