Preacher shouted, “Come on, you varmints! You’ve got us outnumbered, don’t you? You don’t like it when a fella fights back!”
Enough light from the moon filtered through the trees that he could see the warriors forming a ring around him, Horse, and Dog.
The ring parted to allow a man to step through it. He was one of the biggest Indians Preacher had ever seen, every bit as tall and muscular as the mountain man himself. He wore a headdress and had some sort of wings attached to his back. Lifting the club he held, he shook it, shouting at Preacher in the same unknown gibberish.
“Don’t know what you’re sayin’, mister, but I don’t like it,” Preacher told him. “If it’s a fight you want, then quit flappin’ your jaws and get to it.” He didn’t figure the warrior could understand him any better.
The man must have heard the defiance in the mountain man’s tone. He let out a shout and sprang forward, swinging the war club with blinding speed.
Preacher was fast, too. His club came up and blocked the blow. As the lengths of sturdy wood came together, he felt the impact shiver all the way up his arms to his shoulders. He struck at his opponent on the backswing, but the man parried that blow just as neatly as Preacher had a second earlier. For a long moment, they stood there, clubs flashing as they hammered away at each other without landing any devastating blows.
Preacher had been working his way closer during the exchange, and his right foot lashed out in a kick that landed in the warrior’s belly. The man doubled over and his club sagged, giving Preacher an opening. His club shot at the warrior’s head and would have shattered the man’s skull if he hadn’t twisted out of the way at the last instant. Still bent over and gasping for breath, he struck low and landed a glancing blow to Preacher’s thigh. Had it been full strength, it would have broken the bone. As it was, it merely knocked Preacher’s leg out from under him.
As the mountain man toppled to the rocky ground, the warrior recovered, swung his club up, and brought it whistling down at Preacher’s head. Preacher rolled aside, avoiding disaster just as narrowly as his opponent had a few seconds earlier. He hooked his right foot behind the man’s left ankle and jerked. The warrior went down.
Preacher landed on top of him and rammed the war club crosswise against the man’s throat. He bore down and knew that in a matter of heartbeats, he would crush the warrior’s windpipe. If the man was the leader of the war party—and it seemed clear that he was, considering the way the others had drawn back and let him battle with Preacher man to man—maybe his death would take the heart out of them.
Preacher didn’t get a chance to find out. Something crashed against his head and knocked him to the side. Whatever the weapon, it was enough to make red rockets explode behind his eyes as he collapsed.
That crimson glare was swallowed rapidly by a blackness even darker than what usually gripped Shadow Valley. The last thing Preacher was aware of was hoarse, angry shouting. The warrior he had been fighting must not have liked it that his friends had intervened to save his life. His pride was wounded.
The blackness engulfed Preacher, too, and he knew nothing more.
CHAPTER 8
The sun was in Preacher’s eyes when he woke up, which told him he had been out for quite a while. But since he hadn’t expected to wake up, the glare didn’t bother him much. It told him he was still alive.
But not well. He couldn’t move his hands and feet and figured he was trussed up like a pig. He was moving, despite that. Some of his captors were carrying him.
He closed his eyes for a couple reasons. He didn’t think he would gain anything by letting the warriors know that he was awake, his head ached abominably, and the sun shining directly into his eyes was liable to make it hurt worse. He stayed limp and let them think he was still unconscious.
After a while, someone spoke. Preacher recognized the harsh voice of the man with the wings on his back, the one he had been fighting when he was knocked out. The man still sounded a little hoarse, but his throat had recovered some from Preacher nearly crushing it.
The men set him down. The ground was rough and rocky and not very comfortable. Something blocked the sun.
Probably one of the warriors, Preacher thought just before a foot slammed into his side in a brutal kick. He couldn’t stop a pained gasp from escaping his lips.
The head man said something else.
