Absaroka Ambush (11 page)

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.

At first light, Preacher was tracking with the skill and tenacity of a bloodhound. He soon found what he hoped to find. A small group of women had gotten away, and they had done so on horseback. Eudora had her a foot size that was equal to her height, and she had led the group of females out and away from the attack. Obviously, Bedell and his men had decided not to pursue the women, thinking they'd probably die out here anyway. It took Preacher most of the day to find them. He spotted them through his spyglass and he noted with satisfaction that they had picked good cover in which to light and rest. He didn't want to spook them, and as jumpy as he knowed they was, he might get shot right off the mark if he showed himself plain, so he commenced to hollerin' while he was out of rifle range.

“My stars and garters, Captain!” Eudora exclaimed. “It's good to see you.”

There were seven women. Eudora, Faith, Cornelia, April, Lisette, Madeline, and Claire. They all hugged him, with Faith doin' a bit of rubbin', too, then Preacher took the cup of coffee Eudora handed him and sat down to hear their story.

“It appears that Bedell had women loyal to him on the train,” Eudora said. “About twenty or so of them. Whores from out of New Orleans and Natchez. They turned out to be meaner and crueler than the men with Bedell. They tortured poor Anna to death while some of the men were busy raping and others gathering up the stock and wagons.”

“I seen the young girls and boys,” Preacher said, his words hard-edged. “I buried ever'body I found. I reckon they took the girls that was of age. I didn't see none of them. Do you know what happened to Steals Pony, Snake, and Blackjack?”

“The Delaware and Blackjack were both wounded, I know that much,” Madeline said. “I witnessed that. I don't know what happened to the old man.”

“You don't look well, Preacher,” Claire said. “Are you all right?”

“I was shot a couple of times,” Preacher said. “But it ain't serious. They're healin' up proper. I just ain't got all my strength back yet. It'll come soon.”

“That's a terrible gash on your head,” Eudora said, peering at the wound. “But it seems to be healing.”

“I been treatin' it with poultices. Same with the bullet hole in my side and back. It's still some sore. But the bleedin's long stopped and it's closin' up. I just need two/three days to take it easy.”

“We can take the time,” Eudora said firmly.

“But the ladies ...” Madeline said.

“What's happened to them has happened,” Eudora said. “They're not going to die from being raped.”

“I'd rather die!” Madeline Hornbuckle said, closing her eyes and pressing the back of one hand to her forehead dramatically.

“Then you're a damn fool,” Eudora told her bluntly. “And I don't want to hear anymore such talk.” She looked at Preacher. “What are we going to do, Captain?”

“We're going to attack,” Preacher said.

 

 

Preacher moved everyone back close to the trail and then he ate, slept, ate again, then slept again for three days. He knew there was no point in his jumping right out after Bedell when just shoveling a few spades of dirt over the dead had damn near tuckered him out total. While he rested and got his strength back, he had the ladies over at the ambush site going over the weapons he'd took from the dead.

Food was a problem, but it wouldn't be for long. Just long enough to catch up with the wagons. Bedell and his bunch liked to terrorize people. Preacher would soon see how he liked it when the tables got turned around.

“How about Rupert?” Preacher asked, on the morning they were saddling up to pull out.

“None of us saw him,” Faith said. The city woman had toughened, both mentally and physically. Her face and forearms were tanned now, and while her tongue could still be as sharp as a rapier, she had softened it quite a bit. All the women knew they were in a real pickle; Preacher had laid that out strong to them. There was little joking now. The women and Preacher were quite alone in a vast and terribly inhospitable wilderness . . . as Faith had put it.

“And it's gonna get vaster, a lot more inhorsetable, and wilder'an hell,” Preacher added.

“In
hospitable,”
Faith gently corrected.

“Whatever, Missy.”

In the chilly gray light of morning, Preacher looked at the ladies. They were all dressed in men's clothing. They had chopped their hair off even shorter than before. Each carried a rifle in one hand and another in a saddle boot. They had pistols hung everywhere and each woman carried two buckled around her waist.

