Thinking quickly, he said, “So, you figure you’re a match for Preacher, do you?”
Vickery paused with one foot in a stirrup and looked around to frown at Snell. “What do you mean by that?”
“I mean you’re ridin’ off alone. When Preacher comes to settle the score with you for that squaw of his, you’ll have to deal with him by yourself.”
Vickery’s frown deepened. “You said he couldn’t do anything because he didn’t have proof.”
“And you just said that he would, whether he had proof or not,” Snell pointed out. “Make up your blasted mind, Vickery. But remember this . . . if Preacher does hunt you down, how would you rather meet him? Alone, or with a bunch of good men backin’ you up?”
Collins said, “There’s an old saying about hanging together or hanging separately. Even though it’s doubtful any of us would ever hang for what we did, the sentiment still applies here.”
Collins was the one with the most education in the bunch, so Snell was glad that he had spoken up. Vickery took his foot back out of the stirrup and stood next to his horse for a long moment, rubbing his jaw as he thought over everything that had been discussed. Finally, he said, “I reckon you’re right, Collins, and you, too, Snell. I may not like it, but we’re sort of all in this together, ain’t we?”
“Damn right we are,” Snell said. “All ten of us. We’re gonna get Carling back from those Injuns and make him promise to pay us a heap of money if we get him back to civilization safe and sound. He’ll do it, too, if he knows what’s good for him. And then we can afford to do anything else we want to. We can split up and never come back to these mountains, and Preacher will never find us. That’s the way to deal with Preacher.”
Singletree said, “I’d rather just kill him.”
“If he comes after us,” Snell promised, “that’s sure as hell exactly what we’ll do.” He lifted his horse’s reins. “Now mount up, boys. We got us some Injuns to catch.”
Chapter Thirteen
To Preacher’s keen eyes, the trail left by the Indians and their captives was fairly easy to follow. The Indians probably didn’t know that anyone was after them, so they didn’t hurry or try to conceal the signs they left behind. The group moved steadily toward Baldpate.
By late afternoon, Preacher figured he was closing in on them. Once again, he angled Horse into the foothills along the base of the mountain range. He couldn’t just ride up behind the Indians. They would see him coming if he tried to do that. He had to approach in a more stealthy fashion, preferably after night had fallen.
He just hoped that the prisoners would be all right for that long.
He hadn’t found any bodies as he followed the Indians, which was a good sign. It told him that no one had been so badly wounded during the struggle earlier in the day that they had died along the way to wherever it was the Indians were going.
Preacher wasn’t sure what that destination was. The village of Hairface’s people was in this direction, some miles east of Baldpate, about halfway between there and the valley of the Seven Smokes. Preacher still had his doubts about Hairface leading an attack on the Easterners and their guides, though. That just didn’t fit in with what he knew about the Teton Sioux chief.
But the answers would come when he caught up with the Indians, he told himself. Maybe they were a raiding party of Crow or Blackfoot, although this was a mite far south and west for either of those tribes to be raiding. But they had been known to range pretty far at times, especially when they were in a hostile mood and looking for trouble.
“I know you’re gettin’ tired, Horse,” Preacher said to his mount, “but you’ll get a chance to rest after a while.” He glanced at the sky and saw that the sun was lowering toward the peaks in the west. There was another hour or so of daylight left, he estimated. His belly growled. The day had been a long one, and all he’d had to eat since breakfast was some jerky he had gnawed on while he was in the saddle. He couldn’t stop now, though, not when he was this close to catching up.
From the top of a wooded hill, he spotted his quarry a short time later. The Indians had brought along all the horses they had captured, but no one was riding. The prisoners were being forced to walk. Preacher made a quick count of the captives, even though that was somewhat difficult to do because the warriors had them surrounded to make sure none of them tried to escape. Preacher came up with ten and felt relief go through him. Four Easterners, Rip Giddens and the four men he had hired, plus Sparrow made ten. Just as he had thought, nobody had been killed during the fighting, but several of the captives were stumbling along as if they were hurt.