Preacher decided he must be the one standing over him, kicking him, and he might keep that up as long as Preacher didn’t respond. He didn’t want that, so he blinked his eyes open and said haltingly, “Hold on there, damn it.”
It took a few seconds for his eyes to adjust to the light. He couldn’t see the man as anything except a dark, oddly-shaped silhouette then some details started to resolve in his vision.
The tall headdress and the outspread wings gave the man the unusual shape. He glared down at the mountain man and spoke in that strange tongue.
“All right, all right. I’m awake,” Preacher said. “I don’t savvy a word you’re sayin’, though. I don’t reckon there’s any chance you speak English, is there?”
The man leaned over and spat. “Damn it.”
Preacher couldn’t help but chuckle. “Well, that’s progress, anyway. There’s a good chance you don’t know what you’re sayin’, though. You just repeated it after I said it. How about ‘I’m a big ol’, ugly fool’?”
The man said, “Damn it,” and kicked Preacher in the side again.
The mountain man grimaced. He could tell that he didn’t have any broken ribs yet, but that condition might not last if the varmint kept kicking him. He lifted his head as much as he could and looked around. He saw seven men in addition to the war chief or whatever he was. Their buckskin leggings and tunics were similar but didn’t have the gaudy decorations other than those broad leather necklaces. They were shorter and squattier than the chief, too, although still slightly taller than most of the Indians Preacher had run into.
He didn’t see Horse or Dog. The animals had either gotten away—or had been killed in the fighting. Until he knew otherwise, he was going to believe that his old friends were still alive, the same way he felt about Audie and Nighthawk. He knew Horse and Dog would remain in the vicinity, foraging for themselves until he was able to be reunited with them.
The chief gestured with the war club he held and jabbered at his companions. A couple started gathering wood. Preacher realized they were going to build a fire and possibly even make camp. Was it late enough in the day for that? He couldn’t be sure.
They were still close to the cliffs, which loomed to Preacher’s left as he lay on the ground. Had they been going north along those sawtoothed heights all day? Where in the world were they headed?
He didn’t have any answers to those questions, but he knew they would be revealed in time. For the moment, he contented himself with testing his bonds. His arms had been pulled behind his back and his wrists lashed together with what felt like rawhide strips. The same sort of bonds secured his ankles. Whoever had tied him up had done a good job of it. He couldn’t feel any play in the rawhide.
If he could get it wet, it might stretch a little. He would have to keep his eyes open for an opportunity to do that.
Some of the men opened buckskin pouches and brought out what looked like the same sort of tortillas the Mexicans down south ate. They wrapped the tortillas around dried peppers that also came from the pouches and hunkered on their heels to eat.
Preacher’s belly growled from hunger—another indication that he had been unconscious for quite a while. He would have eaten some of the tortillas and peppers if they had offered him any, but it didn’t look like they were going to do that.
The head man didn’t eat. He stood with his brawny bare arms crossed over his chest and glared at Preacher for a while, then lifted his gaze and stared off all haughty-like, almost as if he were posing for a portrait.
The varmint thought pretty highly of himself, Preacher mused. That was obvious.
From the corner of his eye, Preacher noticed the brush off to one side moved a little. He turned his head slightly to look in that direction without calling attention to himself. He hadn’t heard anything moving in the brush, so it probably wasn’t a small animal that had caused that branch to move.
What Preacher saw was about the last thing he expected. Peering at him through a small gap in the brush was the face of the young trapper, Boone Halliday.
CHAPTER 9
It took a lot of self-control to keep from reacting to the surprising sight, but Preacher had iron will to spare. His face remained expressionless as Boone lifted a finger to his lips in a totally unnecessary gesture.
Preacher turned his head again and looked at the war chief, who still stood as if basking in the adulation of his admirers. The others were all eating, but he couldn’t be bothered with that.
Hunger, Preacher supposed, was for mere mortals, and judging by the man’s attitude, he considered himself more than that.
