Not far away, one of the Arapaho, Gourd, overturned another and shot the occupants. Three Sleeps Norris trampled mounds of supplies and set them ablaze. Antoine Revier hurled cases of ammunition and bundles of arrows into the central fire. The enemy swirled all around them, unwilling to fire their rifles for fear of hitting a friend.
In the mad gyration of the swift raid, Preacher eventually came face-to-face with Iron Shirt. Preacher’s right-hand Walker Colt bucked first and the ball smacked into the chest of his enemy. Iron Shirt went down in an eye-blink. Elated, Preacher signaled for the others to leave. They had accomplished much more than he had expected. Firing their weapons behind them, the mountain men, Arapaho, and BSM Muldoon quickly faded into the dark.
TWENTY-EIGHT
To Preacher’s astonishment, the warriors did not disband after the death of Iron Shirt. Nor did they take time to mourn the loss of their leader and elect a new one. Rather, some set out immediately, with Cheyenne braves acting as guides, in search of those who had done the damage. The rest continued toward the fort.
Preacher soon learned the reason. Iron Shirt was alive! Obviously sore as hell, he moved slowly and sat his pony warily. Surrounded by a hundred Blackfoot warriors, the medicine man was unreachable. Knowing where the hostiles were headed, Preacher urged all speed to the fort. Muldoon concurred.
Mid morning remained markedly cool two days later, when the sentry’s voice rang out from the gate. “Corporal of the Guard, Post Number Two. Visitors at the gate.”
Bustling over on sore feet—he’d joined the Dragoons to ride, not to walk— Corporal Collins found three men confronting the guard. They were dressed like dandies. Nevertheless, he addressed them politely enough. “Good morning, gentlemen. May I inquire as to your business at Fort Washington today?”
Quinton Praeger took the lead. “We must see your commanding officer at once.”
Collins blinked. “What about?”
“It is a matter of great urgency.”
Following regulations, Corporal Collins did not give an inch. “If you tell me what it is, I can convey the information to Colonel Danvers.”
His patience growing short, Praeger put heat in his words. “It is a matter of life and death.”
Amused by the man’s pomposity, Collins let his eyes go wide. “Oh, that’s what it is, eh? The colonel will want to hear that, I’m sure.”
Praeger flared. “Damnit, man, the country west of here is full of roving bands of hostiles. Tell him that, and tell him that Quinton Praeger and two associates are here to see him at once.”
Corporal Collins scratched one ear. “I reckon you fellers didn’t see the bullet scars on the wall. We’ve done whipped the savages and sent them running.”
Praeger regained his control and fixed the insolent corporal with a frigid stare. “No you didn’t. Because all the Indians we saw were headed this way. Tell that to your Colonel Danvers.”
“Uh ... yes, sir, right away, sir.”
When Lieutenant Colonel Danvers learned of their presence, he had the three men ushered into his office. He waited a moment to insure that no prying ears lingered beyond the door then turned on Praeger, Gross and Reiker with a face suffused by hot fury.
“What in the name of God are you doing here?” he demanded.
Praeger took a step forward, asserting his control. “The whole thing is coming apart. Preacher is alive.”
“I know that. But he’s gone now, I dismissed him and he went away.”
Praeger’s words struck Danvers like lead pellets. “He went right to the war camp of Iron Shirt. He’s worked some sort of savage mysticism that’s nearly driven Iron Shirt out of his mind. He told me after the first little gifts were left that Preacher wants his balls. It’s true what I told your corporal. The Blackfoot, Cheyenne and Sioux are on the way here. But if we don’t get a war started soon, it will all blow up in our faces.”
Danvers fumbled for words. “That’s . . . terribly disturbing. What do you expect me to do?”
“I want you to have these Dragoons attack the peaceful Cheyenne at once, the ones who did not join Iron Shirt. That’s sure to bring about the desired reaction and satisfy our friends back East.” He paused, looked around the headquarters and at the palisades beyond.
“Apparently you did too good a job on this fort. By now I expected to find all but you dead. The troops are in much too good shape. Looks as if they could fight their way through any number of Indians.”
