Blood on the Divide

by William W. Johnstone

  ELEVEN

  Preacher had just turned his head at movement off the faint trail when the rifle boomed. The slug tore a narrow furrow in Preacher’s scalp and blew his hat off his head. Preacher hit the ground and lay still, his Hawken in hand. Slowly, he cocked the rifle and waited, motionless. His head throbbed with pain and he had no idea how bad hurt he was, but he suspected not too bad, for his vision was still good and he knew who he was.

  He waited.

  “I got him!” a man shouted. “By the Lord, Moffett. I kilt the bastard, I did.”

  “You watch yourself around him, Beans. He’s tricky.”

  “Naw. He’s dead, Moffett. I shot him right ’tween the eyes, I did. Blood all over the place.”

  Any fool knows that head wounds bleed like crazy for a few seconds, you igit! Preacher thought. Now come on to me and let’s settle this matter.

  “I reckon you right, Beans,” Moffett said. “His head shore looks a mess to me.”

  Boot steps drew closer. Preacher’s eyes were slitted and he could see the man stop, laugh, and then twist to turn around. “He’s shore deader than hell, Moffett.” He laughed in a nasty way. “Why, I can practically feel that money in my hand. I’m agonna – ”

  “Die,” Preacher said, coming to his knees and blowing a hole in Beans Speer. He lunged to the other side of the trail before Beans had hit the ground.

  “Goddamn you!” Moffett screamed, and put a ball not half a foot from where Preacher lay.

  Both men were then frantically trying to reload faster than the other, for the range was far too great for accurate pistol shooting. Like a fool, Moffett was standing in plain sight, in a clearing by the old trail.

  Preacher swung the Hawken to his shoulder just as Moffett threw his rod to the ground. Preacher’s Hawken roared and Moffett dropped his rifle and doubled over, the ball taking him in the belly. He screamed in pain and fell to his knees, both hands holding his burning belly.

  Preacher took his time reloading and then jerked the powder horn from Beans. By its weight he could tell it was full. Even though Beans’s rifle was of a different caliber than Preacher’s rifle, he took the man’s shot pouch, for the lead could be melted down and made into balls that would fit his Hawken.

  He looked down at Beans. His ball had taken the man in the side at very nearly point-blank range and had torn through lungs and probably nicked the heart before exiting out the other side. Preacher walked up to where Moffett was kneeling on the ground. The man’s face was pale and there was a ghastly look in his frightened eyes.

  “You’re a devil,” Moffett said, looking at Preacher’s bloody face. The dust from the trail had helped to stop the bleeding. Just as soon as Moffett passed, Preacher would clean the wound proper and make him a poultice from plants.

  “I been called worse. Where’s your buddies?”

  “You go to hell, I say!”

  Turned to leave. “Wait!” Moffett called, panic in his voice. Preacher turned around. “You’re not going to leave me here to die alone, are you?”

  “Why not? You ain’t inclined to talk to me none.”

  “They’re miles up the trail, man. I wouldn’t lie to you moments from death.”

  “Maybe. Maybe not.”

  “I told you where they was,” Moffett gasped out the words. “Don’t leave me here to die alone. Please.”

  Preacher fetched his horses and picketed them on graze. Then he cleaned out the wound on his head, which started it bleeding again. He held a piece of cloth against the wound until the bleeding stopped. Moffett watched him in silence.

  “I ain’t no bad person,” Moffett finally spoke.

  Preacher looked at the man.

  “I ain’t,” Moffett insisted, after fighting unsuccessfully to hold back a groan of pain. “I ain’t. I was forced into this life.”

  “If you want me to stick around, you better pick another subject to bump your gums about. ’Cause I sure don’t want to listen to this.”

  “I went to church as a boy.”

  “You should have paid more attention to what the minister had to say.”

  “We was poor.”

  “One more word and I’m gone.” Preacher rose from the rock he was sitting on.

  “Wait! Talk to me.”

  “I’m gonna drag your friend into the woods.”

  “You ain’t gonna give him no Christian burial?”

  “No. Shut up.”

