Norman had already started eyeing the bundles of furs stacked up at the back of the camp. “You know, if somethin’ was to happen to the other fellas and they all die out yonder, we’d have to decide sooner or later what to do about those pelts.”
“Scarrow and the others outnumber the bastards they went after,” Merrill said. “Do you really think they won’t come back?”
“You can’t ever tell,” Blassingame put in. “Hell, they could get caught in an avalanche or something and wiped out. We can’t just sit here waiting for them forever.”
Merrill protested. “It hasn’t even been a day yet! We shouldn’t be talking about this already.”
“A fella’s got to be prepared,” Norman replied. “That’s all I’m sayin’.” He walked over closer to the pelts and studied the stacked bundles.
The other two joined him. Blassingame got a look of intense concentration on his face, and after a couple of minutes, he said, “You know, the money those pelts would bring amounts to a whole hell of a lot more if you divide it three ways, instead of thirty or even fifteen. I never was very good at ciphering, but I’m sure of that much, anyway.”
“I had the same thought,” Norman said. “Split three ways, it would be enough to make each of us a rich man, even if we didn’t take a single pelt more than what’s there right now.”
Merrill glared and shook his head. “You boys are fools. Yeah, we could load up those furs and the supplies and head downstream. We’d be back to the Missouri River in a few days and in St. Louis is less than a month. And yeah, maybe we’d be rich.” He paused. “But how long do you think it would be before Scarrow tracked us down and settled up with us for deserting him? Chances are, he’d have Hog with him, too. I don’t want to have those two trackin’ me down and looking for revenge.”
“Who’s to say they’d even be alive?” Norman demanded with a touch of impatience in his voice. “Anyway, I’m not sayin’ we should go ahead and run out now. I just think that after a reasonable amount of time, we need to start thinkin’ about—”
He never got to continue that argument. At that moment he made a gagging sound and stumbled forward a step. When Merrill and Blassingame turned their heads to look at him, they were horrified to see a bloody flint arrowhead and about four inches of the arrow’s shaft sticking out from Norman’s throat. The missile had struck him in the back of the neck and gone all the way through. Crimson blood welled out around the shaft and poured down over his chest as he dropped to his knees.
They knew that Norman was already as good as dead. Ignoring him as he pitched forward on his face and spasmed, they whirled around to see where the arrow had come from and cursed. They had left their rifles over by the campfire.
Not that they would have had a chance to reach the weapons anyway. Several buckskin-clad savages with painted faces stood at the edge of the creek with arrows already drawn back on their bows. They fired as the two white men turned.
Merrill staggered back as what felt like a hard punch with a fist struck him in the chest. He looked down and saw an arrow’s shaft with fletching on the end protruding from his chest. Pain blossomed inside him. He roared in a mixture of agony and anger and managed to plant a foot and catch himself before he fell. He had a loaded pistol behind his belt and fumbled at the butt as he tried to drag it out.
Beside him, Blassingame screamed as arrows struck him in both thighs. Blood streamed from the wounds, and the muscles in his legs didn’t hold him up anymore. He toppled over.
The Indians charged toward the two men. Merrill finally got his pistol free and struggled to hold on to it with both hands as he raised it and pulled back the hammer with his thumb. He was in too much pain to see straight, so he didn’t bother trying to aim, just jerked the trigger and fired blindly.
One of the savages jerked as the pistol ball struck him in the upper left arm, missing the bone but tunneling through flesh and spraying blood when it came out. He dropped the bow he was carrying in that hand.
His right arm still worked just fine, though. He grabbed a tomahawk that hung at his waist and threw it with force and skill. The tomahawk revolved once in midair, then the head struck Merrill just above the right eye, shattering bone and cleaving into the white man’s brain. Merrill crumpled, dead by the time he hit the ground.
That left Blassingame. He screamed again and tried to scuttle backward, dragging his useless legs as the savages closed in around him. He had a pistol, too, and his terror-clouded mind cleared enough to prompt him into making a grab for it. Just as he pulled it from behind his belt, one of the Indians kicked it out of his hand.
Another savage struck Blassingame in the head with the flat of a tomahawk, knocking him down and stunning him. The world spun crazily around him. He flung his arms out to the sides and his fingers scrabbled at the dirt and rock underneath him. In his addled state, he felt like he would go flying off the earth if he didn’t hang on.
A fresh burst of pain exploded in him and cleared his mind. He looked over and saw that an Indian had driven a knife through the back of his right hand and into the ground, pinning it there. Blassingame began to shriek in agony.
The thought that the women he had killed with a blade might have suffered just as much never entered his brain.
Blassingame closed his eyes and lay there whimpering, knowing that he was going to die any second. Merrill and Norman were already dead, and he would soon be joining them. It didn’t occur to him that the savages might have a reason for sparing his life so far.
A foot smashed into his side in a vicious kick. The impact made Blassingame gasp, start to rise up, and then scream again as that movement caused even more pain in his impaled hand. He opened his eyes as the foot came down on his chest and held him still.
