Preacher pulled the knife out, lowered the corpse to the ground, and wiped the blood off the blade onto the man’s shirt. He took the pistol he found behind the guard’s belt, tucking it behind his own belt, but left the rifle.
Soundlessly, the mountain man moved around the outside of the circled wagons until he found another guard. That man died without any commotion as well, and Preacher commandeered another pistol. When it came time for a battle, his forces would be at least a little better armed than when they had started out.
Some of the thieves were sleeping under the wagons. Preacher found a vehicle where the ground underneath it was empty and crawled through the space into the circle. He lifted his head and studied the wagons as best he could. The moon was lower and the light wasn’t as good. After a moment, he spotted a man standing guard inside the circle, next to the tailgate of one of the wagons.
Preacher was willing to bet Casey was inside that wagon and the sentry was there to prevent her from getting away.
He could do something about that, Preacher thought, and was about to crawl over to the wagon and get started on it, when some instinct warned him. A second later, he heard a swift padding of feet, followed by a shrill cry and the explosion of a gun.
Preacher jerked to his feet as shadows leaped through the night, hurdling wagon tongues and charging into the circle as they yipped. His brain worked swiftly and he realized the wagons were under attack by Indians. He suspected they were Comanches, and the possibility suggested itself they might be the remnants of Lame Buffalo’s party, reinforced by more warriors from the same band!
Preacher didn’t really care who the Indians were. They would kill him just like they would kill every other white man with the wagons if they could.
And Casey, too, he thought as he sprinted toward the wagon where he thought she was. He had to take advantage of the distraction to get her out of there. He couldn’t afford to wait any longer.
The man guarding the wagon threw his rifle to his shoulder as a pair of the attacking Indians charged at him. The weapon boomed and sent one of the warriors flying backward, but the other one lunged forward and drove his lance into the guard’s body. The guard screamed as the sharp-tipped weapon tore all the way through him and emerged from his back to hit one of the sideboards of the wagon behind him. For a second the dying man was pinned there until the warrior yanked the lance free with a whoop.
He was turning away from the crumpling guard when Preacher reached him. The mountain man’s hands locked on the bloody shaft of the lance and wrenched it out of the warrior’s hands. Preacher brought it up in a flash and thrust the tip into the Indian’s throat. He felt it grate against the upper end of the man’s spine as blood gushed from the ripped-open throat.
Preacher shoved the dying warrior aside. “Casey!” he called as he leaped to the back of the wagon. “Casey, you in there?”
He heard a shocked gasp. Then a familiar voice cried, “Preacher! Preacher, is that you?”
He used his left hand to rip aside one of the canvas flaps while his right pulled a pistol from behind his belt. Gunshots were blasting all over the camp. He didn’t have to worry about being silent anymore.
An arrow whistled past his head. He turned to see where it had come from and spotted one of the warriors trying to fit another arrow onto his bowstring. Leveling the pistol, Preacher pulled the trigger and sent a ball slamming into the man’s body. The impact of the shot made the warrior drop his bow and arrow and spun him off his feet.
“Casey, come on!” Preacher said. “We gotta get out of here!”
“I can’t!” she said despairingly. “I’m tied up.”
Muttering a curse under his breath, Preacher clambered into the wagon. It was black as pitch in there, so he had to fumble around to find her, following her voice as she said, “Here! I’m here!”
He reached down, touched the fabric of her dress, and pulled his knife. Finding her ankles first and working carefully by feel so he wouldn’t cut her, he worked the blade under the ropes binding her and severed them with a hard tug on the razor-sharp blade.
Whether her hands were tied in front of her or behind her, he could deal with later, he decided. He sheathed the knife and put his arms around her, lifting her to her feet. Her wrists were bound in front of her, he discovered as she sagged against him.
“You all right?” he asked.
She nodded. He felt the movement of her head against his chest. “Yes, they didn’t hurt me . . . too bad.”
