“A prairie fire is just about the scariest thing that can happen out here on the plains,” Rip explained. He seemed to like Preacher’s idea. “Well, other than a buffalo stampede or a cyclone,” he went on, “but we can’t count on one o’ those happenin’ when we need it to. A fire is somethin’ we’d have a little control over.”
“Damned little,” Preacher said. “But maybe enough.”
Carling leaned forward, interest on his face. “How would this work?” he wanted to know.
“Depends on which way the wind’s blowin’. One of us will have to get downwind of the war party and start a fire. When it springs up, the Crows will see the smoke and know they have to get out of its way in a hurry. When they run, the rest of our bunch will gallop in, grab the prisoners, and head whichever way the Crows don’t. They won’t have time to turn around and come after us, because if they do they’ll be riskin’ gettin’ caught in the fire.”
“We’ll be racin’ that fire ourselves,” Rip pointed out. “Plus whoever starts the blaze is gonna find himself in what they call a mighty precarious position. But I sure can’t think of anything else that’d be more likely to work.”
Hodge said, “I’ve heard about these prairie fires. You’re willing to burn up a vast area just to serve as a distraction?”
“It’ll be more than a distraction,” Preacher said. “If we can get the fire between the prisoners and the war party, it’ll serve as a shield, too. By the time the flames burn themselves out, we’ll be far enough away the Crows probably won’t come after us.”
“I suppose it might work,” Carling said. “We don’t have enough horses for all the prisoners to ride, though.”
Preacher glanced at Panther. “I had in mind just grabbin’ Miss Carling and Sinclair. But in all the confusion, the Sioux prisoners ought to have a chance to slip away, too.” He shook his head. “I know it ain’t a perfect plan. But it may be the best we can do.”
“All right. I’ll go along with the idea and do whatever I can to help, Preacher. But what about Panther? Have you explained it to him?”
“Not yet.” Preacher turned to Panther Leaping, and over the next few minutes he laid out the plan in the Sioux language. The warrior looked concerned over the fate of the prisoners from his band, as Preacher expected that he would. But in the end, Panther nodded and spoke briefly.
“He says he agrees,” Preacher translated. “He says once the dung-eaters are distracted by the fire, the Sioux prisoners will be able to escape. That’s what I’m hoping, too.”
“It’s agreed, then,” Rip said. “The question now is, who’s gonna start the fire? That’s the fella who’s gonna be runnin’ the biggest risk.”
“I’ll do it,” Preacher said quietly. “It was my idea, so I ought to be the one to handle that part of it.”
Rip shook his head. “I don’t think so. You need to be with the bunch that frees the prisoners. That’s the most important part of the job. I’ll start the fire.”
Preacher might have argued the point, but at that moment Panther Leaping tapped himself on the chest with a loosely balled fist and said in English, “I will start fire.”
Preacher frowned. It had to be one of the three of them; Carling and Hodge couldn’t be trusted with something so vital to the success of the plan. Preacher nodded slowly and said, “All right, Panther, the job’s yours.”
“Wait a minute,” Rip said. “You’ll let him volunteer, but not me?”
“He’s got the fastest horse,” Preacher said. “That means he’ll have the best chance o’ gettin’ out of the way of the fire.”
Rip scratched at his beard and frowned, then finally said, “Well, yeah, I reckon that’s true.” He looked at Panther and added, “Good luck. You’re gonna need it.”
“We all will,” Preacher said. “But if luck is on our side, by this time tomorrow night we’ll be on our way back to the village with Miss Carling and Sinclair and I hope some of the other prisoners. In the meantime . . . let’s get a good night’s sleep.”
Chapter Twenty-eight
The haze of dust that hung in the air a couple of miles ahead of them around noon the next day indicated to Preacher that they had finally caught up with the Crow war party. While it was possible that something else was raising that dust, like a herd of buffalo on the move, Preacher’s gut told him otherwise.
