Preacher's Kill

by William W. Johnstone

  “He still had one good arm,” Hawk said as he stepped back from his pony. “That was all he needed to slit an enemy’s throat. Maybe your throat, Preacher . . . or Miss Chessie’s.”

  Preacher couldn’t dispute that point. But there was no time to argue anyway, because a sudden flurry of gunfire in the distance told him that the wagons were under attack.

  CHAPTER 12

  A glance at the decorations and markings on the buckskin clothing worn by the dead Indians had told Preacher they were Sioux. Some of the fiercest fighters came from that tribe, so he knew the expedition was in deadly danger. He called, “Come on!” to Hawk and Dog and heeled Horse into a run.

  The rangy gray stallion had power and speed to spare. Hawk’s pony was swift but didn’t have Horse’s long, ground-eating stride. Hawk also had the pack mule to deal with. Preacher quickly left them behind. Dog ran hard and managed to stay not too far behind the mountain man.

  Preacher spotted the thin gray haze of powder smoke in the air before he saw the wagons themselves. The vehicles had come to a stop right where they were when the attack began, lined up one behind the other. There hadn’t been enough time to try to pull them into a circle. With only three wagons that would have been difficult anyway.

  The covered wagon was in the lead with the two supply wagons behind it. Men had taken cover underneath all three wagons. From there they fired at the Sioux warriors on horseback, who raced back and forth, sending a storm of arrows at them. Preacher estimated that there were at least two dozen Indians in the war party.

  Ryker’s men had thrown themselves from their horses and scrambled to reach the shelter of the wagons when the assault began. Preacher could tell that from the way the mounts had scattered across the broad, open ground between two shallow ridges. The Sioux had been hidden up there on both sides, he figured, and when the expedition was between them, they had attacked.

  None of the horses were down, but one man was. He lay on his face with two arrows sticking up from his back. He wasn’t moving and never would again.

  Preacher spotted a couple of riderless Indian ponies dashing around, spooked by all the gunfire and commotion. He didn’t see the bodies of those ponies’ riders, but he assumed two of the Sioux were done for, as well. Despite that, the war party still far outnumbered the expedition.

  The only advantage the defenders had was the greater range of their rifles. The lead balls whistling around the heads of the Sioux made them pull back after a few moments of furious fighting.

  Preacher slowed Horse and considered his options. He saw a little hummock of ground off to his left. If he could take cover there, he might be able to pick off several of the Indians before they realized what was going on. Then they would have to split their force to deal with him. By that time, Hawk would be arriving and could create some additional havoc among the Sioux.

  It was a decent plan, but just as Preacher was about to implement it, an arrow with its tip blazing brightly arched through the air and landed on the canvas cover stretched over the supplies in the back of the third wagon. Flames began to leap up as the canvas caught fire.

  Preacher heard shouts from the defenders. He couldn’t make out the words, but it must have been someone issuing orders, because a figure crawled out from under the wagon and started trying to tear the burning canvas cover away before the supplies or the vehicle itself caught fire. From the size of the man working at that task, Preacher knew it had to be Pidge—unless the expedition had two giants in its midst.

  One of the Sioux had another flaming arrow ready to go. Preacher spotted him as the warrior drew back his bowstring and aimed at the other wagons. Trusting to instinct and years of experience to guide his shot, Preacher brought the rifle to his shoulder and fired without seeming to aim.

  The Indian had wrapped cloth soaked in pitch around the arrowhead and had dismounted to strike a spark with flint and steel and set it ablaze. He stumbled forward just as he released the shaft. That caused the arrow to fly into the sky at a much steeper angle than the warrior had intended. It landed well short of the expedition’s wagons.

  The Sioux staggered and fell forward on his face. Preacher knew his rifle ball had found its target.

  Over at the wagons, Pidge had succeeded in ripping the burning canvas off the supplies, but as he did so, one of the mounted Indians dashed closer and loosed an arrow. The missile struck Pidge in the upper left arm. Preacher knew the wound had to be painful, because Pidge bellowed like a bull.

