“But don’t use it unless you have to,” Preacher added. “Sound carries a long way out here.”
The banks on the sides of the cut were twenty feet tall, which meant the three men would be ten or twelve feet above the drivers when the wagons rattled through.
“You’ll have to be careful timin’ your jumps,” Preacher went on to Hawk and Oliver. “If you miss it’s liable to ruin everything.”
“I will not miss,” Hawk said confidently.
“Ryker has six men left, not countin’ him. He’ll probably be in the lead with one of the other men, and that leaves two to bring up the rear. We can’t waste any time gettin’ rid of the men on the wagons, because it won’t take long for the rest of ’em to start shootin’ at us. At that point it’ll just be a matter of who’s the better shot.”
“I want to take the wagon that has my father in it,” Oliver said.
Preacher shook his head. “No, that one will be in the lead. I’ll take care of it and make sure it comes to a stop. Once it does, the other wagons can’t keep goin’, no matter whether you’ve dealt with the drivers or not. You’ll take the middle wagon, Oliver, and Hawk, it’ll be up to you to stop the third one.”
That was the safest position for Oliver, Preacher thought, but it would expose his own son, Hawk, to the fire of the men riding behind the wagons. As for himself, once Ryker and the other man realized the wagons were under attack, they would whirl their horses around and charge back, more than likely with guns blazing.
He and Hawk would just have to be ready for that, the mountain man thought.
Preacher looked at the sky, saw the sun dropping toward the peaks in the west. There was a good chance the expedition wouldn’t reach the ridge before darkness fell. Would Ryker stop and make camp again, or would he push on? Preacher thought it was unlikely Ryker would risk traveling at night. Even so, they had to be ready.
“We need to climb up onto those banks,” he told Oliver and Hawk once Chessie and the horses were safely hidden in the trees. “It may be a long night, but we can’t risk Ryker slippin’ past us. The ridge is too steep to take wagons over it, but we shouldn’t have any trouble gettin’ up there.”
“If I see or hear them coming,” Hawk said, “should I signal with the call of a night bird?”
“That’ll work. And I’ll do the same. Come on, Oliver.”
They parted ways, Preacher and Oliver heading for the ridge on the east side of the cut, Hawk on the west. Preacher could still see the young warrior as Hawk began to climb.
Oliver grunted and puffed some from the effort required to get to the top of the ridge, but he kept up fairly well. When they reached the top, he threw himself on the ground and lay there breathing heavily.
Preacher left the young man there and went to the other side of the ridge, which was topped with pines. The tree trunks provided plenty of cover as he stood there studying the landscape to the south.
As rough as the terrain was, he knew he might not be able to see the wagons and outriders until they were within half a mile of the ridge. That would give Preacher, Hawk, and Oliver time to get ready, but even more warning would be better.
After a while, Oliver came up behind him and asked, “Any sign of them?”
“Not yet,” Preacher said. “You catch your breath?”
“I did,” Oliver replied, sounding a little sheepish. “Sorry I got so winded. I guess I’m just not used to this rugged outdoor life yet.”
“Six months ago, would you ever have dreamed you could do any of the things you’ve done in the past couple of weeks?”
“Good Lord, no! When I stop to think about it, I can still barely believe it.”
“Folks are generally capable of a lot more than they think they are,” Preacher said. “They just got to have a good enough reason. Before, you were out to save Chessie, then me, and now your pa. You ain’t done any of it for yourself. I reckon that’s a pretty good sign.”
“I appreciate you saying that. I’ll . . . try to live up to it.”
Preacher lifted a hand and pointed. “Look yonder.”
Oliver squinted, then shook his head and said, “I don’t see anything.”
“See those two trees stickin’ up higher than the others around ’em?”
“Yes, I think so.”
“Look right between ’em.”
A note of excitement entered Oliver’s voice as he said, “There’s something moving on that slope rising behind them . . . Is that the wagons?”