  Preacher returned in a few minutes and looked at Moffett. “I was hopin’ you’d passed by now.”

  “I ain’t never seen no man as cold as you. You just ain’t got no sympathy for them that’s less fortunate.”

  Preacher laughed aloud. “You wastin’ your time tryin’ to convince me. You got your work cut out for you when you meet your Maker. And I wish you’d hurry up.” Preacher looked at the man. It wouldn’t be long now. For all his tough talk, he did not take death lightly. Preacher was just a very hard man in a land and a time that allowed few mistakes. He softened his tone when he again spoke. “You got airy kin you want me to try to contact?”

  “None that would give a damn.”

  “That is sad. Tell me about Sutherlin.”

  “I don’t know much. He’s cold, though, mighty cold. Nearabouts as cold as you.”

  “How many men do this leave him?”

  “Seven, countin’ himself.” The man’s voice was very weak.

  “Where is Malachi Pardee hidin’ out?”

  “Just west of here. Some Red Indians told us. Sutherlin knows exactly. I don’t.” He closed his eyes and began to weep.

  Preacher tried to work up some sympathy for the man. He could not. It’s hard to feel sorry for a man who just tried to kill you. “I’ll bury you,” Preacher finally said. “I can do that much, I reckon.”

  “Thank you. I’m sorry for the hard things I said about you. I’m sorry for the hurt I’ve caused other people. I’m ...”

  Whatever else he had to say stayed unsaid. Preacher found the men’s horses, took their bedrolls, and wrapped both of them up in dirty blankets. He dug a shallow grave and planted both the dead outlaws, then stripped bridle and saddle from the horses and set them free.

  Preacher stood by the grave for a moment, thinking that wherever good people go, bad people always follow. He reckoned it was the same all over the world. Preacher tried to think of some words to say. He couldn’t think of a thing.

  He stayed where he was for a time, letting his horses graze and water and roll. He built a small fire and had himself some coffee he’d taken from the outlaws’ supplies. He didn’t know where they’d gotten it, and didn’t want to dwell on that for long.

  Preacher was suddenly tired. Very, very tired. He figured a part of that came from his slight head wound, but most of it come from the fact that it had been a hard winter, and bein’ constantly on the lookout for people tryin’ to kill you was wearin’ on a body. He carefully put out the fire and moved on for a couple of miles, until he found himself a good spot to camp. He was rolled up in his blankets before good dark and didn’t wake up until near dawn. He figured he’d slept a good ten or eleven hours and he felt refreshed.

  He chewed on jerky while the coffee water boiled and then he was in the saddle again, putting the careful miles behind him. He was grimly amused by the thought that when Moffett and Beans didn’t show back up, Sutherlin would know that his gunmen had failed to kill him and that Preacher was on their trail. By this time, Sutherlin had probably linked up with the Pardee gang and they were planning their evil deeds.

  Preacher looked up at the sun. Near noon. He would be getting close now. He couldn’t make a plan ’cause he had no idea of the layout. Preacher reined up and stripped his horses of their burdens and picketed them, then he took his bow and quiver, and plenty of shot and powder for rifle and pistols. He started out on foot, staying off the trail and in the brush as much as possible, stopping often to listen and look and smell for smoke. Finally he caught a faint odor of smoke. Slipping t
hrough the brush, he pulled up short at the sight. An Indian family on the move had stopped to rest and eat. A man, his woman, and two kids about four and six, Preacher reckoned. Yakimas. Preacher called out in their language and stepped into the small clearing.

  They eyed him suspiciously, noticing how heavily he was armed, but still waved him to the fire and pointed to the venison steaks that were cooking.

  “I am sad that I have nothing to offer you,” Preacher said, squatting down.

  “That you come in peace is enough,” the man said. “I thought for a moment that you were part of the bad white men who stayed the winter not far from here.”

  “I hunt them to kill them. I am called Preacher.”

  “Ahh!” the woman spoke. “White Wolf.”

  “Yes.”

  “Eat, eat,” the man said. “We will talk.”

  “Has more white men joined the group?”

