Preacher's Kill

by William W. Johnstone

  Of course he could have. He had brought Chessie along because he wanted to. Preacher still believed that Ryker intended to double-cross Edgar Merton at some point, and when that happened, Ryker would kill Merton and Oliver, steal whatever they were after, and take Chessie with him, too.

  But he couldn’t do that as long as Merton kept playing his cards so close to the vest. Maybe the easterner wasn’t quite as big a fool as Preacher had taken him for at first.

  “What is it you want from me?” Preacher asked. “Why’d you ride out to find me?”

  “I just want things understood. You and that half-breed—I mean, your son—can come along with us, but you’re not members of this expedition. Don’t be expecting to claim a share of whatever it is when everything is said and done.”

  “I wasn’t,” Preacher said honestly. His only interest was in keeping Ryker and the others from murdering Merton, Oliver, and Chessie.

  And if he satisfied his curiosity about Merton’s mysterious destination at the same time, then so much the better.

  “I have your word on that?” Ryker asked as he lifted his reins.

  “You do.”

  Ryker cocked his head to the side. “Everybody knows that Preacher is an honest man. I suppose I can take your word for it.” He started to turn his horse away, then paused. “One other thing. Don’t get any ideas about Chessie.”

  “Why would I? She’s Oliver’s girl, ain’t she?”

  Preacher didn’t let on that he had seen Chessie and Ryker embracing outside Red Mike’s.

  “We’ll see about that,” Ryker said. “But the situation doesn’t need any more complications.”

  “Won’t be any from me,” Preacher declared.

  “Good.”

  This time Ryker pulled his horse’s head around and urged the animal into a lope back toward the wagons, which had come into sight about a quarter of a mile away.

  Preacher had no intention whatsoever of getting mixed up in a romantic tangle that already included Chessie, Oliver, and Ryker.

  Now, Hawk, on the other hand . . . Preacher couldn’t speak for the boy.

  * * *

  Preacher had been through these parts before, although several years had passed since then. Once the mountain man had been somewhere, he never forgot its physical features. He knew they were nearing an area where several rocky humps reared up from the prairie, so he rode back to the wagons and told Edgar Merton it would be smart to keep going until they reached those knobs. That would be a good place to camp.

  Merton’s agreement brought a scowl to Hoyt Ryker’s face, but Ryker didn’t say anything. Probably his pride was hurt, but Preacher had promised not to try to cut himself in on whatever game Ryker was playing, so he was willing to go along with it.

  Preacher figured he could honor that pledge and still do his best to keep the Mertons and Chessie safe.

  They reached the knobs a little before dusk. Preacher directed the men handling the wagon teams to drive to the top of one of them. The slope wasn’t too much for the wagons to handle, and trees grew thickly enough up there to provide cover. The lower slopes were clear of trees, giving anyone on top a good field of fire in case of an attack. As long as they had food, water, and ammunition, the expedition could hold off an army from up here.

  Preacher didn’t expect things to get that bad. His hunch was that the surviving members of that Sioux war party wouldn’t come after them. But it never hurt to be prepared for trouble.

  When some of the men began to build the usual large campfire, Preacher didn’t try to stop them. The damage had been done already. The time for stealth had been when half the countryside didn’t know the wagons and riders were there.

  Besides, he would need good light for tending to Pidge’s injuries.

  Preacher told Hawk to keep an eye on their surroundings, then went over to the wagon where Pidge now sat on the lowered tailgate. The big man was pale and sweating in the firelight. The shape he was in didn’t do anything to improve his mood. He glared at Preacher as the mountain man approached.

  “We got to get those arrows out of you,” Preacher said. “They’ve been in there too long already. The wounds may be startin’ to fester. But there wasn’t a chance to tend to ’em until now.”

  Pidge reached up with his right hand and grasped the shaft of the arrow stuck in his left arm. “I can yank the damn thing out anytime,” he said.

  “Hold on! If you do that, you’ll rip out a big chunk of meat along with it. The way that would bleed, along with all the blood you’ve already lost, might be enough to do you in. You’ll be better off in the long run if we push it on through first.”

