Preacher's Rage Read online

  Angry Sky made a curt, dismissive gesture. “There has to be a reason they are staying so close to the river. I do not know what it is, but they have a destination in mind. If this were not true, they would have struck out across country by now. So we will do the same. The moon and stars will provide enough light for that.”

  What Angry Sky said made sense, Scarrow thought. “All right. My men and I will be ready to ride whenever you say.”

  Angry Sky grunted as if to say that no one needed to tell him that. It was a foregone conclusion that everyone would follow his orders.

  At least in his mind, it was a foregone conclusion.

  But Jefferson Scarrow might have had other ideas.

  * * *

  The group felt incomplete with White Buffalo gone, but Preacher didn’t dwell on the loss. He was a practical sort, not given to brooding, and he still had Hawk and the others to worry about. Mourning would come later. Anyway, he had lost friends before and was sure that he would again, if he lived long enough.

  White Buffalo had seemed convinced that Preacher was going to live for a long, long time.

  He put that prediction out of his mind, as well, and concentrated on keeping everyone moving. Hawk and Caroline led the way, with Dog ranging ahead of them on Preacher’s command, to alert them to any more potential danger. Preacher rode behind Aaron and Charlie. The two young trappers were unusually quiet, probably because of White Buffalo’s death.

  When Preacher called a halt to let the horses blow, he hipped around in the saddle to peer back into the darkness behind them. Even though he couldn’t see anything threatening, every instinct in his body told him the Blackfeet were still back there, coming on with their murderous white allies, bent on killing Preacher, Hawk, Charlie, and Aaron and then . . .

  And then he suspected the two groups would have a falling-out over the girl. More men would die. But in the end, no matter which side won, Caroline would be just as bad off as before. Quite possibly worse, in fact.

  That knowledge was why, after a few minutes, Preacher told the others, “Come on. We’d best get movin’ again.”

  The moon had come up and cast its silvery illumination over the landscape, including rippling reflections on the surface of the fast-moving river. The air was warm, and it should have been a peaceful, pleasant night. It would have been without the specter of the enemy looming behind them.

  They had traveled another mile or so upriver when Hawk suddenly reined in. Aaron and Charlie stopped behind him, while Preacher moved Horse up beside Hawk’s pony.

  “What is it?” Preacher asked quietly, but then he saw why Hawk had stopped. Dog had returned and was pacing back and forth restlessly on the bank in front of the riders.

  “He has found something,” Hawk said.

  “Yeah, and there’s a mighty good chance it ain’t anything we’d like.” Preacher looked around. Off to the left, three trees had fallen at some point in the past, and the logs laced together to form a possible defensive position. He pointed them out to Hawk. “I’ll go take a look. The rest of you stay here, and if trouble comes at you, maybe you can fort up in that deadfall over yonder.”

  “I can go—”

  “No, you stay here and look after the others,” Preacher interrupted. “I’ll be back when I’ve got a better idea what we’re dealin’ with.”

  Hawk didn’t argue. He had questioned his father’s decisions many times in the past, but on this occasion he knew Preacher was right. One of them had to stay there, and Hawk didn’t really want to leave Caroline. He nodded. “Be careful.”

  Grinning in the moonlight, Preacher said, “If I’d wanted to live life careful-like, I never would’ve come out here to the mountains in the first place, and you wouldn’t have been born, boy.” Dismounting, he handed Horse’s reins to Hawk, then said to Dog, “Show me what you found.”

  The two of them loped off into the shadows.

  Preacher had no trouble following the big cur. Dog led him along the river for a while, then veered away from the stream to the west. Since they had been sticking close to the river, Preacher wasn’t sure why Dog would regard something away from it as a threat, but he understood when they didn’t go far before Dog stopped and growled quietly. Whoever was nearby, they were close enough to have heard the riders moving along the river. Dog knew what he was doing, as usual.

  Preacher eased forward, rifle at the ready. He spied the small, orange light of campfire embers ahead of him and made no sound as he crept closer. His keen eyes spotted four shapes stretched out on the ground near what was left of the fire. As far as he could tell, the men who had camped there were all sound asleep and hadn’t posted a guard. They had to be pretty confident they wouldn’t be in any danger.

