The tension in the camp didn’t ease until the eastern sky began to turn gray with dawn’s approach. Then everyone had plenty to keep them busy as they got ready to leave.
The party still numbered twenty-two strong as they rode out—eight Blackfoot warriors and fourteen white renegades. Scarrow wasn’t sure how many men they would be facing. During the brief fight at the canyon mouth the night before, he had never been able to tell how many attackers were out there in the dark. Ultimately he had decided there hadn’t been more than a handful. Preacher would have them on his side, provided he was able to rendezvous with them first, plus the young Indian called Hawk and the almost useless Charlie. Less than ten men total, almost certainly, which meant they would be outnumbered more than two to one.
He and his companions would succeed, Scarrow told himself. Preacher had been lucky so far, but now his luck was going to change.
The Blackfeet were expert trackers, Scarrow had to give them credit for that. One of the savages found the tracks they were looking for almost right away and led them back along the main canyon. They paused to examine all the branches to make sure their quarry hadn’t veered off, but it soon became obvious the men they were following had wanted to get out of that wasteland as quickly as possible. Scarrow couldn’t blame them for that. It had seemed like a good place to trap Preacher, but other than that, the basin was just ugly and inhospitable.
The part about trapping Preacher hadn’t worked out all that well, either, Scarrow mused.
“You really reckon we’re gonna find ’em, Jeff?” Plumlee asked after a while.
The sun was up and peeking over the mountain range to the east.
“Seems to me like they could hide out back there where we were for a long time.”
“And live on what?” Scarrow asked. “According to Angry Sky, there’s very little game to be found in this region, and not much water, either. No, they’ll head for the mountains. They’re on foot, remember. They have to meet up with their friends if they’re going to have any chance to get away. Just keep your eyes peeled, Hog.”
As it turned out, Angry Sky was the one to spot their quarry first. “There!” the war chief roared a short time later as he leveled an arm and pointed toward the mountains in the west.
“I don’t see a blamed thing!” Plumlee said.
“Nor do I,” Scarrow said, “but our friend thinks he does, anyway, and there he goes.”
Angry Sky raced ahead, leaning forward over his pony’s neck. Scarrow booted his pony into a run and called back over his shoulder to Plumlee and his other men, “Come on! I’m not going to let the Blackfeet catch up first! Preacher is mine!”
* * *
Preacher glanced over his shoulder and saw what he expected to see. The dust cloud appeared to be drawing closer and moving faster. The pursuers had spotted them.
The others were all running as fast as they could. Charlie’s face was red, and his chest heaved mightily. Preacher hoped the young trapper’s heart would hold out. Caroline looked almost as exhausted, but Hawk was right beside her, his hand clamped around her arm, supporting her and helping her run.
Big Thunder loped along. He looked over at Preacher and called, “We fight Blackfeet now!”
“Soon!” Preacher promised. He tried to figure distances.
He and his companions had been closer to the Devil’s Eye than the pursuers were to them when the chase started, but those swift little Indian ponies could run more than twice as fast as people on foot. They couldn’t make it to the rocks in time, Preacher thought bleakly.
As he glanced toward the ring of boulders again, he saw movement there. A man on horseback erupted from the formation and galloped toward them, leading four riderless mounts, including Horse. At that distance, Preacher couldn’t tell which young Crow warrior was taking this desperate chance, but he was grateful, whoever it was.
He heard rifles booming behind them, although he didn’t think they were in range yet. Let the varmints waste their powder and shot.
With Preacher and his companions dashing toward the rocks and the warrior bringing the horses out to meet them, the gap closed quickly. Broken Pine was the one running the risk, Preacher saw as they came together. The youngster hauled his pony to a halt and the other horses stopped, too.
“Get mounted!” Preacher called. “Fast!”
Hawk leaped onto a pony and pulled Caroline up behind him. Charlie was more awkward, but he managed to scramble onto one of the ponies, too.
Big Thunder said to Preacher, “We stay and fight!”
“No, get goin’, dadblast it!” the mountain man ordered.