He wasn’t sure what she meant by that, but again, it could wait until later when they were safely away from the battle raging outside the wagon. Shots continued to fill the night, along with shouted curses and the shrill cries of the attacking Indians.
He led her to the back of the wagon. “I’m gonna put you on the ground,” he told her. “Get to the trail and run as hard as you can back the way we came from. Roland and some of the men are waitin’ back there a ways.”
Preacher heard the genuine concern in her voice as she asked, “Is he all right?”
“He caught a bullet in his leg, but he’ll be all right. I reckon he’ll be a lot better once he sees you again. Now go!”
He put his hands under her arms and swung her out of the wagon. She stumbled a little as her feet hit the ground.
“I’ll be right behind you!” he said, then leaped out of the vehicle.
Something crashed into him just as he landed. The collision was enough to knock him off his feet. A weight came down on top of him, and foul breath gusted in his face. He was reminded of wrestling with the bear, but it was no giant grizzly trying to kill him. His hands grabbed bare flesh slick with sweat and grease, and he knew he was fighting with one of the warriors.
Preacher’s eyes caught a glimpse of starlight winking on steel. He jerked his head aside. The knife skimmed past his cheek, leaving a scratch behind as it buried itself in the ground. Preacher brought an elbow up under the man’s chin, catching him hard in the throat. At the same time, Preacher rolled to the side and threw the warrior off him.
His hand snatched up the knife the man had dropped and brought it around in a looping blow that plunged the blade into the man’s chest. The warrior spasmed, his back arching up off the ground as he pawed at the knife’s handle for a second. Then he sagged back in death.
Preacher scrambled up and looked around for Casey. He didn’t see her, but he hadn’t heard her cry out while he was struggling with the Indian, so he hoped she had gotten away and was running back up the Santa Fe Trail toward Roland and the other men. He headed in that direction, but his way was suddenly blocked by a pair of warriors.
One of them thrust a lance at him. He dived under it, rolled again, and lifted his leg to smash his heel into the man’s groin in a savage kick. The Indian howled in pain as Preacher’s foot crushed his privates and sent him staggering backward as he doubled over in agony.
Preacher flung himself aside as the second man jabbed at him. He caught hold of the lance and used it to brace himself as he pulled himself upright. He and the warrior panted in each other’s faces as they struggled over the weapon.
Preacher’s left shoulder and arm hurt like blazes. The pain stole some of Preacher’s usual strength in that arm, and he felt his grip on the lance start to slip.
Knowing he couldn’t afford to weaken any more, Preacher used his legs to shove his opponent backward, then let go of the lance. The move gave him just enough time to pull one of the loaded pistols at his belt and cock it before the Indian caught his balance and lunged forward again with the lance. The tip landed in the space between Preacher’s arm and his side. He fired the pistol at point-blank range as he thrust the muzzle at the warrior’s chest. The shot blasted the Indian off his feet and left him lying on the ground, gasping out his life through the big, blood-bubbling hole in his chest.
A hand grasped Preacher’s arm. He started to turn, intending to club the man who’d grabbed him with the empty pistol in his hand, but before he could l
aunch the blow, the man said, “Good job! You blew the hell out of that redskin! We got the bastards on the run!”
Preacher recognized the voice. It was Garity himself, the leader of the outlaws, who had grabbed him, thinking Preacher was one of them.
At the same time Garity realized his mistake. He yelled a curse and swung a punch at Preacher’s head. Preacher jerked free from Garity’s grip and ducked under the outlaw’s fist.
“Help!” Garity shouted. “Over here! Over here!” Preacher hooked a hard left into Garity’s belly and the man doubled over. Knowing the pistol in his hand was empty Garity straightened and slashed at Preacher’s head with the barrel. The gun raked across Preacher’s forehead, opening up a cut that leaked blood into the mountain man’s eyes.
Garity had been right about the Indians: the ones who were left alive were retreating, and the sound of gunfire was dying out around the camp. Garity’s men were able to hear his shouts. As they neared, Garity bellowed, “It’s Preacher! Get him!”
