Preacher's Assault

CHAPTER 20

Time and experience and some good teachers among the Crow and other friendly tribes had given Preacher the ability to move with almost complete silence when he wanted to. He used that ability in the wee hours of the morning since midnight was long past. It was the best time to slip into an enemy camp, when sleep lay heavily on most of them.

Garity and his men were confident of their ability to protect themselves, so they had built a good-sized campfire when they stopped for the night. Preacher spotted the glowing embers of it when he was still several hundred yards away. When his keen eyes saw the orange coals, he stopped to size up the situation.

Now that he knew where to look, he could see the light-colored canvas covers of the wagons. The vehicles had been pulled off the trail a short distance and arranged in a circle. Garity knew enough to do that, anyway.

Preacher moved closer. When he was within a hundred yards of the wagons, he dropped to a knee and put an arm around Dog’s shaggy neck.

“Stay,” he whispered in the big cur’s ear.

Dog whined. He wanted to go with Preacher. The mountain man repeated, “Stay.”

Dog wouldn’t like it, but he would wait there until Preacher either returned or summoned him.

His boot moccasins made no sound on the hard ground as Preacher catfooted toward the wagons. He had left the long-barreled flintlock behind with Dog. It was too awkward to carry around while he was trying to be stealthy. He had his pistols, but if all went as he hoped, he wouldn’t need them.

More important, he had his knife. It was the blade that was going to come in for some work tonight.

Already in a low crouch, he dropped to his knees and then stretched out on his belly to cover the last fifty yards in a crawl. Garity surely had sense enough to have posted some sentries. As he came closer, Preacher caught a whiff of pipe smoke, confirming his hunch. He followed his nose until he spotted a dark shape leaning against one of the wagon wheels.

Grinning to himself in the darkness, Preacher began crawling in a wide circle that would allow him to come up behind the guard. He didn’t get in any hurry. Rushing things in a job like that could get a man killed. Minutes stretched by with Preacher moving only a few inches at a time.

Eventually, he was where he wanted to be: close enough to reach out and touch the guard as he silently rose to his feet. The man was still puffing on his pipe, blissfully unaware that he had only seconds to live. He had no idea what was about to happen until Preacher’s left arm came around him and clamped down on his throat like an iron bar, stifling any sound and making the guard spit out his pipe.

By the time it hit the ground, the cold steel of Preacher’s knife was buried in the man’s back, the tip sliding between the ribs and delving deep to find the heart. The guard jerked a little but didn’t struggle as he died.

Preacher pulled the knife out, lowered the corpse to the ground, and wiped the blood off the blade onto the man’s shirt. He took the pistol he found behind the guard’s belt, tucking it behind his own belt, but left the rifle.

Soundlessly, the mountain man moved around the outside of the circled wagons until he found another guard. That man died without any commotion as well, and Preacher commandeered another pistol. When it came time for a battle, his forces would be at least a little better armed than when they had started out.

Some of the thieves were sleeping under the wagons. Preacher found a vehicle where the ground underneath it was empty and crawled through the space into the circle. He lifted his head and studied the wagons as best he could. The moon was lower and the light wasn’t as good. After a moment, he spotted a man standing guard inside the circle, next to the tailgate of one of the wagons.

Preacher was willing to bet Casey was inside that wagon and the sentry was there to prevent her from getting away.

He could do something about that, Preacher thought, and was about to crawl over to the wagon and get started on it, when some instinct warned him. A second later, he heard a swift padding of feet, followed by a shrill cry and the explosion of a gun.

Preacher jerked to his feet as shadows leaped through the night, hurdling wagon tongues and charging into the circle as they yipped. His brain worked swiftly and he realized the wagons were under attack by Indians. He suspected they were Comanches, and the possibility suggested itself they might be the remnants of Lame Buffalo’s party, reinforced by more warriors from the same band!

Preacher didn’t really care who the Indians were. They would kill him just like they would kill every other white man with the wagons if they could.

And Casey, too, he thought as he sprinted toward the wagon where he thought she was. He had to take advantage of the distraction to get her out of there. He couldn’t afford to wait any longer.

The man guarding the wagon threw his rifle to his shoulder as a pair of the attacking Indians charged at him. The weapon boomed and sent one of the warriors flying backward, but the other one lunged forward and drove his lance into the guard’s body. The guard screamed as the sharp-tipped weapon tore all the way through him and emerged from his back to hit one of the sideboards of the wagon behind him. For a second the dying man was pinned there until the warrior yanked the lance free with a whoop.

He was turning away from the crumpling guard when Preacher reached him. The mountain man’s hands locked on the bloody shaft of the lance and wrenched it out of the warrior’s hands. Preacher brought it up in a flash and thrust the tip into the Indian’s throat. He felt it grate against the upper end of the man’s spine as blood gushed from the ripped-open throat.

Preacher shoved the dying warrior aside. “Casey!” he called as he leaped to the back of the wagon. “Casey, you in there?”

He heard a shocked gasp. Then a familiar voice cried, “Preacher! Preacher, is that you?”

He used his left hand to rip aside one of the canvas flaps while his right pulled a pistol from behind his belt. Gunshots were blasting all over the camp. He didn’t have to worry about being silent anymore.

An arrow whistled past his head. He turned to see where it had come from and spotted one of the warriors trying to fit another arrow onto his bowstring. Leveling the pistol, Preacher pulled the trigger and sent a ball slamming into the man’s body. The impact of the shot made the warrior drop his bow and arrow and spun him off his feet.

“Casey, come on!” Preacher said. “We gotta get out of here!”

“I can’t!” she said despairingly. “I’m tied up.”

Muttering a curse under his breath, Preacher clambered into the wagon. It was black as pitch in there, so he had to fumble around to find her, following her voice as she said, “Here! I’m here!”

