As they approached the door, all five of the men drew their pistols. Manning hung back a little to let Deaver get ahead of him. Deaver hoped the door wasn’t barred on the inside. If it was, they probably wouldn’t be able to get in.
In that case, they’d just burn the cabin down and let the occupants roast inside. That’d teach ’em.
Deaver lifted his foot and drove the heel of his boot against the door where the latch would be. With a crash, the door swung open. Deaver already darted aside to let Manning rush in first. He stepped over the threshold behind Manning with his pistol cocked and leveled and his finger taut on the trigger.
A woman screamed, and the sound sent a thrill shooting through Deaver. He hadn’t expected to find a woman here.
Manning’s gun roared while the woman was still screaming. A man howled in pain. Deaver’s eyes had a little trouble adjusting after being in the whiteness of the snow-covered landscape outside, but after a couple of seconds he was able to make out the man who lay on the puncheon floor clutching a bullet-shattered shoulder, as well as the woman who knelt beside him, sobbing.
The man was skinny and middle-aged, with a gray beard and a tangle of hair. The woman was somewhat younger, a round-faced Indian. A trapper and his squaw, Deaver thought.
Manning stepped aside to reload his pistol while Deaver pointed his weapon at the couple. A rifle lay on the floor not far from the wounded man. Deaver figured the trapper had reached for the rifle when the intruders burst in, prompting Manning to shoot him.
Deaver toed the rifle, pushing it far enough away the trapper wouldn’t be tempted to make another try for it.
“Settle down, you two,” he said. “We’re not here to hurt anybody.”
That was an outright lie, and probably everybody in the cabin knew it.
“Who … who are you?” the trapper demanded through teeth clenched with pain. “What do you want?”
“Just a place to get out of the storm,” Deaver said. “Maybe a little food. You got a shed here?”
The man glared at him and said, “Out back.”
Deaver said to Manning, “Tell the boys to take the horses around back and tend to them.”
“Sure, Willie,” Manning said. “You all right in here?”
“There won’t be any more trouble,” Deaver said.
Manning went out of the cabin. The door swung back and forth a little on its leather hinges as the wind blew in, bringing snowflakes with it and putting a chill in the air despite the flames burning brightly in the fireplace at the side of the cabin.
“Here’s the way it’s gonna be,” Deaver said quietly to the trapper. “Your woman’s gonna fix us something to eat, and if you’ve got any whiskey here, we want it, too.”
“Just take what you want and go, damn your eyes,” the trapper growled.
Deaver shook his head.
“I told you, we’re not going anywhere until this snowstorm blows over. Then after we’ve eaten and warmed up … what’s your woman’s name, anyway?”
The trapper didn’t answer for a moment, but then as he stared down the barrel of Deaver’s pistol, he said reluctantly, “She’s called Meadow Lark.”
“Meadow Lark,” Deaver repeated. “That’s a right pretty name. Well, then, as I was sayin’, after we’ve eaten we’ll all take turns pleasurin’ ourselves with Meadow Lark. If you want, I’ll let you live so you can watch, or—”
He didn’t get any farther than that. Despite the trapper’s wounded shoulder, he lunged up off the floor, bellowing in anger and outrage.
That was just what Deaver expected him to do. Deaver squeezed the trigger, and the pistol roared and bucked in his hand as he shot the trapper in the head. The impact drove the man back down on the floor in a limp heap. He didn’t even jerk.
The squaw screamed again and threw herself on top of him as if to shield him, but it was far too late for that. The trapper was already dead.
Manning ran in.
“You all right, Willie?” he asked.
“Yeah,” Deaver said. He started reloading his pistol. “Fella got a mite too feisty. I had to shoot him.”
“Oh. Well, I expected as much.”
“Get the horses taken care of?”
“The boys are workin’ on it.”
Deaver nodded and tucked his pistol behind his belt. He stepped forward, bent down, and grabbed hold of Meadow Lark’s arm.
“Come on, squaw,” he said as he started to haul her to her feet. “You got work to do.”