Instinctively Danvers stood up for his men. “My Dragoons had to fight their way out here. Naturally they gained experience.”
Praeger closed with Danvers in two rapid steps. He tapped a long forefinger on the colonel’s chest. “Let me remind you that they are the ones who are supposed to lose. The whole program is poised to fall into place. But . . .” He raised the finger and tapped Danvers again. “It will take a massacre and an Indian war to clear the land of the savage vermin.”
Choking on his anger, Lieutenant Colonel Danvers turned partly away. Why had he ever thrown in his lot with these insufferable scoundrels? Desperately he tried to disassociate himself from this distasteful part of their plot. “I am only taking orders. I am not a participant in anything beyond the military involvement, of which, I’ll remind you, I took no part in the planning. I suggest you leave forthwith, before any fighting begins, if you value your hides so much.” With that, he showed them out of his office.
Preacher’s valiant band arrived at Fort Washington the next day. The Blackfoot, Cheyenne and Sioux came right behind. Once more, the fort was very active. From the round-top knoll where he had made medicine, Iron Shirt observed the frantic activity within the walls through a brass telescope given him by Quinton Praeger. He could not mask his surprised reaction when he recognized three particular faces. He lowered the glass and turned to Two Moons.
“The Great Spirit smiles on us. The man Praeger and his nurselings are inside the fort. We can now sweep all of our enemies away in one battle. Then all the plains will burst out in flame.”
For his part, Two Moons would have preferred to be spared Iron Shirt’s rhetoric. Cunning and intelligent, Two Moons had long ago accepted that the great medicine of Iron Shirt was a fake. Men died at the hands of the whites not because they had lost faith, but because they had been shot. What sat foremost in the mind of Two Moons was the swiftness with which Iron Shirt had turned against their benefactors. Praeger, who wanted to be called Star Child, had brought them the fine new rifles, the barrels of powder and boxes of caps. For that he deserved praise, not death. He kept all that to himself as he replied to his leader.
“We have them trapped right enough. Why have they come here?” Two Moons inquired.
“Why do the white men do many stupid things?” Derisive laughter followed that suggestion.
“Iron Shirt, since they know of our plans, it cannot be for protection. It may be they came here to betray us.”
Iron Shirt’s face darkened at that. “Then they shall die slowly.”
Quinton Praeger withdrew into a dark rage when he learned of the death of Blake Soures. He took his fury to the saloon in the sutler’s store only half an hour before the Indians swarmed down the length of the narrow finger of land to the stockade that surrounded Fort Washington. There he observed the three, buckskin-clad men who had ridden in earlier in the day. They gulped down prodigious drafts of beer and wiped their lips with the backs of their hands. When the Blackfoot and their allies appeared, the sutler spoke from behind the bar to one of them.
“Well, Preacher, looks like you brought us more company than we wanted.”
“I coulda told ya they were on the way, if you‘d’ve asked,” came the reply. “Boys, we’d best be gettin’ to the walls. Those Injuns ain’t here for a bison feast.”
Jolted by this revelation and driven by a blind desire for revenge on Preacher, Praeger went in search of Heck Driscoll, one of Soures’s lieutenants, who managed the wagons. He found him near the stables.
“Driscoll, I have a job for you. I’ve located this troublemaker, Preacher, and I can point him out to you. I want you to kill him. Do it up on the wall, so it will look like the savages did it.”
Driscoll hitched his belt and produced a confident grin. “I can handle that all right.” With that, they set off to find Preacher.
Like a cataract’s roar, gunfire greeted them as they approached the wall. From outside came the challenging reports of Praeger’s nice new rifles. Praeger winced involuntarily at the thought of being shot at by them. He quickly located the lean, broad-shouldered man in buckskin and pointed him out to Driscoll. The renegade gave a curt nod and moved off toward the access stairs.
Preacher first became aware of Driscoll when the mountain man moved abruptly and a tomahawk blade swished past his ear. The haft struck his right shoulder and Preacher turned, expecting to find a warrior had scaled the wall.
Not so. He faced another white man, one he vaguely recognized. His carefully planned blow gone astray, Driscoll sought to recover. Before he could lift the ’hawk, Preacher hit him in his exposed gut. Driscoll dropped the tomahawk and bent double. Air rushed from Driscoll’s lungs, to be quickly stopped when Preacher kneed him in the face.
