“Wasn’t long ago you were holdin’ a knife to my throat,” Preacher reminded her.
She made a face. “Yes, I know. And I would have done what I threatened to do. That was in the heat of battle, and what we are—who we are—makes us enemies, Preacher.” A little shudder ran through her. “But that doesn’t mean I want to see that…that horrible little man take his revenge on you.”
“He is a horrible little man,” Preacher said. “I reckon we agree on that much anyway.”
Laura lowered her voice a little more. “I’d like to think that…if things had been different…then you and I…well, what was between us might have been different, too.”
Preacher smiled faintly. “Ain’t it pretty to think so?”
“But that can never be.” She moved closer, reached down, and rested her hand on the ground beside his leg for a moment to maintain her balance. “You’re like a knight from England’s olden days,” she said. “A true warrior. A man like you should die in battle. Not being burned alive to satisfy the sadistic whim of a madman.”
“I couldn’t agree with you more,” Preacher said.
“Laura!” Mallory called from the other side of the fire. “For God’s sake, don’t get so close to him! I told you we can’t trust him.”
Laura sighed in exasperation and stood up, turning to glare at her brother. “For God’s sake yourself, Clyde. Can’t you see that Preacher’s no threat to anyone so long as he’s trussed up like that?” She shook her head and then added, “I’m sorry, Preacher. Good-bye.”
“So long, ma’am,” he told her.
She crossed her arms over her chest and stalked away. “I can’t watch this,” she said to no one in particular. Mallory got up and followed her to the edge of the circle of light cast by the fire.
Preacher was glad that she had come over to bid farewell to him. Like she said, if things had been different…
But they weren’t and never would be. There could never be anything between them.
Except for the gratitude that Preacher felt toward her at this moment.
Gratitude for the knife she had slipped under his thigh when she put her hand on the ground, the knife that was now within reach of his bound right hand. He got his fingers on the hilt, worked the blade around so that it was behind his arm where no one could see it, and started sawing at the rope that was wrapped around him.
If he had just a few minutes, he thought, a few minutes to cut through those ropes so that when Fairfax’s men came to get him and toss him in the fire, he would have a surprise waiting for them.
And maybe like one of those knights of old she had talked about, he would die with cold steel in his hand.
Chapter 30
Uncle Dan was an observant old rascal. From the corner of his mouth, he said, “The gal gave you a knife, didn’t she? I can tell you’re cuttin’ that rope.”
“I plan on givin’ ’em a tussle before I cross the divide,” Preacher said. “If I just got time to saw through here…”
“If you get loose, you reckon you could maybe flip that knife over here without anybody noticin’?” Uncle Dan licked his lips in anticipation at the prospect of putting up a fight, even though the odds made it clear that the prisoners didn’t have any real chance.
Preacher tried not to grin at the old-timer. “I’ll sure give it a try,” he promised.
Meanwhile, he kept sawing at the rope, feeling the strands part one by one. He thought that if he gave a good heave on it, he might be able to break the rope already.
And it looked like things might come to that…like Uncle Dan wasn’t going to have a chance to free himself after all…because Fairfax was coming toward them again, and from the look of gleeful, evil anticipation on the man’s ugly face, the time had come.
Fairfax even rubbed his hands together and chuckled. “I think the fire is big enough and hot enough now,” he said.
It was true. The flames leaped high in the air, and the heat coming off the blaze slapped across the faces of Preacher and the other prisoners.
“Once your friends have watched you die, Preacher, we’ll dispose of them as well,” Fairfax went on. “I’m not without mercy, though. They’ll be shot, so they’ll die quickly. Unlike you.”
Preacher shifted his grip slightly on the knife’s handle. With his left arm hurt the way it was, he didn’t know if he could break the rope or not, even partially cut through the way it was, but he sure as hell intended to try.
If he could, then he was going to lunge to his feet and plunge that knife into Fairfax’s chest before anybody could stop him. Likely enough, the others would shoot him down quick after that, but Preacher didn’t much care.
He would die fast, and Fairfax would be cheated of his revenge. Those were the only things Preacher cared about at this moment.
