Preacher's Assault Read online

  “That’s one bit of good luck, anyway,” the man said. “Lord knows we can use all of it we can get.”

  “I want half the men to rest while the other half stand guard,” Preacher said. “Those Injuns could come from any direction, so we got to look ever’ which way we can.”

  Bartlett nodded. “I understand. I’ll give the orders.” He hesitated. “Preacher, I know you’re right about what Roland did. I’m sorry.”

  “We’ll worry about that later. Right now let’s just try to get through this alive.”

  He went to the wagon where the seriously wounded man had been placed and found Casey wrapping strips of cloth around the man’s midsection to serve as makeshift bandages. He appeared to be unconscious.

  “An arrow went all the way through his side,” Casey said. “He lost a lot of blood, but I cleaned the wounds. I’ll bind them up and maybe he’ll have a chance.”

  Preacher nodded. “The fella’s better off that the arrow came out the other side. Gettin’ one of the blamed things out usually tears a fella up worse’n it did goin’ in.”

  Roland was hovering over Casey as she worked. He clutched a rifle in his hands and had a pistol behind his belt. He glared at Preacher and said, “My father tells me you think I’m to blame for this attack.”

  “I won’t lie to you, boy,” Preacher said. “You caused it, all right. You lost your head and shot Lame Buffalo when there wasn’t any need.”

  “No need? My God, man, that savage was trying to kidnap Casey!”

  Preacher was getting tired of explaining what had really been going on. He said, “It was just part of the game. We would’ve bartered for her, and she wouldn’t have gone anywhere.”

  “How in blazes was I supposed to know that?”

  “Maybe if you’d waited a minute instead of pullin’ that trigger—”

  The wounded man let out a groan.

  “That’s enough,” Casey said sharply. “Arguing about it now isn’t going to change things. Roland, you don’t have to stay here with me.”

  “Yes, he does,” Preacher said. “I want him to watch out for you when the Comanch’ jump us again.”

  “I thought they ran away,” Roland said.

  Preacher made a disgusted sound. “We’re damn lucky they ain’t back already.”

  Casey said, “No one has to watch out for me. Give me a pistol and some powder and shot, and I’ll handle my share of the fighting.”

  As Preacher looked at her determined face, he knew she meant it. He said, “That ain’t a bad idea. Roland, you’ve got extra pistols in the freight these wagons are carryin’. Go rustle up one for her. I’ll stay here for the time bein’.”

  Roland looked like he wanted to argue, but after a second he nodded. “I’ll be right back,” he told Casey. He climbed out of the wagon.

  “Don’t you think you were too hard on him?” Casey asked when Roland was gone.

  “I didn’t say anything that wasn’t the truth.”

  “Maybe not, but he’s just learning his way around out here, like I am.”

  “He won’t live long enough to learn much of anything if he don’t start payin’ more attention to the folks who know better.”

  “Maybe you’re right. But I was scared that Indian was really going to take me with him, and I was glad when Roland stopped him.”

  Preacher shook his head. “I never would’ve let that happen. I’d have shot the varmint myself before I let him carry you off.”

  Casey’s voice softened a little as she said, “I know that. I just didn’t stop to think about it at the time.”

  Preacher didn’t have anything to say to that. He hunkered on his heels in silence as Casey sat beside the wounded man.

  He didn’t stay that way for very long. A shout went up somewhere outside, and a second later Preacher heard running footsteps approaching the wagon. He straightened as much as he could in the cramped confines of the wagon and shoved the canvas flaps aside to see Lorenzo hurrying toward the wagon.

  “Preacher!” the old-timer called. “It’s them Injuns. They’re attackin’ again!”

  CHAPTER 16

  Preacher bit back a curse. Roland hadn’t come back yet with that pistol for Casey. He pulled one of his own pistols from behind his belt and pressed it into her hand.

  “Did this fella you patched up have a powder-horn and shot pouch?” he asked.

  She shook her head. “I didn’t see them if he did.”

  “All right. You got one shot here. If you need it, make it count. I’ll send Roland back here if I see him.”

