Preacher's Massacre

by William W. Johnstone

  There was a perfectly reasonable explanation for that, considering the sort of life he’d led, he told himself. He really was in hell. The real thing, not a battle in some wilderness outpost. He could expect a lot of pain and racket, and it would go on for all eternity.

  It was sort of puzzling, though, how Satan’s imps were yelling to each other in Blackfoot.

  That oddity finally prompted him to open his eyes and realize he wasn’t dead after all.

  The next thing to it, maybe. His head pounded with agony and his mouth was full of blood. The coppery taste of it made him gag. A great weight pressed down on him. When he tried to move, whatever it was yielded slightly, but the weight itself didn’t go away. He was trapped.

  He couldn’t see anything, crowded as he was by all the stuff around him. Through a sudden red glow, Preacher caught a glimpse of a lifeless eye only a couple of inches from his face. A dead man’s face was pressed right up against his.

  In fact, he was completely surrounded by dead men.

  It took all of Preacher’s iron will to keep from shouting in horror as he figured out he was lying in a pile of corpses, awash in the blood leaking from them. His stomach lurched. He fought to control it. He couldn’t allow himself to be sick, any more than he had allowed himself to cry out.

  If he did anything at all to alert the Blackfeet that he was still alive, in a matter of moments he would be as dead as all the other luckless fighters in the gruesome pile.

  The faint, reddish glow revealing Preacher’s grim surroundings faded, and he realized someone must have walked past carrying a torch. A member of Red Knife’s war party, no doubt. No white man would be walking around unmolested. He still heard screams now and then and knew the warriors were finishing off the few surviving defenders.

  The Blackfeet believed he was already dead, or they would have taken quick steps to ensure it was true.

  It was that head wound from the tomahawk, he thought. A gash in the scalp always bled like a son of a gun. He must have looked so convincingly dead they’d picked him up and tossed him in a pile with the other corpses.

  Preacher’s thoughts were fuzzy and meandering. The tomahawk might not have killed him, but it had given him such a wallop it was hard to think straight. His brain wandered back a few moments to what happened before he lost consciousness.

  Actually, one white man might be able to walk around inside the fort without the Blackfeet killing him.

  The traitor, Wiley Courtland.

  Preacher had no proof Courtland had let the warriors into the fort. But if he hadn’t, why had he gone to Judith and told her she had to go with him, that she had to get out of the fort right away or else she would die tonight?

  The answer was that Courtland had known what was about to happen. Even in Preacher’s muddled state, he knew that made the most sense.

  Courtland’s earlier disappearance from the fort had to be considered, too. Had he gotten out and gone to make his deal with Red Knife, then slipped back in to get Judith? That seemed feasible, although there were plenty of blank spots that needed to be filled in.

  Time for that later, Preacher told himself. He forced his thoughts toward a much more basic problem.

  How in the world was he going to get out of there?

  Sooner or later the Blackfeet would get around to burning the pile of bodies in which he lay. He had to escape before that happened, which meant he had to get out from under the stifling weight. If he could reach the open, he could make a run for it. The odds would be against him, but it was still dark. At least he would have a chance of giving them the slip.

  A chance, however slim, was all he wanted.

  Preacher began by moving his arm, slowly and carefully. It was doubtful the Blackfeet were watching the bodies very closely, since they believed everybody in the pile was dead, but they might notice if those corpses started shifting. Preacher moved an inch at a time, knowing slow progress ought to be invisible in the flickering light from the flames of burning buildings.

  The stench of blood and the human wastes released at the moment of death sickened him, as did the clammy feel of lifeless flesh all around him. He forced down the primitive impulse to scream. Slow and steady, he told himself. Slow and steady. Shift here. Shift a little more. Plant a foot against a blood-slick corpse and push.

  Preacher had never undertaken a grimmer task than crawling through corpses stacked like cordwood. Since he couldn’t see much of anything, he hoped he was working his way toward the end of the pile and not burrowing deeper into the charnel mound.