  They were from somewhere around there, he thought. Maybe a hunting party from that Crow village he and his companions sought.

  That thought had just gone through Preacher’s mind when something grabbed him from behind and jerked him off his feet. Preacher might have thought he’d been latched on to by a grizzly bear, but he didn’t feel any claws digging into his flesh, just an incredibly strong grip. Whatever had hold of him flung him through the darkness as if he were a child’s rag doll.

  It was just sheer luck that Preacher didn’t collide with a tree trunk with bone-breaking impact. His wild flight was completely out of his control.

  He landed in some brush, hitting it hard enough that branches snapped. The sharp ends of those broken branches jabbed into him. Briars clawed at his flesh, but he wasn’t really injured. He fought his way free of the clinging growth and came up on his feet.

  Somewhere nearby, Dog growled and snapped, then let out a yelp. The cur came flying out of the darkness and smashed into Preacher, knocking him down. He had broken Dog’s fall, though, and kept him from being seriously hurt. Whoever had tossed Preacher aside had done the same with Dog.

  Both of them were still on the ground when heavy footsteps stomped toward them. A tall, thick form loomed over Preacher. He rolled to the side as a huge foot slammed down into the dirt where he had been lying a heartbeat earlier. If that crushing foot had landed as its owner intended, Preacher would have had a bunch of broken ribs.

  The monster came after him, trying to trample him into the ground. Preacher scrambled out of the way and made it to hands and knees. From there he launched himself at his attacker and caught the man around the knees. He rammed his shoulder against the man’s right thigh and drove hard with his feet.

  That would have upended most men, but that one seemed to be more of a man-mountain. He didn’t go down. He bent over, grabbed the back of Preacher’s buckskin shirt, and hauled him up, then shifted his grip to an arm and a leg. With a grunt of effort, he lifted Preacher above his head and poised him there for a second, ready to hurl him again.

  Before the huge attacker could carry through, Dog recovered somewhat, leaped, and hit him in the midsection, staggering him enough so that Preacher was able to writhe out of his grasp. As Preacher fell, he reached out and grabbed handfuls of long, greasy hair. That helped him catch himself. He lowered his head and smashed the top of it into the man’s face.

  The head-butt was effective. The man stumbled backward. He was a lot taller and heavier than Preacher, but he wasn’t facing just the mountain man. Dog had landed lightly on his paws and dashed in to bite at the man’s legs. The man bellowed in pain as sharp teeth tore his buckskin trousers and ripped into his flesh. He flailed around with arms as thick as saplings.

  Preacher set his feet and hit the man in the face again, this time with his fists in a swift left-right-left combination. The punches rocked the man’s head back, putting him off balance. Preacher clubbed both hands together and swung them at the man’s jaw in a sledgehammer blow that landed cleanly. The man’s head twisted violently on his neck, and his knees buckled.

  Preacher realized too late that he was still too close to his opponent. He sprang back as if he were trying to get out of the way of a falling tree, but it wasn
’t enough. The man was losing consciousness, but he still had enough anger and willpower to catch hold of Preacher’s shirt and jerk him closer.

  With stunning force, the man’s weight came down on top of Preacher. The mountain man felt like a giant was trying to hammer him into the ground. His ribs groaned, and his breath exploded from his lungs. Stunned, he was incapable of doing anything except lying there gasping for air.

  Using iron will and stamina, he recovered quickly. As his senses returned to him, he tried to push his massive, unconscious adversary off of himself. If he could just roll the monster to the side . . .

  But it wouldn’t have done any good, he realized as he heard Dog growling. He paused in his efforts and looked up to see four more shapes clustered around him. In the moonlight, he could tell that all wore buckskins and had feathers in their hair. Two had bows drawn back and arrows aimed at him. The other two carried flintlock rifles. The sound of the hammers being cocked told Preacher that they were ready to blow his head off and just needed an excuse to do it.