The Indian who loomed over him looked enormously tall from that angle. The savage’s broad shoulders and thick chest testified to his power. He leaned over and said in good English that might have surprised Blassingame if he hadn’t been so scared and hurting, “I am Angry Sky, white man . . . and before you die, you will tell me what I want to know.”
CHAPTER 12
Preacher’s memories of the area turned out to be correct, as they usually did no matter where he was. Once he had been in a place or followed a trail, he never forgot it. That afternoon he spotted the pass above them, right about where he had thought it would be. They continued climbing toward it as the day went on.
Any time they were walking and leading the horses, which was often, Butterfly headed for Hawk and walked beside him. Preacher wasn’t the only one who noticed that, or the way the two of them spoke quietly to each other in conversations they didn’t share with the rest of the group.
“The Crow squaw thinks to make Hawk her man,” White Buffalo commented to Preacher. “And he likes the idea.”
“Well, you can’t blame him for that. She’s a fine-lookin’ gal, especially considerin’ all that she’s been through.”
White Buffalo sniffed. “She would be happier with an older, wiser, more experienced warrior. One who knows how to deliver unto her true fulfillment as a woman.”
Preacher grinned. “And that’d be you, I reckon.”
“Many are the comely maidens who first knew pleasure in the lodge of White Buffalo! I remember one who swore that never before had she—”
“I’m sure you do,” Preacher interrupted him, not wanting to listen to White Buffalo’s boasting for the next ten minutes. “Have you seen any signs of anybody behind us?”
The old-timer shook his head. “No, but Dog is back there somewhere, making certain that we are not followed. He told me that you had ordered him to do so, when he said farewell to me before leaving.”
“I don’t have to tell Dog to do much of anything. He knows what needs to be done. Shoot, sometimes I think he’s the smartest one of the whole bunch of us.”
“I would not argue with that. Save for myself, of course.”
“Of course,” Preacher agreed dryly.
A
short time later, Charlie Todd moved alongside Preacher and also brought up the subject of Hawk and Butterfly. “Those two seem to be getting along really well. Hawk’s still as serious and solemn as ever, of course, but I think he likes all the attention.”
Preacher smiled. “Are you feelin’ a mite jealous, Charlie?”
“Me? No, not at all.” Charlie shrugged. “Although it would take a blind man not to realize how attractive Butterfly is. There’s something different about her . . .”
Preacher wondered if Charlie was starting to have his suspicions about Butterfly being white, too. All it would take was a good close look at her eyes. Preacher had been postponing that himself. He didn’t see that it made any real difference. He was curious, certainly, but he would satisfy that curiosity when he got around to it and didn’t see any point in hurrying.
“Actually,” Charlie went on, “Aaron and I have always planned to return to Virginia once we’ve made our fortunes out here in the frontier. There’ll be plenty of very beautiful young women back there to choose from, especially since by then we’ll be rich businessmen.”
“Got your eye on anybody in particular?”
“Well . . .” Charlie cleared his throat, and when Preacher glanced over, he saw that the young man was blushing. “There is one girl named Deborah who I’m quite fond of. She even has a sister who would be perfect for Aaron.”
“Hope it all works out for you. I’m glad there won’t be any squabbles amongst you and Aaron and Hawk over that Butterfly gal.”
“No, I don’t think you have to worry about that. But once we find a village where she can stay safely, what if Hawk decides to settle down and stay there with her?”
Preacher drew in a sharp breath. He honestly hadn’t considered such a possibility before. The thought of Hawk taking a wife and putting down roots somewhere—at least as much as Indians ever put down roots—hadn’t occurred to him. Since meeting Hawk a while back and discovering that the young warrior was his son, the two of them had shared a number of adventures and had saved each other’s life on quite a few occasions. Hawk seemed happy to be partnered up with him, so Preacher had assumed that situation would just continue for the foreseeable future.
But it might not, he realized. Hawk might decide he’d had enough of Preacher’s wandering ways. And father or not, Preacher didn’t feel like he had any right to tell the boy how he ought to live. He hadn’t even been aware of Hawk’s existence for most of the young man’s life.
Anyway, Preacher had never liked it when somebody told him what he ought to do, and he wasn’t going to do that to anybody else.
“Hawk can do whatever he wants,” Preacher said to Charlie. “Far as I can see, he ain’t beholden to anyone.”
“But he’s your son.”
“Young’uns grow up and strike out on their own. I reckon Hawk’s bound to do that someday. If not now, then sooner or later.”
With that settled, Preacher didn’t think about it anymore. Hawk would make up his own mind what to do, when the time came.
But before it did, they had to dodge Angry Sky and maybe the gang of fur thieves, and find someplace where it would be safe for Butterfly to stay.
* * *
By late in the day, they were close to the pass. It had taken a long, grueling climb to reach the point, and even though they didn’t have very much farther to go, Preacher could tell that the others, except for Hawk, were exhausted and in need of a breather.
He called a halt on a small, fairly level stretch a few hundred feet below the pass, and told them, “We’ll rest here for a short spell, then push on and make camp for the night just on the other side of the pass.”
“Do not stop on my account,” White Buffalo said. “My muscles are like rawhide. They never tire or wear out.”
Despite that protest, the elderly Absaroka’s face held a faint gray tinge under its normal coppery hue.