“Let’s get close enough we can see them,” he said as he heeled his mount into a faster pace. He wished he had Horse under him. He trusted his old friend’s speed and stamina more than he did that of the animal he was riding. But he hadn’t seen Horse and Dog since he had been captured by the Sioux more than a week earlier, and he was starting to worry a little about them.
Right now, though, he had bigger worries, like surviving the afternoon.
The group pushed on faster, and a short time later they came within sight of a dark mass on the flat, grassy horizon in front of them. “That’s them,” Preacher said, relieved that his hunch had been confirmed.
The wind was out of the south, blowing steadily at a fairly high rate of speed. Panther Leaping pointed in that direction and said to Preacher, “That is where I must go to start the fire.”
Preacher nodded. “I’d get a little bit ahead of them, if I was you,” he advised. “Once you get it started good, head for the war party as fast as you can. We’ll meet you there.”
“Stay ahead o’ them flames,” Rip added in his badly accented Sioux.
Panther didn’t smile or make any speeches. He just raised a hand in farewell, gave them a solemn nod, and galloped off toward the south, veering a little east as well.
“Do you think he’ll be able to start the fire and then get away from it?” Carling asked.
“He’ll give it his best,” Preacher said. “That’s all anybody can do.”
The rescue party, now four men instead of five, continued closing in on their quarry. Their approach had to be timed carefully. They couldn’t get too close before Panther started the prairie fire, or the Crows might spot them and be warned that something was going on. But they had to be near enough to be able to dash in and free the prisoners once the Indians began their hurried flight from the flames.
Preacher was counting on a little panic setting in among the Crows. They knew as well as anybody how dangerous a fire on these plains could be. The flames moved fast and spread out into a juggernaut of destruction. Preacher hoped the Crows would forget all about guarding their prisoners and flee wildly in an attempt to get out of the path of the fire.
They would know soon what was going to happen, he thought as the time since Panther had ridden off approached a half hour. The Teton warrior ought to just about be in position by now.
A couple of minutes later, that prophecy came true as a thin column of dark gray smoke began to rise into the arching vault of blue sky. The smoke spread quickly until it was a swiftly rolling black cloud. The war party was less than half a mile ahead. Preacher dug his heels into the flanks of his mount and leaned forward in the saddle. “Come on!” he called to the other men. The time for stealth was over. Now the situation called for swift action.
Approximately a mile behind Preacher and his companions rode Wingate, the troop of soldiers commanded by Lieutenant Corrigan, and the group of trappers led by Luther Snell. Wingate and Snell had already seen the dust being raised by the Crow war party and pointed it out to Corrigan. Now Wingate leveled an arm and said worriedly, “Look yonder to the south at that smoke!”
“What is it?” Corrigan asked, adding rather naively, “A fire of some sort?”
“It’s a prairie fire!” Snell said. “And look how fast it’s spreadin’!”
It was true. The smoke cloud had grown to an impressive size in less than a minute.
“What do we do now?” Corrigan asked, seemingly forgetting that he was technically in charge of this party.
“Wind’s out of the south,” Wingate said. “It’ll sweep that fire right up over the war party and the prisoners if th
ey don’t get out of the way. We’d better get up there and see if we can help them—fast!”
He and Snell both kicked their horses into a gallop. Corrigan followed suit, yelling over his shoulder, “Come on, men!”
The group of men, nearly thirty strong, charged toward the Crow war party, which by now was probably milling around in utter confusion and fear.
Sinclair heard the shouts of alarm from the Indians and lifted his head, shaking off the dull weariness that gripped him after more than half of another day of being forced to move quickly on foot over the prairie. Faith trudged along beside him, and her head was down as well. She didn’t lift hers, though, evidently not realizing that something was wrong.
“Faith!” Sinclair said sharply, causing her to jerk her head up. “Faith, be ready! This may be our chance!”
She blinked rapidly and looked around in confusion. “Our chance?” she repeated. “Our chance for what?”
“To get away!”
That got her attention. She clutched his arm and asked, “What’s happening?”
“The Crows are upset about something—” Sinclair turned his head, scanning the plains around them. “And I think I see what it is!” he went on. He pointed. “Look over there!”
