Preacher's Rage Read online

  CHAPTER 20

  Since the preparations were made already, Preacher waited only a few minutes to catch his breath before telling the others it was time to move out. They mounted up and started north along the river. Once again, Caroline rode with Hawk. Preacher didn’t waste his time suggesting any other arrangement. That one seemed to be working, after all.

  He took the lead, with Hawk and Caroline riding behind him, then Aaron and Charlie side by side, and White Buffalo bringing up the rear. Or rather, Dog brought up the rear, hanging back to check the trail. Preacher knew better than to think that their enemies, red or white, would give up.

  The day passed without incident, however. The group moved at a good pace and covered quite a bit of ground.

  Late in the day, the river curved more to the west, toward the next range of mountains. When Preacher saw that, it was familiar to him. The Crow village they sought was located where the stream entered the foothills. It was a good location, and he hoped Falling Star’s band was still there.

  He had no illusions that the Blackfeet weren’t following their trail, and Angry Sky’s war party was bound to have several good trackers in it. By now, the warriors would have realized that Preacher and his companions were following the river.

  After thinking about the situation all day, Preacher reined in and told the others, “We’ll rest the horses for a spell, but then we’re pushin’ on through the night. There’ll be enough light for us to see that we’re stayin’ by the river where we need to be. If we make camp, there’s a good chance those varmints will keep comin’ and catch up to us during the night.”

  “You really think they’re that close to us?” Aaron asked with a note of alarm in his voice.

  “They sure might be. I saw a good-sized pony herd when I was in their camp, and Angry Sky lost enough men so that all of Scarrow’s bunch ought to be mounted and probably won’t even have to ride double. Some o’ the Blackfeet were hurt and would’ve needed patchin’ up, so that probably kept ’em from comin’ after us right away. Angry Sky had to wait until it was light enough for his trackers to pick up our sign, too, but then they took out after us, hot and heavy. You can bet a hat on it.”

  They let the horses drink and rest and crop at the grass on the riverbank for a short time then Preacher told everyone to mount up again. The sun was down and twilight’s gloom began to gather over the stream and the landscape around it.

  They had ridden only a couple of hundred yards when Preacher heard a faint twanging sound from the other side of the river. Most men would have missed it entirely, but to Preacher it sounded clear as a warning bell.

  He reacted instinctively and immediately, ducking low over Horse’s neck. Something slapped hard against his back. Preacher knew an arrow’s shaft had just glanced off him. The head had barely missed him. If he hadn’t moved when he did, it would have struck him in the side and probably skewered his right lung.

  “Ambush!” he bellowed. “Everybody stay low and ride hard!” He kicked the stallion into a gallop along the bank.

  If he and his companions could reach the cottonwood trees growing close to the water up ahead, they would stand a lot better chance of surviving the ambush. The trunks would make it more difficult for arrows to find them, and the thickening shadows would conceal them.

  Another arrow whipped past his head, another near miss, but close didn’t count.

  Hoofbeats pounded behind him. Preacher glanced back to see that Hawk and Caroline were close, but Aaron, Charlie, and White Buffalo had fallen back some.

  As Preacher’s head was turned so he could see how the others were doing, White Buffalo suddenly jerked and nearly toppled off his pony. Only a frantic grab at the horse’s long mane saved the old-timer from falling. Preacher couldn’t be sure in the fading light, but he thought an arrow’s feathered shaft was sticking out of White Buffalo’s side.

  The possibility that the old warrior was hit made Preacher haul back on Horse’s reins. He pulled the stallion aside and waved Hawk and Caroline on past him, calling to them, “Get to cover!”

  He urged Charlie and Aaron on, as well. As they galloped by, Preacher caught a glimpse of movement on the far bank. He brought his rifle up with blinding speed and fired, letting instinct guide his shot instead of aiming.

  He was rewarded by a harsh cry of pain. Then another arrow flew over his head as White Buffalo reached him. Preacher saw the arrow embedded deeply in the old-timer’s side. White Buffalo swayed, still having trouble staying mounted.

