Preacher's Bloodbath

by Johnstone, William W.

  As long as they could remain undiscovered and keep the element of surprise on their side, Preacher thought they had a chance. And if they could find Audie and Nighthawk and the other trappers who had been captured and free them, the odds against them wouldn’t be quite so bad.

  They came to another trail that led north toward the city. Preacher didn’t trust being out in the open, so they stayed in the woods near the trail and paralleled its course, stopping when they reached one of those cultivated fields he had spotted earlier.

  Still in the cover of the trees, he studied the field and recognized corn. Several men were working among the plants, picking ears of corn and depositing them in woven baskets. As far as he could tell, they were unarmed but too many to risk jumping them. Preacher motioned to his young companion that they would go around.

  They had to make several such detours as they worked their way north through the valley.

  During a brief pause to rest, Boone said, “I didn’t know Indians grew plants like that. I thought they just hunted buffalo and other game.”

  “That’s just one more way it goes to show you these ain’t normal Injuns,” Preacher said. “The Cherokee and some of the other tribes back east are farmers, but I never heard of any like that in these mountains.”

  “But they’re warriors, too.”

  Preacher nodded. “Some of ’em are. I reckon we’d best watch out for all of ’em, though. Leastways until we find what we’re lookin’ for.”

  As they approached the city, they could see the tall structure that dominated the settlement. Something about it seemed ominous to Preacher, although he could admire the tremendous effort it must have taken to build such an edifice.

  They stopped on a wooded knoll overlooking the city.

  Preacher said, “Reckon we’d better wait here until it gets dark. Quite a few people are movin’ around, and if we get any closer, somebody’s liable to spot us.”

  Boone took some jerky out of a pouch and handed a piece to Preacher. In gloomy silence, they stood there gnawing on the stuff. Preacher had forced the fact that they seemed to be trapped in the valley to the back of his mind so he could concentrate on the task at hand, but that threat was never completely out of his thoughts. He was sure it was the same way with Boone.

  While they were waiting for night to fall, Preacher studied what he could see of the city. A couple of hundred yards off to their right was a large, natural depression in the ground. People had arranged several concentric rings of low stone slabs around it.

  Preacher frowned as he realized that people could sit on those slabs. They had made an amphitheater out of the place. At the bottom of the depression was a single, larger slab. Preacher’s frown deepened as he looked at it, not sure what its purpose was. Something about it bothered him.

  When the sun wasn’t far above the mountains to the west of the valley, people began to come out of the buildings and move toward the natural amphitheater. Men, women, and children were all dressed in buckskin but wearing colorful necklaces, bracelets, and other decorations fashioned unlike any Preacher had seen on other Indian tribes.

  They were laughing and talking and seemed to be excited about something. Despite the festive atmosphere—or maybe because of it—the skin on the back of Preacher’s neck prickled.

  As they filed into the amphitheater and took places on the stone slabs, Boone muttered, “What in the world are they doing?”

  “Don’t know, but I reckon if we keep watchin’, we’ll find out.”

  CHAPTER 16

  A group of men carrying spears and war clubs appeared, stalking along one of the cobblestone streets toward a square, windowless building. The stone blocks of which the building was constructed were covered with elaborate carvings. Preacher couldn’t make out the details from so far away, but he could tell that a lot of work had gone into them.

  A heavy door of polished wood was set into the front of the building and barred with a thick log. The warriors came to a stop and two of them lifted the log from the brackets that held it and swung the door open.

  With their spears leveled and threatening, the rest of the party marched inside.

  Under the circumstances, Preacher wasn’t surprised when the warriors emerged a few minutes later dragging a prisoner with them. Two of them held the man’s arms and forced him to walk while another warrior came along behind, prodding the struggling prisoner with a spear point. He howled and cursed with each jab, and Preacher and Boone could hear him well enough to realize the words were in English.

  “My God,” Boone whispered. “That has to be one of the trappers who disappeared.”

