“Come on in, you bastard!” Blackjack roared over the sounds of screams and gunfire, closing his hands around the neck of a very surprised buck and dragging him over a wagon tongue. With one quick and powerful move, the huge mountain man snapped the warrior’s neck. Blackjack then picked the man up effortlessly and tossed him back outside the wagons.
Snake looked down to see a dusty hand closing around one of his spare rifles. The aged mountain man slashed down with his razor sharp knife and the Arapaho was suddenly one-handed. The Indian screamed in pain and rolled back out into the night, blood streaming from his mangled arm.
The attack ended abruptly, the brown shapes rushing back into the darkness, carrying or dragging their wounded, dead, and dying.
“Get a head count, Rupert,” Preacher said. “Let’s see what damage they done. Every other woman reload and face forward and keep your eyes sharp; the others tend to the wounded. And we got some. I heard ’em scream.”
One woman was dead, four were wounded. But the wounded were not hurt too bad. They were in some pain, but would live.
Preacher knelt down beside one woman with an arrow stuck in her shoulder. “Get some whiskey,” he told Eudora. “And pour some down her throat.” When the lady had taken several good slugs, Preacher took a taste himself, wiped his mouth, and grasped the shaft of the arrow. “This ain’t gonna be no fun, but I got to do it.”
“Do it,” the woman said through gritted teeth.
Eudora and Wallis held the woman’s arms while Preacher pushed the point of the arrow all the way through. The woman shrieked once and then passed out.
“Good,” Preacher said, breaking off the arrowhead and then pulling the shaft out. He poured whiskey into both entry and exit wounds and then left her for the women to bandage and tend.
“Who’s dead?” Preacher asked Rupert.
“Miss Shivley. She took an arrow right through the throat.”
“Let’s wrap her up and stash her under a wagon ’til mornin’. We’ll plant her then. Any livestock get hurt?”
“None. Will the savages return this night?”
“They’ll be back.”
The attackers were back long before Preacher anticipated their return. Something was really eating at them and he could not figure out what it was. But nevertheless, he had his people ready for the angered Arapaho. But this time they not only came slipping out of the night on foot, they were charging their ponies into the battle, with many of them leaping over the tongues and into the circle.
“It’s all up to you, ladies!” Preacher yelled. “We’re gonna have our hands full out here.” He was yelling as he ran to face a buck charging him in the semigloom, the only light coming from the moon. The warrior had a long lance and there was murder in his eyes. Preacher lifted his right hand pistol and fired, the ball striking the Arapaho in the throat, lifting him off his horse and sending him tumbling and rolling on the ground.
Ol’ Snake had two bucks backing up. Neither one of them liked that long bladed Bowie knife that glistened and gleamed in the faint light. And they didn’t like the sight of the blood that dripped from the blade. Arapaho blood. Snake faked to one side while a buck went with the fend, and Snake brought up a pistol with his left hand and shot the Arapaho through the heart just as Steals Pony picked up a dropped lance and threw it. The lance went all the way through the other brave and pinned him to the side of a wagon. He died soundlessly.
Blackjack picked a buck up bodily and brought him down back-first over his knee. The sound of the Indian’s back breaking was audible even over the screaming and gunfire.
Preacher jerked a buck off his horse and both of them fell to the ground. They came to their feet fighting and the Arapaho swung a war-axe, but Preacher caught the Indian’s wrist and stopped his swing cold in an iron grip. The brave tried to kick Preacher and Preacher flipped him over one hip, bouncing him off the side of a wagon. The Arapaho lost his axe and jerked out a knife. Preacher jerked out a pistol and ended that brief argument with one ball through the heart.
He looked around. The clearing held no more live hostiles. Preacher raced to the wagons and faced the attack from the night. But the attack was over. The Arapaho had taken quite a beating in the two charges and they had had enough.
Preacher had him a sudden thought. “Broken Nose!” he shouted. “Wait.”
“Have you lost your mind?” Faith demanded angrily.
“Hush up, woman. Broken Nose! You hear me?”