  Preacher fell in alongside him and guided Horse with his knees so he could reach over with his free hand and grasp White Buffalo’s arm. Steadying the old Absaroka, he said, “We’ll take cover in those trees!”

  “Leave me!” White Buffalo cried. “I am dying!”

  “The hell you say! I’ll believe that when I see it, you tough old pelican!”

  Two more arrows whistled around them as they raced toward the trees, but neither missile found the target. Horse and White Buffalo’s pony weaved in among the cottonwoods. Preacher kept them moving until they were a quarter-mile deep in the woods.

  Then he reined in, and White Buffalo was able to bring his pony to a stop, too. Preacher leaped to the ground and caught White Buffalo as the old-timer half-fell from his mount’s back.

  “Preacher! Preacher, where are you?”

  The call came from deeper in the woods. That was Aaron, Preacher thought as he went to his knees and cradled White Buffalo against him. Hawk had more sense than to announce his location when enemies were nearby. Preacher didn’t answer and hoped Aaron would shut up.

  The shout didn’t come again. Could be Hawk had found Aaron and told him to be quiet, or maybe Aaron had just realized it was a good idea. Either way, silence descended over the woods along the river. The small animals that would normally be out at dusk had gone to ground, and any birds in the trees had flown off.

  Preacher listened to the bubbling rasp of White Buffalo’s breathing and knew it wasn’t good. White Buffalo hadn’t moved or said anything since they had gotten down from the horses. Preacher wondered if he had passed out.

  White Buffalo put that idea to rest by asking in a hoarse whisper, “Where is . . . Dog?”

  “He ain’t with us right now,” Preacher said, answering in the Absaroka tongue White Buffalo had used. “If he had been, he would’ve warned us of that ambush.”

  “I wish he was here. I would have liked to . . . talk to him again . . . before I die.”

  “Ain’t nobody said you’re dyin’.”

  “The arrowhead is . . . deep within me . . . Preacher. Every time I breathe . . . I can feel it.”

  “We’ll get it out,” Preacher said, but even as he spoke, he knew it was impossible. He couldn’t push the arrow on through to snap off the head, as he would have if it had been stuck in a shoulder or a leg, and pulling it out would just do more damage and hasten White Buffalo’s death.

  The old-timer wasn’t going to make it. They both knew it.

  Soft footfalls padded on the ground nearby. Preacher shifted his right hand and closed it around a pistol butt.

  He relaxed his grip as he heard Hawk whisper, “Preacher?”

  “Here,” the mountain man said. “White Buffalo is with me.”

  Hawk emerged from the gathering shadows, followed by Caroline, Aaron, and Charlie.

  “Any of you hurt?” Preacher asked.

  “No, we reached the trees safely,” Hawk replied. “The ambush failed.”

  “Not . . . entirely,” White Buffalo said. He coughed, followed by a pained grunt.

  “White Buffalo!” Hawk exclaimed. He dropped to his knees on the old-timer’s other side. Charlie and Aaron crowded forward, too. They were very fond of the elderly warrior, just like Hawk was. Caroline hung back a little, uncertain.

  Hawk went on. “We must get that arrow out—” then stopped abruptly as he realized that was impossible.

  White Buffalo raised a trembling hand. As Hawk grasped it, the
old-timer said, “I am proud of you . . . Hawk That Soars . . . as if you were . . . my own flesh and blood. You are . . . a mighty warrior. The mightiest . . . of the Absarokas.”

  “Grandfather,” Hawk said softly. He and White Buffalo weren’t related by blood, but Hawk respected him and treated him as if they had been.

  “The girl Butterfly . . . she will bear you many fine sons . . . The two of you will be happy . . . for many years.”

  “You do not know—”

  “I know,” White Buffalo said. “The spirits . . . have told me.” He tightened his grip on Hawk’s hand.

  Then a smile lit his face as Dog trotted out of the shadows and came up to the group gathered around White Buffalo. The big cur licked the old warrior’s leathery cheek, and White Buffalo said, “Ah, my friend! You have come . . . to say farewell.”

