He brought his horse to a stop and swung down from the saddle. The woman seemed frightened of him at first, cringing as he grabbed the little boy and lifted him onto the horse’s back. Then he gestured for the woman to mount. She did so, realizing at last that he was trying to help them.
He would have climbed up behind the woman, turned the horse around, and gotten all three of them out of there if something hadn’t struck him in the back at that moment, knocking him forward against the horse. Knowing that he was hurt, he grabbed the reins, hauled the horse’s head around, and snatched off his hat. He slapped it against the animal’s rump and sent it leaping away from him in a gallop that carried the woman and the little boy back to the west, away from the fire.
Then Wingate’s strength deserted him and he slumped to his knees. He reached behind him, trying to feel for an arrow. When he didn’t find a shaft, he figured that he had been shot. He pitched forward onto his face, trying to fight off the blackness that threatened to overwhelm him.
Somebody thrust a foot under his shoulder and rolled him roughly onto his wounded back. Wingate cried out in pain, and then cursed as he stared up blearily into the bearded face of Luther Snell.
“Sorry about shootin’ you, Wingate,” Snell said, but the grin on his face told Wingate that he wasn’t sorry at all. “I seen in your eyes that you know too much about me and my plans. Can’t have you talkin’ to the lieutenant and ruinin’ everything, so I reckon you have to die instead. Shame about you gettin’ hit by a stray bullet while we was fightin’ them Crows.”
Wingate knew Corrigan would believe that lie. The lieutenant would have no reason not to, since he didn’t know the truth about Snell. Wingate tried futilely to push himself up, but he lacked the strength.
“So long,” Snell said. “No more Rendezvous for you.” Then he stalked off, leaving Wingate lying there with his life’s blood running out on the ground.
A red haze swam before Sinclair’s eyes as he struck futilely at Medicine Bull but was unable to loose the chief’s grip on his neck. He was about to send up a prayer for his own soul and for Faith’s safety when he heard a solid thunk! and Medicine Bull suddenly spasmed. Sinclair heard the noise again as the pressure from the Crow’s fingers finally eased. Medicine Bull let go completely and then toppled over to lie motionless on his side. Sinclair pushed himself up and looked over at the chief.
The head of a tomahawk was lodged firmly in the back of Medicine Bull’s skull. Someone had hit him twice with his own weapon, and on the second blow the tomahawk had gotten stuck.
“Is . . . is he dead?” Faith asked, and when Sinclair looked at her he saw the blood splattered on her hands from the first blow.
He got up, breathing heavily and rubbing at his neck for a second. Nodding, he rasped, “He’s dead, all right. You saved my life, Faith.”
She closed her eyes for a second and shuddered. “I couldn’t let him kill you. Let’s get out of here, Chester.”
That sounded like a fine idea to Sinclair. He grabbed Faith’s hand and they started hurrying toward the west again.
Just in the few minutes Sinclair had struggled with Medicine Bull, the smoke cloud had grown and the fire had raced even closer. Sinclair could smell the smoke now, an acrid scent that stung the nose. It made his eyes water, too, and with every deep breath he drew, he could feel it irritating his lungs. He coughed as he stumbled onward.
A shrill yipping made him glance around in alarm. A couple of Crow warriors had spotted him and Faith and were coming after them, obviously bent on riding them down. “Run!” he gasped, but even as he clung to Faith’s hand and pulled her along with him, he knew it was hopeless. They couldn’t outrun the Indian ponies.
More hoofbeats sounded. Sinclair looked over his shoulder again and saw that a third mounted figure had edged up between the first two.
This was no Crow warrior, though, despite the buckskins and the long black braids and the eagle feather worn in a headband that the newcomer sported. He lashed out with the tomahawk in his hand at the Crow to his right and sent that man falling to the ground with the well-aimed blow. As he tried to twist around and strike at the other man, though, that warrior thrust a knife into the newcomer’s body, driving the blade deeply between his ribs.
“Panther!” Sinclair shouted in horror as he saw his friend suffer that wound.