After a while, the light began to fade from the sky as true dusk settled down. Preacher still didn’t know where they were going, but obviously it was quite a distance from where he had been captured. The valley was a big one, running for at least twenty miles, and the strange Indians might range all over it.
Preacher glanced toward the brush again. Boone was gone. Preacher hadn’t heard any sound as the young trapper withdrew. Boone seemed to have a knack for being stealthy, just as he had said.
Preacher decided that Boone had ignored his decision and followed him from the trappers’ camp where they had met a couple nights earlier. Normally, such blatant disregard for his wishes would have annoyed him, but under the circumstances he was glad Boone had been muleheaded about it. The youngster might be able to help him turn the tables on his captors.
Or Boone might just get himself killed, which would be a damn shame.
Since Preacher wasn’t gagged, he figured it was time for him to speak up again. “Hey, you blasted varmints, I could use somethin’ to eat and drink. I’m mighty dry, and I’m about to waste away to nothin’ over here.”
The chief stopped posing and glared at him, then snapped something.
“Well, at least you didn’t swear at me,” Preacher drawled. “How about some food?” He pretended he was chewing. “You know, somethin’ to eat?”
The chief motioned curtly to one of his men. From a pouch, the Indian took a couple dried peppers and rolled them in a tortilla. He took it to Preacher and held it so the mountain man could take a bite.
He swallowed the fiery stuff. The pepper was so hot it brought tears to his eyes. “Whoo-eee! I need somethin’ to drink now.”
His captors ignored that. The man hunkering next to him just shoved the tortilla toward his mouth again. Even though his lips and tongue felt a little blistered, Preacher didn’t know when he’d get a chance to eat again, so he took another bite, chewed, and swallowed. The peppers burned all the way down.
“Good Lord, that’s hotter ’n the vittles I ate the last time I was down at Santa Fe. Any of you fellas ever been to Santa Fe? Come to think of it, some of you look a mite Mexican.”
Actually, that was true, he realized. Some of the Indians could have passed for Mexicans. That wasn’t completely unheard of, he thought. Indian and Spanish blood had intermixed freely in those more tropical climes. Such a blend was rare to see that far north, though.
The Indians ignored his question about Santa Fe.
Preacher ate the rest of the tortilla and peppers. “I could still use somethin’ to drink, boys. Agua? You hombres savvy Mex talk?”
His voice was loud for a reason. He didn’t think yelling would make them understand him any better, but it would help cover up any small noises Boone Halliday might make moving around in the brush.
Of course, he didn’t know if Boone was still anywhere nearby. The youngster could have seen what the odds were and decided that the smart thing to do was light a shuck out of there as fast as he could.
Somehow, though, Preacher didn’t believe that. His gut told him that Boone was still around and planning something.
The man who had fed Preacher still hunkered beside him. He reached out and poked a finger against Preacher’s chest, once and then again.
“Hey, keep your hands to yourself, mister.” Preacher’s eyes were on a flint knife stuck behind a strip of rawhide tied around the man’s waist. If he could get his hands on that knife he could cut his bonds and make a fight of it.
The chief snapped a few words. The man who’d been poking Preacher stood up and moved back over to join the others around the small fire they had made. Clearly, they weren’t worried about attracting attention or they wouldn’t have kindled that blaze. They considered themselves the masters of the valley—and so far, Preacher hadn’t seen any evidence they were wrong about that.
The burning in his mouth gradually subsided as he lay there. He kept working at his bonds but didn’t have any real hope of loosening them. He watched as the chief finally stopped posturing long enough to eat a couple tortillas.
So the fella is human after all.
As the fire began to burn down, several warriors stretched out to sleep. They didn’t have blankets or bedrolls of any sort. They were accustomed to hardship.
One man went over and sat down on a rock close to Preacher.
My own personal guard, the mountain man thought.
Two more sat up near the fire. They would probably take turns standing watch during the night.