  Dog whined quietly.

  “Do not worry. We will . . . meet again . . . far on the other side of the mountains . . . where the hunting is good . . . and the sun always shines.”

  Dog whined again and leaned in closer to nuzzle against the old-timer, and Preacher could almost believe that he was talking to White Buffalo. Why not? Preacher sure as blazes couldn’t say one way or the other.

  White Buffalo got a skinny arm around Dog’s neck and hugged him, then lifted his head and said in a stronger voice, “The Blackfeet will be coming.”

  “You let us worry about that,” Preacher said.

  White Buffalo shook his head. “Leave me here. Let them find me. I will . . . slow them down.”

  “We will not abandon you,” Hawk declared.

  “You will not be . . . abandoning me,” White Buffalo argued. “I would fight . . . one more battle . . . against the hated Blackfeet . . . One more . . . great battle . . .”

  Preacher wasn’t sure White Buffalo had enough strength to even stand up, let alone fight, but he understood what the old warrior was asking. And White Buffalo had a point. All of Angry Sky’s remaining war party wasn’t on the other side of the river. If that had been the case, the ambush wouldn’t have ended with a few arrows flying. Angry Sky, his warriors, and their white allies would have charged across the river to wipe out Preacher and his friends.

  More than likely, there were only a few scouts sent ahead of the main bunch. The ambush was meant to kill them if possible, otherwise to slow them down and allow the rest of the war party to catch up. It would be happening at that very moment.

  “White Buffalo’s right,” Preacher said. “We’ve got to get movin’ again. Those varmints will be coming up fast behind us.”

  “We can’t just leave him here,” Charlie protested with anguish in his voice.

  “He knows what he’s doin’. And it’s what he wants.”

  White Buffalo said thinly, “Help me stand. Put my back against . . . one of these trees.”

  Charlie turned to Hawk. “You have to talk some sense into them.”

  “A warrior can ask for no nobler fate than to die in battle,” Hawk said.

  “With the bodies of his enemies piled around him!” White Buffalo rasped.

  Hawk took one of the old man’s arms while Preacher held the other. They easily lifted White Buffalo to his feet and helped him to a nearby cottonwood. He braced his legs underneath him, leaned against the trunk, and faced the river with his bow in his hand and his quiver of arrows pulled around so that he could reach them easily.

  “I am sorry,” he said, “that I will bring pleasure to no more young women. That I will hunt no more with my friends. That I will speak no more to the beasts of the earth and hear their simple wisdom.”

  Dog licked the old warrior’s hand.

  “Yes, my friend,” White Buffalo said. “I will die well.”

  “Come on,” Preacher said to the others. “We got to get out of here.”

  “Go. Go with the wind and the night,” White Buffalo offered.

  Charlie and Aaron were choked up by emotion but managed to say good-bye to White Buffalo. Hawk grasped the old warrior’s shoulder for a second and nodded to him. Caroline came up and brushed a kiss across his cheek. Then Hawk ushered them away, leaving Preacher as the last.

  “I hope I can go out the same way when my time comes,” the mountain man said. Full darkness had almost fallen, but he saw the faint smile that touched White Buffalo’s lips.

  “I do not believe you will die . . . for a very, very long time . . . my friend,” he said.

  “The string plays out for everybody, sooner or later.”

  “Perhaps . . . but you, Preacher . . . the spirits have spoken to me about you . . . They say you will roam this earth for many moons . . . You will see many sights . . . do many things . . . and your true greatness . . . still awaits you.”

  Like Hawk had done, Preacher gripped the old warrior’s shoulder. “Good-bye, White Buffalo.”

  “Good-bye . . . Preacher.”

  Preacher turned and hurried off in the same direction Hawk and the others had gone. He knew they would be waiting not far away with the horses.

  Dog trotted along with him, but the big cur turned his head to look back several times. A sound that was part whine, part growl came from his throat.

  “I don’t like it any better than you do, old son,” Preacher told him. “But we all have things to do, and I reckon this is one of White Buffalo’s.”

