Donnelly should have thought of that before he hired a skunk like Buckhalter, Preacher thought, then told himself that maybe he was being a mite unfair. Donnelly hadn’t had any real reason to suspect Buckhalter of treachery until today.
“All right,” he said. “Let’s go.”
As soon as their weapons were reloaded, the three men left the camp, moving warily through the darkness. Preacher whistled softly for Dog, and the big cur came loping up to him. Having Dog along would make it a lot easier to locate any two-legged varmints still lurking in the shadows.
The three men and the dog circled the camp several times, working their way farther out each time. They found numerous bodies, but no live bandits. The survivors might have taken some of the dead and wounded with them, but they hadn’t lingered long enough to retrieve all of their fallen companions.
When Preacher was satisfied that the threat was over, at least for tonight, he led Uncle Dan and Donnelly back to the camp. As they walked through the gap between the wagons, he was surprised to hear a familiar blustery voice saying, “That man Preacher was behind the attack, I tell you! He and the old man were scouts for that band of thieves! They came in here and spun that cock-and-bull story about savage Indians being ahead of us so that we wouldn’t suspect an attack was about to come from the other direction!”
Uncle Dan let out a low whistle. “That varmint don’t give up easy, does he? He’s tryin’ to bluff his way through!”
“Let me handle this,” Donnelly said. He stalked toward the large group of immigrants gathered on the other side of the circle and raised his voice. “Mr. Buckhalter!”
Buckhalter stopped talking and turned to see who had hailed him. As he spotted Preacher and Uncle Dan following Donnelly, he grabbed for a pistol at his waist and yelled, “There they are! Get them!”
None of the pilgrims made a move, though. Donnelly was in the way. He raised his hands and called out, “Everyone listen to me! Mr. Buckhalter is mistaken! Preacher and Mr. Sullivan had nothing to do with the attack on us! They fought side by side with us and helped defend us against the robbers!”
Buckhalter’s beard jutted out defiantly. “I didn’t see that!” he declared. “And I don’t believe it!”
Lorraine Donnelly stepped forward. “It’s the truth,” she said in a loud, clear voice. “I was about to speak up myself, but my husband beat me to it. With my own eyes, I saw Preacher and Mr. Sullivan battling the attackers.”
“That’s not possible!” Buckhalter blustered.
Donnelly stopped in front of him. “You’d better not be calling my wife—or me—a liar, Mr. Buckhalter. You’re simply mistaken.”
“No, he ain’t,” Preacher drawled. “He’s lyin’ . . . and for a good reason. He’s the boss of the gang that’s been trailin’ you ever since the wagons left St. Louis. He set up the attack.”
Buckhalter’s face darkened in fury. “That’s a bald-faced lie!” he bellowed.
“Give it up, Buckhalter,” Preacher said. “I heard some of those varmints talkin’ before you gave the signal for the attack to begin. And I know that all of you are workin’ for Shad Beaumont, too.”
At the mention of Beaumont’s name, the flush disappeared from Buckhalter’s face. He paled instead, because he had to realize now that the game was up. His hand moved toward the pistol at his waist. Preacher was ready to grab his own gun.
But before he could, a roar sounded behind him, and what felt like an avalanche crashed down on him.
Chapter 8
The crushing weight drove Preacher to the ground. What felt like an iron bar clamped itself across his throat, cutting off his air.
Even under attack like this, he was thinking straight enough to have a hunch that it was Mike Moran who had jumped him. Preacher was convinced that Moran was in on the scheme with Buckhalter. The big man must have been in the crowd of immigrants, heard Preacher’s reference to Beaumont, and figured that he was done for.
He was going to try to kill Preacher first, though, before his own fate caught up to him.
Preacher drove his right elbow up and back and heard an animal-like grunt as it sank into his attacker’s belly. He reached back with his left hand and tangled his fingers in the man’s hair. A hard tug brought a howl of pain as Preacher came away with a handful of hair.
That distracted his opponent enough for Preacher to buck up off the ground and throw the man to the side. Preacher rolled the other way and came up on his feet. He saw that his hunch had been right. It was Mike Moran who clambered upright about ten feet away, blood running down the side of his face from his scalp where Preacher had torn out the clump of hair that he now tossed aside.
