Preacher's Kill

by William W. Johnstone

  Hoyt Ryker drove the smaller wagon out onto the ferry. Oliver and Chessie followed and stood next to the vehicle. As Louinet led the oxen around in their circle, the ferry lurched into motion. Chessie held on to Oliver’s arm as if the ferry’s movement made her nervous.

  She didn’t really have anything to worry about. The Missouri’s current was powerful but slow. Even if the ferry had broken loose, it would have just drifted downstream until it grounded on one side or the other. But it wasn’t going to break loose, because the Frenchman did a good job of maintaining his operation.

  When the ferry reached the landing on the far side of the river, Ryker drove the wagon off and then hopped down from the seat to wave his hat over his head. Louinet returned the wave. He would have settled the fare with Edgar Merton before the crossing ever began, so his business dealings were over. He brought the ferry back across the river, then walked toward the little cabin near the landing on this side, where he lived.

  Across the river, Ryker had swung up onto one of the saddle horses. The other men were mounted as well. Oliver helped Chessie onto the seat of the covered wagon, then pulled himself up after her. From the looks of things, he was doing the driving. That raised him a little more in Preacher’s estimation. Not everybody could handle a team of mules. It wasn’t easy work at times.

  The expedition got moving, angling away from the river but following its general course.

  “We should go,” Hawk said. “They will get ahead of us.”

  “Not so far ahead that we won’t know right where to find ’em,” Preacher said. “Let’s give ’em a chance to get out of sight first.”

  Hawk’s impatience grew as they waited, but Preacher ignored that. When the wagons and riders were out of sight and he judged that enough time had passed, he whistled for Dog and told Hawk, “All right, let’s go.”

  They rode down the slope toward the landing. Louinet must have heard the horses approaching, because he came out to greet them.

  “A most busy and profitable day,” the Frenchman commented as he raised a hand.

  “You’ve had some other customers?” Preacher asked, as if he and Hawk had no idea about the expedition that had just crossed the Missouri.

  “Oui. Three wagons and a group of men on horseback.” Louinet waved vaguely toward the other side of the river. “They are not very far ahead of you. Perhaps you could catch up and join their party, if you wish.”

  “Hawk and me tend to travel alone. These folks say who they were and where they’re goin’?”

  “I did not ask. My only business is transporting people across the river. I could tell that the man who seemed to be in charge, the one I dealt with regarding the fare, was not from . . . how do you say? Not from these parts. And he was a canny bargainer, as well.”

  “You mean cheap,” Preacher said.

  Louinet laughed. “He was not going to part with any more coins than was absolutely necessary, this is true.”

  “How about the others in the bunch?”

  Evidently, Louinet regarded the mountain man’s questions as the sort of casual gossip that most people on the frontier indulged in. Life out here was pretty tedious most of the time, so anything that might break up the monotony was welcome.

  A smile appeared on the Frenchman’s face. “There was one whose presence was a bit surprising but most welcome. A very beautiful young mademoiselle, with hair almost as pale as the mist that hangs over the river in the mornings.” Louinet’s smile disappeared. “But as for the rest . . . bah. Men not to be trusted, to my way of thinking. The man from the East and a younger one—his son, I think—as well as the girl, I would worry about them, if it was any of my business to do so.”

  Preacher nodded slowly. “Sounds like it might be shapin’ up to be trouble for somebody. That’s a good reason for me and Hawk to avoid ’em, since we’re so peace-lovin’ and all.”

  Louinet snorted to show how seriously he took that statement. “You wish to cross?” he asked.

  “We do,” Preacher said.

  The Frenchman named a price. Preacher paid it, then he and Hawk led their horses and the pack mule onto the ferry. Preacher had to call Dog a couple of times to get him to jump from the dock at the landing to the floating craft. The big cur lay down, rested his chin on his front paws, and didn’t look happy about venturing out onto the river.

  Louinet went to the oxen, grabbed the harness on one of the massive animals, and urged it into motion. Hitched into the spokes of the wheel-like capstan, the others had no choice but to plod along, too.