Preacher dug out his spyglass to get a better look at them. Of the four pilgrims from Boston, Chester Sinclair was the only one who seemed to have taken much of a beating. His face was bruised and had dried blood on it from several cuts. The guides were in worse shape, which came as no surprise to Preacher because he knew that all of them would have fought to protect their charges. One of the Ballinger brothers had a lot of dried blood on his head and face and was very unsteady on his feet. He was being helped along by the other Ballinger and Hammerhead Jones. Preacher figured the injured man had been clouted on the head with a tomahawk. Such wounds always bled like blazes, even when they weren’t fatal.
Sparrow was all right and didn’t appear to have been harmed at all. She just looked scared, was all. As well she might, since Indians on the warpath had even less liking for those of their own race who helped the whites than they did for the whites themselves.
Preacher moved the spyglass and studied the warriors who had seized the pilgrims and their guides. From the decorations on their buckskins and the markings on their faces, he identified them as Teton Sioux. A frown creased his forehead. It looked like he had been wrong about Hairface after all. Maybe something had happened to turn the normally friendly chief against the whites.
Then he looked at the warrior who was striding out in front of the others and his jaw tightened in recognition. The leader of this war party wasn’t Hairface.
“Damn,” Preacher said. “Bites Like a Badger.”
He’d had run-ins with Badger before. Badger didn’t like him and the feeling was mutual. The sub-chief and a few young bucks had once jumped Preacher while he was running his trap lines. Shots had been traded. A ball from Preacher’s rifle had burned a scar across Badger’s cheek and taken off a tiny bit of his ear. Hurt like hell, but not serious.
Badger took it serious, though, and had hated Preacher ever since. Things had gotten even worse between them when Hairface had apologized later to Preacher for Badger and the other warriors attacking him. That had damaged Badger’s pride, which was much worse than losing a piece of ear.
Seeing Badger in charge of this war party told Preacher several things. Since Badger had been Hairface’s primary sub-chief, it told Preacher that something must have happened to Hairface. Badger was running things now, and that didn’t bode well for the trappers who made their livings in these mountains. It also told Preacher that he wouldn’t be able to just waltz into the Tetons’ camp and talk the Indians out of their prisoners. Now it was more important than ever that he rescue them, and as soon as possible because there was no way of knowing what Badger had in mind to do with them. The only thing Preacher was sure of was that it wouldn’t be anything good.
He closed the spyglass and tucked it away in his saddlebags. “Come on, Horse,” he said as he lifted the reins. “We’ve still got a ways to go.”
Keeping to the high ground, Preacher rode on toward Baldpate, which loomed larger and larger to his left. He knew that the Indians wouldn’t be able to reach their village before darkness fell. They would have to stop and make camp for the night and then travel on to their village the next day.
Sometime during those hours of darkness, Preacher intended to steal into their camp and free the prisoners, hopefully without the Tetons even being aware of what had happened.
The Indians would find out about it eventually, though, and
when they did, Preacher and the others would have to run for their lives. Their best hope would be to find a place where they could fort up and wait out the trouble. The Tetons would give up eventually, especially if it looked like it was going to cost them more lives than they were willing to spend to recapture the whites. Badger might hate Preacher, but he was a canny enough leader to know that he couldn’t push things too far without risking having his followers turn on him.
As the ball of the sun began to dip below the mountains a while later, Preacher was hidden in a thick stand of trees about five hundred yards from the spot where the Indians had stopped beside a small stream. They would spend the night here, where there was fresh water. Unfortunately, there weren’t many trees around the spot they had chosen for their campsite, so Preacher wouldn’t have much cover as he approached.
