Preacher's Rage Read online

  Again he thought about the possibility of crawling onto a rattlesnake in the dark but trusted to luck that he wouldn’t. Also, any snake out hunting at that time of night would probably be alert enough to avoid a human coming toward it.

  He reached the trees without any such encounters. He paused and put all his senses to work. The air was barely stirring, but it moved enough to carry a faint scent of woodsmoke to his nose. And as he listened, he thought he heard voices murmuring somewhere up ahead. Both things confirmed his hunch. The Blackfeet weren’t far away.

  A savage grin tugged at Preacher’s mouth. Turnabout was sure fair play, as far as he was concerned. The Indians had snuck up on his camp, and now he was sneaking up on theirs.

  He eased forward into the trees.

  Minutes dragged by. He couldn’t get in any hurry now. The voices grew louder. Preacher paused and stiffened on the ground as he realized that some words he was hearing were English. But some were undoubtedly Blackfoot.

  What the devil was going on?

  He eased ahead again. An orange glow appeared. The light from a campfire that had burned down some but was still casting enough illumination to spread through the trees. Preacher used his elbows and knees to work closer. He had his flintlock rifle beside him. He placed it carefully each time he moved.

  He could see shadowy shapes moving around. The firelight had a flicker to it. He lifted his head, carefully parted the brush right in front of him, and peered through the gap he had created.

  About twenty feet away, on the other side of a small fire, several white men sat on the ground. Others were stretched out nearby, evidently asleep.

  Charlie Todd was one of the men Preacher saw. He sat between two strangers with his hands tied in front of him. The men flanking him weren’t bound, though, and they still had their weapons, so they weren’t prisoners even though Charlie obviously was.

  Blackfoot voices made Preacher crane his neck and look to the left. A dozen or more warriors were within his range of vision. They were armed, too.

  Well, hell, he thought. From the looks of this setup, the Blackfeet and the white fur thieves were working together. Unlikely though that seemed at first glance, it was really the only explanation for what he was seeing that made any sense.

  That meant Charlie was in double trouble, and when Preacher looked toward the young trapper again, he saw that one of the white men, a thick-bodied varmint with a piggish face, had pulled a knife and was holding it to Charlie’s throat. The other man was questioning Charlie. Preacher felt a surge of pride as the young trapper defiantly told them to go to hell.

  But then that human hog moved the knife, and Preacher could tell he was about slice Charlie’s face open.

  Preacher didn’t stop to think about what he was doing. He just raised himself on his elbows, thrust the rifle out in front of him, and fired. The boom was deafeningly loud in the night.

  Just as Preacher squeezed the trigger, the hog-faced man twisted to get a better angle on the mutilation he was about to carry out, so the rifle ball struck him in the shoulder instead of the chest as Preacher had intended. The impact was enough to knock the man over on his back. The knife flew out of his hand without inflicting any more damage on Charlie.

  In the blink of an eye, Preacher was on his feet. He shouted, “Charlie, run!” as he pulled out a pistol with his right hand and fired toward the Blackfeet on the other side of the camp. At that range, with the heavy powder charge and two balls loaded in the pistol, he couldn’t miss.

  The white man who had been questioning Charlie made a grab for him, but Charlie rolled out of reach and then struggled upright as quickly as he could with bound wrists.

  “Dog!” Preacher bellowed.

  Now that he wasn’t hidden in the brush anymore, he had a much better look at the odds he was facing. Might have been better not to know, he thought wryly. Forty to one or thereabouts.

  Forty to two, rather. At that moment Dog flashed out of the night and at the end of an eye-blurring leap clamped his jaws on the throat of a Blackfoot warrior. The big cur’s weight slammed into the man’s chest and knocked him down. By the time he hit the ground, Dog had ripped his throat out in a fountaining spray of blood.

  “Kill them!” cried the white man who seemed to be in charge of that bunch. Shots blasted after Charlie, but he was already at the edge of the firelight and jerked back and forth as he ran to make himself a more difficult target. He was still moving fast as he disappeared in the shadows. Preacher hoped he hadn’t been hit.

