“And with those injuries you’ve suffered, you’ll need someone with medical knowledge around, in case you need to be patched up yet again,” Audie added. “I’ll go with you, too.”
Nighthawk nodded and said, “Umm.”
“I am war chief here—” Two Bears began.
“And I ain’t Assiniboine,” Preacher stopped him. “Neither are my friends. We’ll do what we please.”
Audie said, “Even though you’re in no shape to—”
Preacher silenced him with a look.
Two Bears took a deep breath and gave them a curt nod.
“Very well. But I will come, too.”
“You have those women to take home,” Preacher said.
“My warriors can do that without me,” Two Bears insisted. “Everyone knows your fame, Ghostkiller. But I know these mountains better than you.”
Preacher wasn’t so sure about that, but he didn’t see any point in arguing. Two Bears was right about one thing: since the Gros Ventre weren’t pursuing them, the other Assiniboine warriors could handle things from here and take the former prisoners back to Bent Leg’s village.
“All right, the five of us will find Raven’s Wing,” he said.
“Now that we’ve got that settled,” Audie said, “you’d better let me have a look at your side, Preacher. I should probably bind that wound up again.”
“Sure.” Preacher sat down on a deadfall. “You can use some snow to clean it. We ain’t got any time to waste, though. Not with Raven’s Wing still in danger.”
While Audie worked on the wound in Preacher’s side, the mountain man thought about everything that had happened in the Gros Ventre village.
“What happened to Deaver?” he asked. “Anybody see him? I killed Manning, but Deaver was still tied up in the lodge where he was stayin’, the last I saw of him.”
“Stocky fella with hair like straw?” Lorenzo asked.
Preacher nodded.
“That’s right.”
“I didn’t see him,” Lorenzo said. “Come to think of it, I didn’t see any white men while the fightin’ was goin’ on.”
“Neither did I,” Audie said. “They must have decided to lie low. After all, it wasn’t really their battle.”
Preacher scratched at his bearded jaw and frowned in thought. He had tied Deaver pretty securely, but he supposed it was possible the man had gotten loose.
Another possibility occurred to him, and it sent a chill down his backbone.
“You don’t reckon those varmints got their hands on Raven’s Wing, do you?”
Two Bears stood straighter, stiffening in obvious horror at the idea.
“I don’t think it’s likely,” Audie said as he drew a fresh dressing tight around Preacher’s torso to cover the wound in the mountain man’s side, “but I don’t suppose we can rule it out.”
“Get that finished up, Audie,” Preacher snapped. “We got to get movin’. The sooner we find Raven’s Wing, the better.”
But even as he spoke, a persistent voice in the back of his head warned him that it might already be too late.
Sometimes, if a man was patient enough, luck smiled on him even when it looked like everything was going straight to hell, Willie Deaver thought.
He lifted a hand and touched the tiny, scabbed-over wound on his throat where Preacher had pressed the knife. Deaver knew he had been very, very close to death, close enough to look the bony old bastard in the eye.
And now, less than twelve hours later, he had the woman and a small fortune in pelts, and his worries about Caleb Manning getting too ambitious and double-crossing him were gone.
Manning was dead.
Preacher had killed him.
The thought still made Deaver want to laugh.
Instead, he tightened his arm around the trim waist of Raven’s Wing as she rode in front of him. Her hands were tied together, and although she had spat angry words at him for a long time, she had finally run out of energy and breath. Now her head drooped forward in despair as the four men rode south through the pine-forested hills.
Yes, luck had been with Deaver. Tied up in the lodge after Preacher killed Manning and rushed out, as the tumult of battle rose outside he had yelled the names of Plunkett, Heath, and Jordan, hoping that one of them would hear him. After a few minutes, Plunkett had looked into the lodge. His eyes were wide with surprise and fear.
“Cut me loose, damn it!” Deaver had ordered the Englishman. “We’ve gotta get out of here!”