  The ferry jerked and started to move out onto the water. Once they had ridden away from the landing on the other side of the river, they would have put the last outpost of civilization for hundreds of miles behind them. Up ahead were vast plains, soaring, snow-capped peaks . . . and plenty of ways for a fella to wind up dead.

  CHAPTER 11

  Preacher set an easy pace the rest of that day as he and Hawk rode west by northwest along the river, following the tracks left by the wagons and the hoof-prints of the horses. Occasionally, from the top of a rise, they caught a glimpse of the wagons ahead of them. As the day drew to a close and twilight shadows began to gather, Preacher and Hawk kept moving until they spotted the glow of a campfire.

  “With a fire like that, they tell the whole world where they are,” Hawk grumbled.

  “They’ve got enough men and guns that I reckon they ain’t worried,” Preacher said. “Besides, they’re only one day out of St. Louis. It ain’t likely they’ll run into any trouble this close to a big settlement like that.”

  “Do none of the hostile tribes ever raid this far east?”

  “The Pawnee sometimes do,” Preacher replied. “But if there’s a ruckus, we’re close enough to hear the shootin’, and we’ll go give ’em a hand.”

  Hawk seemed to accept that. A few minutes later, they found a good spot to make camp and settled down for the night.

  This close to civilization, as Preacher had pointed out to Hawk, and with the keen senses of Dog and Hawk to warn them if any trouble came sniffing around, it wasn’t necessary to stand guard during the night. Both men were able to roll in their buffalo robes and sleep soundly until morning.

  They followed that same general pattern for the next few days, although the farther west they traveled, the more wary and watchful they became. Now there was more danger of running into a Pawnee hunting party. If that happened, the Pawnee might decide that two men traveling by themselves was too tempting a target to pass up, especially since they had a pack mule loaded with supplies with them.

  Because of that possibility, Preacher and Hawk took turns standing guard at night, and as they rode during the day they kept a close eye on the distant hills and ridges for any riders who might be keeping an eye on them.

  They were almost a week out of St. Louis when Hawk reined in and pointed at the wagon tracks. “Look! They have turned north.”

  Preacher frowned as he brought Horse to a stop. He studied the tracks as well and said, “Yeah, they have. Not due north, but more that direction than west now.”

  “They are not following the river anymore. Where can they be going?”

  Preacher shook his head. “Don’t know. Remember how Fitzgerald said they didn’t really outfit themselves like they was plannin’ to do a lot of trappin’?”

  “What else is there to do?”

  “Some rich folks come out here to hunt. Oliver and his pa didn’t really strike me as the sort to do that, though, and they ain’t artists, neither. At least, they sure didn’t act like it. From what we know of him, Edgar Merton seems more like a fella who wouldn’t do anything unless he thought there’d be some profit in it.”

  “What is in that direction?” Hawk asked, nodding toward the north.

  “More plains, a few mountains, a range of hills the Sioux think of as sacred, and then, if you go far enough, Canada.”

  “Are we going to follow them?”

  Preacher directed his gaze more
westward, seeing in his mind the trails that ran along the Missouri, the Yellowstone, and the Big Horn.

  “Charlie and Aaron and White Buffalo are waitin’ for us out yonder,” he said, knowing Hawk would understand what he meant. “If we head north after this bunch, there ain’t no tellin’ how long it’ll take us to get back to where we were headed.”

  “But there are many hostiles north of here?”

  “Like I said, the Sioux are up there. So are the Cheyenne and some other tribes, and even a few Blackfeet might wander that direction now and then.”

  “Then the danger will grow worse the farther they go.”

  Hawk didn’t make it sound like a question, but Preacher nodded anyway as he said, “More than likely.”

  “I think we should go after them,” Hawk stated flatly. “No matter how long it takes us to return to our friends.”

  “You only feel that way because of the girl.”

  “You said yourself you would not want to ride off and leave her in danger.”

  Preacher grunted and then grinned wryly. “I did say that, didn’t I? Well, I guess you’ve got a point. Besides, I’m a mite curious just what they’re after.”