  “Don’t worry about me, Preacher. I’ll be fine.” Her face was pale with fear, making the scar on her cheek stand out more than usual. He squeezed her shoulder reassuringly and climbed quickly out of the wagon.

  He saw dust boiling up from the hooves of the Indian ponies as the Comanches charged toward the circled wagons. They must have been making medicine to have taken this long to attack again, he thought. He shouted to the men crouched behind the wagons, “Hold your fire until they’re closer!” He added the same advice he had given Casey. “Make your shots count, boys!”

  They had plenty of powder and ammunition. What they wouldn’t have was a lot of time to reload. If they didn’t break the back of the charge with their first volley, some of the warriors were going to make it into the circle.

  Preacher took up a position at the back of the wagon where Casey and the wounded man were. Lorenzo stood at the front of the next wagon in line. Leeman Bartlett was a couple wagons away. Preacher didn’t see Roland.

  “Where’s Roland?” he called to Lorenzo. “Have you seen him? He was gonna fetch a pistol for Casey.”

  The old-timer shook his head. “Don’t know. Ain’t seen hide nor hair of him this last little while.”

  Preacher didn’t have time to worry about Roland. He brought his long-barreled flintlock to his shoulder and aimed toward the charging riders.

  “Roland!” Leeman Bartlett suddenly screamed. “My God! Roland, come back!”

  Preacher lowered his rifle and looked around to see Bartlett clambering over a wagon tongue, leaving the circle. Preacher ran after him. He hurdled the wagon tongue and grabbed Bartlett’s arm. The Comanches were only about five hundred yards away.

  “What the hell’s wrong with you, Bartlett?” he demanded. “You gone loco?”

  Bartlett pointed a shaking finger. “Look!”

  Preacher’s face grew grim as he spotted the mounted figure riding toward the onrushing warriors. Roland had gotten hold of one of the extra horses and was meeting the Comanche charge by himself. It was the most foolhardy thing Preacher had ever seen.

  Despite that, he felt a surge of admiration for the youngster. It was a crazy, futile gesture on Roland’s part . . . but there was no doubt it took courage to do what he was doing.

  Preacher shoved Bartlett toward the wagons. “Get back in the circle!” he ordered.

  “But my son—”

  “There’s nothin’ you can do for him.”

  Nothing any of them could do, Preacher thought.

  Except maybe him.

  “Go on,” he told Bartlett. “I’ll see if I can get him.”

  Bartlett stumbled over the wagon tongue as he climbed back into the circle. Preacher whistled for Horse and Dog. The stallion and the big cur responded instantly. As Preacher swung up into the saddle, he called, “Lorenzo!”

  The old-timer stuck his head around the back of a wagon. “Preacher, what in hell’s name are you doin’?”

  “Goin’ after that fool kid. Count ten and then have everybody fire.”

  “Preacher—”

  “Just do it!”

  Preacher leaned forward in the saddle as he urged Horse into a run. The stallion galloped at a breakneck pace after Roland, eating up the ground.

  Preacher counted off the seconds in his head as he rode. When he reached seven, he hauled back hard on the reins. The Comanches were less than two hundred yards away, and Roland was abou
t halfway between him and them. At the count of eight, Preacher dropped out of the saddle. His feet hit the ground and dug in, and as he counted nine in his head, he pulled Horse’s head down hard. The stallion knew what he wanted and fell to the ground beside Preacher.

  “Dog! Down!” the mountain man yelled.

  Dog hit the dirt, too, and as he did, the ten-count ended in Preacher’s head. From the wagons, shots roared in a concentrated volley. Like the humming of a flight of giant insects, the heavy lead balls buzzed through the air above Preacher, Horse, and Dog and smashed into the Indians and their ponies.

  Roland’s horse was hit, too. It went down hard, sending Roland flying through the air. Preacher didn’t know if any of the shots had struck the youngster. That had been a calculated risk in his hastily-formed plan.

  One thing was certain: if Preacher hadn’t done something, Roland would have been slaughtered by those Comanch’ in a matter of seconds. The desperate gambit had nothing to lose.