Panther Leaping lived up to his name in that moment, throwing himself off his pony and crashing into the second warrior who threatened Sinclair and Faith. Both men fell heavily and rolled over and over when they hit the ground. Panther had dropped his tomahawk, but as he reared up he grasped the handle of the knife buried in his side and pulled the weapon free. Blood welled from the wound. Panther lunged forward and drove the knife into the chest of the Crow warrior, pinning him to the ground and then collapsing across his body.
Sinclair and Faith had stopped running when they saw Panther attack the two Crows. Now Sinclair had the presence of mind to grab the reins of Panther’s pony as it started past them. All of his strength was needed to haul the animal to a halt.
“Get on!” he told Faith.
“But I . . . I can’t!”
“Yes, you can, damn it! I don’t know where Panther came from, but he showed up just in time to save us, and I’m not going to let his sacrifice go to waste. We’re both getting out of here!”
Faith let out a little cry as Sinclair took hold of her and practically lifted her onto the back of the Indian pony. She had to ride astride, with her skirt pulled up on her thighs. Sinclair pressed the reins into Faith’s hands and told her, “Wait for me!”
He ran over to where Panther had fallen. “Panther!” he cried as he dropped to his knees beside the Teton Sioux. He grasped Panther’s shoulders and rolled the man onto his back.
Panther grimaced in pain, but then he managed to grin up at the white man. “Sin . . . clair,” he said. “Get your woman . . . go . . .” He lifted a bloody hand. “Preacher . . . that way!”
“Preacher’s here?” Sinclair leaned over Panther. “Come on, I’ll help you. We’ll get you out of here, too.”
Panther shook his head. “No . . . nothing to . . . go back to . . . tell Preacher I felt . . . the death of my people . . . knew then . . . I would never return.” His hand caught hold of Sinclair’s and squeezed. “You . . . good friend . . . never forget . . . Panther . . .”
His head fell back, and the fingers that clasped Sinclair’s hand relaxed and slipped limply away.
“Damn it!” Sinclair shouted. “Damn it, it’s not fair—”
“Chester!”
Faith’s voice penetrated Sinclair’s grief. He raised his head and looked around.
“Chester,” she called, “we need to get out of here. That fire . . .”
He turned his head and saw the flames dancing hellishly to the south, only a few hundred yards away now. Faith was right. There was no time to waste, and no way they could take Panther’s body with them.
He stood up and ran over to the pony, catching hold of the hand that Faith extended toward him. He swung up behind her and reached around her to take hold of the reins. Banging his heels against the pony’s flanks, he shouted as he sent the animal lunging forward in a run.
It was a race now, a race for life against the onrushing fire.
Preacher still hadn’t seen Sinclair or Faith, but he had spotted some of the other prisoners. He called out to them in Sioux and told them to run hard to the west. Then he pulled his horse to a stop and looked around some more, his gaze sweeping the plains.
He saw Rip Giddens, Willard Carling, and Jasper Hodge about fifty yards away, all of them calling out to terrified captives and urging them on. Riderless ponies milled around, spooked by the smell of smoke, which was growing stronger all the time. Preacher heeled his horse into motion and started rounding up the ponies. He drove half a dozen of them toward Rip and the two Easterners.
“Get those people mounted up!” he shouted to them. “Get ’em out of the way of th
e fire!”
He whirled his horse around and headed east again as he saw Rip and Carling and Hodge following his orders. He still had to find Sinclair and Faith, and he wanted to see if Panther Leaping had made it, too.
The smoke had blown northward well ahead of the actual flames, and the dense gray coils were beginning to make it difficult to see. Preacher coughed and waved a hand in front of his face. A figure on foot loomed up out of the smoke and clutched at his stirrup. He recognized her as a Sioux woman, one of the captives from the village. As he extended a hand down to her, Preacher said, “Come with me! I’ll help you get away!”
She grabbed his hand and eagerly scrambled up behind the saddle. Preacher kept a tight rein on the horse, which was dancing around skittishly because of the smoke and the approaching flames. He stood up in the stirrups and looked around, swiveling his head as he searched for Faith Carling and Chester Sinclair. He knew they had to be here somewhere.
A flash of dark red hair caught his eye, about two hundred yards away. He saw two people riding double and thought one of them might be Faith. Before he could be sure, smoke drifted in front of him, hiding them from his sight. He said, “Hang on!” to the woman behind him, then kicked the horse into motion and plunged into the smoke.
