Preacher's Hell Storm

by William W. Johnstone

  She struggled to get up off the ground again, but Preacher put a hand on her and shoved her back down, then leaned his weight on her to keep her pinned where she was. His hand was resting right between her breasts, which was a mite embarrassing for him, but it was effective at keeping her from moving around.

  “Stop fightin’!” he told her. “I don’t want to hurt you, but I will if I have to.”

  “Killer!” she practically spat at him. “You would murder a woman? Of course you would, the same way you murdered our warriors!”

  If he’d had any doubt she had followed him from the Blackfoot village, it was gone. He muttered, “The hell with this!”, and threw a punch that cracked across her jaw. She went limp underneath him.

  It was astonishing to him that a woman had been able to trail him through the night, but for the moment her sex wasn’t an important consideration. He was more concerned with figuring out what to do with her. He didn’t want to kill her in cold blood. That went too much against the grain for him. But he couldn’t turn her loose. He didn’t want her to lead Tall Bull and the warriors back there to find the cave. Letting her go would mean that he and Hawk and White Buffalo would have to find some other place to hole up.

  That was unacceptable.

  Preacher could think of one more possibility, but he didn’t like it much more than the other two. Still, he supposed it was the lesser of the three evils. He looked down at her, still out cold from the punch, then he hefted her up and draped her limp form over his shoulder. She was solidly built and not exactly light, but he handled her weight like it didn’t amount to much.

  Holding her tightly, he trotted off toward the cave as the eastern sky continued to lighten with the approach of dawn.

  * * *

  By the time Preacher reached his destination, the sky had a few streaks of rose and gold in it. He paused outside the brush barrier and called, “Hawk! White Buffalo! It’s me . . . and I have a prisoner.”

  The woman hadn’t budged. Preacher thought he hadn’t hit her hard enough to cause any permanent damage, but sometimes he didn’t seem to know his own strength.

  He heard stirring from inside the cave, then Hawk pushed some of the brush aside and stepped out.

  “You brought one of the filthy Blackfeet with you?” he demanded. From where he stood, he could see only the prisoner’s buckskin-clad rump and legs and clearly didn’t realize she was a woman. “Why did you not just kill him? Why waste the effort to bring him back with you?” Hawk paused. “Or did you bring him to ask him questions, like you tried to do with Strong Bear?”

  “Not exactly.” Preacher strode past Hawk, through the opening in the brush, and into the cave, where he bent and placed the unconscious captive on the ground.

  “A woman!” White Buffalo said as his watery old eyes widened in amazement. “A young woman!”

  It was true. The prisoner appeared to be about Hawk’s age, maybe a summer or two younger. She was dressed like a warrior. Her black hair was done up in two braids.

  Hawk had followed Preacher into the cave and stared at the woman for a couple seconds. “Why have you done this?”

  “She followed me from the Blackfoot village. I ain’t quite sure how. Reckon she must be mighty good at woodscraft and have a keen eye.”

  “So a woman . . . a girl . . . was able to follow the mighty Ghost Killer without him knowing it?” Hawk’s tone was mocking.

  Anger surged inside Preacher. “Don’t push your luck, boy. I said before that you were mighty good. It appears this gal might be even better.”

  Hawk glared at him. He reached for the knife at his waist and said, “We should cut her throat before she wakes up and drop her in the ravine with the others.”

  “I don’t hold with killin’ women in cold blood. Since she followed me almost all the way back here, I didn’t figure it would be a good idea to turn her loose.”

  White Buffalo asked, “Then what are we to do with her?”

  Preacher said, “I reckon we’ll just have to keep her here until we’re through with what we’ve got to do in these parts.”

  Hawk and White Buffalo stared at him as if he had lost his mind.

  After a moment, White Buffalo said, “No. Kill her! She is Blackfoot.”

  After surviving the harrowing ordeal in the Absaroka village, Preacher couldn’t really blame the old man for feeling that way.

  The young woman hadn’t taken part in the massacre—at least Preacher assumed she hadn’t—but he had no doubt she was just fine with Tall Bull and the war party slaughtering all of the Absaroka.