  “Yeah, I reckon so,” Preacher said grimly. He didn’t recognize the man, who was scrawny and had a long black beard as if he had been a captive for quite a while. His buckskins hung in tatters around his gaunt form.

  The warriors hauled the prisoner toward the amphitheater. As they started down the slope toward the big slab in the center of the depression, Preacher couldn’t see them anymore. The crowd that had gathered blocked his view of them. He looked up, then began climbing into one of the trees so he could see better. Boone followed suit.

  The prisoner began screaming in terror as his captors forced him closer and closer to the big stone slab. When they reached it, more men took hold of him and lifted him. He tried to kick his legs and flail his arms, but their grips were too strong. They stretched him out on the slab, slipped rawhide thongs around his wrists and ankles, and secured them to iron rings set into the stone.

  Boone sounded sick as he asked from the other tree, “What are they going to do to him, Preacher?”

  “Nothin’ good.” The mountain man’s rugged face was set in bleak lines as he watched.

  Another party of warriors appeared, marching toward the depression. Preacher instantly recognized the man leading the group, even though he was dressed differently. He was the varmint they had followed to the hidden valley, wearing some sort of girdle around his waist that left his legs and chest bare. A long cloak made of eagle feathers was draped over his shoulders, and the eagle wings he had sported earlier were attached to the harness he wore on his back. He wore a helmet shaped to look like an eagle’s beak. To Preacher, it appeared that the helmet was made out of gold that had been hammered into the distinctive shape.

  In that getup, the chief was a mighty impressive figure. A much smaller man, old and gnarled, hurried alongside him, struggling to keep up. A dozen warriors came along the street behind them.

  “I sure don’t like the looks of this,” Boone said from the tree next to the one where Preacher was perched.

  “Neither do I, but there ain’t a damned thing we can do about it.” Preacher’s calm words belied the storm raging inside him. He had a pretty good idea what was about to happen to the prisoner, and a big part of him wanted to charge in there with his guns blazing.

  With a couple hundred people in the amphitheater, though, that wouldn’t save the prisoner. It wouldn’t accomplish anything, in fact, except to get himself killed.

  If he’d had a rifle, he might have considered trying a long shot that would put the man out of his misery quickly, but from the range in the tree there was nothing he could do with his pistols. He was helpless to do anything except watch, and he didn’t like that feeling.

  Didn’t like it one bit.

  The chief and his group of warriors, along with the old shaman or whatever he was, descended into the amphitheater. The sun was almost touching the western mountains, and the light took on a garish red quality that was appropriate for what was about to happen.

  The chief went to the stone slab where the prisoner was tied and threw back the feathered cloak on his shoulders. He raised his bare, muscular arms to the sky, tipped back his head, and began chanting in a loud, powerful voice as everyone else in the amphitheater fell silent.

  The words meant nothing to Preacher and Boone. They were just gibberish and seemed to go on forever. Preacher wondered what the chief was waiting for.


  A moment later, he understood. The sun began to dip behind the mountains, but its rays still shone through a notch in the peaks, creating a beam of light that slanted down into the valley and hit that big slab perfectly, flooding the stone and the prisoner with crimson light.

  The chief turned to the shaman and held out his hand. The wizened old-timer placed a flint knife in the chief’s palm.

  The chief turned to the prisoner and got to work. The man’s screams blended with a huge cheer that went up from the spectators.

  Preacher heard Boone’s harsh breathing from the other tree.

  The young trapper let out a horrified groan. “I can’t watch this.”

  “Then don’t. But don’t let what you’re feelin’ get away from you, neither. We can’t do a blasted thing for that fella. We’ve got to remember there may be a dozen other prisoners in that buildin’, maybe more.”

  “Including your friends. I know. We’re going to try to help them, aren’t we?”