  The Sioux underestimated the big man, however. He charged closer and lifted a coup stick, intending to hit Pidge with it. Getting close enough to strike an enemy like that in battle was the greatest honor a warrior could achieve, since it was a powerful demonstration of his courage.

  Pidge reached up and caught hold of the Sioux’s wrist. He jerked the warrior right off his pony and swung him through the air. When Pidge let go, the Sioux flew at least twenty feet before crashing to earth with bone-breaking force. A second later, more shots rang out from underneath the wagons and several rifle balls thudded into the luckless man’s body.

  More arrows flew around Pidge as he stomped out the burning canvas, but none of the Sioux rode within reach of him. One of the arrows skewered his leg, which made him stumble but didn’t knock him off his feet.

  While that was going on, Preacher and Dog struck the Indians from behind. Since his hastily formed plan to pick off some of them before they knew what was going on hadn’t panned out, the best course of action was to hit the enemy hard and fast while he still had surprise on his side. He blew two of the Sioux off their ponies with his pistols, then stuck the empty weapons behind his belt and yanked out his tomahawk.

  Preacher understood the Indian concept of counting coup, but it had always seemed foolish to him. If you were going to get close enough to your enemy to tap him with a stick, why not just go ahead and kill him so you didn’t have to take the time and trouble to do it later?

  To that end, when he struck with the tomahawk it was with deadly intent. He leaned over in his saddle and crashed the weapon’s flint head against the skull of a warrior as he rode past the man. Bone splintered under the impact. Preacher didn’t look back to see if the Sioux fell off his pony, but he knew the blow was fatal.

  He rode close to another man and whipped the tomahawk back the other way. The warrior got an arm up to block it, but the bones in his forearm snapped. Doing that didn’t save him, either. As he howled in pain from the broken arm, Preacher crowded in and backhanded the tomahawk across the man’s face, shattering his jaw and ripping it halfway off. The scream died in a bubbling gurgle as the maimed warrior toppled from his pony.

  Dog was among the Sioux as well. The big cur leaped and knocked one of the warriors off his horse. Dog landed on the man’s chest, closed his powerful jaws around his throat, and ripped it out in a bloody spray.

  With a drumbeat of hooves, Hawk galloped up to the battle. He had an arrow nocked and drawn. Without slowing his pony, he loosed the shaft and planted it in the middle of a Sioux warrior’s chest.

  Fully a third of the attackers were down now, and as more shots roared from the wagons, another Sioux fell, riddled by rifle balls. That was enough to convince the others that continuing the assault wasn’t a good idea. Yipping in frustrated rage, they yanked their ponies around and raced toward one of the bluffs in the distance.

  Preacher reined in and hit the ground almost before Horse had stopped moving. He hurried from body to body, checking to see if any of the fallen Sioux were still alive. None of them were.

  He turned and strode toward the wagons, where the defenders were starting to emerge. Preacher saw Edgar and Oliver Merton, both apparently unharmed but very pale and shaken. Oliver turned back and helped Chessie from underneath the covered wagon where he and his father had been. Preacher was glad to see that she seemed to be all right, too.

  Pidge leaned against the supply wagon he had saved from burning. Blood leaked around both arrows embedded in his f
lesh, but he seemed steady enough. He gave Preacher a curt nod, but clearly that was as far as he was willing to go to express his gratitude.

  Hoyt Ryker didn’t even do that much. He crawled out from under the second wagon, stood up, and started toward the closest Sioux corpse, pulling a long-bladed hunting knife from his belt as he did so.

  “What are you doin’, Ryker?” Preacher asked in a sharp voice.

  Ryker pointed the knife at the bodies and said, “I’m going to scalp all those redskins, if it’s any of your damned business.”

  “Seein’ as I just helped save all of y’all’s bacon, I’m makin’ it my business,” Preacher snapped. “You need to get your people gathered up and start these wagons rollin’ again. Tend to Pidge and anybody else who’s wounded. Hawk and me will round up your saddle mounts.”

  Ryker sneered at him. “Who the hell are you to give orders like that?”