  “Have you forgotten Bird in the Tree, Preacher?” Hawk asked. “I have not. Nor have I forgotten Little Pine. They were innocent, and yet Tall Bull and his men slew them.”

  “I haven’t forgotten them or anybody else from your village. I helped lay all of them to rest. Remember? It ain’t likely I’ll forget that any time soon, if I ever do.” Preacher waved a hand toward the young woman. “If we kill her in cold blood, don’t that make us the same sort of evil varmint Tall Bull is? He wages war on women and children, but I reckon I’d like to be better than that.”

  “You are a fool,” White Buffalo said. “Hate must be met with hate. Death demands vengeance.”

  “Death demands justice. I ain’t shyin’ away from killin’ Tall Bull or any of his warriors . . . but this is different.”

  Hawk said, “If you keep her, she is yours to deal with, Preacher. I will have nothing to do with her.”

  “White Buffalo?” Preacher said.

  The old-timer crossed his sticklike arms over his chest and glared. “I will do nothing to help you with this Blackfoot devil.”

  She didn’t look much like a devil, Preacher thought as he gazed down at the unconscious woman. In fact, she was sort of attractive, in a severe way.

  Nearly everyone in Indian society, male and female, regardless of tribe, knew their places in that particular culture and accepted them.

  Often there were a few who, in one way or another, just never fit in. The so-called contraries, the ones who did everything backwards, were the most prominent, but there were also men who acted like women and women who acted like men.

  Preacher wondered if this was one of the latter. She had trailed him through the night as well or better than any of Tall Bull’s warriors could have, and when he jumped her she had fought with the strength and determination of a man.

  Despite that, Preacher knew she was a woman and so he would act accordingly. That meant not killing her out of hand.

  “All right. If you two want to act like stubborn ol’ badgers, there ain’t nothin’ I can do about it,” he told Hawk and White Buffalo, not trying to keep the anger out of his voice. “I’ll figure it out later. For now, if you want to keep your distance from this gal, I reckon you can have at it.”

  “That is exactly what I intend to do,” Hawk said as he turned toward the cave mouth.

  “And White Buffalo as well,” the old-timer declared with a disdainful sniff.

  He was standing too close to the prisoner, and suddenly she lashed out with her right foot and kicked the back of his left knee. She had been shamming and had done a good job of it.

  White Buffalo yelled in pain and surprise as his leg buckled and he went down.

  The woman lunged up and grabbed the handle of the hunting knife Preacher had given him. “Murderers!” she screamed as she pulled it from the waistband of White Buffalo’s filthy buckskin trousers.

  Preacher and Hawk spread out to close in on her. She slashed back and forth with the knife to keep them at bay. At the same time, she edged out of reach of White Buffalo, although it seemed the old-timer wasn’t going to do anything except lie there, hold his knee, and howl in pain.

  “Now hold on a minute—” Preacher began.

  “Let me go!”

  “Let her run,” Hawk said. “I will put an arrow in her back before she has gone ten paces.”

  “Nobody’s shootin’ anybody with an arrow.” Pre
acher nodded his head in a signal.

  Dog was behind her, and at Preacher’s nod he leaped at her back. Weighing more than a hundred pounds, he knocked her forward off her feet.

  He could have torn out her throat with one swipe of his teeth, but Preacher said, “Dog! Back!” as he leaped toward the young woman.

  Dog backed away. Preacher’s foot came down on the wrist of the hand holding the knife, making her cry out in pain and let go of the weapon. In an instant he snatched it up.

  “Now do you see why we should kill her?” Hawk said. “She is our enemy and will always be our enemy. She cannot be trusted. A Blackfoot can never be trusted!”

  “Maybe not, but I don’t make war on women or kids.” Preacher knew he was being stubborn, and from a purely practical standpoint, Hawk and White Buffalo were probably right. Their best course of action was to dispose of the woman.

  But Preacher wasn’t going to do that, at least not yet. He tossed the knife to Hawk and told him, “Look after White Buffalo. I don’t reckon his leg’s hurt all that bad, but we’d best make sure.”

