Stahlmaske turned to Preacher and asked, “Would you like to try one of these?” He held out a rifle with an elaborate design carved into the stock and a brass butt plate.
“No, thanks, I’ll just shoot my own if I see anything that needs shootin’,” Preacher said. He hefted his long-barreled flintlock with its plain, unadorned stock that showed the signs of long use. Its barrel didn’t shine much in the sun, either.
That rifle had saved Preacher’s life more times than he could possibly remember.
“Suit yourself,” Stahlmaske said with a shrug.
As the men swung up into their saddles, Captain Warner came out onto the deck from the engine room.
“I’ll try to have this boat ready to go by the time you gentlemen get back,” he told them. “Want me to blow the whistle when we’re done, so you’ll know?”
“That’s a good idea,” Russell said. “As soon as we hear it we’ll head back, if we haven’t already.”
He and Preacher lifted hands in farewell, as did Senator Allingham. The count couldn’t be bothered with that, and the three younger men were still chattering with excitement as they urged their mounts into motion.
Roderick and the twins bounced awkwardly in their saddles, Preacher noted with some wry amusement. It was obvious they weren’t experienced riders. If they had to travel very far on horseback, they would be sore as hell the next day. Luckily for them, they probably wouldn’t have to.
The count, on the other hand, seemed born to the saddle. Preacher figured he had done a considerable amount of riding as a military man. Allingham was comfortable on horseback, too, which surprised Preacher.
“You sit that saddle like you’ve done some ridin’ before, Senator,” Preacher commented as the group headed southwest away from the river.
“I was born and raised on a farm,” Allingham replied. “I could ride our old horse almost before I could walk.” He chuckled. “Although I was considerably older than that before I ever knew what a saddle was.”
“I was a farm boy, too,” Preacher said. “Never really took to it, though. I didn’t mind the work, but there were just too many other places I wanted to go and things I wanted to see. I reckon that’s why as soon as I got old enough, I headed for the tall and uncut.”
“There were times I was tempted to do that as well.”
“How in the world did a Vermont farm boy wind up bein’ a senator?”
“Hard work, I suppose, but first and foremost was my mother’s insistence that I have a proper education. Her father had been a schoolmaster, so she knew quite a bit. After she had taught me as much as she could, she made arrangements for me to attend school in the village near where we lived. My father didn’t like that very much—he was a simple man and didn’t see the need of a bunch of book learning, as he called it, plus he didn’t want to lose my help on the farm—but he was willing to go along with it since that was what my mother wanted. I wound up working for one of the merchants in town and he took a liking to me and helped me go to Harvard and study law. That was where my political career really began, I suppose.”
Preacher had a feeling that was a story Allingham had told many times before, probably in speeches, but it had the ring of truth to it anyway. Even though they had wound up in very different places in life, he and Allingham had started out sort of alike. Neither would have been happy following the other’s path, but they had those origins in common, anyway.
The liking he felt for the senator made him regret that much more the secret he knew. Either the man’s wife or daughter was carrying on with Count Stahlmaske, and Preacher knew Allingham would be upset no matter which one it was.
Gretchen Ritter probably wouldn’t be happy about it, either, he thought . . . although given the coolness in her tone when she had spoken to him about the count, it might not bother her that much that her fiancé was seeing another woman. As long as the affair didn’t interfere with their upcoming marriage, she might not really care.
All that was too murky for a straightforward man like Preacher to muddle through. He put it out of his mind and concentrated on their surroundings. The last thing they needed to do was to blunder into some Pawnee hunting party. The count might lose his head and try to bag himself an Indian. That would be a disaster.
When they had ridden about a mile from the river, Roderick suddenly stood up in his stirrups, pointed, and exclaimed, “Look! Over there!”
Preacher had already seen the little herd of antelope, about a dozen strong. And the animals had heard Roderick’s shout, as was demonstrated by the way their heads popped up from their grazing. Before the riders could do anything except rein in and reach for their rifles, the antelope were off like a shot, running swiftly and gracefully across the prairie.