Uncle Dan raised a pistol and pointed it at Moran. “Hold it right there, big fella,” the old-timer warned.
“This here fight’s gone on long enough.”
Moran started to curse in a low, monotonous voice, but a muffled scream cut across his profanities. Preacher’s head jerked around. He saw Buckhalter backing toward one of the wagons with an arm looped around Lorraine Donnelly’s throat. His other hand held the muzzle of a pistol pressed against her head.
“Lorraine!” Ned Donnelly cried.
“Stay back!” Buckhalter warned. “I’ll kill her!” Preacher shook his head. “No, he won’t. He knows that if he pulls that trigger, he’ll be shot plumb full o’ holes his own self before Miz Donnelly hits the ground. Might as well go ahead and give up, Buckhalter, because you ain’t gettin’ out of this.”
Preacher started forward, but Donnelly said, “No!” and got in his way. The man put a hand against Preacher’s chest. “I know you’re probably right, Preacher, but I can’t take that chance with Lorraine’s life.” He turned to the renegade wagon master. “What do you want, Buckhalter?”
“Safe passage out of here,” Buckhalter replied. He had such a tight grip on Lorraine that she couldn’t budge. “For me and Moran. And I want the money chest.”
Preacher knew what Buckhalter was talking about. On a lot of these wagon trains, the immigrants pooled their funds and kept most, if not all, of their money in a chest in one of the wagons. That money would help them get started in their new lives when they got to where they were going. Many of the westward-bound pilgrims didn’t have a lot of cash; it was expensive to buy a wagon and outfit it with a team and supplies. It might take most of a family’s life savings to pay for such an epic journey.
But take those small amounts and multiply them by the number of families in a wagon train, and it could add up to a tidy little sum. Plus there were usually a few folks who were more well-to-do than the rest, and that would swell the total in the money chest even more.
“That’s insane,” Donnelly said in response to Buckhalter’s demand. “We’ll need that money when we get to Oregon. You can’t expect us to give it up.” He took a deep breath. “We’ll let the two of you go, though.”
Buckhalter shook his head. “Not good enough. After all we’ve risked, you can’t expect us to ride away without a payoff.” His mouth twisted in a sneer under the bushy beard. “Anyway, Donnelly, what will you need more in Oregon, the money or your wife?”
Donnelly didn’t have an answer for that. He stood there, obviously tortured by fear for Lorraine, as well as the responsibility he felt toward the other members of the wagon train. He looked toward them, and one of the men said, “We’re sorry, Ned, but we can’t—”
“I know,” Donnelly broke in. “I can’t ask you to give up everything.” He faced Buckhalter again. “Safe passage. That’s all.”
Several seconds crept by, the time drawing out painfully. Preacher heard a couple of owls hoot back and forth in the tense silence. Then Buckhalter jerked his head in a nod and said, “All right. Safe passage. Now tell that old man to stop pointing his gun at Moran.”
Preacher motioned for Uncle Dan to put down his pistol. The old-timer complied with obvious reluctance. Grinning smugly—the only real expression Preacher had seen on the granite-faced renegade—Moran m
oved over to join Buckhalter.
“There’s one more thing,” Buckhalter went on. “Mrs. Donnelly goes with us.”
Lorraine’s eyes widened even more. Donnelly exclaimed, “You’re mad!”
“Not at all. She’ll be our guarantee of safety. Otherwise, what’s to stop Preacher from coming after us as soon as we leave?” Buckhalter laughed. “You didn’t know it, Donnelly, but you had a famous man in your midst. Preacher is known from one end of the Rockies to the other. In fact, my employer has placed a bounty on his head. I’m passing up a nice chunk of coin by letting him live.”
Donnelly frowned over at Preacher. “Who’s this employer he’s talking about?”
“Fella name of Beaumont,” Preacher drawled. “He planned this whole thing so Buckhalter, Moran, and those other fellas could loot your wagon train. He did his best to get rid of me so I wouldn’t ruin the plan, but it didn’t work.”
Donnelly looked over at the other three guides, Stallworth, Jennings, and MacKenzie, who stood together at the edge of the crowd. Stallworth and Jennings appeared to have minor injuries from the battle.
