Preacher's Kill

by William W. Johnstone

  Preacher pulled himself forward and vaulted over the seat back onto the driver’s box next to Hawk. “How are you, son?” he called over the noise.

  “How are you?” Hawk repeated. “In the middle of all this chaos, this is what you ask?”

  “Well, I want to know,” Preacher replied with a grin. “You hurt?”

  “No! I am fine! But why did you not kill the driver on the lead wagon?”

  “Because it was Pidge, and he’s decided that he’s on our side. Besides, he turned on Ryker and took off too fast for me to do much about it. We’ll just have to change our plan to suit the way things are now.”

  “This is mad! We should make a stand against Ryker and the other three.”

  “You’re probably right,” Preacher admitted, “but there’ll be a lot of pistol and rifle balls flyin’ around if we do that, and I ain’t sure Oliver and Chessie can stay outta the way of all of them!”

  Hawk didn’t say anything to that, which was good because he needed to concentrate on his driving, not arguing. Preacher looked down and saw a rifle lying on the floorboard at their feet. It must have belonged to the man who had been driving the wagon—who was no doubt lying dead back there in the cut where Hawk had jumped him.

  Preacher had powder and shot. He reached down, grabbed the rifle, and took a look at it. Already loaded and ready to fire, he saw. He turned and climbed back over the seat into the wagon bed, then knelt next to a crate of supplies. He aimed the rifle behind them and looped his thumb over the hammer to draw it back.

  As soon as the four riders topped a swell and came into view again, Preacher pulled the trigger.

  The rifle boomed. Through the cloud of smoke that came from the muzzle, Preacher couldn’t see the men on horseback, and by the time the smoke cleared, they were gone, having dipped back down into another swale. He began reloading.

  The range had been long, and a bouncing wagon was no place from which to be shooting. Any hit would be almost pure luck, and Preacher knew it. He wasn’t counting on hitting any of the pursuers, though. He just wanted to make them aware that they were risking their necks by coming any closer to the fleeing wagons.

  Preacher finished reloading and cocked the rifle again. He considered resting the barrel on some of the supplies, but his grip was steadier than that would have been.

  The riders popped back up. Preacher pressed the trigger as soon as he saw their hats, aiming a little high and giving the ball time to travel before the targets were fully revealed.

  This time the four men stayed in sight longer . . . long enough for Preacher to see one of them fling his arms out to the side and go over backward off his horse.

  “Got one of the sons o’ bitches!” the mountain man exclaimed.

  He grinned as he saw the others slow down and veer away. The wagon went over the crest of a rise and he couldn’t see them anymore, but that last glimpse had been enough to tell him that they weren’t as interested in giving chase anymore.

  He hoped the man he had shot out of the saddle was Hoyt Ryker. It would have been more satisfying to kill Ryker up close, but he would take that varmint being dead any way he could get it.

  Hawk kept the wagon moving at a fast clip. Up ahead on the second wagon, Oliver had finally managed to retrieve the reins, but he wasn’t doing much good at controlling the mules. Luckily, they continued to run the same way the other teams were going, as did the loose horse. Chessie still rode beside the lead wagon, Preacher saw when he glanced over his shoulder.

  Most of his attention was focused behind them, though. He reloaded while waiting for the riders to show up again. When they didn’t, he called to Hawk, “Looks like they gave up—for now!”

  “You believe they will come after us?” Hawk asked.

  “Depends on whether or not Ryker’s still alive. If he is, he’s crazy-mad enough to keep comin’. If he ain’t, the others might decide to cut their losses the way the Sioux and the outcasts did. Right now, though, we need to keep movin’ and put as much ground between us and them as we can.”

  CHAPTER 36

  The mules weren’t tireless and couldn’t keep running forever. Preacher let them continue at the same pace for another mile, then whooped and hollered until he got Oliver’s attention and prompted the young man to look around. Preacher motioned for him to slow down.

  Oliver shouted at Pidge to do likewise, and gradually all three vehicles slowed and finally came to a halt. Chessie had reined in as well. The loose horse stopped, too, its sides heaving and wet with sweat from the hard run. The same was true of all the other animals.