Roderick started to raise his rifle anyway, but his brother spoke sharply to him in German. Roderick lowered the weapon and looked sheepish.
“I’m sorry, Albert,” he said. “I know I should not have alarmed them that way. I was just so excited.”
“When you are hunting, excitement is your enemy,” Stahlmaske told him. “You must remain in control of your emotions at all times. And never waste powder and shot, as you were about to. You stood no chance of hitting any of those animals.”
“Yes, Albert, I know.”
“See that you remember,” the count said as he heeled his horse into motion again.
Everything Stahlmaske had said was right, mused Preacher, but he hadn’t had to chew the youngster out that way. Somebody could be right and still be a pure-D jackass about it. Stahlmaske seemed to be good at that.
Preacher moved Horse over alongside Roderick’s mount and said quietly, “I was about to point out those antelope. But don’t worry about it, because there’ll be some more along after a while. Or something else. There’s no shortage of game out here. If nothin’ else, we’ll scare up some prairie chickens.”
Stahlmaske had forged on ahead about twenty yards. Keeping his voice low, Roderick said, “I don’t think Albert will be content to shoot chickens. He wants trophies.”
“Trophies ain’t good for anything except takin’ up space on the wall. You can’t eat ’em or do anything else with ’em. You just remember that, Roderick.”
The young man smiled and nodded.
“I’ll try to.”
“I’d better not let your brother get too far ahead. Wouldn’t want him to run into trouble.”
Although it might serve him right, Preacher thought as he urged Horse to a faster pace so he could catch up to the count.
Just in the past few minutes as he was talking to Roderick, the mountain man had gotten a funny feeling, a little prickling on the back of his neck that served as a warning. Normally, Preacher would have thought that it meant they were being watched, but as he scanned the countryside around them, he didn’t see a thing out of the ordinary.
Despite that, he wasn’t going to disregard his instincts. The count might not like it, but Preacher decided they weren’t going to get much farther away from the Sentinel before turning back.
Claude Binnion was hunkered next to a fire in the river pirates’ camp next to the river, roasting a rabbit skewered on a stick, when the swift rataplan of approaching hoofbeats made him look up. Big Wedge was on the other side of the fire, watching hungrily as the rabbit’s carcass sizzled and popped. A dozen other men were scattered around the camp, some playing cards, some sleeping, some cleaning weapons. The gang’s six canoes were pulled up on the shore nearby.
The sound of the horse finally penetrated Wedge’s hunger. He frowned and said in his dull-witted fashion, “Hey, Claude, somebody’s comin’.”
“I hear him,” Binnion said. “That’ll be Hackney, more than likely. Here, take this rabbit.”
He handed the stick to Wedge and stood up. His hand went to one of the pistols tucked in the waistband of his trousers. Except for the clearing where they were, the trees and brush were thick along this stretch of river, which was the reason he had picked this spo
t for the gang’s camp. He couldn’t see the rider just yet. He didn’t think the sound meant trouble, but he would be ready to pull that gun and shoot if he needed to.
The hoofbeats slowed down as the rider entered the trees and weaved through the growth. When he came out into the clearing at the river’s edge, Binnion relaxed. Just as he had thought, the newcomer was Hackney, a member of the gang who stayed on shore most of the time and took care of their horses.
The pirates did most of their traveling by water, of course, plying the Big Muddy in their canoes. But they had half a dozen animals if they needed them for scouting or packing purposes. That was what Hackney had been doing today, ranging back downriver to check on the progress of the Sentinel.
“What did you find, Jed?” Binnion asked as Hackney dismounted. “Is that boat still headed in this direction?”
“Nope,” Hackney replied. He was a small, rat-faced man who looked like he’d been born to be a petty criminal—and he hadn’t failed in that destiny, either. “The boat’s put in to shore.”
Binnion frowned.
