“You take white man’s goods to the land of the Mexicans?” Lame Buffalo asked.
He knew good and well that’s what they were doing, Preacher thought. Lame Buffalo had probably seen dozens of freight caravans bound for Santa Fe. He might well have looted some of them.
But Preacher just said, “That’s right. We carry only trade goods. No guns.” The Comanches would be more likely to attack the caravan if they thought they might get their hands on some weapons. A few of the band carried flintlocks, but most were armed with bows and arrows or lances.
Preacher doubted Lame Buffalo would take his word, and sure enough, the leader said curtly, “Show me.”
Preacher nodded. “Come with me.”
Turning his back on the Comanches wasn’t easy, but he did it and acted unconcerned as he rode toward the wagons with Lame Buffalo following him. Preacher saw the nervous faces watching them and made a motion with his hand, hoping they would understand he was telling them to stay calm. He smiled at Casey, Lorenzo, Bartlett, and Roland, who sat together on their horses next to the first wagon.
“This is Lame Buffalo,” he told them in English. “He’s gonna take a look at the goods we’re carryin’.”
“Are you going to offer to pay him to let us pass?” Bartlett asked.
“That’s the idea. Be even better if he sees somethin’ that strikes his fancy and suggests that we bargain with him.”
Preacher glanced at the Comanche. Lame Buffalo’s face was still stonily impassive. He gave no sign that he had understood any of the exchange between Preacher and Bartlett.
Preacher spoke to the bullwhacker in charge of the first wagon’s team of oxen, a man named Fawcett. “Pull that canvas back, would you, Cliff?”
Fawcett went to the rear of the wagon and untied the canvas flaps. He threw them open so Lame Buffalo could look into the wagon. The Comanche leaned forward on his pony and frowned as he peered into the vehicle at the crates and barrels stacked in its bed.
“Hold on a minute,” Preacher told him. He dismounted and climbed into the wagon. He pulled his knife from its sheath and used the blade to pry the top off a barrel of sugar. Scooping up a handful of the stuff, he held it out to Lame Buffalo. “Try this.”
The Comanche frowned. His eyes narrowed in suspicion. But he couldn’t resist the temption. He reached out and took a pinch of the sugar from Preacher’s hand.
Preacher pinched some of it between the fingers of his other hand and lifted it to his mouth. He tasted the sugar and licked his lips to show Lame Buffalo how good it was. Still looking wary, Lame Buffalo tried it as well.
The warrior kept his face carefully impassive, but Preacher saw the pleasure that lit up Lame Buffalo’s eyes for a second. He held out his hand for more of the sugar, and Preacher dumped the whole handful in his palm.
Lame Buffalo turned his pony and kicked it into a run toward the rest of the warriors who blocked the trail. He shared the sugar with them. Preacher heard them laughing.
“What’re you doin’, Preacher?” the bullwhacker asked.
“You’ve heard about catchin’ flies with honey, Cliff?” When the man nodded, Preacher went on, “Well, I’m tryin’ to catch some Comanch’ with sugar.”
Several of the warriors let out shrill yips and thrust their lances into the air. Lame Buffalo turned and rode back to join Preacher by the wagon. He pointed to the barrel and said, “We will take it all and not kill you.”
Preacher shook his head. “One bag.”
Lame Buffalo’s face darkened with anger.
“And a bolt of cloth, your choice,” Preacher added.
Lame Bear appeared to be considering the proposal. After a moment, he said, “Show me.”
That was the beginning of a long, tense negotiation that lasted over an hour. The Indians had them outnumbered two to one, and everybody in the wagon train knew it. Impending violence was thick in the air.
Lame Buffalo had to look in every wagon and decide what he wanted. Every time he made a demand, Preacher made a counteroffer. Finally, they reached an accord. In return for the sugar, the cloth, some salt, a couple women’s hats with bright-colored feathers, and a bag of nails—Preacher had no idea what the Comanches intended to do with those, but he had a brief moment of hesitation when he guessed it might have to do with torturing prisoners—the Comanches agreed not to kill them all and burn their wagons. It seemed like a fair enough deal to Preacher.