But then Sherwood, Fairfax’s second in command, stepped up behind the man and said, “Hold on just a minute.”
Fairfax looked back over his shoulder with an annoyed frown. “What the hell do you want, Sherwood? It’s time at last for Preacher to die.”
“Yeah, that’s true,” Sherwood said, “but before he does, I reckon you ought to die first, Boss.”
Even as Fairfax’s eyes began to widen in surprise, Sherwood moved, the muscles in his shoulders bunching as he put all his strength into the blow that he struck. The long blade of the knife he held went all the way into Fairfax’s back. It went all the way to the hilt, skewering Fairfax like a bug.
Fairfax’s mouth fell open as his eyes bugged out in agony. No sound came from his throat except a whine. His knees buckled, and he would have fallen if Sherwood hadn’t been still gripping the knife tightly, holding him up by it.
Finally, Fairfax was able to gasp, “Why…why?”
“You don’t think Shad ever trusted a fool like you to get anything done, do you? He let you think you were in charge, but told me to get rid of you when I thought the time was right.” Sherwood twisted the blade inside Fairfax’s body. “Well, the time’s right, you stupid bastard. We don’t need you anymore. Matter of fact, I don’t reckon we ever really did.”
He tore the blood-dripping knife free from Fairfax’s back. Fairfax stumbled forward a step and then fell to his knees. He caught himself there, swaying back and forth for a moment as his agonized eyes stared into Preacher’s eyes.
“Say howdy to the Devil for me when you get to Hell,” Preacher told him.
Fairfax’s eyes rolled up in their sockets and he pitched forward onto his face. He didn’t move again as the dark stain spread on the back of his coat.
“Sorry, Preacher,” Sherwood said as he bent to wipe off the blade on Fairfax’s sleeve. “I know you would’ve liked to kill him yourself, but I didn’t see any way to work that without lettin’ you loose.” He laughed. “And I’m not that big of a fool. You’ll still die, just not in the fire.”
Clyde Mallory was on his feet. Beside him, Laura still sat on the ground, a horrified expression on her face as she looked at Fairfax’s body.
“What do you think you’re doing, Sherwood?” Mallory demanded. “I made an arrangement with Fairfax—”
“Now you’ve got the same deal with me,” Sherwood said as he swung around to grin at the Englishman. “Only better, because Fairfax would’ve found some way to ruin everything. I don’t reckon he ever carried out a plan in his life without messin’ it up somehow.”
That was probably true, Preacher thought as he shifted the knife again. He didn’t care what sort of deal Sherwood and Mallory made. The important thing was that their conversation gave him a few more minutes to cut that rope…
Mallory strode around the fire to confront Sherwood. “I heard you mention someone named Shad,” he snapped. “Were you talking about Shadrach Beaumont?”
“Shadrach?” Sherwood repeated. “Hell, I never knew what his real name is. I just knew him as Shad. But yeah, Beaumont’s the one I’m talkin’ about. It was at his house in St. Louis a couple o’ months ago that I saw you, mist
er. I was discussin’ some other business with him when you got there. Shad told me to step out of the room while he talked to you, but I heard the whole thing. I heard you and him settin’ up the deal for those rifles.”
Rifles! Preacher thought. What Sherwood had just said explained a lot. This fella Shad Beaumont was some sort of criminal who lived in St. Louis, and he had helped Mallory get his hands on those rifles for the Blackfeet. Ever since Preacher had found out what Mallory was up to, he had suspected that the Englishman had somebody else working with him.
Mallory’s face was stony as he began, “I’m not going to confirm or deny anything—”
“You don’t have to. I saw you, Mallory. I got a good look at you.” Sherwood smiled at Laura. “And I saw that sister o’ yours, too, waitin’ in the buggy outside. I ain’t likely to forget a lady as pretty as her.”
“Leave my sister out of this,” Mallory snapped.
“Why? She’s workin’ for that king o’ yours, too, ain’t she? You’re both part of the deal you set up with Shad. I’m not sure why he’s workin’ with a couple of Englishers, but that’s his business, not mine. All I want to know is if you’ll pay me to see to it that the Harts’ tradin’ post and settlement is wiped out, just like you were gonna pay Fairfax.”