“I hear you, Preacher. What trick do you have now?”
“No tricks, Broken Nose. You and your people fought bravely and well. I would not have such brave men to wander forever in the darkness. That would be wrong. We will carry them to the edge of the wagons. You and your people can pick them up there for proper burial. Is that fair?”
“Good thinkin’, Preacher,” Snake whispered, walking up. “He’ll owe you for that and won’t attack no more.”
“It is a trick!” Broken Nose called.
“No trick, Broken Nose. I give you my word. And you know I don’t break my word.”
“That is truth,” the voice came out of the night.
“Think of the wives and mothers of your fallen men. If you bring them back home, the women won’t have to slash themselves in grief.”
“That is also truth,” Broken Nose said, his voice calmer now.
Preacher stepped into the space between two wagons, holding his rifle high. “I’m puttin’ down my rifle, Broken Nose. And my pistols.” He laid his Hawken down and his pistols beside it. “I’m goin’ back to fetch one of your brave men, Broken Nose.”
“And the rest of us, too,” Blackjack said, laying down his weapons.
“We’ll tote them to the clearin’,” Snake said.
“I shall meet you at the wagons,” Broken Nose said. “And I, too, will be without weapons.”
“Bring some of your people with you,” Preacher said. “With horses so’s you can take your dead back home,” Preacher told Eudora, “Put on some coffee and fix something to eat,” I’m gonna get to the bottom of why peace-lovin’ Arapaho attacked us.”
Preacher and the mountain men handled the bodies with the respect due to the dead and the Arapaho noticed this. When the dead had been carried off, Preacher invited Broken Nose and some of his people inside the circle.
“No tricks, Broken Nose. We fought us a fight, now it’s over. I want to know why you wanted to fight us. Let’s have coffee and food and talk some.”
Broken Nose stared at Preacher for a long moment. Then a very faint smile creased his mouth. “Yes. That would be a good thing. There is no need for more blood to be spilled. Your women are warriors, Preacher.”
“Ain’t they, though?”
Broken Nose waved a few of his men forward and stepped over the tongue and into the clearing. “Leave your weapons outside the wagons,” he told them. When they hesitated, he again said, “Leave your weapons!”
They dropped their weapons and followed him.
The women had heated up a stew and made strong coffee. The men ate without speaking. When all had finished, Broken Nose rubbed his belly and belched loudly. The others too laid their bowls aside and belched. When the chief quit eating, everybody was finished. They all wiped the grease from their fingers on their skin and leggin’s. “Good,” Broken Nose said, in perfect English. “Very good. Your women not only can fight like men, they can cook too. How are they in the robes?”
“Tolerable,” Preacher said, keeping his face straight despite the hard looks shot his way by Faith, Eudora, and others within earshot. “Only tolerable.”
“That is too bad,” Broken Nose said sorrowfully, looking at Bertha Macklin. “Nice round ass on that one.” He shrugged his shoulders philosophically. “Well, one cannot have everything. At least they are good for something.” He did not see Faith pick up a frying pan and start toward him, nor did he see Eudora grab the skillet from her and lead her off. “It is time for the truth. We were lied to, Preacher. A m
an by the name of Be-bell passed by and told us of a wagon train with women dressed like men. He said that from the seas of grasses to the east, all the way across, the women had lured Indian children to the wagons and then slaughtered them. I should have known when I saw you with the wagons that it was a lie. For that I am truly sorry.”
“If we didn’t make mistakes, Broken Nose, we wouldn’t be human, would we?”
“Preacher, as always, speaks the truth.”
“I wonder if he’s spreadin’ that lie all the way across?”
“Probably. But the closer he gets to the great mountains, the Ute, the Shoshoni, the Cheyenne, and the Crow, they will know he speaks nothing but lies. They might cut his tongue out.”
“No, I want do to that,” Rexana said, walking up to collect the bowls. She added another part of Bedell’s anatomy she wanted to cut off.
When she had gone, Broken Nose shuddered. “Sleep lightly, Preacher. You are in the midst of savages, surely.”