Dog sat beside him as he studied the terrain between his position and the place where the Tetons and their prisoners had stopped for the night. The big cur growled and whined softly. Preacher put an arm around Dog’s muscular, thickly furred neck and said quietly, “Yeah, I know. I’m as anxious to get amongst them savages and raise some hell as you are, old fella. But gettin’ those blasted pilgrims outta there safe and sound has to come first.”
The prisoners had all sat down wearily on the ground as soon as their captors allowed them to. They had to be exhausted and scared, especially the ones from back East who weren’t used to being forced to trot along ceaselessly for more than half a day. As Preacher watched, Badger came over to the prisoners and angrily kicked Sinclair, Carling, and Hodge back to their feet. Preacher could hear him yelling at them, but at this distance he couldn’t make out the words.
The Easterners obviously didn’t understand what Badger was saying, either. They started to mill around aimlessly, and that just made the chief angrier.
Rip Giddens pushed himself to his feet and spoke to them, then to Badger, and then again to the three Bostonians. He was translating, Preacher realized, or at least trying to. Preacher recalled that Rip spoke a little Sioux, and he could also communicate in the sign language that was nearly universal among the tribes west of the Mississippi. With Rip helping them to understand what Badger wanted of them, the three Easterners began gathering wood for a fire. Several of the warriors watched them at all times.
Once the campfire was going, the warriors began to prepare their supper. They made no move to feed the prisoners. It would be a hungry night for them, and a cold one, too, because even though this spring day had been warm, the nights at this time of year were still mighty chilly most of the time.
Preacher knelt in the trees as the last of the sunlight faded. He wanted to wait until it got good and dark before he tried anything. With the odds against him, he needed every possible advantage he could find.
And even that might not be enough....
“When are they going to kill us?” Faith asked, only a slight tremor in her voice betraying just how frightened she truly was.
Rip Giddens scratched at his blond beard. “Well, I might’ve been wrong about us bein’ dead by mornin’,” he said. “From the looks o’ things, they don’t plan on killin’ us tonight. They’re takin’ us back to their village. Whatever they do to us, that’s where they’ll do it, so the whole band can see what’s happenin’.”
Faith shuddered. “In other words, they want to entertain their women and children with our horrible deaths.”
Rip shrugged and said, “We ain’t there yet. There’s no tellin’ what might happen before we get there.”
“But there’s no one to help us,” Jasper Hodge said miserably. “Absolutely no one.”
The prisoners sat huddled together. Half-a-dozen warriors stood around them, guarding them. Faith had no doubt that if she or any of the others tried to get away, they would be killed mercilessly. The savages had plenty of captives to torture when they got to wherever they were going; they could kill one or two without really losing much.
The fact that she was able to think like that, to wrap her brain around such barbaric concepts, was a stunning example of just how much had changed for her since she left Boston. Since this very morning, as a matter of fact, although their previous experiences at the Rendezvous had begun to make her realize just what a different world this frontier was from the settled civilization she had always known back East. In Boston, death was something that arrived in an orderly, expected fashion, at home in one’s own bed with one’s friends and relatives gathered about. Out here on the frontier, though, death could arrive at any time, with no warning, a howling fury that ripped life away with no thought or consideration at all.
The badly wounded Ballinger brother let out a loud groan. He was lying down with his gory head in his brother’s lap. The terrible wound in his scalp had been bleeding from time to time all day, and the poor man seemed to be out of his senses. He groaned again, and then his arms and legs began to jerk spasmodically. His brother cried out, “Ed! Ed, damn it, don’t you die!” He leaned over and gripped the injured man by the shoulders.
More blood welled from the wound. The Indians watched impassively as the man continued to flail around. Faith had to look away, unable to stand the terrible sight any longer. But she heard Rip Giddens say quietly, “There’s nothin’ you can do for him, Tom. His skull’s probably all busted up from bein’ hit with that tomahawk.”
“But he can’t die!” Tom Ballinger said. “He just can’t!”