Lame Buffalo waved some of his men over to gather up the spoils. The warriors took the goods and galloped back to rejoin the others. Lame Buffalo said, “One more thing, and then you can pass.”
“What’s that?” Preacher asked. He suddenly had a very bad feeling.
Lame Buffalo nudged his horse over next to Casey’s and reached out to grab her arm. “The yellow-haired woman goes with me, too!” he shouted.
Casey let out a frightened cry. Preacher knew Lame Buffalo didn’t really mean it. The Comanche was just playing with them, in the sometimes cruel fashion of his people. Preacher opened his mouth to tell Lame Buffalo he couldn’t have her, figuring the man would demand one more piece of tribute since he had been denied his latest demand. It was one more way of establishing his dominance.
But Roland Bartlett didn’t know that, and Preacher didn’t have time to tell him. The young man yelled, “Take your hands off her, you filthy savage!”
Roland jerked his pistol from his belt, and despite Preacher’s warning shout, he whipped the gun up, cocking it as he did so, and pulled the trigger. Smoke plumed from the muzzle as the pistol boomed.
Lame Buffalo jerked to the side but managed to stay on his pony. Eyes wide with pain and shock, he looked down at his bare chest, where blood welled from the black-rimmed hole made by the pistol ball. He swayed for a second, then toppled from his mount.
The fragile truce that had existed a second earlier was blown to hell, just like Lame Buffalo.
CHAPTER 15
Preacher knew the rest of the Comanches would be startled by what had happened to Lame Buffalo, and it would be a second before they reacted. He used that second to cut down the odds a little more by yanking his rifle from its sheath and snapping it to his shoulder. He fired without aiming, letting instinct guide his shot, and one of the warriors in the trail let out a cry and pitched off his pony to fall in a limp heap.
“Everybody in the wagons!” Preacher bellowed. “In the wagons now!”
The sideboards of the vehicles would stop an arrow and would probably stop a bullet. The thick canvas covers over the wagon beds might stop one of the feathered missiles. They would be better off fighting from inside, rather than underneath.
Preacher slapped Horse on the rump. The stallion took off at a dead run, with Dog following him. Preacher knew he didn’t have to worry about the Comanches catching his trail partners. They were faster than the Indian ponies and wouldn’t let them get close enough to shoot them with arrows. They wouldn’t return to the wagons until Preacher summoned them.
Preacher reloaded the flintlock as the Comanches ki-yipped and charged the caravan. All around him was chaos as frightened men scrambled into the wagons looking for cover. From the corner of his eye he saw Roland Bartlett grab Casey and practically throw her into the lead wagon. Preacher wanted to kick the addle-brained boy six ways from Sunday for what he’d done, but it was too late for that. Survival came first.
One of the warriors charged, his lance leveled to pin Preacher to the wagon behind him. He finished priming the rifle, lifted it to his shoulder, centered the sight on the Indian’s chest, and pulled the trigger. The Comanche was only a few yards away, and he went flying backward off the pony as the ball from Preacher’s rifle smashed into his chest like a giant sledgehammer. The lance slipped from the fingers of an outflung hand and skittered across the ground at Preacher’s feet.
He snatched it up and thrust it into the side of another warrior who had gotten too close. The man screeched in pain as the lance’s sharp tip pierced his vitals. Even a
s he was dying, he swung his bow toward Preacher and tried to loose an arrow, but the mountain man knocked the bow aside with the barrel of his rifle.
Preacher slid under the wagon as arrows thudded into the sideboards and bounced off the wheels. He rolled all the way to the other side and came out with pistols in both hands. The weapons roared and spat flame and smoke, and two more of the Comanches went down.
“Preacher!” Lorenzo yelled from the rear of the wagon. “Preacher, get in here, you crazy fool!”
Lorenzo had a point. With his guns empty, Preacher was in a bad spot. But he wasn’t defenseless. As long as he drew breath, the man called Preacher wouldn’t be defenseless.
He jammed the guns behind his belt, ripped his knife from its sheath, and dodged the thrust of a lance. Grabbing the shaft of the Comanche weapon, he dragged its owner off his pony. As the man fell, Preacher thrust up with the knife to meet him. The blade went deep in the warrior’s body. Preacher pulled the knife loose and shoved the dying man away.
