Preacher's Assault

CHAPTER 14

Preacher and Lorenzo were riding a few yards ahead of Casey, Roland, and Bartlett. In a low voice, Preacher told the old-timer, “Drop back and let the others know what’s goin’ on, if they haven’t spotted those Injuns themselves. Tell ’em to stay calm and not start raisin’ a ruckus.”

Lorenzo nodded. Rather than turning around, he slowed his horse and let the other three riders catch up with him.

Preacher glanced right and left. There were two outriders on each side of the caravan. They had to have seen the Comanches, but were riding along as if they hadn’t, gradually working their way closer to the caravan. That was smart of them, Preacher thought. If they turned and made a run for the wagons, that would likely prod the warriors into chasing them.

Preacher noticed a couple rocky humps up ahead, the first real landmarks he had seen in quite a while. The trail ran between those shallow hills. It was the perfect place for an ambush, and he had no doubt Comanche warriors were waiting on both of the knobs. He held up his hand in a signal for the wagons to stop. If they got caught in that gap, they wouldn’t have a chance.

Preacher wheeled Horse around and waved for the outriders to come in the rest of the way. Leeman Bartlett hurried up to him and asked, “Do we need to pull the wagons in a circle?”

“If you do that, they’ll know you’re gettin’ ready to fight and they’ll go ahead and jump us,” Preacher said. “We might still be able to talk our way out of this. Let me give it a try. Spread the word, ever’body needs to have his rifle handy.”

Bartlett nodded. “What are you going to do?”

“Let ’em know we want to parley.” He urged Horse forward again.

“Preacher, be careful!” Casey called out behind him. Preacher acknowledged her concern with a slight wave.

Slowly, he rode out about fifty yards in front of the wagons and stopped. He sat in his saddle, waiting, apparently as calm as if nothing unusual or threatening was happening. The columns of Comanches flanking the caravan halted as well.

A few minutes dragged by, then a party of half a dozen warriors appeared in the gap between the knobs and rode toward him. They took their time about it. The Indians knew that waiting would stretch the nerves of their potential victims tighter and tighter.

The Comanches came to a stop about twenty feet in front of Preacher. He held up a hand, palm out, in the universal sign of peaceful greeting.

As had happened with the Pawnee, one of the warriors rode forward as a spokesman. When the Comanche brought his pony to a stop, Preacher said, “Greetings, brother.”

He hoped his grasp of the Comanch’ lingo wasn’t rusty and he hadn’t told the varmint to go do unspeakable things to himself. The warrior didn’t look offended, so Preacher supposed he had made himself clear.

The man was short and stocky and looked tough as year-old jerky. He said harshly, “Who are you to call a warrior of the Comanche, brother?”

“I am known as Preacher.”

If he had been hoping for a sign of recognition at the mention of his name, he was sorely disappointed. Clearly, it didn’t mean anything to the Comanche.

“I am Lame Buffalo,” the man said, “and I am brother to no white man.”

“Then I would be a friend, if not a brother.”

Lame Buffalo shook his head. “The white men are not friends. They are flies, buzzing around the heads of the Comanche and eating the droppings of our horses. They are to be tolerated, not befriended.”

And you are one arrogant son of a bitch, Preacher thought. He almost muttered it aloud in English but bit back the words in time to prevent them from escaping. He had no way of knowing if Lame Buffalo spoke any of the white man’s tongue. Just because he wasn’t speaking it, didn’t mean he couldn’t savvy it.

Preacher turned slightly in the saddle and waved his left hand toward the wagons behind him. “We wish to take our wagons through your land safely. We mean no harm to the Comanche people. We are peaceful traders.”

“You take white man’s goods to the land of the Mexicans?” Lame Buffalo asked.

He knew good and well that’s what they were doing, Preacher thought. Lame Buffalo had probably seen dozens of freight caravans bound for Santa Fe. He might well have looted some of them.

But Preacher just said, “That’s right. We carry only trade goods. No guns.” The Comanches would be more likely to attack the caravan if they thought they might get their hands on some weapons. A few of the band carried flintlocks, but most were armed with bows and arrows or lances.

Preacher doubted Lame Buffalo would take his word, and sure enough, the leader said curtly, “Show me.”

Preacher nodded. “Come with me.”

Turning his back on the Comanches wasn’t easy, but he did it and acted unconcerned as he rode toward the wagons with Lame Buffalo following him. Preacher saw the nervous faces watching them and made a motion with his hand, hoping they would understand he was telling them to stay calm. He smiled at Casey, Lorenzo, Bartlett, and Roland, who sat together on their horses next to the first wagon.

