But then one of the arrows striking home was enough to wake a nearby sleeper. That man pushed himself up a little, gazed around, and then stiffened as he spotted the arrow protruding from the chest of a man a few yards away. He leaped to his feet and opened his mouth to yell.
Before he could say anything, his head seemed to explode as a chunk of rock heaved from the clifftop struck it. The rock made quite a racket as it fell to the ground next to the collapsing body. That was one hell of a good toss, Preacher thought as he stepped away from the rock where he’d been tied. Several of the outcasts were awake and starting to scramble to their feet now, so the time for stealth was over.
More rocks plummeted down from the cliff closest to the fire. Oliver must have gathered quite a supply of them while Chessie was sneaking into the camp to free Preacher. Most of the falling stones missed, of course, but enough of them found their targets to crush more skulls and break more bones. The outcasts ran around madly, screeching in terror as death rained down on them seemingly from the heavens.
Death moved swiftly among them on the ground, too. Preacher darted here and there, cutting throats and plunging the knife into the hearts of his enemies. Most of them never saw him coming. They were too disoriented by the unexpected attack from above.
Then someone barreled into Preacher from the side, knocking him off his feet. He rolled and came back up just in time to duck as the leader of the outcasts swung a tomahawk at his head. The man’s face was more twisted with insane hatred than ever.
Preacher swung the knife at the man’s arm, hoping to cut him and make him drop the tomahawk. The outcast leaped back, though, avoiding the blade. He snarled, “Kill you now! Kill you all!”
“Come on and try, you son of a bitch,” Preacher said. He wasn’t completely steady because his feet were still a little numb, but he wasn’t going to let the outcast leader see that.
The man lunged at him, bringing the tomahawk up and slashing downward with blinding speed. The blow would have cleaved Preacher’s skull open if it had landed. Preacher avoided it with a neat twist and struck quickly himself. The knife raked across the outcast’s ribs on the left side. The man didn’t make a sound of pain or even seem to notice the wound as he howled, “Kill!” in the Cheyenne tongue and whirled to swing the tomahawk again.
Preacher crouched and kicked out. The heel of his boot caught the outcast on the left thigh. He’d aimed to shatter the man’s kneecap but the kick missed by inches. Even so, the impact was enough to make the creature stagger back a couple of steps. He flung his arms out to keep his balance, and that left him open for a split second.
Preacher’s arm whipped back and forward. The knife flew true. Propelled by the mountain man’s wiry strength, the blade buried itself to the hilt in the outcast’s chest. The man staggered again.
But he didn’t go down. How was that possible? Preacher wondered as he watched the man right himself and stumble forward. His heart should have stopped pumping by now. He ought to be dead.
Maybe he didn’t have a heart. Maybe he ran on pure madness and hate. Something was sure as hell driving him as he snarled again and lifted the tomahawk.
Preacher caught the outcast’s right wrist with his left hand, stopped the tomahawk as it descended. At the same time, Preacher reached out with his right, grasped the knife’s bone handle, and ripped it free. He plunged it into the outcast’s chest again, then a third and fourth time. Blood welled from the man’s mouth and ran down over his chin. He laughed, spraying gore into Preacher’s face. Preacher held fast to the man’s wrist, keeping the tomahawk away from him, as he stabbed the outcast again and again, the blade flashing back and forth.
Finally a spasm went through the leader’s body. His hand opened involuntarily and the tomahawk fell from his fingers. Preacher hung on to that wrist anyway as he changed his grip on the knife, drove the blade into the right side of the outcast’s neck, and ripped it to the left, opening up a gaping wound from which crimson flooded, mixing with the crushed sandstone on the man’s body to form a gruesome red mud. Preacher let go of him, put that hand on the man’s ruined chest, and gave him a shove. The outcasts’ head man went over backward and landed with his arms and legs flung out in the limp sprawl of death.