  “Yes. Yesterday. We hid until they had all gone.”

  “They rode west?”

  “Yes. A large band of them.” He opened and closed one hand five times. “They are all very much afraid of White Wolf.”

  Preacher ate and thanked the Yakima man and wife and returned to his horses, quickly saddling up and pulling out. The Yakima had said he had slipped in close to the men and overheard the man who appeared to be in charge say something about The Dalles. He said the men all smelled very bad and he wondered why they did not wash themselves. Preacher did not ask why the man and his woman and kids were out alone from their tribe. It wasn’t any of his business and wouldn’t have been a polite thing to ask. They might have been traveling to visit relatives on one side of the family or another. That the wife had spoken Preacher’s name before her husband did told him that she was probably the daughter of a tribal leader with some power.

  Preacher rode on to where the brave had told him the Pardees had wintered and found the dugouts. Lord, did they stink. A buzzard would have a hard time staying in these things. Preacher quickly backed out, feeling like he was in desperate need of a bath.

  The Yakima told him the gang was heading for The Dalles, or close to it. Fine. Preacher would be waiting for them.

  Malachi and his gang, freshly reenforced by Sutherlin and what was left of his party, and now numbering nearly twenty-five rather odious men, rode west with confidence. For the first time this year Malachi felt like they just might beat Preacher and be rid of the man once and for all. And then things could get back to normal.

  So he had lost a couple of men back down the trail. That wasn’t the end of the world. Sutherlin still wasn’t sure whether they had been killed or had just given up and fled from Preacher. He tended to believe the latter. But Sutherlin, like Malachi, did believe their luck was about to change for the better and Preacher’s luck had run out.

  What none of the men could know, and wouldn’t have believed it had they been told, was that Preacher had rafted down the river, arrived several days before them, and was waiting for the outlaw gang to show up.

  TWELVE

  “They’s a place just up ahead that’ll be perfect,” Malachi said to Sutherlin and Son. “The wagons got to stop there ’fore they tackle the hills. They’ll be all tuckered out and will rest for a time; maybe spend the night. That’s where we’ll hit them.”

  “Lookie yonder,” a thug named Ed Murphy said, pointing to the river. “A raft, and a big one, too.”

  “It’s old,” Clubb said. “Somebody used it and then abandoned it. See where some of the ropes has rotted and then somebody else come along and used thick vines to patch it up.”

  “I’ll check it out,” Mueller said.

  “Why?” Clubb said.

  “Because I want to,” Mueller replied, as he walked down the slope to the river’s edge.

  “I’ll go with you,” Ed said.

  Both men inspected the big raft, which was almost too big for one man to handle, and looked at each other.

  “Vines is fresh,” Mueller called back up to the trail.

  “So what?” Lester returned the shout. “Some movers used it and then left it.”

  “I don’t think so,” Mueller muttered to Ed as both men stood up from their squat and started back up the slope.

  “You think – ?” Ed broke it off.

  “Yeah. I think so.”

  A Hawken boomed and Ed went down, a huge hole in the center of his forehead. Mueller hit the ground, scrambling for cover as the gang scattered.

  Preacher shifted positions and reloaded swiftly. He held the high ground in brush and rocks and was approachable only from the front. He was under no illusions that the fight would end here, but he could do some fearful damage to the gang before he pulled out.

  Both Sutherlin and Malachi Pardee lay on the ground and cursed Preacher. They knew it wasn’t Indians or another gang of outlaws. It was Preacher. Their constant and unforgiving adversary. For near ’bout a year now, the man had been on Malachi’s back, very nearly destroying what had, at one time, been the most feared outlaw gang in all the West.

  Now look at them. Malachi’s thoughts were savage and tinged with bitterness.

  Ansel jumped up and began shouting and grunting and waving his arms. Preacher held his fire. He did not want to shoot the fool, and he wouldn’t shoot him except as a last resort.

  Valiant jerked his brother down to the ground and pulled him back to the safety of cover.