Mallory glanced at Fairfax’s corpse, frowned for a long moment, and then finally shrugged.
“Why not?” he said. “You’re right. Fairfax was positively obsessed with Preacher. The man was insane. Utterly undependable.”
Sherwood nodded. “Now you’re catchin’ on. You’ll be a heap better off workin’ with me.” He turned toward Preacher and reached for the pistol stuck behind his belt.
“Hold on,” Preacher said. He sensed that only a couple of strands of rope held together now, so he stopped sawing. “I don’t understand. Why did this fella Beaumont send Fairfax out here to kill me? I never even met Beaumont.”
“What does it matter now?” Sherwood demanded. “You’re about to die.”
“Ain’t that a good reason to tell me?”
Sherwood sighed. “Oh, all right.” He took his hand away from his gun. “The way I understand it, Shad wanted to establish a trading post out here himself, so he sent Fairfax and a man named Mims to try to stop them from even getting where they were going. But that didn’t work out and Mims died.”
Preacher nodded and said, “I knew about that. I figured Fairfax was dead, too.”
“No, he made it back to St. Louis somehow on his own.” Sherwood grunted and shook his head. “I’m surprised he made it. By all rights, he should have been killed in the first mile or two.”
Preacher couldn’t dispute that. Fairfax had had a mighty powerful hate to draw strength from as he kept going.
“So it was too late for Shad to stop the Harts from startin’ their tradin’ post, but he could still take over the fur trade out here by gettin’ rid of them. Shad knew you’d be a thorn in his side, Preacher, so he sent us to help Fairfax kill you, which is what Fairfax wanted in the first place. At the same time Shad made the deal with Mr. Mallory here to wipe out the settlement. I guess he figured that once it was gone, he could send his own men in to run the fur operation.”
“That fur business is going to be British,” Mallory put in.
Sherwood’s heavy shoulders rose and fell in a shrug as he turned toward the Englishman. “I reckon that would’ve had to be hashed out later…but I wouldn’t be so sure about that, mister.”
Laura spoke up, saying sharply, “What you mean is that your Mr. Beaumont would have betrayed us.”
Sherwood shrugged again. “You said that, lady, not me. I don’t know what would have happened. But I do know Shad Beaumont is a man who gets what he wants.”
“So why should we trust you now?” Mallory demanded.
“What other choice do you have? You can go off on your own and try to find those wagons of yours before the Cheyenne find you, I reckon.” Sherwood grinned. “You might wish you hadn’t, though. The Cheyenne may not hate white men as much as the Blackfeet do, but they’ll still—”
A choked cry cut off whatever else he was about to say. He staggered backward, pawing at the shaft of the arrow that had come out of the darkness surrounding the fire and lodged in his throat.
Preacher had taken advantage of the tense confrontation between Sherwood and Mallory to flip the knife behind Uncle Dan, using only his fingers to do so. Watching from the corner of his eye, he had seen the old-timer stretch his bound arms, and hoped that Uncle Dan had been able to get his hands on the knife.
As soon as he saw the arrow strike Sherwood, Preacher flexed his right arm and shoulder and pulled on the rope as hard as he could. He felt it snap, and as it fell away, suddenly he was free.
He rolled over to get some momentum going, put his right hand on the ground, and powered up onto his feet. He heard Flagg yell, “Look out! Preacher’s loose!”
The hired killers who had been with Fairfax and Sherwood had other things to worry about besides Preacher, though. More arrows came whistling in from the darkness. Several men cried out, staggered, and then fell as the feathered shafts buried themselves in their bodies.
Men jerked up rifles and pistols and began shooting, but they were firing blind. The glare from the huge fire had ruined any night vision they might have had. Preacher had kept his eyes slitted as much as possible, so he could still see some. He hoped that Uncle Dan, Sanderson, and the other three men from the settlement had done likewise.
“Cut the others loose and get out of here!” Preacher called to Uncle Dan as he lunged around the blaze toward the suddenly terrified Laura Mallory.
