Preacher's Blood Hunt Read online

Burton said, “We haven’t been standing guard all the time since the run-in with Druke.”

  “Somebody has been, either me or Gray Otter. You just didn’t realize it.”

  Mitchell chuckled. “Let me guess. Gray Otter is watching us right now and keeping an eye out for Druke. We just can’t see him. Is that right?”

  Will smiled. “That’s about the size of it.”

  Pennington asked, “We can’t talk the two of you into throwing in with us permanently, can we?”

  “I’m afraid not. We have our own things we need to do. We’ll be somewhere here in the valley, but King’s Crown is a big place. Chances are we won’t be close enough to help if you run into Druke and his men again.”

  “It’s a chance we’ll have to take,” Burton said with grim determination.

  “So be it.”

  Later that day, Will took his leave of the trappers. He shook hands with each of them and wished them luck before he rode off. He didn’t know if he would ever see them again.

  He wished he didn’t believe that possibility was quite as doubtful as he did.

  An hour or so after riding off, Will reined in as another figure on horseback emerged from a thick stand of trees and came toward him. A smile spread across his face as he recognized the slim, buckskin-clad rider. “I thought I’d run into you around here. You kept an eye on those three for a while after I left them, didn’t you?”

  Gray Otter didn’t answer that directly, but replied, “No sign of Druke or any of his men. They’re lying low after what happened to them.”

  “But it won’t stay that way.”

  “No,” Gray Otter agreed. “It won’t.”

  “We’ve done what we can for now. I think we ought to head for the cave and lie low for a while ourselves.”

  Gray Otter nodded.

  The cave Will mentioned was as close to a home as they had in King’s Crown. It was fairly high on the slope of one of the mountains and hard to spot. As far as they knew, they were the only ones who were aware of its existence. It made a good hiding place from Druke.

  They heeled their horses into motion and rode toward the cave. Will couldn’t help but smile as he thought about what was waiting for them there.

  Sam Turner hadn’t prayed since he was a kid and his ma had dragged him to services in the little country church not far from the Turner farm back in Virginia. He had never seen much evidence of God in their ramshackle cabin, nor in the beatings he’d received from his drunken, no-account father, even though the old man always claimed that he was trying to beat the Devil out of young Sam.

  After he’d finally had enough of it, stuck a pitchfork in the drunkard’s belly one night, and ran away from home, he didn’t see any point in asking for help from somebody he figured wasn’t there to hear him in the first place. Even if God was up there somewhere in Heaven, the hard-hearted ol’ skinflint didn’t listen to prayers from the likes of Sam Turner.

  It was only after Druke had sent him out alone to look for Blood Eye that Turner realized maybe God had given him the courage and strength to kill his pa and leave. He’d started praying for courage again, and for God to watch over him so that damned heathen didn’t kill him.

  Turner hadn’t slept a wink the night before, he was sure of that. His eyes wouldn’t close. They’d stared into the darkness as he’d searched for any movement.

  Exhaustion gripped him in the morning, but he forced himself to keep going. Nobody knew where Blood Eye could be found at any particular time, of course; the renegade Crow was like a phantom, able to turn up anywhere without warning.

  According to Druke, Blood Eye’s home, if he had one, was up the narrow canyon that cut into the mountains forming King’s Crown. Just ride up the canyon, Druke had told Turner, and sooner or later Blood Eye would find him.

  What Druke hadn’t said, but what Turner knew, was that the loco redskin might kill him on a whim. Nobody knew why Blood Eye spared some people and others he strung up and put through hell itself before he finally killed them.

  Some connection existed between Druke and Blood Eye, but Turner didn’t know what it was. He suspected the two of them had worked together in the past, before Turner became part of Druke’s gang. All Turner knew for sure was that Blood Eye had shown up in King’s Crown not long after Druke and had come out of the canyon from time to time to help the gang get rid of some particularly stubborn opposition.

  Blood Eye probably murdered other trappers from time to time, whether Druke told him to or not. It wouldn’t surprise Turner to find out that Blood Eye even ate his victims, like some sort of wild animal.