  Dirk lay on the ground and cussed Preacher until he was breathless. His eyes were wild and he was trembling with rage. The bastard had burned him out and hunted him like some sort of wild animal. No more, Dirk made up his mind. No more. He had taken all of this he was going to take. He rolled from cover and dashed to the timber, running in a zigzag movement.

  Preacher held his fire and let him come on.

  With Dirk running up one side of the hill, Lester decided to try the other side. Preacher ended those thoughts by putting a ball through Lester’s brisket that doubled him over and sent him rolling back down the slope.

  Damn! Sutherlin thought, just as Preacher started a huge rock rolling and crashing down the hill. The horses went into a panic and bolted, running in all directions. A man jumped up and tried to grab the reins of his horse. What he got was a hole in his side, the ball busting out the other side. The man dropped to the ground, dead.

  Dirk chanced another short run and made it, closing the distance.

  “Everybody stay down,” Sutherlin called. “I do believe Dirk is going to make it.”

  Dirk didn’t.

  He got about fifty yards from Preacher and his boot hung on a loose rock and the man went rolling and tumbling down the grade, breaking bones on his trip down to the trail by the river. Dirk bounced once and then lay still on the rutted trail, unconscious, one arm and one leg broken badly. His scalp was torn open in several places and bleeding.

  Malachi looked up at the sky and shook his head. Hell, it wasn’t even midmorning. It was going to be a long day.

  Preacher pulled out just about noon. But he left behind him a terrible scene. Five dead and Dirk out of commission. Preacher found several of the outlaws’ horses and removed bridle and saddle, tossing them into the river. He found a full powder horn and kept that. Then he found him a good spot about a mile from the original ambush spot and waited.

  “Let’s pull out of here, Malachi,” Valiant suggested. “You know Preacher is waitin’ for us up the trail. And look over yonder.” He pointed. “They’s Injuns all up and down the ridges. They been watchin’, enjoyin’ the show. Preacher done whupped us, brother. We gotta admit that.”

  The Indians, from several tribes, hooted and laughed at the outlaws, but stayed well out of rifle range. They had heard that the outlaw gang was coming and that Preacher, the White Wolf, was going to kill them all. Indians enjoyed a good fight, for courage was what they respected the most. And this was going to be something fun to watch.

  “Dirty, stinking savages,” Sutherlin muttered darkly. “Up there ridiculing us.”


  “Why don’t they attack?” Doc Judd asked.

  What the outlaws couldn’t know is that Preacher had recruited the Indians. He’d had plenty of time to do that, arriving several days before the outlaw gang.

  Clubb had scouted back east of the ambush site and walked back to the main group, a grim look on his dirty, pale and frightened face. “Injuns has blocked the trail,” he told the men, after pouring a cup of coffee. “One shouted out to me that we got to go on. They ain’t gonna let us go back ... even if we was of a mind to do that.”

  Kenrick Pardee sat down wearily on a log and sighed long. “That’s it, then.” His tone was deadlike. “Preacher’s done gone and set up firm with the savages. Hell, he ain’t no better than a savage himself We should have guessed he’d eventual do something like this. We ain’t got no choice in the matter. We got to push on.”

  “What did the Injuns say they’d do if we was to try to head back?” Big Max asked.

  Clubb looked at the man. “They said they believed that we would not die well.”

  * * *

  Preacher made his coffee and chewed on a piece of jerky and waited. He knew the end was very near for the gang of cutthroats. He had them in a box they could not get out of. The Indians he’d talked with had said they would not attack the white outlaws. But they would certainly make them think they would. And Indians could be very convincing without saying a word.

  Preacher put out his fire and took Hawken to hand. He walked up the trail a ways, threw back his head, and howled like a great gray timber wolf. The wild and savage call drifted down the banks of the river, faintly touching the band of outlaws. They looked at one another, fear in their eyes. Above them, on both sides of the river, Indians stood silently, watching them.

  Malachi stood up and gripped his rifle. “I never took water from no man in my life. I’ll die ’fore I do.” He started walking up the trail. “Let’s go, brothers,” he called over his shoulder. “We got to accept the challenge and maintain the dignity of our good name. Never let it be said that no Pardee wasn’t an honorable man.”