  “Somebody who don’t want you massacred. Those Sioux may be gone now, but that don’t mean they won’t come back, and they might bring more friends with ’em next time. Leave those bodies where they lay without mutilatin’ ’em, and the Sioux might decide they’ve had enough and won’t follow you. Scalp ’em and the rest of the bunch will track you to the ends o’ the earth to square that debt.”

  Edgar Merton came up in time to hear Preacher’s words. The man glared at him and said, “You presume too much, sir. I’m in charge of this expedition, and Mr. Ryker is our head guide. We’ll decide the best course of action.”

  “Suit yourselves,” Preacher said. “Just be sure to save one shot each for your son, Miss Dayton, and yourself. Better a pistol ball through the head than what the Sioux will do to you if they capture you.”

  Chessie looked a little sick at that warning. Oliver put an arm around her shoulders and squeezed as if to reassure her, but he looked pretty worried himself.

  After a moment, Merton cleared his throat and said, “Mr. Ryker, perhaps we should listen to this, ah, gentleman. There’s no need to aggravate the situation.”

  “You’ve got to teach those damned heathens their place,” Ryker insisted.

  “Not at the cost of our lives. I want to get moving again as soon as possible.”

  Ryker obviously didn’t like it, but he nodded and said, “You’re the boss.”

  Preacher whistled for Horse and swung up into the saddle. He and Hawk rode off to round up the expedition’s mounts.

  That took a while. Preacher kept a sharp eye out while they were doing it, just in case the Sioux decided to double back and attack again.

  That didn’t happen, and less than half an hour later the wagons lurched into motion again, heading north with the rest of the party on horseback. They left the sprawled corpses behind them, untouched.

  The only body they took with them was that of the lone member of the expedition who had been killed in the opening minutes of the attack. He was wrapped in a blanket in the back of one of the supply wagons and would be buried when they made camp that night.

  Pidge rode in the back of the same wagon, next to the corpse. He had been driving it while Ryker handled the team hitched to the other supply wagon, but with an arrow in his arm Pidge couldn’t be expected to wrestle mules into line, so one of the other men had been forced to take over. The wounds in Pidge’s left arm and right leg had crude bandages wrapped around them, but the arrows were still in place.

  Preacher rode alongside the wagon and told the giant, “We’ll get those arrows out of you later, once we’ve stopped for the night. A fella’s got to know what he’s doing, or else he’s liable to cause even more damage tryin’ to get ’em out.”

  “Nobody asked for your help, mister,” Pidge rumbled.

  “Maybe not,” Preacher said with a smile, “but you’d all be in piss-poor shape without it right now, wouldn’t you?”

  Pidge didn’t have any answer for that, so he just scowled. Preacher nudged Horse on and rode up alongside the covered wagon in the lead. Hawk was already there.

  Both Mertons were on the driver’s seat, with Chessie peering out from under the arched canvas cover over the wagon bed. Edgar Merton frowned at the mountain man and said, “You haven’t been invited to accompany us, you know.”

  “Not only that,” Oliver said, “but just how did you happen to be close enough to come galloping up like that?” His voice had a suspicious edge as he added, “Have you been following us?”

  “We’re just headed back out to the frontier,” Preacher said. That was true as far as it went, but it certainly wasn’t the whole story. He and Hawk had been following the expedition. However, he didn’t see any point in admitting that.

  “You shouldn’t act like that, Oliver,” Chessie put in from her position behind the father and son. “If not for Preacher and Hawk, there’s no telling what might have happened. We might all be dead now.” She paused, then went on, “Although I’m sure Mr. Ryker would have thought of some way to save us.”

  Preacher knew better than that, and Chessie probably did, too. But there was some connection between her and Ryker, Preacher recalled, so she had to remain loyal to him . . . without being too conspicuous about it, because she had Oliver Merton wrapped around her little finger and wanted to keep him there.

  Of course, that was true of Hawk as well. He couldn’t seem to take his eyes off Chessie.

  Edgar Merton appeared to be deep in thought as the wagon rocked along. Finally he said, “I suppose it would be all right if you rode along with us for a while, until the danger from the Sioux is past. That is, if we wouldn’t be keeping you from anything else.”

