A Big Sky Christmas

by William W. Johnstone

  The war party that had camped in the canyon was meeting another group of Blackfoot warriors, and the second bunch had shown up at just the wrong time.

  Jamie and his companions, already outnumbered, were caught between the two forces.

  Jamie swung Alexander to the ground and then flung himself out of the saddle, taking his Winchester with him. He told the boy to find his sister and make sure both of them stayed down as low as they could on the ground.

  Taking cover behind a tree, Jamie brought the rifle to his shoulder, nestled his cheek against the smooth wood of the stock, and began firing at the muzzle flashes from the second group of Indians, cranking off the rounds as fast as he could work the Winchester’s lever. More shots rang out as the other men began mounting a defense again.

  Bodie Cantrell ran up and knelt behind a tree next to Jamie. “This is pretty bad, isn’t it?”

  “They’ve got us pinned down from both directions,” Jamie acknowledged. “These trees and rocks give us pretty good cover, so we ought to be able to hold them off for a while, but sooner or later we’ll run out of bullets.”

  “We can’t count on any help from the wagon train, either. They don’t have any way of knowing we’re in trouble, so they won’t send anybody after us.”

  “I reckon not,” Jamie agreed grimly.

  “If we hit the ones in front of us hard enough, could we bust through them?”

  “Not without getting half our bunch killed, including those kids.”

  “Who are they? What’s going on here, anyway?”

  “Pure bad luck,” Jamie said. “That’s what’s going on.” He went on to explain his theory that the first bunch of Blackfeet had planned to rendezvous in the canyon with another war party.

  Bodie agreed that made sense.

  The firing from both directions died away.

  Jamie called softly, “Everybody keep your head down! They’re trying to draw us out into the open, but we’re staying put.”

  Silence settled down over the rugged landscape.

  Bodie said in a whisper, “Now we wait?”

  “Now we wait,” Jamie agreed. But only until morning, he thought.

  Some people thought Indians wouldn’t fight at night. Obviously, that wasn’t true. But they preferred to do their killing during the day, and Jamie figured that’s what they had in mind. They would keep the rescue party pinned down until daylight, and once they could see what they were doing, the Blackfeet would attack from both directions at once and overwhelm the defenders in the trees.

  When that time came, Jamie and his companions would sell their lives as dearly as possible. There was nothing else they could do.

  The hours stretched out uncomfortably. Jamie heard a lot of frightened muttering from the men. Abigail cried for a while before drifting off into an exhausted sleep. Alexander let out a few sniffles, too, but he was trying to be brave.

  Reverend Bradford crawled up to Jamie’s position and said in a low, angry voice, “You’ve managed to get us all killed, MacCallister. We’ll never get out of this alive.”

  “I thought you were supposed to have faith, Reverend.”

  “I have faith in the Lord. I have none in you.”

  “Well, I’d be the last person to put myself on the same level as the Lord. I’m just a poor sinner trying to make his way in the world the same as anybody else. But I’ll tell you the truth, Bradford. I did the best I knew how to do to help get those kids of yours back. Our luck ran out, that’s all.”

  “Our luck ran out when we agreed to let you lead us to Montana,” Bradford said bitterly.

  Bodie said, “Why don’t you just shut your mouth, Bradford? You’re always telling other people how they’ve fallen short, but you’re sure as hell not perfect yourself! Those two kids are scared of you, you know that? You’re nothing but a damned hardheaded tyrant!”

  Bradford started to get to his feet. “You can’t talk that way to a man of God—”

  Jamie reached over, put a hand on Bradford’s shoulder, and shoved him back down. “Stay put, Reverend,” he said coldly. “I don’t cotton to you, but for your kids’ sake I don’t want you getting a bullet in the head.”

  “The Indians aren’t shooting anymore. We don’t even know they’re still out there. Maybe they gave up and left.”

  “They’re out there, all right,” Jamie said. “Mark my words, Reverend. They’re out there.”

  However, everything was still quiet by morning. As dawn turned the sky gray and then golden light spread from the east, Jamie scanned the landscape in front of the trees. He didn’t see anything . . . but he knew that didn’t matter.