“It’s just some smoke,” Faith said. “So something’s on fire. What does that mean?”
“Look around us. See how dry the grass is? And the wind is blowing from that direction.”
Faith’s mouth rounded as she realized what Sinclair was talking about. “Oh, my God!” she exclaimed. “You mean that fire’s going to come this way?”
“It’s already doing it, and fast, too.” Some of the Crow warriors galloped their horses past, heading east, while others wheeled their mounts and raced back to the west. It looked to Sinclair like their captors were panicking. He went on. “We’ve got to get out of here!”
“Can we outrun the fire?”
“We can sure try!” He grabbed her hand and pulled her into a run, turning so that they were headed back the way they had come from. He couldn’t tell for sure, but he thought they would be more likely to be able to get out of the path of the fire by going in that direction.
All around them was sudden chaos. Some of the Teton Sioux women who had been taken prisoner screamed in terror, and most of the children were crying. Captives raced here and there, ignored for the most part by the Crows. A few of the warriors tried to keep them herded into a bunch, but it was a hopeless task. Panic raced through hearts and minds as swiftly as those onrushing flames leaped across the prairie.
Keeping a tight hold on Faith’s hand, Sinclair fought his way through the confusion. They were jostled by other prisoners and nearly trampled by some of the fleeing Crows. Sinclair tried to keep one eye on the steadily advancing smoke, but a sudden angry shout made him wrench his head around the other way. He saw one of the warriors riding straight toward him and Faith, and as the Indian galloped closer, Sinclair recognized the hate-distorted face of Medicine Bull, the Crow war chief.
Clearly, Medicine Bull didn’t want his prize slave to escape.
And judging by the tomahawk he held in his upraised hand, ready to strike a deadly blow, he would rather kill Sinclair than allow that to happen.
The smoke from the fire had risen so high and spread so much that it blotted out a large portion of the southern sky. If not for the rolling thunder of hoofbeats, Preacher thought they might have been able to hear the crackling of the flames. He couldn’t see the fire itself yet, but he knew that was only a matter of minutes away.
He had expected the Crow war party to remain together, at least to a certain extent, and flee in one direction, hopefully east. But that wasn’t happening, he saw, as riders in buckskins and feathers galloped toward him and his companions. Fear had gotten the best of the Crows, and they had scattered, every warrior for himself.
That fear wasn’t so overwhelming, though, that none of the warriors noticed the four white men. Several of them did, and they veered their horses toward Preacher, Rip, Carling, and Hodge, screaming out their hate as they attacked.
“Rein in!” Preacher shouted to the others. “Stop and use your rifles! Make your shots count!”
He knew that Faith Carling and Chester Sinclair were still up ahead somewhere, and he hated to slow down before he and the others had found the prisoners. But if they got themselves killed by the Crows, they couldn’t help anybody, so he hauled back on the reins and brought his mount to a skidding halt. Instantly, he was out of the saddle, planting his feet firmly on the ground as he lifted his rifle to his shoulder and cocked it. Rip, Carling, and Hodge followed his example.
Preacher settled the rifle’s sights on the chest of one of the galloping Indians and pressed the trigger. With a gout of flame and a puff of smoke, the weapon roared and bucked against his shoulder. Blinking through the haze of smoke, he saw his target driven backward off the racing horse by the heavy ball that smashed into his chest.
Rip’s rifle blasted, too, followed a second later by those of Carling and Hodge. Two more Indians fell. Preacher didn’t know which of the men had missed and didn’t care. All that mattered was that the rest of the Crows who had paused in their flight to attack the white men now peeled off and galloped away to the northwest, leaving Preacher and his friends to mount up and race eastward again without taking the time to reload the rifles.
Preacher slung his rifle on his back and drew his pistols as he guided the horse with his knees. The sixty or so warriors and the two dozen prisoners were spread out all over the prairie now. Preacher searched for Faith Carling’s red hair, knowing he ought to be able to spot it. He hadn’t seen her so far, though, and she and Sinclair were still unaccounted for as more of the Indians raced toward Preacher, savagely whooping at the top of their lungs.
