The Family Jensen # 1 Page 4

  Anteater lifted a shaking hand and touched a finger to the center of his forehead. “One of their bullets…hit him here.”

  Crazy Bear nodded grimly. No one could survive a wound like that.

  “I had to come back…to tell our mother…what happened,” Anteater gasped out. That brought another wail from the woman. The young warrior tried to reach out toward her, but his hand stopped suddenly and his arm fell at his side, limp in death. His last breath came out of him in a long sigh.

  Crazy Bear lowered him to the ground again and stood up, stepping back to let the women of the tribe take over. They would tend to the body and to the grieving mother.

  The warriors gathered around Crazy Bear, their faces taut with anger. Tall Tree said, “We must do something about this.”

  “We must find the white men who did this and kill them,” Elk Runner added.

  “I will find them,” Crazy Bear declared. “Ghost-Killer and I will find them.” He looked at Preacher, who jerked his head in a curt nod. “But we will go alone.”

  That brought protests from the other warriors, who wanted to help avenge the wanton murder of the two young men, but Crazy Bear wouldn’t be swayed from his decision. The village was not a large one, with only two dozen warriors, and despite the fact that they would outnumber the white men, at least according to what Anteater had seen, a pitched battle against a better-armed force might not leave enough men to defend the village if the Blackfeet or some of their other enemies were to attack. It was good strategy on Crazy Bear’s part, Preacher thought, and would help to insure the continued safety of the rest of his people.

  Of course, the two of them going up against five-to-one odds—or worse—was a mite reckless. Preacher already knew that Crazy Bear didn’t intend to take on the killers directly. The chief was too smart for that.

  The warriors weren’t happy about it. Grumbling, the crowd broke up, and Crazy Bear and Preacher walked back toward Preacher’s tepee.

  “It will not be easy, two against ten or more,” Crazy Bear said.

  “Yeah, but we’ll be able to take ’em by surprise,” Preacher said. “They don’t know that we know they’re at Owl Rock.”

  He had seen that landmark several times in the past. It was several miles east of the village, on the eastern edge of the Big Horns, a tall column of rock with some rounded bulges on the top that made it look a little like an owl.

  “What are these wagons they spoke of?”

  Preacher shook his head. “I don’t know. There’s been some talk back in the settlements about trying to establish a trail up the east side of the Big Horns, an offshoot of the Oregon Trail that would lead to the Montana country. Damn fool idea if you ask me. Too many Sioux and Cheyenne up there to ever settle that territory for good. But somebody could be tryin’ to take a wagon train in that direction.” Preacher rubbed a hand over his grizzled jaw as he thought. “If a bunch of outlaws was to hide at Owl Rock, they could ambush any wagons that came along. If that’s what they’ve got planned, I’d sure like to put a stop to it.”

  Crazy Bear grunted and said, “I care nothing about any white settlers. Their wagons wear great ruts in the earth. Their numbers crowd the land. They should all go back and leave this country to the real people.”

  Preacher understood why Crazy Bear felt that way, and to tell the truth, he wasn’t sure but what he agreed with the Crow chief, at least for the most part.

  Preacher had seen the crowded cities back east and knew that more and more people wanted to leave their squalor and journey west, where there was plenty of land free for the taking—for anyone who could grasp the opportunity and hold it. That westward tide wasn’t going to stop any time soon, and in the end, trying to oppose it was just as futile as attempting to stop a real tide. Preacher was pretty sure it couldn’t be done.

  So he didn’t argue with Crazy Bear. He just said, “Right or wrong, the people with the wagons don’t deserve to be robbed and murdered. But when you and I kill those white men, chief, it will be to avenge the deaths of Anteater and Storm Cloud, not to protect any settlers.”

  “You are well enough to travel, and to fight?”

  Preacher nodded. “Just let me get my gear together.”

  Crazy Bear had brought Preacher’s saddle mount and pack animal back to the village with him, the day he had saved the mountain man from the ambush. In the three weeks since, the horses had been grazing nearby, growing fat and lazy. They would have to start earning their keep again.