Dazed, Driscoll went to one knee. The fighting around them had grown so intense that no one noticed as Driscoll slid a knife from its sheath. Concerned with holding off the Indians, Preacher did not have time to play by the rules. He simply drew a .44 Colt and blew a hole through the head of his assailant. Heck Driscoll did a backward half gainer off the parapet.
Then enlightenment settled on Preacher. The dead man had been with the others in the Blackfoot war camp. He’d handed out rifles and ammunition from the rear of a wagon. That meant the other whites must be here. He knew them by sight, and vaguely recalled that someone had given him names: Praeger, Gross and Reiker. Behind him, the firing slackened and the first assault by the hostiles broke off. Preacher went in search of the men behind this uprising.
He found Quinton Praeger with surprising ease. Shunning the hypocrisy of fighting his Indian allies, Praeger had returned to the saloon. Preacher came upon him there.
Arctic chill coated the words Preacher spoke in a slow drawl. “I reckon you’re the one they call Praeger. You’re responsible for stirrin’ up this Injun ruckus. An’ I reckon you know who I am. For what it’s worth, yer errand boy didn’t get the job done.” Preacher’s lip curled in contempt. “I hate a stinkin’ white renegade more’n I hate a Pawnee. Are you going to do it the easy way an’ give up?”
From outside they heard sound of renewed attack. This time it came from the west. Praeger responded with a bravado he did not feel. “That’ll be the day.”
Preacher had come willing to oblige. “Do you want it inside or out?”
Praeger did not reply. Instead, he fired with a concealed pistol from under the table. The sneak’s aim was off because of the extreme angle, so all that hit Preacher was a shower of splinters. The flattened ball moaned past. Responding in a manner totally unexpected by Praeger, Preacher dove over the table at him.
They spilled out of the chair together. Preacher rammed Praeger’s head against the floorboards repeatedly until a small cloud of dust hung around the battered renegade. Drops of blood from Praeger’s split scalp formed a halo around his head. His eyes glazed and Preacher eased up, came to his feet.
He soon found that Praeger had more than one card up his sleeve. Lightning quick, Praeger grabbed for the butt of another of his short-barreled .60 pistols. He found himself not fast enough.
Preacher filled his hand with a Walker Colt and shot his enemy in the right shoulder. The Deringer went flying. His gun hand made inoperable, Praeger made a try with his left. To his surprise, he got the pistol free and fired a shot that creased the outside of Preacher’s right thigh. That did not prevent Preacher from shooting the corrupt land speculator through the heart.
Hyman Entermann stared at Preacher a moment. “There’s another of them out back in the chicksale.”
Preacher nodded his thanks and left the saloon. He found Morton Gross at the outhouse. The chubby renegade fumbled to button his fly as he exited the small building. Preacher’s words froze him.
“I killed Praeger not a minute ago. I’d gather you are the one called Gross. It sorta fits,” he added parenthetically.
“I ... I don’t know who you mean. My name is Pembrook.” His slight hesitation over the name put the lie to his words.
Preacher took note of it. “I don’t care what you call yerself. You rode in with a piece of renegade white trash named Praeger, who’s been stirrin’ up the Blackfoot, Cheyenne and Sioux. I’m here to take you to justice in front of Colonel Danvers, or bury you. The choice is yours.”
In the next tense second, Morton Gross made the biggest mistake of his life. Instead of surrendering, he grabbed for his pistol. He cleared it of his coat and had the hammer back when Preacher drew and fired his Walker Colt. The .44 ball struck Gross in a rib, which flattened it and deflected it from his heart, though it did terrible damage to his left lung. Eyes wide, he blinked slowly and sagged to the ground. Preacher stepped close and kicked the gun away.
“Where will I find Reiker?”
“I ... don’t know. You must be Preacher, right?”
“That’s what they call me.”
“I know . . . I’m going to die. I ... just want . . . to do something . . . on the plus side of ... the ledger . . . before I do.”
“Go on, I’m listenin’.”