He let them close to within pistol range and then blasted two of them off their ponies. He heard more shots and glanced over his shoulder to see that Rip, Carling, and Hodge had spread out and were emptying their pistols into the Crows.
An arrow cut through the air beside Preacher’s ear. He jammed the pistols behind his belt again and unslung the bow from his back. With deft motions born of long practice, he plucked an arrow from the quiver and nocked it, then pulled the bow taut and let fly. He was rewarded by the sight of the arrow lodging deep in the chest of another Crow. The wounded Indian toppled off his horse and landed on the ground so that the arrow was pushed all the way through his body. Preacher caught a glimpse of the bloody arrowhead emerging from the Crow’s back.
Then he raced on past, that particular killing already forgotten. There were more Crows to deal with, and the two prisoners he was looking for still hadn’t been found.
Not to mention the huge prairie fire that was still bearing down on them, the flames racing closer with every passing second . . .
Sinclair gave Faith a hard shove that sent her spinning off her feet and leaped the other way, putting a little distance between the two of them. Medicine Bull galloped through that opening, slashing viciously at Sinclair’s head with the tomahawk. The blow barely missed as Sinclair went rolling on the ground.
He scrambled up as Medicine Bull reined his pony to a halt and wheeled the mount around for another charge. Sinclair wasn’t going to just stand still and let the chief come to him, though. Instead, he raced across the grassy space and leaped in the air, tackling Medicine Bull before the chief knew what was happening. The impact drove the Crow off his horse and sent both men crashing to the ground.
They rolled over and came up on hands and knees at the same time. Sinclair saw that the fall had knocked the tomahawk out of Medicine Bull’s hand, but that was the only lucky break he had gotten. The chief seemed to be unharmed, and he hated Sinclair as much as ever. As both of them leaped to their feet, Medicine Bull lunged at Sinclair, his arms outstretched as his hands reached for the white man’s throat.
Sinclair was taller and perhaps a little heavier, but the chief had lived a long, hard life on the frontier a
nd knew how to fight. He was also a little too fast for Sinclair. He shrugged off the punch that Sinclair landed on his chest and got his hands on his enemy’s throat. As they locked in place, Medicine Bull hooked a foot behind Sinclair’s ankle and jerked his legs out from under him. Sinclair went down with Medicine Bull on top of him. The chief’s iron-hard fingers were clamped around his throat, and Sinclair couldn’t get any air past them into his lungs. He stared up wide-eyed into Medicine Bull’s face and saw the ugly killing grin that stretched across the chief’s mouth.
Sinclair knew at that moment that he was only seconds away from death.
Chapter Twenty-nine
With the thick cloud of gray smoke boiling up to their right, Wingate, Corrigan, Snell, and the rest of the soldiers and trappers saw the Crow warriors galloping across the prairie in front of them. “Fire!” Corrigan shouted, and he wasn’t talking about the hellish blaze to the south. He was ordering his men to start shooting at the Indians. Corrigan probably couldn’t distinguish between Crow and Sioux, but this time he was unwittingly doing the right thing. The Crows who had raided the Sioux village were all mounted on horseback, and those were the ones the soldiers opened fire on.
It was a skirmish that quickly turned into a full-fledged battle as more and more of the Crows arrived on the scene. Wingate knew they had to be running away from the path of the fire. He would have done the same thing. He had once seen an entire herd of buffalo, thousands upon thousands of the massive, shaggy creatures, stampede right off the edge of a bluff to their deaths rather than face the swift-moving terror of a prairie fire.
Wingate blew one of the Indians off his pony with a rifle shot, then downed another with a pistol. He rode among them, hacking right and left with his tomahawk. Even while he was fighting, he kept an eye out for any of the prisoners. When he saw a Sioux woman stumbling along and holding tightly to the hand of a little boy, he called to them in their own tongue. “Over here!” he said. “I’ll help you!”
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