Preacher had one loaded pistol left. He jerked it out. As he pointed it at Garity and pressed the trigger, someone tackled him from behind around the knees. His legs collapsed underneath him and the shot went wild. Someone else hit him and knocked him the rest of the way to the ground.
Fists and feet hammered into him. He reached up and grabbed the leg of a man trying to kick him. With a heave, Preacher sent the man flying into a couple of the others. All of them went down in a tangle.
At least half a dozen more of Garity’s men surrounded him. They were liable to stomp him to death if he didn’t get away. Hooking a foot behind a man’s knee and sweeping his legs out from under him, Preacher tried to bolt up through the momentary gap in the circle of would-be killers surrounding him.
The opening was too small. One of the men got an arm around Preacher’s neck and held on for dear life, squeezing tighter and tighter. Two men began pounding Preacher’s ribs. Pain shot through him with each blow. Red rockets went off behind his eyes as the lack of air began to make everything spin crazily around him. The world seemed to be receding.
But he heard Garity say, “Don’t kill him! Damn it, I don’t want that bastard dead yet!”
That was the last thing Preacher knew except pain. A crazy blood-red whirling filled his head, then utter blackness.
CHAPTER 21
The first thing Preacher was aware of was light, bright and searing against his eyelids. Then pain came flooding in along with the radiance.
But he was alive, and while that surprised him at first, a moment later he began to remember how Garity had said he wanted Preacher kept alive.
That beat the alternative, Preacher supposed, but under the circumstances he wasn’t sure how long it was going to last. He hurt like hell, from head to toe, and the heat that enveloped him felt like it was about to cook him. He was frying in his own juices.
He tried to force his eyes open but couldn’t do it. The light was just too bright. Preacher knew it had to be the sun beating down on him. No campfire had ever been painfully brilliant.
Gradually he became aware that he was lying on his back with his arms stretched out on either side of him. His legs were painfully extended, too, and couldn’t move. Once he had realized that, it wasn’t much of a stretch to figure out he had been staked out on the ground.
He turned his head a little, though he hadn’t really been aware of doing it. Something moved between him and the sun, blocking the bright light and searing heat.
“You’re awake, are you, Preacher?” a mocking voice asked.
Garity. Preacher recognized the man’s tone. Since Garity knew he had regained consciousness, there was no point in trying to conceal the fact.
Preacher managed to open his eyes and found himself staring up at Garity, although he couldn’t see the man as anything except a black silhouette with the sun behind his head, radiating redly around it.
“I was beginnin’ to think the boys were too rough on you, even though I told ’em to take it easy,” Garity went on. “I’m glad to see you’re still alive. I want your dyin’ to take a long time.”
Preacher didn’t say anything. His lips were blistered, and his mouth felt like it had a wool sock in it. After a moment, he realized that sock was his tongue.
Garity turned his head and said to someone else, “Bring her over here.”
Preacher’s heart sank. The only “her” he knew of out there was Casey. He had hoped she had gotten away. Evidently that wasn’t the case.
It was confirmed a few seconds later when she said, “Oh, my God, Preacher, I’m sorry. When I saw you weren’t behind me, I . . . I turned back to see what had happened. I should have kept going.”
He managed to husk, “Y-yeah . . . I reckon . . . you should have . . .”
“It wouldn’t have mattered,” Garity said. “As soon as I realized you were gone, I would’ve come after you and found you, darlin’. You’re gonna be with me all the way to Santa Fe.” He paused. “I know a fella who owns a whorehouse there. He’ll pay me a tidy sum for a pretty little yeller-haired gal like you.”
“Go to hell,” Casey spat at him. “You’ll have to kill me first.”
“That’s mighty big talk for a gal who can’t do a damned thing to back it up.” Garity laughed. “You might as well face it. From here on out, you do what I say.” He shifted so the fierce sunlight slammed into Preacher’s eyes again. “And right now I say you’re gonna stand there and watch while Preacher dies, no matter how long it takes. And it’s gonna take a long time.”