  Hawk caught it deftly, “What are you going to do?”

  Preacher walked toward the young woman, who sat up and scuttled backwards until Dog blocked her escape and growled.

  “I intend on havin’ a few words with her. I want to find out just who it is that can track me as well as this gal did tonight.”

  CHAPTER 20

  With Dog beside her, watchful and seemingly eager to sink his teeth into her, and Preacher hunkered down in front of her, the captive couldn’t go anywhere. Her dark eyes were big with fright, but anger and defiance burned brightly in them, as well.

  “Who are you?” Preacher asked. “What’s your name?”

  For a moment she didn’t answer, and he figured she was going to be stubborn about it. But then she said, “I am called Winter Wind.”

  “Because you blow fierce and cold?” Preacher guessed.

  She seemed surprised. “How did you know that?”

  “I’ve spent a lot of time with Indians. Not Blackfeet, mind you, because they’re always tryin’ to kill me, but some things are pretty common among all the tribes, like how they’ll name somebody according to how they look or act. No offense, ma’am, but you don’t exactly strike me as the warm and friendly sort.”

  “I am a warrior,” Winter Wind snapped.

  “You act like one, no doubt about that.” He paused. “But I’ll bet ol’ Tall Bull don’t let you go out raidin’ with the war parties, now does he?”

  “That is his mistake,” she said, her voice and face sullen with resentment. “I could kill the enemies of the Blackfeet as well as any man.”

  “I’m sure you could. What were you doin’ prowlin’ around the village tonight? You must not have been in one of the tepees if you spotted me.”

  “Tall Bull will not even allow me to stand guard over our people. But I do it anyway. When the dogs began to bark I saw someone running away, so I followed. I knew you had to be an enemy.” She looked at him intently. “I did not know you were the evil Ghost Killer, the murderer of so many of our people.”

  “So you heard that while you were still pretendin’ to be unconscious, did you?”

  “You do not deny it?” she challenged.

  “I deny bein’ evil and a murderer. I reckon I’ve killed plenty of Blackfeet, sure enough, but I promise you, there’s been a whole heap more of ’em who’ve done their best to kill me. Shoot, one time they were gonna burn me at the stake!”

  Winter Wind’s lip curled as she said, “A fitting fate for a man such as you.”

  “Back when that happened, the Blackfeet didn’t have no special grudge against me yet—”

  Preacher stopped. He wasn’t going to waste time arguing with the young woman or explaining his past to her. History wouldn’t change the way she felt about him, just like it wouldn’t change the way Hawk and White Buffalo felt about her.

  Preacher glanced around to see how the old-timer was doing. Hawk had helped him to his feet and taken him over to the far side of the cave. White Buffalo was sitting down with his back propped against the wall and his legs stretched out in front of him. Hawk probed at the knee Winter Wind had kicked, and the old man grimaced.

  “How’s he doin’?” Preacher asked.

  “I do not believe any bones are broken,” Hawk replied. “White Buffalo’s knee will be sore for a time, but he should be all right.”

  “The woman should be killed!” White Buffalo said. “She attacked me!”

  Preacher turned back to her. “You can see you ain’t got no friends here. I reckon I’m the only thing standin’ between you and death.”

  “If you wait for me to thank you, I will not.”

  Preacher shook his head. “No, I ain’t expectin’ no thanks. But if you want to show me you appreciate me not killin’ you—and not lettin’ those two kill you—you can tell me how many warriors Tall Bull has left.”

  “I will tell you nothing!” she said through clenched teeth. “Go ahead and kill me!”

  “You should do as she wishes,” Hawk said.

  “Nope,” Preacher said. “If she don’t want to cooperate, we’ll just go on without her help. It won’t change a blasted thing in the long run.”

  “So what are you going to do with her?”

  “Reckon she’ll have to be tied and gagged.”

  “No!” Winter Wind cried. Despite the threat of Dog at her side, she launched herself at Preacher again. He could tell by the crazed look in her eyes she was determined to force him to kill her.