  He wasn’t the only one watching the broad valley between the rolling hills that represented their way out. With no warning, Reverend Bradford suddenly strode out into the open, holding his Bible in one hand and waving it in the air.

  “They’re gone!” he said loudly. “See for yourselves! The red devils have departed!” He turned to gaze in triumph at Jamie.

  “Get down, you fool!”

  “The Lord has delivered us from—”

  At that instant, a rifle cracked. Jamie saw blood fly in the dawn light as a slug bored into the side of Bradford’s head and exploded out the other side in a grisly pink shower. The preacher dropped limply, dead by the time he hit the ground.

  Abigail screamed and tried to run to her father. Bodie grabbed her as she went by and rolled onto the ground with her as the Blackfeet opened up again. Bullets thudded into tree trunks and shredded through branches.

  The barrage lasted only a moment before ending abruptly. Startled yells came from the war parties in both directions. Guns roared again, but the reports were the duller booms of revolvers. Hoofbeats hammered the ground. Men howled in pain.

  The oddest thing was that with all that shooting going on, none of the bullets seemed to be directed toward the trees where Jamie and his friends were.

  “What’s going on out there?” Hector asked as he knelt behind a rock.

  “Sounds like reinforcements showed up,” Jamie said.

  “Reinforcements? From where?”

  “I don’t know . . . but I’m glad they’re here!”

  Stampeding ponies burst into view, along with Blackfoot warriors fleeing on foot to avoid being trampled. With targets out in the open like that, Jamie brought his Winchester up and took advantage of the opportunity. His deadly accurate shots took a toll as .44-40 rounds ripped through the warriors. Around him, the other men joined the battle again, too.

  The Blackfeet were the ones caught in a crossfire, and they were smart enough to know that the best thing to do was get out while they could. Several of them grabbed stampeding ponies, hung on desperately to the manes, and swung up onto bare backs. They fled, shouting angrily. The ones who still could, followed that example.

  “Must be a cavalry patrol came along and heard the shooting,” Bodie said as the gunfire tapered off again. The surviving Blackfeet from both war parties were taking off for the tall and uncut.

  “Maybe,” Jamie said. “I reckon we’ll find out pretty soon.”

  “What about the preacher?” Bodie nodded toward the body of Bradford.

  With a glance at the sobbing Alexander and Abigail, Jamie said quietly, “Leave him for now, until we’re sure those war parties are gone.”

  A few tense moments went by, then Bodie asked, “Who in the world is that?”

  A man had stepped out into the open and was walking toward the trees, apparently as casual as if he were out for a Sunday stroll. He was tall and lean and clad in greasy buckskins. His hat was pushed back on thinning white hair, and he sported a grizzled beard. Despite his obvious age, he moved with the ease and vitality of a much younger man.

  Another man appeared behind him, leading several horses. He was younger, clean shaven, with sandy hair and a very broad set of shoulders.

  Jess Neville said, “We got a couple of hombres comin’ in from this other side, too.”

  Jamie looked
around and saw an even more unusual pair approaching the line of trees and rocks. One was a thick-bodied Indian with long, graying hair. Beside him, hurrying to keep up, was a white man not even four feet tall, also dressed in buckskins.

  “There’s your so-called cavalry patrol,” Jamie told Bodie with a grin.

  “Four men? That’s all? How is that possible? Four men couldn’t rout a whole Blackfoot war party, let alone two of ’em!”

  “Depends on who they are. I don’t know the young fella, but I’m acquainted with the other three, although it’s been a long time since we crossed trails.”

  Jamie stepped out of the trees and raised a hand in greeting to the skinny, grizzled old-timer.

  The man squinted at him. “Well, if that don’t beat all! Jamie Ian MacCallister his own self, still big as a mountain and twice as ugly!”

  “How are you doing, Preacher?” Jamie grinned and extended his hand. “Long time no see!”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

  The reunion was a happy one, although Jamie’s pleasure at seeing the old mountain man called Preacher was tempered by Reverend Bradford’s sudden and senseless death. The two veteran frontiersmen shook hands and slapped each other heartily on the back.