“We’re fine, too,” Aaron said. “If you want to push on, Preacher—”
“We will stop to rest,” Hawk declared in a flat tone that didn’t allow for any argument. He stood next to Butterfly, who had sat down on a rock and was trying to catch her breath, something that wasn’t always easy to do at higher altitudes, once a person was winded.
With that settled, Preacher moved to the edge of a nearby drop-off and peered back at the way they had come. From up there, it was apparent just how far they really had climbed during the day. The landscape fell away for a couple of thousand feet in a breathtaking sweep of green and brown and gray and tan. Far in the distance, Preacher spotted a sparkling, bluish-silver line and realized that was the creek where the thieves’ camp had been. Carefully, he studied the territory between there and his current position, not looking at any one area too intently. He knew from experience that it was often easier to spot movement if a person wasn’t looking directly at it.
That happened a few minutes later. At first he barely noticed a flicker. When he looked closer from that distance, the movement became a line of tiny dots, no bigger than ants crawling along a ridge which had to be close to a mile away.
Those “ants” were men, Preacher knew, and every hard-won instinct in his body told him they were following him and his companions.
Instantly, he was confident the pursuers were the survivors from the gang that had been holding Butterfly prisoner. A Blackfoot war chief would never allow himself and his fellow warriors to be visible like that atop a ridge. Angry Sky would be cautious all the time, even when he wasn’t on the hunt.
White men, though, especially white men new to the frontier, made mistakes like that. Often such mistakes were fatal. Those fellas had survived so far, though, and they were a definite threat to Preacher and his friends.
He took a deep breath and swung around toward the others. “We need to get movin’ again. They’re back there. The ones we took Butterfly away from.”
The girl said something to Hawk, and he answered her in the Crow tongue. Preacher couldn’t hear any of the exchange, but he could tell by the sudden look of fear on Butterfly’s face that she had asked Hawk what was wrong . . . and he had told her. She was scared that the men would catch up and take her prisoner again.
Preacher could tell that Hawk was trying to reassure her as they got ready to set out again, but Butterfly kept shaking her head and wouldn’t be comforted.
The sun had set by the time they reached the pass, although the last red rays still slanted through the gap in the peaks. Preacher led his party through. The slope on the western side wasn’t as steep. The tree line was about a hundred yards below the pass. Preacher led the others into the pines and kept moving until he found a good place to make camp.
A rocky knob thrust up from the mountainside. A spring welled from the stone and formed a pool at its base. The ground around the pool was fairly level and covered with grass for the horses.
Preacher nodded. “We’ll make camp here.”
In Crow, Butterfly said, “We should keep moving. We cannot let those men catch us.”
“They’re going to have to stop for the night, too,” Preacher told her in the same language. “They can’t keep moving in country as rugged as it is over there. They’ll fall in an arroyo in the dark if they try to. They’re bound to be smart enough to know that. We’ll get an early start in the mornin’, and the goin’ should be a lot easier on this side of the pass. We’ll pull away from ’em on horseback, and they’ll never be able to close that gap.”
“You are certain?” Butterfly asked with an anxious frown.
“I am,” Preacher said.
Butterfly didn’t look happy about it, but she didn’t protest anymore. She helped set up the camp as dusk settled around them.
Preacher caught Hawk’s eye and drew him aside. “I’m convinced that what I told the gal is right, but it might not be a bad idea for one of us to spend the night up yonder in the pass, just in case. Nobody can come through there without makin’ some racket.”
“I will do that,” Hawk ans
wered with hesitation, but Preacher shook his head.
“It oughta be my job,” the mountain man said. “You stay down here with the others and keep an eye out for trouble.”
Hawk didn’t argue with him. That way he would be closer to Butterfly.
Preacher decided they would have a cold camp that night, just in case. They had enough jerky and pemmican to make a meal on, and the water from the spring was clear and cold. After everyone had eaten and full dark had fallen, he explained that he was heading back up to keep an eye on the pass.
“That don’t mean I think anything’s gonna happen, because I don’t,” he told Butterfly. “I just figure it’d be better to be careful.”
“And I will stand guard down here,” Hawk said. “So there is nothing to worry about.”
“I hope you are right,” she said.
As Preacher walked back up to the pass, he reflected that the girl’s nervous attitude was yet another indication that she might actually be white. Indian women got scared like anybody else, but often they didn’t show it, especially around whites. A Crow woman would have been more impassive than Butterfly had been.
Of course, not all Indians were alike, any more than all whites were, Preacher reminded himself. Maybe Butterfly was just a mite more high-strung by nature. Considering everything that had happened to her, she had a right to be spooked.
With his rifle cradled in his left arm, Preacher sat down on a rock slab in the pass that had fallen from somewhere higher long ages earlier. He sat there, silent and motionless, with only the stars for company, for about an hour before he heard a soft padding sound that was very familiar to him.
“Been wonderin’ when you’d show up,” he said quietly to Dog when the big cur emerged from the shadows, sat down in front of Preacher, and wagged his bushy tail. “I’ll bet you know those varmints are back there on our trail. Probably been watchin’ ’em all day.”
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