  Clouds of dust rolled through the air as a dozen or more of the Indian ponies spilled, going down in a welter of thrashing limbs. Preacher was up again instantly, vaulting into Horse’s saddle. He raced toward the spot where Roland’s motionless body sprawled on the ground.

  The fierce volley from the wagons blunted the Comanche charge as Preacher hoped. The warriors who were still mounted reorganized a short distance away. Recognizing Preacher and Roland as targets too tempting to pass up, arrows began to fly through the air as Preacher galloped toward Roland, who was apparently unconscious and defenseless.

  Preacher reached his side in a matter of heartbeats and was out of the saddle, lifting him and throwing him over Horse’s back. The stallion jumped as an arrow grazed his rump.

  Preacher leaped into the saddle and grabbed the reins. He wheeled Horse and sent the stallion racing toward the wagons again. With his other hand, he held Roland’s limp form in place in front of the saddle. Dog ran ahead of them. Arrows whipped through the air around them.

  Preacher soon outdistanced the Comanche bows, and the few warriors who had flintlocks weren’t good shots with them. Even so, he didn’t slow down until he had leaped Horse over a wagon tongue and was back in the circle.

  Bartlett and some of the other men rushed to gather around him. “My God!” Bartlett cried. “Is he dead?”

  “I don’t think so,” Preacher said as hands reached up to take hold of Roland and lift him down from the stallion’s back.

  “Whoo-eee!” Lorenzo said. “I never seen nothin’ like that before, Preacher! You coulda got yourself blowed all to hell tryin’ somethin’ like that.”

  “Yeah, but I didn’t.” Preacher dismounted and waved a hand at some of the men. “Get back to the wagons and watch out for those Comanch’! Reload those rifles, if you ain’t already done it.”

  The men had placed Roland on the ground. Bartlett knelt beside his son and felt for a heartbeat. “He’s alive!” Bartlett announced a second later. “I don’t see any blood on him.”

  “I think it just knocked him out when he got throwed off his horse,” Preacher said.

  Casey came pushing through the crowd. “Roland! Is he all right?”

  Bartlett looked up at her. “He’s alive, my dear. I think he’s going to be fine.”

  “What in the world was he trying to do?” Casey demanded of Preacher.

  The mountain man shrugged. “Looked to me like he was tryin’ to fight off those Injuns all by his lonesome.”

  “Because you told him it was his fault they attacked us!”

  “I told him the truth,” Preacher said bluntly. “What he did with it was his own lookout.”

  Casey glared at him for a second, then dropped to her knees beside Roland. She took hold of his shoulder, lifted him, and pulled his head into her lap. His eyelids began to flutter. After a moment, his eyes opened and he looked up into Casey’s worried face.

  “I . . . I’m alive?” he asked hoarsely.

  “You are,” she told him. “But that was a foolish thing to do, Roland.”

  “I thought . . . it might help,” he said. He looked over at Preacher. “I thought it might . . . make amends.”

  “Throwin’ your life away hardly ever does anybody any good,” Preacher said.

  Roland wasn’t listening to him. He was looking at Casey again.

  Preacher left them there like that and went back to one of the wagons, peering past it at the Comanches. They had withdrawn again but hadn’t gone out of sight. They sat out there, about two dozen of them, watching the wagons. The odds were no longer overwhelmingly on their side.

  “What do you think they’re gonna do?” Lorenzo asked as he stood beside Preacher.

  “They’ve hit us twice, and we’ve hurt ’em bad twice,” Preacher said. “Some of ’em will be thinkin’ by now that it’s time to cut their losses and go home.”

  “But not all of ’em.”

  Preacher shook his head. “No, not all of ’em. The hotheads are still gonna want blood. It’s just a matter of how many are left on each side, and if they can convince the others to go along with ’em.”

  Bartlett came up to them and said, “Preacher, I . . . I don’t know how to thank you for saving my son’s life. Roland would be dead now if you hadn’t gone out there and brought him back. I’ve never seen such a thing.”

  “And you ain’t likely to see it ever again,” Preacher said, “because most fellas’d have more sense than to try a damn fool stunt like that. But he’s back and he ain’t dead, and there ain’t no need to say anything else.”

