Preacher started to turn away, with Hawk following suit, when Dawlish said, “You really are convinced there’s no passable route the way we’re going?”
“That’s right.”
Dawlish sighed and looked at Powell.
“We’ll have to take that into account, then, Major,” he said. “If we’ve already gone astray, we don’t want to make the situation worse.”
Powell said, “That all depends on how much stock you place in Mr. Churchill’s book. A lot of folks believe it’s true.”
The two men were still discussing matters earnestly as Preacher and Hawk walked away. The young warrior said quietly, “What do you think they will decide?”
“Don’t know, and it ain’t any of my business. Let’s put these horses up.”
One of the settlers, a gray-bearded old-timer, was taking care of the saddle mounts. He introduced himself to Preacher and Hawk as Simeon Warren and explained that he had owned a livery stable in the small town in Ohio where he had lived until he headed west.
“This here wagon train come through, and all of a sudden my feet commenced to itch,” Warren explained. “Don’t know where the feelin’ come from, since I never had much of a restless nature before. But my wife had passed away a while back and all my kids is grown and gone, so I thought, shoot, might as well have myself a little adventure whilst I still can. So I sold my place, bought a wagon and some supplies, and joined right up.”
“I wish you luck when you get where you’re goin’, Mr. Warren,” Preacher told him.
The old man chuckled and said, “It ain’t so much the gettin’ there as it is the goin’.”
“I know that feelin’, sure enough,” Preacher agreed with a smile and a nod.
He and Hawk walked around the campsite as darkness settled down over the landscape, a vast sweep of black relieved only by the garish orange glow of the fires. Some of those fires were good-sized, but they looked small anyway against the seemingly endless night.
Women cooked, men tended to livestock or wagons, kids ran around and played. It was like any such collection of folks anywhere, thought Preacher. They had formed their own community centered around this wagon train. When they reached Oregon, would they stay together, claim land and settle in the same area, establish a town?
Preacher didn’t know and honestly didn’t care to find out, because he was a totally different sort, a man who would never be content to remain still for very long. These immigrants were on the move now, but that would come to an end. For Preacher, it never would, until the day he crossed the divide for the last time.
“You’re the two men who rode up a little while ago, aren’t you?”
A woman’s voice made Preacher pause and look around. The woman stood beside a big iron pot hung over a cookfire, stirring the contents with a long wooden spoon. She was around forty, Preacher thought, and the fire struck reddish highlights in her fair hair.
“That’s right,” Preacher replied. “I’m called Preacher, and this is Hawk.”
“I have plenty of stew here, and I’d be happy for both of you to join me for supper. My name is Margaret Lewis.”
“Pleased to meet you, Miz Lewis, and we’re obliged to you for the invite. You reckon your husband will be all right with us eatin’ with you?”
“I’m a widow,” the woman said, “so that won’t be a problem.”
“Oh.” Preacher wasn’t too surprised. Since he’d started getting some years on him, any time he was around any widow women they seemed to notice him right off. Some were just looking for companionship, others were on the hunt for a new husband to replace the old one. Either way, in the end Preacher’s restless nature always proved to be a disappointment to them.
But the aroma coming from the pot was an appetizing one, and he and Hawk had to eat something for supper. Margaret Lewis was a right handsome woman, too, and he had a hunch she’d be pleasant company. So he smiled, nodded, and said, “We’d be happy to join you, then.”
Margaret returned the smile, turned to the nearby wagon, and fetched a wooden bowl and spoon from it. She used the big spoon to fill the bowl with stew from the pot and then stepped toward Preacher, holding it out to him.
“I’ll get you some next, Hawk—” she began.
A gun boomed somewhere outside the circle of wagons, and the bullet it fired struck the woman in the side of the head, blowing away a chunk of her skull and dropping her dead at Preacher’s feet as the fallen bowl of stew splashed on the ground along with Margaret Lewis’s blood.