  He met her attack with a swift punch that once again stretched her out on the floor of the cave.

  Before her senses returned to her, he lashed her hands and feet and fastened a gag in her mouth. As he finished, she blinked her eyes open and looked up at him with such hatred, he was reminded of something Audie had said once. If looks could kill . . .

  Preacher figured if there was any truth to that old saying, he’d be one dead son of a gun right now.

  * * *

  By that evening White Buffalo was hobbling around, complaining about his knee, but as far as Preacher could see, the old-timer was almost as spry as he’d ever been. Preacher kept an eye on him, knowing he might try to get rid of Winter Wind if he got the chance.

  Hawk had brought down a nice fat grouse during the day, and they roasted it for supper. Preacher took one of the legs over to Winter Wind and removed the gag from her mouth.

  “I’m gonna let you eat,” he told her. “Give me your word you won’t try anything, and I’ll untie your hands.”

  “I give you my word for nothing except that I will kill you,” she said, her voice a little hoarse and choked from having the gag in her mouth all day. She turned her head and spat a couple times on the cave floor.

  “Reckon I can hold this, then, and you can gnaw on it.”

  He held the food up to her mouth, but she turned her head away and refused to eat.

  “All right,” Preacher said. “I ain’t gonna squat here and beg you to eat. You had your chance. You want some water?”

  “I will take nothing from you. I will lie in my own filth and die of thirst!”

  “Well, that sounds mighty unpleasant. I figured you were smarter than that. But if you ain’t, I guess there’s nothin’ I can do about it.” He carried the food back to the fire, where he hunkered down and ate it himself.

  “You should put the gag back in her mouth,” Hawk said. “She might try to yell, and if any of Tall Bull’s men are nearby, they could hear it.”

  “In a minute,” Preacher said.

  White Buffalo said, “You are too kind to her. You cannot befriend a Blackfoot. They are all like dogs with the mad sickness that makes them foam at the mouth. All you can do is kill them before they kill someone else.”

  “She ain’t killin’ nobody, tied up like that.”

  After he had eaten, Preacher went back over to the captive and put the gag in her mouth again. She trie
d to bite him, but he managed to get the gag in so all she could do was make angry noises.

  They had been standing guard at night anyway, taking turns as usual, so that didn’t change just because they had a prisoner. Before he fell asleep, Preacher wondered if Hawk would kill the woman during the night. He didn’t think so, but he wasn’t completely certain.

  * * *

  Winter Wind was still alive the next morning. Her resolve had weakened overnight, and when Preacher offered her food and water, she accepted. She wanted to visit the bushes outside, but he took her back into a dark corner of the cave and stood nearby, ignoring her muttered complaints.

  After he had tied her up again but hadn’t replaced the gag, she asked, “Why do you hate the Blackfeet so much?”

  “They’ve killed people I cared about,” Preacher said, “and like I told you before, they’ve tried to kill me over and over again. I’ve had more trouble with them than any other tribe out here on the frontier. You got to admit, they’ve got a reputation for not gettin’ along with anybody, white and Indian alike.”

  “The Blackfeet kill our enemies. It is what we do. If we tried to kill you, you must have done something to become our enemy.”

  Hawk had been pretending not to listen, but he couldn’t contain his reaction to Winter Wind’s words. “My people did nothing to yours! My mother never harmed anyone, Blackfoot or anybody else. The girl who was to be my wife, Little Pine, never hurt anyone. And yet Tall Bull and his warriors killed them and everyone else in my village! Women, children, old men, all dead!”

  “They were not Blackfoot,” Winter Wind said. “They were not truly people.”

  Hawk snarled and reached for the knife at his waist.

  Preacher moved to get between him and the prisoner. “I know it’s a crazy way to think, but it’s what’s been drummed into her head, her whole life.” He turned to the woman. “So that’s why Tall Bull wiped out that Absaroka village?”

  “The Blackfeet need more hunting ground, Tall Bull says. He will bring many of the bands together, and then we will take what we need.”