7
Louis, the boy the group had taken from Bedell’s outlaws, had suffered a slight wound during the Arapaho attacks, but the wound was not a serious one. The boy had done well and proved himself a person who would stand his ground and fight.
The only casualty, Miss Shivley, was buried the next morning, just as dawn was lighting the sky. The ladies gathered around and sang “Where Is Death’s Sting,” Eudora read from the Bible, and the wagon train pushed on.
Broken Nose had taken his band of warriors and his dead, and left, after swearing that his people would not bother the wagons again.
“Do you believe him?” Rupert asked.
“Oh, yeah,” Preacher said. He smiled. “At least for this trip.”
Preacher was keeping a good eye out on the building storm clouds in the west. Only a few drops of rain had fallen thus far, but the lightning was fierce and the clouds promised one hell of a storm.
After only a couple of miles had passed, Preacher ordered the train stopped and the canvas double-lashed. “We’re in for it,” he told the ladies. “You ain’t seen hail ’til you’ve gone through what this country can give you. Pray that them clouds hold only rain and not ice.”
“If it’s rained much to the west,” Snake said to Preacher, “we might have to cross the Platte more times than we want to.”
“If she’s spillin’ over, we’ll cross at the rocks,” Preacher said, looking around and receiving nods of approval from his friends. “If not, we’ll press on and plan on crossin’ at the Buttes.”
This storm held no hail—which the mountain men were thankful for—but it dumped torrents of water on the westward travelers and slowed them down to a mere crawl across the land. Once, Preacher had to halt the wagons because it grew so dark, and the storm was so intense, that the only way the drivers could see the wagon in front of them was by lamplight. By midafternoon he halted the wagons and told the ladies to circle. There wasn’t no point in goin’ on through this.
Squatting under canvas, Preacher told Eudora, “It ain’t worth the strain it puts on the animals and the risk of broken axles and wheels to go on. We’ll just sit it out.”
Covering three times on horseback what the wagons could do in a day, Bedell had linked up with his cohorts far to the west and was laying out his plans.
One man shook his head in doubt. “I know Preacher,” Villiers said. “I been in this country for years. Tanglin’ with Preacher ain’t smart, Vic. And Blackjack, Steals Pony, and Snake is just about as mean. I wish to hell your boys hadn’t a-killed his horse. Preacher set store by Hammer. He ain’t never gonna let you rest for doin’ that.”
“It was just a damn horse!” Bedell said to the Frenchman.
Another Frenchman, Trudeau, added, “Most men grow fond of their animals, Bedell. Out in this country a good horse is the most valuable thing a man can have. I’m in agreement with Villiers. Preacher ain’t never gonna forgive you for killin’ Hammer. But I’m in agreement with you ’bout the wagons. We can’t let them reach no post and make a report. If that was to happen, we could never show our faces in no civilized place again. All them folks got to die. That’s all there is to it.”
“Perhaps the Arapaho finished them off,” Bedell said, a hopeful note to his words.
“Don’t count on that,” a man called Tater said. “And don’t be tellin’ that big whoppin’ lie to no more Injuns we come up on out here. They know Preacher. This is Preacher’s stompin’ grounds. And whilst some of them might not like him much, they respect him a whole bunch, and they know Preacher wouldn’t have no part in harmin’ no woman nor child…no matter what color the skin. They’ll cut your tongue out for lyin’. And they’ll do it, too. I’ve seen them do it. It’s right unpleasant.”
Right unpleasant, Vic Bedell thought with a hidden shudder. Interesting way of stating it. “All right,” he said. “Let’s get to work on planning this out. I want this done right the first time.”
Steals Pony had been gone for several days. When he returned, his horse was tired and so was he. He was covered with dust—they had left the rain far behind them—and he swung wearily down from the saddle.
Preacher handed him a cup of coffee and the Delaware took it with thanks.
“Bedell waits for us about a hundred miles ahead,” Steals Pony told them. “I spoke with several Indians of different tribes. They all told me the same thing. Bedell’s force was just too large for them to attack. The outlaws are well-mounted, well-supplied, and well-armed. Several trappers gone bad are among them, so they will know this country.”