  The big shapes of the horses loomed out of the shadows. The others were all mounted and waiting.

  Preacher swung up onto Horse’s back. “We’ll keep pushin’ along the river. Let’s go.”

  They rode in grim silence for several minutes before the sudden shrill yip of a war cry came from far behind them. The sound continued for long seconds, then stopped abruptly.

  Silence reigned again in the night.

  Dog bounded ahead onto a knoll that stuck out into the river. At the top of it, he looked back in the direction they had come from, tipped his head to the sky, and loosed a long, mournful howl that echoed in the souls of the five riders.

  CHAPTER 21

  Angry Sky’s hate and rage made him tireless. He pushed the group all day in pursuit of their quarry, never allowing the men and horses to rest for more than a few minutes at a time.

  That was all right with Jefferson Scarrow. As long as Angry Sky was thinking only about recapturing the girl and getting the revenge he so single-mindedly desired, he wasn’t as likely to notice how the situation had changed.

  Angry Sky had started out with more than thirty men in his war party. He was down to only a dozen now, including himself. Preacher and his friends had really wreaked havoc on them.

  Of course, Preacher had whittled Scarrow’s group down to less than half its original number, too, but Scarrow still had Hog Plumlee and eleven more, so they outnumbered the Blackfeet by two men. Not a comfortable margin, certainly, but far better than the roughly two to one odds in favor of the savages that had existed before Preacher’s invasion of the camp the previous night.

  The plan to trade the prisoner Charlie Todd for the girl had fallen through before it could ever begin. Probably just as well, Scarrow thought. Preacher probably never would have agreed to it. Frontiersmen had ridiculous codes of honor and chivalry.

  It was simpler for a man just to take what he wanted, by force if necessary, which was what Scarrow intended to do where the girl was concerned.

  Night had fallen when Angry Sky called a halt to let the horses rest again. Scarrow was sure the war chief didn’t care how tired the men were, but their mounts had to be protected.

  Earlier in the afternoon, Angry Sky had sent three of his men ahead on the fastest horses in the bunch. Their job was to locate Preacher and the others, kill them if possible—except for the girl, of course—or slow them down, at the very least.

  As they paused by the river, Scarrow thought Angry Sky might be waiting for those men to return.

  Scarrow and Plumlee drank from the stream and then knelt on the bank.

  Plumlee asked quietly, “When are we gonna
make our move, Jeff?”

  “Against the savages, you mean? As soon as the girl is back in our hands and our other enemies are dead.”

  “You ain’t worried that’ll be too late? You know those damn redskins will try to double-cross us as soon as they get the chance.”

  “Yes, I’m well aware of that,” Scarrow said. “We’ll just strike first, before the treacherous heathens have the opportunity.”

  “That’s risky.”

  “All life is risky, Hog. That’s what gives it the necessary spice!”

  Plumlee just grunted, as if to say that he could do without such spice. But he didn’t press the issue and didn’t have a chance to, anyway.

  A moment later a commotion broke out among the Blackfeet. Scarrow and Plumlee stood up.

  “I think them scouts are back,” Plumlee said.

  He and Scarrow walked along the bank toward the spot where Angry Sky and some of the other warriors were gathered around two men who had just ridden in. They dismounted and unloaded the body of a third warrior. The Blackfeet let loose a flood of obviously outraged words in their language.

  Scarrow let the reaction go on for several minutes before he stepped closer to Angry Sky and asked, “What happened?”

  The war chief swung around and glared at Scarrow. “I have lost another warrior,” he spat. “And the other two are wounded. But the enemy lost a man, as well. An old dog of an Absaroka. They left him behind when they fled, because he was wounded. He killed that man”—Angry Sky nodded curtly toward the body stretched out on the ground—“and put an arrow in the leg of another, before he died.” With grudging respect, he added, “It was a valiant death.”

  “But Preacher and the others got away,” Scarrow said.

  “For now. We know they are following the river. We will set out after them again as soon as the horses have rested more.”

  “In the dark?”