She lurched to her feet as she saw him coming. Her hand plucked a small pistol from somewhere in the folds of her skirt. Clearly uncertain what to do, she didn’t raise the gun.
Preacher grabbed her arm and told her, “Come on! We got to get out of the light!”
Escaping into the darkness was their only hope. He didn’t know how many Cheyenne warriors were out there. Could be only half a dozen or so, or there might be a large war party. But he knew they were Cheyenne because he’d recognized the markings and the fletching on the arrow that killed Sherwood.
The other thing he knew for sure was that the fire had drawn them. Just one more instance of Fairfax letting his hatred blind him to the fact that he was a damned fool.
The blaze must have been visible for miles and miles across the prairie, and of course some curious Cheyenne had come to investigate it. Preacher had thought all along that something like that might happen.
The Indians had slipped up close to the camp, seen white men walking around making perfect targets of themselves in the firelight, and naturally they hadn’t been able to resist the temptation.
Their timing had been good, too. That arrow couldn’t have picked a more fitting moment to strike Sherwood in the throat.
Preacher tugged Laura along with him as they ran crouching toward the shadows at the edge of the light. More arrows whipped through the air around them. Laura stumbled, and for a second Preacher thought she’d been hit, but as he slowed, she cried, “I’m fine! Keep going!”
Preacher long-legged it into the darkness. He didn’t know where Clyde Mallory and Flagg were, and he didn’t particularly care what happened to them.
He wanted to see about Uncle Dan and the others, though, so when he reached some good-sized rocks, he drew Laura behind one of them and told her, “Stay here.”
She clutched at his arm. “Preacher, you…you can’t leave me here!” Fear had made her breathless.
“I’ll be right back,” he promised. “Keep down. The Cheyenne won’t find you.”
He wished he could be sure of that, but he didn’t intend to be gone for long. As much as he wanted to keep Laura safe, he couldn’t turn his back on his friends.
As he ran back toward the fire, he saw that the combat had become hand-to-hand. Uncle Dan had succeeded in freeing himself and his nephew, and he and Pete Sanderson were struggling
against the Indians along with the members of Fairfax’s party who were still alive.
Preacher reached down and snatched a rifle from the ground as he ran into the camp. The hammer was down on the lock, and he assumed it had already been fired. Even if it hadn’t, he couldn’t cock it with one hand, so he swung it like a club and crashed the barrel against the head of a Cheyenne warrior. The Indian’s skull shattered under the impact.
Preacher slashed sideways with the rifle and smashed it across the face of another warrior. The Cheyenne went down with blood spouting from his broken nose. Preacher tossed the rifle up, grabbed the barrel, and brought the stock down in the Indian’s face, finishing him off.
He dropped the rifle and grabbed a knife that was sheathed at the Cheyenne’s waist. He had just spotted a warrior about to send an arrow into the body of the helpless Dennison, who was still tied near the fire.
Preacher flung the knife with all his strength. The blade buried itself hilt-deep in the Indian’s back. The Cheyenne pitched forward, releasing the drawn-back arrow anyway, but it went harmlessly into the ground.
Preacher raced over, yanked the knife out of the Cheyenne’s back, and knelt beside Dennison. It took a minute to cut through the tough ropes, but then Dennison was free and Preacher pressed the knife into his hands.
“Cut the others loose!” he told the man. Then he turned back to the fight.
Bodies lay scattered around the fire, white men with arrows sticking out of their bodies or heads cleft by tomahawks, red men with holes blown in them by rifles and pistols. Only three of the Cheyenne were still on their feet, struggling with Uncle Dan, Sanderson, and one of Fairfax’s men.
Preacher didn’t see Mallory, Flagg, or Flagg’s squaw.
The last remaining member of Fairfax’s party went down with a Cheyenne knife in his chest. As the warrior who had struck him down howled in triumph, Dennison lunged past Preacher swinging a burning brand from the fire. He smashed the flaming club across the Indian’s back and knocked him to his knees. The thick piece of wood rose and fell repeatedly as Dennison smashed the Cheyenne’s skull.
Preacher's Pursuit (The First Mountain Man) Page 23
