Preacher's Massacre

by William W. Johnstone

  After finishing off his second catch, Preacher doused the fire with sand and started back upriver toward the fort, reaching what was left of it a little before dusk. Piles of ashes and rubble marked the location of the buildings, and charred lines on the ground showed where the walls had been. Dead horses lay rotting, but a huge pile of bones testified grimly as to how the bodies of the defenders had been burned, just as Preacher expected.

  Somewhere in that pile were the remains of Ethan and Judith Langley. At the very least, Preacher hoped they were together.

  He was sitting on the riverbank with his back to the scene of carnage and destruction when he heard a familiar whicker. His head came up sharply as he called, “Horse?”

  The stallion emerged from the brush on the far side of the river, and Preacher’s heart leaped more when he saw the big shaggy shape beside Horse. Both of his trail partners had survived the massacre. Dog and Horse knew how to take care of themselves. He wasn’t surprised, but he was awfully glad to see them.

  They plunged into the river and swam across to him, shaking themselves off as they emerged from the water. Preacher hugged them. Horse bumped his shoulder happily, and Dog licked the mountain man’s bearded face. The reunion made Preacher feel better than he had any time since before the fort fell.

  He slept that night with Dog curled against his side.

  In the morning, in the rubble of one of the buildings, he found a bone-handled knife that had survived the blaze fairly well. With it, he carved a spear, and for breakfast he and the big cur had roasted fish.

  Something was nagging at him. The night before, he had spotted an orange glow in the sky to the west. It was faint, but he saw it well enough to know a big fire was burning there.

  Armed with the knife and the makeshift spear, he wanted to see what had caused the glow.

  He was as close to a purely primitive state as he had been in a long time. Almost everything about civilization had been stripped from him. As he trotted along on Horse with Dog at his side, he might as well have been one of the ancient denizens of this land, one of its original settlers.

  He had ancient cunning as well, and when his instincts warned him to be careful, he paid attention to them. Dropping to hands and knees, he crawled up a hill until he could peer over its grassy crest.

  An Indian encampment was below, several hundred yards away. It was no tribal village, though, rather the camp of a war party pausing to let its wounded members heal some before resuming their journey home. Preacher’s eyes narrowed as he spotted the tall, proud, arrogant figure of Red Knife striding around the camp.

  How about that, he thought to himself. The universe had a way of balancing itself out, at least every now and then.

  Preacher watched the Blackfoot camp for a long time, but didn’t see Wiley Courtland among the warriors. Had Red Knife betrayed and killed him? Or had Courtland left, his horses gone and Judith lost to him forever?

  There was one way to find out: ask Red Knife. That would mean slipping into the camp, capturing the war chief, and getting back out again without being discovered. After the ordeal he had been through, Preacher wasn’t up to that, and there was no telling how long the Blackfeet would stay there before pulling out. With a sigh, he withdrew from his vantage point and started back to the fort to figure out his next move.

  When he got there, the supply boat was tied up at the riverbank, and the men it had brought were standing around staring in horror and confusion at what was left of Fort Gifford.

  CHAPTER 33

  Captain Robert Creighton tipped the bottle and let amber liquid pour into the tin cup of coffee in front of Preacher. “That ought to give you some strength. My God, what an ordeal you’ve been through!”

  “It was pretty bad,” Preacher replied with typical understatement. He sipped the whiskey-laced coffee and felt its welcome warmth spread through him.

  The two men were sitting at a small table in the captain’s cabin. Creighton, a tall, lanky, balding man, shook his head in amazement. “I’m not sure there’s another man alive who could have lived through it.”

  Captain wasn’t a military title in this case. Creighton worked for the American Fur Company, just like Ethan Langley had. He was in charge of the supply boat Stag that had come up the Missouri, past Fort Union, all the way to Fort Gifford.

  The boat was crowded. Between the crew and the fur trappers who had bought passage on it—trust the company to find ways to make money by any means they could—thirty men had come upriver on the Stag. Crates of provisions, ammunition, beaver traps, axes, and other supplies were stacked on the deck.