An arrow whipped past his ear. He turned and leaped for the wagon’s tailgate. Lorenzo waited there to grab him and pull him in. The old-timer caught Preacher’s wrist and hauled him through the opening.
Preacher sprawled on top of some crates. Lorenzo asked, “Are you all right?”
“Yeah!”
“We’re in one hell of a mess, ain’t we?”
“Reckon we’ll just have to fight our way out of it,” Preacher said.
Guns boomed all along the line of wagons. The defenders were outnumbered, but their firepower helped offset that disadvantage. Preacher reloaded his pistols, and winced as an arrowhead ripped through the canvas near his head. He saw several arrows sticking through the canvas whose shafts had not penetrated into the wagon.
Lorenzo took his rifle and clambered over the freight to the front of the wagon. His rifle blasted. “Got one of ’em,” he shouted.
Preacher leaned out through the opening at the rear and blew away two more Comanches. One of them had an old blunderbuss in his hands. The ancient weapon discharged as he fell, blowing a hole through the wagon’s canvas cover.
Preacher ducked back inside to reload again. “Did you see Roland throw Casey into the lead wagon?” he called over the roar of gunfire and the shrill cries of the Comanches.
“I ain’t sure, but I think so,” the old-timer replied. “That boy sure played hob, didn’t he?”
“We’ll talk about that later,” Preacher said. If we live through this, he added silently.
Screeching unnervingly, the face of one of the Indians suddenly appeared in the gap at the back of the wagon. The warrior thrust the lance in his hand at Preacher, who twisted aside, reversed one of the pistols, and smashed the butt into the center of the warrior’s face. Blood spurted and bone crunched under the impact. The Indian fell backward, either dead or out cold.
Coolly, Preacher went back to reloading. Just as he had the pistols ready to go again, Lorenzo let out an excited whoop.
“They’re leavin’!” he shouted triumphantly. “They’re givin’ up, Preacher.”
Preacher crowded up beside him to look out. The Comanches were galloping off, twisting around on their ponies to throw a few last arrows and derisive cries toward the wagons.
“Leavin’, maybe,” Preacher said with a grim note in his voice. “But givin’ up . . . I don’t think so.”
The caravan’s defenders had done quite a bit of damage to the Indians. A number of bodies were sprawled on the ground around the wagons. But even so, the Comanches still outnumbered their enemies. And they wouldn’t likely abandon their efforts to avenge Lame Buffalo’s death.
Preacher went to the back of the wagon, climbed over the tailgate, and dropped to the ground. He kept a close eye on the bodies as he hurried to the lead wagon. It was possible some of those warriors weren’t dead. They might regain consciousness and try to carry on the fight. It was even possible some of them were shamming, in hopes of luring the white men into the open. If any of the varmints tried to rear up and shoot an arrow into him, Preacher was going to be ready.
When he reached the lead wagon, he called, “Casey! You all right in there?”
She stuck her head out through the rear opening in the canvas cover. “Preacher, thank God! Are you hurt?”
He shook his head. “Nary a scratch so far.”
“I’m all right, too, and so is Roland.”
Preacher hadn’t asked about the youngster, but he supposed he was glad Roland wasn’t hurt. If not for his impulsive action, though, they might have gotten through the confrontation without any violence.
Lorenzo came up beside Preacher. “What do you need me to do?”
“Go up and down the wagons and find out how everybody’s doin’,” Preacher told him. “See if we’ve got any dead or injured. Wounded men will need to be patched up while the Comanch’ are off lickin’ their own wounds and figurin’ out what to do next.”
Leeman Bartlett had emerged from the wagon where he had taken cover. He joined the small group beside the lead wagon and suggested, “Perhaps we should make a run for it.”
“That might work if we were all on horseback,” Preacher said. “With a bunch of oxen pullin’ heavy wagons, there ain’t no way in hell we’re outrunnin’ anybody, let alone those Injun ponies.” Preacher looked around. “Let’s see if we can get the wagons pulled over to the side of the trail and form ’em into a circle.”
