“That’s Mr. Flagg,” Laura said. “He helped us. He’s a prisoner, too. You have to save him.”
“Sure,” Preacher nodded. “Flagg, get away from those redskins.”
Flagg started his horse forward, but at that moment Preacher noticed something he should have seen earlier. He would have seen it earlier, he thought suddenly, if he hadn’t been so relieved to see that Laura wasn’t hurt.
That stranger called Flagg was armed. He had a pistol behind his belt and a rifle in a beaded sling on his horse. And he wasn’t the only one…
Clyde Mallory had a pistol, too, and Preacher heard the metallic sound of it being cocked.
“Don’t move, Preacher,” Mallory said. “I don’t want to kill you, old boy, but I will if I have to.”
“Son of a bitch!” Preacher breathed as everything became clear to him.
Well, almost everything, he realized.
He didn’t know why Clyde Mallory had turned out to be a double-crossing bastard.
“Preacher,” Uncle Dan called from the rocks up above, “what the hell’s goin’ on here? You want us to open up on them Injuns?”
“Hold your fire,” Preacher responded. He had no doubt that his men could bring down some of the war party survivors, but those Blackfeet wouldn’t just sit there. They would fight back, and if enough lead started flying around Laura might be hit.
Besides, he didn’t know yet if she was aware of her brother’s treachery or if she was just as surprised as he was. It was important to him that he find out.
That question was answered for him as she said, “I’m sorry, Preacher. When I heard about how badly you were hurt, I never dreamed that you would come after us.”
“You’re part of it,” he said in a flat, hard voice. “You knew about those rifles your brother brought out and sold to the Indians.”
“Figured that out, did you?” Mallory asked with a chuckle. “Well, you’ve got part of it wrong. We didn’t sell the rifles to Chief Walks Like a Bear and his men. We gave the weapons to them.”
Preacher couldn’t help but turn his head to look at the Englishman. “Why the hell would you—” he began.
“Because this country shouldn’t belong to you!” Mallory broke in, spitting the words out venomously. “England colonized America, and when we tried to take it back, you filthy barbarians killed our father! Tell him, Laura!”
“It’s true, Preacher,” she said with a regretful expression on her face. “Our father was a soldier. He was killed at the Battle of New Orleans.”
A cold shiver went down Preacher’s spine at those words. He had been at the Battle of New Orleans. He had taken part in the fighting, despite being little more than a boy at the time. Even though it was mighty far-fetched to think about it, he couldn’t rule out the possibility that it had been a ball from his rifle that had ended the life of Clyde and Laura’s father.
He didn’t figure it would be a good idea to bring that up right now, though. Not with the look of murderous hatred that was already etched on Clyde Mallory’s face.
Instead, he took a deep breath and said, “So. What are we gonna do about this?”
“What do you think we’re going to do?” Mallory asked coldly. “Your men are going to let us go, and you’re coming with us as a hostage to insure our safe passage back to the wagon train. Meanwhile, the chief and his men will be allowed to leave in peace.”
His voice was loud enough in the hot silence that hung over the landscape so that the men hidden in the rocks could hear everything he said. Uncle Dan called down, “Preacher, that ain’t gonna work. Too many of our fellas lost loved ones back yonder at the settlement. They ain’t lettin’ those redskins ride away.”
Preacher smiled humorlessly at Mallory. “You heard what the man said. Only one way this standoff’s gonna end, and that’s with powder smoke in the air.”
Mallory’s mouth tightened so that the skin around it grew white. “Then I might as well go ahead and blow your brains out right now,” he said.
“No!” Laura cried. “There must be some way we can work this out.”
Her brother shook his head. “I fear that too much blood has been shed for that to happen, my dear.”
“Hold on,” the man called Flagg said. “My squaw and me don’t have any part in this fight. Let us ride away from here and then you can all kill each other as far as I’m concerned.”
Preacher grunted. “No part in it, eh?” With the revelation of Clyde Mallory’s villainy, all the other pieces of the puzzle had fallen into place. “I reckon you’d be the one who put Mallory in touch with the Blackfeet, mister. That’s the only thing that makes sense. They wouldn’t have those rifles if it wasn’t for you.”