  “Keep an eye out,” Preacher told Hawk. Loaded rifle in hand, he jumped down and strode toward the lead wagon. Pidge was climbing down from the box when he got there. Preacher didn’t exactly aim the rifle at the big man, but he kept it pointed in Pidge’s general direction.

  Pidge didn’t miss that. He said, “You won’t need that rifle, Preacher. I’ve cast my lot with you folks.”

  “Thing is, I still need convincin’ that you’d do that.”

  Before Pidge could say anything else, Oliver hurried up to the wagon. “Is my father in there?” he asked.

  “Oliver?” Merton called weakly from inside the vehicle. “Oliver, is that you?”

  Oliver grabbed the tailgate, pulled himself up and over it. He said, “Thank God!” in a choked voice as he caught sight of his father in the bunk.

  While that reunion was going on, Pidge nodded toward the wagon and said, “That’s why, along with what I told you earlier. Mr. Merton treated me decent, and he’s an old man. Hoyt shouldn’t oughta beat on him like that.” The giant scowled at the ground. “Reminded me too much of how folks used to beat on me when I was a younker, ’fore I got too big for ’em to do that. Hoyt used to treat me decent, too. He never called me dumb, like most folks. But when I saw what he done to Mr. Merton, I knew he only treated me nice ’cause he was scared of me. He might’ve done things like that to me, too, if he figured he could get away with it.”

  “I expect you’re right about that.” Preacher tucked the rifle under his arm so that the barrel pointed at the ground now.

  Chessie dismounted and came over to Preacher. “Are Oliver and Hawk all right?” she asked.

  The mountain man nodded. “They’re fine, as far as I know. Oliver’s in there sayin’ howdy to his pa.”

  “I know. I don’t want to disturb them. Oliver’s been so worried about his father . . .”

  “Preacher!”

  The cry came from inside the wagon. Preacher stepped on the front wheel on this side of the vehicle and climbed to the box. He leaned into the opening and said, “What is it, Oliver?”

  “My father! He . . . he was talking to me, and then . . . he passed out! I can’t tell if he’s breathing!”

  Preacher set the rifle on the seat and swung into the wagon bed. He dropped to a knee beside the bunk and rested a hand on Edgar Merton’s chest. The older man’s face was haggard and almost as pale as the white rag tied around his head as a makeshift bandage.

  “He’s breathin’,” Preacher told Oliver after a few seconds. “You say he was talkin’ to you when he passed out?”

  “That’s right. He seemed coherent enough—”

  “Chances are, all the excitement was just too much for him. Just let him rest. He’s hurt pretty bad, though, Oliver. I reckon you know that.”

  “Are you saying he’s going to die?” Oliver asked as he glared at Preacher.

  “Nope. That ain’t for me to say. I’m no sawbones. But if he’s gonna have a chance, we need to get somewhere we can fort up and he can get some real rest.”

  Preacher’s calm words seemed to steady Oliver. The young man nodded and said, “You’re right. As long as any of those bastards are still alive, there’s a chance they’ll come after us.”

  “If Ryker’s still drawin’ breath, I can guaran-damn-tee it.”

  “So where should we go?”

  “The place we’ve been headin’ for all alo
ng,” Preacher said.

  * * *

  Preacher and Hawk stood guard while the mules and horses rested. Oliver and Chessie sat on the lowered tailgate of one of the supply wagons and talked quietly. Pidge volunteered to sit inside the covered wagon and keep an eye on Edgar Merton, in case the older man woke up and wanted anything.

  “We are too out in the open here,” Hawk said, scowling, as he and Preacher intently scanned the surrounding landscape in all directions. “There is little cover.”

  “I know that, but we won’t be stayin’ here long,” Preacher said. “Just long enough for the animals to recover a mite from that run. Then we’ll push on and try to make it to Owayásuta by the end of the day. If we can, Ryker’ll have a hard time rootin’ us out of there.” The mountain man paused. “And then maybe we can find out what’s so all-fired important that Merton had to get back there after all this time.”

