Preacher's Kill

by William W. Johnstone

  “I . . . I don’t think so,” Oliver said. He looked down at the Indian sprawled at his feet. The bone handle of a knife stuck up from the warrior’s chest. Glassy eyes stared sightlessly up at the sky. “I killed that man,” Oliver went on hoarsely. His eyes flicked toward another, even more gruesome corpse, the man whose face he had battered in. “And that one. And maybe more when I was shooting at them . . .”

  From the back of the wagon, where she was climbing over the tailgate, Chessie said, “You saved my life, Oliver. If that savage had gotten in here, he would have killed me. I know he would.”

  As soon as her feet hit the ground, she ran over to Oliver and threw her arms around him. He swallowed, still looking a little dazed, and raised a hand to pat her awkwardly on the back as she embraced him.

  Edgar Merton said, “They’re not gone, are they?”

  “No, but we’ve got ’em bottled up inside that gap,” Preacher said, “just like I explained earlier.” The shooting from the spires had stopped now, so he knew the Sioux weren’t venturing out. “We want to hurt ’em so bad that when they do light a shuck outta here, they won’t want to come after us again.”

  “Do you believe that’s possible?”

  Preacher looked at the bodies of the Sioux scattered around the wagons and said, “I reckon we ain’t far from that point now.”

  CHAPTER 17

  Preacher left Edgar Merton mopping his sweating forehead with a handkerchief while Chessie and Oliver comforted each other. The mountain man walked over to see if Hoyt Ryker or any of the other men had been hurt in the battle.

  “We’re fine,” Ryker said. “A couple of the Sioux reached the wagons, but we were able to shoot them down before they did any damage. Added to the ones you took care of and the ones we downed when they first came out of that gap, we must have killed nearly half of the red-skinned bastards!”

  “You’re overcountin’ by a long ways,” Preacher told him. “There are fifteen or sixteen bodies where we can see ’em, and we may have wounded a few more bad enough that they’re done for. But we’ve killed a fifth of ’em, at most.”

  “That’s still a lot of men to lose.”

  Preacher nodded. “It all just depends on how many warriors they think their revenge is worth. With every one of ’em we kill, the blood debt gets higher, but there’ll come a time when they have to say enough is enough.”

  “We’ll keep killing them until it is,” Ryker said, a sneer curling his lip.

  Preacher wasn’t happy about fate putting him on the same side as a man like Ryker, at least for the time being, but there was nothing he could do about it.

  “Haul these carcasses back away from the wagons,” he said. “Wouldn’t want anybody trippin’ on a body durin’ a fight.”

  Ryker looked like he wanted to make some comment, probably about Preacher issuing orders that way, but he didn’t. He just nodded curtly and turned away to appoint men to that grim task.

  Preacher walked back to the rocks where Pidge and another man were keeping an eye out for the crimson-daubed renegades who had attacked Preacher and Hawk earlier. “Any sign of trouble?” he asked Pidge.

  The wounded giant shook his head. “No, but it sure was hard stayin’ back here while all that fightin’ was goin’ on. There’s hardly ever a fight that I ain’t right in the middle of.”

  “You’re doin’ the job I asked you to do,” Preacher assured him. “And it’s a mighty important one. I don’t want us to have to tangle with those other Injuns unless we have to.”

  Pidge nodded and said, “We won’t let ’em sneak up on you. I give you my word on that, Preacher.”

  Pidge looked on him now with almost the same sort of doglike devotion that he afforded to Hoyt Ryker, Preacher noted. That probably had something to do with Preacher being the one who had cut those arrows out of him. Pidge might not be very smart, but it could have soaked in on his brain that without Preacher, he likely would have died.

  Preacher clapped a hand on the shoulder of the big man’s uninjured arm and nodded. “We all appreciate that, Pidge. Keep up the good work.”

  As he had been talking to the others in the aftermath of the battle, he’d heard an occasional shot and figured Hawk and Bishop were picking off some of the Sioux who continued trying to make a run for it out the other end of the passage. Now as he turned back to the wagons, three shots blasted out in quick succession. The two sentries on the towers had turned back a bigger push for freedom.

