Preacher's Rage Read online

  A couple of yards away, Hemming was trying to get up, too. He planted his feet underneath him enough to launch himself into a diving tackle that caught Hawk around the shoulders. They rolled over several times.

  Sharp rocks gouged into Hawk’s flesh, adding to the pain that enveloped him. Hemming’s face loomed over him, and Hawk jabbed a punch into it. At the same time, Hemming dug a knee into Hawk’s belly. Hawk didn’t have any more breath to lose, however. His head spun wildly, and he knew he was on the verge of passing out.

  Hemming straddled him and snatched up a sharp-edged piece of rock about a foot wide. A hate-filled snarl pulled the man’s lips back from his teeth as he used both hands to raise the rock high above his head.

  Hawk was about to die.

  CHAPTER 5

  Preacher, White Buffalo, Aaron Buckley, Charlie Todd, and Dog were waiting in the trees while Hawk circled the meadow to take the watcher from behind.

  Tired of waiting, Aaron broke their silence and asked Preacher, “How do you intend to attack the men we’re after when they outnumber us almost five to one?”

  “Takin’ ’em by surprise will make a lot of difference. If we can put half a dozen or more of ’em out of the fight before they rightly know what’s goin’ on, that’ll make the odds look a whole lot better.”

  “But in order to do that,” Charlie said with a frown, “we’ll have to shoot them from ambush. That means not giving them any warning.”

  “I reckon,” Preacher said, nodding.

  “That kind of bothers me. It seems like that would make us . . . well, just as bad as they are. After all, that’s what they tried to do to us, isn’t it?”

  White Buffalo said, “They tried to kill us first. That makes whatever we do in defense of our own lives acceptable.”

  “But we killed the men who were trying to kill us,” Charlie argued. “With them, it was self-defense, sure. That just makes sense. But we’ll be attacking these other men before they’ve done anything to us.”

  “I can see why that’d bother you,” Preacher said. “I really can. But you got to think about it like this, Charlie. Crawlin’ through that field put me in mind of rattlesnakes, because I thought I might run into one. What would you do if you came on a whole nest o’ rattlesnakes?”

  “I’d kill them,” Aaron answered without hesitation. “I’d blast away until they were all dead.”

  “Yeah, I suppose I would, too,” Charlie admitted.

  “But if you found ’em in their nest, they wouldn’t have struck you yet,” Preacher said. “They probably wouldn’t have even tried to, if they were denned up.”

  Charlie shook his head. “It would still be too dangerous to let them live. They might bite one of us or somebody else in the future.” He began nodding slowly in understanding. “They might have struck and killed other people in the past.”

  “Yep. To change the talk from snakes to dogs, the time to shoot a mad dog is before he bites somebody.”

  “But you’re still assuming that every one of those men is just as bad as all the others,” Charlie said. “You can’t know that they’re all mad dogs. Some of them might be redeemable. They might not have ever hurt anybody.”

  “There’s that chance, all right. But if you throw in with a bad bunch, you got to figure that you might come to a bad end, too. Life ain’t always black and white on the frontier . . . nor anywhere else, Charlie. A fella does what he has to in order to see that he and the folks he cares about get through it. In the end, that’s all anybody can do.”

  “That’s a hard way of looking at things.”

  “Yeah, I reckon it is. But if you do what seems right, it all balances out in the end . . . if you’re lucky.”

  Before that philosophical discussion could continue, a pair of shots suddenly shattered the midday peace and quiet. They came so close together the reports almost sounded like one blast, but Preacher’s keen ears picked out the difference. One rifle and one pistol, he thought . . . and no more shots followed as the echoes of those two rolled up the valley.

  “Hawk!” Aaron exclaimed softly. He took a step toward the edge of the trees.

  Preacher put out an arm to stop him. “Hold on there. You don’t need to go chargin’ out into the open while we don’t know what’s goin’ on. Could be Hawk had to kill that varmint to save his own life. If that’s what happened, we’ll know soon enough.”

  “And if the man killed Hawk?”