At that moment, a rifle ball struck his hat and sent it flying off his head. Angered, Preacher turned, brought his own rifle to his shoulder, and pressed the trigger. The pursuers were only a little more than a hundred yards away, so Preacher was able to see it when a Blackfoot warrior flung his arms out and toppled backward off his lunging pony.
Preacher vaulted onto Horse’s back and waved his empty rifle in a taunting gesture, then wheeled the big stallion and pounded after the others.
Puffs of powder smoke came from the Devil’s Eye as Kicking Elk and Dark Neck fired toward the Blackfeet and the fur thieves. Preacher didn’t figure that would slow down the pursuit much, if any, but they might get lucky and plug another one or two of the varmints.
A moment later, he saw that they were going to make it, then instantly berated himself for thinking such a thing and jinxing them. However, the usual stroke of bad luck didn’t come crashing down. None of the ponies tripped and fell, nobody got hit by a wild, blindly fired rifle shot, and they all raced through a gap between two boulders, into the shelter of the rock formation.
Not that the Devil’s Eye was impregnable, by any means. The defenders had cover, but they were very much outnumbered. If Scarrow, Angry Sky, and the other men pushed their attack and were willing to take some losses, they might very well overrun the position. If they made it inside the rock formation, anything could happen.
Preacher swung down from Horse, pausing only to feel a second of relief when he saw that Dog was with the Crow warriors and apparently unharmed. Then he called, “Make your shots count, boys! There’s more o’ them than there is of us!”
Hawk jumped down from his pony and helped Caroline dismount. As soon as she sank exhaustedly to the ground with her back against one of the boulders, he turned to Preacher and said, “Give me one of your pistols.”
“I was thinkin’ the same thing.” Preacher handed a pistol to Hawk and held out the other one to Charlie, who had managed to dismount without falling down from weariness. “Be sure you got a good target before you take the shot.”
Charlie swallowed hard and nodded as he took the weapon.
The four Crow kept up a steady fire at the attackers, but it wasn’t easy to hit a man on a fast-moving horse. Preacher swiftly reloaded his rifle and aimed at the charging riders, hoping to draw a bead on Angry Sky or Scarrow. He couldn’t pick out either of them in the dust and the crowd, so he went ahead and squeezed off the shot. A warrior fell from his galloping pony, but Preacher didn’t think it was Angry Sky.
Two or three more ponies were riderless. The shots fired by Broken Pine, Kicking Elk, Dark Neck, and Big Thunder were having an effect. But the charge continued, prompting Charlie to cry out, “Why don’t they stop?”
“Because they want this over with as much as we do,” Preacher said. “Comes a time when you can’t put off the showdown any longer.
And that time was now.
CHAPTER 31
Preacher reloaded and fired again. One of the fur thieves fell forward over his pony’s neck, slid off, and got tangled in the animal’s flashing legs. The pony stumbled and went down in a welter of flailing limbs. Two Blackfoot warriors jumped their ponies over the fallen one without slowing down.
With no time to reload again, Preacher reversed his rifle, gripped it by the barrel, and swung it like a club as one of the attackers raced throug
h a gap in the ring of boulders. The blow swept a white renegade off his mount. He landed hard enough on his back to stun him, and before he could recover, Preacher slammed the rifle butt into the middle of his face and shattered his skull.
More riders reached the Devil’s Eye and crowded through the gaps. Pistols blasted as the deadly work took place at close range. Charlie swung around, holding the pistol Preacher had given him in both hands, and fired as a Blackfoot warrior lunged at him with a tomahawk. The lead ball smashed into the warrior’s chest and drove him off his feet.
An instant later, a renegade stabbed Charlie in the left shoulder with a hunting knife. Charlie slumped back against the boulder behind him and slashed at the man’s head with the empty pistol. The barrel raked across the man’s face and opened a cut, but he snarled, yanked the blade free from Charlie’s shoulder, and raised it for a killing stroke.
Before that blow could fall, Big Thunder grabbed the man’s head from behind with both hands and wrenched so hard that he tore it right off the man’s shoulders. Big Thunder flung the head aside and grabbed the dead man’s body before it could fall. With a roar, he raised the corpse above his head and flung it at a knot of men trying to close in around Hawk and Caroline. The flying body bowled a couple of them off their feet.