“We got it to do, ladies,” Preacher said, stepping into the saddle. His side and back still bothered him a little, but the head wound was very nearly healed. Neither wound had been serious, just painful. Preacher had been shot before, and knew how fast he would heal. By the time they caught up with the wagons, he'd be 100%. “Let's ride.”

About six or seven miles from the ambush site, Preacher called a rest period along a little creek shaded by cottonwoods. He'd seen something glittering brightly and wanted to check it out. While the ladies rested, he found the source of the twinkling. Rupert Worthington's cavalry saber. Had his name engraved right on the blade. He showed it to the women.

“I seen some tracks leadin' toward that ridge yonder. I'm goin' on foot. Stay here.”

He found the young lieutenant. He was lying on his belly in a clump of brush just off the crest of the small ridge. He was sound asleep.

Preacher took the officer's rifle and slipped his pistols from their holsters. Then he squatted down beside the sleeping young man. He tickled his nose with a long stem of grass. Rupert brushed at his nose. Preacher tickled the man's ear. Rupert grunted and opened one eye. Then both eyes opened wide.

“My God!” Rupert said. Preacher then noticed the front of Rupert's shirt was covered with dried blood.

“No, it ain't. It's just me. You hurt bad, boy?” Preacher looked at the bump on his head and the split skin.

“I thought I was.” Rupert sat up and then noticed that Preacher was holding his rifle and his pistols. “You're quite the expert at sneaking up on people, Preacher.”

“Tolerable, boy. Tolerable. Are you hurt?”

“Not badly. I thought I was mortally wounded at first. The ball struck a watch I'd been carrying in my shirt pocket. My father gave it to me. I was proud of that watch. I don't know how I'll break the news to him ...”

Preacher sighed and waited.

“... Anyway, the shot knocked me off my horse and I struck the back of my head on a rock and fell into unconsciousness. When I awakened, I found that fragments of the watch had penetrated my flesh and the wound had bled quite profusely for a time.”

Preacher looked at the back of the young man's head. Had him a pretty good bump there, too. “What happened to the front of your noggin?”

“I tried to catch up with a frightened horse and got kicked in the head. I feel like an idiot. When I came out of that, I was discombobulated. I wandered lost for several hours in a daze. I remember I was waving my saber and ranting like a wild man. But I don't recall ever going to the wagon for my saber. Then my next conscious thought was that I was burning up with fever. I don't remember coming here. But I lost my saber.”

“I found it. I left it with the ladies down by the crick.”

“The ladies! They're alive?”

“Seven of 'em with me. The others was took prisoner by Bedell and his trash. A few was killed outright. So was the kids. And your command,” he added as gently as he could.

Rupert put his face in his hands and wept. Preacher couldn't fault him for that. He'd bawled himself over Hammer.

Whilst the lieutenant was clearin' his emotions, Preacher looked out over the land. No smoke. No signs of Injuns—not that that meant a whole lot. He stepped to the crest and called down to the ladies.

“Build a fire and boil some water. And save some to clean up Rupert's wounds. He ain't hurt terrible bad. We'll be down directly.”

Preacher knelt down beside the young army man. “It all right to cry, Rupert. Damn people who say a man ain't 'pposed to weep. Them rotten sons of bitches kilt my good horse Hammer, and I squalled something fierce, I did. So you go right on and get it clear of your system. When you feel up to it, we'll head on down to the crick and get you tended to. We got spare mounts, so don't worry about that.”

“You are an understanding man, Preacher.” Rupert blew his nose on a rag.

“I wouldn't know about that. You ready to head on down to the crick?”

“Yes. I have composed myself.”

The women fussed over Rupert and made a big deal of his wounds, which Preacher considered very minor. But the young officer needed the attention. His morale was very low.

