Absaroka Ambush

12

Preacher was a good five miles from the wagon train when the eastern sky began splitting into color. He’d had him several cups of strong coffee ’fore he left the circle—he stopped a woman just in time to keep her from throwing it out; told her he didn’t give a damn if it was hours old, it was still hot, wasn’t it, so turn the pot a-loose, you crazy female! And when he reached a clear running creek, he swung down from Hammer to eat some cold biscuits and salt meat he’d snitched from an oven.

He ruminated as he chewed. Preacher figured that Bedell and his trashy bunch would be starting to close the distance now, maybe laying no more than a day’s ride behind. In two or three days, the wagons would have reached the Platte and be heading west along its southern banks.

“That’s where they’ll hit ’em,” Preacher said, finishing off his breakfast. He took a long drink of water from the creek, and tightened the cinch on Hammer. Hammer pulled his usual stunt and puffed up. If Preacher didn’t catch it, when he tried to step into the saddle, Hammer would exhale, loosening the cinch strap, and Preacher would hit the ground. Hammer would then roll his eyes and show his big teeth. Preacher always swore the damn horse was laughing at him.

“Caught you that time, didn’t I?” Preacher said to Hammer. The big horse tried to step on Preacher’s foot but the mountain man was too quick for him. Preacher knew all of Hammer’s tricks. But ever’ now and then Hammer would catch him.

To listen to Preacher cuss his horse, a stranger might have thought the two hated each other. But exactly the opposite was true. Hammer would kill anyone who tried to harm his master, and Preacher would kill anyone who tried to do harm to his horse.

Preacher rode another six or seven miles, then reined up before he topped a fairly high ridge. He picketed Hammer and, taking his spyglass, bellied up to the top of the ridge and began scanning. It didn’t take him long to spot the riders. They were closing fast now, riding at a distance-consuming pace, but not a punishing one for their horses. And their horses, Preacher had noticed the other night, were all top quality mounts. Preacher had never seen so many fine horses in one bunch.

“Definitely closin’ the gap,” Preacher muttered, lowering the spyglass. He stayed where he was until the band of men were out of sight. Then he sat for a time and thought a few things out.

As to what Bedell and the men might be up to, he had only the word of Woford Lewis to go on. And even though Preacher knew for a fact that Victor Bedell was a no-good, capable of doing anything mean and nasty, and that good men don’t ride with no-goods, he was at a loss as to just what he should do to cut the odds down some. Preacher didn’t think one man tackling forty-nine would be real smart. That is, providing the men were after the wagon train and the women. Preacher was 100% sure they were, but so far they had not made a move against the train.

Then Preacher’s eyes narrowed as a thought came to him. A very disturbing thought. The bunch he’d watched through his spyglass had been a few men short. About five or six short. He was sure of that.

What had happened? Where had the five or six men gone? Had the men quit Bedell and turned back? Preacher didn’t believe that. Not for a second. Their absence could only mean one thing. Bedell had become suspicious and had ordered the men to lag behind, keeping a sharp lookout on the party’s backtrail. Bedell was as wily as a fox. Preacher silently admonished himself for forgetting that. And he just as silently realized that he was in a lot of danger.

Preacher took a slow, careful eyeballing of his surroundings. The land looked peaceful. Empty. A slight breeze was blowing. But this part of the country was very deceptive. A whole bunch of people could be hiding anywhere within a hundred yards of his location. His eyes cut to Hammer. The horse’s ears were pricked and he was tense.

“You done it stupid this time, ol’ son,” Preacher muttered. “Them men of Bedell’s is out there and workin’ in close to you. Damn!”

Preacher carefully checked his pair of awesome pistols. He then checked his rifle just as carefully. Hammer blew softly. Preacher cocked his rifle. The very softest of sounds reached him. He whirled around, came up on one knee, and fired just as a man topped the ridge. The big ball caught the man in the center of his chest and stopped him cold for an instant, then he was flung backward as if hit with a giant fist. Preacher ran toward Hammer and leaped into the saddle just as a bullet slammed into his back, almost knocking him out of the saddle. Hammer leaped into motion as rifles boomed all around him. Preacher pulled a pistol and fired nearly point-blank into the bearded face of a man who had jumped up out of the tall grass. The face erupted into a terrible mess of blood as the ball hit him dead center. Another man appeared in front of Preacher and Preacher fired, the ball striking the man in the shoulder. He heard the horrible screams as Hammer’s hooves pounded the man’s flesh and shattered his face. Hammer was running all out now. And there was not a horse around that could outdistance Hammer in a flat out run. Another rifle sounded, and Preacher’s head exploded into a blinding mass of pain. He threw his arms around Hammer’s neck and held on. Then he remembered nothing.

It was nearly dark when Preacher forced his eyes to open. He was flat on his back on the ground, and he was cold. His head hurt something fierce. Slowly, his mind started working and he recalled the gunfight back on the ridge. He’d been shot. More than once. He felt around him. His arms and hands worked. He found a pistol and pulled it to him. He felt his left side holster. That pistol was still in place. He turned his head and sorrow struck him hard. Hammer was down, lying on his side, his pain-filled eyes open and looking at the man he loved. Preacher could see pink foam coming from the faithful horse’s nose and mouth. Hammer had been lung shot.