  Pidge’s eyes widened. “What the hell!” he roared. “Push it on through? You’re crazy! Mr. Ryker!”

  Chessie and Oliver walked over, drawn by the commotion. Oliver asked, “What’s this about?”

  Pidge pointed at Preacher. “He says he’s gonna push this arrow right on through my arm!”

  “It’s the best way to handle a wound like this,” Preacher explained. “I’ll push the arrowhead out the other side, then cut it off so I can pull the shaft back out on this side without doin’ any more damage. I’ve done it a heap of times, seen it done even more, and pushed a few arrows through my own carcass to get ’em out. I’ll need some whiskey, though, to clean the wound when I’m done.”

  “How about a bottle of brandy?” Oliver asked. “We brought some along for medicinal purposes.”

  “If that’s what you’ve got, it’ll have to do.”

  “Gimme a drink of it first,” Pidge said, scowling. “I ain’t gonna let you touch me otherwise.”

  Preacher grinned. “I reckon that’d be all right. Just don’t guzzle it all down. You’re gonna need it outside as well as inside.”

  Oliver went back to his wagon to fetch the brandy. Chessie stayed to comfort Pidge, patting him on the shoulder and telling him that everything was going to be all right. That attention from such a pretty girl made him perk up a mite, as it would most men.

  Ryker was with Oliver when he came back with the bottle. With a suspicious frown, Ryker asked, “Just what is it you’re planning to do here?”

  Preacher explained the process again, then took the bottle from Oliver, pulled the cork from its neck, and handed it to Pidge. The giant tipped the bottle up but had taken only one swallow when Preacher pulled it away from him.

  “Hey!” Pidge protested. “I need more than that.”

  “This is what you need,” Preacher said. He unwound the bloody bandages from Pidge’s arm, ripped the stained shirtsleeve away, and poured a little of the brandy on the wound. Pidge yelled at the liquor’s fiery bite.

  “Damn it, you need to warn me before you do anything else, mister.”

  “I will,” Preacher promised as he got a firm grip on the arrow. “I’ll tell you in plenty of time—”

  While he was still talking, he shoved on the arrow as hard as he could. The flint head emerged from the back of Pidge’s arm. Pidge howled again and tried to stand up.

  “Hold him down!” Preacher called to Ryker, Oliver, and the other men who were standing around watching.

  If Pidge had really wanted to stand up, Preacher doubted if they could have stopped him. But the big man calmed down a little when they grabbed him. Preacher pulled out his knife, held the shaft with his other hand to steady the arrow, and quickly sawed the head off.

  Then he said, “This is gonna hurt, too,” and pulled the shaft back through the wound. It came out cleanly. “I need a piece of clean cloth.”

  Chessie reached down, pulled up the hem of her dress, and tore off a piece of petticoat. Preacher told her to soak it with the brandy. Then he wrapped the cloth around the ramrod from his rifle and ran it through the wound, too, to clean it out. Pidge yelled some more but didn’t try to get up.

  With that done, all that remained on this injury was to bandage it, which Chessie accomplished in short order, using more strips from her petticoat.

  �
�What about the arrow in his leg?” Ryker asked.

  “The way it’s lined up, I don’t think I can push it on through without the bone gettin’ in the way,” Preacher said. “Also, it ain’t as deep to start with. I reckon I can cut it out.”

  “Cut it out!” Pidge roared. He made a grab for the brandy. “Gimme that bottle!”

  Preacher let him glug down another swallow before taking it back. Judging by Pidge’s slightly unfocused gaze, he didn’t have much of a tolerance for liquor, which was surprising, considering his great size.

  Preacher had him lie back on the tailgate. He cut away the trousers and long underwear to be able to get at the wound better. Then he said again, “Hold him down. And I mean it this time. Hang on tight.”

  The other men did so. Preacher made a couple of swift but deep incisions around the wound and then got his fingers in there to hold the flesh open as he carefully worked the arrowhead loose with his other hand. Pidge groaned and tried to buck, but the men held him. Preacher heard Chessie gasp as more blood flowed. The arrowhead came free.