CHAPTER 10
Preacher’s swift reflexes and uncanny instincts had saved his life many times in the past, and the same was true of Hawk. Both of them dived forward on the ground and rolled as more gunfire roared somewhere close by. Bullets scythed through the air above them. Preacher heard a couple of slugs strike the iron stew-pot and ricochet off with wicked whines.
Around the wagon train camp, women and children screamed in fear while men shouted curses and questions that did no good. The immigrants were under attack, and they had to fight back or have the camp overrun.
Preacher wound up on his belly. The two Colt Dragoons had already leaped into his hands as if by magic. A few feet away, Hawk pushed himself up onto one knee and lifted his flintlock rifle as he searched for a target.
A shouting figure leaped through one of the nearby gaps between wagons. He carried a double-barreled shotgun that he swung up toward a woman hustling along with several children in front of her as she tried to get them to safety.
The leering, evil grin on the shotgunner’s face disappeared in a red smear as a round from Preacher’s right-hand gun smashed his jaw. An instant later, Preacher’s left-hand gun spewed fire and sent a bullet coring through the shotgunner’s brain. The would-be murderer dropped to the ground bonelessly.
Next to Preacher, Hawk drew a bead on another man who had invaded the camp and planted a heavy lead ball in the center of the attacker’s chest. The impact slapped the man off his feet like a giant hand.
Preacher shoved up onto his knees and saw a woman running toward him with her face twisted in lines of terror. Preacher would have tried to protect her, but he never got the chance. She stumbled suddenly, caught herself, and gazed down in horror at the bloody arrowhead protruding several inches from her chest. The arrow had struck her in the back and gone all the way through her body. She made a sad, sighing sound that was probably just the exhalation of her dying breath and toppled forward.
Preacher looked past the woman and spotted the man who had fired the arrow. The raider was already nocking another shaft on his bowstring. He was an Indian, but he was dressed mostly in white man’s clothing. That told Preacher the gang attacking the wagon train was a mixture of red renegades and white outlaws.
Didn’t really matter. They were all murderous bastards as far as Preacher was concerned. He fired both Dragoons at the same time and blew a pair of fist-sized holes through the man’s belly as he drew back the bow. The arrow he loosed as he doubled over, dying, plowed into the ground.
It was pretty clear what had happened. The raiders had sneaked up in the darkness, fired a couple of volleys from outside the circle of wagons with the intent of killing as many of the immigrants as possible, then had charged into the camp to mop up and slaughter the rest of the defenders.
Preacher wasn’t going to let that happen. He surged to his feet and dashed through the camp, one of his revolvers booming every time he spotted a man he was certain belonged to the gang. His instincts never betrayed him, and neither did his aim. His deadly accurate fire took a surprising toll among the raiders.
Hawk had dropped his empty rifle and pulled the pair of flintlock pistols he carried from behind his belt. These weapons would fire only once, as well, but he had picked up the habit from Preacher of double-shotting them with a heavy powder charge. That made them even more deadly, although somewhat riskier for the man wielding them.
The pistols roared and cut down three men among a group of attac
kers clambering over a wagon tongue to try to get into the camp. Then Hawk dropped the pistols and flung himself among the stunned survivors. By the time he reached them, he had his knife in one hand and his tomahawk in the other. Those weapons flashed back and forth, blood flying in the air every time they landed a blow.
Preacher and Hawk weren’t the only ones mustering a surprisingly stout defense. Major Powell might have kept referring to himself by his rank because of vanity, but he had served in the Mexican War and evidently hadn’t forgotten what he knew about commanding men in battle. His stentorian voice boomed out, rallying the immigrants. Several of them formed a ring of riflemen and protected each other as they fired back at the attackers.
When Preacher’s Dragoons were empty, he pouched the irons and drew his knife. However, before he could throw himself back into the fray, a shrill whistle sounded and the raiders who were still on their feet broke and ran. It was more of a rout than a retreat. Several men were wounded and stumbling, but they managed to stay on their feet and make it out of the wagon train camp.