She came up a lot faster than he expected, and as she turned toward him he caught the glint of firelight reflecting on the knife she held. He didn’t know if she had taken it off the dead trapper or if she’d had it on her the whole time, but it didn’t matter. He flung himself backward to avoid the knife as she slashed at him. The blade came within inches of opening up his gut.
Manning’s pistol blasted. The woman reeled back, blood welling from the hole in her chest. She dropped the knife and collapsed. After a second, her raspy breathing stopped.
“You stupid son of a bitch!” Deaver yelled. “What did you do that for?”
“She tried to kill you!” Manning protested.
“I could have taken that knife away from her,” Deaver said coldly. “Now we’ll have to cook for ourselves, and we won’t be able to pass the time sportin’ with her while we wait for the storm to blow over.”
“Sorry, Willie,” Manning said. “I reckon I wasn’t thinkin’.”
Deaver shook his head and sighed.
“These things happen, I suppose. Let’s drag the bodies well away from the cabin. The wolves will have themselves a feast tonight, and I don’t want ’em keepin’ me awake with all their growlin’ and snappin’.”
CHAPTER 17
The snowstorm lasted two more days. Snow wasn’t falling constantly during that time. There were a few breaks, but they didn’t last long before more flakes began to spiral down from the gray sky. By the time it was over, more than two feet of snow rested on the ground, and the drifts were two or three times that deep.
Also by the time the storm was over, Preacher and Raven’s Wing were well acquainted. They spent the long hours wrapped in thick fur robes and wrapped in each other as well.
Since Raven had laid in plenty of food, the only reason Preacher set foot outside the lodge was to get more firewood and to clear snow off the grass in Horse’s pen so the big gray stallion would be able to graze. On those occasions he saw a few of the Assiniboine moving around the village, but not Two Bears.
That was good, Preacher thought. He had never in his life run from trouble, but sometimes if you just left a problem alone, it went away on its own.
He didn’t really expect that to happen with Two Bears, as deep-seated as the man’s anger seemed to be, but it was possible.
Preacher didn’t see Lorenzo, Audie, or Nighthawk, either, and he wondered how the wound in the Crow’s side was healing. He was confident Nighthawk was all right. Most people who lived in these mountains had iron constitutions, and the Crow was no exception. Nighthawk was as tough or tougher than anybody Preacher had ever met.
On the morning of the third day, Preacher saw sunlight peeking through the cracks around the flap over the lodge’s entrance when he awoke. That meant the storm was over, at least for now.
He shifted a little, intending to slip out of the robes without disturbing Raven, who still slept.
But she let out a drowsy little moan of protest and asked, “Where are you going?”
“Sun’s shinin’,” Preacher told her.
“That means nothing. The clouds and the snow may come back.”
“Yeah, but they ain’t here now. I ought to get dressed and go outside to check on things.”
He leaned over to plant a kiss on the sleek skin of her bare shoulder. The rest of her was bare, too, and he was sorely tempted to just keep kissing and see what he could find, especially when she squirmed closer against him.
“If there was trouble, yo
u would know it.” She nuzzled her face against his broad, hairy chest and murmured, “Stay here with me.”
No man in his right mind could argue with a plea like that, and Preacher had always considered himself eminently sane. He supposed it wouldn’t hurt to linger in the lodge for a little while longer …
It was mid-morning when he pushed the entrance flap aside and stepped out, wearing a thick sheepskin coat over his buckskins. His breath fogged thickly in the cold air as he looked around the village. More people were moving around now in the sunshine, mostly women, but he saw Audie and Nighthawk walking toward the creek. His long-legged strides quickly allowed him to catch up to them.
“Mornin’,” Preacher said. “How’re you fellas doin’? Make it through the storm all right?”
“Yes, indeed,” Audie said with a big smile. “Winter in these parts may be fierce at times, but it certainly has its pleasures as well.”
“Umm,” Nighthawk said.
Preacher chuckled.