  “Throw some lead into that gap!” Preacher called. “We want to keep ’em hunkered down.”

  Gunshots pounded the ears and powder smoke stung the eyes and noses of the men as they followed Preacher’s order and opened fire. They couldn’t see the Sioux, who had withdrawn deeply into the shadowed gorge, so they were shooting blind. Still, in those circumstances some of their shots had to find a target.

  Finally, Preacher shouted for them to hold their fire. Not much wind made it into this enclosed bowl, which was why the heat had been growing oppressive, so it took a while for the clouds of powder smoke to dissipate. When they did, Preacher peered into the shadows inside the gap and wished he could tell what was going on in there.

  If the Sioux ever stopped to think about it for very long, they would realize the men on the rock spires couldn’t reload fast enough to stop them from breaking out that way. Preacher was counting on their bloodlust to keep them focused on the defenders inside the canyon until they had suffered enough to give up. If they retreated now, they might regroup and decide to take up the chase again. The next time, the expedition might be out in the open and not have a chance to fort up like this.

  Suddenly, Preacher rested a hand on a wagon and leaned forward as he listened intently. A sound drifted faintly to his ears from the gap. A sound he had heard before . . .

  “What in the world is that?” Edgar Merton asked. He had heard it, too. “It sounds like some of them are . . . chanting.”

  “That’s what they consider singin’,” Preacher said, “and every song has a reason for it. That one there ”—he nodded toward the gap—“that one’s a death song.”

  “My God,” Merton breathed. “Whose death, theirs or ours?”

  Preacher shook his head. “Right now, I don’t reckon it really matters much to them.”

  * * *

  After hearing the song from the gap, Preacher knew that another attack was inevitable, and it probably wouldn’t be very long in coming. If any of the medicine men who had ridden along with the war party were still alive, they would be in there egging on the others, telling them that their medicine was strong and that the spirits would protect them as they punished the white invaders for daring to venture into land the spirits had given to the People. That was the way nearly every tribe thought of itself: only they were the True People. Anyone else was somehow inferior.

  Preacher’s hunch was right. Not much time had passed before shrill whoops rang through the afternoon air and the Sioux charged out of the gap again. Their strategy was different with this attack. The first dozen riders were armed with muskets, and they fired more or less simultaneously. Most of the shots went high, but some of them slammed into the wagons. None of them struck any of the defenders.

  But that hadn’t been the point, Preacher realized a second later. That thunderous volley had been enough to make the members of the expedition duck lower. That took their eyes off the charge for a moment. During that time, the Indians armed with muskets had peeled to the sides to let men with bows and arrows dash past them. Those archers loosed their shafts, and again the defenders had to crouch lower as arrows whistled around them and thudded into the wagons’ sideboards.

  This time when the archers split, as the warriors with muskets had done before them, the next rank of attackers was close enough that a few lunging strides from their ponies would allow them to reach the wagons.

  “Fire!” Preacher yelled.

  The defenders did, but the shots were rushed because the Sioux were almost on
top of them. At that range, some of the rifle balls had to find their targets and blow warriors off their ponies, but half a dozen attackers got through and made it to the wagons. They leaped off their mounts and engaged the defenders in hand-to-hand combat, which tied them up and allowed more warriors to gallop in and join the battle.

  Preacher knew they were on the verge of being overrun, and if that happened it would lead to an inevitable slaughter. He was everywhere seemingly at once, dashing here and there, firing his pistols at point-blank range, hammering at skulls with the empty weapons, then dropping them and filling his hands with tomahawk and knife. The blade licked out and sunk in flesh again and again, while the tomahawk shattered bone and sent enemies flying. Blood sprayed in the air until it was like a crimson rain around Preacher. The sleeves of his buckskin shirt were smeared with gore to the elbows.

  He fought with such a frenzy that he almost single-handedly broke the back of the Sioux assault. The Blackfeet had learned to fear the mountain man as an almost supernatural force, and now the Sioux were learning the same grim lesson. Preacher was everywhere at once, and death rode on his shoulder.