Preacher had had his hands so full with the battle against the leader that he hadn’t been able to tell what was going on around them. He had been vaguely aware of hearing some gunshots. Now when he looked around he saw bodies scattered on all sides of the dying fire. A figure ran toward him and he reached down to grab the fallen tomahawk from the ground before he heard Chessie exclaim, “Preacher! It’s me!”
He wouldn’t have guessed that. She was nude, or next thing to it, with only some scraps of cloth wrapped around her hips and chest. Those makeshift garments, along with all of her skin that was on display, had been coated with the crimson powder from the sandstone. That was how she had been able to crawl up behind the rock and cut him loose, he realized. Like the outcasts, she had blended into her surroundings.
“We need to go,” she went on as she reached out and grabbed his left hand.
He knew she was right. Chaos gripped the outcasts’ camp right now, and quite a few of them had been killed in the attack. But there were still a lot of them alive, and sooner or later they would come to their senses and stop running around like chickens with their heads wrung off.
When that happened, they would look to start killing again.
“Come on,” Preacher said as he ran toward the path that led out of this sinkhole. He held on to Chessie’s hand, and she did an admirable job of keeping up with him, even though it had to hurt running on the rocky ground with her bare feet. They left the tumult behind them and vanished into the shadows.
CHAPTER 25
Even though it was still several hours until dawn and thick darkness cloaked the badlands, Preacher had an idea of where he was going. Once he had been over a piece of ground, as he and Hawk had been hours earlier when they approached the outcasts’ camp for the first time, he knew instinctively which way to go. The stars functioned as a map for him, as well, and he could steer unerringly by them.
Hawk shared those abilities, as Preacher knew quite well, so the mountain man wasn’t surprised a few minutes later when his son’s voice called quietly, “Preacher! Here!”
He and Chessie paused as three shapes loomed out of the shadows—two human and one animal. Dog let out a pleased little bark at seeing Preacher again.
“Chessie!” Oliver said. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine,” the girl said. “Just a little . . . uncomfortable.”
Preacher figured the discomfort stemmed from the fact that Chessie was almost buck naked, which had to be embarrassing or downright chilly—or both. But whatever it was, Oliver took immediate action to address the problem, whipping his coat off and stepping forward to wrap it around Chessie’s shoulders.
“Thank you,” she murmured.
Hawk grunted, probably unhappy that Oliver had moved so quickly to gain Chessie’s favor.
Preacher didn’t figure they had time to worry about such things now. He said, “Where are the gal’s clothes?”
“Right here,” Oliver said. He picked up a bundle he had set down when he took off his coat.
“Miss Chessie, put your shoes back on. We ain’t got time for anything else right now, I reckon. Sorry.”
“It’s all right,” Chessie said as she took the bundle Oliver handed her and unwrapped the underclothes—the only garments she had left—from her shoes. She pulled on socks and then the shoes. “I should be able to move faster now.”
“That was the idea,” Preacher said. He cocked his head to listen. He could still hear the furious, hysterical howling of the outcasts in the distance. He wasn’t sure, but he thought the racket might be coming closer. “We’d best get movin’ again.”
The five of them headed northeast, with Preacher and Dog leading the way. Chessie and Oliver came next. He held her arm to help her over
the rough terrain. Hawk brought up the rear.
“That was mighty good aim on that first rock you chunked down, son,” Preacher commented. “It busted that varmint’s head clean open.”
“Oliver did that,” Hawk said with what sounded like grudging admiration. “It was his idea.”
“I was extremely lucky,” Oliver said. “If we’d had a catapult, like the ancient Romans and Greeks I’ve read about, we could have really bombarded that camp.”
“You won’t find no ancient Romans in these parts,” Preacher said. “They’d have to be plumb loco to wander all the way to the Rocky Mountains!”
Then he recalled what he had discovered in a hidden valley a couple of years earlier and decided he shouldn’t be quite so quick to declare certain things impossible. There was no telling what you might run across in these mountains.
