“Why is he just sitting out there?” Beads of sweat appeared on Langley’s face, despite that the day wasn’t overly warm. “He has us outnumbered probably five to one. Why doesn’t he go ahead and attack?”
“Don’t rush things,” Preacher advised. “He’ll get around to it in his own sweet time.” One of the warriors was sitting slightly ahead of the others, staring toward the fort, and he had a hunch it was Red Knife himself. “He’s havin’ too much fun right now. He thinks we’re sittin’ in here gettin’ more scared with every minute that goes by.”
Harrigan said, “He ain’t far wrong about that.”
“Someone should take a shot at him.” Langley looked around at the men gathered on the parapet. “That would knock the wind out of his sails. Can somebody hit him from here? Preacher?”
The same thing had occurred to Preacher, and he had already gauged the shot in his mind. A ball from his rifle would carry that far, but it would take a minor miracle to hit what he was aiming at. “Lemme get my rifle, and I’ll give it a try. You fellas keep an eye on him and sing out if he does anything.”
There wasn’t much chance of anyone on the parapet looking away from the war party. They were all staring raptly at the Blackfeet.
If luck was with Preacher and he actually killed Red Knife, it might make a difference. Even with a war party that size, getting inside the thick log walls of the fort would be difficult. The Blackfeet would lose a lot of men in the effort. Without Red Knife to drive them on to make the sacrifices, the other leaders of the war party would likely decide to turn and ride away.
It was a long shot, just like the one he was about to attempt, Preacher thought as he went down the ladder to fetch his rifle from the fringed sling hanging on Horse’s saddle.
Judith Langley was standing on the front porch of the trading post as he crossed the compound to where the stallion stood, reins dangling. She shaded her eyes and looked at the crowd on the parapet.
She had to be wondering what was going on, thought Preacher. Somebody ought to tell her.
But not him. That wasn’t his job.
He grabbed the two pistols from his saddlebags, loaded them and the two behind his belt, put all four behind his belt, and returned to the parapet with the long-barreled flintlock rifle. Men moved aside to let him get right up next to the wall. He peered over it. Red Knife hadn’t moved, still sitting arrogantly on his pony ahead of the rest of the war party.
Preacher loaded the rifle with efficient, methodical movements as men called encouragement to him.
Quint Harrigan stood next to him. “You’ll have to draw a bead on him pretty quick-like. If he sees that somebody’s aimin’ at him, he’s liable to light a shuck.”
“Somehow I doubt that,” Preacher muttered. He knew when warriors conjured up their “medicine” before going into battle, it often gave them a feeling of invincibility, as if no knife or bullet or arrow could do them harm as long as they were protected by that magic. He had seen enough odd things during his years on the frontier not to completely discount the possibility.
Red Knife’s stance struck him as that of a man who didn’t believe anything could hurt him. And after gathering such a large war party he wouldn’t want to display even the slightest sign of cowardice in front of them. His defiance of the white men had to be absolute.
Preacher rammed a charge and ball down the rifle’s barrel, primed it for firing, and settled the butt plate against his shoulder. He crouched slightly so the barrel rested in the notch between two of the sharpened logs forming the stockade wall, and held it there, making the weapon a little steadier.
“Move back,” Langley said in a voice made hoarse by emotion. “Give him some room.”
“Got plenty of room,” Preacher murmured as he nestled his cheek against the smooth wooden stock and peered over the barrel, figuring distance, elevation, and windage. “If you want to do somethin’, you might try sayin’ a prayer or two.”
He drew in a deep breath and held it as he lined the sights on the distant figure. Then chuckled as Red Knife suddenly lifted the rifle he held. The war chief brought the gun to his shoulder and aimed it at the fort.
Preacher grinned. “Reckon he seen me. All right, Red Knife, if that’s the way you want it. Let’s you and me trade shots.”
It took him only a moment to draw a bead on his target again. He squeezed the rifle’s trigger, smoothly taking up the slack until the weapon boomed and kicked heavily against his shoulder.