  “We’ll know that, too.” Preacher left unspoken the fact that if his son was dead, he would wreak a terrible vengeance on whoever was responsible for that.

  The two shots had come from the direction of the northern ridge. When no more gunfire erupted, Preacher moved to the edge of the trees where the shadows still partially concealed him but he could see across the creek into the abandoned camp and the ridges that rose around it.

  Movement caught his eye. Atop the ridge, two roughly dressed figures came into view, struggling with each other. Only a couple of heartbeats passed before one of the men slipped, fell, and dragged the other down with him. Both men began sliding down the loose rock that covered the steep slope.

  “Hawk’s in that rockslide!” Preacher burst out of the trees, his own advice to Aaron forgotten. There was no question. He knew his son was in danger. He had gotten a good enough look to recognize Hawk before the two men fell.

  With his rifle held at a slant across his chest, Preacher raced toward the creek. Dog bounded alongside him. The others probably followed, but Preacher didn’t look back to check on them. All his attention was focused on reaching Hawk and making sure the young warrior was all right.

  A cloud of dust followed the two men down the ridge and rolled over them as they reached its base. Preacher could no longer see them. He splashed into the creek, which flowed swiftly but was no more than two feet deep. Water flew high around him, the droplets sparkling in the midday sun.

  As he bounded onto the stream’s western bank, the dust thinned and he saw Hawk and the other man again as they fought among the talus that had slid down the slope with them. The other man was easy for Preacher to pick out because he wore a lighter-colored homespun shirt instead of buckskin like Hawk.

  Preacher was still a hundred yards away when he knew the man was about to bring a large rock crashing down on Hawk’s head in a death blow.

  Preacher couldn’t reach the two men in time, but a rifle ball could. Stopping short, he brought his rifle to his shoulder and took only an instant to aim. The weapon boomed and spewed flame and smoke from the long barrel.

  Through the white smoke, Preacher saw the man lurch as the ball struck him. The rock flew from his hands as he toppled forward. Preacher broke into a run again and hoped that the rock hadn’t fallen on Hawk and injured or killed him.

  The sight of Hawk struggling to push the larger man’s body off him dispelled that worry as Preacher approached. The mountain man pulled a pistol from his belt in case the stranger wasn’t dead and still had some fight left in him.

  That didn’t appear to be the case. When Hawk shoved the man away and the man flopped over loosely onto his back, Preacher saw the large, bloody splotch on the front of the homespun shirt. He knew his shot had struck the man in the back and blasted a hole clean through him.

  So much for the idea of taking the man alive. Saving Hawk’s life was more important, though.

  Hawk was sitting up, coughing, and rubbing dust and grit from his eyes by the time Preacher reached him. He stopped and looked over his son. Dust coated Hawk’s hair, face, and clothes, and a few drops of blood leaked from cuts and scrapes here and there. Otherwise he appeared to be all right.

  “Thank you,” Hawk said, his voice hoarse from the dust he had breathed in. “That was a good shot.”

  “Glad I was here to make it. This is the fella that was spyin’ on the camp?”

  “Yes.”

  Preacher tucked his pistol away and extended a hand to Hawk. The young warrior lifted his arm, and they clasped wrists.
Preacher pulled Hawk to his feet.

  “He was by himself?”

  “Yes,” Hawk said. “I made sure of that before I tried to capture him.”

  “He didn’t want to be took alive, though, I reckon.”

  “He put up a fight,” Hawk said. “He was a good fighter, too. But before that, I spoke with him for several minutes. He tried to distract me with talk. He claimed he was a trapper and not part of the group that had been camped here.”

  Charlie, Aaron, and White Buffalo came trotting up in time to hear what Hawk said.

  Aaron asked, “You didn’t believe him, did you?”

  “He was convincing. I was not sure whether to believe him. But he lied. I know that now. If he had been telling the truth, he would have had no reason to try to kill me.” Hawk nodded. “He was one of them, all right. I have no doubt of that.”