  Rifle and pistol balls and arrows were whipping around him, too, as he drew his second pistol and fired it at the Blackfeet’s white allies. One man stumbled and clapped a hand to his chest. Blood welled between his fingers. As he collapsed, several other men charging toward Preacher stumbled over him and fell, taking them out of the fight for a few seconds, anyway.

  A warrior screamed as Dog’s powerful jaws locked on his forearm and snapped it. Dog got another man by the ankle and jerked his leg out from under him, spilling him on the ground. The big cur’s slashing teeth tore half his face off.

  Preacher called, “Come on, Dog,” and he whirled away from his victim to race after the mountain man. Preacher lunged into the darkness after Charlie, knowing the Blackfeet would be in hot pursuit within seconds.

  The race was on. The stakes were life and death.

  CHAPTER 19

  “Charlie!” Preacher called as he ran. “Charlie, sing out!”

  “Up here, Preacher!” came the response from up ahead. Preacher angled a little to the right and caught up with Charlie a few moments later. The young trapper was running as hard as he could, but he didn’t have Preacher’s speed. Preacher slowed down to pace him.

  “They’re going to . . . come after us . . . aren’t they?” Charlie puffed.

  Preacher heard shouts from behind them and said, “They already are. But we’re gonna give ’em the slip!”

  “How? There are . . . too many . . .”

  Preacher grasped Charlie’s arm and changed his course a little. “See that star low to the horizon right in front of us? Keep headin’ toward it and you’ll get back to our camp. I’m gonna slow those varmints down.”

  “Preacher, you can’t . . . They’ll kill you!”

  “They’ll have a hell of a time tryin’! Now go!”

  Preacher gave Charlie a push to head him in the right direction, then stopped and swung around to face the pursuit. The Blackfeet were too close behind him. He could already see their darting shapes. He didn’t have time to reload his rifle and pistols.

  So he knelt, placed his empty rifle on the ground, slid his knife from its sheath, and pulled the tomahawk from behind his belt.

  The grass was tall enough that the pursuers would have a hard time spotting him until they were right on top of him. They had to be expecting him to continue fleeing, instead of waiting for them to catch up to him. Only a madman would do that.

  A madman . . . or Preacher.

  As several Blackfeet raced past him, Preacher exploded up from the ground, swung the tomahawk into the back of one warrior’s neck, and thrust the knife into the side of another. Both men went down in the loose sprawl of death. Preacher whirled, and another man’s skull crunched under the tomahawk’s impact, after which came a slashing knife stroke too swift for the eye to follow, and a warrior stumbled and gagged as blood, black in the moonlight, flooded from the gaping wound in his throat. Preacher ducked under a sweeping tomahawk and swung his with enough force that it almost decapitated the warrior who had struck at him. In three heartbeats, maybe a shade less, Preacher had killed five men.

  Those five were the vanguard of the pursuit, but more were coming hard on their heels. Muzzle flame spurted redly from a couple of rifles. Preacher heard the balls hum past his head. He drove hard into the next bunch before they had a chance to reload, and again blood fell like rain as he spun and twisted among them, wielding the knife and tomahawk.

  The Blackfeet were at a
disadvantage. The poor light made it difficult to tell friend from foe, but Preacher didn’t have that problem. Anywhere he struck, the blow landed on an enemy. Four Blackfoot warriors were in the second group, and they all fell in a matter of seconds, dead or dying.

  Other warriors shouted not far away, but Preacher had taken care of all the ones who had drawn close to him. He turned, ran back to where he had left his rifle, snatched it from the ground, and ran on, his long-legged strides eating up the ground.

  He was moving at an angle toward the south, away from the direction he had sent Charlie. He thought that would draw the pursuit after him, and as he glanced over his shoulder from the crest of a hill, he saw that he was right. He spotted the dark shapes bobbing up the slope after him.

  He entered the shadows under the trees at the top of the hill, and stopped. Not needing light to reload his pistols, his fingers performed that task with great efficiency without even thinking about what he was doing. He didn’t take the time to double-shot them but put one ball in each pistol and waited for the warriors to come in range.