“It’s a long time until dark. No reason for Warner to be stopping already.”
“I think they must be havin’ engine trouble. That’s not why I got back here in such a hurry, though, Claude. A bunch of the passengers rode out on those horses they’ve been pullin’ behind ’em on that barge.”
Binnion felt his heart start to beat a little faster. He asked, “When you say a bunch, how many do you mean, exactly?”
“I counted seven men, all of them armed. Looked like they were goin’ huntin. Some of ’em were dressed pretty fancy.”
“Did they see you?”
“No, I stayed well out of sight just like you told me to,” Hackney said.
Wedge said, “That means seven men who ain’t there to put up a fight and defend the boat.” He might be simpleminded, but he had a way of cutting right to the heart of the matter at times.
“Yeah,” Binnion mused as he rubbed his chin in thought.
Hackney said, “I thought this might be a good chance for us to jump the ones who are left.”
“We don’t have to wait until they get to Cougar Bluffs for us to take ’em, Claude,” Wedge urged. In his excitement he waved the rabbit carcass on the stick. “And you said they had women with ’em!”
“Yeah, but they’ll have guards for the fur company’s money among the crew, too,” Binnion said. “I don’t know who those passengers are, but we don’t know that they will put up much of a fight. I’d rather wait until we can get onboard before they know what’s going on.”
He saw the eagerness on the faces of the men who had gathered around the fire. They wanted that loot, and they wanted the women. But in his time as an outlaw, Binnion had learned not to act impulsively. He made a plan and stuck to it, and so far that had worked pretty well.
“We’ll hit the boat at Cougar Bluffs, like we said,” he told them, and his voice was flat and hard enough that they knew he didn’t want any argument. He softened it a little to encourage them as he went on, “And when we do, boys, it’ll be the biggest payoff yet. I can feel it in my bones.”
CHAPTER 17
Count Stahlmaske was still in a bad mood because Roderick had ruined their chances of shooting some of the antelope. Preacher knew the nobleman was going to complain when he had to turn back to the river before much longer.
Luck was with them, however. They had only gone another quarter of a mile after spooking the antelope before they topped a small rise and saw a number of massive, shaggy animals spread out across a broad, shallow valley.
Preacher estimated there were about five hundred buffalo in the herd, which meant it was a small one indeed. Some of the vast herds farther west had a million or more of the creatures in them. In the past he had watched from hilltops while buffalo as far as the eye could see streamed past him like a brown river, the herd moving all day without ever coming to an end.
Stahlmaske jerked his horse to a halt and said, “Bison!”
“Yep,” Preacher agreed. “I reckon that’s their real name, at least accordin’ to what my friend Audie tells me, but everybody I know calls ’em buffalo.”
“Whatever they’re called, they’re magnificent.”
The count was whispering, so Preacher told him, “You don’t have to worry about them hearin’ you. Buffalo don’t hear all that well, and their eyesight is even worse. Mainly you have to worry about ’em catchin’ your scent, but the wind’s blowin’ toward us right now. You could almost walk right up to ’em if you wanted to.”
“I don’t want to walk up to them.” Stahlmaske lifted his rifle. “I want to shoot one of them.”
“We’re close enough. We’ll get down from the horses and you can take good aim—”
“Shooting them from this distance doesn’t seem very sporting. They won’t even know who is killing them. How do the Indians do it? I’m told they’re the greatest buffalo hunters of all.”
Preacher shook his head.
“That’s not the same thing. Indians hunt mostly with bows and arrows, so they have to get a lot closer. They’ll start a herd runnin’ and then get right in amongst ’em on their ponies—”
“Then that’s what I want to do,” the count interrupted. Without giving Preacher a chance to tell him what a damn fool notion that was, he kicked his horse in the flanks and sent the animal lunging forward at a gallop.
“Son of a—” Preacher grated before he bit back the rest of the curse and turned in the saddle to shout at Russell, “Simon, keep the rest of ’em here!”
Then he and Horse raced after the count.