  With a bellow like that of an angry grizzly, a figure almost as big as a grizzly appeared beside Preacher. Pidge didn’t even seem to feel the wounds in his arm and leg as he grabbed one of the Sioux, raised the warrior over his head, and threw the man into several other Indians, scattering them like ninepins. Bounding forward amidst the chaos he had created, Pidge struck right and left, his mallet-like fists hammering into flesh and bone. He picked up one of the senseless warriors, spun around, and flung the man into the side of a wagon with bone-shattering force.

  Preacher and Pidge were both like forces of nature, spreading devastation through the attackers, and abruptly, the Sioux had had enough of it. Those of them on foot broke and ran. Some of them were picked up by their friends who were still mounted. Preacher shouted, “Reload!” Shots began to ring out, hurrying along the fleeing Indians and knocking a few of them off their feet.

  Preacher stood there, splattered with blood from head to toe, and watched the retreat. He knew what a near thing the battle had been. They had all been within a whisker of dying.

  The Sioux dead were heaped high. He hoped that would be enough to convince the survivors to leave and never come back. More than likely, they could wipe out the white men if they kept attacking—but it would cost the lives of nearly all of them in the process. Would victory be worth that price?

  There would always be more white men coming along to kill. The Sioux had to have figured that out by now.

  Preacher shoved his bleak thoughts aside and looked around. Among the welter of Sioux bodies lay two of Ryker’s men, obviously dead. All the other defenders still appeared to be on their feet, although most of them were banged up and bloody from what looked like minor wounds.

  He turned and stiffened as he saw both Edgar and Oliver Merton lying facedown on the ground. Preacher sprang to Oliver’s side and knelt there, setting his weapons aside to grasp the young man’s shoulders and roll him onto his back.

  Oliver was alive, Preacher saw immediately. His chest rose and fell. But he was unconscious, and a bloody gash on the side of his head where he’d been hit showed the reason why. Other than that, he didn’t appear to be injured.

  Hoyt Ryker had noticed that the Mertons were down, too. He ran over to Edgar Merton and said, “Damn it, he can’t be dead! If he is, we’ll never know what we came out here after!”

  Preacher was worried about more than that. He went around to Merton’s other side and turned the older man onto his back, as he had with Oliver. Merton had the same sort of wound on his head where he had been knocked out. He was still breathing, too.

  That left just one person unaccounted for, and as Preacher hurried to the back of the covered wagon and yanked aside the canvas flap that covered the opening, he had a pretty strong hunch what he was going to find.

  Chessie was gone.

  Preacher’s keen eyes searched the inside of the wagon for blood. He didn’t spot any, or any other signs of violence, but that didn’t really relieve his mind. Something had happened to Chessie, and under the circumstances, he didn’t see any way it could be anything good.

  He ran over to Pidge and caught hold of the big man’s uninjured arm. “You were supposed to stand guard back there behind us,” he said.

  “I know, Preacher.” Pidge hung his head. “I’m sorry. I just never have been able to stay out of a ruckus for very long. I can’t help myself. If there’s a fight, I got to be in the middle of it.”

  “What about the fella with you?”

  “Clark? He said he’d stay there.”

  Preacher bit back a curse as he ran deeper into the canyon to the cluster of boulders where he had left Pidge and the other man. He stopped short at the sight of a pair of legs protruding limply from behind a rock. Another couple of steps revealed Clark lying there, the upper half of his body bearing so many wounds it looked like someone had tried to hack him to pieces. They’d come close to doing it, too.

  Preacher looked up at the canyon walls, heaved a sigh, and then went back to the wagons. When he got there, he found Oliver and Edgar Merton sitting up, leaning against the vehicle’s wheels. Both men looked sick and dazed, but Oliver had recovered his wits enough to look up and ask with a note of hysteria in his voice, “Where’s Chessie?”

  Preacher spotted something on the wagon’s tailgate he hadn’t seen before. He reached over and wiped his finger across it. A smear of fine red powder was visible on his fingertip.

  “Chessie’s gone,” he said, “and the outcasts have got her.”