  The shouting from the amphitheater grew louder. Preacher looked and saw the chief strutting back and forth beside the slab, his arm held up straight over his head. He had something in his hand. Preacher couldn’t make it out, but he didn’t have to be able to see the thing to know what it was.

  The man stretched out on the slab was quiet, the silence of death. His chest had a dark, gaping hole in it where the heart had been carved out. The heart that the arrogant chief proudly displayed to his followers....

  “We’ve got to help ’em,” Preacher said. “No matter what the odds, I reckon you and me are the only chance those poor fellas have of not windin’ up like that sooner or later.”

  CHAPTER 17

  The sun didn’t take much longer to finish sinking behind the mountains, plunging the valley into gathering shadow as the assemblage at the amphitheater began to break up. People filed out and returned to their homes.

  The bonds fastening the dead trapper’s body to the slab were untied, and warriors carried the corpse away. Preacher watched as they took it to a dark, circular opening in the ground ringed by paving stones. Casually, the men tossed the corpse into the hole as if it were so much garbage.

  Rage burned brightly inside Preacher, but once again he tamped it down, hoping he would get a chance to avenge the man’s death, and the deaths of any other prisoners who had been sacrificed in the past. But rescuing those who were still alive had to come first.

  He didn’t see the chief and the shaman anymore. The two murderers had slipped off somewhere. The amphitheater was almost empty. Preacher turned his attention to the building from which the warriors had taken the prisoner.

  He didn’t see any guards posted around, but he would have been willing to bet that somebody was keeping an eye on the place. On the other hand, arrogance seemed to be a natural trait among the valley’s inhabitants. Maybe they were so convinced that no one could escape from their jail that they didn’t have anyone guarding it.

  Some careful scouting once it was good and dark ought to answer that question one way or the other, Preacher thought as he and Boone climbed down out of the trees.

  As the shadows thickened, Boone asked, “Are we going to sneak into the city?”

  “Yep, that’s the idea. We’ll wait a while, though, and let everything settle down for the night.”

  “These people are crazy, Preacher. They’re . . . they’re barbarians!”

  “That ain’t necessarily a bad thing. I remember Audie tellin’ me once that bein’ barbarians is the natural state of mankind, ’cause sooner or later that’s the way things always end up. Every so-called civilization goes back to the old, bloody ways if it lasts long enough.”

  “Maybe so, but I don’t see anything to admire here.”

  “Didn’t say I admire ’em. Maybe I understand ’em a mite, though. Doesn’t mean I won’t kill as many of ’em as I can if I get the chance, especially that big fella.” Preacher touched the head of his tomahawk. “I’d sure like to get another crack at him.”

  Once the sun was down it didn’t take long for night to fall completely over the valley. Darkness covered everything even while a faint rosy tinge remained in the western sky above the mountains. Preacher and Boone checked their pistols, then started down the slope toward the city.

  Torches had sprung to life here and there, including in the plaza in front of the huge edifice at the far end of the main avenue. Stygian darkness cloaked most of the end of the city where Preacher and Boone were, and that was just the way Preacher liked it. His night vision was keen enough that he had no trouble leading Boone to a spot about a block away from the building where he believed the prisoners were housed.

  Preacher signaled a halt with a light touch on his young companion’s arm. He leaned closer and whispered, “Stay here while I do some scoutin’.”

  “What if somebody comes along?”

  “Keep out of sight if you can. If you can’t, give a holler and I’ll come give you a hand. Be best, though, if they don’t know we’re here.”

  “They’re bound to know we’re somewhere in the valley. After all, we followed the chief through that crack in the cliffs.”

  “Yeah, and he set those other fellas on us,” Preacher reminded him. “For all anybody knows, we died in that avalanche along with them.”

  Boone nodded in understanding, then whispered, “Be careful, Preacher.”

  “I intend to . . . for now.”

  The time would come, though, when he would unleash hell on the bloodthirsty savages. It would be better if he could set the prisoners free first, however.