Powder smoke spurted from the muzzle of Red Knife’s rifle at the same instant, as if the trigger fingers of the two men were somehow inextricably linked.
Even with the heavy charges of powder behind the shots, it took a couple of seconds for the balls to travel the distance between the enemies. Preacher didn’t move as he waited to see what was going to happen. The other men on the parapet seemed to be holding their breath in anticipation.
Dirt suddenly kicked up about fifty yards in front of the wall as the ball fired from Red Knife’s rifle plowed into the ground.
Less than half a heartbeat later, the war chief ’s pony abruptly lunged to the side and toppled, throwing Red Knife into a rolling sprawl.
“Just a hair low,” Preacher said. “Got the horse, not the man. Damn shame.”
Because he knew he wouldn’t get another chance.
Enraged howls went up from hundreds of throats. Red Knife scrambled to his feet, waving his rifle over his head and shouting. Like a tidal wave of horseflesh and humanity, the war party surged forward.
Preacher saw Red Knife swing up onto a riderless pony one of the warriors brought to him, but after that he couldn’t pick out the war chief anymore. There were just too blasted many Blackfeet.
And each and every one wanted blood.
“Spread out along the wall!” Preacher bellowed as he reloaded his rifle. “Hold your fire until they get closer!”
“I’m in charge here!” Langley declared.
“Then you better start givin’ orders,” Preacher snapped. “Them Blackfeet ain’t gonna wait around for you to figure things out.”
Langley drew in a deep breath and shouted, “Spread out! Hold your fire like Preacher said!”
Courtland laughed, making Langley flush with anger. Preacher was a mite irritated with both. They had bigger things than their personal quarrel to worry about, namely several hundred angry Blackfoot warriors.
The feeling of fear was palpable in the air, yet the men took their places along the wall with no signs of panic. Most of the trappers at the fort had been through their share of battles against the Indians. Their calmness seemed to spread to the employees of the American Fur Company, some of whom were veteran frontiersmen as well.
Langley asked, “How long should we wait?”
“I’ll give you the nod, and you can sing out.” Preacher had no problem with Langley issuing the order to fire. “We got two things on our side. More guns, and these walls. Tell every second man to step back.”
Langley called, “Every second man, step back!” He’d grasped what Preacher had in mind and went on without being told. “The men in front fire first! Then step back and reload while the others take their place!”
“You’re catchin’ on.” Preacher grinned. His rifle ready, he pointed it at the charging Blackfeet. “Steady now, steady . . .”
Smoke and fire erupted from the muzzles of the war party’s guns, but the Blackfeet didn’t have all that many rifles and they weren’t going to hit anything shooting from the backs of running horses. Preacher ignored those shots.
A moment later, warriors let arrows fly. The shafts arched through the air, nearly all of them failing to reach the fort. The few that made it that far stuck in the logs near the base of the wall.
“Now,” Preacher called.
“Fire!” Langley roared.
The volley from the top of the wall crashed like thunder. Heavy lead balls tore through the front ranks of the Blackfeet, sweeping at least a dozen warriors from
their ponies. Several mounts fell, causing the ponies right behind them to stumble and fall as well. The charge buckled in a welter of flailing legs and hooves.
Some awkwardness and confusion swept along the line of defenders on the parapet, but for the most part things went smoothly as the men with empty rifles stepped back and the ones who’d been holding themselves in reserve moved forward. With barely a pause, a second volley ripped out and smashed into the war party. The charge came to a confused halt.
The first group of men reloaded as fast as they could and without much delay as they moved into place again.
“Keep firing!” Langley shouted. “Make it hot for them, boys!”
The shots became a little ragged as reloading speeds weren’t consistent. Some men just couldn’t reload as swiftly as the others. But overall, the fort’s defenders kept up a steady, devastating fire, cutting through the Blackfeet with withering effectiveness.
The warriors began to turn and flee rather than face the lethal lead storm.