“Yep. They’re still more than a mile from here. As late in the day as it is, Ryker will probably stop and make camp before he gets here.” Preacher did a birdcall, and when Hawk stepped out from the trees on the other side of the cut, Preacher pointed again. Hawk nodded to show that he understood and had already spotted the wagons himself. They all moved back into cover to watch for the approach of their enemies.
The sun had set but the western sky was still full of rosy light when the covered wagon came into view at the other side of the broad flat just south of the ridge. The two supply wagons followed it. All three vehicles stopped, and the men on horseback around them reined in. It looked like Ryker was going to make camp and wait until morning to venture through the cut, which was already cloaked in deep shadow. Things were playing out the way Preacher expected.
The three observers on the ridge watched as Ryker’s men unhitched the mules and built a fire. Oliver said quietly, “This is difficult, knowing my father is over there in that wagon, only half a mile away, injured and needing my help.”
“I know,” Preacher said, “but your best chance for helpin’ him is to wait until mornin’ and jump that bunch like we planned.”
Oliver nodded. “I understand that. But it’s hard waiting.”
“Bein’ able to wait when you need to will go a long way toward keepin’ you alive out here on the frontier.”
Oliver fell silent. Preacher didn’t think the youngster would be foolish enough to try anything on his own, but he figured he’d better keep a close eye on him anyway.
They still had some dried meat from the deer Hawk had brought down two days earlier. It was getting pretty tough and gamy by now but was better than nothing to gnaw on during the long night. Once Oliver was sound asleep, Preacher allowed himself to doze a little, knowing his sleep was light enough that he would wake up instantly if Oliver moved or if Ryker did the unexpected and started through the cut during the night.
Neither of those things happened. When Oliver woke the next morning, stretched, yawned, and climbed to his feet, the sun was already up and so was Preacher. The mountain man stood in the shadows under the trees, watching Ryker’s camp on the other side of the flats. He heard Oliver moving behind him and said without looking around, “I was just fixin’ to wake you. Looks like that bunch is gettin’ ready to break camp. They’ll be comin’ through here before too much longer. We’d best get ready.”
Oliver looked in the direction of the clearing where they had left the girl, the horses, and Dog. “I wish I knew that Chessie made it through the night all right,” he said.
“If there was any trouble, I reckon we would have known about it,” Preacher said. “She would have fired that pistol. Gal’s got a lot of grit. You’d probably do well to remember that if you’re thinkin’ about marryin’ her one of these days.”
“I never said that,” Oliver replied, looking a little uncomfortable.
“Well, maybe you ought to give it some thought. Now, come on.”
As they moved to the edge of the bank overlooking the cut, Preacher saw that Hawk was doing likewise on the other side. He pointed across the gap to the spot where Hawk should position himself, then did the same for Oliver. Both young men stretched out flat on the ground. As the wagons approached, the men with them wouldn’t be able to see anyone on top of the ridge.
Preacher took his place. They still had some waiting to do, since it would take a while for Ryker and his men to break camp and arrive at the cut. Preacher looke
d over at Oliver, some twenty feet away from him, and could tell that the young man was nervous, probably a mixture of worry for his father and the knowledge that soon they would be fighting for their lives again.
Preacher was calm and he had a hunch Hawk was, too. Life on the frontier taught many lessons, and one of the most important was to not fear death too much. There were so many ways the frontier could kill someone, from hostile enemies to savage animals to brutal weather, that worrying about all of them would soon drive a man mad. The key was to live as brave and honorable a life as possible, to prepare for danger without seeking it out recklessly, and to be ready to fight to the last breath. Any man who could do those things had no real reason to fear death, because he had done all he could and the rest was up to a higher power. That was the way Preacher looked at it, anyway.
A short time later, he heard hoofbeats thudding and wagon wheels creaking. The vehicles were approaching the cut. He drew his tomahawk and gripped it in his left hand. His right hand was wrapped around the butt of a charged, primed, and double-shotted pistol. He planned to use the tomahawk on the driver, then bring down at least one of the outriders with the pistol.