  When they were almost at the top of the hill, Preacher swung out from behind the tree where he had taken cover, leveled the cocked weapons, and pulled the triggers. The double boom slammed through the night. The heavy lead balls smashed into two men, driving deep into their chests. One even went all the way through the first target’s body and struck a warrior behind him in the head. With swinging pistols, Preacher met the other two in the bunch and felt skulls shatter as he struck to right and left.

  He turned, grabbed his rifle from where he had leaned it against the tree trunk, and ran down the hill.

  By that time, the other pursuers were stumbling over the bodies of their fellow warriors. Seeing the slaughter Preacher had inflicted on those luckless fellows had to give them pause. The shouts behind him weren’t as loud, and as he continued running, he heard them falling even farther behind.

  Several screams ripped through the darkness. Preacher grinned. Dog wasn’t with him, so he suspected the big cur was harrying the enemies’ flanks. Between the damage the mountain man had already done and the threat of those flashing teeth and powerful jaws striking out of the darkness with no warning, Preacher figured the rest of the bunch would turn back pretty soon, if they hadn’t already.

  Sometimes, outnumbering the man being chased didn’t mean a damned thing.

  It all depended on the man.

  * * *

  Jefferson Scarrow had just finished binding up Hog Plumlee’s wounded shoulder when some of the Blackfoot warriors who had gone after the fugitives came limping back into camp. Angry Sky had ordered that the fires be built up, so plenty of light spilled over the ground and revealed the warriors’ sorry shape.

  “Good Lord,” Plumlee muttered. “Looks like less ’n half of’em came back. And they don’t have no prisoners with them.”

  “I see that,” Scarrow said tightly. He was glad he hadn’t ordered any of his men to give chase.

  Angry Sky had lost some of his warriors, but Scarrow’s force was still at full strength, at least compared to what it had been when they fell in with the savages. Well, almost at full strength since Paulson had fallen with a pistol ball in his chest.

  A warrior who was bleeding heavily from a thigh ripped open by what appeared to have been a wild animal spoke rapidly to Angry Sky. The war chief listened with a murderous scowl on his face. Then he turned and stalked toward Scarrow and Plumlee.

  Scarrow got on his feet to meet the Blackfoot leader.

  Angry Sky snapped, “Preacher!”

  That took Scarrow by surprise and left him puzzled. He had no idea what Angry Sky meant by that bitterly voiced word. With a shake of his head, he said, “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “One of my men heard the fat white man call the name Preacher.” Angry Sky put his dark face close to Scarrow’s and snarled. “Did you know one of the men we sought was Preacher?”

  “What does it matter if he’s a preacher?” Scarrow asked. “What I want to know is how they managed to get away.”

  That was a bold thing to say, considering the murderous rage that obviously filled Angry Sky.

  Plumlee muttered in a voice thin with pain, “Careful, Jeff.”

  “Not a preacher,” Angry Sky said through clenched teeth. “There is a white man called Preacher. All the Blackfeet, from one end of our hunting ground to the other, know him, or know who he is. Mothers frighten their unruly children with tales of how Preacher will come for them. He is sometimes called Ghost Killer because he can come into one of our camps and kill half a dozen warriors in their sleep without ever being seen!”

  “That sounds like a fairy tale,” Scarrow said. “Such a monster can’t exist.”

  “Preacher is no monster. He is a man . . . a man who has killed hundreds of Blackfeet!”

  Scarrow still didn’t believe that, but Angry Sky seemed convinced of it, and arguing with him probably wasn’t wise.

  Not only that, but Plumlee said quietly, “I think I’ve heard of that son of a bitch, Jeff. They say he’s all teeth and a yard wide, like an alligator gar. I’ve heard men say they’d sooner fight a grizzly b’ar instead o’ Preacher.”

  “So that’s the man we’ve been chasing, eh?”

  “Makes more sense now that him and his friends might’ve done for Lopez and the others.”

  Angry Sky didn’t like the fact that Scarrow and Plumlee were talking to each other instead of him. He brought Scarrow’s attention back to him by saying, “You claim you did not know one of our enemies might be Preacher?”

  “Of course I didn’t know. I never even heard of the man until just now. But surely it can’t make that much difference, can it? He’s only one man!”