The head man was one who lay down to sleep. He removed his headdress and the ornamental wings, which left him looking more like the others, although slightly bigger and more clean-cut.
Preacher closed his eyes and pretended to doze off, but actually he was still awake. After a few minutes, he opened his eyes to narrow slits so he could keep an eye on his surroundings. He hadn’t forgotten about seeing Boone Halliday earlier. If the young trapper was going to try something, it would probably happen during the night while some of the Indians were asleep.
Preacher watched his guard without seeming to. As the night wore on, the man’s eyelids began to droop. It had been a long day, and he was getting tired. The deep, regular breathing of the sleeping men made it harder for the guard to stay awake. The two guards by the fire had talked quietly starting out, but they had fallen silent and seemed to be having trouble staying awake, too.
Preacher started to wonder if he could kick his guard off the rock, roll on top of him, and grab the flint knife stuck behind the sash around his waist, just like the one the Indian who’d fed him had had. He didn’t know how long it would take him to saw through the bonds around his wrists since he would be working in an awkward position, but it might be worth a try.
While he was thinking that, a loop of some sort suddenly dropped over the guard’s neck and jerked tight, cutting off any outcry he might make. He was hauled backward off the rock as he started to struggle. The loop—a length of rawhide, more than likely—was pulled so tight around his neck that it disappeared into the bronze flesh. The man’s eyes widened in panic as it strangled him.
The commotion alerted the guards by the fire. They sprang up and shouted a warning to the others. Instantly, the whole bunch woke up, grabbed their spears and war clubs, and leaped to their feet.
Whoever had attacked Preacher’s guard had dragged the man out of sight into the brush. Preacher heard a lot of thrashing around. As the chief yelled orders and led the way, the rest of the men dashed out there. They made a lot of racket as they pursued the attacker.
CHAPTER 10
One man lagged behind the others. Preacher knew he wasn’t going to get a better chance. He lifted his bound legs and swung them around, sweeping the warrior’s legs out from under him as he ran past. He went down hard, slammed his head against a rock, and then lay still, knocked out cold.
Preacher used great strength to pull himself up to his knees. He jackknifed forward and landed beside the unconscious warrior. Working by fee
l, Preacher got hold of the man’s knife and twisted it around so he could start sawing on the rawhide strips around his wrists. The sharp flint sliced into his flesh now and then, but he ignored the stinging pain and kept trying to free himself.
In the brush, the Indians were yelling and stampeding around. Preacher hoped Boone was leading them on a merry chase that would keep them away from the camp for a while longer.
The rawhide parted, falling away from his bloody wrists. As he sat up, the warrior who had fallen and stunned himself moaned and began to stir. Preacher reached over and rammed the knife into his side, sliding the point between ribs so that it pierced the man’s heart. The Indian shuddered and died as Preacher withdrew the blade. He sat up and cut his feet loose, too.
Steps pounded nearby as he stood up. He swung around, gripping the knife tightly. The feeling was coming back quickly into his extremities, but he was a little clumsy. He would have preferred to be a little steadier before he had to fight again.
Boone Halliday burst out of the brush carrying a spear and came to a sudden stop as he saw Preacher in the glow from the fire’s embers. A grin broke across his face. “I was hoping I’d have time to cut you loose before they circled back around here. Should’ve known you’d already have taken care of that.”
“Are those varmints right behind you?” Preacher growled.
“They’re not far back.”
“Let’s give ’em a warm welcome.” Preacher looked around for weapons. He would have liked to fill his hands with his pistols, but it seemed he would have to be satisfied with the war club that had been dropped by the man he’d just killed, along with the flint knife.
With two men dead, that left six in the war party. Three to one odds weren’t very good, but Preacher knew he and Boone would have even less chance if they fled with those howling savages in close pursuit. Better to make a stand among the rocks at the base of the cliff. He motioned for Boone to get behind one of the boulders, then withdrew into cover himself.
Preacher's Bloodbath Page 4