The noises from the wagons grew louder and began to echo. That told Preacher the lead wagon had entered the cut. It rumbled on. The sun was high enough in the sky now that the air was starting to grow warm. Preacher felt a trickle of sweat on the back of his neck where the rays were shining.
Hawk and Oliver wouldn’t make their moves until he made his. He knew they were watching him. He edged forward but not enough to look over the edge of the bank just yet. He continued to judge the wagons’ progress by sound.
Hoofbeats went past, a quicker, lighter rataplan from the two men on horseback leading the way. The slower, heavier thuds of the mules’ hooves hitting the ground came closer. Preacher risked a look. The team hitched to the lead wagon was passing just below him. Sitting on the driver’s seat, swaying back and forth a little, was the gigantic Pidge.
Preacher’s jaw tightened. Despite their initial clash back in St. Louis, Pidge had taken a liking to him after Preacher had patched up the wounds the giant had suffered in the battle with the Sioux. The mountain man hated to have to kill him now. But Pidge’s first loyalty was probably to Hoyt Ryker, and Preacher couldn’t allow himself to lose sight of the goal, which was to save Edgar Merton. At this point, there was nothing he could do except continue with the plan.
Those thoughts flashed through Preacher’s brain in the couple of seconds it took for the mule team to move on and the front of the wagon to draw even with him. Preacher couldn’t wait. Gripping the pistol and tomahawk, he came up on his knees, then surged to his feet and powered into a leap that carried him away from the bank and into the air as he dropped toward Pidge.
CHAPTER 35
The big man saw him coming and gaped up openmouthed at Preacher. Preacher’s boots struck Pidge on the left shoulder. It was almost like trying to budge a redwood tree, but the impact was enough to knock Pidge to the right on the driver’s seat. He slid off the seat and one knee went down to the floorboard.
“Preacher, wait!” Pidge bellowed in a voice like thunder as the tomahawk flashed up and started down.
No matter how long he lived, Preacher would never know for sure why he paused. Most times, when he launched a killing stroke nothing could hold it back.
But today, the tomahawk stopped before it fell all the way and split Pidge’s skull. Then Pidge surged back up, slashed the reins against the mules’ behinds, and roared at them. The team responded, bolting ahead against their harness. The wagon lurched heavily as it picked up speed, throwing Preacher back against the arched canvas cover.
A mad flurry of impressions followed. Pidge kept whipping and shouting at the mules. Preacher saw the two men on horseback ahead of them jerking their mounts to the side to avoid being knocked down and trampled. He caught a glimpse of Hoyt Ryker’s face with its long, curling mustache. Ryker looked shocked to see Preacher alive, but his features were also flushed with rage as he flung up a pistol and fired.
Preacher felt the ball rip through the air close to his ear. The way he was being thrown back and forth by the careening wagon, any kind of accuracy was impossible, for him as well as for Ryker, but he jerked his pistol toward the man and pulled the trigger anyway. The weapon boomed and bucked in his fist.
Then they were past Ryker and the other rider, and Preacher had no idea if his shot had found its target. A particularly hard jolt made him lose his balance. He tumbled backward into the wagon bed.
“Preacher!”
That thin cry came from Edgar Merton. He was still alive, and that came as a relief to Preacher. The mountain man rolled over, caught a glimpse of Merton propped up on one elbow in the bunk, and scrambled on hands and knees to the back of the wagon so he could peer out at the other vehicles.
The first supply wagon, which was in the middle of the little caravan, had come to a stop, halting the wagon behind it as well. Oliver stood on the driver’s box, struggling with the man who had been at the reins. As Preacher watched, unable to do anything, the man struck Oliver down and grabbed a pistol from behind his belt.
When a shot blasted, though, it came from the third wagon, where Hawk appeared to have taken care of his man. The pistol in the young warrior’s hand gushed flame and smoke, and the man about to kill Oliver was thrown backward by a heavy ball smashing into his chest. That sent him crashing down onto the backs of the team hitched to that wagon.
Mules didn’t spook easily, but the smell of powder smoke and blood, as well as the terrible racket from gunfire echoing in the cut, was enough to make these beasts stampede. They charged ahead, trampling the man who had fallen among their legs and making certain he was dead.