  “Fourteen of my warriors lie out there in the night, dead. Five more were killed here in camp when he and his demon dog attacked. Nineteen brave, strong warriors wiped out! Preacher must pay for their lives with every drop of his blood!”

  “We’ll help you,” Scarrow said. “We want this Preacher dead, too, Angry Sky, and all his friends. You have my word on that.”

  Angry Sky jerked his head in a nod and walked back to join his warriors.

  As Scarrow sat down again, Plumlee said quietly, “I don’t know about this, Jeff. Goin’ up against Preacher ain’t what you’d call safe.”

  “Nonsense,” Scarrow said. “With losses like he’s suffered tonight, Angry Sky needs us more than ever now. And here’s something else to consider . . .” A cunning smile appeared on the man’s face. “Unless I’m counting incorrectly, I believe that we now outnumber the Blackfeet. So perhaps in the long run, we owe this Preacher a bit of thanks.”

  * * *

  Gray had begun to streak the eastern sky by the time Preacher reached the camp on the riverbank. He hoped to find Charlie and Dog there, and the sight of them coming toward him eagerly to greet him made satisfaction well up inside him. The others trailed behind them.

  “Thank God you made it back, Preacher!” Charlie cried. “Are you wounded?”

  “Nope. I reckon I got quite a bit of blood splattered on me, but I don’t think any of it’s mine.”

  White Buffalo said, “There will be wailing and grieving in the lodges of the Blackfeet when the news of this reaches them. This is good.”

  “It’s true, I whittled ’em down some, with Dog’s help,” Preacher said. “How about you, Charlie? Are you hurt?”

  “I’m just embarrassed.” The rueful look on his face confirmed that. “I was a fool, Preacher, and I’m sorry. I could have gotten myself killed, and worse, I might have cost you your life.”

  “Shoot, I coulda let that fella cut you,” Preacher said. “It was my choice to shoot him. But I reckon I’m glad I did.”

  “So am I,” Aaron said. “Charlie can be extremely annoying, but I’ve grown accustomed to having him around.”

  Hawk hadn’t said anything to Preacher by way of greeting. “I was about to tell everyone to get ready to leave. We ar
e still heading north for that Crow village?”

  Preacher nodded. “Yep. The fellas chasin’ me turned back—the ones who still could, anyway—but the rest of the bunch will be comin’ after us. Charlie, I reckon you told them that gang o’ fur thieves is workin’ with the Blackfeet now?”

  “Yes. The leader is a man named Jefferson Scarrow. The one who threatened to torture me is Hogarth Plumlee. Do either of those names mean anything to you, Preacher?”

  “Nope. Reckon they’re new to this part of the country. That ain’t a surprise. More and more folks come out here every summer, and some of ’em are no-account thieves and killers like that bunch.” Preacher sat down on a log to rest after his long run while the others made preparations to break camp.

  They wouldn’t take the time for coffee and a real breakfast. Starting to put distance behind them again was more important.

  Caroline came over and sat down beside him. “I am glad you are alive, Preacher,” she said to him in Crow.

  “Yeah, me, too,” he agreed, smiling at her.

  “And that you saved Charlie. He is a good man, but this is not the country for him.”

  Preacher nodded. “You’re probably right about that. Him and Aaron should go back to where they came from. They got good hearts and plenty o’ courage, but they ain’t cut out for this sort o’ life.”

  “You said . . . this is a Crow village upriver?”

  “There used to be. I don’t know if it’s still there or not. The chief was called Falling Star.”

  “I have heard the name. He is said to be an honorable chief. He will help us?”

  “I think so, if he’s still there.”

  “Even though it may put his people in danger?”

  “Like you said, he’s an honorable man.” Preacher chuckled and added, “Anyway, I never knew a Crow warrior who’d pass up a chance to fight with some Blackfeet.”

  “Maybe . . . the men who are after us will give up and let us go on our way?”

  Preacher grew solemn and shook his head. “No, I don’t think so. Too much blood’s been spilled. As stubborn as they were earlier, I can’t imagine they’d give up now. No, Butterfly . . . Caroline . . . I figure one way or another, this is a fight to the death.”