  He moaned as that thought went through his head. He imagined himself winding up in Blood Eye’s belly. Would the renegade cook him, or just tear his flesh from his bones and gobble it down raw?

  He rode past one of the big slabs of rock that littered the canyon floor as that ghastly image haunted his mind. With no warning, something slammed into his back and side and knocked him off the horse. Turner hit the ground so hard it knocked all the breath out of his body and stunned him.

  He couldn’t put up a fight or even squeal in terror as his attacker rolled him onto his back and put a knife at his throat. Turner knew he was about to die, but couldn’t do a blasted thing about it.

  His eyes widened as he gazed up at the figure looming over him. He had seen Blood Eye before, so the Indian’s appearance didn’t come as a complete shock to him. It was the first time he had ever been so close, though.

  Blood Eye wore a single feather that stuck up at an angle from his thick black hair. His high-cheekboned, heavily pitted face looked like it might have been hacked out of red sandstone. His nose seemed as sharp as an ax blade. His thin-lipped mouth drew a grim line across the lower part of his face.

  Turner found himself staring at the feature that gave the renegade his name. The white man couldn’t tear his own eyes away from it.

  The Indian’s right eye had been injured in battle when he was a young warrior, causing the eyeball to turn red. The dead black pupil was surrounded by crimson. Blood Eye couldn’t see anything out of that blind orb, but the other eye worked just fine. He saw plenty well enough to kill.

  Turner realized that he had stopped breathing. Afraid to move even a fraction of an inch, he knew if he did, Blood Eye’s knife would slash his throat and it would all be over.

  Instead, Blood Eye lifted the knife away from Turner’s skin and grunted. “Druke’s man.”

  Involuntarily, Turner gasped for air.

  When he trusted himself to talk, he said, “That . . . that’s right. Druke sent me. He . . . he wanted me to find you . . . or rather, for you to find me . . . so I can take you back to him.”

  “I know where Druke is.” Blood Eye spoke passable English, although his voice was so guttural he was difficult to understand. “I know where everything and everyone is in this valley.”

  “Yeah, I . . . I don’t doubt it.”

  Blood Eye put his left hand on Turner’s chest and pushed himself to his feet. With his right hand, he slid the knife back into its sheath.

  Turner knew better than to ask the renegade for a hand up. Blood Eye might cut it off, instead. Turner rolled onto his side and clambered upright. His horse had dashed away about fifty yards along the canyon floor, he saw.

  “What does Druke want with me?” Blood Eye asked.

  Turner’s pulse still raced. Blood pounded in his head. Just being close to the renegade caused that. He swallowed. “I reckon he wants you to kill somebody.”

  “Who?”

  “A trapper named Will Gardner, and Gardner’s friend, an Injun called Gray Otter. You know them?”

  Blood Eye really surprised Turner then.

  He smiled.

  “I know who they are,” Blood Eye said. “They move like the night wind through the trees. You see the proof that they are there, but you cannot see them.”

  Turner figured Blood Eye meant you knew when Gardner and Gray Otter were around because men got hurt,
but you never saw where the arrows and the rifle balls came from. That described it pretty well, all right.

  “They’re causin’ more and more trouble,” Turner said. “You reckon you could, uh, get rid of ’em for us?”

  “Why would I do that?”

  “Because you and Druke are . . . I dunno. Friends?”

  Blood Eye shook his head. “I have no friends. But I will come and talk to Druke about this. I would not mind killing this Gardner.”

  Turner knew he might be pushing his luck, but he was scared of Jebediah Druke, too, and wanted everything to work out to the boss’s satisfaction. “What about Gray Otter?”

  Blood Eye’s smile widened, but that didn’t make Turner feel any better. A harsh laugh came from the renegade. “I have plans of my own for Gray Otter.”

  Turner had no idea what Blood Eye meant by that, but he was absolutely certain of one thing.

  He wouldn’t have wanted to be Gray Otter, not for all the beaver pelts west of the Mississippi.

