Preacher's Pursuit (The First Mountain Man)

by William W. Johnstone

  The valley’s grassy floor swept by under Horse’s flashing hooves. Preacher saw the yellow glow of lights up ahead, along with a dark shape that he knew to be the stockade wall. He was only a hundred yards from the closest outlying cabin when he used his left hand to pull one of the pistols from behind his belt.

  He cocked the weapon, pointed it into the air, and fired. The booming report rolled out and echoed from the foothills. Preacher bellowed, “Indians! Indians! Everybody into the stockade!”

  Chapter 17

  Preacher didn’t know how far behind him the main body of the war party was, but they had to be pretty close. The settlers had only minutes to get to safety inside the stockade.

  From the corner of his eye, he saw a man rush out of the first cabin as Horse flashed past it. The man had a flintlock in one hand, and was using the other to pull up his suspenders as he stared in alarm at Preacher riding by.

  More people scurried out of the other cabins to see what all the commotion was about. Preacher kept shouting, “Indians! Head for the stockade!”

  Men grabbed their wives and kids and hustled them through the night toward the trading post. There were quite a few youngsters at the settlement, some white, some half-breed children of trappers and their squaws. Their Indian blood wouldn’t save them from the marauding Blackfeet, though.

  Preacher was close enough now to yell to the men inside the stockade, “Open the gates! Folks comin’ in! Open the gates!”

  For a moment, he thought the guards were going to ignore him, thinking that this might be some sort of trick on the part of an enemy who wanted to get inside. He was about to shout out to them who he was when he saw the gates begin to swing back slowly. He hauled back on the reins, pulling Horse into a tight turn.

  He wasn’t going to dash inside to safety when there were folks out here trying to reach the stockade. He saw them running toward the trading post and heard their frightened yells. He waved an arm at them and called, “Hurry! No time to waste!”

  His eyes searched the darkness for any sign of the war party. He listened intently, and after a moment he heard hoofbeats in the night like the sound of distant drums.

  They were closing in. A matter of minutes now, Preacher thought.

  The trading post was ablaze with light. Every lantern in the place looked to be burning. Torches placed at intervals along the stockade wall were set ablaze so that they cast their glare over the surrounding area. That light would help the defenders on the parapet aim their rifles when the enemy rushed the walls.

  Right now, that light showed frightened settlers hurrying frantically toward the stockade. Several of them ran past Preacher, and he began to think that maybe they were all going to make it inside before the Blackfeet struck.

  Then guns began to roar on the outskirts of the settlement, followed by shouts and screams, and Preacher knew that despite his desperate race, not everyone was going to make it.

  Colin Fairfax huddled in the shadows next to the trading post wall as he heard the roar of the shot and then the deep, powerful voice shouting its warning. That familiar voice confirmed his worst suspicions.

  Preacher had somehow come out of nowhere to threaten his plans yet again!

  Alarmed yells came from inside the trading post. People who ventured out this far from civilization knew that they were living on the knife-edge of danger all the time, so they remained alert.

  The Harts had been warned now, Fairfax thought with a bitter grimace. There was no way he could get into the trading post and kidnap Deborah Hart.

  Instead it was going to require some luck just to live through the Indian attack and not be recognized by any of the people here who knew him. As men began to run toward the ladders leading up to the parapet, Fairfax leaped down from the porch and hurried to join them. He wanted to keep his face turned away from the trading post itself.

  Of course, that meant he would have to help fight off the Indians, and he would be risking his life doing that, too.

  But if he could survive tonight’s battle and slip away, perhaps he would have another chance later to even the score with Preacher.

  Torches placed along the top of the wall flared up as Fairfax slung his flintlock over his shoulder and ascended the nearest ladder. When he reached the top he hurried to a spot halfway between two of the torches where their light wasn’t quite so bright.

  A burly man came up beside him and asked, “What do you reckon’s happenin’ out there, friend?”

  “It sounds like someone’s warning that an Indian attack is imminent,” Fairfax replied, thinking that the man was a dolt for not realizing that. Preacher’s voice rang loud and clear through the night, ordering the settlers to hurry into the stockade.

  The man beside Fairfax clutched a rifle and licked his lips nervously. “I figured there’d be some trouble with the redskins sooner or later,” he said. “I knew that when I come out here. But it’s different somehow. You think you know what it’s gonna be like, but you don’t. You don’t ever know until it’s rushin’ straight at you, like it is right now.”

  Fairfax wanted to tell the man to stop his damned babbling, but he held his tongue. He might need this dullard to save his life before the night was over.

  The gates had been opened and people hurried in, most of them either half-dressed or clad in nightclothes. Pale-faced men shepherded along half-hysterical women clutching infants.

  Fools, Fairfax thought. Damned fools. What had they hoped to accomplish by coming out here? Did they actually think their lives were going to be better? It was only a matter of time before something bad happened to them.

  And evidently, tonight was the night for that something to happen.

  Suddenly, the sight of a buckskin-clad man on a horse caught Fairfax’s eye. Man and horse were at the very edge of the light cast by the torches, but with a shock of hate that went all the way through him, Fairfax recognized them.