Hawk fired his pistol at close range into another man, then grappled with yet another. Caroline screamed as a Blackfoot grabbed her, but her hand fell on a knife someone had dropped and brought it up into the man’s neck, driving it deep. Blood poured out around it.
In the wild melee that filled the inside of the Devil’s Eye, Preacher struck right and left with his knife and tomahawk, hewing down enemies like stalks of bloody corn. Dog was in the thick of the battle, as well, ripping and slashing with his teeth. Crimson smeared his muzzle as he harked back to his primitive wolf ancestors.
Big Thunder had just broken a man’s arm like a twig when Hogarth Plumlee tackled him from behind. The big Crow towered over Plumlee, but the thickset renegade was the only one in his bunch who might come close to matching Big Thunder’s strength. Just bringing Big Thunder down was an amazing feat, but Plumlee accomplished it. He scrambled onto Big Thunder’s back, clamped his arms around the young man’s neck, and bore down viciously with a choke hold.
Big Thunder kicked into a roll. His weight came over on top of Plumlee, weakening the renegade’s hold. Big Thunder grasped Plumlee’s arms and tore them free. They rolled over and over in the dust, under the feet of fighting men, wrestling doggedly as each tried for a death grip.
Suddenly, Big Thunder got his arms where he wanted them and closed them around Plumlee’s neck. The muscles in his arms and shoulders stood out so much as he heaved that they looked like they were about to rip through his buckskin shirt. His grunt of effort and the sharp crack of Plumlee’s neck breaking sounded together. Plumlee’s body slumped in death.
A few feet away, Jefferson Scarrow thrust a pistol at Hawk’s face and fired at almost point-blank range. Hawk jerked his head aside just in time. The ball ripped past his right ear, drawing a drop of blood from the lobe. Burning powder stung Hawk’s cheek. Rock splinters from where the ball struck the boulder behind him peppered the back of his neck. The pistol’s thundering report deafened him.
But he didn’t have to hear in order to lunge forward and tackle Scarrow. They went down and battled desperately hand to hand right in front of Caroline. She had pulled the knife from the throat of the man she’d killed and leaned forward clutching the weapon’s handle as she waited for an opening to stab Scarrow. As close as he was to Hawk, she couldn’t risk it yet.
Scarrow wound up on top with his hands locked around Hawk’s throat. Hawk slammed his fists into the man’s ears but failed to loosen his grip. Despite his lean build, Scarrow was strong and dug his thumbs into Hawk’s throat, seeking to crush his windpipe.
Caroline leaned in and rammed the knife into his side.
It wasn’t a killing blow, but it was enough to make Scarrow scream and let go. Hawk threw him off, then lunged after him, grabbed the knife, and ripped the blade across Scarrow’s belly. Scarrow shrieked again as blood came out over Hawk’s hand in a hot gush. Hawk yanked the knife out and slammed it once, twice, three times into Scarrow’s chest as hard as he could. Scarrow spasmed with each strike. His head tipped far back, the cords standing out in his neck as his face contorted in an agonized rictus.
His features froze that way as death claimed him. Hawk lay on top of the corpse, breathing hard from exertion and emotion. He left the blade buried in Scarrow’s chest as he pushed himself up and turned to draw Caroline into his blood-drenched arms.
Elsewhere in the Devil’s Eye, Preacher’s instincts warned him and made him duck as something swept at his head from behind. The tomahawk swung by Angry Sky barely missed him. Preacher twisted around and slashed at the Blackfoot war chief with his tomahawk. Angry Sky jerked back to avoid the blow by a fraction of an inch. Then he bored in on Preacher, hacking with the tomahawk and slashing with his knife, and if his wounded leg hampered him any, Preacher couldn’t tell it. He had his hands full parrying the deadly blows and trying to strike back with his own knife and tomahawk.