Oliver couldn’t do anything except pull himself up on the seat and hang on for dear life as the runaway team followed the lead wagon out of the cut.
Behind him, Hawk had grabbed the reins of the third wagon and begun whipping the team. He ducked low as pistol balls fired by the trailing riders whistled overhead. From where Preacher was, he couldn’t hear that, but he knew what was happening. So far, things hadn’t gone exactly as they had planned, but he, Hawk, and Oliver were still alive and they had the wagons and Edgar Merton.
Ryker and at least three more men were also still alive, though, and that meant they were a long way from out of trouble. Plus there was Chessie to consider. They couldn’t leave her behind to be captured by Ryker and his men, who were already giving chase.
Preacher went back to the front of the wagon, and as he knelt behind Pidge, he saw Chessie burst out from the trees where they had left her, riding one of the horses and leading the other. Dog raced along behind them.
Chessie must have been watching and seen what was happening. Preacher had to give her credit for realizing right away what she needed to do in order to salvage the situation. At the angle she was headed, she would intercept the wagons in another hundred yards.
Preacher drew his knife and leaned forward to say over the thunder of hoofbeats, “Pidge, does this mean you’re throwin’ in with us?”
Instead of answering the question directly, Pidge said, “Preacher, I was never so glad to see anybody in my life! I figured for sure you were dead!” He didn’t take his eyes off the mules and the ground in front of the racing wagon as he spoke.
“Well, I ain’t dead,” Preacher replied, “and I’d sure be obliged right now if you’d give me a reason to trust you!”
“Haven’t I already done that? Didn’t I just help you rescue Mr. Merton?” The giant frowned and shook his head. “Hoyt never should’ve hurt Mr. Merton like he did. That wasn’t right. There just weren’t no call for it.” Finally, Pidge glanced over his shoulder at Preacher. “And you tended to me when I was hurt. Maybe even saved my life.”
“I’m glad you didn’t make me hurt you, Pidge.” Preacher didn’t mention that things would have been simpler if he and his allies had been able to wipe out all of Ryk
er’s bunch, as they had planned. Pidge’s impulsive action had disrupted that and left living enemies behind them, so they weren’t by any means out of danger.
Even so, Preacher was glad he hadn’t stoved in the big fella’s head.
Chessie drew alongside them with the galloping horses. Preacher climbed over the seat and stood on the box, clinging to the framework supporting the canvas cover as he looked at her. Her eyes were big with fear, but she wasn’t panicking. She had the horse she was riding under control.
“You all right, girl?” Preacher called to her.
She nodded, then pointed behind them. “They’re coming after us!”
“I know! Ride on ahead just a little!”
She looked confused by that order, but she did what Preacher told her and urged her mount to a faster pace that brought her alongside the mules.
That made the horse she was leading gallop along beside the driver’s seat. Preacher leaned down and told Pidge, “Just keep headin’ north! Mr. Merton knows where we’re goin’!”
“Preacher, what are you gonna do?” Pidge asked.
“Try to buy us some time!”
With that, Preacher braced himself on the edge of the driver’s box, then leaped from it into the saddle of the riderless horse. A jump like that had to be timed perfectly, and even when it was, it was dangerous. Preacher landed square in the saddle, though, and found the stirrups while he was grabbing the reins. Chessie let go of them.
He hauled back on the reins, slowing the animal and turning it as the other two wagons rolled toward him. They were well out of the cut now, in a stretch of rolling ground dotted with clumps of aspen. As Preacher looked back toward the ridge, the terrain made Ryker and the other pursuers pop into view for a second, then disappear again, only to repeat that pattern a moment later.
Preacher waited until the wagon Oliver was driving rattled past him, then heeled the horse into motion again and rode alongside the vehicle with Hawk at the reins. He brought the lunging horse closer and closer until he was able to kick his feet out of the stirrups and dive again, this time from horseback onto a wagon. He landed on the supplies in the back.
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