  Preacher, riding that big ugly stallion!

  In that moment, as gunshots began to roar on the northern edge of the settlement, a maddened impulse rushed through Fairfax. He jerked his rifle to his shoulder and shouted, “Look, there’s one of the Indians!” as he thumbed back the hammer.

  Then his sights settled on Preacher and he pulled the trigger.

  A surge of instinctive fear went through Laura Mallory as she heard the pounding hoofbeats, the roar of gunshots, the terrified screams. She had already blown out the lamp, and now she stood in darkness, both pistols clutched in her hands. The weapons were loaded, primed, and cocked.

  If one of those painted, red-skinned savages came crashing through the door, he would get a surprise. A lead surprise right in the middle of his howling face.

  Laura didn’t think it would come to that, though. She had confidence in her brother. Clyde planned to accompany the war party so that he could protect her, and she knew that nothing would stop him from carrying out his plan.

  Still, hearing the shots and those terrible cries grated on Laura’s nerves. She hoped that Clyde would show up soon.

  One thing puzzled her. Just before the violence broke out, she would have sworn that she heard Preacher’s voice shouting somewhere nearby.

  That should have been impossible. He had left the settlement a couple of days earlier to return to the mountains and his traps. He should have been gone for a week, probably longer.

  Why would he have returned so soon, tonight of all nights?

  With a shake of her head, Laura put that possibility out of her mind. It didn’t really matter, she told herself. If Preacher was here, he would be wiped out with the rest of the Americans. Laura had no sympathy for him…no matter how ruggedly attractive he was.

  No, Preacher would just have to take his chances like everyone else in this world.

  The shots were louder and closer now. Laura couldn’t stand it any longer. She had to see what was going on.

  She went to the front window, unbarred the shutters, and opened one of them a few inches so she
could peer out into the night. She saw a sudden spurt of orange about a hundred yards away and recognized it as the flame from a gun muzzle.

  In that instant of illumination, she caught a glimpse of figures rushing past on horseback and men on foot running for their lives. Then the darkness closed back in, only to be split again and again by more muzzle flashes.

  Laura became aware of a shifting, reddish light coming from the direction of the trading post. Was the place on fire already?

  She leaned forward to check, but she couldn’t see the trading post from this angle. Torn by indecision, after a moment she went to the door, set the bar aside, and opened it, too. If the trading post burned down, then even if all the Americans weren’t killed, surely the survivors would abandon the settlement.

  She stepped outside and turned toward the stockade. A twinge of disappointment went through her as she saw that the light came from torches set along the walls. The buildings inside weren’t ablaze at all.

  A frenzied, high-pitched yipping assaulted her ears, causing her to jerk around. Her eyes widened in horror as she saw one of the Indians mounted on a swift pony charging straight toward her. The savage howled in glee and pumped a rifle above his head triumphantly.

  It had been a mistake for her to step outside, Laura realized, a terrible error.

  Quite possibly, the last mistake she would ever make.

  But she was damned if she would just stand there and allow that redskin to trample her without even trying to fight back.

  She thrust both of the pistols toward the Indian and pulled the triggers.

  Clyde Mallory had had no idea who the lone rider could be, but when the man came up behind the war party and then tried to sweep past, Flagg and Walks Like a Bear had taken quick action to deal with the problem, sending a small group of warriors to intercept and kill him.

  Unfortunately, things hadn’t quite worked out that way. The man had gotten past them and raced ahead to the settlement. His mount obviously possessed a great deal of speed.

  Then had come the warning shot and the shouts of alarm, and Mallory had uttered the shocked exclamation, “Preacher!”

  It didn’t seem possible. The man had left the settlement and wasn’t expected back any time soon.

  And yet here he was, threatening to ruin everything! Mallory had no doubt that Preacher was the man who had raced past the war party in the darkness.

  The number of men in the settlement was roughly equal to the number of Blackfoot raiders. Mallory had tried to make a rough count of them while he was there. There were a few boys like Jake who might be old enough to fight as well.

  But with the element of surprise on their side, Mallory had had no doubt that he and his allies could kill most of the settlers who were outside the stockade before anyone knew what was going on, and then they would be able to overwhelm the relatively few defenders inside the walls.

  But if Preacher’s warning allowed the majority of the Americans to get inside before they were wiped out, that could change everything. Even well armed with the new rifles, the warriors might not be able to overrun the stockade. The plan was on the verge of ruin, and the Blackfeet would have to act swiftly and ruthlessly if they were going to succeed.

  Luckily, the savages were capable of doing exactly that. As they reached the edge of the settlement and opened fire, Mallory saw several of the fleeing settlers fall, shot in the back as they ran. Others were trampled under the hooves of Blackfoot ponies.

  Mallory hung back and watched the fighting. He didn’t want to get close enough to be spotted and recognized, just in case any of the settlers survived.

  Ezra Flagg was with him, and when Mallory glanced over at the man, he saw that Flagg’s expression was taut and grim.

  “Having second thoughts, old boy?”

  “I took your money,” Flagg snapped. “I don’t back out on a deal. I don’t have much stomach for killin’ women and kids, though.”