  When the crimson glow of firelight reappeared and grew stronger, he knew he was getting closer to the edge. Keep going, he told himself. When he got to a point where he could see, then he could pause and figure out his next move.

  A man’s voice shouted not too far away. It took a second for Preacher to realize the bitter curses were in English.

  The voice belonged to Ethan Langley.

  Preacher was just as shocked to find out that Langley was still alive as he was by his own continued existence. The screaming had stopped, so he’d figured the Blackfeet had succeeded in wiping out the rest of the fort’s defenders.

  Langley was not only still alive, he was furious.

  Preacher had a hunch only one man could be the target of that much anger from the booshwa.

  Sure enough, Courtland’s voice came to Preacher’s ears. “Let him go. I’m not afraid of him.”

  “Ethan, no!”

  That was Judith, Preacher thought. Courtland would have seen that she stayed alive. If the horse trader had made a deal with Red Knife, as Preacher suspected, the war chief might have honored Courtland’s wishes.

  But Courtland was taking an awful chance. Even if Red Knife had given his word, he might consider it meaningless since Courtland was white. Red Knife could turn on them and slaughter both.

  Cautiously, Preacher pulled himself in the direction of the light and the voices. He eased aside a dead man’s leg and found himself with a narrow gap through which he could see into the compound. His eyes narrowed against the nightmarish glare of flames consuming the trading post and the fur warehouse next to it. The blazes were enormous, casting waves of heat across the ground inside the ruined fort.

  About forty feet away, Ethan Langley stood between two Blackfoot warriors, who released him at a guttural order from their war chief. Red Knife faced Langley and Courtland. A dozen feet separated the former rivals. Judith stood next to Courtland. His hand clamped around her arm kept her from running to her husband.

  Langley looked like he was in pretty bad shape. Blood from several wounds stained his shirt, and his face was smeared with gore. But he was on his feet, even though he didn’t seem too steady, and he glared defiantly at Courtland and Red Knife.

  “A chance to kill you, that’s all I ask, Courtland,” Langley rasped in a voice hoarse from smoke. “Give me a knife, or even just my bare hands. I don’t care. Just a chance.”

  Courtland laughed. “And why would I do that? I have what I want. Judith is mine now.”

  “No!” she cried. “I’m not, and I never will be!”

  Courtland ignored her and went on. “Do you know why I asked Red Knife to have his men spare your life, Langley?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “I want to kill you myself. You’ve had it coming for years, and finally I’m going to rid myself of you, once and for all.”

  “A fair fight, an unfair fight, I don’t care,” Langley pressed. “If I get my hands on you, I’ll kill you.”

  Courtland shook his head. “I’m not that big a fool.” He shoved Judith toward Red Knife. “If you’ll hold the lady for me, Chief . . .”

  Proving he’d had enough of the delay, Red Knife spoke in English. “End this, Courtland. It does my people no good.”

  “Don’t worry, I’m going to finish it myself right now,” Courtland assured him.

  Red Knife took hold of Judith’s arms from behind as she screamed at Courtland, “I hate you! I’ll never love yo
u, Wiley, never! I’ll never forgive you for what you’ve done!”

  “Then I can’t make things any worse between us, can I?” Courtland asked coolly. “Still, you’ll cooperate with me, Judith. If you want to live, you’ll have no choice.”

  “I don’t want to live!” she cried. “Not after this!”

  “Judith, no!” Langley exclaimed. “You have to survive somehow—”

  “No!”

  “Time to end this.” Courtland drew a pistol from his belt and cocked it.

  While they were carrying on Preacher had been easing himself forward, still moving slowly and carefully. He had abandoned any thoughts of getting away. Like Ethan Langley, he wanted to kill Courtland. He had fought side by side with the man, had almost considered him a friend, but he felt only a deep loathing for him. Courtland had cast aside everything in order to get what he wanted. He was lower than a snake in Preacher’s eyes.