Preacher kept the others moving at as fast a pace as possible given the darkness and the landscape, while Dog ranged ahead to scout for trouble in their path. Whenever they paused to rest, Preacher listened for the sounds of pursuit. He didn’t hear any and hoped that meant either the outcasts had lost their trail or even decided not to come after them.
Unfortunately, it could also mean the vicious little bastards were sneaking along behind them, waiting for a good time and place to strike, so Preacher didn’t let the others linger too long when they stopped to catch their breath.
The eastern sky began to turn gray, and not long after that a faint tint of orange and gold and pink appeared on the horizon. The sun would be up in a while. Once that happened, it would be more difficult for the outcasts to sneak up on them without being seen. That meant if the creatures were close enough to launch an attack, they would probably do it pretty soon.
“Everybody, be on your guard,” Preacher said. “There ain’t no tellin’ what those varmints—”
Even as he spoke, a dark shape sailed at him from the top of a rock, arms spread out like wings, and for a second it was like some unholy bird of prey was swooping down on him.
Preacher saw the thing from the corner of his eye in time to twist around and bring up the knife he carried. The outcast who had jumped him had no chance to do anything except impale himself on the blade, which went into his body with a solid thunk!
Preacher yanked the knife free and shoved the dying creature aside. “Watch out!” he called to his companions. He knew the man who had attacked him wasn’t alone.
The outcasts didn’t need to be quiet anymore. They screeched madly as they came pouring out of cracks and crevices in the riven earth and leaped over boulders. Preacher had been forced to flee from the camp without his rifle and pistols, but he had the knife Chessie had used to cut him loose and he had also scooped up the tomahawk the outcast leader had dropped before dying. With those weapons, the mountain man whirled to meet the attack, shoving Chessie behind him as he did so.
The guns carried by Hawk and Oliver roared as they opened fire. They didn’t have time to reload since the assault was so fierce, but they flipped the pistols around and used them as clubs to shatter the skulls of any outcasts who came within reach.
At the same time, the two young men positioned themselves so that they formed a rough triangle with Preacher. Chessie was in the middle of that triangle. She had picked up a rock and stood ready to bludgeon any of the outcasts who came near her. As daring as her actions had been earlier, Preacher had no doubt that she would go down fighting if it came to that.
Maybe it wouldn’t. He and his companions had already inflicted a great deal of damage on the outcasts in the past twenty-four hours, killing quite a few of them and wounding many more. They hadn’t been an overly large group to start with. If they had any sense, they might realize that they were paying too high a price to satisfy their bloodlust.
But if they’d had any sense, they probably wouldn’t have been shunned and driven out of their original tribes in the first place. Expecting any sort of logic or reasoning from them was like expecting it from a rabid skunk. Once aroused to fury, they no longer possessed even a primitive sense of self-preservation.
So all Preacher and the others could do was to continue fighting as long as they drew breath. Slashing with the knife and the tomahawk, the mountain man forced back the tide of crazed killers on his side of the triangle. Hawk battled with the same sort of savage ferocity and efficiency.
Oliver lacked their skill and experience, and although he tried to maintain his position, he was forced to give ground. As he did so, his foot slipped and he staggered backward. Two of the outcasts rushed in at him. Oliver tried to catch himself but lost his balance and sprawled on the ground.
One of the outcasts screeched triumphantly and lifted a lance in both hands, poised to drive it through Oliver’s body. Before he could strike, Chessie leaped at him and swung the rock she held. It crashed against the man’s head with a crunching sound. The lance slipped from suddenly nerveless fingers and landed crossways on top of Oliver.
He snatched it up and thrust it into the belly of the other outcast. The man howled in agony and fumbled for a second at the shaft lodged in his guts before his knees buckled and he collapsed. Oliver rolled out of his way and grabbed the lance again, planting his foot against the outcast’s body to give him leverage. He pulled the weapon free and surged up, thrusting with the sharp, bloodstained shaft again and driving another outcast back.