  Most important to Preacher, the four cannon Langley had told him about were lashed to the deck, two on each side of the boat to balance their weight.

  Preacher had a blanket draped around his shoulders to ward off any lingering chill. He had eaten a good meal of biscuits and salt pork, and was drinking his third cup of coffee. He felt almost human again.

  “I had a good reason for stayin’ alive,” he said in response to the captain’s comment. “If Wiley Courtland’s still alive, I aim to find him and see to it he pays for what he done.”

  “You have no proof this man Courtland was in league with the savages,” Creighton pointed out. “In fact, given everything that happened while he was bringing that herd of horses to Fort Gifford, it would seem more likely they were mortal enemies.”

  “Reckon they were, then,” Preacher said. “Red Knife hadn’t had much luck gettin’ past the fort’s walls, though. He might’ve been willin’ to strike a bargain with Courtland and let him live, in return for his help gettin’ inside the fort.”

  “I suppose. How do you propose to find out?”

  “I’m gonna ask Red Knife . . . before I kill him.”

  “You plan a clandestine mission into that Indian camp?” Creighton asked with a frown.

  Preacher drained the last of the coffee. “No, I plan to blow hell out of that Indian camp. Or I should say, you’re gonna blow hell out of it.”

  Creighton’s frown deepened. “You mean to launch an attack on the Blackfeet with those cannon? I’m not sure I can allow that. They belong to the American Fur Company.”

  “So did Fort Gifford,” Preacher snapped, “and Red Knife burned it to the ground. I’ve got a hunch the company would want you to settle that score. And I want a distraction so I can get into the camp and get my hands on Red Knife. Can you do that for me, Captain?”

  Creighton sat there without saying anything for a long moment. It was clear he considered Preacher’s request a dilemma. He was the sort of man who liked to have specific orders before he did anything. Bold action didn’t come naturally to him.

  He had seen that pile of bones, though, and seen the rest of the devastation left behind by the war party. Finally he nodded. “I’ll help you. I don’t know exactly what it is you want me to do, though.”

  Preacher grinned. “I’ll explain the whole thing to you.”

  Dawn had not yet arrived the next morning when Preacher knelt at the top of the rise overlooking the Blackfoot camp. The eastern sky was gray, though, and provided enough light for him to see the warriors beginning to stir. He had worried they’d be gone.

  But that wasn’t the case. They had waited a day too long.

  He glanced to his left. The Missouri River ran there, about a quarter mile away. Captain Creighton would be maneuvering the Stag into position.

  The plan called for him to shut down the boat’s engine while it was still far enough away that the Indians couldn’t hear it. From there, men would wade ashore with heavy ropes and haul the vessel upriver against the current. It would be hard work, but it could be done. They were more than willing to make the effort after hearing about the massacre carried out at Fort Gifford.

  Preacher looked the other way at the ten men who had come with him. He hadn’t had any trouble getting volunteers. They were all fur trappers, and knew they wouldn’t be safe as long as Red Knife was around. With Preacher leading t
hem, they would hit the camp from one side while Creighton bombarded it from the other with those cannon.

  The mountain man knew there was a chance Red Knife would be killed in the barrage. If that happened, he might not ever find out what had happened to Wiley Courtland. But the souls of the men who had died inside the fort cried out for vengeance, and Preacher was going to give it to them. Red Knife’s war party would never again carry out such wanton slaughter.

  Dog sat beside Preacher, waiting. A low whine came from the big cur.

  “I know you’re anxious to get down there, old fella,” Preacher said quietly. “So am I. It won’t be much longer now.”

  He had borrowed a rifle from a man on the boat and taken a couple of pistols from a crate bound for Fort Gifford. He still had the bone-handled knife he had found in the rubble. It felt good to be armed again.

  The sky had started to take on a rosy tint. It brightened as Preacher and his companions waited. He kept looking toward the river, waiting for some sign of the Stag. If anything had happened to delay the boat, or worse still, if it had run aground, the plan was ruined. Even though the war party appeared to have shrunk to half the size it had been when the fort was destroyed, it was still much too big for a small force to attack without the help of those cannon.