  “Me, neither.” Preacher looked at the man’s lifeless eyes staring up at the sky and added, “At least he won’t sneak off and warn the rest that we’re after ’em.”

  “He said something else,” Hawk told them. “He claimed that the others have a prisoner. A young Indian woman.”

  “A woman?” Charlie repeated in a surprised exclamation.

  Hawk nodded.

  “Was he telling the truth about that?” Aaron asked.

  “There is no way to know,” Hawk replied. “Perhaps it was just another attempt to distract me. But it seems an odd thing to make up.”

  Preacher scraped a thumbnail along his jawline and frowned. “Yeah, that’s right. But it wouldn’t be the first time a bunch of lowlifes grabbed an Injun gal. I don’t reckon it really matters.”

  “If she’s their prisoner, I think it probably matters to her,” Aaron said.

  Preacher shook his head. “That ain’t what I meant. We’re still goin’ after those varmints whether they’ve got a prisoner or not. If they do, and they’ve been mistreatin’ her, that’s just one more reason to kill them.” He looked at Charlie Buckley. “Like a whole den o’ rattlers.”

  * * *

  Jefferson Scarrow hoped the uneasy feeling that had come over him would dissipate once the men broke camp and moved on. That didn’t happen. His nerves grew more tense as the day wore on and he searched for a new place to make camp. In case of trouble, they needed somewhere that would be easy to defend.

  That turned out to be a high, beetling bluff on the western bank that bulged out over the creek. The overhang was so great that it formed a cavelike area underneath it. Scarrow spotted the place and pointed it out to Hog Plumlee, who occupied the lead canoe along with Scarrow. Plumlee dug his paddle into the water and angled toward the bank. Scarrow, behind him, paddled hard against the current as well. The creek had widened and become deeper as they proceeded upstream. By this point, it was almost big enough to be called a river.

  The other ten canoes trailed behind them, some riding lower in the water because they were loaded with pelts as well as the men who rode in them. The Indian girl was in one of the canoes, as well, trussed up and lying in the bottom of the craft so she couldn’t throw herself out into the water and drown. Scarrow had a feeling she would have preferred that fate to remaining a captive, so he wasn’t going to risk her making such a desperate move.

  As he and Plumlee came up to the bluff, he saw that the space underneath it was a good twenty feet deep, perhaps more, and fifty or sixty feet long. Room enough for a fire and the supplies they would need to unload, and the overhang would disperse the smoke. A brushy stretch of bank nearby would provide a place where they could pull the canoes ashore and conceal them. This location wasn’t perfect, Scarrow thought, but it would do nicely enough for a time. Long enough for them to determine if any pursuers were on their trail.

  Gordie Hemming was supposed to stay on the ridge overlooking their old camp for the rest of this day and another day after that. If Lopez and the other men hadn’t returned by then, it wasn’t likely they ever would. If no pursuers had shown up looking for the rest of the group, Scarrow figured he didn’t have to worry about that threat. It would have been nice to know what had happened to Lopez and the others, but it wasn’t a necessity.

  Scarrow pointed to the brushy stretch and told Plumlee, “Let’s paddle on up there and go ashore. There’s a ledge that leads back down here.”

  “We’re gonna fort up in that cave?” Plumlee asked over his shoulder.

  “For the time being.”

  Plumlee’s massive arms and shoulders made the paddle cleave the water with considerable power. The canoe breasted the current and moved up to the bank. He lifted the paddle and reached for a branch that hung out over the water. He held the canoe in place while Scarrow climbed out, found some good footing, and took hold of the canoe. Then Plumlee got out as well and the two of them dragged the craft ashore.

  The other men repeated the process, and within minutes all eleven canoes were pulled up on the bank with brush around them, making them hard to see.

  When they were secure, Scarrow said to Plumlee, “Bring the girl.”

  Plumlee bent over and reached into the canoe where the prisoner was. The young woman flinched away from him, but she didn’t have anywhere to go. Wedged into the bottom of the canoe the way she was, she couldn’t retreat.