Flagg’s lip curled in an angry snarl. “I’ve heard a lot about you, Preacher,” he said. “Nobody ever told me you were too damned smart for your own good.”
A moment of strained silence went by. There was no way of knowing how long this impasse was going to last…
But then Chief Walks Like a Bear reached the end of his patience. With a guttural cry, he jerked his rifle up and fired at the man he blamed for the failure of the raid on the settlement.
Preacher.
All his life Preacher had heard the old saying about being stuck between a rock and a hard place. With Clyde Mallory pointing a gun at him from behind and the Blackfoot chief in front of him, he was sure enough in that spot.
But he had seen the flare of rage in Walks Like a Bear’s eyes and knew that was where the immediate danger lay, so he moved as soon as the chief’s rifle started to come up.
The ball whirred past Preacher’s head and slammed into the chest of Clyde Mallory’s horse. The animal let out a scream of pain and reared up on its hind legs just as Mallory pulled the trigger of his pistol. Smoke and flame erupted from the weapon’s muzzle, but the shot went harmlessly into the air.
The men from the settlement opened fire a second after Walks Like a Bear kicked off the ruckus. A volley of shots ripped out from the rocks, and three of the Blackfeet were driven off their ponies by the impact of the rifle balls that struck them. Two more of the warriors were wounded but managed to stay mounted.
Shots roared out from the rifles wielded by the Indians, and Preacher heard cries of pain from at least two of his companions. He swung his pistol toward Walks Like a Bear but before he could pull the trigger, something crashed into his back and drove him off his feet.
As he slammed into the ground, an arm looped around his neck and clamped down on it like an iron bar. “You bastard!” Clyde Mallory grated in his ear.
Preacher knew that Mallory had leaped off his dying horse and tackled him. The double impact—first Mallory and then the hard, rocky ground—sent incredible pain shooting through Preacher’s body from his broken arm. Stars exploded in his brain.
Mallory might have choked him to death if not for Dog. The Englishman howled in surprise and pain as the big cur’s teeth closed on his leg. He let go of Preacher and twisted around to slash at Dog with the empty pistol he still held in his other hand.
Able to breathe again, Preacher heaved his body up from the ground and flung Mallory away from him. Still half-blinded with pain, he staggered to his feet.
With a screeching war cry, Walks Like a Bear loomed over him. The Blackfoot chief had sent his horse surging forward. He swung the empty rifle at Preacher’s head.
Preacher ducked under the slashing blow, but couldn’t avoid the horse’s shoulder. It clipped him as Walks Like a Bear charged past and started up into the notch, still shrilling the high-pitched war cry.
It was his death song, Preacher realized.
And Walks Like a Bear knew it, too.
A pair of shots blasted from the rocks. The chief was jolted by them, but stayed on his pony’s back. He tossed the empty rifle aside, plucked his tomahawk from his belt, and sent his horse lunging up into the rocks. Walks Like a Bear leaped off and landed in the middle of the Van Goorts. He grappled with the two Dutchmen, and
they all fell out of sight behind the boulder.
The other surviving Blackfeet had reached the slope, too, and were now struggling hand to hand with the men from the settlement, who didn’t have time to reload their rifles anymore. The fighting was fierce, but the Indians were outnumbered.
When they died, though, they were going to take as many of the hated whites with them as they could. To them, there was no shame in death, only in dying without an enemy’s blood on their hands.
Preacher shoved the terrible pain in his arm aside and looked for Laura Mallory. He couldn’t find her in the confusion. Dust swirled up, making it harder to see.
The man called Flagg burst out of the chaos, still mounted, and kicked Preacher in the chest. Preacher went over backward, but he dropped his pistol and managed to snag Flagg’s leg as the man went past. He heaved with all his strength, dislodging Flagg from the saddle. With a startled cry, the man toppled to the ground.
Preacher bent and snatched up his pistol again. He pressed the barrel to Flagg’s head and ordered, “Don’t move, mister!”