The two men, two of the best pure fighters on the frontier, put on a blinding display of speed and skill then. Tomahawk handles thudded together. Knife blades clashed with the clarion ring of steel. Preacher and Angry Sky puffed and panted with effort. Preacher felt the icy bite of Angry Sky’s blade, followed by a hot rush of blood. He saw crimson fly as his own steel ripped Blackfoot flesh. During what seemed like an infinitely long moment but was really just a matter of a few heartbeats, neither man was ever more than a hair’s breadth away from death.
Then Preacher took a hard smash to the side of the head from Angry Sky’s tomahawk and felt his brain spin wildly. Knowing he had only a shaved fraction of time to respond, he darted forward, taking advantage of how the blow Angry Sky had landed had turned the war chief slightly. Preacher’s knife flickered out like a striking snake. The blade went into Angry Sky’s left side, slid through his ribs, and penetrated all the way to the war chief’s black heart. Angry Sky’s dark eyes widened immensely as he felt it pierce his core. He collapsed against Preacher as his dying breath rattled in his throat.
Preacher moved aside and let the corpse fall facedown.
Then he looked around and realized that the battle was over. The Devil’s Eye was sure as hell bloodshot, he thought as he saw the bodies littering the ground. Hawk, Caroline, and Charlie were all on their feet, although Charlie was wounded. Big Thunder and Broken Pine had survived as well. Kicking Elk and Dark Neck were both down, crumpled in death, their buckskins soaked with blood from their wounds. A pang of grief at their passing went through Preacher. He hadn’t known them long, but he respected them as fine warriors and men. Without their help, it was entirely possible he and the others never would have survived to reach that grim point.
“It was a good fight,” Big Thunder rumbled, “but Big Thunder is sad that his friends are gone.”
“So am I, Big Thunder,” Preacher said.
Hawk said, “Someone comes.”
Preacher turned and saw a large group of men on ponies riding hard toward them from the direction of the river.
“It is Falling Star and the men from our village,” Broken Pine said. “Moose Horn has brought them, but they are too late to help us.”
“They will help us mourn,” Big Thunder said.
Preacher could only nod solemnly.
* * *
Wounds both physical and emotional healed over the next few weeks in the Crow village. Kicking Elk and Dark Neck were grieved for and laid to rest with the proper ceremony. Several young women seemed to adopt Charlie and made sure that he was nursed back to health. Preacher’s iron constitution ensured that he shook off all the effects of battle in short order.
Hawk and Caroline, or Butterfly as he still called her and Preacher sometimes thought of her, spent nearly all their time together. Although
she had been born white, all the people of Falling Star’s village seemed to regard her as one of their own. Preacher knew she would be welcome to stay there from now on. She would have a home again.
What Preacher didn’t know . . . was what Hawk was going to do.
The day came when Dog looked toward the mountains and whined. Horse threw his head up and down restlessly when Preacher patted him on the shoulder that fine morning.
“I know,” the mountain man said quietly. “I’m feelin’ it, too.”
He found Hawk and Caroline beside the river, and when they turned to greet him, Preacher saw understanding dawn in his son’s eyes.
Hawk said, “It is time, Preacher?”
“For me it is,” Preacher answered without hesitation. “What about you?”
Hawk drew in a deep breath and said, “The time has come for me, as well.” He reached over and took Butterfly’s hand. “The time to tell you that I am staying here.”
The decision came as no surprise, but Preacher felt a little surge of disappointment anyway. At the same time, that emotion was mixed with happiness and, yes, a little relief. Hawk could stay, live a good life, raise a fine family with Butterfly, far away from all the hell raising and blood spilling that inevitably would be his lot if he remained with Preacher. In other words, the sort of destiny that any father worth his salt would wish for his child.
Preacher put out his hand. “I wish you both the best of luck.”
Hawk clasped his hand, and Preacher pulled him into a hard, back-slapping embrace. Then he hugged Butterfly and kissed her on the cheek. “Make sure this boy behaves himself,” he told her in the Crow tongue.
“I will,” she promised with a smile. “We will be very happy together.”
Preacher looked at them and added, “If you ever find yourself needin’ my help—”
“You will know, and you will come in our hour of need,” Hawk said.
“Bet a hat on it,” Preacher said.
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