“Who?” Snake asked.
“Trudeau, Villiers, Logan, and Tater. There are many more in the gang, but those are the only ones I could identify from their descriptions.”
“I owe that damn Tater a lead ball or two,” Blackjack said. “He shot me some years ago. From ambush. He’s a no-count from way back.”
“I know him,” Preacher said, “and Trudeau too. They teamed up some years back and killed a friend of mine. Shot him in the back one evenin’ for his furs. Left him to die alone and hard. But they’re experienced men, and you’re right ’bout them knowin’ the country. And they ain’t cowards neither. If Trudeau and Villiers is there, you can bet their partner, Pierre, ain’t far away. Well, we shore can’t go back. All we can do is push on and stay alert.”
It was a strange sense of relief for the men, but relief nonetheless, to know that Bedell was waiting for them, and to know approximately where he was waiting. It ended speculation. The mountain men knew now they had a fight waiting on them.
The next morning, Preacher gathered the women around him.
“Steals Pony brought news yesterday evenin’,” he told the group. “And it ain’t good, but it’s what we all been expectin’. Bedell’s linked up with his gang and they’re waitin’ on us ’bout a hundred miles ahead. You signed on to go west, and that’s where we’re goin’. Y’all done told me you wasn’t goin’ back so we ain’t even gonna talk about that.
“Bedell wants the wagons and the supplies, and he wants us all dead. He has to kill us, all of us. If he don’t, if just one of us gets through to tell our story, he’ll be a wanted and hunted man the rest of his unnatural life. Y’all let that sink in your heads for a minute or so.”
Preacher then eyeballed each woman for a moment. Their faces were set in grim and unyielding determination. They stood, all dressed in men’s britches and shirts, with pistols shoved down behind their belts, and many of them leaning on their rifles. They bore little resemblance to the women who had left Missouri weeks back. The group seemed small and very insignificant against the vast backdrop of lonely land that stretched for hundreds of miles all around them.
Preacher nodded his head. “All right, ladies. Let’s head west.”
Twice during the next five very long, hot, dusty, and monotonous days Indians were sighted. But the Indians kept their distance and did not show any signs of hostility. That was due in no small part to the size of the wagon train. Word had spread qu
ickly—thanks to Broken Nose and his people—that the train was made up almost entirely of women, and also that the women were savage fighters. Mostly, the Indians were curious. They wanted to see what manner of females these were, who rode, dressed, and fought like men.
Both times Indians were sighted, Steals Pony rode over to talk with them. And both times he returned with the same news: A large band of men waited just up the trail. They had some women with them, too. When the wagons were a day’s distance from where Bedell and the men were supposed to be, Steals Pony left the train to scout ahead.
“They sure picked a piss-poor place to ambush us,” Preacher said to Blackjack. The two men were ranging about a mile ahead of the wagons. “Must be a thousand better places on up ahead.”
“I got me a hunch that the Delaware is gonna come back and tell us the gang pulled out,” Blackjack said. “Them trappers with the bunch got more sense than to try something out here in the open.”
“A body would think that,” Preacher agreed. “Yonder’s Steals Pony comin’. He’s takin’ his time so’s I ’spect you’re right, Blackjack.”
“Gone,” the Delaware informed them. “Ashes are cold. They headed west.”
“You called it right, Blackjack. Now we got to worry for another week or so.” Preacher thought about that for a moment while his friends looked at him and waited. “They want us deeper in,” he finally said. “Somebody finally got through to Bedell that this country is lousy for an ambush. Too bad. I was lookin’ forward to endin’ it right now.”
“Yeah, me too. But it sounds right to me,” Blackjack said, removing his battered hat and scratching his head. When the sickness hit them, all the men had let the ladies cut their hair much shorter than they normally wore it. But oddly enough, no fleas had been found on anyone, and not in any of their clothing or blankets. The sickness still baffled them all.
Absaroka Ambush (first Mt Man)/Courage Of The Mt Man Page 19