“Tell the fellas to hold their fire,” Preacher called to Langley.
The booshwa relayed the command. A few more scattered shots rang out, then an echoing silence descended over the outpost. Clouds of powder smoke drifted over the fort, stinging the eyes and noses of the defenders for a few moments before it began to break up.
The Blackfeet had left their dead—men and horses alike—sprawled on the ground. They would return for the bodies of their fallen comrades later, probably after dark. Until then, the corpses would have to lie in the sun, swelling and putrefying.
Preacher saw wounded warriors moving slightly. He heard their groans of pain. He knew no Blackfoot warrior wanted to dishonor himself in front of an enemy by crying out, but sometimes the agony was too much to hold back every sound.
Preacher’s rifle was loaded. He lifted it to his shoulder, aimed at one of the wounded Blackfeet, and squeezed the trigger. The warrior jerked once as the shot hit him in the head, then he lay still.
“Good Lord, man!” Langley exclaimed. “That was cold-blooded murder.”
“The hell it was,” Preacher said as he reloaded again. “Puttin’ that fella out of his misery was pure mercy. He was hit in the right side of the chest. That .50 caliber ball tore his lung to shreds, if it didn’t do anything worse. Might’ve taken him ten or fifteen minutes to drown in his own blood, and those ten or fifteen minutes would’ve been the worst of his whole life.”
The mountain man drew a bead on another badly wounded warrior. Just before he fired, he said, “I hope somebody will do me the same favor, if I’m ever in a fix like that.”
Langley looked stricken, but he nodded in understanding. For several long minutes, shots continued to ring out from Preacher’s rifle as he honored his fallen enemies the only way he could.
CHAPTER 22
The Blackfeet pulled back completely out of sight, going over the hill where they had made their dramatic appearance earlier.
Preacher didn’t believe for a second they had given up, though, and said as much during a brief council of war with Langley and several other defenders, including Courtland, Freeman, and Harrigan. They were gathered near one of the blockhouses flanking the gates.
Langley clearly wasn’t happy about having Courtland there, but he didn’t say anything. Evidently, he was willing to put aside his animosity for the moment, since they were facing bigger troubles.
On the parapet along all four walls of the fort, men stood watch tensely, alert for any signs of a renewed attack by the Blackfoot war party.
“So you think the Indians will attack again?” Langley asked.
“I reckon you can count on that,” Preacher replied. “Even if Red Knife was killed in the fightin’—and I got a feelin’ in my bones we ain’t that lucky—the other war chiefs who’ve thrown in with him will be mighty peeved at us now. They know they got us outnumbered by a lot. But they won’t come straight at us out in the open again. An attack like that gives us all the advantage.”
“You think they’ll try to sneak up to the fort at night?” Courtland asked.
“They might,” Preacher agreed. “The men who are on sentry duty will have to keep their eyes open wide. If a few of those varmints get inside the walls somehow and open the gates, the rest of ’em will pour in before we could stop them.” He looked at Langley. “You’ll need to post guards on that ditch that brings in water from the river.”
“We might be able to block it off completely,” Langley suggested.
Preacher shook his head. “We don’t want to do that yet. The Blackfeet might decide to settle down and lay siege to the place. In that case, we’ll need the water. You’ve got plenty of provisions and ammunition inside the walls?”
Langley nodded. “We can hold out for several weeks if we have to, where those things are concerned. But we shouldn’t have to.”
“How do you figure that?” Courtland asked, sounding doubtful.
“A supply boat from Fort Union will be here within the next week to ten days. There’ll be at least fifty men on it.”
“That’s not enough to turn the odds in our favor,” Courtland pointed out. “We’ll still be outnumbered by three to one.”
“Yes, but something else on the boat will make a difference.”
Preacher was getting a little irritated with Langley’s secretiveness. “Why don’t you tell us what that is?”
Langley smiled. “Cannons. Four of them, capable of firing six-inch balls. The boat can sit in the middle of the river and bombard those savages until they’re all blasted to smithereens.”