  “You mean you don’t have much stomach for observing it. You knew what would happen when you agreed to help me arm the savages.”

  Flagg’s head turned sharply toward Mallory, and for a second the Englishman thought that he had pushed Flagg too far. Mallory’s hand was on the butt of his pistol in case he needed to pull it in a hurry and blow the American out of the saddle.

  That moment passed, though. Flagg’s tension eased. He said, “Yeah, I reckon a deal’s a deal. Hadn’t we better go see about your sister?”

  “Indeed,” Mallory agreed. “That’s a splendid suggestion.”

  He urged his horse into motion again, heading for the cabin that Laura occupied. He had selected it specifically with tonight’s raid in mind. It was on the eastern edge of the settlement, farthest away from the trading post. Mallory thought he and Flagg could reach it without any of the settlers seeing them.

  Anyway, the Americans were too panic-stricken to notice much of anything except their impending deaths as they rushed hysterically toward the stockade.

  Mallory and Flagg circled the fighting, which had become fierce as some of the settlers rallied and tried to mount a defense around the cabins rather than making for the trading post. The almost constant flare of muzzle flashes split the night, flickering like lightning. That and the garish red glow from the torches atop the stockade wall gave the two men enough light so that they could see.

  That light suddenly washed over a sight that struck sheer terror into Clyde Mallory’s heart. The very thing he was trying to protect against looked like it was about to happen.

  One of the Blackfoot warriors, caught up in the bloodlust of battle, yelled savagely and rode his pony straight toward the tall, fair-haired woman who stood just outside the cabin door. Laura! He had told her to stay inside, Mallory thought wildly. What was she doing out of the cabin?

  The answer wasn’t important. The only thing that was important to Mallory was somehow saving his sister.

  He hauled his horse to a skidding, sliding halt and shouted to Flagg, “We’ve got to stop that Indian!”

  At the same time, he lifted his rifle to his shoulder. He was a good marksman, but this was the most important shot of his life.

  Laura’s life depended on it.

  Mallory pressed the trigger.

  Chapter 18

  At the sound of high-pitched yipping behind him, Preacher whirled Horse around to confront one of the Indians charging toward him.

  Even as he did so, he felt as much as heard the windrip of a rifle ball past his ear. If he hadn’t moved when he did, he would be dead now.

  But close didn’t count and Preacher had a more pressing problem: a hate-maddened Blackfoot drawing a bead on him and pulling the trigger.

  Luckily, the warrior was firing from the back of a running pony. Preacher didn’t know where the shot went, but it didn’t hit him or Horse, and that was all he cared about at the moment. He raised his own rifle and fired. The Indian flipped backward off his mount as the heavy ball plowed into his chest.

  As Preacher lowered the rifle, he had already forgotten about the man he’d just killed. Another thought had occurred to him, and it crowded everything else out of his brain.

  Where was Laura Mallory?

  He remembered Laura’s brother Clyde saying that she was going to stay here at the settlement while Clyde returned to St. Louis with the wagons to outfit them for another trip west. Preacher knew that Clyde was gone; the torches cast enough light for him to see that the big covered wagons were no longer parked where they had been.

  That meant Laura would be staying in one of the cabins, but Preacher had no idea which one. She might even be in the trading post right now, since it was still fairly early in the evening.

  That was what he hoped for since she would be safer there, behind the stockade walls and inside the sturdy building, than anywhere else in the valley right now.

  But there was just as good a chance she was among the terrified settlers trying to reach the stockade as the Blackfeet dashed among them on their killing
spree. Preacher hadn’t seen her so far, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t out here in all this commotion.

  He urged Horse away from the stockade now, instead of toward the walls. He had to check the outlying cabins and make sure Laura hadn’t been cut off and trapped.

  Another Blackfoot on horseback rushed him from the side. The Indian’s rifle must have been empty, because he used it like a club, holding on to the barrel and swinging the stock at Preacher’s head.

  Preacher ducked under the sweeping blow. His own rifle was empty, but that didn’t stop him from thrusting it out like a lance and driving the barrel into the Blackfoot’s belly.

  The Indian doubled over and toppled off his horse. Preacher jerked Horse to the side. One of the stallion’s steel-shod hoofs landed smack-dab in the middle of the warrior’s face. Blood spurted and bone crunched under the impact, and then Preacher was past the man.

  The raiders had set one of the cabins on fire. It blazed up, casting even more flickering, hellish light on the scene. Preacher raced past it, hoping that the burning cabin hadn’t been Laura’s. He wasn’t going to allow himself to even think that.

  He swung Horse in a wide curve toward the cabins along the eastern edge of the settlement. As he did so he spotted movement in front of one of the log structures. Firelight glinted on fair hair…

  Laura!

  And one of the marauding Blackfeet was bearing down on her, obviously intent on trampling her under his pony’s hooves.

  Preacher yanked Horse to a stop and grabbed one of his pistols from behind his belt. It would be a long shot for a short gun, but he didn’t have time to reload his rifle. He thrust his arm out from his body and sighted along the pistol barrel in the uncertain light.