  Preacher’s guns and supplies were in the tepee. When he walked up, Bright Leaf was standing there, a worried look on her face. She said, “Some of the women told me what happened to Anteater and Storm Cloud. They say you are leaving, Preacher.”

  She had stopped calling him Ghost-Killer, which was fine with him. He nodded and said, “Yes, Crazy Bear and I are going after the men who killed those young fellas.”

  “These are the same men who hurt you?”

  “I don’t know,” he answered honestly. “They could well be. Or they might belong to a different bunch. I won’t know until I lay eyes on ’em.”

  “Either way, they are bad men. Cruel. Violent. Ruthless.”

  “I don’t reckon there’s much doubt about that.”

  “You are not well enough—” Bright Leaf began.

  Preacher stopped her by putting his hands on her shoulders. “Thanks to you, I am well. Or close enough to it that it doesn’t matter.”

  Bitterness edged into her voice as she said, “Then I wish I had not taken such good care of you. I wish you were still too weak to throw your life away like this.”

  “I don’t intend on throwin’ anything away, especially my life,” Preacher told her with a smile.

  “But you do not know what will happen.”

  “Nobody does. That’s one of the things that keeps life interestin’.”

  “Life is safer when it is not interesting.”

  Preacher couldn’t dispute that. Safer, maybe…but a whole hell of a lot more boring.

  “I have to get my things,” he said.

  She stepped aside. “I will not stop you.” As he started past her, she added, “When you have killed the men you seek…will you come back to our village?”

  Preacher hadn’t thought about that. He was well enough that once the grim errand he and Crazy Bear were about to set out on was done, he could go on with his plans. One more season of trapping was as far ahead as he ever thought. He could spend that season there. Beaver were still plentiful in the area.

  But…if he spent the season in the valley, then wintered there as well, it might be too easy to stay on for good. He might grow too accustomed to having his belly filled with Bright Leaf’s cooking. He might get too used to waking up with her body snuggled warmly against his. If that happened, he would grow soft and fat.

  Was it truly better for a man to be cold and hungry and lonely? All he knew was he had spent much of his life in just such circumstances, and he was still alive. The edges of his entire being were still honed to a keen sharpness. If he ever lost that, there was no telling what might happen to him.

  Bright Leaf was still looking at him, waiting for his answer. Preacher met her gaze and said, “I might come back…someday.”

  “But not now.”

  “No,” he said. “Not now.”

  She nodded, then glanced away, obviously unable or unwilling to look at him any longer. He knew he had hurt her and wished he had been able to avoid that. But the only way would have been to turn her away when she first came to him, and that would have hurt her, too. At least they had had a few days and nights of happiness.

  Preacher went into the tepee. When he came out wearing his old buckskins that Bright Leaf had cleaned and mended for him and his broad-brimmed beaver felt hat, he carried his rifle and had his pistols tucked behind his belt. His hunting knife was in its sheath, and his saddlebags were slung over his shoulder.

  Bright Leaf was nowhere to be seen. Preacher didn’t look for h
er. He went to find Crazy Bear so they could get their horses and set out on their mission of vengeance.

  Chapter 5

  “Are ten or twelve men enough to stop and rob an entire wagon train?” Crazy Bear asked as he and Preacher rode through the Big Horn Mountains toward Owl Rock, following trails that were well known to both the Crow chief and the white mountain man.

  “Depends on the size of the wagon train,” Preacher replied. “I’ve seen some with a hundred or more wagons, and no, I don’t reckon a gang that size would attack such a big train. But maybe this is a smaller group of wagons. If those renegades know the wagons’ll be passin’ by Owl Rock, they must know how many are in the train. They could shoot the driver on each wagon and bring the whole train to a stop. Then it would just be a matter of pickin’ off the outriders and killin’ one of the lead oxen in every team. That’d bog the wagons down so they couldn’t move for sure.” Preacher shrugged. “The pilgrims who were left could either surrender or try to fight it out. Either way, they wouldn’t have much chance, stuck out in the open like that.”

  “Perhaps if they surrendered, those men would take their goods and let them go,” Crazy Bear suggested.