  Suddenly, as red and gold continued to splash across the heavens, heralding the start of a new day, the prow of the Stag nosed into view around the bend just below the Blackfoot camp.

  The men hauling the vessel were on the river’s south bank. The Missouri was wide, but not so wide it would make any difference. The camp was well within range of those big guns. Creighton’s crew had turned them so they all pointed toward the enemy. The captain, like Preacher, had served in the War of 1812 and knew how to handle the cannon.

  “All right, boys,” Preacher said softly. “Won’t be much longer now . . .”

  Several of the Blackfeet were awake and moving around, but they weren’t paying attention to what was happening on the river. The Stag seemed to inch forward with maddening slowness, but finally it was in position. The men holding the ropes tied them to trees and scrambled back aboard. Preacher couldn’t make out the details from so far away and in the light of dawn, but he knew the men designated as gunners were getting ready to touch off the charges.

  The sun peeked over the horizon behind Preacher. Down below in the camp, a sleepy warrior ambled toward the river but stopped abruptly and let out a shout of alarm when he saw the boat. Captain Creighton couldn’t have gotten a better signal.

  A cannon boomed and sent smoke billowing into the air. The heavy ball was a gray streak flying through the air. It smashed into a sleeping warrior and turned his head to pulp before bounding on to kill several more men.

  “Come on!” Preacher shouted as he surged to his feet and lunged down the slope toward the camp.

  Creighton had the big guns firing one at a time, so by the time all four had thundered out their challenge, the first cannon had been reloaded and was ready to fire again. The steady barrage continued as Preacher ran down the hill with Dog bounding along beside him and the other men right behind him.

  Chaos reigned in the Blackfoot camp. Men died without ever knowing what was going on. Death seemed to come from nowhere, striking them down right and left. It was like the heavens had opened up to rain lightning bolts, even though there wasn’t a cloud in the sky on the beautiful early morning.

  By the time the warriors finally realized where the attack was coming from, Preacher’s companions were among them, opening fire and cutting them down.

  Preacher headed directly to where he had seen Red Knife the previous evening. Along the way he emptied his rifle and pistols, and with each shot another Blackfoot fell. He didn’t take the time to reload.

  A familiar voice roared orders and tried to rally the panicking warriors. Preacher followed that voice and spotted his quarry through the confusion.

  “Red Knife!” he bellowed.

  The war chief whirled toward him. Surprise etched on Red Knife’s face as he recognized Preacher. But that reaction lasted only a second before he roared a defiant, hate-filled challenge, lifted the tomahawk in his hand, and charged toward the mountain man.

  Preacher threw his empty pistols aside and jerked the bone-handled knife from his belt. Darting aside as the tomahawk swept down at his head, he met Red Knife’s assault with an attack of his own. The blade flashed out and cut deeply across Red Knife’s chest. The war chief grunted in pain, sweeping the tomahawk around in a backhanded strike Preacher barely avoided.

  Back and forth they lunged at each other, evenly matched. Preacher’s left arm went numb when the flat of the tomahawk’s head struck his shoulder a glancing blow. Red Knife was bleeding from several wounds inflicted by Preacher.

  Only a few days had passed since Preacher had been tossed into a pile of corpses and left for dead. Most men who had gone through what he had wouldn’t even be able to get out of bed. But he was on his feet and fighting, letting his rage fuel his battered body and holding his own against the war chief. He forgot about everything else going on around him and concentrated only on his opponent.

  The tomahawk smashed into his side where he’d been wounded in the earlier battle. Fiery pain shot through him, and for a second everything turned hazy around him. Red Knife sensed an advantage and bulled in, swinging the tomahawk at Preacher’s head.