  CHAPTER 18

  Another burst of gunfire from the direction of the rock spires made Preacher turn his head toward the sound. Whoops echoed back through the gap. He knew the Sioux were trying to break out the other end. They might be determined enough to make it this time. If so, good riddance to them. Preacher had other things to worry about at the moment.

  One of them was Oliver Merton, who had clambered to his feet. He wasn’t too steady yet, but he managed to reach out and grab the front of Preacher’s buckskin shirt with both hands.

  “Gone!” he said. “What do you mean, she’s gone? And who are these outcasts?”

  “You’re still a mite dizzy from that wallop on the head,” Preacher said coldly. “You best sit down again.”

  Oliver glared at him for a second, then let go of his shirt and braced himself on the wagon wheel instead.

  “I’m all right,” he insisted. “I just want to know what happened to Chessie.”

  Preacher asked a question of his own. “What do you remember about what happened durin’ the battle?”

  “I . . . Nothing . . . I mean, I remember shooting at the Indians . . . and it was loud and . . . frightening. But then . . .” Oliver frowned. “Something made me glance around. I had a feeling that must be what people are talking about when they say it feels like someone is walking on their grave. Like death is so near.” His pallor grew even deeper. “I looked over and just caught a glimpse of . . . something. For a split second I thought it was some sort of animal, but then I realized it was . . . human . . . and something hit me.” Oliver shook his head and then winced at the movement. “That’s all I remember.”

  “That’s more than I recall,” Edgar Merton said. “I was shooting at the Indians, and then I was waking up a few minutes ago. Nothing in between.”

  “What was that creature?” Oliver asked. “Was it really . . . a man?”

  “Used to be, anyway,” Preacher said. He realized no one had said anything to either of the Mertons about the outcasts. “There’s a band of Injuns that’s moved in here since the last time I’ve been through these parts. They ain’t all from the same tribe. In fact, they probably hate each other. The only folks they hate more . . . are everybody else. They’ve been forced out of their own tribes, so they’ve made their own.”

  “Forced out?” Merton repeated. “Why?”

>   “Because they’re too evil and twisted for the rest of the tribe to put up with.”

  Oliver’s eyes widened with horror. “Good Lord!” he gasped. “And these . . . these creatures have Chessie?”

  “Everything says they do. Some of ’em slipped up here while the fightin’ was goin’ on, walloped you and your pa, and grabbed Chessie. With all the commotion, she could’ve screamed without anybody hearin’ her.”

  Pidge, Ryker, and the other men had gathered around to listen, and now Pidge let out a wail of dismay.

  “I was supposed to be watchin’ for those red fellas,” he said. “It’s my fault they got Miss Chessie!”

  Oliver turned hotly to Pidge and said, “You let this happen, you mindless brute—”

  “Take it easy,” Ryker snapped. “Pidge didn’t mean to not do his job. He just gets distracted easy, like a little kid.”

  Pidge covered his face with his massive hands and breathed raggedly, shaking as if he was sobbing.

  “This ain’t doin’ any of us any good,” Preacher said. “We’ll go after those bastards who took Chessie, find ’em, and get her back—”

  “Somebody’s coming!” one of Ryker’s men called excitedly.

  Preacher turned to look and saw that Hawk had emerged from the gap and was trotting toward them, carrying his rifle.

  Hawk didn’t appear to be injured at all, Preacher noted. He wasn’t surprised. The top of one of those spires was just about the safest place around here today. He stepped over a wagon tongue and strode out to meet his son.

  “The Sioux are gone,” Hawk reported without preamble. “Bishop and I could not hold them, and after the sounds of battle we heard coming from in here, we thought it might not be necessary to do so any longer.”

  “Yeah, let ’em run,” Preacher said. He leaned his head toward the heaps of corpses. “We hurt ’em plenty bad. Chances are they’ll head for home and spend a good long time lickin’ their wounds.”

  “Bishop stayed on the other spire to watch them and make sure they do not double back. If they do, he will fire a warning shot. But by the time I had climbed down, they were out of sight, although I could still see their dust.” A grim smile touched Hawk’s lips for a second. “It was fading.”