“How about you, old-timer? That wound in your side healin’ all right?”
Nighthawk nodded his head gravely.
“Seen Lorenzo?” Preacher went on.
“I happened to see him poke his head out of his lodge earlier this morning,” Audie said. “He looked around, then pulled his head back in like a prairie dog ducking back into its hole. He appeared to be all right, just not ready to come out and face the world yet.”
“The old codger,” Preacher said with a smile. “I reckon that Honey Gal’s been warmin’ his bones.”
“Undoubtedly.” Audie hesitated, then went on, “Preacher, I saw Two Bears this morning, as well. He was looking at your lodge, and he didn’t appear to be happy.”
Preacher sighed.
“I was hopin’ he might’ve got over bein’ mad by now.”
“I don’t think that’s the case.”
“Well, that’s just too damned bad. I didn’t do nothin’ wrong, and neither did Raven.”
“I completely agree with you, but I’m not the one you have to worry about.”
“I ain’t worried about Two Bears,” Preacher said with a snort.
“I didn’t mean it that way. But you know that trouble may come from this.”
“Let it come if it’s goin’ to,” Preacher said.
They had reached the creek, which had frozen over during the storm. The ice on its surface wasn’t very thick, though. Audie was able to chop through it with a tomahawk, and once he had, he and Nighthawk dropped fishing lines through the hole. With any luck, they would come up with some nice trout.
Preacher didn’t have any fishing gear and didn’t feel like it anyway, so he said so long to his friends and ambled back up to the village. He wanted to check on Horse this morning. Dog had spent most of the storm curled up inside the lodge, so Preacher knew the big cur was all right.
Horse tossed his head in greeting, the way he did every time he saw Preacher.
“You’d like to get out and run for a while, wouldn’t you?” the mountain man asked as he patted the stallion’s shoulder. “That sounds good to me, too, but I don’t reckon you could do it in this deep snow. As soon as the weather clears up some, we’ll sure give you a chance to stretch your legs.”
When Preacher turned away from the brush corral, he found Two Bears standing there, scowling at him. The snow and the warrior’s natural stealth had kept Preacher from hearing his approach.
“You should leave this village,” Two Bears said without preamble. “You are not welcome here.”
Preacher grunted.
“That’s not the way it seems to me. Bent Leg said it was fine for me and my friends to winter here.”
“Bent Leg is an old man. He thinks like an old man.”
“Yeah, well, you go tell him how old and decrepit he is,” Preacher suggested. “See how well he takes to it.”
“You think because you helped my people, that gives you the same rights as an Assiniboine warrior.”
“Seems like I helped more than just your people. I recollect—”
Preacher stopped short. He had been about to remind Two Bears of how he’d saved his life during that last fight with the Gros Ventre. But he was certain Two Bears recalled that as well as he did, and throwing it in his face would be too much like boasting. Preacher had never been a boastful man.
The flush that spread over Two Bears’ features told Preacher that the man knew quite well what he was talking about, anyway. Two Bears repeated stubbornly, “You are not welcome here.”
“That comes as a surprise to me. Raven’s Wing has made me feel mighty welcome the past few days.”
That was boasting, too, Preacher supposed, but Two Bears had irritated him so much he didn’t care anymore.
The verbal thrust went home. Two Bears’ lips drew back from his teeth in a snarl, and he leaped at Preacher with blinding speed, hands outstretched to grab him.
Preacher twisted in an effort to avoid the lunge, but Two Bears snagged his coat with one hand and slung him against the brush corral. Preacher rebounded from it, but Two Bears was ready and tackled him.
Both men sprawled in the snow, thrashing around so that a cloud of the white stuff rose in the air around them, almost like fog. Two Bears seemed intent on getting both arms around Preacher in a crushing grip, but the mountain man writhed free and hammered punches to the warrior’s head and body. Caught up in the grip of his anger, Two Bears was able to shrug off the punishment Preacher was dealing out to him.