  “Then we are following the wagons?”

  Preacher nudged Horse into motion again and said, “For now, anyway.”

  * * *

  The terrain through which they rode flattened out more as they put the river many miles behind them. The grass still grew thickly, but it wasn’t as tall nor as green as it was along the stream. Without the vantage points of hills and ridges, Preacher and Hawk could no longer see the wagons, but it was easy enough to follow the wheel tracks and the hoof-prints and know they were still on the expedition’s trail.

  At night, they could see the orange winking eye of the campfire a mile ahead of them. A fire like that was bound to draw attention sooner or later. East of the Mississippi, Hoyt Ryker might be a dangerous outlaw, but out here he was just another greenhorn making mistakes that might get him killed.

  Preacher and Hawk always stopped early each day and built a small fire from buffalo chips that smoked hardly at all. They cooked their supper and boiled coffee over those flames, then put the fire out before darkness fell and rode on for a short time.

  They had seen no other human beings since taking the ferry across the Missouri. Several times, they had spotted large, dark masses in the distance that Preacher knew were buffalo herds. Now and then they saw a wolf loping along, staying well away from them. Prairie chickens and rabbits abounded. A couple of eagles had soared high overhead one day. Other than the wildlife, though, they might have been all alone in this vast wilderness.

  Preacher knew that their seeming isolation was deceptive. More than once, he believed he felt eyes watching him, but he was never able to spot whoever it was. Then, finally, as they got into slightly rougher terrain broken up by shallow ridges and bluffs, one day as they rode along Hawk said, “To your left, about five flights of an arrow.”

  “Yep, I saw him a few minutes ago,” Preacher replied quietly. “Just one fella on a pony. But where there’s one, there are bound to be more not too far away.”

  “He has not moved. He just sits there watching us.”

  “Yeah, and I’d be willin’ to bet he watched those wagons and riders go past earlier, too.”

  Hawk tensed in his saddle. “Are they going to attack the expedition?”

  “No tellin’,” Preacher replied with a slight shake of his head. “It all depends on what sort of mood they’re in. And there’s never no predictin’ that when it comes to . . .”

  “Redskins?” Hawk snapped. “Is that what you were about to say, Preacher?”

  “Don’t get your fur in an uproar, son. You know as well as anybody that I don’t care if a fella’s white, red, brown, or purple. He’s either a friend or he ain’t, and that’s all that matters to me. You got to admit, though, Indians are plumb notional at times. That’s just a fact.”

  “That one watching us . . . he is Sioux?”

  “Or Cheyenne. Could be either, in these parts. I wouldn’t say there’s no difference between ’em, but for the most part they get along all right and even partner up sometimes to go to war against other tribes. They’ve fought on the same side against white folks, too.”

  “So they are going to attack the wagons.”

  “They might,” Preacher admitted.

  “We should warn them.”

  “Wouldn’t be a bad idea.”

  Preacher dug his heels into Horse’s flanks and urged the stallion to a swifter pace. Beside him, Hawk pushed his pony into a trot. Behind them, at the end of the lead rope fastened to Hawk’s saddle, the pack mule labored to keep up. Preacher wasn’t going to cut the animal loose, though. With Indians around, that would be the last they ever saw of the mule and their supplies.

  They had ridden only a few hundred yards when Preacher spotted movement to the right from the corner of his eye. When he looked in that direction, he saw several Indians mounted on ponies, galloping to intercept them. At the same time, Hawk called, “Preacher!”

  “I see ’em,” Preacher replied over the drumming hoofbeats. He veered Horse to the left, and Hawk followed suit on his pony.

  It wasn’t going to be enough, he realized mere seconds later. The Indians had too much of an angle on them. Preacher hadn’t seen them until they were close, so he knew that as he and Hawk had made their approach, the warriors must have been hidden in one of the dry washes that crisscrossed the area.

  “Looks like we’re gonna have to make a fight of it!” he told Hawk.

  “There are five or six of them!”