Stahlmaske began shouting and waving his rifle in the air as he rode. Buffalo might not have the keenest ears in the world, but even they could hear this lunatic charging toward them, Preacher thought. Sure enough, they began to move, first in an ungainly trot, then a run that still looked a little awkward but covered the ground amazingly fast.
They couldn’t outrun Stahlmaske’s horse, though. It was a fine, strong animal, and it quickly began to catch up with the buffalo in the rear of the herd. Dust boiled up from the hooves churning across the prairie and obscured the figure on horseback.
As fast as the count’s horse was, Preacher’s stallion was faster. Horse stretched his legs and seemed to fly over the ground. Clouds of dust rolled around him, too. Preacher wanted to draw even with Stahlmaske’s mount before they were among the running buffalo. He knew that if the count’s horse stumbled and went down in the stampede, the buffalo would crush him into something that didn’t even resemble a human being.
The rumble of hooves filled the air so that Preacher couldn’t hear anything. Dust stung his eyes and clogged his mouth and nose. Stahlmaske was just ahead of him now. A few more strides and Preacher would be even with him.
The count lifted his rifle to his shoulder and fired into the charging brown mass beside him. It was a good shot, because the buffalo stumbled. Preacher knew the animal was hit. A second later the buffalo’s front legs collapsed and it went down, rolling toward Stahlmaske’s horse.
The horse screamed in fear as the dying buffalo tangled in its legs. Preacher was close enough now to reach over and grab the count’s arm.
“Kick your feet loose!” he bellowed at Stahlmaske.
The Prussian must have realized how much danger he was in. He kicked out of the stirrups just as his horse tumbled out from under him. If not for the incredible strength of Preacher’s grip, Stahlmaske would have fallen, too. Preacher jerked the man toward him, and Stahlmaske grabbed desperately at Horse’s saddle.
He was able to hang on for the couple of heartbeats that Preacher needed to pull away from the stampeding buffalo. The mountain man let go as soon as they were clear, and Stahlmaske crashed to the ground to roll over twice. Then he lay there, evidently stunned, as the buffalo herd moved on up the valley. They would stop in a few minutes, Preacher knew, and return to grazing, their momentary panic quickly forgotten.
He hear
d horses coming and turned to see the whole group galloping toward him and the count. Roderick was in the lead, barely staying in the saddle as he called, “Albert! Albert, mein Gott! Are you all right?”
Coughing from the dust he had swallowed and gasping for breath, Stahlmaske pushed himself into a sitting position and glared at Preacher, who sat nearby on Horse.
“You could have broken my neck, dropping me on the ground like that!”
“You’d have broken a lot more than your neck if you’d fallen in the middle of those buffs,” Preacher shot back at him.
“My horse—” The count stopped with a sharply indrawn breath as he turned his head to look at the gruesome remains of his horse.
“Yeah, that’s what you would’ve looked like,” Preacher said grimly. “So maybe you better be grateful the only thing that happened is you got dropped on your rear end.”
The others rode up and reined in. Roderick and the Ritter twins dismounted with awkward haste and hurried over to Stahlmaske. The count waved them away in irritation and snapped, “Get away from me. I’m all right.”
“Let me help you up,” Roderick offered, but his brother jerked his arm away.
Russell and Allingham moved their horses over beside Preacher. The senator said quietly, “That was the most amazing thing I’ve ever seen, Preacher. I thought beyond a shadow of a doubt that the count was doomed.”
“He came mighty damn close,” Preacher agreed. “Roderick, you and your brother will have to ride double. We’re goin’ back to the riverboat.”
“Nonsense,” Stahlmaske said as he got to his feet. “Roderick, you give me your horse and ride with Heinrich or Hobart. What happened to my rifle?” He looked down at his clothes, stared at them in horror for a second, and then exploded in what had to be German curses. He sputtered, “I . . . I’m covered in . . . in . . .”
Preacher's Slaughter Page 10