The thick, choking stuff seemed to hold him back with phantom fingers, but after a few seconds that seemed longer, he broke free of it and rode out into the open again. He saw the two people on horseback he had spotted a moment earlier, and now he was sure that they were Faith and Sinclair. He was about to open his mouth and shout to them when another rider galloped up behind them. Preacher stiffened as he recognized the newcomer.
What the hell was Luther Snell doing out here?
Preacher didn’t have time to ponder that question. Snell was bearing down on the horse carrying Faith and Sinclair, and he had a pistol in his hand. Preacher charged forward, hoping he could reach them in time to stop Snell from shooting them.
Faith and Sinclair saw him coming and recognized him. Sinclair shouted something, probably Preacher’s name. They rode toward him, seemingly unaware of the threat coming up behind them.
Preacher recalled that Snell had planned to kidnap Willard Carling. Had he been following them all along? Did he already have Carling in his hands and now was trying to get rid of any witnesses? Preacher didn’t know. He waved his free hand at Faith and Sinclair, trying to get them to turn aside, out of Snell’s line of fire.
The riders had almost all come together before Preacher realized that Snell was aiming at him, not at Faith and Sinclair.
And then it was too late to do anything, because the pistol in Snell’s hand suddenly gouted smoke and flame. An instant later, the horse underneath Preacher jerked and staggered. The animal’s front legs folded up. It collapsed abruptly, sending Preacher and the Indian woman sailing through the air over its head.
Preacher’s head slammed into something hard as he landed. That was the last thing he knew. A black nothingness swallowed him whole.
Chapter Thirty
Luther Snell couldn’t believe his luck. Not only had he found Chester Sinclair, who was going to make him a rich man, but he had gotten rid of his archenemy Preacher, too. And grabbing that pretty redheaded gal so he and the boys could have some fun with her was just a bonus.
He knew that several of his men were right behind him. He waved them forward, and Euchre, Baldy, Vickery, and the Dimock cousins swept around him and surrounded the startled Sinclair and Faith as they sat on an Indian pony.
“Get ’em outta here!” Snell bellowed. “Don’t let anything happen to Sinclair!”
The others leveled pistols at Sinclair and Faith. Euchre said, “You heard what he said! Come on! We gotta get out of the way o’ that fire!”
There was no time to waste. The flames were closing in with breathtaking speed. Snell cast a glance at the motionless forms of Preacher and the Indian woman. They hadn’t moved since the dying horse had thrown them. Obviously, the fall had knocked them unconscious.
Snell would have liked to kill Preacher slowly and painfully, but he supposed he would have to settle for knowing that Preacher had burned to death. He wheeled his horse around and followed the others as the fire roared closer. The flames were leaping a good fifty feet into the air as they greedily gobbled up the prairie.
Snell and the others were out of sight before Preacher stirred. He lifted his head and shook it groggily. The fire was close enough now that he could feel its heat on his face. He pushed himself onto his hands and knees, then reeled to his feet. His head spun dizzily for a second or two before settling down. He looked around, grimly taking stock of the situation.
His horse was dead. Faith and Sinclair were gone, as was Snell. The smoke was so thick that he couldn’t see very far, but nothing was moving in his line of sight except the racing flames. The Sioux woman he had tried to help lay close by, unconscious. It looked like he wasn’t going to be able to save her after all. He wasn’t even going to save himself. There was no way he could outrun the flames on foot.
That was when a tall, lean figure came stumbling out of the smoke, leading a horse.
“Preacher!” the man croaked.
“Wingate!” Preacher hadn’t expected to see the red-bearded trapper. For all he’d known, Wingate hadn’t been within a hundred miles of here. Preacher sprang forward as Wingate started to fall and caught him. He caught the horse’s reins, too.
When his hand touched the back of Wingate’s buckskin shirt, he realized that it was soaked with blood. Wingate was badly hurt, maybe dying.
“What are you doin’ here?” Preacher asked.
“Followin’ . . . Snell,” Wingate gasped. “Bastard . . . shot me . . . in the back . . . so I couldn’t tell . . . about him kidnappin’ . . . Sinclair.”