  Preacher tried to pull his right leg up, but suddenly it wouldn’t budge. His ankle was trapped in the angle between a couple of dead limbs. It was like the corpses had latched on to him and didn’t want to let him go. He imagined they were trying to pull him back deeper into the pile, and a fresh wave of horror surged through him.

  But he was more horrified by what he witnessed next, unable to do anything except lie there and watch events unfold.

  Courtland cocked the pistol and raised it to aim at Langley. The warriors flanking the booshwa moved aside, well out of the line of fire.

  Courtland smiled. “Burn in hell, Langley.”

  Judith screamed and twisted enough to ram her knee into Red Knife’s groin. As the war chief grunted in pain, his grip on her slipped and she pulled free. She dashed toward her husband.

  Just as Courtland pressed the pistol’s trigger.

  The ball struck Judith in the back, passed all the way through her body, and burst out the front of her dress in a spray of blood. She staggered as her eyes widened in shock. She gasped, “Ethan!” as Langley howled, “Nooooo!”

  Then Judith pitched forward onto her face and lay motionless as the red stain on the back of her dress continued to spread.

  CHAPTER 32

  The tragic scene froze everyone into place, but only for a split second that seemed much, much longer.

  Then Langley, no longer being held by the warriors, lunged at Courtland, his arms outstretched and his fingers hooked into claws as he screamed out his hate.

  At the same time Preacher gave his leg a violent wrench, and it popped loose from the macabre grip of the corpses. Covered in blood from head to foot, he hauled himself out of the pile and stumbled to his feet.

  “Courtland!” he croaked in a harsh, hollow voice.

  Courtland’s head jerked toward Preacher, who looked like he had just climbed up out of a grave to come back and avenge the dead. The distraction gave Langley the chance to reach Courtland and crash into him, locking his hands around the man’s neck as they both went down.

  For a second it looked like Langley might get his wish and Courtland would die at his hands.

  But the Blackfoot war chief stepped in and plunged a knife into Langley’s back.

  Langley screamed. His body arched in agony. Courtland heaved him aside and scrambled away. Langley looked around and crawled toward his wife with the handle of the knife still protruding from his back. He stretched out a hand toward her . . .

  And slumped down dead before he could touch her. His hand rested on the ground, reaching for her.

  Red Knife rapped a command and several warriors charged toward Preacher. Even if he was afraid the bloody figure was a spirit, the war chief was pragmatic enough to see whether or not knives and tomahawks would strike it down.

  Preacher’s brain worked as swiftly as it ever had and he quickly realized that the several warriors between him and Courtland eliminated his chance to kill the horse trader. He also realized that simplified things. He had to live.

  He had to kill Courtland before he died, which meant he couldn’t die at the hands of the warriors moving toward him.

  The closest warrior swung a tomahawk at his head. Preacher went low, moving under the blow and wrapping his arms around the man’s thighs. With a yell, he lifted the warrior off his feet and sent him spilling over his back. When the man dropped the tomahawk, Preacher’s hand flashed out to snatch it from the ground. He pivoted, brought the tomahawk up, and used it to rip open the belly of another warrior.

  Preacher used his shoulder to knock the disemboweled man aside. The tomahawk crunched into the forehead of a third warrior. Red Knife shouted orders, summoning more and more of his men.

  Preacher already had what he wanted, though: a narrow lane through the men trying to kill him. Arrows whipped past his head, but he was moving so fast none of the archers could draw a bead on him. In fact, several of the hastily fired shafts missed him and struck other warriors.

  The Missouri River was a hundred yards away. Preacher ran toward it, arms and legs pumping and flying. Shapes appeared in front of him and tried to stop him, but he smashed them down without slowing. The same madness that had come over him earlier had him in its grip again. Then his only goal had been to kill. Now his aim was to escape . . . so he could kill again.

  The thought that he was already dead flashed through his mind. Maybe his body was so filled with arrows it looked like a pincushion, and he just didn’t know it. He figured the fatal message would catch up to his crazed brain any second.