He reached down, touched the fabric of her dress, and pulled his knife. Finding her ankles first and working carefully by feel so he wouldn’t cut her, he worked the blade under the ropes binding her and severed them with a hard tug on the razor-sharp blade.

Whether her hands were tied in front of her or behind her, he could deal with later, he decided. He sheathed the knife and put his arms around her, lifting her to her feet. Her wrists were bound in front of her, he discovered as she sagged against him.

“You all right?” he asked.

She nodded. He felt the movement of her head against his chest. “Yes, they didn’t hurt me . . . too bad.”

He wasn’t sure what she meant by that, but again, it could wait until later when they were safely away from the battle raging outside the wagon. Shots continued to fill the night, along with shouted curses and the shrill cries of the attacking Indians.

He led her to the back of the wagon. “I’m gonna put you on the ground,” he told her. “Get to the trail and run as hard as you can back the way we came from. Roland and some of the men are waitin’ back there a ways.”

Preacher heard the genuine concern in her voice as she asked, “Is he all right?”

“He caught a bullet in his leg, but he’ll be all right. I reckon he’ll be a lot better once he sees you again. Now go!”

He put his hands under her arms and swung her out of the wagon. She stumbled a little as her feet hit the ground.

“I’ll be right behind you!” he said, then leaped out of the vehicle.

Something crashed into him just as he landed. The collision was enough to knock him off his feet. A weight came down on top of him, and foul breath gusted in his face. He was reminded of wrestling with the bear, but it was no giant grizzly trying to kill him. His hands grabbed bare flesh slick with sweat and grease, and he knew he was fighting with one of the warriors.

Preacher’s eyes caught a glimpse of starlight winking on steel. He jerked his head aside. The knife skimmed past his cheek, leaving a scratch behind as it buried itself in the ground. Preacher brought an elbow up under the man’s chin, catching him hard in the throat. At the same time, Preacher rolled to the side and threw the warrior off him.

His hand snatched up the knife the man had dropped and brought it around in a looping blow that plunged the blade into the man’s chest. The warrior spasmed, his back arching up off the ground as he pawed at the knife’s handle for a second. Then he sagged back in death.

Preacher scrambled up and looked around for Casey. He didn’t see her, but he hadn’t heard her cry out while he was struggling with the Indian, so he hoped she had gotten away and was running back up the Santa Fe Trail toward Roland and the other men. He headed in that direction, but his way was suddenly blocked by a pair of warriors.

One of them thrust a lance at him. He dived under it, rolled again, and lifted his leg to smash his heel into the man’s groin in a savage kick. The Indian howled in pain as Preacher’s foot crushed his privates and sent him staggering backward as he doubled over in agony.

Preacher flung himself aside as the second man jabbed at him. He caught hold of the lance and used it to brace himself as he pulled himself upright. He and the warrior panted in each other’s faces as they struggled over the weapon.

Preacher’s left shoulder and arm hurt like blazes. The pain stole some of Preacher’s usual strength in that arm, and he felt his grip on the lance start to slip.

Knowing he couldn’t afford to weaken any more, Preacher used his legs to shove his opponent backward, then let go of the lance. The move gave him just enough time to pull one of the loaded pistols at his belt and cock it before the Indian caught his balance and lunged forward again with the lance. The tip landed in the space between Preacher’s arm and his side. He fired the pistol at point-blank range as he thrust the muzzle at the warrior’s chest. The shot blasted the Indian off his feet and left him lying on the ground, gasping out his life through the big, blood-bubbling hole in his chest.

A hand grasped Preacher’s arm. He started to turn, intending to club the man who’d grabbed him with the empty pistol in his hand, but before he could launch the blow, the man said, “Good job! You blew the hell out of that redskin! We got the bastards on the run!”

Preacher recognized the voice. It was Garity himself, the leader of the outlaws, who had grabbed him, thinking Preacher was one of them.

At the same time Garity realized his mistake. He yelled a curse and swung a punch at Preacher’s head. Preacher jerked free from Garity’s grip and ducked under the outlaw’s fist.

“Help!” Garity shouted. “Over here! Over here!” Preacher hooked a hard left into Garity’s belly and the man doubled over. Knowing the pistol in his hand was empty Garity straightened and slashed at Preacher’s head with the barrel. The gun raked across Preacher’s forehead, opening up a cut that leaked blood into the mountain man’s eyes.

Garity had been right about the Indians: the ones who were left alive were retreating, and the sound of gunfire was dying out around the camp. Garity’s men were able to hear his shouts. As they neared, Garity bellowed, “It’s Preacher! Get him!”

Preacher had one loaded pistol left. He jerked it out. As he pointed it at Garity and pressed the trigger, someone tackled him from behind around the knees. His legs collapsed underneath him and the shot went wild. Someone else hit him and knocked him the rest of the way to the ground.

Fists and feet hammered into him. He reached up and grabbed the leg of a man trying to kick him. With a heave, Preacher sent the man flying into a couple of the others. All of them went down in a tangle.

At least half a dozen more of Garity’s men surrounded him. They were liable to stomp him to death if he didn’t get away. Hooking a foot behind a man’s knee and sweeping his legs out from under him, Preacher tried to bolt up through the momentary gap in the circle of would-be killers surrounding him.

The opening was too small. One of the men got an arm around Preacher’s neck and held on for dear life, squeezing tighter and tighter. Two men began pounding Preacher’s ribs. Pain shot through him with each blow. Red rockets went off behind his eyes as the lack of air began to make everything spin crazily around him. The world seemed to be receding.

But he heard Garity say, “Don’t kill him! Damn it, I don’t want that bastard dead yet!”

That was the last thing Preacher knew except pain. A crazy blood-red whirling filled his head, then utter blackness.