  Plumlee picked her up like a doll and draped her belly-down over his left shoulder. She kicked at him with her bound feet until he smacked her sharply where her buckskin dress was stretched tight over her rump.

  “Stop that, gal,” he rumbled at her. “You best behave yourself, if you know what’s good for you.”

  With the girl on his shoulder, he walked along the ledge behind Scarrow, who led the way into the big hollow under the bluff.

  Scarrow stopped, put his hands on his hips, and looked around, assessing the place. When he was satisfied, he nodded and said, “This will do for now.”

  Plumlee lowered the captive to the ground. She glared up at him, and he chuckled.

  “Don’t worry, darlin’,” he told her. “I’ll gather some pine boughs and use a blanket and make a little bed for you. You’ll be as comfortable as if you were in some fancy hotel back in St. Louis.”

  CHAPTER 6

  Preacher and his companions didn’t take the time or go to the effort of burying the man Preacher had shot. The wilderness was remarkably efficient when it came to disposing of dead bodies. Preacher always figured he would wind up the same way someday, even though he was so stringy he would make a tough meal for whatever scavengers got to him first.

  Instead they headed north, following the stream. Preacher had spotted the marks where canoes had been drawn up on the shore, so they knew the men they were after were traveling that way, rather than by horseback.

  Because their quarry had to follow the creek but could leave it on either bank, Preacher split his group. Hawk and White Buffalo stayed on the stream’s western side while Preacher and the two young trappers took the eastern bank. As long as they didn’t come across cached canoes or any other sign that the men had left the creek, they knew they were still on the trail.

  They could rely on Dog, too, to alert them if he caught the scent on either side of the creek. The big cur ranged back and forth on both banks.

  It was only a matter of time, Preacher thought as he moved Horse along at an easy walk. Although the possibility that the thieves had a female prisoner with them added a layer of urgency. There was no telling how much of an ordeal she had already suffered, but the sooner she was free, the better.

  “How long will it take us to catch up to them?” Aaron asked as he urged his horse up alongside Preacher’s mount.

  “Maybe tonight, maybe tomorrow,” the mountain man replied. “The ashes of that campfire were still a mite warm. I reckon they broke camp sometime around the middle of the mornin’, which means they’re only a few hours ahead of us.”

  “They’re going upstream. Won’t that slow them down?”

  “Sure. Some, anyway.”

  “Then if we hurry, we might
even catch them by the end of the day,” Aaron suggested.

  “We can’t afford to rush too much. They might’ve left the creek somewhere and we don’t want to miss it if they did. Out here on the frontier, there are times you need to hurry, and times you need to take things more slow and careful-like.” Preacher’s mouth curved in a smile under his dark, drooping mustache. “Knowin’ which one is which is a big part of bein’ able to stay alive.”

  Charlie said, “We’ll never know as much as you, Preacher. Not if we stayed out here twenty years.”

  “Been longer than that since I came west. Thing is, twenty years from now, the frontier’s gonna be tamed down a whole heap. Anybody with eyes can see that. More and more immigrants are headin’ west these days. Whole dang wagon trains full of ’em. Civilization’s like a weed. You can’t stop it from growin’, no matter how much you stomp on it.”

  “I don’t think most people regard civilization as something to be stopped or stamped out,” Aaron said.

  “Maybe not . . . but most folks have never seen this high country the way it was in the beginnin’, when fellas like John Colter first come out here, or even a little later when I came along. It was the cleanest, freshest place anybody ever saw, just the way God made it. Dangerous as hell, of course . . . but that’s the way God made it, too.” Preacher shook his head. “Anyway, what I was gettin’ at, is that in twenty years, you won’t have to know as much to survive out here as you do now. Shoot, by then there’ll probably be things that I don’t know, but fellas like you two will. Old mountain men like me will be . . . what do you call it? Obsolete, that’s it. I’ll be obsolete, even if I’m still drawin’ breath.” He chuckled. “Which ain’t all that likely, come to think of it, considerin’ how I’m always gettin’ tangled up in so much trouble.”