Flagg was going to try to scramble to his feet, but he froze at the touch of Preacher’s gun. Then a cold smile curved his lips as he said, “Don’t think you got the upper hand just yet, Preacher.”
Preacher didn’t have to ask the renegade what he meant by that.
The unmistakable sensation of a razor-edged knife suddenly pressing against his throat told him this fight wasn’t over yet. The blade penetrated his skin, and blood crawled warmly over his skin.
“Drop your pistol, Preacher,” Laura said. “I don’t want to cut your throat, but make no mistake…I will if I have to.”
Chapter 28
Preacher didn’t react for a couple of long seconds. Then he said, “You can’t cut my throat fast enough to keep me from blowin’ Flagg’s brains out, Laura.”
“Perhaps not, but you’ll still be dead, won’t you?” A tone of wistfulness touched her voice as she added, “I truly wish things hadn’t turned out this way, you know.”
Preacher didn’t give a damn about what she wished or didn’t wish anymore. His gaze darted around the slope, what he could see of it from where he was anyway.
He saw Clyde Mallory struggling to his feet, bleeding in several places from the gashes Dog’s teeth had left in his flesh. Preacher’s heart seemed to stop for a second when he saw the shaggy shape lying on the ground at Mallory’s feet.
Dog wasn’t moving, but his side rose and fell as Preacher watched, telling the mountain man that the big cur was still alive. Mallory had probably just knocked him senseless by clubbing him with the pistol.
Preacher saw Uncle Dan and Pete Sanderson farther up the slope, both of them bloody as well from hand-to-hand struggles with the Blackfeet, but apparently not hurt too badly.
Walks Like a Bear and the two Van Goorts lay in a gory tangle among the boulders. The chief had buried his tomahawk in the skull of one of the Dutchmen, cleaving bone and brains. The other had a knife sunk in his chest, but he had died with his hands locked around Walks Like a Bear’s throat and the chief stared sightlessly as well, the life choked out of him.
Three more of the men from the settlement were still alive, including Sanderson’s friend Dennison. From what Preacher could see, none of the Blackfeet were.
There weren’t any loaded guns among the survivors, though. They had expended their shots during the battle and hadn’t had a chance to reload.
“You men stay back!” Laura called to them. “I’ll kill Preacher if you come a step closer!”
“What do you want us to do, Preacher?” Uncle Dan asked. “That Englisher gal looks like she means what she says.”
“I certainly do mean it,” Laura said. “I’ve nothing left to lose.”
“Well, I’m gettin’ a mite tired o’ bein’ shaved like this,” Preacher drawled. He took the pistol away from Flagg’s head and turned the weapon so that he gripped it by the barrel.
With a snarl on his bearded face, Flagg reached up and snatched the pistol away from Preacher.
Laura kept the knife at Preacher’s throat anyway as he straightened.
“I done what you wanted,” Preacher told her.
“Yes, but I’m afraid I don’t trust you, Preacher. You have a way of showing up where you’re least expected and doing the most amazing things.”
Clyde Mallory limped over to them, blood staining his trousers where Dog had gnawed on his leg. “Go ahead and cut his throat, Laura,” he urged. “We can’t leave him alive.”
Flagg had gotten to his feet, still clutching Preacher’s pistol. “If you don’t want to kill him, Miss Mallory,” he said, “just step away from him. I’ll take care of it.”
Preacher sensed that his life was hanging by a thread. He should have taken a chance on twisting away from the knife and disarming Laura, he thought.
But he couldn’t have done that without taking the gun away from Flagg’s head, and then the renegade would have jumped him…
As much as it went against Preacher’s nature, there were occasions when it was best for a fella to just bide his time. He hoped this was one of them.
Uncle Dan spoke up, addressing his words to Flagg. “If you pull that trigger, mister, it’s the only shot you’ll get. There are five of us, not even countin’ Preacher, and only three of you folks.”
“All your redskin helpers are dead,” Sanderson spat. “Might as well give up.”
