14
Preacher sat Hammer just above the banks of the Powder, his eyes taking in everything around him. It was very peaceful, very serene, and very quiet. No birds sang or flew, and no other animal had been to the river for a drink in several hours, not that Preacher could tell. The silence was a dead giveaway.
“Well, Hammer,” he spoke to his horse. “I reckon they just went and outsmarted themselves. I could figure maybe Bum bein' that stupid, but not an old firebrand like Red Hand. So I tell you what we're gonna do, ol' friend . . .”
He told his horse and then sat there for a time, chuckling. “Yes, siree, Hammer,” he said as he lifted the reins. “They's gonna be some mighty mad outlaws and Injuns when they see what's happenin' over here.”
“Are you out of your mind?” Swift yelled, jerking off his hat and throwing it on the ground. “That's the craziest thing I ever heard of.”
“Not so crazy,” Nighthawk said. “Not perfect, either. But it's a good plan.”
“Why?” the wagonmaster demanded.
“Make them come to us,” Richard said. “Yes. I see. We can have the river on two sides of us. We have access to water that way, and our main forces could be concentrated on the other two sides. Yes, we have ample supplies for an extended siege, and plenty of shot and powder. We can start gathering tall grass for the animals and keep them on short rations for a few days. I think it's a fine plan.”
It was at this point that the river made a curve, much like an upside-down V, the river wide on both sides, and narrow at the tip of the inverted V, where the trail crossed.
Swift thought about Preacher's plan for a moment, then nodded his head. “It's better than us losing a lot of people.” He lifted his bugle and tooted on it.
The wagons did not circle, but rather formed up into a long rectangular box-like fort, with the stock inside the box. Swift assigned young people to scoop up the mess the livestock would make. It was going to be close and odious, but all felt they could wait out the outlaws and Indians.
Men went to work immediately cutting down small trees and clearing them of branches. The logs would be used first as barricades from bullets and arrows, then, if need be, to use in the building of rafts to cross the river, although, at this point, Preacher did not think rafting would be necessary.
Across the river, Red Hand glared at Bum, his eyes hot with anger. “It is far too early in the day to stop for nightfall. Why don't they begin crossing? Why do they stop and build fortifications?”
“I don't know,” Bum lied, for he knew perfectly well what the movers were doing. He had a sinking feeling in his guts that Preacher had won another round. The outlaws were slap out of supplies. They were out of coffee, beans, sugar, salt, flourâeverything. They had planned on existing on the supplies taken from the wagon train. Now? He didn't know.
“We've got to attack, Bum!” Jack Harris said. “We've got to attack now, man.”
“Yeah,” Bull said. “We let them movers get all set over there, and we'll never pry 'em loose from there. We're out of grub, Bum. We ain't got nothin' to eat. And as soon as the shootin' starts, there won't be even a rabbit within five miles of this place.”
Bum was thoughtful for a moment. “Preacher's countin' on that. He's countin' on us sendin' people out on a hunt. 'Cause come the night, him and them other ol' boys down yonder is gonna slip out and circle around on all sides of us, waitin' for a hunter to go out for game. And that hunter ain't never gonna come back.
Goddammit!”
“To attack now would be folly,” Red Hand said. “We would have to cross several hundred yards of open land, then ford the river. They would pick us off as easily as stepping on a bug. If we wait until night, many of the new warriors who have joined us will not take part. They will not fight at night.”
He walked away, to join a brave who was motioning to him. They talked for several moments, then Red Hand returned. “We are out of food.” He shrugged his muscular shoulders. “Of course, Indians are accustomed to that. So what do you say now, Bum Kelley?”
“I don't know,” the outlaw admitted.
* * *
“Stalemate,” Richard said, standing beside Preacher, Swift and several others, as they looked toward the seemingly deserted timber across the river.
“How long could we last?” Melody asked.
“Days,” Preacher told her. “The last two or three wouldn't be easy to take, 'cause the stock'll be squallin' for feed. But it'd be a discomfort to them whilst doin' 'em no real harm.”