Preacher let them go. He figured the outlaws hadn’t expected the immigrants to put up such a fight. They had decided to cut their losses and get out of here while they could.
But the possibility that they might double back and try another attack, thinking the immigrants wouldn’t expect it, couldn’t be ruled out. For that reason, Preacher said to Hawk, “Grab your guns and get ’em reloaded.”
He proceeded to do the same with the Dragoons, replacing the empty cylinders with loaded ones from the leather pouch attached to his belt. While he was doing that, he asked Hawk, “You get hit by any of that lead flyin’ around?”
“No. What about you?”
“Dodged it all, I reckon.” Preacher thought about Margaret Lewis and the way the widow had been struck down without warning, mere moments after he’d met her, as well as the woman who had been killed by the arrow. “I was a heap luckier than some.”
Hawk just grunted as he poured powder from his powderhorn down the barrel of his rifle.
Preacher snapped the reloaded revolver closed and looked around for Major Powell. He spotted the wagonmaster not too far away and strode over to him. Blood dripped down Powell’s cheek from a cut opened up by a bullet grazing him.
“Do you know how many folks you lost yet?” Preacher asked.
Powell shook his head. He was pale in the firelight and looked shaken to his core, but he glared furiously at the same time.
“No, but too many, you can be damned sure of that,” he said. Wearily, he scrubbed a hand over his face and smeared the blood on his cheek. “What happened? Who were those men?”
“Desperadoes, I reckon. I’ve heard of gangs who trail wagon trains and jump ’em when the time’s right. There’s never any shortage of sorry sons o’ bitches who’d rather steal and kill than work for an honest livin’.”
“That’s certainly the truth,” Powell said. “I know of such atrocities happening, of course, but I never ran into anything like this before. Honestly, I didn’t believe anyone would attack such a large, well-armed group, even the savages. Speaking of which . . . I think I saw some Indians among that bunch.”
“You did,” Preacher confirmed for him. “I spotted one myself.” The mountain man pointed with a thumb. “He’s layin’ over yonder somewhere with a couple of well-deserved holes in his belly.” Preacher went on briskly, “You need to round up some good men who weren’t hurt, or not too bad, anyway.”
“So we can go after those marauders?”
“So you can post guards in case those varmints come back.” Preacher managed to keep his tone neutral as he answered Powell’s question. “I know you’re mad and I don’t blame you a bit, but you don’t want to go chasin’ after that bunch in the dark, in unfamiliar territory. They’d just ambush you and wipe you out.”
“But we have to avenge the people we lost! Why, Jason Dawlish himself is dead, cut down by a bullet fired by one of those outlaws.”
“Folks will have to elect themselves a new captain, then. I’m sorry about Dawlish. He seemed like a good man, the few minutes I knew him.” Preacher shook his head. “But gettin’ more fellas killed won’t avenge nobody. To be honest, Major, the best thing you can do right now is bury the dead, tend to the wounded, then turn around and head on back down to South Pass. I’m assumin’ most of these folks will want to go on to where they were headed, and the safest way of doin’ that is by stickin’ to the regular trail.”
Powell sighed heavily and said, “To be honest, I was thinking the same thing. I don’t know whether Churchill Pass exists or not, but South Pass does, there’s no doubt about that. We can make it through there without too much risk.”
“I’m glad to hear that’s the way you’re leanin’.”
“Preacher . . . I saw what you and Hawk did during the battle. I had my own hands full, of course, but the way you whirled among those raiders with your guns spitting fire . . . I’ve never seen such a thing. And Hawk fought magnificently, too. I don’t think we could have driven them off without the two of you. I would have been honored to have both of you under my command during the war.”
“I’m obliged to you for those sentiments, Major. Now, let’s see what we can do for the folks who are hurt . . .”
* * *
Appleseed Higgs was cussing a blue streak as he limped across the hidden clearing where the outlaw camp was located. A bullet had gouged a chunk out of his upper left thigh, and it hurt like blazes.