“Did you men know anything about this?”
Stallworth shook his head and said, “Not a damned thing, Donnelly, and that’s the truth. We just hired on as guides, that’s all. Buckhalter and Moran double-crossed us as much as they did you.”
One of the men spoke up. “I reckon he’s telling the truth, Ned. I saw all three of them fighting those bastards who jumped us.”
“Enough palaver,” Buckhalter snapped. “We’re leaving . . . and like I said, Mrs. Donnelly is coming with us.” He told Moran, “Mike, saddle three horses for us.”
In a choked voice, Lorraine forced out, “Ned, don’t . . . let him . . . take me away . . . from my children!”
Buckhalter chuckled. “He doesn’t have any choice, Mrs. Donnelly. Not if he wants to keep you alive.”
Preacher said, “I hope you ain’t forgot about those Pawnee, Buckhalter. They’re still out there somewhere.”
“That’s why we’re going east instead of west. You see, I believed you about them, Preacher, even though I couldn’t admit that.”
People got out of Moran’s way as he went to saddle horses for him and Buckhalter and Lorraine. He had just lifted a saddle and turned toward the animals when there was a fluttering sound. Moran lurched to the side and dropped the saddle. He yelled in pain and reached up to clutch the shaft of the arrow that protruded from his shoulder.
“Pawnee!” Preacher shouted as he saw the arrow. “Everybody hunt cover!”
More arrows came flying out of the darkness around the camp. Preacher had suspected those owls he’d heard a few moments earlier weren’t the real thing, and now he was sure of it.
Standing Elk and the rest of the war party must have heard all the shooting and come to investigate it. Finding that the immigrants had their attention focused elsewhere, the Indians had decided it would be a good time to attack. Even though they didn’t really like to fight at night, they would seize an advantage any time they could get it.
The Pawnee weren’t Preacher’s only worry, though. Buckhalter still had Lorraine as his hostage. Preacher had to get her away from him before something happened to her. He leaped toward the two of them as Buckhalter turned toward the wagons, hauling Lorraine around with him. The son of a bitch was using her as a human shield if any arrows came flying his way, Preacher realized.
Buckhalter still had the gun to Lorraine’s head. The hammer was cocked, and all it was take was a little pressure on the trigger to send a heavy lead ball smashing into her skull at point-blank range. Preacher could see only one way to prevent that.
He drew his knife and let fly, putting every bit of skill and accuracy he possessed into the throw.
The blade flicked across the intervening space, turning over as it flew, and when it struck Buckhalter’s wrist it landed perfectly, slicing deep into flesh and muscle and slashing the tendons. Buckhalter cried out in surprise and pain as his fingers opened, the digits splaying out instead of contracting. The pistol fell unfired from his hand.
Preacher crashed into Buckhalter’s back a second later, driving the man forward and knocking him loose from Lorraine, who was shoved to the ground by the impact as well. That was a good thing, because arrows began to whip through the space the three of them had occupied a heartbeat earlier.
Preacher snatched up the pistol Buckhalter had dropped and slammed the butt into the back of the renegade wagon master’s head. Buckhalter went limp.
Reversing his grip on the gun, Preacher tilted the barrel upward as a member of the Pawnee war party vaulted through the narrow gap between a couple of wagons. The warrior’s feet had barely touched the ground when Preacher fired from a few yards away. The pistol ball, traveling in an upward path, caught the Indian under the chin and bored on up into his brain, flipping him backward so that he landed on the wagon tongue behind him. Blood gushed from the terrible wound as he lay there draped over the wooden shaft.
Preacher surged to his feet. He lifted Lorraine with him and hustled her toward the nearest wagon. “Stay under cover!” he told her.
Both his pistols were loaded. He pulled them from behind his belt as he swung back toward the fight. The Pawnee war party numbered about twenty men, he recalled, and even with the casualties the immigrants had suffered in the earlier battle, they still outnumbered the Indians. If they were cool-headed and kept their wits about them, they could win this fight.
Preacher was glad to see that the defenders had spread out, seeking cover behind the wagons. Shots roared all around the circle. Women and older children were reloading for the menfolks. It was asking a lot to expect these pilgrims from back east to fight for their lives and the lives of their families twice in one night, but it appeared that for the most part, they were meeting the challenge.