“This is Lame Buffalo,” he told them in English. “He’s gonna take a look at the goods we’re carryin’.”

“Are you going to offer to pay him to let us pass?” Bartlett asked.

“That’s the idea. Be even better if he sees somethin’ that strikes his fancy and suggests that we bargain with him.”

Preacher glanced at the Comanche. Lame Buffalo’s face was still stonily impassive. He gave no sign that he had understood any of the exchange between Preacher and Bartlett.

Preacher spoke to the bullwhacker in charge of the first wagon’s team of oxen, a man named Fawcett. “Pull that canvas back, would you, Cliff?”

Fawcett went to the rear of the wagon and untied the canvas flaps. He threw them open so Lame Buffalo could look into the wagon. The Comanche leaned forward on his pony and frowned as he peered into the vehicle at the crates and barrels stacked in its bed.

“Hold on a minute,” Preacher told him. He dismounted and climbed into the wagon. He pulled his knife from its sheath and used the blade to pry the top off a barrel of sugar. Scooping up a handful of the stuff, he held it out to Lame Buffalo. “Try this.”

The Comanche frowned. His eyes narrowed in suspicion. But he couldn’t resist the temption. He reached out and took a pinch of the sugar from Preacher’s hand.

Preacher pinched some of it between the fingers of his other hand and lifted it to his mouth. He tasted the sugar and licked his lips to show Lame Buffalo how good it was. Still looking wary, Lame Buffalo tried it as well.

The warrior kept his face carefully impassive, but Preacher saw the pleasure that lit up Lame Buffalo’s eyes for a second. He held out his hand for more of the sugar, and Preacher dumped the whole handful in his palm.

Lame Buffalo turned his pony and kicked it into a run toward the rest of the warriors who blocked the trail. He shared the sugar with them. Preacher heard them laughing.

“What’re you doin’, Preacher?” the bullwhacker asked.

“You’ve heard about catchin’ flies with honey, Cliff?” When the man nodded, Preacher went on, “Well, I’m tryin’ to catch some Comanch’ with sugar.”

Several of the warriors let out shrill yips and thrust their lances into the air. Lame Buffalo turned and rode back to join Preacher by the wagon. He pointed to the barrel and said, “We will take it all and not kill you.”

Preacher shook his head. “One bag.”

Lame Buffalo’s face darkened with anger.

“And a bolt of cloth, your choice,” Preacher added.

Lame Bear appeared to be considering the proposal. After a moment, he said, “Show me.”

That was the beginning of a long, tense negotiation that lasted over an hour. The Indians had them outnumbered two to one, and everybody in the wagon train knew it. Impending violence was thick in the air.

Lame Buffalo had to look in every wagon and decide what he wanted. Every time he made a demand, Preacher made a counteroffer. Finally, they reached an accord. In return for the sugar, the cloth, some salt, a couple women’s hats with bright-colored feathers, and a bag of nails—Preacher had no idea what the Comanches intended to do with those, but he had a brief moment of hesitation when he guessed it might have to do with torturing prisoners—the Comanches agreed not to kill them all and burn their wagons. It seemed like a fair enough deal to Preacher.

Lame Buffalo waved some of his men over to gather up the spoils. The warriors took the goods and galloped back to rejoin the others. Lame Buffalo said, “One more thing, and then you can pass.”

“What’s that?” Preacher asked. He suddenly had a very bad feeling.

Lame Buffalo nudged his horse over next to Casey’s and reached out to grab her arm. “The yellow-haired woman goes with me, too!” he shouted.

Casey let out a frightened cry. Preacher knew Lame Buffalo didn’t really mean it. The Comanche was just playing with them, in the sometimes cruel fashion of his people. Preacher opened his mouth to tell Lame Buffalo he couldn’t have her, figuring the man would demand one more piece of tribute since he had been denied his latest demand. It was one more way of establishing his dominance.

But Roland Bartlett didn’t know that, and Preacher didn’t have time to tell him. The young man yelled, “Take your hands off her, you filthy savage!”

Roland jerked his pistol from his belt, and despite Preacher’s warning shout, he whipped the gun up, cocking it as he did so, and pulled the trigger. Smoke plumed from the muzzle as the pistol boomed.

Lame Buffalo jerked to the side but managed to stay on his pony. Eyes wide with pain and shock, he looked down at his bare chest, where blood welled from the black-rimmed hole made by the pistol ball. He swayed for a second, then toppled from his mount.

The fragile truce that had existed a second earlier was blown to hell, just like Lame Buffalo.