  Almost forty years had passed since Jamie and Preacher had first met down in Texas. Since then, they had run into each other from time to time, often with years between meetings.

  Jamie wasn’t sure exactly how old Preacher was, but he knew the mountain man was at least a decade older than him. If anyone had asked him, he wouldn’t have been sure whether Preacher was even still alive.

  Obviously, Preacher had proven to be amazingly resilient. Jamie wasn’t sure the gun or knife had been made that could kill the old buckskinner.

  “Who’s this?” Jamie asked with a nod toward the young man accompanying Preacher.

  “Fella name of Smoke,” Preacher said. “Smoke Jensen. We been driftin’ around together for the past few years, ever since Smoke’s pa got hisself killed by some no-good polecats. Heard a rumor those varmints might be over in Idaho, so we’re sort of amblin’ in that direction.”

  “Plan to settle the score, do you?”

  “I do,” Smoke said curtly.

  “Smoke’s about as naturally fast on the draw as anybody I ever seen,” Preacher said with a note of pride in his voice. “That’s how come I started callin’ him Smoke. His real front handle is Kirby, but he don’t go by it no more. I pree-dict you’ll be hearin’ a heap about him on down the line.”

  Smoke shook his head. “I’m not looking for a reputation. Just justice.”

  Preacher waved a hand toward his other two companions. “You remember Audie and Nighthawk, of course.”

  “Sure.” Jamie shook hands with both men, former fur trappers who were long-time friends of Preacher. “How are you, Audie?”

  “Exceedingly fine,” the short white man answered. “The fresh air and hardy life I’ve experienced out here on the frontier seems to have allowed me to stave off decrepitude, at least for the time being.”

  Audie spoke like an educated man, which was exactly what he was. At one time, he had been a professor at a college back east before he had abandoned that stifling academic life and headed west. Although he was small in size, he had the fighting heart and spirit of a much larger man.

  Jamie went on. “You’re looking good, Nighthawk.”

  The impassive Crow warrior nodded solemnly. “Ummm.”

  “Still as talkative as ever, I see,” Jamie commented with a grin. “Fellas, this young scalawag is Bodie Cantrell. Big hombre with the beard over there is Hector Gilworth, and the fella with him is his cousin Jess Neville.” Jamie went on to introduce the other men in the rescue party.

  “Who’s the sky pilot who got in the way of a bullet?” Preacher asked.

  “That would be Reverend Thomas Bradford,” Jamie said. “Pa to those two youngsters.”

  Preacher’s expressive mouth twisted in a grimace. “Tough on young’uns, seein’ their pa gunned down like that.”

  “Yeah. They got carried off by some of those Blackfeet, and we were trying to get ’em back when we got pinned down here. It’s a mighty good thing for us you came along when you did. What did you do, pull that old trick of yours where you slip into the enemy’s camp during the night and cut some throats?”

  Preacher chuckled. “It does tend to shake folks up a mite to find a few of their compadres with new mouths carved in their necks. When it got light, Audie and me stampeded the ponies that belonged to each bunch, whilst Smoke and Nighthawk waded in, their hoglegs a-blazin’. Every way those redskinned varmints turned, they was either a bullet or a wild-eyed bronc waitin’ to ventilate ’em or trample ’em. Didn’t take much o’ that to make ’em light a shuck.”

  “What’s left of the two bunches are liable to get together somewhere,” Jamie mused. “We’d better get on back to the wagons while we can.”

  “Wagons?” Preacher repeated. “These fellas are from a wagon train?”

  “That’s right. Bound for Eagle Valley in Montana Territory.”

  “Mighty pretty place,” Preacher said. “But in case you ain’t noticed the chill in the air . . . it’s December! What sort of dang fool takes a wagon train to Montana at this time o’ year?”

  “You’re looking at him,” Jamie said.

  The old mountain man snorted. “I stand by that dang fool business.”

  “I’m not arguing the point. But we’re here, and I’m bound and determined to get those pilgrims where they’re going by Christmas.” An idea occurred to Jamie. “Why don’t the four of you come along with us?”