  He tossed the arrow aside, grabbed the brandy, and splashed the liquor into the wound. Pidge bellowed. Preacher said, “Is there a needle and thread in those supplies?”

  “There should be,” Oliver said.

  “Fetch ’em, quick as you can.” Preacher put a folded piece of cloth over the wound and leaned on it. “Should’ve had ’em ready, but I didn’t think of it. I ain’t no doctor.”

  “Probably the closest thing to it out here,” Chessie said as Oliver hurried away.

  “Naw, there’s plenty of folks who can patch up bullet, knife, and arrow wounds. If my pard Audie was here, he would’ve done a better job than me. But Pidge ought to be all right if we can get that hole in his leg sewed up.”

  Another quarter of an hour saw that task accomplished. Preacher let Pidge drink more while he was busy putting in the stitches, and the big man was half-asleep by the time Preacher finished. When Preacher finally stepped back from the lowered tailgate, Oliver said, “He would have died without what you did, wouldn’t he?”

  “He might yet,” Preacher said. “He lost a lot of blood, and he’s probably gonna run a fever for a day or two. But if he rests and somebody keeps him cool and gets him to drink plenty o’ water, he’s got a good chance.”

  “I can do that,” Chessie said. “I’ve taken care of sick people before.”

  “That’ll be fine,” Preacher told her.

  He noticed that some of the men were looking at him with friendlier expressions now. They appreciated not only his help in driving off the Sioux but also what he had done for Pidge.

  Hoyt Ryker didn’t look too happy, though. He might be worried that his leadership of the group was going to be challenged.

  He didn’t have to be concerned about that. Preacher had no interest in bossing a gang of cutthroats, and that’s what they still were, even if they weren’t as suspicious of him as they had been.

  Sooner or later, there would still be a showdown.

  CHAPTER 14

  By morning, Pidge was muttering in feverish delirium as he lay in the back of the wagon in a space cleared from the supplies. At least he didn’t have to share the wagon bed with a corpse any longer. The man who had been killed in the Sioux ambush had been laid to rest the night before, after Preacher had carried out the crude surgery on Pidge.

  Chessie rode in the wagon, too. She had a bucket of water and a cloth that she soaked and used to bathe Pidge’s face in an effort to keep his temperature down. She also used a small tin cup to dribble water past the big man’s lips and down his throat fairly often.

  Overall, Preacher still didn’t fully trust the girl because of her connection to Ryker, but as he rode alongside the wagon for a few moments and watched her, he had to admit that she was doing a good job of nursing Pidge back to health.

  Preacher and Hawk resumed scouting ahead and to the sides of the expedition. At midday, Preacher told Hawk to drop back and see if anyone was following them. The young warrior nodded curtly and slowed his pony to let the wagons and riders pull ahead of him.

  Preacher knew that scouting their back trail like that could be dangerous, but he had full confidence in Hawk’s ability to take care of himself. Even so, as the hours went on with no sign of his son, the mountain man began to worry.

  Then Dog barked and Preacher looked back to see a distant figure on horseback coming toward them. The rider was just a dark, moving dot at first, but as Preacher reined Horse to a stop and waited, he began to make out enough details to know that Hawk was catching up to them.

  A few minutes later, as Hawk rode up and reined in, Preacher noted that his pony was sweaty and winded. Hawk had been pushing the mount hard. That could mean only one thing.

  “Trouble back there?” Preacher asked.

  “I saw dust in the distance behind us,” Hawk reported. “I thought at first it might be from a hunting party crossing our route, but it remained directly to the south and came closer. Whoever they are, it is likely they are following us.”

  Preacher grunted. “Sioux. Could you tell how big a party?”

  “Large,” Hawk said with grim brevity.

  “Well, we knew there was a good chance of that. Those wagons can’t turn back without runnin’ right into that bunch, and if they keep goin’ the direction they are now, the Sioux will overtake ’em in a few days. The country to the east is too open. Only chance is to cut west into more rugged terrain and try to give ’em the slip.”

  “These are Sioux hunting grounds,” Hawk pointed out. “They know this land better than anyone else. What are the chances of that working?”