  CHAPTER 11

  Jebediah Druke’s wounded arm still throbbed a little every time he moved it, a frequent reminder of just how much he hated Will Gardner and Gray Otter and wanted to settle the score with them. Sam Turner had been gone for a couple days. Druke waited impatiently for his lieutenant to return, although he knew there was no way of telling how long it might take him to find Blood Eye.

  That damned renegade was everywhere . . . and nowhere, Druke mused as he sat in his cabin and drank from a jug of whiskey. Nobody found Blood Eye unless the Crow wanted to be found.

  Druke hoped Blood Eye wouldn’t take the notion to kill Turner. It might happen that way, and Druke knew it. So did Turner. That was probably why Turner looked so walleyed when he left the crude little settlement.

  The door, slightly askew on its leather hinges, stood partially open. Druke heard footsteps approaching the cabin. He lowered the jug he had raised to his mouth and set it to one side on the table. He rested his hand on the loaded pistol in front of him as a shadow appeared in the doorway.

  Vargas paused in the opening. A Spaniard, he had already been in King’s Crown when Druke arrived and had volunteered to join up as soon as he saw the handwriting on the wall. Druke recognized that Vargas was tough and didn’t have an ounce of mercy in him, so he’d agreed to take the Spaniard into the gang.

  “Creighton just rode back in, boss.” Vargas spoke good English having spent more than ten years in America, most of it as a fur trapper out on the frontier.

  “Did he find anything?” Druke had sent Creighton, as well as several other men, out to look for Will Gardner and Gray Otter. He wanted to know where to find them when the time came to strike back.

  “Says he did,” Vargas drawled.

  Druke scowled and reached for the jug again. “Well, don’t just stand there,” he snapped. “Go get him and bring him here.”

  “Just wanted to make sure you weren’t resting before I disturbed you, boss. What with you being hurt and all, you know.”

  Druke growled. “Get Creighton.”

  Vargas disappeared from the doorway, returning a minute later with a tall, lean figure in buckskins. Matthew Creighton had a long, thin face made to seem even longer by the pointed goatee he wore. He had been a lawyer somewhere back east before he came west.

  A crooked lawyer, Druke suspected, but he never pressed any of his men for details about their past. That was their business.

  Druke pushed the jug across the table toward the newcomer. “Have a drink first, then tell me what you found, Creighton.”

  The outlaw picked up the jug, tipped it to his mouth, and took a swallow. The busthead burned like fire as it went down, but Creighton never showed any sign of discomfort. “Gardner and the Indian are holed up in a cave in the side of a mountain about ten miles from here.”

  “Can you find the place again?”

  “Of course.” Creighton paused. “But there’s no guarantee they’ll still be there when you decide to make a move against them, Jebediah.”

  “Let me worry about that.” Druke growled.

  “That’s not all,” Creighton said. “They have a woman with them.”

  Druke leaned forward in sudden interest. Vargas had stopped in the doorway and casually leaned a shoulder against the jamb, but he stood up straight when he heard Creighton’s words.

  “A woman,” Druke repeated.

  “Well . . . a squaw. But a very attractive one. I spotted her when she came out of the cave to fetch water this morning, wearing only a loin cloth. That left no doubt as to her gender, although I wasn’t close enough to make out any other details, even with the spyglass I was using. I couldn’t afford to get too close to them because I didn’t want Gray Otter to realize they were being followed.”

  “Where’d the woman come from?” Druke asked.

  “She must have been waiting there for Gardner and Gray Otter. I followed them to the cave yesterday evening, just as it was getting dark. I waited overnight to make sure they weren’t going to pull out early this morning, but I didn’t see either of them, just the woman. When it seemed likely that they weren’t leaving the place today, I got back here as fast as I could.”

  Druke nodded slowly as he considered Creighton’s report. He wasn’t confident that his enemies would stay at that cave for more than a day or two. Gardner and Gray Otter probably had similar hideouts scattered all over King’s Crown.

  But the knowledge that they had a woman with them was new, and it might turn out to be important. A woman represented a potential weakness, and Druke made a habit of using every possible weakness against his adversaries.