Preacher spotted an empty gap between wagons and knew the Pawnee were likely to realize there weren’t any defenders there. He headed for it and got there just as three of the painted savages rushed the opening. They saw him too late to swerve aside. The brace of pistols in his hands boomed like thunder, spewing flame and smoke from their muzzles. Two of the Indians went down, driven off their feet by the deadly impact of the lead balls.
But that left the third Pawnee, and he came hurdling over the wagon tongue to crash into Preacher and knock him backward. The hard fall jolted the empty guns out of Preacher’s hands. He looked up as the Indian screeched and brought a tomahawk sweeping down toward his head.
A rifle blasted somewhere close by. Blood and bone sprayed from the Pawnee’s head as a ball smacked into it. Preacher heaved the body aside and rolled over, coming up onto hands and knees. He saw Uncle Dan standing there with smoke curling from the barrel of the rifle the old-timer held. Preacher grabbed the tomahawk the Indian had dropped and threw it as hard as he could.
The ’hawk flew past a startled Uncle Dan, missing him by mere inches. The blade embedded itself in the forehead of the warrior who had been about to fire a rifle at the old-timer from behind. Uncle Dan must have heard the Indian collapse, because he looked around and gaped as he saw how close he had come to death.
Preacher gave him a nod and scrambled to his feet. Just as before, the shooting had begun to become sporadic. Indians were usually pretty quick to realize when they had bitten off more than they could chew, and they didn’t have the same sort of stubborn, foolish pride white men often had that would make them keep fighting a losing battle. They would call off an attack and figure that they could fight again some other day. That appeared to be what was happening now, as the shooting trailed off and then stopped.
Preacher looked toward the spot where he had last seen Buckhalter. The renegade wagon master wasn’t there now. Grimly, Preacher started in that direction, but he hadn’t gotten there when he heard Ned Donnelly shout, “Preacher, look out!”
Twisting around, Preacher saw Mike Moran charging toward him, already practically on top of him. The arro
w still stuck out of Moran’s shoulder, but other than that he seemed to be unhurt. Moran yelled, “This is all your fault!” just before he rammed into Preacher.
For the second time tonight, Preacher landed on the ground with Moran’s crushing weight on top of him. This time he was on his back, so he could look up and see the hatred and rage boiling in the man’s eyes. Moran locked his hands around Preacher’s neck and began trying to choke the life out of the mountain man.
Preacher knew that Uncle Dan or Donnelly would likely shoot Moran before Moran could kill him, but he didn’t wait for somebody else to save his life. He reached up, got hold of the arrow sticking out of Moran’s shoulder, and snapped off the shaft. Moran yelled in pain as that caused the arrowhead to shift in his flesh, but the yell dissolved into a gurgle as Preacher rammed the jagged end of the broken shaft into his neck. Blood flooded over Preacher’s hand as he drove the makeshift weapon deep into Moran’s throat.
Moran’s hands came loose from Preacher’s throat. He reached up to paw at the shaft of the arrow, but he didn’t have the strength to pull it loose. By now, it wouldn’t have mattered if he had. A sheet of crimson flowed down over his chest. He swayed back and forth for a second as his eyes rolled back in their sockets, and then he fell to the side. A final spasm went through his body as he died.
Preacher pushed the corpse to the side. Donnelly and Uncle Dan were there, and they both reached down to help him to his feet.
“You all right, Preacher?” the old-timer asked.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” Preacher rasped as he rubbed at his throat. Moran hadn’t done any real damage, but Preacher knew he’d have some bruises and soreness in his neck for a day or two. “Where’s Buckhalter?”
“Gone,” Donnelly replied, disgust evident in his tone. “I guess he slipped away during the confusion of the fight with the Pawnee.”
Preacher wasn’t surprised. Buckhalter seemed to have an instinct for self-preservation.
It might not save him this time, though, with the survivors of that war party roaming around. The Pawnee would be mad about what had happened, and while they might be too smart to attack the wagon train again, they wouldn’t hesitate to take their frustrations out on a lone white man if they could get their hands on him.
Preacher's Fire Page 6