Roland jumped down from the lead wagon. “I’ll spread the word,” he volunteered.
Preacher nodded curtly. Roland had gotten them into that mess, so it was fitting he try to help get them out of it.
For a fleeting second, Preacher debated the wisdom of trying to call a parley with the Indians. If he offered to turn Roland over to them, they might agree to let the rest of the party go. He was the one who had killed Lame Buffalo and started the fight, after all.
But as quickly as the idea came into Preacher’s head, he discarded it. He couldn’t do that, and he knew it. For one thing, Casey would likely never forgive him for it, and for another, Lame Buffalo was partially responsible for what had happened, too. If he hadn’t been such an arrogant horse’s rear end and grabbed Casey like he did, Roland wouldn’t have had any reason to shoot him.
Still carrying his pistols, Preacher walked from body to body, checking to make sure they were dead. Eight of the Comanches were lying on the ground, including Lame Buffalo, and all of them had crossed the divide.
Whips popped and bullwhackers shouted curses as they got their teams moving again. The wagons lurched forward. Preacher kept an eye on the area where the Indians had disappeared, and tried to look in every direction at once. He didn’t think the respite would last very long.
Bartlett came up to Preacher. “Our horses are gone!”
“I ain’t surprised,” the mountain man said with a nod. “The Comanch’ grabbed ’em.”
“How do we get them back?”
“More than likely, you don’t. You’ll have to walk or ride the wagons. Maybe a few of ’em followed my stallion. I ran him off when the attack started. He’ll be back, and with some luck, he might have a couple of your saddle mounts with him.”
“This is terrible,” Bartlett complained. “Just terrible.”
“Talk to your son,” Preacher said. “He’s the one who got trigger-happy.”
Bartlett frowned. “But that savage grabbed Casey. He was going to drag her off with him.”
“No, he wasn’t,” Preacher said. “He just wanted to show what a big man he was. We would have offered him something else in trade instead of Casey, and that would have been the end of it.”
“You sound awfully certain of that.”
“I am. Seen it happen before. I would’ve handled it without anybody gettin’ hurt, but Roland didn’t give me a chance.”
“We don’t all know as much about life on the frontier as you do, Preacher.”
“That’s why you asked me to come along,” Preacher snapped. “
Let’s get those wagons pulled in a circle.”
He retrieved his rifle and reloaded it while keeping watch all around them. He didn’t expect the Comanches to allow them to circle the wagons in a defensive arrangement without attacking again, but to his surprise, that was what happened. The Indians were probably doing some considerable wrangling among themselves about what to do next. Either that, or one of their medicine men was trying to whip up some powerful medicine to protect them when they attacked.
As soon as the wagons were in position, the men began unhitching the teams and leading them into the center of the circle. While that was going on, Lorenzo came up to Preacher and reported, “Ain’t nobody on our side dead, but we got half a dozen wounded men.”
“Any of ’em hurt too bad to fight?” Preacher asked.
“Only one. Some of his friends loaded him in one of the wagons.”
Preacher nodded. “We’ll see if Casey can look after him. Tell Roland to stay with her.”
“That boy ain’t going very far away from her,” Lorenzo said with a snort.
“That’s good. I’m countin’ on him to keep her safe when those Comanch’ hit us again.”
“When’s that gonna be, you think?”
“Soon,” Preacher said grimly. “Any time now.”
As the minutes dragged past he came to the conclusion the Comanches were deliberately stringing it out. They wanted the men with the wagons to get nervous. When Preacher looked at the bullwhackers and listened to their worried, low-voiced conversations, he knew the tactic was working. Their nerves were quickly stretching to the breaking point.
Since the lull in the fighting continued, Preacher walked out several yards from the wagons and gave a piercing whistle. He repeated it a couple times before he saw Horse and Dog trotting toward him over the prairie. Two more of the saddle mounts trailed the stallion and the big cur. Preacher held his rifle ready for instant use as he watched the animals come in.
When he got them safely inside the circle of wagons, he found Leeman Bartlett and told him about the extra horses that had avoided capture.
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