“Won't those thugs across the river go hunting for food?” A mover's wife asked. It was mid-morning of the second day camped by the river. No hostile action had been initiated by the other side, but all could see the thin tentacles of smoke from their campfires.
Preacher smiled. “Take a look around you, ma'am. You see Beartooth and Nighthawk and Trapper Jim or Dupre?”
Everybody turned their heads and looked. “No,” Edmond said. “Where are they?”
Preacher pointed to the other side of the river, as a horse came slowly walking up to the edge of the timber. A man was tied in the saddle. Using a spyglass, Swift could see the arrow still sticking out of the man's back.
“He's been scalped,” the wagonmaster said. “And he's stiff in the saddle.”
“Yeah,” Preacher said. “And comin' from that direction, I 'spect that's Beartooth's work. It's like I been figurin'. Them folks over yonder is gettin' hongry. They slap out of supplies. I 'spect they was countin' on feedin' off the supplies carried in this train. We done spoiled their plans, turned everything topsy-turvy. Now they sendin' out hunters and them ol' friends of mine is sendin' the hunters back without their hair. Hee, hee, hee!” he chuckled. The others looked at him strangely as he chuckled in dark humor. “I do love it when a plan works out.”
“Will they attack, do you think?” a woman asked him.
“They might. But if they do it'll be a hard one, in the hopes they can take us on the first run. But more than likely it'll just be a short attack to let us know they ain't forgot us and they'll be waitin' further on up the trail. If they had any sense, they'd go on and leave us be.”
Preacher looked across the river. If he thought either one of the leaders would honor a flag of truce, he'd borrow a petticoat and wave it at them and palaver with them. But Bum had about as much honor as a stump and Red Hand was even worse when it come to dealing with whites. Anyway, Preacher mused, that was just a dream. Red Hand could always drift back into the wilderness, but Bum's situation was a different one. He had to keep trying until he succeeded in stopping the wagon train cold and killing everyone in it.
If the outlaw leader had had any foresight about him, he'd have had hunters out killing game and smoking and jerking the meat. But 'if' don't put a scrap of food in nobody's mouth.
So what would I do if I was in Bum's place, Preacher thought. I'd pull out right now, get a lot of distance between this place and the next point of ambush, and I'd be huntin' all the time. That's what I'd do, Preacher wound it up.
Melody broke into his thoughts as he caught the last of her question “... what month is it?”
“July,” a mover replied. “Near the last, I think. I'll ask my wife. She's keeping a diary of our adventure.”
Adventure! Preacher thought sourly. Then he had to smile and shake his head and silently ask himself this: Why are you so sour about it? You're damn sure a part of it.
* * *
Swift awakened him. “They're crossing the river, Preacher. Left and right.”
Preacher was fully awake and out of his blankets just about the time the words left his mouth. He looked up at the sky. It was cloudy with no moon.
Good night for it, he thought. “Get everybody up and ready. Buckets filled for flame arrows. The women can handle that. Have the men stand ready for a fight. Assign the younger kids to load weapons. Move.”
Preacher took his position by a wheel and stated into the darkness. He found him a targetâalbeit a long way offâand pulled the Hawken to his shoulder and let 'er bang. The man, he couldn't tell if it was an outlaw or a renegade, screamed once and fell face first into the river.
A mover fired and another scream was heard in the night, followed by a lot of fancy cussing and floundering around in the water.
One Indian got close and Swift drilled him right through the brisket. The warrior hit the wet bank and lay still. “Damned red savages!” he shouted.
“Problem is,” Preacher muttered under his breath, “they was here 'fore us.” Then he saw a hat that he remembered seeing miles back, long before he'd reached Fort Hall. He lifted his Hawken, sighted just under the brim of the hat, and gently squeezed the trigger.
The big ball struck the outlaw smack between the eyes and tore out the back of his head. The man never knew what hit him.
“Adam's down and dead!” a man called. “My God, the whole back of his head is blowed off.”
“Forward!” Bum shouted. “Charge, men! Charge!”