“You bastard!” Casey’s hands were still tied in front of her, but her feet were loose. She lunged at Garity and raised her hands as she tried to claw at his face. Preacher couldn’t see it, but he could hear enough to guess what was going on.
Garity shoved her away with a laugh. “Hang on to her, boys,” he ordered. “Make sure she keeps her eyes open.”
“Let me go!” Casey cried. “Let me go, damn you!”
The men ignored her. She started to sob.
Preacher wanted to tell her it was all right, but he couldn’t find the strength to form the words.
Despite the ordeal he was being forced to endure, his brain was still working, and one thought was crystal clear: Garity hadn’t said anything about Roland Bartlett and the other men from the wagon train.
That could mean Garity didn’t know about them. If he wasn’t aware Roland and the others were nearby, there might still be a chance to turn the tables on him.
That meant waiting for Roland to do something. Obviously hours had passed since the battle at the camp. Daylight had come again. From the angle of the sun shining down into his face Preacher guessed that the morning was fairly well advanced. Roland and the other men were close enough to have heard the shooting going on the night before. Yet they hadn’t come to find out what was going on.
Preacher’s already cracked and bleeding lips cracked a little more as he smiled faintly. He had told Roland to stay put. By God, it looked like the boy was going to do as he was told!
“Preacher . . .” Casey said tentatively. “Preacher, what are you smiling about?”
“Nothin’,” he told her. Roland was their only hope. If that wasn’t enough to make a man smile, he didn’t know what was.
After a few minutes, he asked, “Casey, where are we?”
“Shut up,” one of the men left to guard her said. “Garity didn’t say nothin’ about lettin’ the two of you talk.”
“He didn’t say we couldn’t, either,” Casey argued. “Preacher’s dying anyway. What difference does it make if he knows where he is?”
The men didn’t answer for a moment, then one of them said, “I don’t reckon it makes a damn bit of difference. Go ahead, tell him.”
“We’re the same place we were last night,” Casey said. “Garity decided not to move the wagons just yet. He said he could afford to wait”—she choked up for a second—“to wait until you were dead.”
“What about . . . them Injuns?�
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“They’re all dead except for a few who got away.”
“I wonder . . . if it was that same bunch . . . of Comanch’.”
“It must have been,” she said. “They could have been following us, waiting for a chance to settle the score for what happened before. They might not have known that Garity stole the wagons. They must have thought Mr. Bartlett was still in charge.”
Casey’s statement agreed with the vague theory that had formed in Preacher’s mind. The caravan had been jinxed from the start. Trailed by the Indians, trailed by Garity’s outlaws, trailed by that damned bear . . .
Maybe he was the one who was jinxed, he thought. He had always had a way of attracting trouble, ever since he had left the family farm as a youngster and headed west. Maybe it hadn’t been so lucky for the Bartletts and the others that he and Lorenzo and Casey had thrown in with them after all.
Leeman Bartlett hadn’t been lucky, that was for sure. He had met a gruesome death, and several of the other men from the caravan had crossed the divide as well.
“Hoodoo,” Preacher murmured. “I’m a hoodoo . . .”
“What are you saying, Preacher?” Casey asked. “I couldn’t understand you.”
“Nothin’,” he breathed as he kept his eyes screwed tightly shut against the sunlight. “Nothin’ at all . . .”
The minutes were like hours, the hours like years. To Preacher it felt like he had been baking out there for all eternity. Given the sort of life he had led, all the men he had killed, he figured there was a good chance he would wind up shaking hands with the Devil when he died, but that day felt like he was getting a head start on Hell.
To make matters worse, ants found those blood-crusted wounds on his shoulder and arm and started chewing on them. Preacher felt the cords standing out in his neck as he strained and struggled to keep the cries of pain bottled up inside him. He didn’t want to give Garity that much satisfaction.
At one point, Casey burst out, “For God’s sake, can’t you see how bad he’s suffering? At least let me brush those ants off him.”
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