Blood bubbled in pink froth on the lips of Morton Gross. “Watch out . . . for your Colonel Danvers, Preacher. He’s in on ... this thing of Praeger’s.”
Preacher bent close. “You’re sure of that?”
A breathy word answered him. “Yes.” Then Morton Gross shuddered and died.
“Dang. That went too fast. I sure would like to know where Reiker is,” Preacher said over the dead man.
“He’s right here.” The voice came from behind Preacher, like the crack of a whip.
A violent crash and a rumble came from beyond Aaron Reiker. Unlike the previous time, the Blackfoot warriors did not try to scale the wall. Instead, they rode forward, attached several ropes to a series of spike-topped lodge-pole pines in the palisade and rode fast away from the wall. With as many as eight horses per upright, the log barricade strained and at last gave away. The rammed earth behind cascaded down from sheer gravity.
Preacher tensed and made ready to spring to one side. He fully expected to get a bullet in the back at any second. Instead, Reiker started toward him, talking as he came.
“I saw Quinton’s body. And now I see you have disposed of Morton as well. Saves me the trouble, I suppose. I should be grateful and let you go. Our Indian friends will finish you readily enough.” Reiker paused and sighed. “But then, coward that he was, I imagine Gross told you more than you should know. You’ve more lives than an alley cat, Preacher, and you might get away from the Blackfoot. So, you see, I don’t have any choice.”
While the overconfident Reiker rambled, Preacher’s expectations soared. Braced for evasion, he used flexed knees to power his next move. With a loud, piercing yell, he jumped straight into the air and spun, bringing a Walker Colt ahead of him. Lacking the precise position of Reiker, his first shot missed.
Lithe as a cat, Preacher came down on the balls of his moccasined feet as he eared back the hammer. Reiker’s ball caught Preacher by surprise, and burned like hell’s fire along the left side of the rib cage. Had he been standing still, he would have died. It put Preacher’s second shot off so that it only cut a chunk off Reiker’s right hip-bone.
Reiker stumbled to his left, to the protection of the outhouse. A stench came from the interior that told of much frequent use. A fastidious man in dress and decorum, Reiker wrinkled his nose. Over it all, though, hung the coppery odor of violent death. Cautiously he peered around one corner.
Surprise puckered his lips when he saw no sign of Preacher. Where could he hav
e gotten to so quickly? Reiker searched the entire area behind the sutler’s with his eyes. Confident that Preacher had left, there being no hiding place, he came from behind the small structure and started back toward the saloon. The door to the outhouse creaked on leather hinges at his back.
“Behind you, Reiker.”
He made a valorous try, spun from left to right, so his pistol would come in line first. Preacher let him complete his turn before he pumped a .44 ball into the center of Reiker’s chest. Gagging, Reiker sank to his knees. His pistol discharged. The ball punched through the door of the toilet. Feebly he reached for another pistol.
Preacher shot him again. This time the ball put a black hole at the top of the bridge of Reiker’s nose. Preacher stepped into the clear.
“Got to remember to tell Entermann to do something about that smell,” he muttered. He sighed and set to reloading his Walker Colt. With this accomplished, all he had left was Iron Shirt and the aroused Indians.
TWENTY-NINE
With the wall almost breached, Preacher busied himself in an effort to get some of the young Dragoons to pull the three-pound cannon to the top of the dirt platform. Lieutenant Colonel Danvers confronted him there.
“Do you mind telling me where Mr. Praeger and his associates happen to be?”
Mincing no words, Preacher told him. He concluded with a fateful remark. “An’ before one of them died, he told me you are mixed up in this dirty little business.”
Danvers’s eyes went wild. Froth formed at the corners of his mouth as, heedless of his condition and surroundings, he drew his Dragoon revolver. “That’s a damned lie. Soldiers! I’m arresting this man as an Indian sympathizer. Disarm him and lock him up in the guardhouse.”
Moving swiftly, Preacher knocked both privates aside and pulled his Walker Colt. Danvers had already triggered his Dragoon pistol. The shot went somewhat wild, to punch a hole through Preacher’s left shoulder, which caused him to drop his Colt. Danvers took aim again.
Blackfoot Messiah Page 26