  CHAPTER 22

  “Hold on there,” Preacher said in Crow, guessing that was the most likely language for the men to speak. The great weight pressing down on him made it difficult to talk. “I’m a friend.”

  “You fought with Big Thunder,” one of them replied in an accusing tone.

  “If you mean this fella who’s built like a mountain, of course I did. He jumped me, threw me around like a kid’s toy, and did his durnedest to kill me. I had to fight him to save my own life.” Preacher dragged in a breath. “And if you don’t get him off me, he’s still liable to suffocate me!”

  The two warriors holding the bows lowered them and unnocked the arrows, replacing the shafts in the quivers they carried. Then they reached down, took hold of Big Thunder—a good name for the varmint, Preacher thought—and rolled him aside like a log. Big Thunder’s arms flopped to the sides. He was still out cold.

  Preacher sat up warily. The two men with rifles still had the weapons pointed at him. Even in the moonlight, he could tell they were tense. Preacher didn’t like it when nervous fellas aimed guns at him. “You boys are Crow, ain’t you?”

  “What if we are?” one of the rifle-wielding warriors demanded.

  “I’m a friend to the Crow and always have been. I’m looking for the village of Chief Falling Star. My name is Preacher.”

  That revelation had an instant effect. All four men murmured among themselves.

  Then one said, “Preacher?”

  “That’s right.”

  “It is known among our people that Preacher’s greatest enemies are the Blackfeet. For this reason, Preacher is our friend.”

  “Now you’re gettin’ it,” the mountain man said.

  “Then why did you and your dog attack Big Thunder?”

  Preacher couldn’t keep a note of exasperation out of his voice as he said, “I told you. The big fella jumped me. How in the world can somebody that size move so quietlike?”

  “Big Thunder is light on his feet,” the spokesman for the Crow admitted. “He has taken many enemies by surprise.”

  “I’ll bet they were sorry they let him sneak up on them, too,” Preacher muttered. A few feet away, Dog growled, so Preacher added, “Easy, Dog. These fellas are our friends.” He turned his attention back to the men surrounding him. “You boys are a hunting party from Falling Star’s village, aren’t you?”

  “That is right. You know Falling Star?”

  “I was through these parts a while back.” Preacher could tell from the spokesman’s voice that he was young, little more than a boy, in fact. If they were all like that, it was possible they didn’t remember his visit to the Crow village. “I shot a grizzly that was about to maul Falling Star’s son. I don’t recall the youngster’s name, but he was mighty grateful to me, and so was Falling Star. He said I was an honored guest in his lodge.”

  The men looked at each other again.

  A different one said, “He speaks of Green Eagle.”

  “Yeah, that was his name,” Preacher agreed. “I remember now.”

  “Green Eagle died two summers ago of a fever.”

  “I’m mighty sorry to hear that,” Preacher said solemnly.

  “But the story of how a white man saved his life from a bear is known among our people. I do not believe a white man would know of it . . . unless he was speaking the truth.”

  “I am,” Preacher said. “Take me to Falling Star. He’ll remember me.”

  “We will do this,” the first warrior said. “Get up. And keep your dog back.”

  “You don’t have to worry about Dog as long as you’re peaceable. He gets upset when he sees somebody tryin’ to kill me, though, so you might want to remember that.” Preacher climbed to his feet and once again told Dog to stand easy.

  One of the warriors went over to Big Thunder, knelt beside him, and began lightly slapping his face. Big Thunder didn’t react at first, but after a couple of minutes, a deep rumble that sounded like a distant avalanche came from his throat and his hand shot up and clamped on the other man’s face.

  “Big Thunder, stop!” one of the other men cried. “That is Kicking Elk!”

  Big Thunder grunted and gave the man he held an idle shove. The man landed on his back a few feet away and lay there shaking his head groggily. Big Thunder rolled onto his side, then pushed onto his hands and knees and slowly rose to his feet. From where Preacher stood, it looked like the massive warrior just kept climbing and climbing . . .

  Big Thunder was maybe the tallest Indian he had ever seen, Preacher decided. His chest was like a boulder. Actually, his head had a distinctly rock-like shape, too. He looked around, spotted Preacher, snarled, and started toward him with arms outstretched. His fingers flexed as if with the desire to grab Preacher and tear him apart, bit by bit.