  At the last second, Preacher jerked aside. The tomahawk barely grazed his long, gray-shot hair as he fell backward. Off balance, Red Knife stumbled too close to the mountain man. Preacher grabbed the front of the war chief ’s buckskin shirt with his free hand and planted a foot in Red Knife’s belly. The Blackfoot flew through the air and crashed down with stunning force.

  Preacher was on him in the blink of an eye, holding the blade against his throat. All it would take to send the razor-sharp edge slicing through flesh was a little more pressure.

  He held off and rested a knee on the inside of Red Knife’s right elbow, forcing the war chief to let go of the tomahawk. Then Preacher leaned closer over him. His lips drew back from his teeth in a snarl as he demanded, “Where’s Courtland?”

  “The white traitor?” Red Knife swallowed, which wasn’t easy with a knife held so tightly against his throat. “Gone.”

  “You killed him?”

  “Why? He kept his end of the bargain, but still he lost all he wanted. The white woman was dead at his hand.” An ugly chuckle came from Red Knife’s mouth. “Nothing I could do to him was worse than that.”

  Red Knife had a point there, thought Preacher.

  “Which way did he go?”

  “East. Will you go after him?”

  “Damn right I will,” Preacher muttered.

  “Then he will die. More than ever, you are the Ghost Killer.”

  And with that, Red Knife lunged up from the ground. The blade cut deep into his neck and blood spurted, rising in a crimson fountain as Preacher pulled back in surprise.

  Unable to live with the shame of his defeat, Red Knife had chosen his own way out. It didn’t really matter. He had beaten Preacher to the throat cutting by only a moment, after all.

  Preacher wiped off the bloody knife on the war chief ’s buckskins, retrieved his guns, then stood up and tucked them into his belt. The cannon had fallen silent, and it was easy to see why. The bombardment had devastated the camp, and Preacher and the men with him had finished the job. Blackfoot bodies lay everywhere. Some members of the war party might have survived and fled, but surely not many. Those who had would carry the tale of the thundering death that had come in the dawn.

  One massacre for another, Preacher mused as he looked around. And sometime in the future, another war party would wipe out another fort to avenge what had happened there. On and on, a never-ending cycle of violence stretching all the way back to the dim, misty beginnings of mankind. Where it would end, Preacher had no idea.

  All he knew was that particular part of the cycle wouldn’t end until he
found Wiley Courtland.

  CHAPTER 34

  Fort Union was larger and more substantial than Fort Gifford had been, with thick earthen walls that wouldn’t burn and tall blockhouses to protect them. The booshwa didn’t live in the back of a log trading post but rather in an actual two-story house with whitewashed walls and a red roof. The land on which the outpost sat, at the confluence of the Missouri and Yellowstone Rivers, was considered to be Assiniboine territory, and the tribe got along well with the white men who had built the fort. Various bands visited frequently, setting up their lodges outside the walls and making a holiday of it.

  It was as far west as the American Fur Company had been able to penetrate safely, as the destruction of Fort Gifford proved.

  None of that mattered to Preacher. To him, Fort Union was just the starting point in his search for Courtland.

  He had come back downriver on the Stag. Captain Creighton had balked a little at taking Horse aboard, but in the end agreed. The boat returned with the same cargo it had left with. There was no place to leave it upriver, although some of the trappers bound for Fort Gifford had bought supplies before they scattered to seek their fortunes in fur.

  With the boat tied up at the dock built out into the river, Creighton said to Preacher, “I have to go talk to the booshwa about what happened at Gifford so he can write a letter back to the company and let them know. I don’t suppose you’d want to come with me?”

  “You saw what was left. You can explain it all just as good as I can.”

  “I wasn’t there,” Creighton pointed out. “You were.”

  “The Blackfeet got in, killed everybody, and burned down the fort. Can’t get much more simple than that.”

  Creighton sighed and nodded. “I suppose. But he may insist on talking to you anyway, since you’re the only survivor.”

  “Maybe I’ll be here, maybe I won’t,” Preacher said with a shrug. “And I ain’t the only survivor. Dog and Horse lived through it, too, but I don’t reckon they’ll feel any more like talkin’ than I do.”