  Preacher shook his head. “You really believe that, after the way they murdered Anteater and Storm Cloud just for the sport of it?”

  “No,” Crazy Bear said. “I do not. These are men who enjoy killing. They would slaughter everyone on the wagon train before they were finished.”

  “I’m afraid you’re right,” Preacher said. “Of course, we don’t know yet that there is a wagon train, or when it’s gonna get here. All we got to go by is what a mortally wounded boy overheard.”

  “Anteater was a clever young man. I trust his words.”

  “That’s good enough for me, then,” Preacher declared.

  He was listening for shots in the distance but so far hadn’t heard any. That was a good sign, he told himself. The wagon train may not pass by Owl Rock for days yet. He and Crazy Bear might be in plenty of time to keep the settlers from being attacked.

  When Preacher saw a column of black smoke rising into the sky several miles to the east, his hopes were dashed. “Son of a bitch,” he muttered. “Look yonder.”

  “I see it,” Crazy Bear said. “The wagons Anteater spoke of?”

  “More than likely.” Preacher heeled his horse into a faster pace and tightened his grip on the pack animal’s reins. “Come on.”

  The two men rode hard toward the smoke. Leading Preacher’s pack horse slowed them down a little, but not much. When they reached the foothills of the mountain range and left the more rugged terrain behind them, they were able to go faster. Owl Rock rose in front of them. The towering formation loomed over the prairie that bordered the hills.

  They topped a ridge and pounded down the far slope. The burning remains of a dozen covered wagons came into view. The flames were beginning to die down as the canvas coverings and the boards were consumed, leaving only the iron wheels and framework of the wagons, but a considerable amount of black smoke still billowed skyward.

  A few dead oxen lay in their traces, but most of the animals were gone. The raiders must have gathered them up and driven them away. They could use some of the oxen for meat and trade the others to the Indians for pelts.

  The ground around the wagons was littered with bodies. Preacher’s face hardened into a grim mask as he saw them sprawled in attitudes of death.

  “We are too late,” Crazy Bear said.

  “Yeah. They must’ve attacked the wagons not long after they shot Anteater and Storm Cloud. We never had a chance to stop them. The wagons probably came along before we’d even left the village.”

  Preacher saw one small ray of hope. “The bastards haven’t been gone long. They took their time about lootin’ the wagons and then settin’ ’em on fire.”

  They rode up to the first wagon and reined in. Preacher recognized right away that it wasn’t actually the lead wagon. Marks on the ground told him that several others had been driven away from there.

  Preacher pointed out the tracks to Crazy Bear and said, “They moved everything they wanted from the other wagons into the first two or three and burned the others. Then they rode off and took their loot with them.”

  He swung down from the saddle and moved to the nearest of the corpses. Rolling the man onto his back, Preacher saw that he’d been shot several times. Lifeless eyes stared up at the late afternoon sky.

  “We’d better check ’em all and make sure they’re dead,” he told Crazy Bear.

  “Should we not pursue the men who did this?”

  “We will,” Preacher said. “But with those wagons full of loot, they won’t be able to move very fast.” He glanced at the western sky, where the sun was sinking lower toward the Big Horns. “There are only a couple hours of daylight left. They’ll have to make camp, and that’s when we’ll catch up to them.”

  A faint but savage smile curved Crazy Bear’s lips. “Then Ghost-Killer will strike,” he said.

  Preacher didn’t say anything to that. He had moved on to the next body, searching futilely for a sign of life. He and Crazy Bear continued checking the sprawled corpses, Preacher noting with anger that there were a number of older women and children among the bodies.

  No younger women, though, or girl-children older than ten or twelve. Preacher took note of that as well, and his face grew even bleaker as he realized what it meant.

  The renegades had taken prisoners with them.

  He pointed that out to Crazy Bear, who nodded in agreement. “They will sell the women and girls as slaves to the northern tribes,” he said. “Sometimes Blackfeet and Sioux will deal with white men if it means bringing misery to other whites.”