“Oh, no,” Preacher said. “Oh, Sweet Baby Jesus, no.” Summoning his massive strength, Preacher forced himself to his knees, then to his feet. He swayed for a moment, conscious of a pain in his back and side. He ignored it. He staggered over to Hammer and looked down at the horse. Hammer was finished. He’d been shot four times, but had still managed to carry his master to safety.

Preacher was openly, unashamedly weeping as he put a merciful, pain-relieving bullet into Hammer’s brain. Then he fell down to his knees and wept some more. He collapsed beside the big, faithful horse and the pain took him. Preacher fought it hard, but it was a losing battle. He was taken into blackness.

It was light when he awakened. He looked overhead and saw buzzards circling ever closer. He clawed for the rifle in the saddle boot and blew one buzzard out of the sky. He reloaded and knocked another spinning. The remaining buzzards seemed to get the message and soared higher.

Preacher fought the swimming pain in his head and rose to his feet. He found his other rifle and reloaded both, then checked his pistols, reloading them fully. One buzzard made a bad mistake by landing and staring with his evil eyes at Preacher. The mountain man blew his head off.

He stripped saddle and saddlebags from Hammer’s stiffening carcass, having to dig under the horse with his big knife to finally get the saddle free. Exhausted, Preacher rested for a time, fighting pain and nausea. He dampened a kerchief and held it against his aching head, near the back where he figured the ball had clipped him. It seemed to help. He pulled up his buckskin shirt and looked at the hole in his side, close to the outside. He felt around to his back. The ball had entered in his back and exited out the front. Preacher figured if the ball had hit anything vital, he’d a been dead by now. He cleaned the wounds as best he could, and then found some moss and placed it over the holes, tying them in place with pieces of cloth he tore from his only spare shirt.

He built a small fire and boiled coffee, chewing on jerky while making his coffee. Then, ignoring his pain, he worked for hours covering Hammer with rocks, until he had a pile nearly as tall as his chest. Animals might get to his faithful companion of many years, but if they did, they’d have to work like hell to do it.

“I broke my promise to you, Hammer,” he said. “I’m sorry. I truly am.”

Preacher then turned his face toward the west. “Bedell,” he said, his voice low and full of menace, “you sorry pile of coyote shit. You better catch you a whaler ship to China and slant your eyes, yeller your skin, and belly up in a rice paddy. ’Cause I’m comin’ after you, you son of a bitch. And I’ll find you. I don’t care how long it takes me, or how many miles I got to travel. You are dead, Bedell, and anyone who rides with you is dead. And that there is a cold promise, you low-life bastard.”

Preacher patted the pile of rocks. “Rest easy, now, old friend. You carried me many a mile, and we rode some trails, we did. You earned your rest. You ride the skies now, Hammer. And I promise I’ll avenge you. I swear to God Almighty I’ll do that.”

Preacher had deliberately put all thoughts of the wagon train out of his mind. For he did not know how long he’d been unconscious. He figured he’d drifted in and out of consciousness for two days, maybe three. He’d ridden a full day from the wagons, so he was sure that whatever evil Bedell had planned, the deed was done.

Dragging his saddle, Preacher made it to a creek and rested in the cool shade. For several days he drank often and ate up his meager supplies, managing to catch some fish to supplement his diet. He dug up tubers and ate them, and tended to his wounds by making poultices. When he started walking west, he knew he wasn’t 100%, but he was strong enough to get going. On the second day after leaving the creek, he found himself looking at three Kansa braves, sitting on their horses and staring at him.

Of the tribes in this area, the Kansa, Mandan, Osage, and the Missouri all spoke basically the same language, and so did Preacher.

“I am Preacher,” he told them.

They looked at one another. “We know,” one finally said.

“That’s a fine-lookin’ spare horse you got. I want it.”

“Perhaps we do not wish to trade,” another Kansa said.

But Preacher could detect nervousness in his words. The Kansa were only armed with bows and arrows, and one carried a lance. Preacher knew they had not missed how heavily armed he was. And the ferocity of the man called Ghost Walker, White Wolf, and other names was known from the Pacific to the Mississippi. The Kansa clearly did not wish to tangle with Preacher.

“I think you’ll change your mind. How is the horse called?”

“We just caught him. He has no name.

The horse was shod, and Preacher figured it had belonged to one of Bedell’s group who ambushed him. Preacher pulled his spare Hawken from the boot and tossed it to the Kansa holding the reins of the horse. As soon as he caught up with Bedell’s group, he’d have him another rifle right quick. He tossed a bag of shot and powder horn to the Indian.

“Fair trade?” Preacher asked.

The Kansa nodded and dropped the reins. “Fair,” he said, and he and his companions were gone.

Preacher petted and spoke to the big brown. He had him gentled down and taking grass from his hand in a matter of minutes. Preacher liked horses and most seemed to like him. Preacher was in the saddle and riding west within the hour. “You’re a dead man, Bedell,” he said to the wind. “And that’s a promise.”