If Preacher was there, some of the Assiniboine warriors probably were, too. That would explain the gunshots and the rest of the ruckus. Deaver had known that his life and the lives of his friends wouldn’t be worth a plugged nickel if the savages from the other tribe got hold of them.
Their only hope of survival was to get away from the village during the chaos that gripped the place.
That was what had happened. As soon as Deaver was free, he and Plunkett hurried out, met up with Heath and Jordan, and went for the horses, staying in the shadows as much as possible so they wouldn’t be noticed.
The pelts had already been bundled up and were ready to load onto the pack animals. Deaver wasn’t going to leave them behind unless it was a matter of life and death. As things had worked out, they had been able to lash the pelts onto the pack horses and lead them and their saddle mounts away from the village without anyone bothering them.
That was what they were doing when Deaver literally ran into Raven’s Wing, who was fleeing from the battle, too.
That was the moment when Willie Deaver realized fate was on his side after all. Everything he wanted out of this deal had been delivered to him. True, the weather wasn’t very good and there was still snow on the ground, which would make their escape a little harder, but Deaver could deal with that.
“Honey, when we get where we’re goin’, we’re gonna have ourselves a fine old time,” he said to Raven’s Wing now. “You just wait and see.”
She lifted her head and turned it to look back at him in the gray light. He had never seen a more bleak expression in his life.
She’d get over that, he told himself. Just give him a little time, and he would win her over.
And if he didn’t … well, he would enjoy himself anyway, even though she might not.
Only one question remained to be answered, and he knew that sooner or later he would have to deal with it, probably sooner.
Where the hell were they going?
CHAPTER 30
The five men led their horses through the woods, since that was quieter than riding. Even though the Gros Ventre had been discouraged by Snake Heart’s death to the point that they hadn’t given chase to the Assiniboine, Preacher knew they would still fight if they got a chance to attack their enemies. He didn’t want to give them that chance.
The sun was well up by the time they reached the vicinity of the Gros Ventre village. A warm breeze blew through the valley from the south. The snow had started to melt, although there was still a lot of the white stuff on the ground. It would take days for all of it to melt, and when it did, things would be a soggy mess around here.
Preacher called a halt when they smelled the smoke from the fires in the Gros Ventre village.
“You fellas wait here,” he told the others. “Dog and me will do a little scoutin’.”
“I can come with you,” Two Bears said.
Preacher shook his head.
“Not this time. No offense, Two Bears. You done just fine when we snuck up to the village last night.”
“I do not need your praise, white man.” The war chief wore his usual scowl when he spoke.
Preacher tried not to sigh. Seemed like Two Bears was just bound and determined to be an unpleasant son of a gun right to the end, no matter what happened. Well, so be it, the mountain man thought. A fella didn’t have to be friendly to be a valuable and dependable ally.
“Just stay here,” Preacher said. “Dog and me know what we’re doin.”
T
wo Bears scowled, but didn’t continue the argument.
“We’ll circle the whole village and see if Dog can pick up a scent,” Preacher went on. “At the same time I’ll have a look and make sure Deaver and his bunch ain’t still there.”
“What if they are?” Audie asked.
“Then Raven’s Wing is probably out somewhere by herself, which is the best thing we can hope for, because Dog can track her for us. If we don’t find any trail at all, that means she’s still in the village … one way or another.”
Preacher’s grim expression made it clear what he meant. Raven’s Wing could have been killed in the fighting.
But he wasn’t going to let himself believe that as long as there was reason to hope otherwise. With a curt nod of farewell, Preacher moved off through the trees on foot with the big cur padding alongside him.
The two of them were like shadows drifting through the pines, making no sound and not disturbing the underbrush. Usually when Preacher needed to approach a place with such stealth, he waited for the cover of darkness. He didn’t have that luxury this time, since Raven’s life might be in danger.
The smell of smoke grew stronger, and Preacher began to hear voices. He dropped to one knee in the snow and wrapped an arm around Dog’s neck.