  “All right,” Bartlett said. “But I won’t forget, Preacher. Not ever.”

  “Preacher.” Lorenzo pointed toward the Indians. “Looks like the hotheads won the argument.”

  The Comanches were charging again. Preacher called out to the other defenders, “Get ready! Here they come!”

  When the warriors were just outside easy rifle range, they swung to the side and began riding in a circle around the wagons. They yipped and shouted and waved their bows and lances in the air.

  “What are they doing?” Bartlett asked.

  “Showin’ off,” Preacher said. “They ain’t attackin’ after all. They’re just tellin’ us how fierce they are before they leave.”

  “You mean they’ve given up?”

  “That’s what it looks like to me. For now, anyway. There’s no guarantee they won’t try to rustle up some more warriors and come after us again later. But for now . . . I’d say it’s over.”

  “Thank God,” Bartlett said fervently.

  The Indians made several circuits around the wagons, yelling ferociously and gesturing threateningly with their weapons. Then they turned and rode up the trail to the site of the first battle to retrieve the bodies of their comrades who had fallen there.

  “I’ll bet I could tag one of the red bastards from here,” one of the bullwhackers said as he sighted over the barrel of his rifle.

  “Leave ’em alone,” Preacher said sharply. “They’re lettin’ us get out of here with our hair. It’d be plumb stupid to antagonize ’em. Anyway, they’re gatherin’ up their dead. Show some respect.”

  “Respect?” the man repeated. “For those red heathens?”

  “They’re honorable enemies, and they were here before we were. Sure, they came along and pushed somebody else out, but they were still here before we were.”

  The man shrugged powerful shoulders. “Whatever you say, Preacher.”

  “It won’t hurt to keep an eye on ’em. If they try to jump us again, then you can shoot as many of ’em as you want to.”

  Within fifteen minutes, the Comanches were gone from sight. Preacher knew they might come back, but his instincts told him the trouble was over.

  “We got some daylight left,” he told Bartlett. “Best hitch up the teams and get movin’ again.”

  While that was going on, Roland sought out Preacher and said, “Casey tells me you saved my life. Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.”r />
  “I’m sorry I acted rashly in shooting that Indian. I really thought he was going to take Casey with him.”

  “Well . . . I reckon it ain’t your fault you didn’t know no better.”

  “I’ll do anything and everything in my power to protect her.”

  “That’s good to know. Just be sure you know what you’re doin’ when you do it.”

  Roland nodded. Preacher had the feeling the young man still didn’t like him very much, but at least Roland had had the gumption to speak plainly.

  A few minutes later, the oxen were hitched up and the wagons were rolling again. Since there was only one extra horse, the men who had been working as outriders took the places of the wounded bullwhackers. Casey rode in one of the wagons with Roland. He had volunteered to take over for one of the wounded men, but Casey insisted he rest after being knocked out, and Bartlett agreed with her.

  Preacher picked Lorenzo to ride the extra saddle mount starting out. “We’re gonna have to take the place of all those other outriders,” he told the old-timer. “That means scoutin’ the flanks and our back trail as well as keepin’ an eye on what’s up ahead.”

  Lorenzo nodded in understanding. “You go ahead,” he told Preacher. “I don’t mind bringin’ up the rear for a while.”

  Preacher lifted a hand in farewell as Lorenzo wheeled his horse and rode toward the rear of the caravan. Preacher moved out ahead, wondering how they could get their hands on some more horses, knowing that wasn’t likely to happen short of Santa Fe.

  For the rest of the day, Preacher and Lorenzo circulated around the wagons as the heavy vehicles made their slow, steady way southwestward. They checked in every direction for any sign of the Comanches or other trouble approaching the caravan. Nothing threatening appeared. Hot, tedious hours crept by, and finally the sun lowered toward the horizon and Preacher began looking for a good place to make camp.

  He found it near a cluster of rocks and motioned for the bullwhackers to pull the wagons into a circle again. It was a good thing they would reach the springs tomorrow, he thought. The water in the barrels was starting to run a little low.