A half a dozen Pawnee spied Preacher and with gleeful shouts of killing anticipation—there wasn’t a Pawnee in the tribe who liked Preacher—they rode to block his way. But Preacher wasn’t about to be intimidated by the Pawnee. He didn’t like them any more than they liked him. Preacher had discovered that whoever trained this horse had done a fine job of it. He looped the reins loosely around the saddle horn, filled both hands with those terrible pistols of his, let out a war whoop, and charged.

Scared the hell out of those Pawnee.

Preacher rode right in amongst them and blew three of them straight to the arms of whatever or whoever they believed in after death. The other three took off like their asses were on fire and didn’t look back. Preacher watched them until they were nothing but dark dots on the vastness of the land.

They’d be back, for sure, and Preacher knew that. But he had him a little time to inspect the dead ’fore they returned…with more warriors, he was sure of that, too. He first reloaded his pistols, then began the grisly job of checking out the dead.

One of the dead Pawnee had a rifle beside his body that Preacher recognized. Ring had carried it. With a sigh, Preacher picked up the plains rifle and checked it, then tore the shot pouch, powder horn, and caps bag from the dead Indian. He tried at first not to look at the hair on the Pawnee’s war-axe. It was Ring’s. But something else about the scalp troubled Preacher.

He jerked the scalp loose and felt it. It was dry. Even the underside was nearly dry. No Pawnee had killed Ring. They’d just come along after the bodies had stiffened and done their knife work.

Preacher did some fancy cussin’ for a time. Made him feel a little bit better.

He took all the powder, shot, and caps—the percussion caps told him the Pawnee had more than likely taken the rifles from the train for every rifle there had been of the latest model—and left the bodies where they lay. He swung into the saddle and headed out. When he made camp that evening, he buried Ring’s hair.

He found where the battle had taken place. Bedell had split his people. One group had swung wide and gotten in front of the wagons and another had hit them from the rear while the wagons were strung out and on the move. It had been one hell of a running battle, and the last wagon had been halted some five miles from the ambush site. Preacher found lots of signs of dried blood, but he could not find one body. So where the hell had the Pawnee come up on Ring? He’d probably never know. Some animals may have dragged off the body, or bodies, by now.

He backtracked. There was no point in getting into a hurry now. The deed was done and he couldn’t undo it. Every few hundred yards he’d stop and sniff the air. Preacher knew Bedell and his thugs wouldn’t have taken the bodies far. They had to be buried somewhere close by. Finally he smelled it: the unmistakable odor of death.

Four of the drivers hired back in Missouri were buried in a shallow grave. Animals had uncovered them and had been eating on the bodies. Preacher covered them again, piling rocks over the dirt, and went looking for more bodies.

He found the body of a woman he’d known only as Ros, buried in a hastily dug grave with a woman he’d heard called Marylou. Their heads had been bashed in. Neither of the women was real lookers, so Bedell and his gang figured they wouldn’t bring much in trade, or to sell to slavers, so they killed them.

Preacher found the other drivers. They’d been shot and part of a creek bank caved in on them. One hand, curled into a fist, was protruding from the earth. Preacher left them in peace where they lay. He walked a short distance and found two of Lieutenant Worthington’s soldiers next. And good ol’ Ring was lying dead with them. All had been scalped.

Casting about, Preacher could see plain the wagon ruts. It looked like Bedell and his men were going to follow the ill-defined trail all the way. Even though to Preacher’s mind that was risky. Once on the coast some of the women might talk and that would bring a hangman’s noose to Bedell and the outlaws.

“Black-hearted heathens,” Preacher muttered. “Filth and trash.”

Walking on, he found Charlie Burke dead and uncovered in the brush. Ol’ Charlie must have put up one hell of a fight, for he had been shot half a dozen times and had still managed to get away, to die alone. Preacher had found a shovel and he buried his friend, and his weapons with him.

“Sorrowful day,” Preacher said to the blue sky. “And folks call the Injuns savages.”

Fifteen minutes later, he found Ned. The mountain man had been shot ’bout as many times as Charlie but had still gotten away from the terrible fight and he had propped himself up against a tree and was smoking his pipe for the last time when he died. His pipe was still in his cold hand. Preacher buried him.

Then he found some of the young children and was taken by a savage, terrible rage that was almost blinding in its fury. The boys had been tortured and the girls used horribly. Preacher choked back his outrage and carefully buried the young’uns, boys with boys and girls with girls. He couldn’t find enough of their clothing to cover them proper, and that seemed like a sin to Preacher.

Then he found Sergeant Scott and the rest of Rupert’s soldiers. They had sought cover in a short ravine and had died like soldiers, fighting to the last man.

Preacher laid them out in the shallow ravine and caved earth and rocks over them. Bedell’s men had gone through their pockets, removing all papers and money.

When he could find no more bodies, Preacher began casting about for bloodstains that might have been left by any wounded. He found plenty of that. It looked like Steals Pony, Snake, and Blackjack had taken lead but had managed to get away. It was getting too dark to track, so Preacher made camp and cooked a rabbit he’d caught in a snare.

His thoughts were as dark as the night as he rolled up in his blankets. Old Satan himself would have tiptoed light around what Preacher was thinking.