Preacher smiled at that news, too. He knew the Blackfeet wouldn’t be able to stand up to such a barrage.
“The cannons are supposed to go in the blockhouses at each corner of the fort,” Langley went on, “but they’ll save us before they’re even unloaded.”
Harrigan said, “Then all we have to do is hang on and keep the Injuns out of the fort until the boat gets here.”
“That’s right,” Langley said with a nod.
Despite being optimistic, Preacher had a hunch that chore might not turn out to be quite as simple as the booshwa made it sound.
In the calm, Preacher suggested to Langley that he might want to explain to Judith what was going on.
Langley glanced at Courtland then back at Preacher. “That’s a good idea. She’s probably frightened out of her wits, what with all the shooting. A woman needs her husband with her at a time like this.” He went down the nearest ladder, leaving the other men on the parapet.
“Say, Preacher,” Harrigan said. “I just got to thinkin’. . . . Where’s that big ol’ dog of yours? He didn’t come back with us.”
“He couldn’t keep up with the horses, as fast as they were runnin’ to stay ahead of those Blackfeet,” Preacher said. “He’s smart enough to have peeled off and gotten out of harm’s way. Reckon he’s not far off. He’ll hang around and fend for himself until I get a chance to find him.”
“I hope he’s all right.”
“It’d take a whole pack of wolves to give Dog any trouble. Even then, I ain’t sure but what he’d have ’em outnumbered.”
Harrigan chuckled, then grew serious again. “I’m gonna go see how Rollin’s doin’. I ain’t heard anything about him since we got back, and there hasn’t been time to check on him until now.”
Preacher nodded. “Let me know what you find out. I think I’m gonna stay here and keep an eye on Red Knife’s bunch for a while.”
Harrigan climbed down the ladder and hurried off toward the building where the wounded Rollin Brown had been taken earlier.
He came back about ten minutes later, and the hangdog expression on his red-bearded face told Preacher all he needed to know.
“Rollin didn’t make it. He was still alive when we got here, but he only lasted a few minutes longer. Wasn’t nothin’ anybody could do for him.”
“That’s a damned shame,” Preacher said. “He seemed like a good sort.”
“
He was. So was Bob Mahaffey. That’s two good men dead because of those bloody-handed savages.”
And they almost certainly wouldn’t be the last, Preacher thought grimly.
From the air of tension gripping the fort, it seemed everyone expected the Blackfeet to attack again right away. But as the minutes and then the hours dragged past, it appeared that wasn’t the case.
The lack of activity didn’t make anyone relax, though. If anything, as the day went on nerves grew more taut and hearts slugged harder in the chests of the men watching from the walls.
Around midday, Langley sought out Preacher on the parapet. “My wife wants you to come down and have something to eat.”
“I’m all right. The fellas have been passin’ around canteens, so nobody’s gettin’ too thirsty. Don’t have much of an appetite for food right now.”
“You’ve got to eat to keep your strength up,” Langley argued. “There’s bound to be another attack sooner or later, and you’ll have to help fight it off.” He paused. “Besides, Judith insisted.”
“Well, I can’t very well argue with that, then,” Preacher said with a smile.
“I’ll take your place here on the wall,” Langley offered.
Preacher nodded his agreement. He went down the ladder and crossed the compound to the trading post. Stepping inside, it took a second for his eyes to adjust to the dimness after the bright sunlight outside.
Judith stood behind the counter at the rear of the room.
“Hello, Preacher,” she said, smiling at him. “I was hoping Ethan could convince you to come. We may be under attack by a horde of savages, but that’s no reason to go hungry.”
“I reckon that’s a good way to look at it.”
She motioned for him to follow her into the living quarters. A plate with an antelope steak and a thick hunk of bread sat on the table. “The fare isn’t very fancy, I’m afraid.”
“It’ll do me just fine,” Preacher assured her.
“And I have coffee on the stove.”
“Even better.”
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