  “We can trail along with you for a spell,” Preacher said. Now that circumstances had forced him and Hawk to reveal their presence, there was no reason to follow at a distance anymore. “But I’ve got a hunch Ryker ain’t gonna like that idea.”

  Merton sniffed and said, “You leave Mr. Ryker to me.”

  If Merton actually believed that he could handle Ryker, he was sure wrong about that.

  Preacher intended to see to it that Merton didn’t turn out dead wrong.

  CHAPTER 13

  The expedition pushed on for several more miles that day. Preacher and Hawk ranged out ahead on either side, not only scouting the route but looking for signs of potential trouble. Preacher wouldn’t be surprised if the Sioux tried to ambush the wagons again.

  The Indians weren’t the only possible source of problems. Late in the afternoon, when Preacher had started keeping an eye out for a good place to camp, he heard hoofbeats behind him and reined in. Dog was close by, and he growled as the mountain man twisted in his saddle to see who was coming.

  He recognized Hoyt Ryker by the man’s tall hat. Preacher rested his right hand on a pistol butt as Ryker approached. Dog growled again. The hair on the back of the cur’s neck was standing up like stiff bristles.

  “Take it easy,” Preacher told him quietly. “Don’t worry, old son, if I need to turn you loose, I will.”

  Ryker hadn’t come a-shootin’. He looked more like he wanted to talk. Preacher supposed he ought to hear him out, even though he didn’t trust Ryker one little bit.

  Ryker lifted his right hand in greeting as he reined in with his left. Neither hand drifted toward the pistol or knife at his waist. If Ryker made a move for either of the weapons, Preacher was confident that he could draw and fire first.

  “I’m not looking for trouble,” Ryker said.

  “I hear that a lot. Sometimes I even say it myself. Funny how it hardly ever works out that way, though.”

  Ryker grinned. “Did you ever think maybe that’s because you attract trouble like a lodestone draws iron filings?”

  “I never spent that much time ponderin’ it. What do you want, Ryker?”

  Ryker moved his hands now, but only to rest them both on the saddle and lean forward. “There’s bad blood between the two of us, Preacher. No point in denying it.”

  “Didn’t know that I had.”

  Ryker went on as if he hadn’t heard
Preacher’s response. “But just because there’s bad blood doesn’t mean we have to let that cause problems. We’re out here in the middle of the wilderness, with hundreds of hostiles maybe just waiting for a chance to jump us. We may need each other to survive. We’re both smart men, so there’s no reason we can’t set any hard feelings aside and make sure we both live to see another day.”

  Preacher used his left hand to scratch at his beard-stubbled jaw. “I sort of thought me and Hawk were doin’ that when we pulled your fat out of the fire earlier today.”

  Ryker stiffened a little. He didn’t seem to like being reminded of that incident. He said, “We would have been all right without your help.”

  “No way of knowin’, either way, is there?” Preacher responded with a shrug.

  Ryker shook his head. “That’s not what I wanted to talk to you about. Mr. Merton’s very grateful to you, even though he may not show it much. Let’s just leave it at that. I want to talk about the rest of the trip.” His voice hardened. “I’m not going to let you lord it over me all the way to where we’re going.”

  “Where’s that?” Preacher asked.

  The sharp question made Ryker’s frown deepen. He said, “I don’t rightly know . . . yet. Merton’s the one who’s telling us which way to go. I don’t know if he’s got a map, or if he’s been over this route before.”

  The latter possibility seemed unlikely to Preacher. Edgar Merton hadn’t struck him as a man who had spent a lot of time—or any time, really—on the frontier. He would have bet that this was Merton’s first trip out here.

  “Merton’s a stubborn man,” Ryker continued. “He’s promised to tell me more about our destination later. For now my job is to find the best trail that takes us in the right general direction and to keep him and his son safe until we get there.”

  “And Miss Dayton,” Preacher said.

  Ryker’s mouth twisted in a smirk. “I wasn’t really counting on her coming along,” he said, “but she insisted. And since I wouldn’t have even known about Merton’s expedition without her, I couldn’t really tell her no.”