Maybe it was seeing one of their number struck down by a female, but for whatever reason, the remaining outcasts decided they had had enough. One of them leaped onto a rock and bounded away, and the others followed suit, bouncing across the badlands in a bizarre exodus visible in the grayish light of approaching dawn. Preacher watched them go and muttered, “Good riddance. If I never lay eyes on those varmints again, it’ll be too soon.”
Oliver dropped the lance he’d been wielding and grabbed Chessie’s shoulders as she suddenly sagged. The rock she had used to kill one of the outcasts thudded to the ground beside her feet. As he held her up, Oliver asked anxiously, “Chessie, are you all right?”
“Yes, just . . . very tired,” she said. Even though the red dust covered her face, Preacher could tell how pale and drawn she was from exhaustion and the strain of this night.
Oliver slid his arm around her shoulder and pulled her against him. Chessie sighed as she leaned into his chest. Preacher saw Hawk frowning and managed not to chuckle. He didn’t figure Hawk had ever had much of a chance with Chessie to start with, no matter how smitten he was, and now there was no chance at all.
Preacher recalled how Chessie had played up to Hoyt Ryker back in St. Louis and continued to keep both Ryker and Oliver on the string during the expedition. He didn’t think very highly of such behavior, but after tonight, he couldn’t fault Chessie’s courage. The girl had grit, that was for sure.
Hawk grimaced and bent to the task of cutting throats, finishing off the outcasts who were wounded but still alive. Then he said, “We should go.”
“You’re right about that,” Preacher said. “We still got some ground to cover before we’re outta these badlands. I don’t think the outcasts will come after us again, especially once we’re back out on the prairie, but I’ll feel better about it when we are.”
“Just lean on me,” Oliver told Chessie. “We’ll make it. And thank you for saving my life.”
“I didn’t—” she began.
Preacher said, “Oh, I reckon you probably did. That fella would’ve had that lance inside Oliver in another second.”
“I didn’t even think about it. I just . . .” Chessie shuddered.
“You just did what you had to,” Oliver told her, “and I’ll always be grateful to you.”
“Come,” Hawk snapped. “We need to get out of this place.”
They did so, walking steadily through the rough terrain as the sun climbed above the horizon. Golden light flooded the plains as they left the badlands—and all the evil that nightmarish place contained—behind.
CHAPTER 26
&n
bsp; “Whose idea was it to make you look like one of them red devils?” Preacher asked Chessie as they walked toward the rising sun. The mountain man could already see the low, dark, irregular line in the distance that marked the location of the hills where he had told Edgar Merton, Hoyt Ryker, and the others to wait.
Before Chessie could answer the question, Oliver said, “It was all her idea. Hawk and I tried to talk her out of it, but nothing we could say changed her mind.”
“It just made sense to me,” Chessie said. “I couldn’t sneak up on the guards and . . . and dispose of them the way Hawk did, and we needed Oliver up on the cliff to throw the rocks down. He’s a lot stronger than I am. But I was able to cut those bonds holding you, Preacher.”
“You sure did,” he said with a nod. “Did a fine job of it, too.”
He held up his hands and flexed the fingers. He had already used the knife to cut the rawhide straps off his wrists, being careful about it because he didn’t want to nick an artery, but the ugly marks they had left were still visible on his skin. His boots had protected his ankles.
Hawk dropped back from time to time and checked their back trail, but there was no sign of the outcasts coming after them. Out here on the open prairie, it would have been difficult to approach without being seen. The outcasts were creatures of rocks and crevices and shadows, and Preacher was glad to leave them there.
He told Chessie, “We can stop anytime you want, so you can get your, uh, what you got left to wear back on.”
“What I’d really like is to wash off all this dust,” she said. “Will there be a stream in those hills where I can bathe?”
“We’ll do our best to find one,” the mountain man promised.
“I think I’d rather wait until I’m clean, then. Even though I know it’s absolutely scandalous for me to be in this . . . disheveled condition . . . around you gentlemen.” She sighed. “Not that there’s much left after all the times I’ve had to tear off part of my garments for some other purpose.”
Preacher's Kill Page 19