  Hawk shrugged, never taking his keen eyes off the landscape as he searched for any sign of danger. “If you killed one of the men following us, the odds are even now. Actually, they are in our favor if you count Pidge and Chessie.”

  “I believe Pidge is tellin’ the truth about throwin’ in with us. And I reckon you got to count Chessie, the way she’s done her part. Her and Oliver have both growed up a lot on this trip.”

  “Yes,” Hawk said quietly. “Despite the differences in their backgrounds, the two of them . . . fit well together.”

  Preacher heard the grudging acceptance in his son’s voice. Hawk knew that Oliver and Chessie were going to be together—if they both survived—and there was nothing he could do about it. He didn’t seem to be too upset about that realization, either.

  Edgar Merton still hadn’t regained consciousness when Preacher announced a while later that it was time for them to get moving again. Pidge, Oliver, and Hawk took the reins on the wagons while Preacher swung up into the saddle on the second horse. He wished he knew what had happened to his gray stallion, but for now he had to worry about saving the lives of his companions.

  He told Chessie, who was already mounted, “You’re gonna be scoutin’ for us while Dog and me bring up the rear and watch our back trail. Think you can handle that?”

  Chessie looked nervous but nodded without hesitation. “I can do it,” she said, “but I don’t really know where I’m going.”

  Preacher pointed to the pass that was visible in the distance. “Keep your eye on that,” he said. “Head toward it as straight as you can. You may have to veer off now and then on account of the terrain, but get back on course as soon as you can. Pidge, you follow Miss Chessie, hear?”

  “I will, Preacher,” the big man said. “You can count on me.”

  Preacher nodded and said, “I know that.” The mountain man’s confidence made Pidge beam.

  The group resumed the trek deeper into the Black Hills. Preacher was a little worried about the way Edgar Merton still hadn’t regained consciousness after passing out. As the day went on, Merton remained unresponsive and barely breathing, which made Preacher wonder if he was going to slip away over the divide without ever waking up again. That would be hard on Oliver, but although the circumstances always varied, that final journey was something everyone had to face sooner or later, first with their loved ones and then for themselves . . .

  The longer they traveled without any sign of pursuit, the more hopeful Preacher was that his rifle shot had killed Ryker and the other men had abandoned the chase and turned back. He wasn’t ready to believe that just yet, but he could sure as hell hope. The miles fell behind them, and in the middle of the afternoon they began the long climb to the pass. Their progress slowed to a crawl because the mules were already tired and the slope was steep. Preacher didn’t want night to catch them still climbing. It would be better if they could at least reach the pass before having to stop.

  He had reined in and turned his mount to look back down the wooded slope at where they had come from, with Dog standing and panting beside him, when a tiny flicker of movement caught his eye. Preacher squinted. Could have been a bird flitting from branch to branch, he told himself, or some other small animal moving around, but then the lowering sun glinted off something for the briefest of seconds before the reflection was gone.

  That was enough.

  “Damn it,” Preacher said, quiet but heartfelt. Beside him, Dog growled. The mountain man glanced at the big cur. “They’re too far away for you to smell ’em, but I reckon you can sense ’em anyway. We got skunks on our trail . . . the two-legged kind.”

  He turned and rode until he caught up with the third wagon. “They’re still back there,” he told Hawk. “More than a mile behind us, but they’ll make that up pretty quick, as slow as we’re havin’ to travel now.”

  “Should we stop and fight them?”

  Preacher peered up the slope and frowned in thought. After a moment, he shook his head.

  “No, we’ll keep goin’. This ain’t the place to make a stand. If we can get over the pass and into the valley, that’ll be better.”

  Hawk nodded and slapped the reins against the team. The tired mules continued plodding up the hill.

  Preacher rode on ahead to give the news of the pursuit to Oliver and Pidge, both of whom accepted it with grim-faced nods. Deep down, they hadn’t really expected anything else. Then Preacher dropped back again to make sure they weren’t taken by surprise.