  “Big Thunder, no!” one of the other men told him. “This man says he is Preacher, the good white friend of our people.”

  Big Thunder stopped short and stared at Preacher. His jaw was a granite slab, and so was his forehead. “Preacher?”

  “That’s right, Big Thunder,” the mountain man said. “I’m Preacher. Why don’t we just call a truce and not let there be any hard feelin’s between us?”

  “You hurt Big Thunder!”

  “I was just tryin’ to protect myself.”

  “Your dog bit Big Thunder!”

  “And he was just protectin’ me,” Preacher explained. “Like you were tryin’ to protect your friends. You were standin’ guard while they slept, weren’t you?”

  “It was Big Thunder’s turn,” a Crow warrior said, somewhat uneasily.

  “Look, fellas. I don’t hold any grudges for what happened. I just need to get to your village, along with the folks who are travelin’ with me, so we can talk to Falling Star. Will you take us?”

  “Who travels with you? I see only you.”

  “There are two white men, trappers like me. My son, who is half Absaroka.” Preacher paused for a second. Getting into Caroline’s complicated background wouldn’t help matters so he decided it was best to keep things simple. “And a young Crow woman named Butterfly.”

  “This Crow woman, she is your prisoner?”

  “Not hardly,” Preacher said emphatically. “In fact, we rescued her from some other white men who wanted to make her their slave, and before that she was a captive of the Blackfoot war chief Angry Sky. We’re tryin’ to save her from all of them.”

  That caused more muttering among the Crow warriors. Evidently they recognized Angry Sky’s name . . . and they didn’t have a very high opinion of him.

  One of them confirmed that by saying, “We have heard of this Angry Sky. He is a bad chief, even for a Blackfoot.”

  “Where are the others you travel with?” another asked Preacher.

  “Back downriver a ways. Maybe a mile.”

  After some low-voiced conferring among them, the spokesman announced, “Two of us will go with you and bring them back here. You are wel
come to share our camp, and in the morning you can return to our village with us.”

  Preacher shook his head. “Waitin’ for mornin’ ain’t a very good idea. I don’t know how far behind us Angry Sky and the rest of that bunch is, but I figure they’re pretty close, seein’ as how a few of ’em ambushed us earlier. If we wait, they’re liable to catch up and try to wipe us all out.”

  “You have brought trouble to our land,” another of the young Crow warriors snapped.

  “I know, and I’m sorry about that,” Preacher told them. “It couldn’t be avoided.”

  “We will all go to fetch the others,” said the one who seemed to be the leader. “Then we will return to the village tonight.”

  A couple of his companions didn’t like that decision and weren’t shy about expressing their opinion. The leader wouldn’t be swayed, though. He told them to break camp, and they grudgingly set about doing so.

  “My name is Broken Pine,” he told Preacher. “What are the names of your companions?”

  Preacher told him, then said, “I appreciate what you’re doin’, Broken Pine. And I wish there’d been some other way instead of gettin’ you and your people dragged into this mess.”

  The young man’s teeth shone briefly in the moonlight as he smiled. “If it means we have a chance to fight the Blackfeet, there is nothing for you to be sorry about, Preacher. Killing Blackfeet is what Crow warriors do.”

  * * *

  Accompanied by Broken Pine, Big Thunder, Kicking Elk, and the other two Crow, Preacher didn’t have any trouble backtracking the way he and Dog had come. The warriors led their horses, rather than riding, since Preacher was on foot. Big Thunder brought up the rear.

  “He will know if anyone follows us,” Broken Pine explained to Preacher as they walked side by side at the front of the group with Dog trotting ahead of them. “He has the keenest hearing of any warrior in our village.”

  “Seems like he’s quite a fella,” Preacher commented. “I don’t recollect ever seein’ a bigger Crow . . . or anybody from another tribe, either.”

  “The Great Spirit blessed him with strength and skill, it is true, but in some ways Big Thunder is like a child.”