  Preacher’s smile was cold as he replied, “Not very good. But what else is there to try?”

  Hawk didn’t have an answer for that. After a moment, he nodded and nudged his pony up alongside Horse as Preacher rode toward the wagons.

  They drew even with the wagon carrying Pidge first. Preacher slowed Horse to a walk and asked Chessie, “How’s he doin’?”

  “He’s still running a fever, but I’m not sure it’s as high as it was earlier,” the girl said. “I changed his bandages a little while ago. The wounds don’t look too bad.”

  Preacher nodded. “It would’ve been better if we’d had some moss to pack in there, but there ain’t any of the right kind out here. When we get to where there is some, if he’s still havin’ trouble we’ll try it then.”

  Pidge’s eyes had been closed when Preacher and Hawk rode up, but now they opened and the big man peered around, his gaze bleary and unfocused. He looked in Preacher’s direction and said, “Ma? Ma, is that you? Don’t you know me? It’s your little pigeon.”

  “You just rest, Pidge,” Preacher told him. “You’ll be better after a while.”

  “You sure sound funny, Ma. I never knew your voice was so gravelly.” Pidge sighed. “But I reckon if you want me to rest, I will.”

  He closed his eyes and settled back against the sack of flour that was propped behind his head and shoulders.

  “Do you need help with him?” Hawk asked Chessie, his voice quiet so as not to disturb Pidge again.

  She smiled and said, “No, I’m fine. He’s really not much trouble, as long as he doesn’t go out of his head from the fever or anything.”

  “If you need me, I will be happy to give you a hand.”

  “Thank you, Hawk.” Her smile was dazzling, and Preacher could tell that it affected Hawk. The young man practically had to tear himself away to follow Preacher toward the lead wagon.

  “You did not say anything to her about how the Sioux are pursuing us,” Hawk said quietly. “She should know that soon we may be running for our lives.”

  “What good would it do to tell her?” Preacher said. “The Sioux will either catch us or they won’t, and if they do, we’ll fight. It’s pretty simple. Anyway, if we change direction, she’ll probably figure out what’s goin’ on.”

  Hoyt Ryker rode beside the lead wagon at the moment. Oliver
Merton was at the reins with his father on the seat beside him. All of them turned to look at Preacher and Hawk as they rode up.

  Oliver was observant enough to notice their expressions. “Trouble?” he asked.

  “Looks like an even bigger bunch of Sioux is comin’ up behind us,” Preacher said. “I knew there was a chance those varmints might go and fetch their friends.”

  “How do you know for sure they’re back there?” Ryker asked. “Did either of you see them?”

  “I saw their dust,” Hawk said.

  Ryker snorted disdainfully. “You saw dust,” he said. “That could have come from anything. A herd of buffalo, maybe, or some other Indians on their way somewhere else.”

  Hawk shook his head and said, “The dust I saw stayed directly behind us and moved quickly in this direction. They are pursuing us. No other answer is possible.”

  “What do you think we should do, Mr. Ryker?” Merton asked.

  “We routed those red devils once,” Ryker blustered. “We can damn sure do it again.”

  “You defeated a small force,” Hawk said. “There could be a hundred men in the war party coming after us now. Perhaps even more.”

  “Our guns make us more than a match for any bunch of savages,” Ryker insisted.

  “I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” Preacher said. “Anyway, just because that first batch didn’t have any rifles don’t mean this war party won’t. There could be plenty of them with guns. We just don’t know.”

  “We don’t know anything. This is all just pure supposition.” Ryker turned toward the wagon and went on, “I think we should continue the way we’re going, Mr. Merton—”

  “You do that and they’ll overtake us and wipe us out,” Preacher broke in. “What we need is a place to fort up, and the closest one is several miles west of here.”

  “I hate to deviate from our course,” Merton said with a frown.

  “Anyway,” Ryker went on, “even if there are Sioux chasing us, they’re a long way back. There’s a good chance they’ll give up and turn around before they ever spot us. You know how shiftless those heathens are, Mr. Merton—”