“You mean Willard Carling?”
Weakly, Wingate shook his head. “Sinclair,” he insisted. “Turns out . . . he’s a hell of a lot . . . richer’n Carling . . . if Snell’s got him . . . prob’ly kill him . . . and the girl, too . . . sooner or later.”
Preacher wasn’t sure what was going on, but Wingate seemed to know what he was talking about. They could hash it out later, if they got clear of the fire.
“Let’s get you in the saddle—” Preacher began.
“No need,” Wingate said. “I ain’t gonna . . . make it . . . you get on this horse . . . take that squaw . . . get outta here . . .”
Preacher became aware that the woman had regained consciousness, sat up, and was now chanting her death song. He eased Wingate to the ground as blood trickled from the corners of the trapper’s mouth.
“Me dyin’ is just one more reason . . . for you to settle the score . . . with Snell!” Wingate gasped. “Find . . . Lieutenant Corrigan . . . go after Snell . . .”
Lieutenant Corrigan? Who the hell was Lieutenant Corrigan? Preacher realized there must have been a lot going on that he hadn’t known about.
But again, it simply didn’t matter right now. Not with that fire closing in so rapidly.
Wingate grinned up at Preacher. “Shinin’ times,” he rasped. “Shinin’ . . . times . . .”
His head fell back as death claimed him.
Preacher lowered him the rest of the way to the ground and then turned swiftly to the Indian woman. He didn’t say anything, just grabbed her and practically threw her onto the horse Wingate had brought him. He leaped up behind her, said, “Hold on tight!” and kicked the horse into a gallop. Riding parallel with the onrushing flames, he headed west.
Faith wasn’t sure what was going on. Nothing made sense anymore. First had come that awful moment when she had been forced to pick up the tomahawk Medicine Bull had dropped and hit him in the head with it to keep him from choking Chester to death. She had killed Medicine Bull . . . she, who had always prided herself on her gentle nature, who had devoted her life to the beauty of poetry . . . she had picked up a tomahawk and buried it in some savage’s brain.
And it had felt so good f
or a second, striking out to protect someone who had grown to be important to her. She had felt almost like a savage herself. She knew she ought to be ashamed of that fierceness, but somehow, she wasn’t.
Then, just as Preacher had shown up at last and it looked like he would lead them to safety, that awful Luther Snell had come out of nowhere, and he and his men had taken her and Chester prisoner again.
How many times, Lord? she asked herself. How many times were they going to be pressed into captivity?
Seven or eight men in addition to Snell rode around them, forcing them to continue galloping out of the path of the prairie fire. All of them glanced nervously over their shoulders from time to time, checking on the progress of the conflagration. They were afraid that the flames might still catch them, and Faith couldn’t blame them for that. She felt the same way herself.
The smoke was thinner where they were, though, and it looked to her inexperienced eye that they might be getting clear of the flames. As long as the wind didn’t shift to a more easterly direction, they ought to be all right, she decided.
So she and Chester wouldn’t burn to death—but they were still prisoners of a band of obviously brutal men. Snell had shot Preacher’s horse right out from under him and left him and some Indian woman lying there to be consumed by the flames.
Faith turned her head and asked despairingly, “Chester, where are they taking us?”
“I don’t know,” he said.
“What do they want with us?”
“I have no idea, Faith.” Chester’s voice was grim and angry. “They murdered Preacher and that poor woman by leaving them there, though.”
Faith knew that was true, and whatever Snell and the others had in mind for her and Chester, she was sure it wouldn’t be anything good.
Ever since she had come out here to the frontier, she had found herself in one dangerous situation after another, she thought. What had her brother been thinking when he dragged her along on his ill-fated expedition? Why had Willard insisted on coming out here in the first place? True, the scenery was spectacular, and the Indians, despite their savage ways, did have a certain nobility about them. And many of the trappers, although rough-hewn, possessed a zest for life that made most of the men she had known back in Boston seem pallid and hollow by comparison. Even Chester, who had never impressed her before—whom she had barely noticed most of the time, in fact—had blossomed out here, becoming more of a man than she had ever realized he could be.
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