  The shadows cast by the trees were long by the time Chessie galloped back to announce excitedly, “The pass is just ahead. We’re almost there.” She waved at Preacher, who returned the wave and motioned the wagons on.

  The sun had dipped below the peaks to the west when the wagons pulled into the pass. Huge, boulder-strewn, misshapen ridges rose on either side, but the trail between them was level and grassy. It dropped almost immediately into the valley beyond, which was already dark and gloomy at this time of day. Preacher called for the wagons to halt and loped his mount up beside them.

  He looked to the west and saw the dark mouths of the two gulches where the creeks emerged to flow together into one stream meandering eastward through the valley. This was Owayásuta, the place of confirmation.

  The trail down was steep, but not as bad as the one ascending to the pass. The valley was narrow and heavily wooded. If they were able to ford the creek, they could find a place that backed up to the almost-perpendicular slope on the other side, fell some trees with the axes that were in the supply wagons, and literally fort up behind a log breastwork. From there they would be able to command a field of fire both ways along the creek so their pursuers wouldn’t be able to flank them but instead would have to come at them from the front. They could fill their water barrels from the creek, but food might be a problem if Ryker decided to lay siege to them.

  Preacher ran all that through his mind, then said, “It’ll be dark soon, but we need to keep movin’. We’ll have to risk travelin’ when we can’t see very good. Chessie, you stay with the wagons now. I’ll go on ahead. Pidge, you keep your eye right on me.”

  “I sure will, Preacher,” the big man said.

  If Preacher had been mounted on Horse, he wouldn’t have worried about the big stallion being able to pick the best path down into the valley. He didn’t have that sort of trust in the animal he was riding, although so far it seemed to be a good mount. As the shadows thickened, the mountain man relied on his keen eyesight and instincts to find a trail the wagons could handle.

  Night had fallen by the time the group reached the valley floor and the creek that ran through it. The wagons came to a halt while Preacher explored the stream in search of a place they could ford. Several times he put the horse into the water, only to turn back when it became too deep. Finally, he located a spot where the creek was shallow enough, and the bed rocky enough, that the wagons could cross without either floating away or bogging down.

  Preacher waited until the wagons were across, then dismounted and went scouting on foot for a place they would be able to defend. While he was
gone, Oliver and Pidge would fill the water barrels while Hawk and Dog stood guard. Preacher believed they still had a little time before the pursuers could catch up, but it never hurt to take precautions.

  It didn’t take him long to come across a steep bluff that was too sheer and featureless for anyone to climb down it, so no one could attack them from behind. Two rocky promontories shouldered out from it, with a space about forty feet wide between them. Preacher went back to the others, led the wagons there, and pointed to some nearby trees.

  “We’ll have to fell those by starlight and build a wall with logs across that opening. Once we do that, it’ll be hard for anybody to get to us, especially once the sun comes up. Pidge, fetch some axes from the wagons, and we’ll start choppin’.”

  “I can do that, Preacher,” the giant said. “I been choppin’ down trees my whole life. You and Mr. Oliver and Mr. Hawk can get some rest. I don’t need none.”

  “We’ll all pitch in,” Preacher said. “How many axes are there?”

  “Three, I reckon.”

  “Then we can switch back and forth, and one man will always be restin’.”

  Pidge thought about that, then his massive shoulders went up and down in a shrug. “I guess that would be all right,” he said.

  Soon the night rang with the sound of ax blades biting deep into tree trunks. Once the trees were felled and the larger branches trimmed off, Pidge dragged them into place and arranged them to form a crude wall. He seemed as tireless as a steam engine, and he handled the heavy logs like they were child’s toys.

  As the moon rose, Preacher studied what they were doing and decided that while the fortification wouldn’t hold off an army, or even a large group of determined men, it ought to be enough to stop three or four men, however many were left.

  While Preacher and the others were working, Chessie watched over Edgar Merton. They built the log wall eight feet tall, with the gaps where the trunks were pieced together serving as natural loopholes for their rifles. It was well after midnight now, Preacher judged. In a few more hours the eastern sky would begin to turn gray with the approach of dawn.