A short time earlier, when they got back to camp, Charlie Harkness had poured some whiskey onto the wound—after first giving Appleseed a good swig from the jug, of course—and bound a rag around the leg to serve as a bandage. Appleseed had been shot enough times to know that the injury wasn’t really serious, as long as he didn’t get blood poisoning, but it was annoying as all hell. Appleseed should have been sitting down somewhere with his leg propped up, taking it easy.
He wanted to talk to Winter, though. The Blackfoot woman stood at the edge of the firelight, a smoldering cheroot clamped between her teeth, looking mad enough to chew nails instead of that smoke.
She glanced at Appleseed as he came up to her, and the expression in her dark eyes was as cold as the season she was named after. She asked around the cheroot, “How many did we lose?”
“Five dead, their bodies left behind,” Appleseed reported. “And another fella died on the way back here. Plus we got four or five hurt bad enough they ain’t gonna be any use for a while, and damn near ever’body picked up some sort of nick. Like me with this leg o’ mine. I can get around, but I ain’t very spry.” He cocked his head a little to one side. “You may be the only one who came through the fight without a scratch, Winter.”
Her gaze got even colder, although he wouldn’t have thought that was possible.
“What are you saying, Appleseed?” she demanded.
Hastily, he held up his hands and said, “Not a thing, not a damn thing. I wouldn’t say nothin’ bad about you, Winter. Hell, I wouldn’t even think it. I been ridin’ with you for a good long spell. You know how I feel about you.”
That was true. Appleseed had thrown in with Winter back in Missouri, when she was first starting to recruit a gang of cutthroats and thieves. Not many men believed that a woman could lead such a band, but Appleseed had sensed right away just how smart and dangerous she was. They had robbed stores and banks and held up stagecoaches, and they had never come close to getting caught. Any man who decided he wanted to take over the gang—or just take unwanted liberties with Winter herself—she killed swiftly, mercilessly. The fellas who stayed with her learned quickly not to cross her.
Just because she was a woman didn’t mean she was weak or soft. Appleseed wasn’t sure he had ever been around anyone more dangerous.
Winter never let her guard down, even with him, but now and then she had made a few comments that led him to believe she’d always been that way. Back in the mountains, growing up with the Blackfeet, before
she had ever seen any white men, she had longed to be a warrior.
The men in her tribe weren’t having any of that. Eventually, she had become an outcast, and that led to her heading east and finding her way among the whites. She dressed like a white man, carried herself like a white man, and in that poncho she wore, with her hair tucked under her hat, it was difficult even to tell that she was a woman. Her copper skin and her features gave away her Indian heritage, but a lot of people took her for a half-breed. Most even figured she’d been raised white.
It was a remarkable transformation, Appleseed had thought more than once. And that was because Winter Wind was a remarkable woman.
“See to it that the wounded men are cared for,” she said now around the cheroot. “I want them to recover as quickly as possible. Also, I want you to visit the trading posts. Find men to replace the ones we lost. More, if you can get them. We need a bigger gang.”
“To go after other wagon trains later, right? I mean, you ain’t thinkin’ about tryin’ to jump this particular bunch of pilgrims again, are you? Sure, we hurt ’em, probably pretty bad, but we’d be outnumbered even worse now, and they’ll be on their guard. I reckon we couldn’t take ’em by surprise again.” Appleseed ran his fingers through his beard. “They’ll probably turn around and light a shuck for South Pass, anyway.”
Winter said, “I care nothing about those immigrants. It is the two men who joined forces with them yesterday I want.”
Appleseed’s leg was paining him worse. He wished he could sit down on the log they used for a bench, not far from the fire. But Winter was still standing, so he supposed he ought to stay on his feet, too.
“You mean the old mountain man lookin’ fella and the redskin?” He let out a low whistle of grudging admiration. “Yeah, them two were holy terrors, wasn’t they? Never seen anybody move quite that fast or shoot quite that good. I reckon things might’ve turned out different if those two hadn’t come along yesterday and thrown in with that wagon train. Just our bad luck, I suppose.”
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