“Find Raven’s Wing,” he whispered to the big cur. “Find her!”
When he released his hold, Dog moved off through the trees, nose to the ground. This wasn’t the first time they had conducted such a search. The shaggy, wolf-like canine knew what to do.
Preacher followed, still being careful not to make any noise.
Dog circled the village, never getting too close to the lodges. He went to the north, never stopping or even slowing. He must have come across scents that would have sent other dogs following them eagerly, but not this Dog. He was intent on his mission.
Preacher wasn’t surprised when Dog didn’t pick up Raven’s trail north of the village. It was unlikely she would have fled in that direction. Of course, in the confusion of battle, anything was possible, but he thought they stood a better chance of finding her trail south of the Gros Ventre encampment.
That was exactly what happened. Dog suddenly stiffened and snuffled the ground more intently. He turned away from the village and padded along with his nose down, practically scraping through the melting snow, mud, and old pine needles.
Preacher felt his spirits rise. Dog had spent quite a bit of time around Raven’s Wing, and he knew her scent. His reaction was proof that the young Assiniboine woman had made it out of the Gros Ventre village the previous night. So were the small, moccasin-shod footprints he spotted here and there. Preacher let the big cur follow the trail until he was confident that it was leading almost due south.
He was about to call out softly for Dog to stop, so they could go back to where Two Bears and the other men waited, when Dog abruptly stiffened and planted his feet. The hair on the back of his neck rose as he growled.
“What the hell?” Preacher muttered. Raven’s Wing’s scent wouldn’t have caused Dog to react like that. He came up beside Dog and dropped to a knee to study the ground.
Instantly, he saw the hoofprints, along with some bigger footprints left by boots. Preacher’s keen eyes roamed over the marks on the ground and read them as if they were letters in a book. Four men had come along here leading seven horses.
Four white men, because Indians didn’t wear boots like that, and they didn’t ride shod horses.
The mountain man’s pulse hammered with alarm inside his head. The men had come along and stopped here for a few moments. The droppings from the horses told him that. Where the two trails merged, the snow was scuffed and scattered, as if there had been a brief struggle.
Preacher knew exactly what had happened here. He could see it in his head as clearly as if his eyes had witnessed it.
Raven’s Wing had been fleeing from the Gros Ventre village, which was about half a mile behind Preacher and Dog, when she’d run into four men also leaving the village. Preacher had no doubt those men were Willie Deaver and his confederates, minus Caleb Manning, whom Preacher had killed in Deaver’s lodge.
And they had taken her prisoner, Preacher thought, as anger filled him. Raven’s Wing had escaped from the village only to find herself a captive again, probably in even more danger.
“Yeah, I don’t blame you for growlin’,” Preacher told Dog. “You smell Deaver’s stink, don’t you?”
He straightened and went forward, following the tracks on the ground. He didn’t need Dog’s nose now. The prints were still plain to see in the melting snow, although they were beginning to blur a little.
The men had continued to lead their horses, and Raven’s Wing trudged along with them. After several hundred more yards, Deaver must have decided that they were far enough from the village to risk mounting up. The footprints disappeared, but the hoofprints continued. They were riding now.
And Raven’s Wing was probably riding double with Deaver, Preacher thought. The idea of Deaver putting his hands all over her made the flames of anger burn even brighter inside Preacher.
His brain stayed cool and steady, though. He couldn’t afford to give in to his emotions. Instead he told Dog, “Go find Audie and Lorenzo and the others and bring them back here. I’ll go ahead and follow the trail on foot. Go find Audie!”
Dog looked up at him for a second, as if telling him to be careful, then bounded off through the woods.
Preacher stood there, rubbing his angular jaw as he looked down at the prints on the ground. Then he drew in a deep breath and started following them. He didn’t know how long it would take to catch up to Deaver and the others, and he didn’t care.