No matter how much he wanted it to be otherwise, though, the damage had been done. Faith heard a hideous, rattling gurgle that she knew was Ed Ballinger’s final breath. His brother began cursing in a low, intense voice.
“Might as well lay him down,” Giddens said. “Maybe the Injuns will let us bury him—”
With a howl that expressed his own emotional anger, Tom Ballinger sprang to his feet and lunged at the nearest of the Indians, his hands hooked in front of him like claws, ready to rend and tear whatever he could get hold of.
“No, you fool!” Giddens yelled. “Somebody stop him!”
Faith had to turn and look then. She saw Chester Sinclair tackle Tom Ballinger and knock him off his feet before the grief-crazed man could reach the warrior he was about to attack. The Indian had already raised his tomahawk and was ready to dash Ballinger’s brains out, but he lowered the weapon as Sinclair climbed on top of the frenziedly struggling Ballinger and held him down. After a moment, Ballinger stopped fighting and went limp, sobbing wretchedly as he lay on the ground.
“Good job, Sinclair,” Giddens said. “I reckon you saved his life.”
“Maybe,” Sinclair said as he pushed himself up, keeping a wary eye on Ballinger just in case the man tried something else. “But saved him for what?”
That was the question none of them could answer.
Chapter Fourteen
The stars were out, glittering like jewels against the night sky, before Preacher made his move.
Horse’s reins were tied to a sapling, but loosely so that he could jerk them free if it became necessary. In a firm whisper, Preacher told Dog to stay. The big wolflike creature whined softly about it, but did as he was told. A loud whistle from Preacher would bring both the animals racing to his side if he needed them.
He left his rifle behind, too. If he had to do any fighting in the Indian camp, it would be close work, the sort of killing best done with pistols or a knife. Preacher hoped it wouldn’t come to that, although he thought it likely he would have to slit the throat of a sentry or two.
He took off his broad-brimmed hat and hung it on the saddle with his rifle. Then he moved toward the Indian camp, crouching low and taking his time about it. When he was still three hundred yards away, he dropped to his belly and began crawling through the buffalo grass.
His progress was slow but steady. The night had already turned cold, and the air was crisp. Sounds traveled well in it, which was why he tried not to make any. Every few minutes, he stopped to listen. The camp was quiet except for some snoring, but he
knew better than to think that sound meant all the warriors were asleep. Badger would have left at least one man awake to stand guard.
When Preacher judged that he was close because he could hear the tiny gurgling of the creek, he lifted his head. He could see dark shapes sprawled on the ground. Exhaustion had claimed the prisoners. Most of the warriors were asleep, too, but he spotted faint movement in the shadow cast by a tree on the creek bank. The sentry was there, unable to remain completely motionless during the long hours of the night.
That restlessness, slight though it might be, was going to cost the warrior his life.
Preacher lowered his head and began crawling again. He circled wide so that he could get behind the Indian who was standing guard. Preacher had studied the campsite and not seen any signs of anyone else being awake. That was good. Maybe he’d have to kill only one man.
Preacher had closed to within a few feet of the sentry, and was about to make his move when he suddenly heard Faith Carling’s voice. He froze where he was and listened, thinking that she was probably talking to her brother or one of the other pilgrims. No one answered her, though, and after a few minutes Preacher realized from the tone of Faith’s voice that she was talking in her sleep, mumbling and muttering, her words incomprehensible except for the occasional “No” and “Don’t.”
She was probably dreaming about being captured by the Indians, Preacher thought. For Faith—and for just about anybody else, he reckoned—that would be a nightmare.
He stayed where he was and hoped that she would settle down soon. If she raised too much of a ruckus, she would wake up the rest of the war party, and Lord only knows how long it would be before they went back to sleep. To Preacher’s great relief, Faith’s rambling speech soon trailed off and then stopped. He was close enough to hear her breathing. It subsided into a steady rhythm again, telling him that she was sleeping soundly once more.
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