  He gave Boone’s shoulder a squeeze and then slipped away into the shadows, vanishing instantly from the young trapper’s gaze. With all the stealth that he had learned over the years, Preacher circled the jail building as much a phantom as any of the times he had slipped into Blackfoot camps to slit the throats of his enemies.

  His suspicion that the place was discreetly guarded was confirmed when he heard a man breathing in the thick shadows next to one of the walls. Preacher edged closer and began to make out a patch of deeper darkness shaped like a man holding a spear. In utter silence, Preacher moved up behind him. His heavy-bladed hunting knife didn’t make a sound as it slid from its leather sheath.

  His left hand suddenly shot around the man’s head and clamped over his mouth at the same time he drove the knife into the man’s back, burying it to the hilt. The man jerked and arched in Preacher’s grip.

  Preacher let go of the knife and grabbed the guard’s spear to keep it from falling to the ground and clattering on the cobblestones. He leaned it against the wall, took hold of the knife again, and twisted it to finish the job, even though he figured the guard was already dead. He pulled the blade out and lowered the body quietly to the ground, one more strange Indian who would never again stand and cheer while some bloodthirsty varmint hacked out a helpless victim’s heart.

  Preacher continued reconnoitering. He located another guard on the far side of the building and disposed of him the same way. The two sentries were the only ones he found. Satisfied that the way into the jail was undefended, he returned to the spot where he had left Boone.

  The youngster jumped a little and gasped when Preacher put a hand on his shoulder, but he managed not to make any more sound than that.

  “See anybody while I was gone?” Preacher asked in a whisper.

  “Not a soul. How about you?”

  “There are two less strange men now. Let’s go see if we can get those fellas out of there.” He led the way to the jail’s entrance, where he took one end of the beam and Boone took hold of the other. They lifted it from its brackets and set it aside, then Preacher turned the latch and swung the door open. Inside was as black as it could be. Stepping into it was like stepping into nothingness.

  He paused long enough to tell Boone, “Stay here and keep an eye out,” then he moved deeper into the darkness.

  After a moment, he realized there was some illumination in there after all.
It came from starlight filtering down through small, rectangular openings cut in the roof, no doubt for ventilation. The openings didn’t do a very good job of providing that, however. The air was thick and unpleasant with the smell of unwashed flesh and human waste. Preacher caught a lingering scent of decay, too. Somebody had died in there, and it had been a while before they had carried him out.

  Preacher couldn’t see much of anything, but his gut told him somebody was there. He listened intently and heard the faint rasp of breathing. He was about to say something when a man’s voice quavered, “W-who’s there? Have you come to k-kill some more of us?”

  Something made a noise like feet scuffing frantically against the floor. “Please don’t take me! I’ll do anything—”

  “Stop it, Talbot,” another man said sharply. “Don’t give these devils the satisfaction of hearing you beg. It’ll just be futile anyway.”

  Preacher’s heart leaped. He knew that second voice. He had heard it around many campfires. “Audie, it’s me, Preacher. I’ve come to get you boys outta here.”

  CHAPTER 18

  Stunned gasps greeted those words spoken in English.

  Audie said, “Preacher? That can’t be! Is it really you?”

  Preacher chuckled. “I reckon that’s as close to bein’ struck speechless as I’ve ever heard you, old friend. Where are you?”

  “Over here. Follow the sound of my voice.”

  As Preacher started in that direction, he asked, “Is Nighthawk with you?”

  “Umm,” came the reply from the big Crow warrior.

  Preacher bumped into something, reached out in the darkness, and rested a hand on what he realized was Audie’s shoulder, which was only waist-high to him.

  “Thank God,” the little man said. “I don’t know how you found us, Preacher, but I’m glad you did.”

  “It wasn’t easy. How many of you are in here?”

  “There are eleven of us. One prisoner was taken out earlier.” Audie’s voice showed the strain he was under. “Do you happen to know what they did with him?”