Preacher climbed back up the ridge to keep watch while the women worked on Rupert. He decided to leave the still ill-defined wagon trail and stay to the south of the stolen wagons and kidnapped ladies, who would be following close to the Platte. Preacher had a plan, sort of, but it was a chancy one. He had his bow and quiver of arrows, and planned on some silent killing. He planned to retake the wagons . . . one at a time.

 

 

“You can't be serious, Preacher?” Rupert questioned him as they rode along, heading slightly south for a few miles before cutting west.

“I'm as serious as death, Rupert. It's the only way. Once we get twenty or so women freed from them damn trash, we'll have us a force large enough to mount some sort of attack.”

“But this Bedell person might challenge that by saying if we attack, he'll start killing the women he still holds.”

“Could be. But do you have a plan that's better than mine?”

He did not.

“Thought so.”

Rupert looked back at the women, all dressed in men's britches and riding astride in single file. In just a few short weeks they had undergone a drastic change. They looked . . . he struggled for the right word . . .
capable,
he finally found what he considered to be an apt description. Their shirts were loose-fitting and their hats floppy. Even at a reasonably close distance, unless one made a very careful inspection, they would pass for men.

“My men, Preacher,” Rupert said. “How did they die? I mean ...”

“I know what you mean. They died like soldiers, boy. They dug in and fought to the finish. When you make your report, you can say that.”

Rupert gave the mountain man an odd look. He shook his head and tried a small smile. “You really believe that we'll come out of this alive, don't you?”

“Hell, yes, I do. This time tomorrow, I'll start cuttin' down the odds some.”

“Suppose . . . just suppose, that the last wagon is driven by one of the women who was in this with Bedell?”

“What about it?”

“Would you kill her?”

“As fast as I would a man. Trash is trash.”

“I don't know that I could kill a woman,” the young officer admitted.

“Them whory women who tossed in their lot with Bedell and his scum tortured Anna to death, Rupert. They laughed and helped the trashy bastards to do unnatural things to the boys 'fore they killed 'em. I seen what was left of them young boys. And I ain't goin' into no details about it. Use your imagination. Them with Bedell is twisted, boy. In the head. And don't give me no eastern crap about due process and feelin' sorry for scum. I don't want to hear it. And get this straight, Rupert: I ain't takin' no prisoners. And I ain't gonna let a damn one of Bedell's people reach the coast—male or female. Them sorry white trash killed my friends and killed my good horse, Hammer. This is personal, now. And it ought to be for you, too. They're cold-blooded murderers all. They killed your command. You better make up your mind whether you're with me all the way. 'Cause in this situation, halfway won't do it.”

“Amen to that,” Eudora called, riding just behind the two men. “You just let me get that damn Ruby in gunsights. I'll gut shoot her so fast it'll billow your mainsail.”

“My word!” Rupert muttered.

“I want that damn Cindy Lou,” Cornelia Biggers called out. “I never did trust her.”

“I got my mind set on Allene,” Claire said, her words containing a hard, bitter edge. “I saw what she did. I see it every night in my dreams. And I'll not rest easy until she's rotting in the grave . . . not that she deserves a grave.”

“Hate is not a good thing,” Rupert said. “Vengeance is mine, sayeth the Lord.”

“Stick your platitudes where the sun doesn't shine,” Faith told him.

That widened Rupert's eyes. “There is no need to be coarse, Miss Faith.”

“So how do you think you'd like it if one of Bedell's men bent you over a wagon tongue and sailed up your stern?” Eudora asked him.

Preacher shook his head at the bluntness of the lady's words. But she was right in saying it.

“My heavens!” Rupert blurted.

“Now you know what they done to some of them young boys, Rupert,” Preacher told him. “So shut up and get your mind set for killin'. We got to be just as cold-blooded and hard as them we fight. If we're not, then we'll lose. And that's all there is to it, boy. That's the sum total.”

“I think my overall education has been sadly lacking in some respects,” Rupert admitted.

“Before this is all over,” Preacher told him, “I figure you'll have earned several more diplomas.”