He would follow them as long as it took to get Raven’s Wing away from them.
Deaver was no closer to figuring out his next move when he called a halt that evening so the group could make camp in some foothills, but at least they had put quite a few miles behind them. They had reached the southern edge of the mountains in which the valley of the Gros Ventre lay. A broad, snow-covered basin flanked by other ranges lay in front of them.
“Do you think it’s safe to have a fire, Willie?” Plunkett asked as they dismounted. “I wouldn’t mind brewing up a pot of tea.”
“Go ahead,” Deaver told the Englishman. “Keep the fire small, though.”
“Will do, boss.”
Raven’s Wing still sat on the horse. Deaver told her to get down, and when she didn’t move but just stared straight ahead, he reached up, put an arm around her waist, and dragged her to the ground.
That seemed to wake her from her trance. She twisted in his grip and struck wildly at his face. Deaver laughed as he warded off the blows with his other arm. He jerked her tight against him.
“You go ahead and fight,” he told her with a sneer. “I don’t mind. In fact, I like it.”
That took the spirit out of her again. She sagged in his grasp.
“Heath, bring me some rope from our supplies,” Deaver said.
The dour-faced Darwin Heath complied with the command. He brought the rope to Deaver, who took it, attached it to the bonds around the prisoner’s wrists, and then tied the other end around a tree.
“This way you can’t try to run off,” he told Raven’s Wing. “The sooner you realize there’s not a damned thing you can do, the better off you’ll be, gal.”
She just gave him a hooded, baleful stare from under the sleek black hair that had fallen in front of her face.
Plunkett soon had a small fire going. The men tended to the horses, unsaddling the ones they had been riding and lifting the bundles of pelts down from the pack animals. While this was going on, Raven’s Wing stood with her back stiff and her eyes downcast.
Plunkett melted snow for water and brewed tea. Deaver didn’t care for the stuff himself, so he nipped from one of the jugs of whiskey they had brought along. The liquor kindled a warm glow inside him but didn’t muddle his mind.
After they had made a meager suppe
r from their supplies, Deaver took a piece of antelope jerky to Raven’s Wing and held it out to her.
“Better eat something,” he told her. “You’ve got to keep your strength up.”
She didn’t take the jerky, didn’t give any sign that she had even heard him.
“It’s your choice,” Deaver said with a shrug. “You might as well realize, though, it’s gonna take a damned long time for you to starve yourself to death. And I’m not gonna feel sorry for you and take it easy on you while that’s goin’ on, either.”
Raven’s Wing still didn’t reach for the jerky.
“Suit yourself,” Deaver said. He put the jerky in his mouth and started gnawing on it right in front of her. She would change her tune once her belly had been empty for a few days, he thought.
Plunkett let the fire burn down to embers. They still gave off a little heat for the men who gathered around them.
Deaver sensed that something was on the minds of the other men. After a few minutes, Fred Jordan confirmed that by saying, “I’ve been thinkin’, Willie … I realize that when we rode out, we were just tryin’ to get away from the Assiniboine, but where are we goin’ from here?”
Darwin Heath said, “The storms are just going to get worse and last longer. We need a permanent place to spend the winter.”
“I’ve been thinkin’ about that, too,” Deaver said, “and I’ve got an idea.”
It had come to him late in the afternoon, and while he didn’t know how well it would work out, at least it was a possibility.
“I think we should go back to Blind Pete’s,” Deaver said.
That statement caused puzzled frowns to appear on the faces of the other three men.
Plunkett said, “But we burned Blind Pete’s. Burned the bloody place down right around him, like you told us to.”
Deaver nodded.
“I know that. But I’ll bet the fireplace and the chimney are still standin’, and it won’t take long to throw together a nice big cabin around them. There’s plenty of water and game in the area. We’d make out all right. But if I’d known we’d be coming back this way so soon, I would have just killed the damned Dutchman and left the place standin’.”
Preacher’s Fury Page 20