“Shut up, you bloody American!” Mallory snapped. “We still have the upper hand here.”
Preacher felt a wave of dizziness go through him. His knees threatened to buckle, but they stiffened when he felt the knife blade bite deeper into his flesh.
“I don’t feel like standin’ around jawin’ all day,” he rasped. “I reckon the best thing is for you folks to go your way, and we’ll go ours.”
“Preacher, no!” Sanderson exclaimed. “We can’t let ’em go! Not after what they did to the settlement!”
“The Blackfeet are all dead,” Preacher pointed out. “We came after ’em in the first place to rescue Miss Mallory and her brother, and it’s mighty clear now that they never needed rescuin’.”
It was a rare thing for him to be the voice of reason, and Preacher didn’t care for it. Anyway, he was just stalling for time, because he had heard something that evidently none of the others had because of all the palavering.
The clicking of shod hooves against stone.
Somebody else was riding up to the far side of the gap.
Preacher had no idea who it could be, but their arrival couldn’t help but change things here. One way or another, the current standoff would be ended.
“I don’t care what you say,” Sanderson insisted. “We can’t let ’em go, Preacher. Those Injuns never would’ve attacked the settlement if they hadn’t been able to get guns from the Englishers. And that bastard Flagg helped set up the deal.”
Flagg sneered and swung the pistol up, aiming at Sanderson now. “That’s mighty big talk for a man whose rifle’s empty.”
“Damn it!” Preacher bellowed. “Everybody just settle down! There don’t have to be any more killin’—”
A new voice interrupted him. “That’s where you’re wrong, Preacher. The killing’s not over yet.”
Despite the knife at his throat, Preacher tipped his head back and gazed up at the top of the ridge. Colin Fairfax, a coonskin cap on his bald head, stood there pointing a rifle at him.
Behind Fairfax were at least half a dozen heavily armed men, and more were crowding into sight with each passing second.
“You still have to die, Preacher,” Fairfax went on with an evil smile on his face as he peered over the barrel of the rifle.
Those men Preacher had heard coming had arrived and ended the standoff, just as he’d hoped.
Unfortunately, things had just gone from bad to worse…
After everything that had happened, Colin Fairfax could scarcely believe that his luck had finally changed. He and his followe
rs had heard the shots and circled around the battle, not knowing what they would find.
Fairfax expected to discover that Preacher had somehow emerged triumphant from the fighting, as he always seemed to.
But that hadn’t turned out to be the case, and now Fairfax once again had the drop on Preacher. This time, the hated mountain man was already badly injured.
Not only that, Preacher had a knife at his throat as well, and his friends obviously held empty guns or else this stalemate wouldn’t have come about.
The pretty blonde holding the knife must be the woman Preacher had tried to rescue from the Blackfeet. Clearly, she hadn’t needed rescuing at all.
Fairfax didn’t understand all of that, but right now he didn’t care about it either. He went on. “Why don’t you just step away from him, ma’am? My men and I will take care of this now.”
One of the other men stepped forward. “Who are you, sir?” he demanded in an accent that matched the blonde’s. Both of them were English. That would make this fella the woman’s brother, according to what Sherwood had learned during his visit to the settlement.
Fairfax had no idea who the other man and the squaw were.
“My name is Colin Fairfax,” he introduced himself. “I have a score to settle with Preacher here, as it appears that you and your companions do, too.”
The man motioned to the blonde. “Step away from him, Laura. We don’t have anything to worry about now.”
Fairfax wasn’t so sure about that. The blonde was mighty pretty, and he knew she would be a temptation to his men. He didn’t give a damn what happened to her or her brother or the rest of them. All he cared about was Preacher.
Laura lowered the knife, leaving behind a tendril of blood that trickled down Preacher’s neck like a crimson snake from the cut the blade had made. With a worried look on her face, she moved over to her brother’s side.
“I don’t like this, Clyde,” she said in a low voice that still carried to Fairfax’s ears. “We don’t know these men. We don’t know what they’ll do.”
Preacher's Pursuit (The First Mountain Man) Page 21