  “Told you, we’re headed for Idaho,” Preacher said with a frown.

  “And that’s the general direction we’re going,” Jamie pointed out. “I wouldn’t mind visiting with you for a while, Preacher . . . and having four more good men along for the rest of the trip wouldn’t exactly make me unhappy, either.”

  Preacher scratched his grizzled jaw in thought and looked at Smoke. “What do you think, youngster? It’s your pa we’re goin’ to settle the score for.”

  Smoke pondered the question for a moment, then said in his grave manner, “Chances are some of the passes where we need to go in Idaho are already closed, Preacher. We knew we might have to winter somewhere. I reckon it might as well be with these folks.”

  “There’s your answer, Jamie,” Preacher told the big frontiersman. “We’ll come with you.”

  Jamie nodded in satisfaction.

  Quickly, he got everyone mounted. Reverend Bradford’s body was draped over his saddle and lashed in place. Several other men had been wounded in the fighting during the night, but none of the injuries were bad enough to keep them from riding. Bradford was the group’s only casualty.

  To Alexander and Abigail, though, it was a big loss. The two youngsters were orphans now. The only good thing about the situation was that Jamie was sure one of the families with the wagon train would be willing to take them in.

  Jamie and Preacher took the point, and as the two old pioneers rode together, they talked about the things they had been doing since they had seen each other last.

  “I was mighty sorry to hear about what happened to your woman, Jamie,” Preacher said. “Heard tell you went after the sorry bunch responsible for her dyin’ and rained down hellfire and brimstone on their heads.”

  “I settled the score for Kate as best I could,” Jamie said, his face and voice grim. “It wasn’t enough.”

  “No, I don’t ’spect it was. I’ve lost folks I loved, too, and no matter how much vengeance you get, it ain’t never enough ’cause it don’t bring back them you lost. Nothin’ does.”

  “But that doesn’t stop us from trying.”

  “Nope. Reckon we wouldn’t be human if we didn’t want to even things up, so we try even though we know it won’t really put our hearts at ease.”

  A chuckle came from Jamie. “Preacher, you’re getting profound in your old age.”

 
; “Reckon it comes from bein’ around Audie too much. That fella goes on and on about philosophy and such-like. And who in blazes are you callin’ old?”

  By midday, the rescue party, along with its newest additions, came in sight of the wagons parked next to the creek. Several men led by Jake galloped out to meet them and escorted them on in. Everyone gathered around to celebrate the safe return of Alexander and Abigail.

  The immigrants were sobered by the death of Reverend Bradford. After his body was laid out on the ground, Moses covered it with a blanket and took his hat off, holding it over his heart. “The reverend might not want the likes of me praying over him, but I feel like I have to do it anyway.”

  “I don’t reckon all those disagreements mean a blasted thing now,” Jamie said. “The fella’s dead, and I hope his soul is at peace.”

  “So do I,” Moses murmured. “So do I. If it’s all right with everyone, I’ll conduct the funeral.”

  “I don’t think anybody’s going to object. You’ve got a lot of friends on this wagon train, Moses. Your faith may be different, but after what you did during that outbreak of fever and all the other ways you’ve pitched in, if these folks have a spiritual leader now . . . it’s you.”

  Moses swallowed and nodded. “I’ll try to live up to that.”

  Jamie nodded. “What we need to figure out now is who’s going to take care of those kids.”

  A voice spoke up from behind him. “That’s not going to be a problem, Mr. MacCallister.”

  Jamie and Moses turned to see Savannah standing there. She had her arms around the shoulders of Alexander and Abigail, whose pale, tear-streaked faces testified to their grief. They huddled against Savannah’s skirts, obviously taking comfort from her presence.

  “I’m going to take care of them,” Savannah went on. “I can handle their wagon and see to it that they have everything they need.”

  “Are you sure about that?” Jamie asked with a frown. “You being an unmarried woman and all?”

  “They were being raised by the reverend alone since his wife passed on,” Savannah pointed out. “The children and I have become close, and this is something I’d really like to do.”