All right, Preacher thought, if Two Bears wanted to wrestle, they would wrestle. He slid to the side, and when Two Bears came after him, Preacher grabbed him around the neck and rolled. They went over and over in the snow, and when they stopped, Preacher was behind Two Bears with an arm looped around his neck. He clamped down hard, cutting off Two Bears’ air and forcing his head up and back.
Preacher planted a knee in the small of Two Bears’ back and bore down hard. He knew that if he heaved now with all his strength, he could break Two Bears’ neck and there was nothing the warrior could do to stop him.
For a second, in his own anger, he came very close to doing just that.
Reason asserted itself at the last moment, cutting through the red rage that filled Preacher’s head. Two Bears was an annoying jackass, but he wasn’t evil. He had just made the mistake of falling in love with the wrong woman and being too blasted stubborn to admit it.
He didn’t deserve to die for that mistake.
Besides, no matter how friendly Bent Leg was toward Preacher, and no matter how much he had helped the Assiniboine, the mountain man wasn’t one of them. Two Bears was right about that. If he killed Two Bears, who would probably be the chief of this entire band someday, Bent Leg would probably have to banish him and his friends from the village. That was the least it would take to satisfy the anger of Two Bears’ fellow warriors. They might even insist that Preacher be put to death.
He wasn’t going to put Lorenzo, Audie, and Nighthawk in that much danger just because of some squabble over a woman.
Preacher kept the pressure on Two Bears’ throat until the warrior was only half conscious. Then he let go and pushed himself to his feet. All his attention had been focused on keeping that grip on Two Bears, so he wasn’t aware until he stood up that their fight had been noticed. Quite a few of the Assiniboine were standing nearby watching, as were his three friends.
And Raven’s Wing, standing there with a thick fur robe wrapped around her and a worried look on her face.
Preacher brushed snow off his coat and buckskins and said, “Sorry, Bent Leg. I didn’t mean for this ruckus to start up again. I hoped Two Bears had gotten over it.”
“He is a proud man,” Bent Leg said as he stepped forward. He reached down, took hold of Two Bears’ collar, and lifted the groggy warrior with a strength that belied his age. “He will not get over it, as you say.”
“Then maybe it would be better if I leave here,” Preacher said. He didn’t want to take that step—
he didn’t relish the idea of having to find some other place to spend the winter after the cold weather had already descended on the land—but as long as Bent Leg allowed Lorenzo, Audie, and Nighthawk to remain, Preacher supposed he could handle that solution.
Raven’s Wing stepped forward and said, “No! If you force Preacher to leave, I will go with him.”
Bent Leg frowned at her.
“You are like a daughter to me, as you well know, but you will not tell me how to make my decisions as chief of our people.”
Her chin came up defiantly as she said, “Make whatever decision you deem best, uncle … and so will I.”
Preacher grimaced. He hadn’t set out to cause trouble within the chief’s family, too. Somebody needed to talk a little sense into all these folks.
Two Bears pushed himself to his feet. He pointed a finger at Preacher and said in a hoarse voice, “I challenge you, white man!”
Preacher shook his head.
“Don’t do that.”
“You will meet me in a fight to the death, or else everyone in these mountains will know that the man called Preacher is a coward!”
Bent Leg pursed his lips and said, “Choose your words wisely, Two Bears. Preacher’s courage has never been cast in doubt.”
“I cast it so now,” Two Bears insisted. “Unless we settle this as two men should.”
Bent Leg drew in a deep breath and let it out in a sigh.
“So be it,” he said. He looked at Preacher. “You have been challenged to a fight to the death, with my niece Raven’s Wing as the prize. What say you, Preacher?”
Two Bears hadn’t exactly put up Raven’s Wing as the stakes in this deadly wager, Preacher thought, but everybody knew that was what he meant.
Including Raven’s Wing, who had gone as pale as her natural coloring would allow.
Preacher wished like blazes that Two Bears hadn’t pushed things this far … but now that he had, there was no honorable way to back down.
Preacher’s Fury Page 11