A mover's wife said a very ugly word and cut loose with a shotgun. An outlaw began screaming in pain, the birdshot taking him in the face and neck, peppering him and blinding him in one eye. He began running toward the wagons, screaming in rage and hate. The mover's wife gave him another charge, this time at much closer range. The shot tore into his throat and knocked him off his boots.
Hot bright flames began dancing in the timber on the outlaw's side of the river.
“Somebody's burnin' our possessions!” a man shouted. “Lookee yonder.” He turned around and pointed.
Richard leveled his rifle and shot the man in the ass. “Wow-eee!” the outlaw squalled, and went running for the river. He jumped into the water and sat down, letting the cold river waters momentarily soothe his butt.
Preacher grinned. His friends across the river had slipped in as soon as the outlaws had slipped out and fired their camps.
“Goddamn you, Preacher!” Bum shouted. Then he began shouting out all the things he'd do once he got his hands on Preacher.
“You wanna fight me, Bum?” Preacher shouted back. “How about it, you yeller-bellied son of a bitch? Just you and me, winner take all.”
Red Hand halted his men, flattening them out along the river's bank, safe from shot. “We will see what kind of a man we have joined with,” he told his people.
The firing stopped. A half a dozen men, from Bum's bunch and Red Hand's, had left to return to their burning camps, to salvage what they could and to see what had become of the guards, both white and red. All pretty well suspected they would find them dead.
Bum didn't know what to say, but he knew he had better choose his words carefully, for to an Indian, even a renegade, a challenge was something not to be taken lightly. If he screwed this up, Red Hand would take his men and leave.
“I don't trust you, Preacher!” Bum shouted from the night. “'Sides, I ain't got nothin' to gain from whuppin' your butt.”
“True,” Red Hand muttered. “There is that to be considered.”
“You kill me, Bum. You got one less mountain man on this train.”
Red Hand smiled grimly. “And there is that to be considered, as well.”
“You guarantee me when I kill you your buddies will pull off from the train?”
“I can't speak for them, Bum. Just for me. I tell you what. I'll make it a real sportin' event. I'll fight two of you at oncest. You and that sorry damn Jack Harris. Now, I can't see how you can refuse me that.”
“Nor can I,” Red Hand said.
“If they do not fight him, I do not wish to ride with them any longer,” a Kiowa renegade said. “It is not good to be associated with cowards. Besides, I have thought for some time that there is a secret that Kelley is keeping from us.”
“What could it be?”
“I don't know. But he lies.”
“He has always lied. What is so different about this time?”
“The value of what is in the wagons.”
Red Hand grew thoughtful. The Kiowa was right, of course. Bum had turned evasive each time. Red Hand tried to question him about the wagon train. “We will see what happens this night,” he finally said.
“It's some sort of trick, Bum,” Jack Harris whispered hoarsely. “Don't you be believin' nothin' that damn Preacher has to say.”
“Yeah, I know. But if we don't fight him, we could see Red Hand and his bunch pull away. You know that, don't you?”
“Come on, Bum!” Preacher yelled. “How 'bout it, Jack? Or are the both of you so damned yeller you got petticoats under your britches?”
The Kiowa chuckled and even Red Hand was forced to smile.
“It's a trick, Red Hand,” Bum yelled. “It's nothin' but a damn trick. Don't fall for it.”
“He is a coward,” the Kiowa said. “I am taking my followers and leaving. Now.”
“Wait! There is something in that wagon train that is of great value. The white man's money, perhaps. If that is the case, we could use it to buy more guns and powder and shot. Think about that.”
“Bum Kelley is afraid of this man called Preacher.”
“Perhaps that is true. But Preacher is a man that any warrior would respect. Perhaps we are confusing respect with fear.” Red Hand knew he was telling a blatant lie; Bum Kelley was so afraid of Preacher he was probably pissing in his pants. But he wanted the Kiowa and his band to stay with the group. “Stay with us. When the time is right, we shall attack the wagon, seize the money, and kill Bum and his people.”