  “Good work,” he told Creighton, then looked past the scout at Vargas. “When Turner gets back with Blood Eye, you bring them straight here to me, no matter what time of day or night it is or what I’m doing, you understand that?”

  “Sure, boss,” Vargas agreed. He looked a little uncomfortable at the mention of Blood Eye, as did Creighton.

  Druke didn’t really blame them for feeling that way. He had never seen anybody scarier than that damned renegade.

  Unless maybe it was himself.

  When Creighton was gone, Vargas lingered. “There’s something else we need to talk about, boss.”

  “What’s that?” Druke had had enough whiskey, and his arm hurt enough, that he was starting to get surly again.

  “Those three trappers we tried to run out a few days ago, they’re still here in the valley.”

  Druke frowned. “They didn’t light out when they had the chance?”

  “No, they’re still running their trap lines. Having Gardner and Gray Otter save their bacon must’ve made them bold.”

  “Well, that was a damned mistake.” Druke thought about handling the situation himself, then decided it would probably be a good idea to let his arm heal some more before he used it for anything too strenuous. “Take some men, Vargas, and show them how wrong they were.”

  “You mean—”

  “I mean kill them,” Druke said. “No warnings this time. Just kill them and fetch their load of pelts back here.”

  He reached for the jug of whiskey as Vargas nodded and left the cabin. Things were looking a little better. As soon as Will Gardner and Gray Otter were taken care of, there wouldn’t be anything standing in the way of him ruling over King’s Crown as he was destined to do.

  Enos Mitchell, John Burton, and Carl Pennington had taken Will Gardner’s advice to heart ever since the young man had parted company with them the day before. One of them had been on guard the whole time. They took turns studying the landscape around them as they held a rifle ready to fire if need be.

  At the moment, Burton was the sentry while Mitchell and Pennington worked a beaver carcass loose from one of the traps they had set up at the edge of a fast-flowing stream. The former law clerk turned his head from side to side as he stood on the bank with his long-barreled flintlock rifle slanted across his chest. Through narrowed eyes, he searched the wooded hills around
them for any sign of movement.

  “This is the fourth beaver we’ve gotten today,” Pennington said. “I think we’re gettin’ better at this, fellas.”

  “Another month or so and we ought to have a decent load of pelts to sell,” Mitchell said. “Should we take ’em all the way back to St. Louis or try to sell them at one of the fur company outposts?”

  Burton said, “The prices are better in St. Louis.”

  “But it’s a long way,” Mitchell said. “And once we’re there, it’d be mighty tempting not to come back.”

  Pennington said, “I’m not sure there’s anything wrong with that. This whole trip has been a lot harder than I expected it to be. More dangerous, too.”

  Burton snorted. “There’s a reason it’s called the frontier, Carl. You can’t expect all the comforts of civilization out here.”

  “Maybe not, but you expected that varmint Druke to follow the rule of law,” Mitchell pointed out.

  “Someday there’ll be law and order out here,” Burton insisted. “You can count on that. It’s inevitable.”

  “Can’t be soon enough to suit me,” Pennington said as he stepped up onto the bank. “I—”

  His sentence went unfinished as a rifle blasted somewhere in the trees. Pennington jerked back as a dark, red-rimmed hole suddenly appeared in the center of his forehead. With his arms flung out to the sides, he toppled over backward into the stream with a huge splash that sent glittering drops of water sailing high into the air.

  CHAPTER 12

  Preacher heard the sudden outburst of gunfire and stiffened in the saddle. It wasn’t unusual to hear shots out on the frontier, but that many of them so close together nearly always meant trouble.

  He had ridden into King’s Crown early that morning through a pass in the ring of mountains that formed the valley. Since then, he hadn’t seen anybody, but the gunshots were proof positive that someone was nearby . . . and probably in trouble.

  He dropped the pack horse’s reins. He could always retrieve the animal later. His heels prodded Horse’s flanks and sent the stallion loping forward. They were in a little saddle between two hills, and below them about half a mile away lay one of the streams that twisted through the valley. The thick growth of cottonwoods and aspen along its banks clearly marked its course.