  “Yeah, I know. Them havin’ prisoners is gonna make our job harder. Those skunks won’t hesitate to use the women and girls as hostages.”

  “Perhaps we should have brought more of my warriors with us.”

  Preacher shook his head. “Nope. This is still a two-man job…as long a sit’s the right two men.”

  Suddenly he heard a groan that came from somewhere nearby. As he spun around, he saw one of the blood-soaked figures on the ground move an arm. Instantly, Preacher sprang to the man’s side, knelt, and carefully turned him over.

  The wounded man was a stocky old-timer with a bald head except for a fringe of gray hair around his ears. His homespun shirt was blotched with crimson, testifying to the fact that he’d been shot several times. His eyelids fluttered and then opened to reveal watery blue eyes filled with agony.

  “Who…who…?” he gasped.

  “Take it easy, old-timer,” Preacher said as he propped the man’s head on his leg, much like Crazy Bear had with Anteater earlier that day. “We’re friends.”

  The old man’s pain-wracked gaze moved past Preacher to Crazy Bear, who stood there looking down at him. “That…that’s an Injun!”

  “He won’t hurt you,” Preacher told him. “He’s a friend of mine. I’m Preacher, and he’s Crazy Bear. What’s your name?”

  “I’m…John Spaulding. I’m glad…you’re a preacher, mister. I’ll need somebody…to pray over…my grave.”

  Preacher didn’t bother to correct the man’s mistake. He said, “Don’t worry about that, Mr. Spaulding. You’re gonna be fine. Can you tell us what happened here?”

  “Those damn…Mayhews.”

  “You know who did this to you?” Preacher asked, frowning in surprise.

  “Yeah…Clint Mayhew and his brothers…and probably some other…no-good scoundrels.”

  Preacher thought that describing men who would carry out such a massacre and kidnap a bunch of women and girls as “no-good scoundrels” was being too kind to them.

  “How did you know them?”

  “They were supposed to…come with us to Montana…but they kept…causin’ trouble…Lee DuBusk, our wagon master…made them and their friends leave the train…’fore we ever veered off from the Oregon Trail.” Spaulding’s tongue ca
me out and moved over his lips. “Have you got…any water? I’m mighty…dry.”

  As shot up as the old man was, water wasn’t going to help him and might just make things worse, Preacher knew. But it was hard to deny such a request. He glanced up at Crazy Bear and said, “Can you get the canteen off my horse?”

  The Crow chief nodded and went to get the water.

  “Are you…sure you can trust that redskin?” Spaulding asked.

  “He saved my life a few weeks ago,” Preacher said. “So now I’d trust him with it.” He thought of something else. “These Mayhew brothers you mentioned…is one of ’em named Riley or Axel?”

  “Yeah, both. There were…five of ’em…Clint, Riley, Jord, Walt…and Axel. Now that I…think about it, though…didn’t see Axel in the bunch that…jumped us today.”

  That was plenty of proof for Preacher. He could see how it all laid out. The five Mayhew brothers and a couple companions had been kicked out of the party of immigrants heading for Montana. After that they’d decided to ride ahead of the wagons and ambush them, or maybe they had come up with that plan after running into some other outlaws up in the Big Horns. Either way, they had gotten sidetracked a little by their visit to Boadley’s trading post, where Preacher had killed Axel Mayhew. After bushwhacking Preacher they had carried on with their plan to waylay the wagon train.

  “Do you know how many there were?” Preacher asked as he heard Crazy Bear move up next to him with the canteen.

  “Not sure,” Spaulding said. “All hell broke loose…there was so much shootin’…Had to be…at least a dozen of the bastards. Maybe more.”

  “When they left, they took prisoners with them, didn’t they?”

  “Y-yeah. They took everybody’s money and valuables…and piled ’em in a wagon. Then they…got the women and girls…and made ’em get in a couple other wagons. I heard ’em yellin’ orders…heard the woman screamin’ and cryin’…but I couldn’t see much. I was already…shot to pieces.” Spaulding licked his lips again. “Can I get some o’ that…water now?”

  “Just a minute,” Preacher told him. “The Mayhews and their bunch headed north?”