  But until it did, he kept running and fighting.

  Suddenly, the river was in front of him, its surface silvery in the moonlight instead of muddy. He threw the tomahawk aside and left his feet in a long, clean dive that carried him far out from the shallow bluff forming the bank.

  He struck the cold water and went under. Icy shock careened through his body, numbing it from every pain as effectively as his temporary madness had. The frigid sensation braced him and cleared his mind. He stroked with his arms and kicked his feet, still under the surface.

  It was too dark to see much of anything, but he sensed disturbances in the water around him and knew the Blackfeet were firing arrows at the spot he had disappeared. He swam away from it, but the arrows followed. They were firing blindly, but weren’t missing by much. Preacher held his breath, kept swimming, and trusted to luck.

  Gradually fewer and fewer arrows fell around him. When it felt like his lungs were going to explode, he paused and drifted to the surface. He turned onto his back so only his mouth and nose emerged into the air. Forcing himself not to gulp down a breath the way he desperately wanted to because that might draw attention, he drew in air shallowly, slowly, drifting along with the river’s current, until the wild hammering in his head slowed somewhat.

  If it had been daylight, he wouldn’t have stood a chance. But in the darkness he went unseen, and when he dove back down to swim underneath the surface again, he did it gently, with no splash.

  Preacher gave thought to Red Knife’s next move. He might send men along both sides of the river to search for the mountain man. In that case, Preacher would just have to elude them. On the other hand, the war chief might not want to go to that much trouble. He had destroyed the fort and he had killed dozens of the hated white men. It might be enough to satisfy him for a while.

  Either way, Preacher was willing to pit his skills against those of the enemy. He was patient, and he was stubborn. He was going to get away. He could feel it in his bones, although he couldn’t feel much of anything else in the icy water.

  But even if he escaped, it wasn’t over.

  Far from it.

  By morning, Preacher was miles downriver. Chilled through and through, unable to go any farther, he crawled out onto the bank and let the rising sun warm him. When he finally stopped shivering and was able to raise his head and look around, what he saw didn’t surprise him.

  He appeared to be alone in the vast wilderness surrounding him.

  Red Knife had decided Preacher was dead or he didn’t care
one way or the other. All that really mattered was that no Blackfeet were waiting to kill him.

  But it didn’t mean they might not come along later.

  He staggered to his feet and looked around for a place to hole up. He found it in a narrow crevice in the side of a bluff about five hundred yards away from the river. It was barely big enough for him, but he was able to sit with his back against the rough dirt wall and rest. He meant to keep watch, but his eyes closed and he slept.

  When he woke up, the sun was low in the sky. It was late in the day, and he was ravenously hungry. With his sore muscles protesting, he climbed out of the crevice and looked around for something to eat. He found some tiny, bitter berries in a clump of brush and gobbled them up. They were better than nothing.

  In the last of the fading sunlight, he stripped off his bloodstained clothes and took stock of his physical condition. His rangy, powerful body was marked all over with gashes and bruises. The knife wound in his side had crusted over, and he hoped it wouldn’t fester. He didn’t have any whiskey to pour on it or any herbs with which to make a poultice.

  So, he was starving, beaten up, and he had lost quite a bit of blood. His muscles trembled from weakness. He wouldn’t stand a chance against a Blackfoot boy, let alone a full-grown warrior.

  That didn’t stop a grin from stretching across his bearded face as he climbed back into the ragged buckskins.

  He was alive. And Wiley Courtland . . .

  That varmint didn’t know it yet, but he was dead.

  By the time another day and a half had passed, some of Preacher’s strength had returned. It wasn’t the first time he had been on his own and unarmed in the wilderness. He had rigged a snare and managed to catch a rabbit. His flint and steel had still been tucked away in a pocket, so he’d been able to build a small fire and roast his catch, but he would have eaten the critter raw if he’d had to. At night he’d returned to the hidey hole in the narrow crevice.