  “More targets for us to aim at,” Preacher said with a grin. The Indians were within rifle range now, so he hauled back on the reins and brought the stallion to a skidding, dust-raising halt. As Horse planted his hooves and steadied, Preacher lifted the long-barreled flintlock to his shoulder. The rifle was already loaded and primed. All he had to do was ear back the hammer and settle the sight on one of the charging warriors. He pressed the trigger.

  With a loud boom, gray smoke gushed from the rifle’s muzzle as the brass-plated butt kicked back against Preacher’s shoulder. The mountain man squinted through the smoke and saw the Indian he had aimed at go flying backward off the galloping pony underneath him. The warrior’s arms were flung wide. He landed on his back and didn’t move again.

  A heartbeat after Preacher’s shot, Hawk’s rifle roared as well. Another of the Indians slewed around under the lead ball’s impact and almost toppled off his pony. A desperate grab at the animal’s mane was all that kept him from being unseated. But the pony slowed and then stopped, and from the way its rider was hunched over in obvious pain, he was probably out of the fight as well.

  Preacher slung his empty rifle on the saddle and turned Horse back toward the enemy. Guiding the stallion with his knees, he charged toward the onrushing Indians. He reached down to his waist and pulled both pistols from behind his belt.

  Preacher let out a defiant, ear-splitting yell as the gap between him and the Indians closed in a matter of seconds. There were four of the attackers left, and he headed straight through the middle of them. Arrows cut the air around his head. He thrust the pistols out to right and left and pulled the triggers. The shots blended in a thunderous roar.

  The pistols were double-shotted and heavily charged with powder. At this close range, when both balls from the right-hand pistol struck the warrior on that side in the head, they practically decapitated him. Not much of his skull was left as he flopped off his pony.

  One of the balls from Preacher’s left-hand pistol missed entirely, but the other bored through the lungs of an Indian and caused blood to explode from his mouth and nose. He fell under the flashing hooves of his companion’s pony but never felt the thudding impacts. That caused the pony’s legs to tangle, though, and with a scream the animal went down, plunging headfirst to the ground. The rider was launched into the air and landed in a wild, out-of-control s
prawl.

  Dog was waiting for him. No sooner had the Indian stopped rolling than the big cur was on him, teeth slashing and tearing. Dog ripped the warrior’s throat out in a spray of blood before the man knew what was happening.

  That left only one of the attackers still mounted and able-bodied. He screeched and flung a lance at Preacher, who batted it aside with the empty pistol in his right hand. The Indian lunged his pony toward Preacher, but the animal had gone only a couple of strides when Hawk’s rifle boomed again. The remaining warrior threw his arms in the air, swayed sideways, and fell in a limp heap. The pony came to a stop, unsure what to do without a rider urging it on.

  Preacher glanced around, saw no more immediate threats, and started reloading his pistols with swift, efficient movements that testified to the thousands of times he had performed this task. In the distance, the wounded Indian trotted away, leaning forward over his pony’s neck to make himself a smaller target in case either Preacher or Hawk decided to take a potshot at him.

  Preacher was content to let the wounded man go. The Indians already knew about him and Hawk being here, so killing the man wouldn’t serve any purpose.

  Preacher shoved the reloaded pistols behind his belt and started pouring powder down the rifle’s barrel. Hawk rode up and asked, “You are all right?”

  “Yeah,” Preacher said. He used the ramrod to seat ball, patch, and wadding in the rifle’s breech.

  “Then why did you let that Indian go?” Hawk demanded.

  “From the way he was ridin’, his shoulder’s busted. He ain’t gonna be much of a threat anymore. And he can’t tell any of his friends we’re here, because they already know that.”

  Hawk swung down and rested his rifle’s barrel across the pony’s saddle to steady it. He nestled his cheek against the smooth, polished wood of the stock as he drew a deep breath, held it, and aimed. Then he squeezed the trigger.

  In the distance, the last of the attackers lurched and then fell off his horse as the echo of Hawk’s shot rolled across the prairie.